Message From -Creasy 5 (2 page)

"Maybe."

Maxie
picked up the disc and rolled it through his fingers, and asked: "What was
the kid like?"

Creasy
thought about that, and then said: "He was a good kid. A bit different. He
was always frightened."

Maxie
laughed in surprise. "Frightened. He'd graduated to the US Special Forces
and had been in 'Nam for over a year; and he was always frightened?"

"Yes.
He thought he never showed it. He was the macho type on the outside. I guess he
was born frightened, and had spent the twenty-one years of his life trying to
prove to himself that he was a hero. He used to follow me around, a bit like a
puppy. Always talking tough, but always just a frightened kid underneath. I
sort of came to like him. I guess, in a way, like you get attached to a puppy.
When things got rough, I tried to keep him a little close, but on that day the
asshole platoon commander had put him out on point. He was the first one to get
cut down."

Maxie
studied his friend's scarred face. He had been present when some of those scars
were inflicted. Quietly he said: "Creasy, there's no way you should feel
responsible. You were not even in the fucking US Army. You were a hired
irregular whom nobody was even supposed to talk about. You were not in command.
You had no responsibility. So they paid you good, but not good enough to risk
going back to look for a guy you assumed was dead. Now why don't you go home to
Gozo: soak up the sun and put it out of your mind."

Creasy
reached out and picked up the scrap of paper. He said: "Thanks for the
advice, Maxie. But 'Nam has opened up again and so has Cambodia." He
smiled wryly. "I guess I'll go and look for the puppy."

In
astonishment, Maxie glanced at Jens and The Owl. It was as though he had just
heard the Pope announce that he was off to get married.

The
Dane said: "It sounds like a wild goose looking for a needle in a thousand
hectares of wheat. Where will you start to look?"

Creasy
was holding his wine glass and slowly swirling the contents. He looked up at
the Dane and then at The Owl and asked: "Are you guys busy at the
moment?"

"Not
very," Jens answered. "We just wrapped up a job. We figured to take
some time off."

Creasy
put down his glass and said: "How would you feel about working with me on
this?"

The
Dane and the Frenchman glanced at each other. Then The Owl asked: "Does
this kid's father have plenty of money?"

"I
doubt it. He's a retired clerk. I guess he has his pension and no more. If you
joined me, I would be the client."

Again,
glances of surprise passed around the table, and Maxie asked: "You'll do
this for nothing?"

Creasy
shrugged. "You talked about guilt. The fact is, I'm not feeling guilty,
but I am curious. I want to know where that dogtag came from, and why." He
looked at the Dane. "I want to hire you and The Owl for at least a couple
of weeks. How much do you guys charge per diem?"

Suddenly,
there was a strange noise. It emanated from The Owl. The other three looked at
him with concern; then they realized that he was laughing. He controlled
himself and said: "Creasy, I never expected to hear such a question from
you. Three years ago you came into what I thought was a life and turned it
upside down...Gave it a purpose." He gestured at the Dane. "You
matched me up with Jens and, in a sense, gave me a family for the first time.
Now you have the balls to sit there and ask how much I charge you for what is
nothing more than a favour."

The
Dane was nodding thoughtfully. He said: "If it wasn't for you, Creasy, I'd
still be sitting in a small office at Copenhagen Police Headquarters pushing
papers around. So shut up about money and just tell us what you want
done."

Creasy
looked at Maxie, who stated: "It's not a good thing to insult old
friends."

There
was a brief flash of anger in Creasy's eyes. Then he relaxed and sat back in
his seat. He said to Jens: "You have my thanks. Of course, I'll cover your
expenses. And who knows, maybe some money will come out of all this. It often
does. If so, we split it three ways."

"It's
a deal," Jens said. "Now what do you need?"

Creasy
thought for half a minute and then said: "The US Army has a permanent
Missing-in-Action section based in Washington. It's a big section. The American
people are highly sensitive about their Armed Forces personnel who go missing
in foreign wars. It's a very emotive issue, so the politicians make a lot of
noise about it. They're still trying to find GIs, or their remains, who went
missing in Korea forty-five years ago. They still refuse to recognize Vietnam
until they've used up every effort to locate their missing persons." He
glanced at the Dane. "In a way, Jens, it's the same thing that you and the
Owl specialize in, which is why I can use your help. I'd like you to go to
Washington and talk to the people at the Missing-in-Action section. Of course Bentsen
has been in contact with them about
that dogtag, and they think it's authentic. I want you to get as much
background as possible. Ask questions; snoop around. Try to get a general
impression of the case. Those guys must get all kinds of information, a lot of
it purely speculative. The kind of information they cannot pass on to the
families of the missing because it may raise false hopes. But that information
could be useful to me. Meanwhile I'll head for San Diego. We take it one step
at a time. I made some inquiries. The guy who heads up the US Army
Missing-in-Action section is a Colonel called Elliot Friedman. Please go talk
to him."

The
Dane did something that he always did at such moments. He reached down to his
feet and pulled up the small case containing his computer. He laid it
reverently on the table and a few seconds later was tapping in a file entitled,
'Puppy'.

Of course it was logical: first find the messenger, and through him find the sender.

Where
to start looking? Obviously, at the place where the message was delivered.

Creasy
sat in the overfurnished living room in the house in San Diego, sipping a
Budweiser. The old couple sat opposite drinking coffee, their faces showing
anxiety and a little embarrassment.

The
woman said; "We have our savings, Mr Creasy...and we both have pensions.
We can afford to pay you something."

Creasy
was deliberately blunt. "Mrs Bentsen, for a job like this I'd normally ask
for a hundred thousand up front...and a whole lot more for expenses. But this
is not normal. I'm going to spend a couple of weeks to satisfy my own
curiosity. Right now I'm flush with money from the last couple of jobs. What I
need is not money but your memory. Think carefully, and describe the man who
delivered the dogtag."

Marina
Bentsen was old, with a pinched, narrow face, but her eyes were bright and
sparkled with intelligence. Those eyes narrowed in concentration as she spoke.

"He
was definitely Asiatic. We have quite a big Asian community here in San Diego.
Japanese, Chinese, Korean and of course Vietnamese. For us, it's always hard to
distinguish. Not only their nationalities, but their ages. He was not young, I
would guess between fifty and sixty...His face was unlined. His hair, of
course, was black and quite short... parted in the middle. His eyes were small
and very dark. His nose was slightly hooked and his chin was uncommonly narrow.
He was wearing dark blue trousers, and a light blue windbreaker. Also sneakers.
When he walked away I noticed that he had a slight limp."

"Which
side?"

"He
favoured his left leg."

"You're
very observant, Mrs Bentsen."

For the
first time, the thin lips on the narrow face smiled. She said: "I guess it
comes from being an artist."

"You're
an artist?"

She
gestured at the walls of the room. Creasy silently studied the half-dozen
paintings. They were all landscapes apart from one portrait of a young man.
Creasy recognized the face of Jake Bentsen. With sincerity he said:
"They're very good; and the likeness of your son is excellent."

Her
query was wistful. "So you recognized him, Mr Creasy?"

"Yes,
but I'm going to need several photographs, which I'll get enlarged."

The old
man pushed himself to his feet, saying: "We have plenty. We had them
enlarged and printed for the MIA." He walked over to a bureau, opened a
drawer, and took out a large envelope.

Creasy
studied the score or so eight-by-ten prints and nodded with satisfaction, then
looked up at the old woman and asked: "Can you make a drawing from your memory,
of the messenger?"

She
leaned forward. "I did that the same night that he came here."

Her
husband had not sat down. He went again to the bureau and came back with a tube
of paper bound by an elastic band. Creasy slipped off the band and unrolled the
thick paper. The portrait was drawn with broad strokes of charcoal. The face
seemed to be alive, especially the small black eyes between the high
cheekbones. For a long time the old couple watched him study the drawing. Then
he turned back to the woman and asked in a very quiet voice: "Are you
satisfied that this is a good likeness?"

She was
emphatic. "Yes. The face was stamped into my mind. I worked on the drawing
late into the night. Mr Creasy, that's the face of the messenger."

Creasy
turned the portrait around and looked at it again. The old man asked:
"Will it help?"

Creasy
looked at him and said: "Mr Bentsen, I knew this man."

Silence
hung in the air, finally broken by the excited voice of Marina Bentsen.

"So
it does help!"

Creasy
was looking at the charcoal face. He said: "Yes and no."

"What
does that mean?"

Creasy
tapped the portrait. "Like your son, this guy should be dead."

The old
man was the first to find his voice. "Are you sure?"

"Yes...I
killed him."

After
he had left, the old couple sat silently for several minutes.

Then
the woman stood up and went to the bureau in the corner. She returned with a
shoebox, laid it on the table and took from it a bunch of envelopes tied with a
yellow ribbon. She knew exactly which letter she wanted. She flicked through
the bundle and pulled it out. The pages crackled in her hands. Her husband
watched patiently as she looked for the paragraphs. Then she started to read
out loud.

"My
outfit is doing long-range patrols (LRPs) into VC territory. We go in for days,
and sometimes weeks, at a time. Not like the units who go on a forty-eight-hour
hike and have their hot breakfasts flown in by the choppers. Sure it's
dangerous work; but don't worry overmuch. Ours is an elite unit. We know what
we're doing. It's mainly recce work but occasionally we make contact. The
fire-fight is always short and sharp. Over the weeks we've come out on top,
although we've suffered some wounded. We have a few 'unofficials' with us. I'm
not allowed to tell you where they're from. Let's just say these guys have been
around in a lot of wars and compared to them we're kinda green; but we learn
fast."

"One
of those guys is sort of a friend. Well, maybe not a friend. I don't think he
has any friends. He doesn't talk much. Fact is he hardly talks at all. There
are all kinds of rumours about the guy, that he was in the French Foreign
Legion and fought all over the place. He's got scars just about everywhere.
They say he also fought in the Congo and Biafra. Thing is, when you ask him, he
just shrugs and says he can't remember."

"I'm
the youngest in the outfit and some of the guys kinda trash me. But not this
guy. He takes me seriously. Sometimes he gives me pointers on weapons and
things. For sure, he knows a hell of a lot more than the NCOs and the
lieutenant. When he occasionally says something you'd better believe they
listen."

"When
there's a fire-fight I always look for him. I guess it's natural. Also I get
the feeling that maybe he keeps an eye on me. Nothing obvious but just a
feeling. I can't explain, but I want to be his friend. His name is
Creasy."

She
folded the sheets of paper and slid them back into the envelope. She pulled out
another letter from the bundle and read: "We just got back from another
LRP way up north. I never thought a man could get so tired as I did. I guess I
only kept going because the others did. Maybe that's the way it works.
Everybody watches the others, waiting for the first one to crack, waiting for an
excuse to give up yourself. We made no contact with 'Charlie' but something
interesting happened. Our orders were to check out a valley and a small
Vietnamese village in it. We entered the place at dawn and picked up the
headman and took him away for questioning. This is a dirty war and you won't be
shocked to know that the questioning can get rough. Of course, we good guys
don't get involved like that. We always have a couple of NVA guys along to do
the translating and the dirty work if necessary. But it turned out that the
headman was educated and spoke French. Our lieutenant is supposed to speak
French but I guess it was third-grade stuff because the guy couldn't understand
more than a word or two. The lieutenant got mad and told the NVA guys to work
him over. But Creasy told them to wait. Then he had a long conversation with
the headman in French. I guess he must have been in the Legion. They seemed to
get on fine, the headman was smiling and laughing. Creasy told the lieutenant
that he had learned all they needed to know. Then he spoke a few more words
with the headman and then he beat the guy up. Beat him up bad. He didn't break
any bones but the old guy was bleeding all over. None of us could figure it
out. Not even the lieutenant. I mean, the headman had co-operated. Most of the
guys figured that Creasy was just a sadist getting his kicks. I didn't believe
it. Over chow that night I went over and asked him about it. He just told me to
use my brains and think it out. A couple of days passed. Then I worked it out.
We had been deep into VC territory. For sure the next time the VC visited that
village, they would find out that we had been there and questioned the headman.
If he was unmarked, he would face their suspicions. If he was only roughed up,
the suspicions would be deeper."