The Blue Ring (13 page)

Creasy was still looking at the Dane. Jens saw the question in his eyes. He sighed,
tapped the table once more and made up his mind.

"OK," he said reluctantly. "What is the next move?"

Creasy took a gulp of coffee and again gestured at the bedroom doors. "Jens, go
and sit with the Danish girl for a while. I have to talk to Michael, and
afterwards he will go and sit with Juliet. Both of you try to reassure them. By
now they'll be getting the craving." He looked at his watch. "The
methadone will be here in a couple of hours."

"Your
friend will need a prescription for that," Jens said.

Creasy
nodded. "My friend will get what he needs in this civilised country."

The
Dane thought about that for a moment, nodded, stood up and quietly went into
one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind him.

Creasy
looked quizzically at his son.

"So,
tell me, Michael. How did you come to be lying on the floor in that basement,
getting your ribs kicked in?"

Michael
stood up and paced up and down across the room. Creasy held his tongue,
realising that something was building up in Michael's mind and that it would
soon come out. It came out sheepishly but with an underlying defiance.

"So
I was stupid," Michael said. "I don't have your experience. You had
to get me out with Jens." He stopped pacing and turned and looked at
Creasy. "One day I'll get you out, just like that. Same scene, same
situation!"

Creasy
felt a warmth but had no way to show it. He simply shrugged and said,
"Tell me exactly what happened."

Michael
outlined his plans to snatch Boutin's mistress and get information. He told
Creasy how they had gone to the nightclub on a recce and been led into the
trap.

When he
finished he looked up and said, "OK. First, I should have realised that
Corelli might have been corrupt. Second, I should have done the recce
alone."

Creasy
nodded and asked, "What did you hope to find out?"

Michael
shrugged and said, "I believe that 'The Blue Ring' does exist...Jens does
too, and so does Blondie. My guess is that Boutin's relatively low-level. I
wanted to find out the structure of the 'Ring' and who was the next rung on the
ladder...and I made a couple of mistakes."

Creasy
said thoughtfully, "Your strategy was good, but too hasty. You should not
have gone with Jens to police headquarters and he should not have gone with you
to the club. That way you could have checked things out without arousing
suspicion. Then you should have taken one of the hostesses to bed, made love to
her and out of totally natural curiosity, asked her about the manageress. Such
women always like to gossip. Then you should have planned the 'snatch'."

Another
brief smile flickered across his face. "So you learned two lessons: never
trust a policeman and never be led by your prick."

"Weren't
you ever?"

"Only
once. I was younger than you. I lost my wallet and a little pride. You were
about half an hour from taking a very deep dip in the sea and staying down
there."

Michael
let that sink in and then asked, "How did you find us?"

Creasy
explained how he tracked them down, first through Blondie, then through
Birgitte, then how he had learned about Corelli from Leclerc. After that it was
straightforward.

"I'm
sorry," Michael said quietly.

Creasy
took another sip of coffee. When he spoke his voice took on a different tone.
"No. Don't blame yourself. Lay it on my head. I have to realise that you
are a man, and that years mean nothing. I should have supported you in this
matter; been alongside you, not behind you. Be sure I'm with you now."

Michael
grinned. "You were in hospital, for God's sake! What else could you
do?"

Creasy
shrugged. "I could have supported you from the very beginning, so you
would not have gone off trying to prove yourself...Don't let me do that
again." He stood up, walked to the window and stood looking down at the
street five floors below. A light rain was falling. The lights of an occasional
car passed by. He turned and looked at Michael and then surprised the young man
again. He spoke of his emotions. An event as rare as snow falling in the
desert. He gestured at the bedroom door. "Michael, something happened to
me in there. I killed those people back at the house to get you out. But after
I saw those girls and talked to them, especially the child, I felt the urge to
go back and make sure there wasn't a flicker of life left in them. I also had
the urge to kill the old woman. I don't often have the urge to kill. It was
never like that with me. I worked as a mercenary because it was all I knew, but
I never worked for people I didn't believe in. I never killed without having
to." He turned and looked down at the road again. A police car sped past,
lights flashing and sirens wailing. Over his shoulder he said bitterly, "I
looked at those girls, especially Juliet. I saw the fear in her eyes and
something worse. I saw desperation." He turned again and said, "Tell
me exactly what your mother told you that day at the hospital."

Michael
also stood up and moved to the window, and they both stood looking down at the
wet street.

Michael
said, "Like me, she was an orphan. She ran away from the orphanage when
she was sixteen. It was not like the orphanage in Gozo; she was often beaten.
She met up with a young Arab. He was wealthy and gave her a good time and hid
her from the police. He introduced her to drugs and she became an addict. Then
he started selling her to other men. When she refused, he took away the drugs.

She
thought he loved her, and she decided that if she got pregnant, he would not
sell her body to other men. She kept it a secret until very late. When he found
out, he beat her and took her to an abortionist. But the abortionist told her
it was too late. When she had me, he forced her to give me to the orphanage the
next day."

"How
did he force her?" Creasy asked.

"In
a very simple way." Michael gestured, his voice deep with emotion.
"He told her that unless she gave me to an orphanage, he would strangle
me. I was born without a doctor, just another prostitute to help my mother.
Nobody knew I was alive. She had no choice. She left me on the doorstep of the
Augustine convent."

"You
should have told me that in Gozo," Creasy said.

Michael
smiled briefly and answered, "At the time you didn't seem very
receptive."

"That's
true," Creasy murmured. "Now I want to know all about it. I want to
be part of it, just like you were part of the Lockerbie thing."

Michael
turned and smiled. "So we do it together?"

Creasy
nodded gravely. "Yes, we do it together."

"What
kind of men are we dealing with?" Michael asked. "Apart from the fact
that they're evil."

Creasy
thought about that for almost a minute, slowly sipping his coffee, and then he
started talking, as though he were thinking out loud. "I have no religion.
Neither do you. Most religions have a clear-cut distinction between good and
evil. But in my experience there are many different ways to be evil. Perhaps
the worst is the evil of sadism. Most human beings have it in them, to some
extent or another, just as most human beings have a measure of masochism. It's
not easy to understand sadism but I've seen a lot of it at first hand and one
thing is for sure: the breeding ground for sadism is power. The more power a
sadist has, the more evil he becomes. In fact, sadism is synonymous with power.
It's a disease without a cure, a disease of the brain. There is no antidote.
It's the reason why sadists are drawn to powerful people and dictatorial
situations." He put down his empty cup, glanced at Michael and continued.
"Sadists were drawn to the SS in the last war, just as they were drawn to
Genghis Khan centuries ago. In any army at war the sadists soon show
themselves, whether it's a mercenary in Africa, a drug baron's bodyguard in
South America, or an American soldier in Vietnam. Sadism cuts across race,
culture, creed or sex. It reaches its nadir when the sadist has a willing
masochistic subject. Juliet's mother for example, did nothing while the
stepfather beat her daughter up. You can imagine the mental impression that
must have made on the child."

Michael
asked, "What about Boutin?"

Creasy
nodded grimly.

"Yes.
Sadism was at the core of Boutin's character. He talked before he died. He
talked and begged for his life. When a man begs for his life he tells the
truth. He told me that he processed between six and eight girls a month during
the summer and sold them on to 'The Blue Ring' for one hundred thousand francs
each. That's about eighteen thousand dollars. It sounds like a lot, but in
reality it's nothing, compared to what Boutin made in his other businesses. For
him it was a sideline to satisfy his sadism...a little fun on the side, you
might say. A chance to exercise total power over an innocent. As we get in
among 'The Blue Ring' we're going to find many more like him, perhaps
worse." He glanced at his watch. "Go in to the child now, Michael. I
have to phone Leclerc to arrange papers for the girl and the child. And I have
to phone Gozo and get hold of Joe Tal Bahar."

Michael
looked up in surprise. "Joe?"

"Yes.
He's just bought that new fifty-foot Sunseeker. It cruises at thirty knots, and
he can be here in a couple of days. He'll smuggle you and the child into Gozo,
probably using a fishing boat for the last leg at night. You'll have to put the
child in the wine cave behind the house and lock her in there until she's got
the drug out of her. It will take about ten days and she'll go through
hell...so will you. Worse, if that's possible. You will have no help. Nobody
must even know she's in the house. Clear everything out of the cellar. Just put
in a mattress and run a hosepipe in there, and put one of those big, round
barrels we use for winemaking in there too. Fill it with water. And put in a
pile of blankets, a dozen or more. When you've done that, give her a last shot
of methadone. The hell will start about twelve hours after that. I'll take you
through the sequence of what will happen to her later. After the last shot of
methadone, go down to the village and tell Theresa that you won't need her
until further notice...tell her you'll clean the house yourself. Also stock up
on enough food for two weeks."

"What
if she gets really sick?" Michael asked. "Do I call a doctor?"

Creasy
shook his head.

"What
if she dies?"

Creasy
looked at his son and said, "You bury her at the bottom of the garden
between the pomegranate trees. You bury her deep. At least eight feet.
Meanwhile, put a notice on the garden door that you're not to be disturbed
until further notice." He thought for a moment and then said, "Run an
extension from the phone into the cave, but when you're not in the cave take it
out with you...and make sure that cave door is always locked." He pointed
with his chin at the bedroom door. "Go to the child now. Tell her the
medicine's on the way."

As the
door closed behind Michael, Creasy reached for the phone.

The
outside door intercom buzzed at ten minutes after six a.m. Creasy had been
dozing in his chair. His head jerked up and he glanced at his watch, and
quickly moved over and pressed the button.

He
asked, "Yes?"

A voice
answered in French, "Red Three."

"Green
Four," Creasy replied and pressed the button to open the downstairs door.
He went to the table, picked up the silenced Colt 1911, checked the magazine,
moved to the door of the apartment and waited.

The
soft tap on the door came two minutes later. He pulled it open, moving back
behind it, the gun levelled at waist height, and called, "Come in."

A man
came in carrying a black briefcase and a leather flight bag. He put them both
on the floor, studied Creasy for a moment then nodded, held out his hand and
said, "My name is Marc."

Creasy
transferred the Colt to his left hand, pointing it downwards. They shook hands,
and then Creasy gestured towards the table and asked, "Coffee?"

The
Frenchman nodded. He was short, plump, and wearing thick, rimless spectacles.
He looked like a school teacher or a bank-teller. He was dressed in a sober
grey suit with a blue tie. He noted Creasy's appraisal and smiled slightly.

"I
know," he said, "I don't look tough, but that's been my biggest
advantage in this life. Nobody takes me seriously...so I always get first
strike."

Creasy
returned the smile and went to the kitchen counter to pour some coffee. The
Frenchman put his briefcase on the table and opened it. With the two mugs of
coffee, Creasy sat down next to him. "Are you carrying?" he asked.

The
Frenchman nodded and patted his left armpit.

"You
have to leave it here," Creasy said. "And the holster."

For a
few seconds the Frenchman looked him in the eyes then stood up and took off his
jacket. The pistol was a Beretta 9mm, nestling into a Henny, snap-release
shoulder-holster. The Frenchman wriggled out of it and laid it on the table.
Creasy pulled out the Beretta. He checked the breech and the safety, then took
out the magazine and slipped it into his pocket. The Frenchman watched in
silence and then spoke.

"I've
worked for Rene Leclerc for fifteen years. He trusts me with his life. I know
all about the man called Creasy. When Leclerc sent me he gave me one
instruction: to treat you as I treat him."

Creasy
studied his face for a moment, then picked up the Beretta, pulled the magazine
out of his pocket, rammed it into the butt of the pistol and put the pistol in
front of the Frenchman.

He
said, "OK, Marc. Keep it while you're here. But leave it here when you go
with my friend."

"What's
the job?" the Frenchman asked.