第 7 页

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.

Chapter 12

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."

Chapter 13

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."

Chapter 14

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.

The fan in Dang's office circled slowly, barely stirring the humid air. From a Thermos flask he

poured a glass of chilled water for his visitor. For some reason she always made him feel

paternal.

It wasn't just because she was about forty years younger than him. It was her attitude.

He felt that she respected him and looked up to him. She had visited his office several times

over the past few years and occasionally they had dinner or lunch together. He respected the fact

that she had taken the time and trouble to learn his language. He had made a particular effort to

try to trace the whereabouts of her father's remains and always regretted his lack of success. He

admired the fact that she treated her father's case on an equal footing with the scores of others.

He said: "Susanna, we now have only eighteen files still open, and they are very obscure. I have

to say that we are beginning to lose patience. Surely we have done everything asked of us.

During the war more than two million Americans passed through our country. About fifty-two

thousand of them were killed or went missing. During the same period many more of your

citizens were killed in traffic accidents in America, and even more simply disappeared. What else

can we do?"

She had heard such comments many times before, and she sympathized with the ageing man

across the desk. "I can only speak unofficially, Hoang Long, but the buzz around Washington is

that recognition is around the corner, and all that follows. I assure you that all my recent reports

have been in favour."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement and asked: "So what brings you to Saigon this time,

and how can I help?"

She passed across a slip of paper, saying: "I would like either to locate this man or find out what

happened to him."

He read the name and the brief details on the piece of paper, and then looked at her under

raised eyebrows. "Do your agencies now look for missing Vietnamese policeman?"

"It's tangential. He may provide a lead to one of our MIAs."

He picked up the piece of paper and stood up, saying: "Because you enjoy Cantonese food, I'm