第 17 页

airport, and it contained the relevant files. He could not even remember the complicated name

of the Khmer company, but he could remember the fax number.

The Australian was very helpful. He punched the number into the computer on his desk, hit a

button on the console, looked at the screen and said: "Bingo! It's one of three faxes located at

the business centre of the Cambodiana Hotel."

Jens also had his Notebook computer out. He tapped in that information and then asked: "Is

there any way you can find out who has been using that particular fax?"

The Australian shook his head and said: "That information is held by the hotel itself. The

manager is a Frenchman called Marcel Duprey. He might help and he might not. He's a bit

officious. You know what the French are like."

Jens had grinned, and gestured at The Owl. "I know exactly. This one is French as well!"

The Australian was not at all put out. He just reached forwards, patted The Owl on the shoulder

and remarked: "Some French are OK. I had a cracker of a French girlfriend once."

"Is it a good hotel?" Jens asked.

"Yes, it's the best and the biggest. It's right on the river. It's air-conditioned and has a great bar

and good food. If you're going to stay there, opt for the adjacent Cambodiana Inn, which has its

own bungalows. Mind you, it's going to cost you an arm and a leg."

Jens stood up, saying: "That's OK. Business has been good lately. Maybe we'll see you in the bar

down there some time, and return your hospitality. Many thanks!"

The rest was straightforward. They checked into their bungalow and then made a recce into the

hotel's business centre. It was very up to date, with the three fax machines, telex, phones,

computers and a very charming Cambodian-French manageress. Jens signed in for a week, and

explained that he would be expecting some important faxes that evening between five and seven.

She told him to relax in his bungalow and she would have them sent over as soon as they

arrived. He demurred, explaining that they would be of a highly confidential nature and that he

would prefer to wait himself during that period in the business centre. She fully understood and

told him that he could order food and drinks from room service.

So he waited inside the centre while The Owl waited outside the hotel with a taxi standing by.

The centre was very quiet.

Between five and five thirty, three Chinese businessmen came in to send and receive faxes. At a

quarter to six Jens ordered coffee and a ham sandwich. At five to six, a tall, slim Cambodian

man came through the door, wearing a smart business suit and carrying a briefcase. He nodded

politely to Jens and took a seat at a table near the fax machines. Jens munched away at his

sandwich and read a three-week-old Time Magazine. At precisely two minutes past six, the

centre fax machine came to life. Both he and the Cambodian jumped up and approached it.

"I'm expecting a fax at this time," Jens explained.

The Cambodian smiled and said: "Me too."

They watched as the paper curled out. The Cambodian turned it and read the postscript.

"It's for me," he said, and with a subtle movement placed his body in front of the machine, but

not before Jens had seen the word CALAN at the head of the paper. He went back to his seat

and picked up the magazine, raising it so he could watch the Cambodian over the top.

The Cambodian only glanced at the fax before tucking it into his briefcase and strolling out.

Jens followed him through the lobby and watched as he went through the entrance, down the

steps and into the back of a waiting black Mercedes. Jens looked across the road and nodded at

the Owl, who immediately jumped into his waiting taxi.

The Owl was back at the bungalow twenty minutes later, and reported: "He went into a building

on Achar Hemcheay Boulevard. It's the offices of a company called Lucit Trade Company."

And so Jens went back to the business centre and sent a fax back to Creasy at the hotel in

Saigon. Then they went out for a well-deserved dinner.

Chapter 31

They decided to have a nightcap in the hotel bar. She had been silent during the taxi ride back,

but now she felt the need to talk.

They sat on stools at the end of the bar, which was almost deserted. Creasy was a good listener.

She told him about her early childhood and life as an army brat, when she and her mother had

followed her father to postings in Germany, Japan and Guam. Then he had been posted to

Vietnam and she and her mother had returned to the States.

It had been difficult for her at school because, due to her travels and experiences, she had been

mentally older than the other children in her classes. Even though she had done well at her

lessons, she had become isolated and increasingly drawn to her mother.

Then had come the terrible day when they were told that her father was missing in action. He

had been a senior combat Intelligence officer at Chu Lay and one day, as the Khe San disaster

was looming, he took a helicopter to that isolated base. On its return the helicopter was shot

down by a SAM missile over heavily forested Viet Cong territory. The pilot just had time to

radio that they were hit and that he was trying to make an emergency landing. The helicopter and

its occupants were never found, even after the end of the war when the Vietnamese government

was co-operating with the Americans.

"My mother always believed he was alive somewhere," she said. "She believed that until her

death from cancer ten years later."

He had been taking small sips of his vodka-tonic, holding the glass with both hands and leaning

forwards with his elbows on the bar. He glanced at her and asked: "Did you also believe it?"

"Not really. Of course I hoped and I prayed, and I guess that I voiced my belief mainly to

support my mother. Every year on his birthday, she used to make a dinner of his favourite food

and lay a place for him at the table. It was as though he might walk in the door any moment. On

those nights I could never sleep. I would hear my mother crying in the next bedroom. The day

before she died, she asked me to continue that practice. I never did. The day I buried her, I also

buried any thoughts of a live father."

Again, Creasy just glanced at her as she continued.

"I joined the Army because it was the only life I knew. When I had the chance to join the MIA

department, I jumped at it. I was well suited to the work." She smiled briefly. "I'm very good at

talking to relatives, to try and console them. In fact, so good that they made me a captain."

Still looking at his glass, Creasy said: "They made you a captain because you are intelligent and

damn good at your work. The Vietnamese and Khmer languages are among the most difficult

anywhere, but you learned to speak them both, and also a bit of Lao. When I was here in the

war, I met dozens of US Army Intelligence officers and CIA men and so-called specialists. You

could count on the fingers of one hand those of them who spoke Vietnamese with any

competence. It was a farce. They had to rely on ARVN interpreters, many of whom were VC

sympathizers. The level of military intelligence was appalling." He shrugged and, without

looking at her, said: "That's no slur on your father."

"No, it's not," she agreed. "My father was a linguist. He spoke good German and Japanese and

was fast mastering Vietnamese before he went missing. I read his file. It's why he went to Khe

San. He didn't believe the reports he was getting from the Marine Intelligence officers."

Creasy had finished his drink, and as though by magic the bartender appeared and refilled his

glass. Susanna declined another one. She was feeling a little light-headed from the wine at dinner

and from the emotional experiences afterwards. As the bartender moved away she said:

"Perhaps the isolation, you might even call it loneliness, has made me ambitious. My father was

made colonel when he was forty-two. He was tipped to go on to be a general. Since he couldn't

make it, I'm going to."

She looked at him and saw a half-smile on his face. He lifted his glass in a toast and said: "I'll

drink to that! I only made sergeant myself, but sergeants can always judge officers. You'll make it

to general. I hope you'll still talk to me when you get your first star up."

She smiled at the thought, and then said seriously: "You would have made a fantastic senior

officer. I can hardly believe what's happened during the last few days. It's only been ten days

since Jake Bentsen's father approached you in Brussels. Only a week since your name popped up

on our computers in Washington. Now here we are in Saigon. You have a defensive team

around our informer and his family, and your advanced team is in Phnom Penh and are already

feeding back information. I've met both teams and I'm impressed. You know how to pick the

right men for the right jobs."

"That's just instinct," he said. "I've known them all for years and they've proved themselves." He

took a hand from his glass and lightly touched her on her arm. "Also we had your help. We'll

miss you."

There was a silence, and then she turned full-square on the bar stool and said: "You're not going

to miss me. I took a decision driving back in the taxi. OK, you forced that decision. I'm not

going back to Washington. I'm not going to have an abortion. Right now I'm on official holiday.

I want to stay with the team. I want to go with you to Phnom Penh tomorrow."

Creasy shook his head. "The situation is different. We're being sucked into what could be a

violent party. I'm not taking a pregnant woman into that."

She laughed. "All I have is a seed inside me. It will be weeks before I even begin to feel

pregnant. Right now it's only in the head, not in the body. At the speed you're going, this

mission will probably be concluded in a couple of weeks. I have an instinct about that. I'm going

with you. We have an office in Phnom Penh which could be useful. And don't forget that I also

speak the language."

He was shaking his head. She went on. "Besides, if I don't go with you, I'll feel duty-bound to

report to Washington that there have been recent, reported sightings of American MIAs."

"That's blackmail!"

She laughed. "Look who's talking! Who was it that hijacked me to an orphanage a couple of

hours ago?"

"That wasn't blackmail. That was just an exercise in mental suggestion."

"Whatever it was, I want to see this thing through. Apart from anything else, it's my job."

She watched his face as he considered. Then he gave her a brief nod.

"OK, you're staying. But early tomorrow morning, you have to use your influence with your

friend Dang Hoang Long to pull some strings and get you a visa to Cambodia. It can usually

take up to a few days, but I'm sure he can fix it quickly. Then we'll go by road."

"What about Guido?"

"He'll follow in a couple of days. If those people are going to hit the follower's family, they'll do

it as soon as we leave Saigon. So Guido will keep an eye on the outside while Maxie and Rene

are inside."

"What will we find in Phnom Penh?"

He drained the last of his vodka, turned to her and said: "We continue to follow the paper trail

as laid down for us. For sure it won't end in Phnom Penh."

"Where will it end?"

"I don't know. But it will end in death. Theirs or mine. It always does ..." He pushed himself up

from the stool. "I don't know why they want me, but it's not to give me a kiss on the cheek...Let's

get some sleep."

Once again, the lift was out of order. As they walked up the stairs, she said: "I'm sorry I got a bit

emotional down there. I guess I talked too much. It's not like me. Maybe it was the wine...Maybe

it's because today is the twenty-seventh."

They had reached the corridor. He asked: "What does that mean?"

They were at the door of her room. She said: "It's the date of my father's birthday."

They both had their keys in their hands. He turned and looked at her with his brooding eyes.

She put her key in the lock. He said: "Susanna, if you don't want to be alone tonight, you can

sleep with me."

Her laugh was almost hysterical. "I've heard a lot of come-on lines in my life, but that's a great

one!"

"It's not a line. I'm not inviting you to bed to make love. And I'm not being sentimental. You're

a long way from home and the man who you thought might love you. Right now you're a lonely

human being. Go in there and lie awake half the night, if you want. Or else come with me and

sleep." He gave another of his almost smiles. "I have that effect on women."

She looked at him for a long time, and then slowly pulled the key out of the lock.

Chapter 32

They only had to wait ten minutes at the Moc Bai Border Crossing. Creasy had got out of the

car with the passports in one hand and a folded hundred-dollar bill in the other. "Nothing

changes," he grunted as he got back into the car and started the engine.

"It never will change," Susanna said, "while government officials get paid less than subsistence

rate."

The road was potholed to such an extent that Creasy had to weave his way between them. The

countryside was flat and wet, with paddy fields stretching out on each side of the road. Traffic

was sparse; a few beaten-up old trucks and occasionally a UN vehicle.

"What time will we reach Phnom Penh?" she asked.

"With the condition of this road, it's hard to say. But not before late afternoon."

They had hardly spoken since leaving the hotel at dawn, and then it had only been to exchange

comments and observations.