Message From -Creasy 5 (12 page)

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-skinned; 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 provencale. They also had caviar, and then
shared a Chateaubriand steak. Massimo made a great play of ordering a bottle of
Chateau 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 low-cut. 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!"

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?"

He
shook his head. "It will only take a few minutes, but there are some
things you have to understand."

She sat
down on a chair in the corner, saying: "Go ahead."

He
started pacing the room and, without looking at her, started talking.

"You
invited yourself into this thing. I'm not unhappy about that, but you need to
understand the reality. What you'll see tonight will not be pretty. I have to
terrify a man. I don't like doing it. You'll watch me do it and you'll think I
enjoy it for the sole reason that he has to think I enjoy it. If he's not
convinced, he will not talk. The alternative would be for myself and Guido to
torture him. You know my history, so you know that I'm no saint: but when we do
this kind of work, if you're going to remain a human being, you have to have a
bottom line. My bottom line is that I never killed anybody who wasn't trying to
kill me. And I never tortured anybody. Except once, a long time ago, and he deserved
it. What I'm going to do to this follower may seem to you to be a form of
torture, but for me it is not. I'm just going to give him one hell of a fright.
It will shock you. But within that shock, keep something clear in your mind.
After I get the information from the follower, I should logically kill him.
Most people in my profession would do that. Otherwise the people who hired him
could find out that he talked. No matter what happens I'll not kill him. So
while you might be disgusted by my actions, try to remember two things: first
of all, he's earning his money in a risky business, and second, I gave him his
life. Try to remember that. Try to keep in mind that I'm not a monster."

He had
not looked at her at all, but she could sense the importance of his words to
his own mind. In a moment of revelation, she felt sorry for him. He was not a
man who was comfortable explaining himself.

He had
sat down on the bed and was watching her. She felt like a priest in a
confessional. Without thinking, she stood up and moved to the bed and sat
beside him. She picked up his huge right hand in hers and looked at it. There
were mottled scars across the back.

"How
did you get these?" she asked.

"It
was a long time ago. I was a prisoner. An interrogator was asking me questions.
He smoked a lot. There was no ashtray."

She
looked up at him. "Did you talk?"

"No.
The problem was I didn't have any answers. But he did not believe that."

She
released his hand. He stood up and moved to the door. She said: "Creasy, I
appreciate what you said to me. But I can tell you that I never believed you
were an evil man. Violent, yes. Dispassionate, certainly. But not evil. I may
not like what I see tonight, but I will try to understand it."