The Blue Ring (8 page)

She
stood up and bustled over to a percolator in the corner. When he tasted the
coffee he looked up and said approvingly, "What a memory you have. It's
been about six years since I was in this office and you remembered that I don't
take milk or sugar."

She
smiled at the compliment, at the same time thinking that this was a man nobody
would forget. She wondered what her boss' reaction would be when he set eyes on
him.

It
happened about two minutes later. A very dark negro wearing a well-cut suit
came through followed by Leclerc, who was saying, "You'll have my fax on
Thursday but, believe me, the prices will be final and the letter of credit is
essential."

At that moment Leclerc's eyes found Creasy. He paused briefly in his stride but his
face showed nothing. Leclerc had always been a good poker player.

The negro was ushered out and Creasy stood up. Leclerc turned and the two men
studied each other in silence. Leclerc was about Creasy's age, tall, florid,
running slightly to fat. Dressed in a dark blue suit with a faint pinstripe, he
looked like a banker. In fact he was an ex-mercenary who one day had discovered
it was more profitable selling weapons than using them himself. And much safer.

He had become one of the most successful arms dealers in Europe. Six years earlier,
when Creasy was about to take on a whole Mafia family in Italy, he had turned
to Leclerc for his weapons. They were not friends; they never would be, but
they respected each other.

Leclerc gestured at the open door to his office and Creasy went through, carrying his
cup of coffee. The office was luxurious, but these walls were adorned with
large photographs of weapons ranging from tanks and armoured personnel carriers
to submachine-guns. Leclerc sat down behind the wide mahogany desk and Creasy sat in front of it.

"I had heard rumours," the Frenchman said. "Rumours that you were alive,
that you had not died in that Naples hospital. Rumours that it had been fixed.
I did not believe the rumours, but then I heard more rumours a couple of years
ago. They were rumours that you had been seen in America and the Middle East.
There was another rumour that Maxie MacDonald and Frank Miller did a job for you." He
smiled slightly. "Old friends of yours. I began to believe the rumours."

"Yeah, I did fake that death. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Half the damned
Mafia in Italy was looking for me."

Leclerc's smile grew wider. "Hardly surprising. You wiped out their top family. That
arsenal I supplied you with was apparently effective."

"It was," Creasy conceded. "And I remain grateful."

Leclerc inclined his head in acknowledgement and asked, "What can I do for you now?"

Creasy gestured at the window. "You know this city better than anyone. I need a
briefing on certain underworld elements. Depending on that briefing, I might
need some light weapons. The problem is that if I need them, I need them
today."

"If
you need them you'll get them today. What information do you want?"

"I
know the crime situation here is pretty well compartmentalised. The man or men
I'm looking for will be paramount in the vice and drugs sector. If there's any
white slavery going on in the city they'd be involved or know all about it. I
need to know his or their location and what forces they have available."

Leclerc's
answer was immediate. "Your man is Yves Boutin. He more or less controls
prostitution in the city and much of the Riviera. He's one of several gang
leaders in the drug business, but when it comes to vice he's the
king-pin." He went on to describe Boutin, his family, his brothers, his
mistress, his chief lieutenants, his homes and his clubs. Finally he said,
"He's very well-connected politically and with the police."

At this
Creasy leaned forward and asked intently, "How good are your connections
and knowledge concerning the police?"

Leclerc
smiled and spread his hand in an eloquent gesture. "In my line of business
they have to be perfect. The police force in this city is massively corrupt. It
always has been and always will be."

Creasy leaned further forward. "Do you know an Inspector Serge Corelli?"

"Yes. Very well."

"Is he corrupt?"

Leclerc burst out laughing and then said, "That's an understatement! He's the
leader of the pack. A very very rich man, and getting richer by the day. Thanks
in part to large contributions from Yves Boutin...They're practically
partners." He noted the sombre expression on Creasy's face and asked,
"What's it all about?"

Creasy was deep in thought and when he spoke it was not to answer the question.
"If I or anyone else had gone to see Serge Corelli and asked detailed
questions about Boutin, would Corelli inform Boutin?"

Leclerc smiled and said, "Immediately!"

"Even if the person asking the questions was a police officer from another European force?"

Leclerc smiled again. "In that case, he'd inform Boutin even more immediately."

Another silence and then Creasy said, "I'm going to need those weapons."

"What do you want?"

Suddenly Creasy's voice became brisk and businesslike. "Do you have a Colt 1911?"

Leclerc nodded. "Always."

"I need three extra mags."

Leclerc nodded.

"I also need an SMG, small and easily concealed. Like an Ingram 10 with a folding butt."

"I've got them," Leclerc said, "but I also have something better. Very new.
Perhaps you haven't seen it." He stood up and moved to one wall of the
office. It was panelled in oak. He pressed a hand against a panel and slid it
to the right. A huge wall-safe was revealed. He worked the combination lock,
pulled open the heavy door and took out several metal boxes. Creasy also stood
and watched as Leclerc opened them. One box contained a Colt 1911. Creasy
picked it up and felt the familiar grip and then replaced it. He then looked
into the other box and asked, "What the hell is that?"

With
satisfaction Leclerc replied, "That's brand new. It's a miniature SMG made
by Fabrique Nationale, it's called FN P90. It's very different. The body and
magazine are made of plastic and detachable from the other metal
components." Quickly he disassembled the weapon. It took only seconds.
Then he reassembled it and handed it to Creasy, saying, "It's only as long
as your forearm, but it will pierce body armour at one hundred and fifty
metres. It's superior to any NATO rifle or compact SMG."

Creasy
was impressed. The weapon was very easy to conceal, using a shoulder-strap
under a jacket or coat.

It was as if Leclerc was reading his mind. "I can get you a shoulder-strap and a
suppressor, which is a little bulky but fits under the other arm, also on a strap."

Creasy nodded. "I also need a silencer for the Colt."

"No problem. What else do you need?"

"Four frag grenades, and four phosphorescents and the webbing to sling them. Also a
pair of goggles against the phosphorescents, and, yes, three pairs of handcuffs."

"No problem," Leclerc said, making a note on his pad. "I can also arrange
a practice session with the SMG down at my warehouse. Being light it's got quite a kick."

Creasy
shook his head. "I don't have time. This afternoon I have to do a recce,
then I have to make my move tonight. There is one other thing which you may or
may not have. Do you remember, last time you supplied me with the components to
make a very small, but very powerful bomb using plastic explosive with a tiny
detonator and small remote control? Good for up to a couple of hundred
metres?"

"I
remember," Leclerc answered. "And I remember reading in the newspaper
what you used it for in Italy. Not a nice way to send a man to hell."

Creasy
shrugged. "He was not a nice man. Can you get it for me?"

Leclerc
picked up one of the three phones on his desk, punched a number, listened for a
moment and then spoke rapidly in French, listened again, then asked Creasy,
"Do you want it assembled or in components?"

"In
components," Creasy answered. "I'll assemble it myself."

Leclerc
spoke again into the phone, rapidly and persuasively. Then he hung up and said.
"The components will be delivered here at six p.m. together with the other
stuff. What else do you need?"

Creasy
pondered for a moment. "I need a safe hole and a good fast car, which is
clean and has a green card and all other documentation for crossing borders
within Europe. It should be fully fuelled with a few hundred extra litres in
cans in the trunk. The car may not be returned, so cost it in. Both the hole
and the car should be stocked with easy rations for three people, for three
days. You know the drill."

Leclerc
made notes on his pad and said, "No problem. Your safe hole will be an
apartment in the same block where I have my penthouse. I own the whole block,
but no one knows that. The local BMW dealer's a friend of mine. I'll get a good
second-hand car from him and make sure it's serviced this afternoon."

He sat
back and looked at Creasy steadily, and then said quietly, "I'm going to
repeat what I said when you were last here. We've never been friends. Apart
from Guido in Naples I doubt that you've ever had a really close friend. You're
not that kind of man. But like I said then, I owe you. You saved my life in
Katanga. That alone would be enough, but I also owe you for Rhodesia. You
helped me land a very profitable order." He spread his arms and said,
"Now you're in my city and apparently going up against Boutin, who has a
lot of 'soldiers'. Do you need any back-up? I know some good people that can be
trusted."

"I
appreciate it. But no thanks...you know me."

Leclerc
nodded slowly. They both stood up and the Frenchman said, "Everything will
be here at six o'clock, including the info on Corelli. Then we can check out your
hole and the car. If you need anything else at all just call me. You have my
home number."

"Thanks,
I will. Now, what do I owe you for the stuff?"

Leclerc's
face looked pained. "Please, Creasy...Don't insult me."

They
shook hands and Creasy left. Leclerc moved to the window and stood looking down
at the street four floors below. He saw the American come out from the front
door, cross the road and walk briskly away. There were plenty of taxis around
but Creasy was not the sort of man who would come out of such a meeting and
jump into a taxi at the front door. First he would make sure he had no tail.

Leclerc
turned and went to the door of his office and opened it. He asked his
secretary, "How many shares do I have in Boutin's construction company?"

She
fingered the keys of her console, looked at the screen and answered,
"Seventeen thousand. They went up four points last week and look good.
They're sure to get that new bridge and flyover contract next month. It's a
huge project."

Tersely
he said, "Sell those shares before close of business today."

She
stood leaning back against the desk, gazing through the long one-way mirror.
She had the sort of beauty that would stop traffic in any of the world's
capitals: long-limbed with high breasts and a tiny waist flared into a high
bottom and long flanks. Her ash-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, a contrast
with the full-length, midnight blue satin dress.

She was
looking through the one-way mirror which ran the length of the bar, and from
her position she could survey the entire basement club. There was a small stage
to her right and next to it, raised a little higher, was a dais with a
four-piece band. There were intimate, velvet-covered banquettes around the
walls, surrounding a polished wooden dance-floor. Customers were mostly
middle-aged businessmen. The girls were almost uniformly beautiful and were
also dressed in long gowns. The waitresses on the other hand wore cream silk
blouses, slashed to the waist, and very short black, lycra mini-skirts above
dark, fishnet stockings and black patent leather knee-high boots.

She
turned her head to see the two men being ushered through the door. One was
blond and fair-skinned and slightly plump. She guessed his age at approaching
forty. The other was much younger, with jet-black hair and dark skin. He had
sharp features and she decided he was very handsome. They sat at the bar almost
in front of her and for a moment her view was obscured as the barmaid took
their orders. She reached behind her and flicked one of a row of switches.
Immediately she heard their voices. They spoke in English. The blond one
ordered a whisky soda, and specified Chivas Regal. The young one ordered a
Campari and fresh orange juice. As she mixed the drinks the barmaid chatted to
them as she had been trained, first asking where they were from. The blond said
he was from Stockholm and the handsome one said he was from Cyprus. The barmaid
told them that the floor-show would start at midnight and to let her know if they
wanted a table. The young man answered that they would stay at the bar.

The
barmaid then moved away to serve another customer, and the beauty behind the
mirror studied them again before reaching for the telephone. She dialled a
number which was answered immediately.

She
said, "Yves, they are here...Yes, they fit the description exactly."
She listened for a moment and glanced at her watch and said, "OK, about
halfway into the floor-show." She hung up, pushed herself away from the
desk and moved towards the door.

Michael
and Jens' heads moved in unison to the left as she appeared from the recessed
door. She came towards them smiling, knowing the effect she had on them, the
effect she had on all men who were not senile or gay.

She
held out her hand to the blond, saying, "Welcome to The Pink Panther. I'm
Denise, the manageress." She squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers in
return, looking slightly flustered. She withdrew her hand, reached across him
and shook the young man's hand and also squeezed it. He did not squeeze hers
and he did not look flustered, nor did he look at her high breasts. He just
gazed at her face. Not disinterested but not overwhelmed. He was, she decided,
extremely handsome. She chatted with them for several minutes, asking the usual
questions and then explaining that if they wanted company it was readily
available, and intimating that such company could become very intimate indeed
in other, more private parts of the club upstairs.