Message From -Creasy 5 (7 page)

She
finished drying her dark hair, went into the bedroom and slipped on a lime-green
linen dress. She applied a minimum of make-up, and decided to have a pre-dinner
cocktail in the bar.

As she walked down the stairs her thoughts turned to her professor back in Washington,
and she tried to decide if there was any future in that situation. She tried to
decide if Professor Jason Woodward was the man to spend the rest of her life
with.

Not that he had asked her to marry him. On the contrary, the subject had never
arisen, but she knew that he would never leave her. She chuckled mentally,
realizing that in a way she was like his rows of dusty books or the old, felt
slippers he pulled on when he came home in the evening. She was a fixture in
his comfortable, ordered life. As she tried to define her feelings, it dawned
on her that she actually loved his mind. She loved the way he looked at a
situation or a problem or an event: the way he analysed things without
presumptions or suppositions: she loved his fairness. She enjoyed long
conversations over dinner when she would act as devil's advocate, trying to
probe and provoke. Of course he knew what she was doing and he would give her
his gentle smile and argue with a combination of logic and humanity.

In her
mind she tried to find a balance between the mental and physical. Was it enough
to love a man for his mind, or was it necessary to have the juxtaposition of
physical love as well? There had been many times when she wished she did not
have physical desires. She had read in a biography of Gandhi how he believed
that it was impossible for the mind to develop to its full potential unless the
weaknesses of the body had been overcome. By weaknesses he meant sexual urges.
He had deliberately cast out sexual urges in order to focus on his life's
mission and destiny: but she was no Gandhi. She was a normal, healthy woman who
once in a while wanted to climb into bed with a man and make love. It was that
simple.

Occasionally
she had cast an eye over other men intrinsically looking for a body more than a
mind. There was a young lieutenant in the office. She could feel his physical
interest in her.

He was
tall and well-built and gave off a sexual magnetism. He was also as dumb as a
brick. She had often thought that she might combine someone like that with her
professor; a physical release on the one side and mental stimulation on the
other. So far it had been impossible. She had a bottom line in terms of
morality. She knew that her professor loved her and in receiving that love, she
felt she had the obligation to be faithful.

She
reached the ground floor and put the professor from her mind. Tonight was
tonight, and tomorrow would be tomorrow.

It was
a room that intrigued her. A room full of history. She stood at the door and
cast her eyes around and almost turned away. There was not a single woman in
there. Most of the men were foreigners, she guessed either businessmen or
journalists.

The
room was hazy with cigarette smoke. She decided to go out onto the veranda and
order her drink from there, but as she walked across the room, a voice suddenly
stopped her.

"Miss
Moore, is it not?"

She
turned. There were two of them sitting at a table. Jens Jensen and The Owl.

It was
just before ten o'clock at night when the phone rang in the Bentsen household
in San Diego. The old couple were watching Star Trek on the television. She
turned down the sound while he picked up the phone.

She
watched as he listened. About three minutes passed, then he said: "Thank
you, and good luck."

He hung
up, turned to her and said: "That was Creasy. He was phoning from Italy.
He's leaving for Vietnam tomorrow. He phoned to keep us informed. He stressed
again that the chances are almost zero and that we must not be too hopeful. He
will spend a minimum of two weeks in South East Asia. If anything develops, he
will phone us immediately."

She
turned back to the television and put up the volume. After a few minutes she
said: "For me, the main thing is that we have now done everything
possible. If Creasy cannot find him or discover what happened to him, then I'll
accept that he is dead."

She
turned to her husband and gave him a smile that was almost serene. "In two
weeks' time, whatever the outcome, I will sleep a little easier."

She
warmed to the Dane. It took a little longer to find any mental communication
with The Owl. In fact it took until halfway through dinner. The small Frenchman
remained silent during the drinks in the bar and the first part of the meal in
the elegant restaurant. Meanwhile she felt as though Jens Jensen was probing
her mind and her competence. She was not offended, because he conducted himself
and asked his questions with great charm.

He
started by telling her that Creasy had phoned him that morning from Naples to
tell him that he and his friend Guido would be arriving in Saigon within
forty-eight hours. She told him that she would be in town for some time, and
would be on hand to give whatever assistance her office could provide.

Then
the questions began. The first ones concerned her private life and background.
She smiled inwardly and talked about her early life in Boston: the high school
years, and then university at Wellesley. She had majored in modern history. She
then talked about the disappearance of her father in Vietnam and how she had taken
the abrupt decision to make a career in the US Army.

Jens
listened with amusement as she recounted her early days in boot camp and the
sudden transition from a patrician New England family to the rigours of army
life.

Meanwhile,
The Owl sat silently as though existing in a different world, simply eating the
fine food with enthusiasm and sipping at his glass of claret.

The
Dane's questions moved on to her present work. He was curious about the
structure of the MIA. It was obviously a curiosity born of shared experience.
They were very much on common ground. It was work of elusive frustration. A
hint here; a scrap of information there; a suggestion from somewhere else. Much
of the work involved instinct, guesswork and optimism. Much of the results
involved disappointment. She explained that the only results had been in the
form of the bones and skeletons. Recent advances in genetic fingerprinting had
been a major help; but still, the success rate was less than two per cent.

"Is
it worth it?" he asked.

Her
answer was an unqualified "yes". She explained about her missing
father, and what it would mean to her and her mother if one day they could lay
his remains at rest at Arlington.

He
seemed to understand, and suddenly, so did The Owl. He lifted his head from his
rare entrecote steak, and made his first contribution to the conversation.

"Whenever
I'm in Marseille, I visit my mother's grave. I clean it and put flowers on it.
I was close to her and when I'm there, I still feel close to her." For the
first time he smiled. "Do you know that in Madagascar, once every few
years they dig up their ancestors' skeletons and dress them in fine cloth and
take them in a parade around the towns and villages? They make a big party
about it and really enjoy themselves. I like that."

He went
back to his steak. She looked up and saw Jens give her a wink. "I can just
see it," the Dane said. "The Owl here parading around Marseille with
the bones of his parents on his shoulders. They'll lock him up and throw away
the key."

The Owl
ignored him. "Do you like music?" he asked Susanna.

"Yes."

"What
kind?"

"Mostly
classical." She saw the sudden interest in his dark brown eyes.

"Which
composers?"

"Mozart,
Verdi, Beethoven, and I must confess, Strauss the younger."

He
nodded slowly, and she had the absurd feeling that she had passed an important
test. It also seemed that, for different reasons, she had passed the test with
the Dane.

"How
are your contacts with the government here?" he asked.

"Close, Mr Jensen, for two reasons. First of all they are very anxious to obtain US
recognition and a lifting of all sanctions. For my government, such recognition
is conditional on their full co-operation on the MIA cases. Secondly, unlike
some of my colleagues, I never came here, or to Haiphong, waving a big stick. I
took the trouble to get to know them, and to request their help rather than
demand it."

Jens
gazed at her across the table and then made a decision. He reached for the
briefcase at his feet and took from it a thin brown file. He passed it to her,
saying: "These are brief details on a Vietnamese called Van Luk Wan. In
the old days he was a senior policeman in the anti-corruption branch of the
Southern regime. Late in 1968 he was shot and seriously wounded. I've
discovered that he was released from hospital on January 27 1969. I need to
know what happened to him and if he is still in Saigon."

She
opened the file and studied the contents, then commented: "There are three
possibilities. He either escaped the country before the fall of Saigon, or he
was captured and executed because of his past, or he was sent to a
rehabilitation camp, in which case he might still be alive."

She
closed the file and asked: "Can I keep this?"

The
Dane nodded. She said: "It might be of help if I know why you're looking
for him and who shot him back in 1968."

The
Dane glanced at The Owl. Something telepathic may have passed between them,
because the Dane answered: "Creasy shot him and presumed he had killed
him. But it turns out that he not only lived; he may have been the man who
delivered Jake Bentsen's dogtag to his parents' home in San Diego."

While
she digested that, he went on: "I doubt that Bentsen is alive."
Another glance at The Owl. "We think that the dogtag is just a bait to
lure Creasy back to South East Asia."

"You
may be right," she answered; "and of course Creasy knew Jake
Bentsen."

She saw
the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes. "How could you know that?"
he asked.

She
leaned forwards and gave him her sweetest smile. "You're not the only
detective in this room, Mr Jensen. Your friend Creasy fought here as an
unofficial. I know that it's almost certain he was on
that final patrol when Jake Bentsen was presumed killed. The only question I
have is why, after all these years, a man like Creasy takes the risk of coming
back here to look for a man who was at best, a mere acquaintance. Also why he
would go to the considerable expense of sending you and your friend as a
vanguard. He's certainly not doing it for payment. I checked out the Bentsens'
finances. They are very moderate, certainly not enough to hire a top mercenary
and his team."

There
was a heavy silence. Then Jens asked: "How do you know that?"

"It's
my job," she answered. "When I'm ordered by my superiors to give
co-operation to a man, I like to know who I'm dealing with. There are two
things that I'm sure about. One is that Creasy is a very hard human being, and
the other is that he is not given to sentimentality. So Mr Jensen, if we're
going to get the best out of our co-operation, I suggest that you be completely
frank withme...What is Creasy's motivation?"

There
was a pause while the waiter brought them coffee. Then the Dane said:
"First of all, please call me Jens, and allow me to call you Susanna. As
for motivation, I can only guess. And it's not in my nature to share my
guesses. Within a couple of days you'll meet Creasy. He may tell you. If he
does, I'd be glad if you'd tell me."

"That's
fair enough." She tapped the file. "Meanwhile, first thing tomorrow
morning, I'll start to look into the possible whereabouts of Mr Van Luk
Wan."

Mr Dang
Hoang Long was a gentleman in every way, in spite of the fact that he was a
dedicated communist. He had been educated at the Sorbonne back in the early
fifties and had considered himself to be Francophile until one evening in a
Montparnasse cafe he had found himself in conversation with a group of fellow
Vietnamese. One of them had round, thick spectacles and the voice and charisma
to cut through sentiment or even logic. He had been introduced as Monsieur Ho.

Later
in the night, when the others had departed leaving Dang Hoang Long alone with
Mr Ho, they had talked on into the early hours of the morning. Dang was due to
return to Saigon and take up a post in the French colonial customs department.
Mr Ho questioned him at length about his background, his political beliefs and
his aspirations for a future Vietnam. Inperceptibly, Dang had found himself
giving answers which surprised him.

Answers
which would have seriously displeased his French masters.

Finally,
Mr Ho had asked for his address in Saigon and written it down in a small black
notebook. As they parted outside the cafe in a misty rain, Dang had asked: "What
is your full name?"

The
bespectacled man had turned and said into the mist: "Ho Chi Minh."

Four
years passed before a man came to Dang's small house on the outskirts of
Cholon. By that time Dang had risen through the ranks to become a senior
customs officer under the newly independent government of South Vietnam. The
man gave Dang a letter, waited until it was read, and then took it back and
burned it. The letter had been signed by Ho Chi Minh. At that moment, as he
watched the letter being burned, Dang became an agent of the then Viet Minh,
and later, when the Americans arrived, an agent for the Viet Cong.

After
the fall of Saigon, he was rewarded for his years of service by being promoted
to the Politbureau, with special responsibilities for Ho Chi Minh city. Because
of his education and his many years of experience with Americans, he found
himself handling diplomatic contacts with them in the old South. His directives
from Hanoi were clear: We need their recognition, we need their investments, we
need their trade and their expertise. Therefore co-operate as far as you can.