The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 8

  ‘It’s a big old house, about five kilometres outside the city on the coast. It has its own small harbour and Boutin keeps a couple of fast motorboats there.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘It stands in its own grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall.’

  ‘Guards?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Never less than four, sometimes more.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘Yes . . . with hand-guns.’

  ‘What goes on in that house?’

  The policeman sighed and tried to look mournful, ‘He keeps drugs there and processes them.’

  ‘What else?’

  Another sigh and the policeman answered, ‘Sometimes girls.’

  ‘What kind of girls?’

  The policeman was silent, looking down at the table, but when Creasy started to move, his head jerked up and he said hurriedly, ‘Lost girls.’

  ‘Explain.’

  The policeman explained. He explained how the girls, mainly from northern Europe, were abducted and then forcibly made heroin addicts and sold into prostitution in other parts of the Mediterranean, in the Middle East and North Africa.

  Creasy’s voice was very low, but it drove straight into the policeman’s brain. ‘You mean he “processes” them like he “processes” the drugs?’

  A pause, then Corelli nodded, his eyes again looking down at the table.

  ‘You’re a wonderful human being,’ Creasy said. ‘Head of the Missing Persons Bureau and duty-sworn to protect such innocents. You are conspiring to do exactly the opposite. I don’t know if there is a heaven or hell, but I’m damn sure there’s a place for people like you.’

  Chapter 17

  Jens was wrong. It was erotic. Denise led them into an expensively furnished room at the end of a long corridor. In the middle was a white-carpeted, round dais with two steps leading up to it. On the dais was a solitary white cane chair. On it was a pair of black high-heeled shoes. Draped over the back of the chair was a flame-red silk gown and on top of that a pair of sheer black stockings, suspender belt and ivory-coloured silk French knickers. Beside the chair was a small white cane table. On that lay an open white leather box and next to it was a plate-sized mirror on a stand.

  Circling the dais were a dozen embossed black leather settees of the type normally found in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. Half of them were occupied by middle-aged business types. Michael noted that two of them were Arabs; the others were Europeans and one oriental, probably Japanese. They all had hostesses beside them. In front of each settee was a low table with an ice bucket containing vintage champagne. One of the Arabs was already fondling the breasts of his companion under her gown, while she licked his ear.

  Denise guided them to a settee and whispered with a smile, ‘This has the most strategic view.’

  Jens was surprised at the choice of music floating out from the quadraphonic speakers. It was Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’, one of his favourites. With a twitch of guilt he realised that he often played it while making love to Birgitte. Especially the ‘Summer’ movement.

  Denise sat between them. They could both feel the warmth of her thighs and inhale the musk of her perfume. As she leaned forward and poured three glasses of champagne, a door opened to her left and a woman emerged.

  She was tall, almost six feet, and in her early thirties. A dark brunette with slightly curly hair falling outwards and down over her shoulders. She was slender, almost thin. Her face had no make-up. Her legs and her neck were so long as to be almost out of proportion but not quite. In spite of her height she walked to the dais like a ballerina. She was totally naked.

  There had been a murmur of conversation around the room, but it stilled completely as she walked up to and on to the dais. She did a slow pirouette, her green eyes lingering on each man in turn. Each man was convinced that they lingered on him the longest. The Arab had stopped stroking his companion’s breasts. In a matter of fact, contralto voice she spoke a single sentence: ‘I prepare myself for a man.’

  She turned, stepped up to the small table and looked into the white leather box. The only sound in the room was Vivaldi, entering the ‘Summer’ movement. Jens squirmed with some embarrassment against Denise’s thigh. His erection was building. He glanced across to Michael whose eyes were transfixed on the naked woman. He noted that Denise’s right hand was resting on Michael’s left thigh. His eyes were drawn back to the dais. The naked woman had taken several items out of the leather box. They were cosmetics. For the next fifteen minutes she applied light make-up to her face, leaning low to study herself in the mirror. Her legs were straddled.

  Jens and Michael did have the most strategic view, Jens had been faithful to Birgitte since their marriage, but still had to admit that ten feet away was the most perfect bottom be had ever seen. Finally, satisfied with her make-up, she turned to the chair, picked up the suspender belt and fastened it around her slim waist. She sat down and slowly rolled the sheer black stockings, first one, then the other, up to her thighs and hooked them to the suspender belt. She did it naturally and without any overt eroticism. Then she rose, picked up the French knickers, stepped into them and pulled them up to her waist. She stepped into the shoes and then picked up the wispy gown, pulling it up to and just over her small breasts. It shimmered from the alabaster white of her shoulders to the jet black of her shoes.

  For the first time she lifted her head again, surveyed the men, and said in a quiet, sad voice, ‘I have wasted my time.’ She made a small smile and lifted her hands in front of her face and said, ‘No, I have not wasted my time . . . I have made myself beautiful for myself.’ Her shy smile broadened. ‘If I don’t have a man to take me, I will take myself.’ Slowly she pirouetted again, looking at each man and saying, ‘Have you ever seen a woman take herself? We all do it differently. I do it with my thumbs.’

  Slowly she reached down and pulled up the front of her dress exposing her French knickers and then sank to her knees on the shag carpet and rolled forward onto her stomach. The audience watched in total silence as she pulled her arms underneath herself and slid her hands between her thighs. Only her elbows were visible and they were trembling. The dais very slowly started to rotate. Her bottom began to rotate at about the same speed. Her chin was flat on the carpet, her neck and back arched as each man in the audience came into her view. She looked them straight in the eye. She had a gentle smile on her lips. Every man was imagining her long, slender, red-tipped thumbs sliding against her clitoris. At this point all their companions had been forgotten and they were leaning forward, watching avidly.

  The woman spoke again. Her soothing contralto voice had grown husky. ‘It’s good . . . so very good . . . but never as good as a man inside me.’ Then she spoke very slowly and even huskier, during the course of one rotation of the dais. ‘Is there no man who can take me?’ She kept repeating the phrase, emphasising the word ‘take’ as she looked directly into the eyes of each of the men. Her bottom began to rotate even faster and it was obvious that what she was feeling was genuine. Abruptly the Arab who had been fondling his hostess’ breasts rose to his feet, unzipping his trousers. He jumped onto the dais, pulled out his engorged penis, pulled up the back of her skirt, knelt between her legs, pushing them further apart, pulled aside the French knickers and with a grunt plunged into her. She did not remove her hands but continued rubbing herself, but she turned her head and said, ‘That’s perfect now.’

  Denise leant forward between Jens and Michael, who were watching the tableau intently. Occasionally she moistened her lips with her tongue. Her right hand had moved to Michael’s crotch, kneading the hard lump. With her left hand she made a gesture towards the abandoned hostess, who immediately rose to her feet and stepped up onto the dais in front of the woman. This hostess was seductive like a fox was crafty. Her movements were graceful, as natural to her as the raw sex she enjoyed. Kneeling down, she raised her skirt, showing her slender thighs which were
encased in sheer white stockings. She wore nothing else. With her right hand she masturbated inches away from the brunette’s glazed eyes. At that moment Denise took her hand away from Michael’s crotch, put her hand behind both men’s heads, pulled them towards her and said huskily, ‘This is a little tame. Something more interesting is about to start in a room above. Follow me.’

  They followed her like lambs. As they left the room they could hear the brunette moaning into her orgasm.

  Denise opened another padded door halfway down the corridor above and ushered them through. The room was dimly lit, but they could see the three men standing in a line in front of them, each holding a silenced pistol. They heard the door close behind them and the suddenly hard voice of Denise.

  ‘We are going to have a different show . . . and you are going to be the stars.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘I’ll make a deal,’ Corelli said flatly. Creasy looked up from the canvas bag in the corner of the garage. Corelli was still sitting in front of the table, leaning forward intently, his hands still cuffed behind him.

  ‘I’ll make a deal,’ Corelli repeated.

  Creasy picked up the canvas bag, carried it to the table and unzipped it. ‘What deal?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll guarantee your friends are released unharmed. My personal guarantee.’

  Creasy was taking several items out of the bag and laying them on the table. Casually he said, ‘Your personal guarantee isn’t worth a dog’s turd.’

  The Frenchman’s voice took on an insistent tone. ‘I have the power. If I tell Boutin to let them go, he’ll do it . . . he needs me.’

  Creasy’s laugh was short and mirthless. ‘He needs you like a second left foot. From what I hear he’s paying off half the Marseille police force. If you call him up and tell him to let them go, they’ll vanish forever and he’ll deny any knowledge of ever having heard of them. And I guess within a matter of days you’ll be dead meat as well. You’re just a crooked cop, Corelli. Boutin is way above your league. You’re his puppy and nothing else.’

  Creasy had been preparing while he had been talking. He had taken off his black jacket and slipped into the black webbing and the two sling shoulder-holsters. Corelli watched in mute fascination as the eight grenades were clipped onto the webbing. Then Creasy stripped down the submachine-gun, reassembled it, inserted a magazine and clipped it onto the holster under his left shoulder. It fitted snugly under his arm. Three times in quick succession he practised releasing it and aiming. It was a blur of motion. Then he clipped the Colt under his right arm and again practised the release. Satisfied, he slid the spare magazines and the SMG into the pockets of the webbing, near the waist. He stepped back and the policeman watched in awe as Creasy released the SMG, changed the magazine and reclipped the weapon in about three seconds.

  Like all modern forces, the Marseille police force had its own regional special assignment group, trained to react to hijackings or any other criminal or terrorist activity. Corelli had watched them train. They were good. But he realised that none of them could compare to the man in front of him.

  Finally Creasy took out a black three-quarter-length denim coat and slipped it on. It was loose and came down to his thighs; even unbuttoned it concealed the weaponry. He reached forward and picked up the small black remote control. Corelli stiffened in his chair. Creasy slipped it into his right-hand pocket and said tersely, ‘Stand up.’

  Nervously the Frenchman stood. Creasy moved around behind him, unlocked the cuffs and slipped them into the left-hand pocket of his coat. The other two pairs were already in the same pocket.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and meet this sweet partner of yours.’

  Chapter 19

  In his life Jens Jensen had never received a severe beating. It terrified him both mentally and physically. The worst part was the mindlessness and casualness of it all. He lay on the floor, curled up while the two men kicked him. It went on for several minutes. They were not in a frenzy, but taking turns, just placing their kicks where they wanted. On the other side of the room he could hear Michael grunting as he got the same treatment from two other men.

  They had arrived in the back of a van, with guns at their heads, and had been taken through the back door of a large house, through the kitchen and down the steps to the basement. They had been ordered to lie on the floor with their arms in front of them and not to look up. A few minutes later they had heard echoing footsteps. From a prone position Jens had seen two pairs of shoes approach and come to a stop. One pair was brown, highly polished alligator leather; the other was high-heeled and black: the shoes of Denise Defors. Jens assumed that the man was Yves Boutin. The man spoke to them in English with a heavy French accent.

  ‘In exactly ten minutes, I’m going to ask you some questions. Between now and then my men will give you a very slight example of what will happen to you if you don’t answer them, and answer them truthfully.’

  Boutin and the woman had walked away and other shoes started pounding into his body. He had heard Michael shout, ‘Curl up! Don’t resist.’

  Irrationally, through the agony, something came into Jens’ mind. He remembered, all those years ago at school, the physics master trying to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity: ‘If you sit on a scalding hot oven for two seconds, it feels like two minutes, but if you kiss a beautiful girl for two minutes, it feels like two seconds.’

  The ten minutes of the beating felt like ten hours. Then it stopped, and he lay there, still curled up, moaning with the pain. The two men above were discussing whether Marseille would beat Monaco at football the next afternoon. Then one of them said, ‘Straighten yourself out. Lie on your stomach with your hands outstretched. Both of you.’

  Slowly Jens began to uncurl, every limb in agony. He was too slow. The man stepped forward and drove a foot into his kidneys. Jens yelled in pain and rolled over onto his stomach. The alligator shoes returned to within inches of his outstretched hands. Beyond them he could see the woman from the waist down, standing a few feet away.

  ‘What is your name?’ the voice asked.

  In an instant terror changed to anger. ‘I’m a fucking policeman,’ Jens snarled. ‘And you’ll pay for this.’

  One of the alligator shoes moved out of sight and then slammed down on Jens’ right hand. The Dane screamed again and then heard Michael shouting, ‘Answer his questions! All of them! Truthfully!’

  Jens then heard a dull thud and a grunt from Michael, as a foot slammed into him. The voice said to Michael, ‘If you open your mouth again without being told, you’ll get a bullet in the leg.’

  A silence, then the voice asked Jens again, ‘What’s your name?’

  Jens answered through waves of pain. ‘My name is Jens Jensen.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was forced here at gunpoint.’

  The voice said, ‘If you get clever you’ll suffer. What are you doing in Marseille?’

  ‘I came to confer with a colleague here.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Missing persons.’

  He heard the woman laugh. Boutin said harshly to her, ‘Shut up!’ To Jens he said, ‘So why were you asking questions about me? And why did you come to my club?’

  ‘Because you’re known to deal in both drugs and women. The two go hand in hand.’

  At that moment, Creasy was looking at the house from a rise in the road three hundred metres away. He was sitting in the passenger seat of Corelli’s Renault. Corelli sat behind the wheel, speaking.

  ‘There will be one or two guards at the main gate and a third somewhere in the grounds. The guards at the main gate will let us through. I’m expected.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ Creasy stated.

  ‘I’ll introduce you as a colleague,’ the Frenchman answered. ‘There will be no problem at the gate. I have brought colleagues here sometimes in the past.’

  ‘For what?’

  A long pause, then Corelli said quietly, ‘
For pleasure.’

  Beside him Creasy grunted. ‘What a pigsty you all live in! What happens when we go into the house?’

  ‘There will be one or two guards inside the front door. They will definitely search you for weapons.’

  Grimly Creasy said, ‘They’re going to find them . . . in the very nicest way. Will they have guns in their hands, or under their jackets?’

  ‘Under their jackets.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  It went as the policeman had predicted. The massive gates were opened and a man stepped out and shone a torch into the car, first onto Corelli’s face and then on Creasy’s.

  ‘He’s a colleague,’ Corelli explained.

  The guard nodded and waved them on. They drove up a gravel driveway and parked next to a red Mercedes sports car.

  ‘Is that Boutin’s?’

  ‘No, his mistress’.’

  They climbed out of the car, walked up the steps and Corelli pressed a button. They heard the chimes inside and a few seconds later the door opened and they went through.

  There were two of them, both hard-faced; one tall and so thin as to be almost skeletal; the other was short and stocky. Both wore loose-fitting suits. They nodded respectfully to Corelli but gave Creasy a suspicious look.

  ‘A colleague,’ Corelli explained, ‘Your boss is expecting me.’

  ‘He’s in the basement,’ the short one said, and then gestured at Creasy, ‘Are you taking him with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to check him.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Creasy said affably and unbuttoned his coat.

  The guard moved forward, raising his hands to pat him down. He was about six inches shorter than Creasy. Neither the guard nor Corelli saw the uppercut coming. It was just a blur; a sharp crack as the guard’s jaw snapped shut, and the man was lifted off his feet by the force of the blow. The tall guard was fast but not fast enough. His right hand had vanished under his jacket before the unconscious guard had hit the floor. But as his pistol came out, he knew he was too late. He saw the levelled Colt with its fat silencer. A split second later he felt the impact of the first bullet into his heart. He was punched back onto the wall. The second bullet went through his forehead an inch above his nose and splattered his brains against the wall. Unfortunately, he had time to flick off the safety of his pistol. It hit the flagstoned floor and fired a bullet which narrowly missed Corelli’s feet. The pistol had no silencer and the shot echoed around the room.