The Blue Ring (5 page)

"Do you have a religion?"

Lamonte could not find his voice. His face was a pool of agony, his body chilled by fear.

"If you do," the voice went on, "now is the time to pray to your God. Now
is the time to repent. Now is the time to consider your life."

Lamonte took a deep breath to scream for help. The sound never came. Michael's right
hand smashed into his mouth again, dislodging three more teeth. When he came
out of the waves of nauseous pain he was looking again into the cold, black
eyes and hearing that conversational voice.

"Lamonte, don't think of your bodyguards. You would be dead before they got through that
door. You think you're a tough, hard man, but you know nothing of that kind of
world. I got you here as easy as picking a baby from a pram. I'm going to let
you live but with one name in your memory. The name of a woman called Blondie. You
threatened her. For sure I frighten you, but also be sure that you are lucky.
There is another friend of Blondie's who would send you to hell in a basket of
ice that would never melt. I will be a little generous. When you come out of
hospital you'll go to the Rue d'Argens and apologise to Blondie. Otherwise
I will come again and I will not be generous."

He reached forward and put his left hand over the Belgian's mouth. The side of his right hand smashed down
on Lamonte's left forearm, cracking the bone.

The soft chimes of the doorbell at the Pappagal rang ten days later.

Raoul came out of the bar, moved down the corridor, opened the peephole and peered
through. He recognised the man standing outside. He noted the jacket hung over
the shoulders, saw the white plaster on the man's right arm. Raoul opened the door.

The man said in a quiet strangled voice, "I wish to speak to Madame Blondie."

"Wait here."

It was drizzling slightly. The man stood there, getting slowly wet. Raoul went back to
the bar and said to Blondie, "Lamonte is outside. He wants to talk to you."

Her face hardened in anger. "I have nothing to say to him. Not now. Not ever!"

Raoul smiled and said, "You don't have to say a word to him. I think he wants to
say something to you."

Jens Jensen was a good policeman. He had all the right instincts.

He had a nose that smelled out everything. He knew when he was being followed. He
could feel it at the nape of his wide neck, a tingling of the flesh. He carried
his lunch bag across the park to a bench and sat in the sunshine. As he took
the first bite of his salami sandwich a young, dark-skinned, dark-haired man
sat down next to him.

"What do you want?" Jens asked.

"I want to talk to you about 'The Blue Ring'."

Jens Jensen was apologetic as he ushered Michael through the door of his apartment
in the Vesterbro district of Copenhagen.

"It's a bit small," he said. "We're not exactly overpaid in the Danish Police."

It was small, and very warm and cosy. Very much a home. Michael shook hands with Jens'
wife Birgitte, a slender, attractive woman in her late twenties. Then he
solemnly shook hands with Lisa, their six-year-old daughter.

If the apartment was small, the dinner was huge. They started with smoked salmon on
toast. On top of the salmon was baked egg, asparagus and cress. Then they went
on to the main course, which was glazed ham with vegetables and oven-baked
potatoes. For dessert Birgitte had made a delicious sherry mousse with
hazelnuts and chocolate. Michael had hardly eaten since leaving Brussels, and
he literally devoured the food, mostly in silence, while listening to a typical
family conversation: Jens complaining about his boss; Birgitte, who was a
school teacher, complaining about her students; and Lisa complaining about her
teachers. But it was a conversation of good humour and Michael decided they
were a comfortable and happy family.

After
the meal Lisa went to bed and Birgitte cleared the table and went into the
kitchen. Michael and Jens talked again about 'The Blue Ring'. Jens was quite
sure that they worked out of three main centres: Marseille, Milan and Naples.
He had heard that there was a strong Arab influence within the Ring and
therefore thought that perhaps Marseille might be the main centre.

"That's
where I'll start, then," Michael said. "I'll leave tomorrow. Do you
have any contacts there?"

Jens nodded. "Yes, a good one. He's my counterpart there, a man called Serge
Corelli...He's part Arabic."

Michael smiled slightly. "So am I," he said.

Jens raised an enquiring eyebrow and on impulse Michael told him about his
background, explaining in detail about being in the orphanage from his birth.
By this time Birgitte had come back from the kitchen and sat down. Both she and
Jens listened in fascination as Michael recounted his life. He felt strangely
relaxed with these two people. He told them how Creasy had adopted him and very
briefly about what he and Creasy had done in vengeance. He finally told them
about listening to the story of his natural mother just before she died.

There was a long silence when he had finished, then Birgitte reached across the table
and put her hand over his and said softly, "I understand how you feel."

Jens nodded. "And why you are looking for them. But it's been a long time and
maybe they won't be the same people."

"It doesn't matter," Michael said coldly. "They come from the same pit.
They practise the same filth."

Birgitte went to the kitchen to make coffee and, very gently, Jens said to Michael,
"These are hard and dangerous people, Michael, and totally ruthless."
He gestured as if in apology and went on, "You are a young man, with
limited experience. This man Creasy you talked about. Will he not help you?"

"Of
course. But right now Creasy is in hospital, all stitched up in three places
and he'll need at least a week. Meanwhile I'll get in position and he can
follow later."

"I
hope so," Jens said. "After all, you are a young man and against a
mob like that the odds are not very good."

Michael
went very quiet. He was sitting across the table from Jens, his eyes still
cold. "Did you have training in the police -small-arms, unarmed combat and
so on?"

"Of
course, and I was damn good at it, and still am." He touched his slight
paunch and smiled. "Even though I'm not quite as fit as I should be."

Birgitte
was just coming out of the kitchen carrying a tray when she heard Michael's
words. She stopped abruptly, almost spilling the coffee, as Michael said,
"Jens. You worry about my ability. If I wanted to I could kill you within
three seconds. If there were three of you sitting around this table, all
well-trained, I could kill you all within ten seconds."

Very
quietly Jens asked, "You are carrying a gun?"

"No."

"A
knife?"

"No."

"No
weapon at all?"

Without
speaking Michael held up his two hands. There was a silence and then Jens
asked, "Have you killed before?"

"I
can't remember," Michael said, and then smiled and the tension left the
room.

Birgitte
moved forward and put the tray on the table. She poured the coffee and then
carried her cup back to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "I'll leave
you to it. I have to correct some test papers."

She
closed the door behind her.

"I
wish I could come with you," Jens said. "I'm fed up with sitting in
an office reading reports and not being able to do anything about them. I look
at an endless number of photographs...sometimes the faces come to me in the
night. All too often I have to talk to the parents of missing girls that's the
worst part of the job. They ask me what they can do, and I have no real answer.
It's even worse than telling them their daughter is dead. At least then they
know something and can come to terms with it. I wish to hell I was going with
you."

"Why don't you?" Michael asked.

Jens' smile carried no humour. "What a joke," he said. "But not a
funny one. Our budget is ridiculously small. There's just no money."

"I have plenty of money," Michael stated. "Would they give you leave of
absence for a month or two?"

Jens sat back, his face showing first surprise and then thoughtfulness. After a
while he said, "They might. It's a long shot...but they just might."

"It won't hurt to ask," Michael said, and then gestured towards the kitchen.
"But what about Birgitte?"

Jens smiled and shook his head. "That's no problem. She feels the same way I
do. She has to put up with my frustrations. Besides -" he gestured towards
one of the bedrooms "in ten or eleven years' our daughter will be wanting
to go off to the Mediterranean on holidays. We both have nightmares about
someone from my department knocking on the door and telling us that she's gone
missing. That could still happen, but I would sleep better knowing that
I'd tried to do something about it."

Michael
took a sip of his coffee and said thoughtfully, "You'd be very useful
with your contacts and knowledge." He smiled. "And I would try to
keep you out of danger."

Jens
laughed. "I'm twice your age and still rate myself a young man and you're
going to keep me out of danger? If I get leave of absence the first decision I
have to make is whether to take along a gun or a bag full of nappies."

Michael also laughed. Then he said flatly, "Jens, I'm serious. You have a wife and
child. Your role would be to make the introductions and give me the benefit of
your experience. When the time comes for the dirty work, Creasy and I will do that."

"Well we'll see," Jens answered. "Anyway it's hypothetical. I'll see my
boss first thing in the morning and he'll probably kick me out of his office."

"You'd let him do that? I thought you were a hell of a tough guy."

Jens smiled again. "I am. But the bastard signs my salary cheques."

Blondie bustled around the comfortable room, twitching curtains into place,
straightening a Manet reproduction on the wall, rearranging the roses she had
bought for the third time and generally behaving like a broody hen. Creasy
surveyed her with fond amusement.

"So tell me what Michael is up to?" he asked.

She suddenly became serious, gave the question some thought and then answered,
"Michael told me not to tell you what he was up to. Michael wants to go
off and do his thing without having his papa hovering over him."

Creasy grunted in irritation. "Tell me what he's doing."

Blondie sat down at the foot of the bed, squeezed his left ankle and said,
"Michael will be angry with me, but I'm going to tell you."

First she told him about Lamonte and his apology.

Creasy nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe it was for the better," he said. "I
would probably have killed the bastard. I seem to have less patience as the
years go by. What has Michael been up to since then?"

"That's what worries me," Blondie answered. "You see, the ease of his success
with Lamonte may have gone to his head. It's so easy to forget that he's only
nineteen years old. His childhood and his experiences with you make him seem so
much older. He has become over-confident. He wants to prove himself to you."

"Where is he?"

"He left yesterday," she answered. "He didn't say where he was going. He
said he'd phone in a couple of days to let you know how he was progressing."

Creasy sighed. "Yes, of course. He thinks I'm stuck here for a week or ten
days." He pointed at a steel cupboard in a corner. "My clothes and
shoes are in there. Get them for me."

Blondie started to argue but then looked into his eyes and stopped. Creasy smiled at
her and said, "They only want to keep me in so that they can take out the
stitches in a few days. Your surgeon Bernard did a good job, but I can take out
the stitches myself. Where do you think Michael's gone?"

"Copenhagen," she said over her shoulder as she went to get his clothes.

Lars
Pedersen was, within his limits, a good policeman. But one of his limits was a
lack of imagination. He always went by the book. He was known in the force as
being competent, knowledgeable and hard-working, but only really happy when he
could act with all the facts in front of him.

He
studied the man sitting on the other side of the desk. A big man with
close-cropped grey hair, heavy-lidded eyes, a deeply tanned face with a scar
down one cheek, another on the forehead, a third on his chin.

Slowly Pedersen shook his head. "I'm very sorry, Mr Creasy. I'm not authorised to
give you any information regarding my officers. I'd have to receive an
official request through Interpol and I doubt that you could obtain that."

His visitor's voice carried a slight American accent. "I've reason to believe
that my son is with your officer. Surely that's reason enough?"

Again Pedersen shook his head. "I gave Jens Jensen two months' leave of absence
as from yesterday. To be frank, I don't know where he is. To be even franker, I only gave
him leave because he's been under quite a lot of mental strain lately. It was not easy. I
had to clear it with the Commissioner. But Jensen is one of my best men and he needed the break."

"Is he married?"

"Yes."

"Can you give me his home address and phone number?"

Again Pedersen shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that's against regulations."

A small smile flickered across the American's lips and he said, "If your
Commissioner instructs you to co-operate fully with me, I assume you would do so?"

"Naturally," the Dane answered coldly. "But I think that's highly unlikely."

The American stood up, glanced at his watch and said, "I'll be back in half an hour."

In Washington Senator James S. Grainger woke to the ringing of his bedside phone.
He looked at his watch, cursed under his breath, picked up the receiver and
barked into it, "Grainger." A moment later he was sitting up in bed
listening intently. The man talking to him from across the Atlantic Ocean
wasted few words, and he wasted few in his reply. He simply jotted down the
names and numbers on his bedside pad and said, "OK, Creasy, no sweat. I'll
get onto Bennett at the FBI right away. He'll call their guy over there and
sort it out. Anything else you need?...OK. Give Michael a hug for me, and let
me know when it's over."