Message From -Creasy 5 (25 page)

"It
takes me back," Chapman said reflectively. "I was on B52S at the end
of the 'Nam war. My first assignment. We used to do the round trip from Guam to
the Ho Chi Minh trail, and also to eastern Cambodia. I was just a kid and all
fired up, but I can tell you that after twenty-five missions, I was bored out
of my skull. It was
a ten-hour round trip and everything was coordinated from our base in Chiang
Mai. We had about one thousand guys up there enjoying the hash and the massage
girls and playing around with computers which got signals from airdropped
sensors that supposedly could tell the difference between the passing of a
column of Viet Cong troops on foot or in trucks. They were crazy days." He
glanced at his much younger co-pilot. "It was a sort of a ritual. When we
were over our programmed position, the computer would trigger the bomb release.
The B52 would elevate about fifty feet. Then there would be a silence after
which all the crew would chorus reverently: 'Sorry about that!'" He
smiled at the memory. "The trouble is that often as not the damned Viet Cong
would have found the sensors and moved them half a mile away from the trail. We
must have dropped millions of tons on nothing in the jungle or on innocent
villages. We lost that fucking war because of technology."

"What do you think this mission is about?" the co-pilot asked.

"Who the hell knows? Maybe some general wants some nice photographs for his office
walls." He cursed again. "I had to cancel a round of golf this
afternoon. Now tell me, Lieutenant, what comes first? A game of golf or taking
pretty pictures over Cambodia?"

The co-pilot smiled ruefully. "Don't complain, Colonel. I had to give up a
lunch date and an interesting afternoon with a pair of big tits from the base hospital."

The colonel chuckled. "Ah, well. I guess our country comes first." He
glanced at the computer screen to his left. "We hit the Manila beacon
within an hour. It's going to be real exciting because at that moment, this
plane banks three degrees to the north while we sit and drink coffee and
contemplate our navels... I was born fifty years too late. Imagine what it was
like, wrestling with a Mustang or a Flying Fortress over Tokyo or Berlin. That
was real flying."

The lieutenant smiled. He was only twenty-three years old, but he had heard the
same lament at least a hundred times.

The
minefield was finished and the Dutchman was proud of it. He led the way out,
with his team of ten men following exactly in his footsteps. They made the last
zigzag and approached the waiting canvas-topped truck. A Khmer Rouge officer
was standing at its rear. He pointed and shouted an order in Khmer which Piet
de Witt could not understand. His team could, and the men quickly lined up and
stood to attention. The officer moved to the side and gestured for de Witt to
come and stand beside him. The Dutchman did so, a little puzzled. And then he
realized that the officer would be making a speech of praise for the many
dangerous hours that his men had spent laying that incredibly dense minefield
without a single accident.

The
officer turned and shouted another order. The canvas back of the truck dropped
down and the Dutchman saw the machine gun and simultaneously watched the flame
spit from its muzzle and then heard the crackling rattle as the bullets cut
down his team. He stood rooted to the spot in horror, watching the bodies twist
and fall. One of them scrambled away amidst the screams, but in his terror went
the wrong way. The first mine at the outer perimeter blew him high into the
air.

The
Dutchman turned, his hands coming up in a reflex action to strangle the
officer: but the officer was holding a pistol pointed at the Dutchman's
forehead.

"It
was necessary," he said.

He was
young, handsome, intelligent and obviously very expert at this work.

Creasy
didn't like him. Maybe it was because he was cocky; maybe it was because he was
so obviously trying to impress Susanna; maybe it was because he brought bad
news. He had arrived from the American embassy ten minutes before and spread
out the photographs on the dining-room table in the cottage.

Naturally,
being CIA, he was dressed in a dark suit, a plain tie and a button-down shirt.

"You
would need at least a batallion," he said, "with tanks and heavy
artillery." He pointed at one of the photographs. "There are at least
one thousand Khmer Rouge soldiers in that area within a radius of twenty
kilometres from that temple. The government troops don't even contemplate the
idea of going in there." He pointed to another photograph. "That's
the small town of Tuk Luy, which is the main headquarters of the Khmer Rouge in
the area."

Creasy
was only listening to him with one ear. He and Guido were studying the
photographs intently. Some had been taken two months earlier from a satellite,
and the others a few hours ago from the AWAC plane out of Guam. They were very
high definition, and the CIA man had brought a device that could be placed over
the photographs and give them a three-dimensional aspect. It was easy to pick
out buildings, vehicles and individuals.

The temple itself measured thirty metres by eighteen and was in remarkably good
condition. It was surrounded by a high wall with a diameter of about a hundred
metres. There was only one gate, and the two guards standing just inside it
were clearly visible. Several of the photographs had been taken using
heat-imaging film and were simply a kaleidoscope of different colours.

The CIA man explained, "They show different vegetation and different kinds of soil
and even minerals." He pointed to one.

"That was taken by a satellite two months ago when we did a complete coverage of the
area. The darker red is forest. The lighter red is grassland. And the pink
shows paddy fields. Now, there's something interesting here." He leaned
forward and pulled the photographs directly under Creasy's eyes. "This was
taken from the AWAC today. Of course all the photographs were sent
simultaneously to Washington for expert analysis." He put his finger on a
photograph. "This is your temple." He pushed another photograph alongside.
"This is your temple taken from the satellite two months ago...Notice the
difference."

There
was an obvious difference. On the photograph taken from the AWAC, a pale grey
area circled the temple. It was not present on the earlier photograph.

"What
is it?" Creasy asked.

The CIA
man seemed to savour the moment. After an over-dramatic pause, he said:
"Our boys at Langley tell us that it's a minefield, and a very
extraordinary one. There are hundreds or even thousands of minefields all over
Cambodia, laid by the Khmer Rouge, by the Vietnamese during their occupation,
and by the present government. It's estimated that there are more than five
million mines, but none of those minefields ever showed up on satellite or
aerial photographs. That minefield is extremely dense and so it had to be laid
by experts. And it must have been laid within the last two months."

Susanna
remarked: "Maybe by our American MIAs ..."

Creasy
said: "It's a possibility. Jake Bentsen was an ordinance specialist, but not
that experienced by the time he got hit in that firefight. But still, he could
have learned a lot within the last twenty-six years."

"Could be," Guido said. "But then I can't get something out of my mind. The
follower in Saigon told us that the white man he had seen was referred to as
'the Dutchman'. What would a Dutchman be doing there right among the Khmer Rouge?"

"It could be a mercenary," Creasy said. "There hasn't been much work
around for the last ten years, except in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Chechenya. I've
heard rumours that a few mercenaries are working in this area and also in
Burma...A Dutchman," he mused. And then abruptly lifted his head and said
to Guido: "A Dutchman, that was what we always called the Afrikaaners.
There are very few Netherland mercenaries, but there were plenty of
Afrikaaners."

The Italian was nodding, and he began to count them off on his fingers. "Joey
Bock, Renne de Beer, Janik Jarensfeld, Piet de Witt. From what I hear, they're
all still active."

Susanna
said to Creasy: "Why don't we do what my boss did when we wanted
information on you? He contacted Interpol in Paris where they keep very
extensive files on all active mercenaries. Something might turn up." She
turned to the Italian. "Guido, please write down all the names you and
Creasy can remember of Dutch or South African Afrikaaner mercenaries." She
gestured at the CIA man. "Mr Jennings can then fax Interpol from the
Embassy. From our experience in the MIA department, you'll get a reply within
twenty-four hours."

Creasy nodded to Guido, who immediately started writing names on a sheet of paper.
Creasy was again looking at the photographs and the indication of the minefield.

"It fits the pattern," he said. "She expects me to attack that temple and
she's laid a minefield in preparation." He turned to the CIA man and
asked: "Do you have any agents in the area?"

"Negative."

"Does
the Cambodian army have any agents?"

"If
they do, they're not telling us. Anyway, they would be an unreliable source. We
have a guy in Battambang, which is a hundred and fifty miles from that temple.
He's a Thai businessman, but frankly, I think he just takes our monthly cheque
and sends us reports from the local newspaper. He's probably also in the pay of
the Khmer Rouge."

Susanna
had turned away from the table and was pouring coffee into four cups. Over her
shoulder she said: "Mr Jennings, how many agents do you have in the
country?"

The
American smiled and answered: "Please call me Mark. I'm sorry, Miss Moore,
the answer to your question is of course classified."

She
brought him a cup of coffee and gave him a sweet smile and said: "Well,
Mark, it will only take me one phone call to Washington to get it unclassified.
We may have three MIAs in that area. Your orders are to co-operate with me
fully. If I make that phone call, I will preface my conversation by stating
that the co-operation from Mr Mark Jennings is seriously lacking in
quality." She gestured at Creasy and Guido. "For the last few days
these two men have been risking their lives trying to help my department locate
those MIAs. They are risking their lives right now being in Phnom Penh, and I
have no doubt that during the next few days, while you're resting your tight,
elegant, little ass in your elegant office at the Embassy, they will be taking
even bigger risks."

She had
moved close enough to the CIA man that they were almost eyeball to eyeball.
Very quietly, she asked: "How many agents do you have in-country?"

His
answer came immediately. "Ten. Four Americans including me, and six
Cambodians."

Susanna
backed away, turned to Creasy and said: "I'm sure my department can get
authorization to use those agents, including Mark here."

Creasy
looked at Guido and they simultaneously burst out laughing. Then Creasy said to
the CIA man: "No offence, Mark, but if you offered me a company of
Rangers, I couldn't use them. The last thing we need is another
Mogadishu."

Susanna
had diplomatically moved back to the coffee table. She brought cups for Creasy
and Guido and said to Jennings: "They work in different ways, Mark. It's
not a question of firepower. There's more to this situation than meets the eye
and I'm afraid that the reasons for that are classified, even to you."

Jennings'
irritation was mirrored on his face. He was looking at Creasy. He said:
"So I'm just a messenger boy, Mr Creasy. I've been in the country for the
past eleven months and you've been here for the last couple of days. Maybe you
don't have much respect for the American armed forces, but that's no reason to
insult people who are trying to help you."

Creasy's
voice was relaxed. He said: "I appreciate your help, Mark...I hope you
don't mind my familiarity in using your first name...I have a lot of respect
for the American armed forces. I was a Marine before being dishonourably
discharged. It's a question of overconfidence. With all the technology they've
got these days, they rely too much on gimmicks. That's why they fucked up on
the raid to try and get the hostages out of Tehran. It's why they fucked up in
Mogadishu trying to capture a warlord. And it's why they would fuck up if they
went gung-ho into that temple. Have you ever been in combat, Mark?"

"No."

"Have
you ever killed a man?"

"No."

"How
old are you?"

"Thirty-six
yesterday."

"Happy
birthday, Mark! The guy I'm looking for was twenty-one years old when he was
hit on the Vietnam-Cambodian border. He'd been in the army for three years and
had been fighting in Vietnam for eleven months right on the front line. He was
a good soldier, he was a patriot. He didn't have to be drafted, he enlisted.
It's just possible that he's alive and has been a slave of these people for the
past twenty-six years. Now I appreciate your help." He gestured at the
photographs on the table. "And of course technology plays its part. I need
your help to continue, and I had no intention of putting you down or
denigrating the US armed forces. But for this job I need to rely on myself and
my own people. I may need to obtain false passports and papers for them. I will
certainly need weapons. I plan to move within the next seventy-two hours. Your
role will be very important; even vital. I want you to liaise with Susanna here
and act as base commander. It may bring you into danger, even though you are an
in-house agent and under diplomatic immunity." He
leaned forward slightly, and his voice hardened. "Even a diplomat hasn't
got immunity from a bullet in the head. Are you armed?"

"No,
sir."

"When
you get back to the Embassy, you'll arm yourself and remain in that condition
until this mission is over. I assume you've been trained in small arms?"