Message From -Creasy 5 (6 page)

She
hated Vietnam; the more so, because it fascinated her. It was a land of both
sadness and poignancy. It was like an axe that cut a cleft between her heart
and her mind; and it constantly drew her like a moth to a flame.

The Thai
Airways plane from Bangkok dipped its nose and banked for its final descent
into Ton San Nut airport. She closed the lid of her IBM Notebook and reached
for her briefcase under the seat. Her mind was on the report she had just read
on the small screen. She had read it several times since it had been loaded
into her computer two days ago.

It was
the FBI report on the Danish detective Jens Jensen. It had linked him with a
mercenary called Creasy. That in itself did not ring any alarm bells for either
herself or her boss Elliot Friedman. What did ring a shrill alarm was a suffix
at the end of the report. It stated that any inquiries made to the FBI which
involved a mercenary called Creasy would be automatically referred to Senator
James Grainger, the senior Senator from Nevada and the chairman of the House
Ways and Means Committee, a very powerful individual. She happened to be in
Friedman's office the next morning when the expected call came through.
Friedman had glanced at her and then flicked the phone onto the conference
speaker.

The
conversation was fairly typical of that between a very powerful politician and
a moderately senior army officer. The politician was at first polite in the
extreme. He complimented the colonel on the fine work he was doing under such
difficult circumstances. For two or three minutes they chatted about the
missing-in-action problem; and then Senator Grainger said: "It's come to
my attention that yesterday you requested a report on a Dane called Jens
Jensen."

"Yes,
sir."

"I
assume you have received it."

"Yes.
It's on my desk at this moment."

"Why
your request, Colonel?"

"It's
routine, sir. He came to see me the day before yesterday together with his
associate. He's a private eye who specializes in missing persons. A very
pleasant guy, I guess we have something in common in our work."

"What
did he want, Colonel?"

"He
had the dogtag of a MIA. It had been delivered to the MIA's parents' house in
San Diego. We extracted the relevant file and I have to say, Senator, I broke
the rules a mite and let him read it."

Susanna
heard the Senator's chuckle through the speaker. "I guess some rules are
just there to be broken, Colonel. Were you able to help Jensen?"

"No,
sir. Not beyond showing him the file. I asked him to keep me informed and to
come back to me if he needed any further assistance."

There
was a silence. Even the phone's speaker seemed to be thinking; then the
Senator's voice came through it. "What was the code on the FBI's
report?"

Colonel
Friedman pulled the papers towards him and read out loud:
"CN/D/404082A."

Another
silence. Susanna thought she could actually hear the shuffle of papers through
the phone. Then the senator said: "That report refers to a man called
Creasy."

"Yes, sir."

"Apart from what you have read in that report, do you know anything about that man
Creasy?"

"No, sir. Just that he's a mercenary."

The tone of Senator Grainger's voice changed. He became almost musing. He said:
"Colonel Friedman, can we talk off the record and in confidence?"

Friedman
glanced at Susanna as if for advice. She simply shrugged and started to walk
towards the door. Friedman stabbed the hold button and told her: "Stay
where you are, Susanna. When a senator wants to talk to an officer in
confidence, it's better to have a witness."

Very
intrigued, she returned to her seat. Friedman reopened the line and said:
"Of course, Senator. This conversation is between you and me."

"Good.
I'm going to ask nothing that will compromise you. It's simply a request. I
would like you to keep me informed of any further contact you or your
department have with this man Jensen or with the man Creasy. I would also ask
that in the event of such contacts, you render all assistance possible."

The
colonel looked up at Susanna, who again simply shrugged.

A few
seconds passed, then Friedman said: "I'll be happy to do that, Senator
Grainger, under any circumstances. However, you will understand my curiosity.
Can you explain why?"

Friedman
and Susanna looked at each other through the silence. Through the speaker, she
could hear the Senator's breathing. He said: "I'll be in Washington next
week. Perhaps you would join me for lunch at The Red Sage?"

Susanna
saw Friedman's eyebrows rise in surprise. It was a very rare event when a
senior Senator invited a colonel to the best restaurant in town.

"It
will be an honour, Senator."

"Good.
I'll have my secretary phone you and fix the appointment. Thanks for your
cooperation."

The
line went dead. Friedman sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the
ceiling. Then he lowered his gaze to Susanna.

"What
the hell is all that about?"

"It's
about having perhaps the best meal in your life."

A
thought struck him. "Should I wear uniform or a suit and tie?"

"Ask
the secretary when she phones. I would certainly polish my shoes."

He was
thoughtful again. "Put your thinking cap on, Susanna. What the hell is
behind all this?"

"I
don't know. But my guess is that his interest lies more in the mercenary Creasy
than in the Dane." She had stood up. "But Elliot, one thing is for
sure: you had better go to that lunch fully prepared. You need to know more
about this man Creasy."

"That's
true. But if I ask for a more detailed report from the FBI, they'll alert
Grainger. I have to find another way."

She
nodded. "You have to have the advantage of knowledge without the Senator
being aware of it."

"So
what do I do?"

"You
put a routine inquiry through to Interpol in Paris."

"Interpol?
But he's a mercenary, not necessarily a criminal."

"Yes,
but I read somewhere that for the last couple of decades Interpol have been
keeping a registry of all known mercenaries. It's no problem. We often put
inquiries through to Interpol, and I doubt if Senator Grainger has any
influence there."

She
closed her eyes as the plane screeched onto the runway. No matter how many
times she flew, she could never relax during the take-off or landing. A voice
from the seat beside her drawled, "I know how you feel, ma'am. To me it's
always a miracle that these damned machines ever get off the ground."

She
opened her eyes and turned her head. From an earlier conversation she knew that
he was a Texas oilman. She would have known it anyway. He was all boots and a
big brass belt buckle and a friendly courtesy. He helped her off with her bag
and invited her to share a taxi into town. She declined politely, not relishing
the idea of conversation or an invitation to dinner. During the half-hour
journey she noticed the increased bustle of the city. There were ever more
street vendors and Honda mopeds. Capitalism was returning to Vietnam with a
vengeance. Her thoughts turned back to Washington and to Elliot Friedman.

Interpol
had answered their query within hours. She had watched the fax come off the
machine in her office. It had kept coming and coming until more than five yards
of it had spilled onto the floor. She had read it in silent fascination and
then taken it through to Elliot. After he finished reading it, he looked up and
asked: "You read it?"

"Yes.
I'm sorry, I should have brought it through straight away, but I started
reading as it came off the machine and I couldn't stop."

Slowly
and thoughtfully, he rolled the paper into a tube. He tapped it on his desk.
"You saw the connection," he said.

"Yes.
Lockerbie, Pam Am 103. Creasy's wife and child were on it. So was Senator
Grainger's wife. It's known that some person or organization mounted a revenge
attack against the bombers in the Middle East. That fax more or less confirms
it. Creasy was involved."

"He
was involved in a lot of things," Friedman answered grimly.

"An
ex French Foreign Legionnaire, then a mercenary in the West African wars in the
sixties. And then in Vietnam and Cambodia as an 'unofficial' connected to our
special forces."

"The
dogtag," she said.

"The
dogtag?"

"Yes,
Elliot. That has to be the connection. Maybe he knew Jake Bentsen over
there."

"Let's
try and track it down. I want you to scrutinize every unit that Bentsen was attached
to. The records will not show if any 'unofficials' were attached, but I can use
my own unofficial sources to find out." He grinned. "Senator James L.
Grainger is not the only one with connections."

The
taxi pulled up at the Hotel Continental. Every time she came to Ho Chi Minh
city she always decided to stay at a modern hotel, but inevitably she changed
her plans at the last minute and booked into the Continental. Her father had
stayed there very often during his years in Vietnam. He had told her of its
famous veranda and bar and its old colonial atmosphere. It was always a
bitter-sweet feeling as she went through the door. Then, after a few minutes,
it was better to have the memory and in a strange way feel his presence.

She
stood under the old copper showerhead washing her hair and irreverently
thinking of the line from South Pacific, "I'm gonna wash that man right
out of my hair". Her boyfriend, the professor Jason, was not really in her
hair. Somehow her passion seemed to be on hold. Subconsciously she was waiting
for a man to come along: not to sweep her off her feet, but to light some
passion that she knew must lie within her. So far it had been dormant. She
enjoyed the company of the man, both mentally and physically, but the physical
side had always been more or less routine. A social act rather than a blending
of the body and the mind. She had watched some of her friends stumble madly
into love and then usually out of it. It had never happened to her.

Perhaps
her mind was too logical, her life too controlled. She rinsed the shampoo from
her hair and soaped her long body. Again, her mind went back to Washington and
her boss.

Elliot
had returned from his lunch with Senator Grainger at The Red Sage and
immediately dropped by her office. She had spent the first ten minutes pumping
him about the restaurant, the food and the clientele. His gossip was
satisfying. He had spotted the Vice-President's wife lunching with an ageing
actor, and the Attorney General with a couple of Senators. He was sure it had
all been strictly business. Grainger had ordered a plain grilled steak but
Elliot had been more adventurous, starting with a wild salmon mousse and going
on to duck a l"orange. It had been delicious. At first Grainger had been
cautious, obviously sizing up his man. But with the main course he had opened
up and talked about his personal life. The conversation had slowly turned to
Creasy. It appeared the two men were very close friends. It had begun with
their shared tragedy over Lockerbie indeed, Creasy had mounted a revenge attack
partially funded and assisted by Grainger. A couple of years later Creasy had
become involved in a sort of war against a white-slave-and-drug ring in France
and Italy. Grainger had been able to pull a few strings to help the mercenary
during that time. The ring had been destroyed and its leader killed. The Dane
Jens Jensen, together with The Owl, had been part of that operation. A year
later the daughter of one of Senator Grainger's constituents in Denver had been
murdered in Zimbabwe. The local police had made no progress and the dead girl's
mother had come to Grainger to ask his help in applying pressure on the State
Department to get results. Instead, Grainger had introduced her to Creasy who,
in his own way, had extracted justice. Jens Jensen had also been involved. So
it was no surprise that the Senator's curiosity had been roused when Elliot had
put in a query to the FBI about the Dane.

Elliot
had been pacing up and down her small office with a coffee mug in his hand. He
stopped, turned and said: "Susanna, at this point it became obvious to me
that the senator holds much affection for this man, Creasy. There and then I
took a decision. I told the Senator that for the next few weeks I would
routinely be basing one of my officers in Saigon. I suggested that the Senator
get in touch with Creasy and inform him that if he needed any help and backup
in that city, he could call on our organization in the person of that
officer."

Elliot
smiled, and said: "Who happens to be Susanna Moore."

She was
startled. She had not been due to visit Vietnam for at least three or four
months.

"I
want you to leave tomorrow," he said. "Something in my blood tells me
that this could be important. I have a feeling that this man Creasy does not go
charging around the world on wild-goose chases."

She
stepped out of the shower and towelled herself down. It was something of a
mystery to her. Elliot Friedman was not a man to act on impulse. He had a
well-trained logical mind, which is why he was so good at his job. He was also
careful with his budget and not given to sending his officers on speculative
trips. But then he had given her another nugget of information.

"I
checked with my sources," he said. "Jake Bentsen went missing in action
during a fire-fight near the Cambodian border on September 24th 1968. It was a
Special Forces mission. It so happened that they were accompanied by two
unofficials. Of course those guys always used false names. I tracked down the
then lieutenant who led that mission. He's now a full colonel. He remembered
the mission well, and the two unofficials. One was a Belgian. The other one had
French papers and spoke with a slight American accent. His physical description
fits that of our man Creasy. Also his actions and demeanour. The colonel
remembers that young Jake Bentsen was only twenty-one years old at the time. He
tended to keep close to the unofficial who fits Creasy's description." He
took a sip of his coffee and said thoughtfully: "I see the scenario thus:
Bentsen's dogtag was returned mysteriously to his parents in San Diego. They
had previously drawn a blank with us. Maybe young Bentsen had mentioned Creasy
in his letters from 'Nam. They managed to track him down and now he's on
his way back to 'Nam to look for Bentsen or his remains. The point is, Susanna,
a man like that can do things that we cannot. He can go places that we could
never go. He could ask questions in a way we never could. He might turn
something up. He might even throw a light on other MIAs at the same time."
He gave her a long look and continued: "So I want you on the scene. Keep
your eyes and ears open. And if he does contact you, give him every
cooperation."