第 22 页

enjoyed a surprisingly relaxed dinner. Afterwards, Jens and The Owl went into town, not hunting

for girls or nightlife, but to ask around in a very casual way and try to get a lead on a Buddhist

temple expert. Susanna sat with Creasy and Guido on the patio, sipping a brandy and listening

to them reminisce about old times and old comrades.

Their minds were so close together that they communicated in a strange abbreviated manner.

She listened as Guido asked a one-word question.

"Denard?"

"Sailing smooth."

"Still copped out of France?"

"No. They gave him a pardon."

"Only fair. He always worked on the side for CND."

"True. Even in the Commors."

"Retired?"

"Who knows. He's probably casting an eye on Guadeloupe or Saint Bart's. He always wanted to

be an emperor."

Susanna did not feel outside the conversation, even though most of it was incomprehensible.

More and more, as the days passed, she felt a part of this strange group of men. She had never

known that in her life. Even during her army training she had never made friends easily. She

realized that even though these four men had different nationalities and different personalities,

they were in many ways very similar. They relished what they were doing. They woke up each

morning not knowing what life would bring.

She realized that Creasy was exerting an ever-growing influence over her. She could not define it

as love, although the physical attraction was very strong. It was more a question of

companionship.

She felt good when he was nearby. She enjoyed his dry sense of humour and the depth of his

mind. She had noticed that he kept himself completely in touch with world events, always

looking for newspapers and weekly magazines and every day listening at least twice to the news

on the BBC World Service.

During their discussions she had noticed a strange combination of conservatism and liberalism.

That night during dinner he had teased Jens, telling him that Denmark was probably the only

truly communist nation left on earth. The Dane had been indignant, but Creasy had pointed out

that the true ideals of communism had never been realized in Russia or China or even Cuba. In a

strange way their real ideals had possibly evolved in Denmark.

The community looked after its own. It was a contradiction. The people had a free and

inventive spirit and yet they conformed to the good of the whole. They paid massive taxes with

surprisingly little complaint because their tax money was spent sensibly for the community.

There were very few rich and very few poor. Jens had started arguing. Creasy had held up a hand

and said: "I've travelled the world, Jens. And since I've met you, I've spent some time in

Denmark. The quality of life there is the highest I've ever seen. Be proud of your country."

That had silenced Jens. Then Creasy teased Guido about Italy.

"A nation of peacocks," he said. "A recent survey showed that Italian men spend forty per cent

of their disposable incomes on clothes." He glanced at his friend, who was dressed immaculately

in an Armani suit. "In your case I suspect you spend sixty per cent."

Guido took the ribbing good-naturedly, and answered: "It's a sign of civilization. The

Americans and the English have no style. We hate to pay taxes, we like rich food and plump

women. We live in the sun and dream dreams. We are, on the whole, chaotically happy."

The Owl joined the conversation.

"If you talk about civilization, France is the heart and the soul.

We have the greatest food, the most beautiful women, the finest wines, the most delicious

cheeses and the fastest trains. The Danes are well organized, the Italians have a superficial style,

the Americans have Hollywood. But la France has flair." He turned to look at Susanna. With a

twinkle in his eyes he asked: "What has America given the world except John Wayne?"

She felt her patriotism welling up and answered: "We gave the world the blues and the jazz.

Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Brubeck and Miller. That music is unique and it came from

America. You can have your Mozarts and Beethovens and Verdis. We have our own culture and

we're proud of it. And we don't need some snivelling Frenchman lecturing to us about culture."

The Owl beamed with delight.

It had been a good evening. Eventually Guido drained his glass and stood up, saying that he had

a meeting with his bed. Susanna poured herself a little more Cognac and Creasy poured himself

the last of the red wine.

"How do you choose them?" she asked.

"Choose?"

"Yes. Among all the hard men that you must have known, how do you choose people like

those...and even Rene and Maxie? They are good men. I guess they may have done terrible

things, but they strike me as decent men."

The question gave him pause for serious thought. He swirled the glass of wine, looking down at

it, and then answered: "It's not a matter of choice, Susanna. Life is like being in a fairground and

riding the dodgem cars. You bump into people all the time. I guess that sometimes the bumps

are not so bad. Jake Bentsen was like that. I bumped into him in Vietnam. He was just a scared

kid putting on a brave face. But I liked him. When I met his parents I knew why. They're good

people. I guess that's why I'm here. I have enough money saved and invested not to have to work

any more at my trade. I want to find out what happened to Jake Bentsen, not just because of my

own curiosity, but because back in San Diego there's an old couple who deserve an answer. It's

not a question of sentiment or even emotion. It's a question of balancing out."

"Balancing out what?"

He sighed reflectively. "Balancing out my own life. I've done a lot of things and not all of them

to be proud of. I've done jobs for money that put me outside of what decent people would call

proper behaviour. It's not a real excuse, but I had no choice. I was in the fairground getting

bashed up by all the dodgem cars. For most of my life the main criterion was survival. Perhaps

instinctively, I'm trying to redress the balance. I'm in danger here... We all are. I could leave in

the morning and go back to my old farmhouse in Gozo and swim in warm seas and eat good

food and enjoy the friends that I have there." He shrugged. "But maybe I wouldn't sleep so

good. I want to be able to tell that couple in San Diego that their son is either dead or alive. If

he's alive, I want to take him home. I've been called a dog of war and I accept it. But old dogs

have their own loyalties. And this dog wants to rest in peace."

"What will you do after this?" she asked. "Just go home and retire?"

He laughed quietly, as though at an often-heard joke.

"I've been trying to do that for the last ten years. I decided to retire after a stint with the

Rhodesian army back in the late seventies. I was drinking too much and I got right out of shape,

mentally and physically. I turned up at Guido's pensione in Naples one night with no horizon in

my life at all. He arranged to get me a job as a bodyguard to the young daughter of an Italian

industrialist. I did a lousy job. She was kidnapped and later killed: but in the months before that,

I had fallen in love with that child. Not physically, you understand. She was only eleven. But she

came into my life and changed it. I was badly shot up in the kidnapping and nearly died. I went

to Gozo and spent two months getting physically fit again. Then I went back to Italy and killed a

lot of people...the Mafia gang who had been responsible. I didn't do it for money. I did it for

myself. The girl's name was Pinta. Since then, at periodic times, there have been other Pintas in

my life." He smiled wryly. "In a sense Jake Bentsen was a Pinta...I guess there will always be

Pintas turning up somewhere; and that's good. It gives a purpose to my life. It gives me always

an unseen horizon."

"Do you ever get lonely?" she asked.

"Not really. I live in my own head. I have conversations with myself. Perhaps there are

occasions sometimes in the night." He gestured out into the darkness. "They say that Cambodia

was a killing field, and that's true. But I've been in many killing fields. Sometimes a memory

brings loneliness, and that's always late in the night."

"Not tonight," she said softly. "Tonight I will stay with you. After all, you recently did the same

for me."

She woke at first light. Her body was entwined with his. Her mood was serene. The love-making

had been long and gentle. She was watching his face as his eyes opened. He moved slightly and

kissed her on her chin and murmured: "It was very good."

"What was?"

"The love-making. It was perfect."

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes opened wider. "I'm talking about last night. I'm talking about the meal and the

conversation, and afterwards the lovemaking. It was perfect."

She gave him a puzzled look. "I don't know what you're talking about. We just slept together,

that's all."

He pulled her close and chuckled into the nape of her neck.

Chapter 44

"You're crazy!" Creasy said.

"I'm totally sane," Jens answered. "Trust me."

Creasy sighed. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Toyota. Jens was driving. They

were on a bumpy road running parallel to the east bank of the Mekong river.

"An ex-colonel in the Australian army?"

"Exactly."

"And he's now a Buddhist monk?"

"That's right. And he lives like a hermit outside the village of Prek. He's our man."

"How come?"

"He was captured by the Japanese during World War Two, in Burma. He survived the war and

afterwards got himself demobbed in Thailand. He took up the Buddhist faith and studied it for

the next twenty years and became a monk. In the early sixties he moved to Cambodia and

became so learned in the faith that the local people venerated him to the point where he became

considered among the three holiest monks in the country. When the Khmer Rouge took over, he

was taken by his followers back into Thailand. He returned to Cambodia four years ago. He's

eighty-eight years old now and he's looked upon as the holiest man in this country. He's an

expert on Buddhism, and in particular its history and its temples. However, he's a recluse. I'm

not sure he'll even talk to you. We can but try."

"How did you get on to him?"

"I was talking to an American in the bar last night. A place called the No Problem Bar. It's a

place where the expatriates hang out. The American is doing field work at Angkor Wat. He's a

postgraduate student in Eastern Archaeology and a convert to Buddhism. One of those nutcases

with long hair and a beard and bangles on his wrists. But he knows his stuff. This Australian

ex-colonel, now monk, is called Chum Bun Rong. The American tells me that he's a living,

breathing encyclopedia on Buddhist temples. The trouble is he doesn't like talking to people. I'm

not crazy, but maybe this guy is."

They passed through the small, dusty village of Prek. Jens stopped the car, consulted a

hand-drawn map, and then pointed to a rickety wooden house on stilts which hung precariously

over the river bank.

"That's got to be it," he said. "How shall we play it?"

Creasy looked at the house and muttered: "You carry the rice and the fruit, and I'll carry the

photographs. We don't say a single word. You give him the rice and food and I hold the

photographs in front of his face. If he's such a fucking expert, he'll get curious."

It worked. They climbed the wooden steps and pushed open the squeaking door. The old man

was sitting in the lotus position in the corner of a totally bare room. He wore dirty,

saffron-coloured robes. He was completely bald. His face was as lined and as dark as the

wooden walls.

Jens placed the wicker basket containing the rice and the fruit by the door. Creasy

moved forward and placed the four photographs on the floor in front of the old man. Then he

retreated back to the door. The old man ignored the wicker basket and Jens. His eyes remained

steadily on Creasy's face. Perhaps three minutes passed with the only sound the river beneath

them. Then very slowly, the old man's gaze lowered to the photographs.

Chapter 45

"We're going to need help from the Americans," Creasy stated. "But it has to be selective help."

He looked up at Susanna and then pointed at the photographs. "That temple lies in the heart of a

Khmer Rouge stronghold."

"Was the monk sure?" Susanna asked.

"Oh yes. He's almost ninety but he's as bright as a button. He was also surprised to see that

photograph. Before the Khmer Rouge took over there were more than thirty thousand temples

in this country. They destroyed more than two-thirds of them. That monk could not understand

why this one was saved."

Guido looked down on the photographs. He said: "If there were thirty thousand of them, many

must have looked alike. How can he be sure where this one is sited?"

"He was very sure," Creasy answered. "During the nineteen-fifties and sixties he visited that

temple many times and prayed in it. It was built by Jayavarman the seventh between 1181 and

1193. The architecture has particularly strong Indian influences. The monk was in no doubt."

Susanna asked: "Apart from being very old, what else was he like?"

"The most striking thing," Creasy answered, "was his accent. It was as though he had never left

Sydney. But he had no curiosity about the outside world. He was very serene, but also a little

frightening."

"In what way?"

"I was with Jens, but he only talked to me. He looked at my face for a long time and then told