第 8 页

going to take you for lunch at one of our few remaining Chinese restaurants in Cholon. In the

meantime, my best assistant will try to track down this Van Luk Wan."

She decided he was flirting with her and she was not displeased. She knew he was close to

seventy-five years old, but his charm was unfaded. With the long serving chopsticks he picked

out for her the most succulent pieces of abalone.

"Why have you never married?" he asked.

She looked into his dark eyes, noting the hint of mischief.

"Because nobody ever asked me."

"That's because you gave them no encouragement...I think you are too severe with men."

"I never found a man I really wanted to encourage."

"Then you have never cast your net wide enough."

"Must a woman cast a net to catch a man?"

His voice turned very serious. "Certainly. But it must be a net with big holes so that the little fish

go through it. Only a big one must be caught."

Equally seriously, she answered: "Maybe the holes in my net were too wide even for the big

fish."

With a trace of irritation he shook his head. "I fear, Susanna, that you have cast no net. How old

are you?"

She was not surprised by his directness. Although it was unusual for a Vietnamese, she had

become used to it with him. Perhaps she had encouraged it. "I'm thirty-four," she answered.

He reached forward and picked out another piece of abalone for her, and then gave her a long

look. "You are a captain in your army, so your career is successful. I know that you're well

regarded by your superiors. You are attractive and intelligent...Have you had many lovers?"

She laughed. The man gave her a stern look. She asked: "In your mind, Hoang Long, what

number would be adequate or appropriate?"

He considered the question, and answered: "Not less than five and not more than ten."

She found herself mentally calculating and laughed again. "You have it exactly right. There have

been seven, not counting the drunken one night stand I had on my graduation night."

"You have no lover at the moment?"

"In a way, but it's mainly cerebral."

"Which means?"

"Which means we talk a lot and not much else."

The waiter brought the last dish of chow fan, and again the old man served her. "You would

make a good mother," he said. "I know that you made a good daughter. The one follows the

other. This Vietnamese is very unhappy that your father lost his life and his presence in this

country. I would like you to find happiness here. Our country has seen too much grief and

blood. It is time we gave it a little happiness."

She was disconcerted both by his words and by their sincerity.

She glanced around the almost empty restaurant and saw the young woman come to the door.

She watched as the woman crossed the room and handed an envelope to Dang, uttered a few

words and left.

The waiter served tea while Dang opened the envelope and read from the two pages. She saw

his ironic smile, then he looked up and asked her: "Does the date 30 April 1975 mean anything

to you?"

"Of course. That was the day the South Vietnamese government surrendered."

"Yes," he said. "That was the day that the last Americans were helicoptered out from the roof of

the US Embassy together with the ambassador and of course, his dog. There were many

thousands of Vietnamese puppets pounding on the Embassy gates trying to get in. It seems that

one of them was your friend, Van Luk Wan. He didn't make it. Together with many others he

was arrested by the Vietnamese Patriotic Army." He was looking down at the two pages spread

in front of him. "He claimed to be a minor functionary in the Duong Van Minh regime, and at

first was sent to a detention camp in the mountains. It was then discovered that he had been a

senior police officer in that same regime and he was returned to Ho Chi Minh city for

interrogation."

"And I suppose, subsequently executed," she said.

He shook his head. "I would have assumed that. He committed many crimes against the

Vietnamese people and at that time, there was an understandable thirst for vengeance." He

looked up at her. "Your Mr Wan was not executed. He was, in a way, ransomed."

"Ransomed?"

"Yes. There was massive corruption in Saigon under the old regime. Regrettably, some of that

corruption continued afterwards and remains to this day. A bribe was paid, a very large one.

And Van Luk Wan was allowed to leave the country."

Page 36

"Where did he go?"

The old man looked down again at the paper. "He was traded across the Cambodian border."

She took a sip of her almost cold tea, then asked: "Can you tell me anything more, Hoang

Long?"

She could detect his air of embarrassment. He said: "You have to understand, Susanna, they

were strange times. Then as now, money talked. It appears that Van Luk Wan had a strong

business connection with a man who traded in our country during the war. He was a very evil

man. He bribed both Americans and Vietnamese. This report indicates that he also bribed some

communist cadres after the fall of Saigon. The indication is that he was the man who paid one

kilo of gold to get Van Luk Wan released."

"What was his name?"

"His name was Bill Crum."

She took a tri-shaw from the restaurant. It wove its way through the narrow, crowded streets of

Cholon and then across the river into the equally chaotic streets of downtown Saigon. She was

buzzing with excitement. Perhaps it was brought about by her competitive spirit. The detective

Jens Jensen had given her a long-shot of a query, and less than twenty-four hours later she had

obtained the answer. She was impatient to present her accomplishment.

She tapped her fingers on the armrest as the trishaw squeezed its way through the traffic to the

hotel.

At the hotel reception desk, she glanced at the rows of keyboxes. Jensen was in room 36. The

key was not there. She did not wait for the lift but ran up the two flights of stairs and rapped

sharply on the door. She had composed a little speech in her mind. She would be nonchalant and

simply give her information as though it were the slightest of gifts.

The door opened. She looked up, and then looked up a little higher. She was staring into a face

that reflected a miasma of mystery and menace. Then, somehow, the menace was dissipated.

She saw the deep-set eyes and the scars, and she found her voice. "Mr Creasy, I presume?"

His voice was low and strangely reassuring. "Yes. You must be Susanna Moore."

Chapter 15

She felt like an outsider. She also had the absurd feeling of being a schoolgirl reading out a

report to a bunch of teachers.

They had all gone down to the bar and sat at a circular table in the corner. Creasy was directly

opposite her, with his Italian friend Guido to his right. Jens and The Owl sat on either side of

them. They drank beer and she drank coffee.

She felt an outsider because there was a palpable bond between the four men. They were easy

with each other as though they were among family. As they waited for the drinks she listened to

their conversation. They talked and joked about old friends and past times. It was not as though

she was deliberately excluded; she just felt there was an invisible sheet of plate glass between her

world and theirs. She felt a sudden loneliness and to get away from it, she studied the four men.

Creasy and Guido were alike, though at first sight the Italian had appeared to be simply, lazily

handsome. His thick black hair was greying at the temples. His tanned face was lined in exactly

the right places. His smile was easy. He wore a black, silk polo neck shirt and black slacks. He

could have stepped right out of Giorgio Armani's show room. When he looked at her, he was

seeing a face and a body. When Creasy looked at her, she had the feeling that he was watching

only her mind.

The Owl was his usual silent self, observing and listening. The Dane had set up his computer

and was studying the green screen.

He glanced up at her and said in an informal voice: "Please proceed, Susanna."

She started to recount the conversation with Dang Hoang Long and Creasy asked: "What

language were you using?"

"Vietnamese," she answered.

"Do you speak it well?"

"Fluently."

"What other languages do you have?"

"Good French and passable Cambodian."

His face remained impassive, but she noticed his glance at Guido. She continued her report, still

feeling a bit like a schoolgirl. In some ways, she was junior to these men; obviously in age, and

certainly in experience. She was well informed about their backgrounds and although she was a

confident woman, she could not dispel the feeling of nervousness.

They listened for a few minutes in silence, and then Guido interrupted to ask about the

background of Dang Hoang Long.

She gave a thumbnail sketch including his watershed meeting with Ho Chi Minh in Paris. As she

spoke, Jens was tapping the information into his computer.

"Why does he trust you?" Creasy asked.

"Because I've always been honest with him, and unlike many Americans, I do not treat him, or

other Asians, with condescension."

"It's a good attitude," he said. "I can't think why any American should treat a Vietnamese with

anything less than full respect. After all, they took on the mightiest military machine in the world

and defeated it."

She could not help herself. She said: "You were part of that machine."

He smiled. It was only a brief movement of his lips. He said: "Yes, for a short time I was. And I

have to say that it was an education. I came here from the wars in West Africa and even though

the Viet Minh had beaten the French, I still tended to look on the Vietnamese as inferior

soldiers. I was quickly disabused of that notion. When it comes to jungle warfare, only the

Japanese or the Ghurkas are their equals...Please continue."

She explained how Van Luk Wan had first been detained by the victorious North Vietnamese

and later ransomed for a kilo of gold. Creasy leaned forward and asked: "Do you know who

provided the gold?"

"Yes, a Chinese-American called Bill Crum."

Creasy had a poker face, but she saw the flicker in his eyes as he sat back in his chair. She asked:

"Do you know him?"

Creasy was looking over her shoulder far into the distance. His mind was obviously back into

history.

She repeated the question, and he slowly nodded.

"Yes. Bill Crum is probably the most evil man I ever met and I've met many..." He glanced

again at Guido, who was watching him with interest. "I've done a few things in my life which I

regret. I guess we all have. But on a cold night in early 1977 I did something of which I'm

proud...I killed a monster called Bill Crum. I killed him in a converted temple in the New

Territories of Hong Kong and I burned him and the temple until nothing was left."

Jens stopped tapping the keys of his computer. He was looking at Creasy in fascination. He

said: "You had left Vietnam ten years earlier. Why did you kill him?"

"It was a job," Creasy answered. "I was hired to do it. I don't normally do jobs like that, I'm not

a hit-man, but on this occasion, it was a pleasure."

"Who hired you?" Susanna asked.

He studied her across the table and then answered: "An American group."

The reaction was automatic. "My government does not hire assassins!"

Both Creasy and Guido laughed and she felt her anger rising.

"That kind of thing may have happened back in the sixties, but since the early seventies our

policy has been strictly against it."

Again the two mercenaries laughed, and Guido commented: "Since John F. Kennedy, the policy

of every US President has been not to issue executive orders for assassinations under any

circumstance; but Miss Moore, sometimes they use what we call in the business 'Becket

approval'."

"What do you mean?"

The Italian leaned forward. "Do you know who Thomas A Becket was and how he died?"

She felt he was being condescending, and the level of her anger rose further. "Yes, Mr Arrellio, I

do have an education."

Guido inclined his head in acknowledgement. He said: "Then you'll know that when Thomas A

Becket was being a nuisance to his king, the king commented to his knights: 'Who will rid me of

this turbulent priest?' Four knights promptly rode off to Canterbury Cathedral and ran their

swords through Thomas A Becket. The king claimed to be dismayed. In present times, when a

US President is having problems with a foreign leader, it has often been the case that he might

mumble to his Chief of Staff or National Security Adviser or the Director of the CIA something

like: 'I wish to God that bastard would go away!' Of course it's not an executive order and of

course the President would be horrified to think that he had given any encouragement." The

Italian smiled. "But in the business it's called a 'Becket decision'...Console yourself with the fact

that it's not only US Presidents who have, and will use, such moral armour."

Looking at Creasy, she asked: "How much did the CIA pay you to kill Bill Crum?"

His answer was direct. "It was not the CIA. It was a group of senior American officers who

were being blackmailed by that gentleman. They paid me two hundred thousand Swiss francs,

which in those days was a lot of money. But then, part of the job was to destroy all the

documents in that temple. I read those documents before I burned them. It was not edifying

reading."

Her anger had been replaced by massive curiosity. "Are you saying that there was a lot of

corruption in the US Armed Forces during the Vietnam war?"

He nodded. "More than you'd ever guess. Since you're a student of history, you might know