Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Page 7

  ‘It’s a good attitude,’ he said. ‘I can’t think why any American should treat a Vietnamese with anything less than full respect. After all, they took on the mightiest military machine in the world and defeated it.’

  She could not help herself. She said: ‘You were part of that machine.’

  He smiled. It was only a brief movement of his lips. He said: ‘Yes, for a short time I was. And I have to say that it was an education. I came here from the wars in West Africa and even though the Viet Minh had beaten the French, I still tended to look on the Vietnamese as inferior soldiers. I was quickly disabused of that notion. When it comes to jungle warfare, only the Japanese or the Ghurkas are their equals . . . Please continue.’

  She explained how Van Luk Wan had first been detained by the victorious North Vietnamese and later ransomed for a kilo of gold. Creasy leaned forward and asked: ‘Do you know who provided the gold?’

  ‘Yes, a Chinese-American called Bill Crum.’

  Creasy had a poker face, but she saw the flicker in his eyes as he sat back in his chair. She asked: ‘Do you know him?’

  Creasy was looking over her shoulder far into the distance. His mind was obviously back into history.

  She repeated the question, and he slowly nodded.

  ‘Yes. Bill Crum is probably the most evil man I ever met - and I’ve met many . . .’ He glanced again at Guido, who was watching him with interest. ‘I’ve done a few things in my life which I regret. I guess we all have. But on a cold night in early 1977 I did something of which I’m proud . . . I killed a monster called Bill Crum. I killed him in a converted temple in the New Territories of Hong Kong and I burned him and the temple until nothing was left.’

  Jens stopped tapping the keys of his computer. He was looking at Creasy in fascination. He said: ‘You had left Vietnam ten years earlier. Why did you kill him?’’

  ‘It was a job,’ Creasy answered. ‘I was hired to do it. I don’t normally do jobs like that, I’m not a hit-man, but on this occasion, it was a pleasure.’

  ‘Who hired you?’ Susanna asked.

  He studied her across the table and then answered: ‘An American group.’

  The reaction was automatic. ‘My government does not hire assassins!’

  Both Creasy and Guido laughed and she felt her anger rising. ‘That kind of thing may have happened back in the sixties, but since the early seventies our policy has been strictly against it.’

  Again the two mercenaries laughed, and Guido commented: ‘Since John F. Kennedy, the policy of every US President has been not to issue executive orders for assassinations under any circumstance; but Miss Moore, sometimes they use what we call in the business “Becket approval”.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The Italian leaned forward. ‘Do you know who Thomas à Becket was and how he died?’

  She felt he was being condescending, and the level of her anger rose further. ‘Yes, Mr Arrellio, I do have an education.’

  Guido inclined his head in acknowledgement. He said: ‘Then you’ll know that when Thomas à Becket was being a nuisance to his king, the king commented to his knights: “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” Four knights promptly rode off to Canterbury Cathedral and ran their swords through Thomas à Becket. The king claimed to be dismayed. In present times, when a US President is having problems with a foreign leader, it has often been the case that he might mumble to his Chief of Staff or National Security Adviser or the Director of the CIA something like: “I wish to God that bastard would go away!” Of course it’s not an executive order and of course the President would be horrified to think that he had given any encouragement.’ The Italian smiled. ‘But in the business it’s called a “Becket decision” . . . Console yourself with the fact that it’s not only US Presidents who have, and will use, such moral armour.’

  Looking at Creasy, she asked: ‘How much did the CIA pay you to kill Bill Crum?’

  His answer was direct. ‘It was not the CIA. It was a group of senior American officers who were being blackmailed by that gentleman. They paid me two hundred thousand Swiss francs, which in those days was a lot of money. But then, part of the job was to destroy all the documents in that temple. I read those documents before I burned them. It was not edifying reading.’

  Her anger had been replaced by massive curiosity. ‘Are you saying that there was a lot of corruption in the US Armed Forces during the Vietnam War?’

  He nodded. ‘More than you’d ever guess. Since you’re a student of history, you might know that by the end of the sixties a vast industry had grown up in and around the major US bases in Vietnam. The weekly turnover of the PX was greater than that of Sears Roebuck. It ran into hundreds of millions of dollars a month. Those bases became huge department stores, selling everything from women’s underwear to hi-fi sets. One Hong Kong Chinese tailor had more than twenty retail outlets on the US bases. They even had night clubs with Filipino bands and Australian strippers. It was like a giant spider’s web, and the spider in the middle was Bill Crum. He controlled everything from drugs and women to whisky. He operated from a villa on the outskirts of Saigon and in that villa, he lavishly entertained a great number of senior US Army officers, especially those involved with supply. It was said that Bill Crum could supply anything from a case of condoms to a brand new Abrams tank. He had girls in that villa, and drugs, and what was known as Vietnamese gold, which came in paper-thin strips. It could be moulded inside belts or suitcases or shoes. He also had a recording system which would have impressed Richard Nixon. When the war ended, he retired to Hong Kong, bought himself a yacht marina in the New Territories and converted a disused temple as a home. Naturally, he took with him his collection of documents, photographs and tapes. The problems started in the mid-seventies, when some investigative journalists from the NBC Sixty Minutes programme began to home in on him. Bill Crum was an American citizen, and the US Justice Department started extradition proceedings. It was then that Bill Crum applied pressure on certain very senior American generals, and I was hired to eliminate Bill Crum and all the proof . . . I have to say that I did a good job.’

  Susanna believed him. There was no reason why he should lie. Jens looked up from his computer screen and asked Creasy: ‘So what was the connection between Bill Crum and Van Luk Wan?’

  ‘It’s obvious. Van must have been working for him. In his own evil way, Bill Crum must have had loyalities and, for him, a kilo of gold was peanuts.’

  Guido said: ‘If Bill Crum were alive, he would be the one to have baited the trap for you. Did he have any relatives?’

  ‘Only one. He had a daughter by a Cambodian woman. He doted on her. She was an only child.’

  ‘Did she know it was you who killed him?’ Guido asked.

  ‘I would not have thought so. But then, looking back, I got a few things wrong. I assumed that Jake Bentsen was killed in that fire-fight. I also assumed that Van Luk Wan died from that bullet I put into his chest. So maybe she did know who killed her father.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’ Susanna asked.

  Creasy pushed himself to his feet, saying: ‘I’ve got no idea. But maybe we should start trying to find out.’

  They all stood up. The Dane asked: ‘Do we have a name for her?’

  Creasy said: ‘She was called Connie, after Bill Crum’s mother.’ He looked at Susanna and said: ‘You’ve been of great help, Miss Moore, and we appreciate it. I hope you’ll join us for dinner tonight. Afterwards, we’ll look up some of the haunts that I frequented back in the old days, if any are still left. Maybe we’ll hear a whisper or two.’

  ‘I’d be glad to join you,’ she answered diffidently. ‘But maybe you guys prefer to be on your own.’

  It was Guido who provided the answer. ‘Come with us, and keep us out of trouble.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘He’s hooked!’

  Van Luk Wan’s face radiated malicious pleasure. Connie Crum asked: ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Po
sitive. My people spotted him coming through Tan Son Nut airport yesterday. I checked with immigration. He used his own name. He was accompanied by a man called Guido Arrellio. Immigration details show that he’s an Italian from Naples.’

  ‘Yes, I know about Guido Arrellio. He’s Creasy’s closest friend. They were in the Legion together, and later formed a mercenary partnership.’

  She was silent in thought. Van asked: ‘Is he also a dangerous man?’

  ‘Yes, very. But from my information he has been retired for some years. The fact that he’s been travelling with Creasy may mean that Creasy suspects he’s walking into a trap. In that case Guido Arrellio may not be the only one on the scene. We have to be very careful. That bastard Creasy is not one to travel blind.’ She gave Van a hard look. ‘Are you sure that the man you have following Creasy is good?’

  Van’s voice was reassuring. ‘Connie, he’s the best. Very experienced. I cannot understand this part of your plan. You want Creasy to notice him and then pick him up and beat information out of him. Information we have planted. Of course the follower does not know this plan. He thinks he’s just being well paid for doing a big job. The preparation was very good. He travelled to Chek and was allowed to see a little bit of our operation. He also saw the “American” at a distance, wearing foot shackles. He heard me giving orders about the American. About an area I wanted cleared of mines. He was very impressed that we had an American. I told him that we had several.’

  Connie smiled. ‘All true, of course. How did the Dutchman feel about having to wear those shackles?’

  Van grinned. ‘He was nervous. At first he refused, but I explained it would only be for a few minutes and that afterwards, he could spend an hour with Tan Sotho.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Connie agreed. ‘Creasy will pick him up and learn that there are Americans in that area. You are sure that the Dutchman was not close enough so that the follower could give an accurate description?’

  ‘No. I just had him shuffle around the compound about a hundred metres away with his face in profile. The description will be of a tall, bearded, sunburnt Caucasian between forty and fifty years old.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Connie repeated. ‘So what’s wrong with my plan?’

  Van sighed and said: ‘I keep telling you my man is probably the best follower in Saigon or even South East Asia. He’s an ex-Intelligence officer specializing in such work. Creasy is just a mercenary. What would he know of such things? Why don’t you let me put some clumsy idiot to follow Creasy, with the same information?’

  Connie Crum leaned forward and said: it’s one of the reasons why you work for me instead of me working for you. It’s a question of never underestimating the enemy and always thinking three times before making a move. Now understand, Van, I’ve heard that Creasy has a sixth sense about being followed. If we sent an idiot to follow him, he’d suspect that it was a plant, and he’d be more suspicious than he is now. He would doubt the information that he extracted. On the other hand, we sent the best possible. It might take a few days for Creasy to spot him, but he will. He’ll recognize an expert. And he will believe the information. The only problem is if Creasy decides not to pick up the follower. He’s quite capable of just giving him the slip and disappearing.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Van said. ‘I have informers in the Continental Hotel and in most bars where he might go. They all have his photograph. We will know the moment that he leaves for Cambodia.’ His voice dropped almost to a whisper and it was loaded with hatred. ‘I can see his face now. It’s printed on my brain. He was so confident that he fired without sighting the pistol. His face had no expression as he squeezed the trigger. He looked at me as though he was shooting a mangy dog. In his mind he was killing me for the sake of a cheap little tart. He was behaving like God, handing out his own idea of justice. One millimetre to the left, and I would have died. He shot me down and walked away.’ He looked across the bare wooden table. ‘Connie, I want you to make me a promise, on the memory of your father. When we have Creasy, I want one hour with him alone. One hour, before you start on him.’

  She stood up, brushing the dust from her backside. He followed her to the door of the wooden shack and watched as she opened the door of the Isuzu jeep.

  She turned and said: ‘Don’t worry, Van. You’ll see him suffer.’

  ‘That I want to see . . . Where are you going now?’

  She turned to look towards the west, and stretched like a cat awaking from a long sleep. ‘I’m going to spend the night in Bangkok. I have an excitement in me and it must be satisfied.’ Her eyes narrowed at the thought that was in her mind. ‘I will take a suite at the Oriental Hotel, looking out over the river. I’ll have a whirlpool bath and a strong, sensuous massage. Then in the early evening I’ll put on a dress by Lagerfeld, long and clean, with nothing between it and my skin. I’ll put Joy perfume behind my ears and below my belly button and a little lower. Then I will go down to the bar and order a champagne cocktail. There will be many Western businessmen there. They always have a drink before they go out to find a girl. I’ll pick two of them.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘They will think they have died and gone to Heaven. I’ll take them up to my suite and they will do things to me according to my wishes and my fantasies.’ She held up her hands with their long, strong, red-tipped fingers. ‘I will use the whole of my body on them, including my fingers.’

  She climbed into the jeep and asked: ‘And what will you be doing?’

  He was breathing deeply. He said: ‘I think I’ll go and see Tan Sotho.’

  Chapter 17

  The bar had an unpronounceable name in Vietnamese. The sign outside was in English: ‘Mai Man Bar’. It had been an old haunt for Creasy and several other unofficials during the war. He was surprised that it had survived.

  He sat on a stool at the end of the bar chatting with the aged owner, ‘Billy’ Nguyen Huy Cuong. Guido, Jens, The Owl and Susanna sat at a corner table in the smoke-filled room. Guido was teaching them a particularly vicious form of liar dice.

  It had been an interesting evening. Creasy had discovered that most of the old bars and hangouts had closed up immediately after the North Vietnamese takeover. But as the regime had become more pliable, new establishments had opened up. They had called in at several cafés and bars and Creasy had looked for familiar faces but found none. Finally he had asked the taxi driver if any of the old bars had survived and learned that ‘Mai Man Bar’ had never closed.

  ‘How did you manage to stay open here?’ he asked the owner.

  ‘Billy’ gave him thirty seconds of inscrutable Oriental silence, and then abruptly grinned and winked. He leaned forward.

  ‘Because, my friend Creasy, during all the years of the Vietnam War I was a Viet Cong informer. During all the years that you guys drank in here, I used to listen to your conversations about where you had been and where you were going. I passed on that information to my Viet Cong contact. It’s why a lot of those unofficials never came back from their patrols. When the North took over, I was rewarded by being allowed to keep my bar open.’

  Creasy digested that, and then said: ‘You let those guys give good money for your drinks and then betrayed them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. On the whole, they were the scum of the earth being well paid to kill my people. There were rare exceptions, and you were one of them, Creasy. You never looked down on the Vietnamese. You never tortured them. You never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill you. That was your reputation and the reason why I never betrayed you, but I have to be honest: you never gave me a chance to betray you. The others liked to boast about what they were doing and how many Viet Cong they had killed, and even how many village women and girls they had raped. You never talked about that. So you’re welcome back in this bar.’

  ‘I was no saint, Billy.’

  The bar owner laughed. ‘In those days this country had no saints on either side. It was just collective madness and evil.’ He shrugged. ‘We don’t have many saints here even n
ow; the ideals of communism were lost within a couple of years. Now we have the same corruption and the same greed. I’m seventy-five years old, Creasy, and I’ve never met a saint.’

  Creasy took a sip of his drink and glanced at the corner table. The men were engrossed in their game of dice, but the woman was watching him. Their eyes locked for a moment; then he turned back to Billy and said: ‘Talking about corruption, do you remember a policeman called Van Luk Wan?’

  ‘Of course I do. He was the most evil of all. I heard a rumour that you shot him before you left, but he survived.’

  ‘The rumour is true. You know where he is now?’

  ‘For sure, he’s not in Vietnam. I heard he somehow escaped.’

  Creasy took a sip of his drink and then pulled out a ten-thousand-dong note and passed it across the bar. He said: ‘I would be very interested in finding out where he might be now.’

  The old man pushed the note back, saying: ‘I will ask around. Keep your money, Creasy, for old times. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Continental, Room 212. Thanks, Billy. I didn’t have many good memories of Vietnam; but you’re one of them.’

  He picked up his glass and walked through the crowded room to the corner table. As he sat down, he glanced at Jens and The Owl and then at Susanna. He said: ‘A word of severe warning: Guido has been teaching you Mexican liar dice. It looks ridiculously simple, but it takes a lifetime to play it with expertise. After a couple more sessions, Guido will start flattering you; telling you how well you play, that your gift is natural. Then he will discreetly suggest that you start playing for money instead of matchsticks. At first, just for a few cents, and of course he’ll lose. He’ll continue to lose for a few sessions, and the flattery will multiply until you think that you’re reincarnated Einsteins and then he’ll clean you out.’

  He looked at his friend, who sighed dramatically and said: ‘In this kind of work, a lot of time is spent sitting around. I just wanted to help pass the time.’