Message From -Creasy 5 (22 page)

As late
as it was he would pay a visit to Tan Sotho. It was always that way after
putting his life on the line. He needed the release of a soft woman. He needed
to celebrate the fact that he would see the sun rise in the morning.

It was
spontaneous. They had all eaten together from room service in one of the
bungalows and enjoyed a surprisingly relaxed dinner. Afterwards, Jens and The
Owl went into town, not hunting for girls or nightlife, but to ask around in a
very casual way and try to get a lead on a Buddhist temple expert. Susanna sat
with Creasy and Guido on the patio, sipping a brandy and listening to them reminisce
about old times and old comrades.

Their
minds were so close together that they communicated in a strange abbreviated
manner. She listened as Guido asked a one-word question.

"Denard?"

"Sailing
smooth."

"Still
copped out of France?"

"No.
They gave him a pardon."

"Only
fair. He always worked on the side for CND."

"True.
Even in the Commors."

"Retired?"

"Who
knows. He's probably casting an eye on Guadeloupe or Saint Bart's. He always
wanted to be an emperor."

Susanna
did not feel outside the conversation, even though most of it was
incomprehensible. More and more, as the days passed, she felt a part of this
strange group of men. She had never known that in her life. Even during her
army training she had never made friends easily. She realized that even though
these four men had different nationalities and different personalities, they
were in many ways very similar. They relished what they were doing. They woke
up each morning not knowing what life would bring.

She
realized that Creasy was exerting an ever-growing influence over her. She could
not define it as love, although the physical attraction was very strong. It was
more a question of companionship.

She
felt good when he was nearby. She enjoyed his dry sense of humour and the depth
of his mind. She had noticed that he kept himself completely in touch with
world events, always looking for newspapers and weekly magazines and every day
listening at least twice to the news on the BBC World Service.

During
their discussions she had noticed a strange combination of conservatism and
liberalism. That night during dinner he had teased Jens, telling him that
Denmark was probably the only truly communist nation left on earth. The Dane
had been indignant, but Creasy had pointed out that the true ideals of
communism had never been realized in Russia or China or even Cuba. In a strange
way their real ideals had possibly evolved in Denmark.

The
community looked after its own. It was a contradiction. The people had a free
and inventive spirit and yet they conformed to the good of the whole. They paid
massive taxes with surprisingly little complaint because their tax money was
spent sensibly for the community. There were very few rich and very few poor.
Jens had started arguing. Creasy had held up a hand and said: "I've
travelled the world, Jens. And since I've met you, I've spent some time in
Denmark. The quality of life there is the highest I've ever seen. Be proud of
your country."

That
had silenced Jens. Then Creasy teased Guido about Italy.

"A
nation of peacocks," he said. "A recent survey showed that Italian
men spend forty per cent of their disposable incomes on clothes." He
glanced at his friend, who was dressed immaculately in an Armani suit. "In
your case I suspect you spend sixty per cent."

Guido
took the ribbing good-naturedly, and answered: "It's a sign of
civilization. The Americans and the English have no style. We hate to pay
taxes, we like rich food and plump women. We live in the sun and dream dreams.
We are, on the whole, chaotically happy."

The Owl
joined the conversation. "If you talk about civilization, France is the
heart and the soul. We have the greatest food, the most beautiful women, the
finest wines, the most delicious cheeses and the fastest trains. The Danes are
well organized, the Italians have a superficial style, the Americans have
Hollywood. But la France has flair." He turned to look at Susanna. With a
twinkle in his eyes he asked: "What has America given the world except John
Wayne?"

She
felt her patriotism welling up and answered: "We gave the world the blues
and the jazz. Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Brubeck and Miller. That music
is unique and it came from America. You can have your Mozarts and Beethovens
and Verdis. We have our own culture and we're proud of it. And we don't need
some snivelling Frenchman lecturing to us about culture."

The Owl
beamed with delight.

It had
been a good evening. Eventually Guido drained his glass and stood up, saying
that he had a meeting with his bed. Susanna poured herself a little more Cognac
and Creasy poured himself the last of the red wine.

"How
do you choose them?" she asked.

"Choose?"

"Yes.
Among all the hard men that you must have known, how do you choose people like
those...and even Rene and Maxie? They are good men. I guess they may have done
terrible things, but they strike me as decent men."

The
question gave him pause for serious thought. He swirled the glass of wine,
looking down at it, and then answered: "It's not a matter of choice,
Susanna. Life is like being in a fairground and riding the dodgem cars. You
bump into people all the time. I guess that sometimes the bumps are not so bad.
Jake Bentsen was like that. I bumped into him in Vietnam. He was just a scared
kid putting on a brave face. But I liked him. When I met his parents I knew
why. They're good people. I guess that's why I'm here. I have enough money
saved and invested not to have to work any more at my trade. I want to find out
what happened to Jake Bentsen, not just because of my own curiosity, but
because back in San Diego there's an old couple who deserve an answer. It's not
a question of sentiment or even emotion. It's a question of balancing
out."

"Balancing
out what?"

He
sighed reflectively. "Balancing out my own life. I've done a lot of things
and not all of them to be proud of. I've done jobs for money that put me
outside of what decent people would call proper behaviour. It's not a real
excuse, but I had no choice. I was in the fairground getting bashed up by all
the dodgem cars. For most of my life the main criterion was survival. Perhaps
instinctively, I'm trying to redress the balance. I'm in danger here... We all
are. I could leave in the morning and go back to my old farmhouse in Gozo and
swim in warm seas and eat good food and enjoy the friends that I have
there." He shrugged. "But maybe I wouldn't sleep so good. I want to
be able to tell that couple in San Diego that their son is either dead or
alive. If he's alive, I want to take him home. I've been called a dog of war
and I accept it. But old dogs have their own loyalties. And this dog wants to
rest in peace."

"What
will you do after this?" she asked. "Just go home and retire?"

He
laughed quietly, as though at an often-heard joke.

"I've
been trying to do that for the last ten years. I decided to retire after a
stint with the Rhodesian army back in the late seventies. I was drinking too
much and I got right out of shape, mentally and physically. I turned up at
Guido's pensione in Naples one night with no horizon in my life at all. He
arranged to get me a job as a bodyguard to the young daughter of an Italian
industrialist. I did a lousy job. She was kidnapped and later killed: but in
the months before that, I had fallen in love with that child. Not physically,
you understand. She was only eleven. But she came into my life and changed it.
I was badly shot up in the kidnapping and nearly died. I went to Gozo and spent
two months getting physically fit again. Then I went back to Italy and killed a
lot of people...the Mafia gang who had been responsible. I didn't do it for
money. I did it for myself. The girl's name was Pinta. Since then, at periodic
times, there have been other Pintas in my life." He smiled wryly. "In
a sense Jake Bentsen was a Pinta...I guess there will always be Pintas turning
up somewhere; and that's good. It gives a purpose to my life. It gives me
always an unseen horizon."

"Do
you ever get lonely?" she asked.

"Not
really. I live in my own head. I have conversations with myself. Perhaps there
are occasions sometimes in the night." He gestured out into the darkness.
"They say that Cambodia was a killing field, and that's true. But I've
been in many killing fields. Sometimes a memory brings loneliness, and that's
always late in the night."

"Not
tonight," she said softly. "Tonight I will stay with you. After all,
you recently did the same for me."

She
woke at first light. Her body was entwined with his. Her mood was serene. The
love-making had been long and gentle. She was watching his face as his eyes
opened. He moved slightly and kissed her on her chin and murmured: "It was
very good."

"What
was?"

"The
love-making. It was perfect."

"What
are you talking about?"

His
eyes opened wider. "I'm talking about last night. I'm talking about the
meal and the conversation, and afterwards the lovemaking. It was perfect."

She
gave him a puzzled look. "I don't know what you're talking about. We just
slept together, that's all."

He
pulled her close and chuckled into the nape of her neck.

"You're
crazy!" Creasy said.

"I'm
totally sane," Jens answered. "Trust me."

Creasy
sighed. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Toyota. Jens was
driving. They were on a bumpy road running parallel to the east bank of the
Mekong river.

"An
ex-colonel in the Australian army?"

"Exactly."

"And
he's now a Buddhist monk?"

"That's
right. And he lives like a hermit outside the village of Prek. He's our
man."

"How
come?"

"He
was captured by the Japanese during World War Two, in Burma. He survived the
war and afterwards got himself demobbed in Thailand. He took up the Buddhist
faith and studied it for the next twenty years and became a monk. In the early
sixties he moved to Cambodia and became so learned in the faith that the local
people venerated him to the point where he became considered among the three
holiest monks in the country. When the Khmer Rouge took over, he was taken by
his followers back into Thailand. He returned to Cambodia four years ago. He's
eighty-eight years old now and he's looked upon as the holiest man in this
country. He's an expert on Buddhism, and in particular its history and its
temples. However, he's a recluse. I'm not sure he'll even talk to you. We can
but try."

"How
did you get on to him?"

"I
was talking to an American in the bar last night. A place called the No Problem
Bar. It's a place where the expatriates hang out. The American is doing field
work at Angkor Wat. He's a postgraduate student in Eastern Archaeology and a
convert to Buddhism. One of those nutcases with long hair and a beard and
bangles on his wrists. But he knows his stuff. This Australian ex-colonel, now
monk, is called Chum Bun Rong. The American tells me that he's a living, breathing
encyclopedia on Buddhist temples. The trouble is he doesn't like talking to
people. I'm not crazy, but maybe this guy is."

They
passed through the small, dusty village of Prek. Jens stopped the car,
consulted a hand-drawn map, and then pointed to a rickety wooden house on
stilts which hung precariously over the river bank.

"That's
got to be it," he said. "How shall we play it?"

Creasy
looked at the house and muttered: "You carry the rice and the fruit, and
I'll carry the photographs. We don't say a single word. You give him the rice
and food and I hold the photographs in front of his face. If he's such a
fucking expert, he'll get curious."

It
worked. They climbed the wooden steps and pushed open the squeaking door. The
old man was sitting in the lotus position in the corner of a totally bare room.
He wore dirty, saffron-coloured robes. He was completely bald. His face was as
lined and as dark as the wooden walls. Jens placed the wicker basket containing
the rice and the fruit by the door. Creasy moved forward and placed the four
photographs on the floor in front of the old man. Then he retreated back to the
door. The old man ignored the wicker basket and Jens. His eyes remained
steadily on Creasy's face. Perhaps three minutes passed with the only sound the
river beneath them. Then very slowly, the old man's gaze lowered to the
photographs.

"We're
going to need help from the Americans," Creasy stated. "But it has to
be selective help." He looked up at Susanna and then pointed at the
photographs. "That temple lies in the heart of a Khmer Rouge
stronghold."

"Was
the monk sure?" Susanna asked.

"Oh
yes. He's almost ninety but he's as bright as a button. He was also surprised
to see that photograph. Before the Khmer Rouge took over there were more than
thirty thousand temples in this country. They destroyed more than two-thirds of
them. That monk could not understand why this one was saved."

Guido
looked down on the photographs. He said: "If there were thirty thousand of
them, many must have looked alike. How can he be sure where this one is
sited?"

"He
was very sure," Creasy answered. "During the nineteen-fifties and
sixties he visited that temple many times and prayed in it. It was built by
Jayavarman the seventh between 1181 and 1193. The architecture has particularly
strong Indian influences. The monk was in no doubt."

Susanna
asked: "Apart from being very old, what else was he like?"

"The
most striking thing," Creasy answered, "was his accent. It was as
though he had never left Sydney. But he had no curiosity about the outside
world. He was very serene, but also a little frightening."