Message from Hell (A Creasy novel Book 5) Read online

  Jens had been deep in thought. He lifted his head and said: ‘Creasy, maybe he’s a plant who may have disinformation.’

  Creasy thought about that for just a moment and then shook his head. ‘It’s faintly possible, but not probable. If they wanted to plant disinformation, they would not have sent such a professional. They picked a man whom they did not expect to be noticed or caught. I think he’s genuine. Anyway, we’ll find out tonight.’

  The drinks arrived. Susanna picked up the tall, frosted glass and rolled it across her forehead before draining half of the contents. Then she looked at Creasy and said: ‘What if he doesn’t speak English? After all, he’s only in his thirties and it’s been more than twenty years since the Americans left. Not many of the youngsters here speak English unless they work in specialist positions with the government. Since he’s not working for the government, he might not speak English. How is your Vietnamese, Creasy?’

  Creasy was slowly shaking his head as though in disgust with himself. He said: ‘My Vietnamese is minimal. I should have thought of that. Maybe Billy Nguyen at the Mai Man Bar can find me a reliable and discreet translator. He can find most things, for a fee.’

  Guido was looking sceptical. Susanna said: ‘That’s a risk you don’t need. I had better go with you.’

  There was a long silence. Then Jens remarked: ‘There could be violence, and you work for the US government in a very sensitive area.’

  She shrugged and answered: ‘My instructions were to give you assistance. They were not specific.’ She glanced at Creasy. ‘What chances are there of violence?’

  ‘Very little. Guido and I are experienced with these things. We’re dealing with one man who will suspect nothing. Even if he’s carrying a gun or a knife, he will have very little chance to use either.’

  Guido said: ‘Maybe we pick him up first and if he doesn’t speak English, we’ll call in Susanna.’

  Creasy shook his head. ‘It’s too complicated. I haven’t worked out the exact plan yet, but we’ll have to take him out of town to a quiet spot. We have to play that part by ear. If Susanna is going to be in on it, she has to be in from the start.’ He glanced again at the reflection of the figure in the window and made a decision. ‘We’ll go with Susanna.’

  Chapter 21

  Connie Crum lay naked on the vast bed, groaning in pleasure and pain. The girl straddling her was small enough to be blown away in a gale, but she had fingers of steel and they dipped and probed into Connie’s neck muscles and shoulders.

  It was the start to an evening that had been planned in almost every detail. She had arrived at the hotel half an hour earlier. Chilled pink champagne and a huge bowl of fruit were waiting in her suite. She had opened the champagne and after taking a few sips had picked up the phone and ordered a masseuse. The girl had arrived dressed in a white coat and carrying a small bag. While Connie undressed, the girl had slipped off the coat, revealing a tight, trim body covered only by brief white panties. She had taken several bottles of different oils from her bag. Connie had given her a glass of champagne before lying face down on the bed. She had booked the girl for an hour. For the first forty-five minutes the girl had massaged her body with skill and strength until through the pain Connie had felt the muscles relax.

  She turned her head and murmured in Thai: ‘Softer now. Imagine I’m a cat.’

  The girl chuckled, and her fingers changed from instruments of power to gentle, teasing strands. They glided in a continuous caress over the oiled skin.

  Connie Crum’s mind and body relaxed. She thought of her dead husband. He had been a hard, ruthless man, almost as ruthless as herself. Whenever she wanted something from him, she would give him a massage. The same kind of massage that she was receiving: hard at first but then soft. His mind would go numb and then she would eventually have him under her fingers and under control. In many ways he had been the perfect man for her. If only he could have kept his hands off other women, he would be alive today. Even so, she had regretted her jealous rage and, looking down at him with the knife in his heart, she had decided never to get deeply involved with any man again. In future, she would take her pleasures when she wanted them under her own conditions.

  The girl’s fingers had reached her buttocks. Connie moved on the bed, savouring the feeling. In her mind she reviewed her situation. She was allied to the Khmer Rouge only for profit. She was a born trader; in the chaos of war she had amassed a fortune. She had made good investments mostly in property in Japan, Europe and North America. She owned her own house at Montparnasse in Paris and had a condo on Fifth Avenue in New York. The Khmer Rouge was now beginning to disintegrate. Perhaps they would last another year or two in increasingly isolated areas. When she had finished her business with Creasy, she would pull out and make her base in Paris. She would find her way into French society, perhaps even take a nominal French husband, somebody in a position of power either in the government or in business. With her wealth and beauty she was well poised to do so. She had studied languages, philosophy and art at the Sorbonne, and she could hold her own in a conversation with any intellectual. She would be an asset to any man of power, but she would set the terms. She would allow him to have lovers and she would have her own. They would both be discreet. She would spend time in New York on her own. That would be her secret life.

  The girl’s fingers had moved down to her upper thighs. She leaned forward and whispered a question.

  Connie shook her head. She did not want anything ‘special’. She would have that later, and it would be very special and very heterosexual. She rolled over and slid off the bed. The girl packed her bottles away, slipped on her white coat and received a large tip.

  Connie picked up her glass and the ice bucket with the champagne and went into the marbled bathroom. She ran a bath so hot that few humans would have attempted to enter. She sank into it with a groan and then pressed the button to set the water foaming. She laid her head back and thought again about Creasy. She had waited a long time, waited until she had the power and organization to trap him. His death would be the culmination of her past life. Her father’s soul would sleep easy, the more so for knowing the extent of Creasy’s suffering before he died. She sipped the champagne and sighed contentedly. Her mind came back to the present. Within an hour she would be a hunter of a different kind.

  ‘I don’t want another blow job in a massage parlour.’

  He turned to his brother, Massimo. ‘We have been here four days and three nights and that’s all that’s happened. I’m not some fat German sex-tourist who spilt out of a jumbo jet with one thing on his mind. I’m thirty-five years old, good looking, and rich. I want a little passion in my sex life!’

  Massimo grinned. He was the elder by four years, and familiar with the cities of the Far East. It was Bruno’s first trip. They were buying silks for the family’s garment business in Milan. Both of them were married to women from the same upper level of Milan society; marriages made for position rather than love. Such trips to exotic places brought adventure into their lives in every sense. Bruno was an idealist and somewhat arrogant. He did not like to pay for sex. It hurt his pride. When he went to London or Paris or New York, he was usually able to rely on his Latin looks and charm to pick up a woman who wanted to enjoy his body as much as he wanted hers.

  Massimo sighed and explained yet again: ‘It’s not like that here, or in Hong Kong or Tokyo. You just can’t find a woman like that. Not unless you live here and get into their society and culture. Your only chance is to find a tourist, and they can’t afford to stay in a hotel like this unless they are rich, old American widows.’ He gestured at two blue-rinsed ladies nursing cocktails at a corner table. ‘How about one of those?’

  Bruno grimaced and turned his head away. He was looking into the mirror behind the bar. Suddenly he sat upright and whispered: ‘Now look at that!’

  Both men swivelled on their bar stools.

  She entered the room as though she owned the hotel. Tall, dark-skinn
ed; black hair and a strapless dress that clung to every curve.

  ‘It’s a Lagerfeld,’ Massimo said. ‘I saw it at his spring collection.’

  Bruno was mesmerized. ‘Forget the dress,’ he murmured. ‘Just look at that body.’

  Connie Crum moved to a table about ten metres from the bar. As she sat down, a waiter brought her a champagne cocktail. ‘She’s been here before,’ Bruno said. ‘She didn’t even have to order a drink.’

  ‘Stop dreaming,’ Massimo said. ‘A woman like that doesn’t go out alone. She’s waiting for either her husband or her boyfriend.’

  Bruno was not deterred. ‘Do you think she’s Thai?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she looks Eurasian. There were many created during the Vietnam War, and by the French before that. But for sure, she’s rich. That’s a five-thousand-dollar dress, and her diamond necklace and ring look like the real thing. So does the gold Rolex watch. She didn’t buy that from a stall in the back streets.’

  Connie Crum surveyed the room like a panther looking for its dinner. It was crowded, especially the long bar. Like in all the bars of luxury hotels in Bangkok, ninety per cent of the customers were men. Many were elderly and overweight, wearing expensive suits and bored expressions.

  She focused on the two Italians and liked what she saw. They were not too young and not too old. They were elegantly dressed, and although the nose of the elder one was slightly overhooked, they made a handsome pair. From their looks, she guessed that they were brothers, and that thought excited her.

  They had turned back to the bar and she noticed that they were both looking at her in the mirror. The body language had started. They were sitting erectly on their stools. The younger one brushed a hand through his hair and straightened the cream handkerchief in his jacket pocket. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she thought. ‘Then one of them will make his move.’ She glanced at her watch.

  After ten minutes the younger one climbed off his stool and went to the men’s room. When he came back, he managed to pass by her table, giving her a close look. After a whispered conversation with his brother, he walked across to her, bowed slightly and said: ‘Signorina, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Bruno Marccheti from Milano.’

  She looked at her watch, smiled and said: ‘You are one minute late, Bruno.’

  They had dinner at the French rooftop restaurant looking over the river. Massimo was sardonically charming, Bruno was a little over-eager. They had only been seated a few minutes when she felt his leg brushing hers. She moved her leg and, because she realized that the brothers had already reached the understanding that Bruno would be given the chance, she concentrated her attention on Massimo.

  She explained that she lived in Paris. Her father was a French diplomat and her mother a minor member of Cambodia’s royal family. She laughingly brushed aside the notion that she had royal blood. ‘Less than a millilitre,’ she said. I’m only a distant cousin.’

  Of course they were intrigued. Men always are, by the combination of beauty and aristocracy. And she certainly looked the part. She told them that she was in Bangkok to visit her father who was on one of those interminable peace missions. He had been called away to Phnom Penh for a couple of days. She had elected to stay and wait in the greater comfort of the Oriental Hotel. She indicated that she was a little bored. Bangkok was a man’s city and it would not have been proper for her to go out and sample the nightlife alone. She was, she explained with a winsome smile, a virtual prisoner in a gilded cage. She laughed inwardly at their quick exchange of glances.

  She ordered caviar followed by baby lamb provençale. They also had caviar, and then shared a Châteaubriand steak. Massimo made a great play of ordering a bottle of Château Latour 1971.

  She began to work her wiles. Bruno’s leg had reached further out and was again touching hers. She let it stay that way. Then she moved her right foot until it touched Massimo’s ankle. Both men decided that they were making progress. Several times she leaned forward to reach for the salt or the pepper. Her dress was lowcut. She wore no bra. Their eyes moved as though they were at a tennis match. When the dessert trolley arrived, she ordered a banana split and managed to eat it with such slow provocation that Bruno’s breathing quickened. His leg was moving against hers. Massimo had managed to get his left foot over her right foot and was giving her shin a gentle but insistent massage.

  ‘Are you married?’ she asked.

  There was a very brief silence while they glanced at each other. Then Massimo said: ‘I am married, but Bruno is in the fortunate position of being a bachelor.’

  ‘Liar!’ Connie thought. ‘They both have the smell of married men. Big brother is helping out little brother, even though he’s doing it reluctantly.’

  They ordered coffee and Cognacs and the waiter brought over a box of cigars. Both men selected Havanas. As the waiter turned away, she called him back and picked out a black Brazilian cheroot. The men looked on with scarcely concealed surprise as she clipped the end and dipped it into her glass of cognac. She then put it between her red lips and leaned forward to accept a light from the waiter.

  ‘It’s one of my rare pleasures,’ she explained. ‘A fine meal followed by a rough cigar.’

  The two men composed themselves. Bruno asked: ‘Are those your only pleasures?’

  She blew smoke at him and smiled to take away the offence. ‘Not at all, Bruno. Before dinner I enjoyed a wonderful massage and then spent half an hour in the whirlpool bath. I just love the feeling of that water pumping over my body.’ She glanced at Massimo, whose eyes were a little misty in thought. ‘I find it almost as pleasant as sex,’ she said.

  His eyes came into focus. ‘Almost?’

  ‘Yes, Massimo. I’m a healthy woman. I like a massage, I like a whirlpool bath, I like fine wines and rough cigars . . . I also like men. In fact, I need them. I need them as much as I need food. It has been a week since I left my husband in Paris. It is as though I had not eaten for a week. My body is hungry.’

  Her voice was almost a whisper. Both men had leaned forward to catch her words. Bruno found his voice.

  ‘I’m an Italian. It would be a stain on my country if I were to allow such a beautiful lady to remain hungry in any way at all.’

  ‘Yes, it would be a shame,’ Massimo murmured, as though in some pain.

  She smiled at both of them and said: ‘You are such gentlemen, but I have a problem.’

  ‘A problem?’ they chorused in true concern.

  ‘Yes. For the past two hours I have been trying to decide which of you I would like to help me with my appetite. I regret to tell you that the choice is such that I have not been able to make a decision.’

  The two men looked at each other with the disappointment apparent on their faces. But then she said: ‘Just a few weeks ago in Paris I was trying to decide whether I was going to buy this dress or another one. For a woman, that is a terrible decision to make. So I indulged myself. I bought both of them.’

  She pushed back her chair and stood up, smoothing her dress down her hips. She said: ‘I’m in the Maugham Suite. Perhaps you would like to join me in half an hour?’ She reached forward and with a slender finger touched the top of the wine bottle. ‘Maybe you could arrange to have them send up another bottle? 1971 was such a good year.’

  She turned and walked through the restaurant to the door. They watched in silence. Then Massimo said: it’s going to be an interesting night, little brother!’

  Chapter 22

  Susanna dialled a number, hoping that Elliot Friedman had not yet left home for the office. It should have made no difference, but she wanted to talk to him in a very unofficial way and phoning him at the office somehow made it official.

  His wife, Julia, answered the phone. ‘Has he left?’ Susanna asked.

  ‘No, he’s just finishing his waffles.’ Susanna heard Julia shout through to the kitchen, and half a minute later Elliot was mumbling: ‘Hello’ through a mouthful.

  ‘I’m kind of reporting in,’ she
said. ‘Just to give you a background. I have nothing specific. I’m in contact with Creasy and his group and tonight we’re making an operational move. I’ve offered my help as an interpreter. I want to clear that with you.’

  At the other end of the line the munching stopped and Elliot asked: ‘What kind of an operation?’

  ‘I cannot say over an open line, but Creasy is moving down the road and he may have to talk to a Vietnamese who has no English-.’

  ‘May it be dangerous?’

  ‘Possible, but not probable.’

  ‘When did you last take a holiday?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A holiday. When did you last take a holiday?’

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  His voice was stern. ‘Susanna. Think back and tell me when you last took a holiday.’

  She thought about it and then said: it was eight months ago. I went to stay with my cousin in California for a week.’

  ‘OK. So as of now, you’re on holiday for two weeks. When I get to the office, I’ll send a fax to the hotel confirming that fact. And, Susanna, what you do on your holiday has got nothing to do with the department. As of the moment you receive that fax, you’re no longer on official business. What you do in your own time is your business. If you get in trouble, don’t come running to me.’

  She laughed down the phone. ‘OK, boss . . . Sometimes you’re not just beautiful, you can also be intelligent! I’ll phone you at home later and let you know what happened.’

  ‘OK, Susanna. I’ve always admired your common sense. Keep using it. . .’

  As she cradled the phone, she heard a tap on the door. She moved across the room and opened it. Creasy stood there. He said: ‘I need to have a talk with you in private.’

  She stood back, gestured a welcome and pointed at the minibar. ‘Can I get you a drink?’