第 11 页

and there will be more as capitalism takes over, but it's different. There is no coercion. It's a

strange kind of feeling."

Guido looked at his friend quizzically. It was not often that Creasy waxed philosophical. At

least not openly. He decided to take advantage of the moment. He asked: "What are we doing

here, Creasy?"

His friend glanced at him in surprise. "You know damn well what we're doing here. We're

looking for a guy who's almost surely dead."

Guido shook his head. "I mean, what are we really doing here? This Jake Bentsen thing is hardly

serious. At least not serious enough for you to go charging around the world, spending all that

money...Your own money."

Creasy lifted a hand and a waiter loomed up. Creasy gestured at the empty coffee pot and the

waiter took it away. Creasy continued to gaze at the street scene until the waiter returned with a

full pot. Creasy filled up both their cups and then added two lumps of sugar to his own coffee.

He stirred it for a long time, and then said: "It's a strange thing, Guido. Up until a couple of

years ago I never took sugar in my coffee. I hated the taste of it. Then one night in a restaurant in

Gozo the waiter gave me the wrong cup. It had sugar in it. I tasted it...and liked it."

"So?"

"So things change." He gestured. "Saigon has changed. People change. Maybe I've changed."

Guido grinned at him. "You mean, you've become sweeter?"

Creasy did not smile. He said: "Maybe I do things for different reasons these days. It's possible

that I've become more curious. I'm here because I want to know who's after me and why. I guess

I got a little tired of sitting in the sun in Gozo. It's why I was in Brussels in the first place.

Subconsciously I was looking for some action but the options didn't appeal very much. There

was a job in Bosnia. It paid well but I decided the hell with it. First of all, I have a big enough

stake to last the rest of my life, and second, I felt no great desire to shoot up Serbs, Croatians or

Muslims. I figure they ought to let those savages work it out by themselves. They've been doing

it for a couple of thousand years. Then there were some Portuguese idiots who were trying to

hire a group to go down to Angola and help Savimbe have one last crack at the government."

He snorted in derision.

"Angola, for Christ's sake! We fought there twenty years ago. It seems

like it was the last century." He took a sip of his coffee and then added another lump of sugar

and gave Guido a rare smile. "So I'm really here out of curiosity...Why are you really here,

Guido?"

The Italian shrugged. "I guess I was bored. I got tired of serving the same customers in the

restaurant and watching the same football on TV and the same corrupt politicians with innocent

faces and fat pockets." He paused for a moment, then looked up at Creasy and said: "Maybe I

was a bit lonely. When you told me you were coming out to Asia on a mission, I thought of the

old times. There were good and there were bad, but they weren't boring." He leaned forward

and almost imperceptibly jerked his head in the direction of the follower. "So how do we take

this pro tonight?"

Creasy also leaned forward. He said: "You ask him very politely to take a car ride with you."

Guido grinned. "I'm always polite."

They both looked up and then stood as they saw Susanna approach across the street, with Jens

and The Owl in her wake. Creasy pulled out a chair for her. She sat down with a sigh and fanned

her face with her hand.

"The heat gets to me," she said. "Will this place have an iced drink?"

She was wearing a lime-green, short-sleeved dress cut square across her chest. Fine beads of

perspiration glinted on her shoulders and arms. Creasy beckoned for a waiter and ordered her a

large, fresh orange juice on the rocks. The others ordered beer. Creasy turned to the Dane and

said: "Jens, perhaps you would look after Susanna tonight. I need to borrow The Owl."

"It'll be a pleasure," Jens replied. "What's happening?"

"We're going to pick up the follower and ask him who he's working for. I know from Dang

Hoang Long that he's not working for the authorities. So whoever sent him is almost certainly

the person who lured us here in the first place. It's better if you and Susanna eat in the hotel

tonight and stay there until we return."

"You think he'll talk?" Susanna asked.

Creasy glanced at Guido and then answered: "We shall persuade him to do so."

"You'll torture him?"

Guido leaned forward. He said: "It's not likely that we will need to. We use psychology in such

things."

"And if psychology doesn't work?"

Creasy said: "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. One thing is sure: we'll need to know

who sent him. Otherwise we're at a dead end."

Jens had been deep in thought. He lifted his head and said: "Creasy, maybe he's a plant who may

have disinformation."

Creasy thought about that for just a moment and then shook his head. "It's faintly possible, but

not probable. If they wanted to plant disinformation, they would not have sent such a

professional. They picked a man whom they did not expect to be noticed or caught. I think he's

genuine. Anyway, we'll find out tonight."

The drinks arrived. Susanna picked up the tall, frosted glass and rolled it across her forehead

before draining half of the contents. Then she looked at Creasy and said: "What if he doesn't

speak English? After all, he's only in his thirties and it's been more than twenty years since the

Americans left. Not many of the youngsters here speak English unless they work in specialist

positions with the government. Since he's not working for the government, he might not speak

English. How is your Vietnamese, Creasy?"

Creasy was slowly shaking his head as though in disgust with himself. He said: "My Vietnamese

is minimal. I should have thought of that. Maybe Billy Nguyen at the Mai Man Bar can find me a

reliable and discreet translator. He can find most things, for a fee."

Guido was looking sceptical. Susanna said: "That's a risk you don't need. I had better go with

you."

There was a long silence. Then Jens remarked: "There could be violence, and you work for the

US government in a very sensitive area."

She shrugged and answered: "My instructions were to give you assistance. They were not

specific." She glanced at Creasy. "What chances are there of violence?"

"Very little. Guido and I are experienced with these things. We're dealing with one man who will

suspect nothing. Even if he's carrying a gun or a knife, he will have very little chance to use

either."

Guido said: "Maybe we pick him up first and if he doesn't speak English, we'll call in Susanna."

Creasy shook his head. "It's too complicated. I haven't worked out the exact plan yet, but we'll

have to take him out of town to a quiet spot. We have to play that part by ear. If Susanna is

going to be in on it, she has to be in from the start." He glanced again at the reflection of the

figure in the window and made a decision.

"We'll go with Susanna."

Chapter 21

Connie Crum lay naked on the vast bed, groaning in pleasure and pain. The girl straddling her

was small enough to be blown away in a gale, but she had fingers of steel and they dipped and

probed into Connie's neck muscles and shoulders.

It was the start to an evening that had been planned in almost every detail. She had arrived at the

hotel half an hour earlier.

Chilled pink champagne and a huge bowl of fruit were waiting in her suite. She had opened the

champagne and after taking a few sips had picked up the phone and ordered a masseuse. The

girl had arrived dressed in a white coat and carrying a small bag. While Connie undressed, the

girl had slipped off the coat, revealing a tight, trim body covered only by brief white panties. She

had taken several bottles of different oils from her bag.

Connie had given her a glass of champagne before lying face down on the bed. She had booked

the girl for an hour. For the first forty-five minutes the girl had massaged her body with skill and

strength until through the pain Connie had felt the muscles relax.

She turned her head and murmured in Thai: "Softer now. Imagine I'm a cat."

The girl chuckled, and her fingers changed from instruments of power to gentle, teasing strands.

They glided in a continuous caress over the oiled skin.

Connie Crum's mind and body relaxed. She thought of her dead husband. He had been a hard,

ruthless man, almost as ruthless as herself. Whenever she wanted something from him, she would

give him a massage. The same kind of massage that she was receiving: hard at first but then soft.

His mind would go numb and then she would eventually have him under her fingers and under

control. In many ways he had been the perfect man for her. If only he could have kept his hands

off other women, he would be alive today. Even so, she had regretted her jealous rage and,

looking down at him with the knife in his heart, she had decided never to get deeply involved

with any man again. In future, she would take her pleasures when she wanted them under her

own conditions.

The girl's fingers had reached her buttocks. Connie moved on the bed, savouring the feeling. In

her mind she reviewed her situation.

She was allied to the Khmer Rouge only for profit. She was a born trader; in the chaos of war

she had amassed a fortune. She had made good investments mostly in property in Japan, Europe

and North America. She owned her own house at Montparnasse in Paris and had a condo on

Fifth Avenue in New York. The Khmer Rouge was now beginning to disintegrate. Perhaps they

would last another year or two in increasingly isolated areas.

When she had finished her business with Creasy, she would pull out and make her base in Paris.

She would find her way into French society, perhaps even take a nominal French husband,

somebody in a position of power either in the government or in business. With her wealth and

beauty she was well poised to do so. She had studied languages, philosophy and art at the

Sorbonne, and she could hold her own in a conversation with any intellectual. She would be an

asset to any man of power, but she would set the terms. She would allow him to have lovers and

she would have her own. They would both be discreet. She would spend time in New York on

her own. That would be her secret life.

The girl's fingers had moved down to her upper thighs. She leaned forward and whispered a

question.

Connie shook her head. She did not want anything 'special'.

She would have that later, and it would be very special and very heterosexual. She rolled over

and slid off the bed. The girl packed her bottles away, slipped on her white coat and received a

large tip.

Connie picked up her glass and the ice bucket with the champagne and went into the marbled

bathroom. She ran a bath so hot that few humans would have attempted to enter. She sank into

it with a groan and then pressed the button to set the water foaming. She laid her head back and

thought again about Creasy.

She had waited a long time, waited until she had the power and organization to trap him. His

death would be the culmination of her past life. Her father's soul would sleep easy, the more so

for knowing the extent of Creasy's suffering before he died. She sipped the champagne and

sighed contentedly. Her mind came back to the present. Within an hour she would be a hunter

of a different kind.

"I don't want another blow job in a massage parlour."

He turned to his brother, Massimo. "We have been here four days and three nights and that's all

that's happened. I'm not some fat German sex-tourist who spilt out of a jumbo jet with one thing

on his mind. I'm thirty-five years old, good looking, and rich. I want a little passion in my sex

life!"

Massimo grinned. He was the elder by four years, and familiar with the cities of the Far East. It

was Bruno's first trip. They were buying silks for the family's garment business in Milan. Both of

them were married to women from the same upper level of Milan society; marriages made for

position rather than love. Such trips to exotic places brought adventure into their lives in every

sense.

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."