第 16 页

The phone rang. It was Creasy. His deep voice said: "I just had a fax from Jens. He has made

good progress and I will definitely be leaving in the morning. Now let me tell you something:

when I was here all those years ago, a Frenchman called Jean Godard ran a restaurant on Co Ban

Street.

He served the best French food in Indo-China. Of course he was forced out when the

communists took over and he went back to France. But I heard today that he's back and has

been allowed to rent his own premises. I'm going there for dinner tonight. If you have no plans,

why not be my guest and give me a chance to thank you properly for your help?"

She thought for only a moment before she answered: "You don't have to thank me. I was only

doing my duty...But I'll be very happy to join you for dinner."

Chapter 28

Mr Ponnosan lifted the lid of the box and, in spite of himself, felt and heard the slight gasp he

let out. There were no opals this time, nor any other gemstones. Only the six large pieces of jade.

They were of a size he had never seen before. He composed himself and then looked up at the

smiling face of Connie Crum across the table. It was the same setting as the previous few

occasions. The wooden house in the jungle, a bare room and the two black-clad young women

standing at her shoulders with their holstered pistols.

He had done well on the last three trades, earning a profit of more than fifty per cent. This was

the big one. He studied the tiny 'windows' cut into the stones. They revealed the creamy white of

Imperial jade, and he knew they must have come from the northern mountains of Burma. He

was not a great expert in jade, but he could recognize what he was now turning in his fingers.

He tried to keep his face expressionless as he asked: "What do you want for them?"

She leaned forwards. Her voice was cold and crisp.

"Four hundred thousand dollars. And I'm not going to bargain. If you're not interested, I'll take

them to Bangkok myself."

He looked again at the grey lumps of stone.

"It's a great deal of money," he muttered.

"No," she answered. "Not for that jade. You would not be here if you had not made a good

profit on the previous occasions. You know the rarity of such jade. And you know that it

normally goes straight from Rangoon to Hong Kong for auction. I will take nothing less than

four hundred thousand...not a cent. You know very well that you can double your money."

The two young women were watching his eyes. They could see the greed in them. Abruptly he

closed the box and nodded his head, then reached for his money belt.

As he walked out the door in his Italian silk suit, clutching the box, Connie Crum looked up at

one of the girls and grinned like a cat that has just had a lobster put before it. Then she went

back to counting the money.

Van Luk Wan came in and raised his eyebrows at the small mountains of thousand-dollar bills.

"You made a good trade?" he asked.

She gave him her cat smile.

"I sure did! Mr Ponnosan won't be coming back. When he arrives in Bangkok and shows those

stones to a real expert, he'll discover that he paid four hundred thousand dollars for Alaskan

jadeite worth no more than fifty bucks!" She stretched and yawned. "I don't know what gives me

more pleasure: an orgasm, or ripping off a complaisant Thai business man."

Van grinned, but his eyes never left the pile of money. He asked: "Did you have a good time in

Bangkok?"

She almost purred at the memory. "A very good time! It has been an excellent week."

"It's going to be better," Van said. "I just had the news that the Dane and the Frenchman

arrived in Phnom Penh. They checked into the Cambodiana Hotel an hour ago."

Slowly, she sat back in her chair. The money was forgotten.

She said: "So he caught the follower?"

"Obviously. But that Creasy is clever or rich. The follower is still sending in reports. So he was

turned. Creasy is still in Saigon. And his friend, Guido Arrellio, has disappeared."

She was nodding her head thoughtfully.

"Yes, he's clever. He sends in an advance guard to dig around for information while he keeps up

a facade. He will go to Phnom Penh soon and then we begin the next stage." Her eyes narrowed.

"You threatened the follower with the death of his family if he talked?"

"Yes. It made our deception more authentic."

"Good. As soon as Creasy has left Saigon, arrange for the follower's family to be killed."

"Is it necessary?"

"Of course. We must be seen to keep our threats. It will become known. It will strike fear."

Chapter 29

They were never shown a menu.

The old patron of the bistro had greeted Creasy with a kiss on both cheeks and a bear hug, and

Susanna with a kiss on her hand. Then he had waved them to a corner table.

They could have been in the neighbourhood bistro in a Paris suburb; check tablecloths, old

mirrors and pictures on the walls. Simple home-cooked food. They ate a thick fish soup

followed by a rack of baby lamb and then French cheeses and local fruit.

There was one difference: there were lighted candles on the tables, a thing one does not often

see in Paris. The wine was good and Susanna drank too much of it.

Apart from a little small talk, there had been no conversation.

The bistro was busy but not noisy. The music coming out of the loudspeakers was French and

muted; Yves Montand and then Edith Piaf singing 'Je ne regrette rien' As the song started, she

noticed something strange. Creasy turned his head towards the bar, behind which the patron sat

on a high stool. She saw the old man raise his right hand in a brief salute. She saw Creasy return

it.

"What was that about?" she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, and then explained. "It's a footprint of history. Jean is an

ex-Legionnaire. He fought at Dien Bien Phu and then stayed on. He knows the Legion's history

and my part in it. In Algeria, when the rebellion failed, my regiment, the second REP, blew up

our barracks and marched out to oblivion. As we marched we sang...we sang 'Je ne regrette rien'.

That song was stamped into our minds. When Edith Piaf died, the Legion sent an honour guard

to her funeral. Every year on the anniversary of her death, flowers are laid on her grave in Paris

with a card that simply states 'La Legion'."

There was a catch in his voice, and Susanna felt strangely moved. It was a contradiction that

such men could have such emotions; but then she realized the connection. The life of Edith Piaf

and the life of a Legionnaire were somehow similar. The 'sparrow' had been as much an orphan

as all of them.

She knew from the Interpol file she had read back in Washington that Creasy had been married

twice. His first wife and only child had died on Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie; his second wife had

been blown to bits in a car bomb in London.

She realized that just being close to him constituted an act of danger. Maybe it was the wine, or

that fact, which sent a surge through her. She looked at his battered, candlelit face with its eyelids

which seemed to droop against cigarette smoke, although he did not smoke; his grey, closely

cropped hair and his inbuilt air of menace. With a shock, she realized that he affected her

sexually.

Into her confusion, he said: "I can't remember ever having dinner in such romantic

circumstances with a captain of the US Army."

She laughed and said: "Maybe I should have come in uniform."

Solemnly, he shook his head. "I would never like to see you in uniform. That dress suits you

perfectly. You have a strange beauty, Susanna. At first glance, you are quite severe, but as time

goes by, it softens and develops."

She felt absurdly pleased at the compliment. It had been a long time since she had received one.

"Is there a woman in your life now?" she asked.

"No. I seem to be a liability to women."

"Creasy, that's understandable. You don't exactly work nine to five in an office."

He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped a decibel.

"Let's talk about you, Susanna. To stay alive, I have to be alert and observant. I've watched you

these last few days and something has happened. You may not believe it, but I care for you. At

first I thought it was the business with the follower at the river. Now I think it's something

different."

Maybe it was the ambience of the room, but she just blurted it out.

"Three days ago, I discovered I was pregnant."

He did not react, except to pick up his glass and take a sip of wine. Then he said: "You may as

well tell me all about it. I'm not your father or your boss or your lover. I'm just a friend."

So she talked. After listening in silence for fifteen minutes, Creasy said: "In this case, having an

abortion is like running away."

"It's my choice, Creasy."

"Of course it is. But it would be a tragedy."

"How can you say that?"

"Because you need a baby."

"A baby without a father?"

"A father can be useful, but isn't essential. If a child has the love of the mother, it can be

enough." He sighed reflectively.

"Yes, I'm old fashioned and unrepentant about it. I agree with abortion under some

circumstances, but you admit that when you conceived that child you were, in a way, in love with

that guy in Washington. The fact that he doesn't want to know any more does not make that

concept ugly or wrong. The fact that you phoned him when you knew you were pregnant and the

fact that you still haven't made the decision of what to do about it, means only one thing: there is

a part of you that wants that baby. What we have to find out is how big that part is. In essence,

we have to find out how strong your maternal instinct is."

She sat back and laughed. Then she asked: "Creasy, you keep saying 'we'. How can you find out

how strong my maternal instincts are?"

"I have a way," he answered. "After we leave here, I'll find out."

She was both curious and a little piqued.

"What are you going to do? Take me down to the river, half drown me and then ask me how

strong my maternal instincts are?"

He shrugged. "In a different way, that is what I'm going to do."

It was a big room. It gave an impression of a white mist. The impression came from rows of

mosquito nets hanging from the ceiling and covering the cots and beds. The young nun walked

between them as they crossed the room, explaining to Susanna about the workings of the

orphanage. Near them were the sounds of crying. The nun moved to the cot and lifted the net

and picked up a baby and crooned gently to it. It was a girl, only a few months old, but her

features were already formed. She looked like an oriental doll, with narrow eyes and the

beginnings of jet-black hair.

Another baby started to cry. The nun turned to Susanna and said: "Please hold this one for a

moment."

Susanna took the tiny bundle and cradled it in her arms. She looked down at the little face and

murmured silly words. The baby stopped crying. Susanna lifted her head to Creasy and said:

"You bastard!"

Chapter 30

It was hard for Jens to realize that he was in a country which only a decade earlier had witnessed

one of history's greatest acts of inhumanity.

He sat with The Owl on the patio of a bungalow in the gardens of the Cambodiana Inn. It could

have been a scene from Eden. It was just after midnight and a full moon hung like a lantern

above them and illuminated the bougainvillaea which tumbled down the walls of the bungalow.

There was the low, throbbing sound of thousands of insects, and the air was heavy with the scent

of a tropical night.

The Dane was satisfied. They had eaten a delicious local meal at a small open-air restaurant by

the river. Together they had drunk an excellent bottle of claret selected by The Owl, and on

returning to the bungalow, The Owl had produced a bottle of duty-free Hennessy XO. In the

meantime, Jens had phoned his wife Birgitte and spoken at expensive length to her and his

daughter. That alone would have put him in a good mood, but his night was made perfect by the

fact that during the afternoon he had worked well at his profession.

They had arrived from Saigon in the late morning. And by early afternoon, they had discovered

the source of the fax number to which Tran Quock Cong had sent his reports. The Owl had

been very impressed, which made Jens even more satisfied. They had gone from the airport

straight to the offices of the Khmer Telecommunications Corporation. Jens produced one of his

bogus business cards and presented it to the receptionist, gave her a charming smile and asked

for an appointment with the technical executive. He was slightly astonished to be ushered into

the office of a tall, sunburnt Australian who, after shaking hands, asked: "What's the problem,

mate?"

"What's an Australian doing here?" Jens countered.

The Australian went to a fridge in the corner, took out three cold cans of frosted lager and,

having proven Australian hospitality, explained that his company was co-operating with the

Khmer government to repair and upgrade telecommunications in the country. He pointed a

finger upwards and remarked: "Everything comes and goes through a Russian satellite up there.

You can phone or fax the world, but it's damn near impossible to get a call through to the next

town."

Jens explained his problem. He was an exporter from Copenhagen specializing in meat

products, and through a trade organization had been put in touch with a Khmer company. For

the past months they had been in fax communication and potential business looked promising.

So, while on a business trip to Saigon and Hong Kong, he had decided to drop in at Phnom

Penh and pursue the matter. The problem was that his briefcase had been stolen at Saigon