He moved to the door and as he opened it she said, ‘I’m glad you’re going down there. I feel better about it.’
He turned and for the first time smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Your husband will be just fine.’
He closed the door behind him and stood on the small landing. He moved towards the lift but suddenly stopped and leant against the wall. Pain went through him. It had only been three days since his operations. They had taken out the metal, but the pain was still there. He dragged in air and created a mind over matter situation. His body would do what his mind instructed. It had always been that way. Even when the blood flowed. He thought again about the woman he had just left. The last words he had spoken were for her comfort, but inside he had a suspicion that her husband might not be fine. Creasy knew Marseille well. He had joined the French Foreign Legion there many years before, and the one thing in his favour now was that he had good contacts in the city. As he pressed the button to call the lift, a thought struck him: Michael would need weapons. They had gone to Marseille via Paris, and Michael knew where to get weapons in Paris.
He Turned hack and knocked on the apartment door again. When Birgitte opened it he said, ‘Sorry to bother you, but can I make a quick call to Paris?’
She nodded. ‘Certainly.’
She understood French very well, but the side of the conversation she heard was puzzling. On getting through Creasy simply said, ‘Do you recognise my voice? . . . Good. Have you seen my son recently? Did you give or sell him something?’
If Birgitte could have heard the other side of the conversation she would have heard a male voice saying, ‘Yes, two small silent ones. Did I do wrong?’
‘No. Did my son leave a forwarding address?’
‘No. He had phoned earlier. I met him at the airport with another guy. I guess they caught an onward flight.’
‘Thanks. How’s your father?’
‘Getting old and bad-tempered.’
Creasy smiled and said, ‘Give him my respects.’ He hung up and turned to Birgitte. ‘As soon as I contact your husband, I’ll tell him to call you. Don’t be worried.’
Chapter 12
It had only taken six days for Hanne Andersen to become a complete heroin addict. She had not seen Philippe again. After that first time a different man brought the tray with her friend on it. He was tall, fair-haired, in his mid-forties and very handsome. During those six days he also appeared to be charming, talking to her gently and reassuringly. He told her that his name was Carlo. On the first occasion he had freed her from her ropes and she was able to move around the windowless room. He had also brought her a new red tracksuit and some cloth slippers and three pairs of white panties. He spoke English with an Italian accent. The only other person she saw was the old woman who brought her food and took her to the bathroom down the corridor. She was only allowed to go to the bathroom shortly after she had been injected so that she was completely placid.
After the sixth day the injections stopped. They had allowed her to keep her watch. It was a silver Georg Jensen, an eighteenth birthday present from her parents, and her most valued possession. By the sixth day she knew that Carlo would bring her the heroin every six hours, just at the time when she was beginning to feel the pangs for it. At first the pangs were minimal, but as the days went by they grew sharper.
On the sixth day she kept glancing anxiously at her watch. The six hours stretched out. After nine hours she was lying on the bed, shivering. She leapt up when the key of the door turned. It was the old woman with the tray. On it was a bowl of soup and a bowl of spaghetti.
‘Where is Carlo?’ Hanne asked in a tremulous voice.
The old woman silently walked across the room, placed the tray on the bedside table and turned back to the door.
‘Where is Carlo?’ Hanne asked again, and then repeated the question in French more loudly.
Without a word the old woman went through the metal doorway and the door clanged shut behind her. Hanne heard the key scrape in the lock and the bolt slide home. She sat up beside the bed and reached for the spoon. Her hand was shaking, and she could hardly get the soup to her mouth without spilling it. It tasted of nothing, and she dropped the spoon back into the bowl. For several minutes she sat shivering on the bed, staring at the wall, and then she rolled onto her back and pulled the blanket over her and suffered through the night.
He came at seven o’clock on the morning of the seventh day. He was holding the small metal tray with the syringe. She was sitting in the corner of the room, her knees pulled up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes only half open. He smiled at her.
She pushed herself to her feet, asking querulously, ‘Where have you been?’ Her eyes were not on him. They were focused on the tray in his hands. He smiled and held out the tray as though it were a present to a small child.
‘Here is your friend,’ he said.
She moved across the room, pulling up the sleeve of her tracksuit. He put the tray on the bedside table. She moved towards it eagerly, but he held up his hand.
‘Wait. First I want you to do something.’
‘What?’
He smiled disarmingly. ‘I want you to kiss me.’
At first her face was puzzled. ‘What?’
He smiled again and spread his hands. ‘To kiss me, is that so difficult? Am I so ugly?’
She took a step backwards, her face now showing alarm. She shook her head as though clearing it from a blow. ‘No,’ she mumbled. ‘No.’
He shrugged, picked up the tray and walked towards the door.
‘No,’ she called loudly. ‘Don’t go! Please give it to me.’
He turned with his hand on the door-handle and said, ‘I will give it to you if you give me a kiss.’
Again she shook her head as though in bewilderment, then said, ‘No . . . But I need it . . . I need it badly . . . I’m feeling very ill.’
Abruptly he turned the handle of the door and went out, saying over his shoulder ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Think about it.’
An hour later she kissed him. He held her close with his hands behind her head, his tongue probed into her mouth. She felt nothing. Her mind was concentrated on the tray on the bedside table. The tray with the syringe.
Afterwards she lay down on the bed while he let himself out. She felt the warmth spreading over her, felt the knots in her belly unravelling, felt the tension in her arms and legs ease away. He came back eight hours later, carrying the tray. For the past two hours she had been looking at her silver watch every two or three minutes. Those two hours had seemed like two years of her young life. This time to get the injection she had to kiss him and let him caress her breasts and bottom over the tracksuit. The third time she had to let him caress her whole body under the tracksuit. The fourth time he came clad only in a dressing-gown and told her that to get the injection she would have to let him make love to her. She refused and he went away with the tray, leaving her pounding on the metal door and screaming abuse at him in her native Danish. He came back two hours later and she let him make love to her. Lying naked on her back she felt nothing. Her eyes never left the tray a metre away from her head.
And so it went on. Within a week she was performing acts of degradation that she had never known existed. A few days later he was accompanied by another man, a tall, thin, dark-skinned man with a black moustache. They used her body separately and together. Sometimes it was painful. After two hours the dark-skinned man got dressed and left. Carlo gave her the injection and then lay naked on the bed, smoking a cigarette, watching her as the pain and humiliation ebbed away with the effects of the drug.
Conversationally he said, ‘Tomorrow you are moving to a different city.’
‘Where?’ she asked dully.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered. ‘It’s a different country.’ He smiled at her, ‘A nice country.’
She took this into her drugged mind and then asked anxiously, ‘Will you be coming with me?’
He shook his head. ‘No, my job is done now.’
Anxiety registered in her mind. She pointed at the syringe. ‘What about that?’
He smiled again. ‘Don’t worry about that. Someone will be there to give it to you.’
She tried to think through the haze of her brain. ‘Will I have to do those things before they give it to me?’
‘Yes,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘But as time passes you won’t mind so much.’
She turned away, knowing that she was now a slave.
Chapter 13
The sun was setting over the fishing harbour. Jens Jensen sat on the small balcony of the apartment and took pleasure in watching the coming and going of the boats. He loved the sea and its traffic, and his ambition was to own a house or apartment in one of the small towns north or south of Copenhagen, which fronted onto a harbour.
He reflected on the last forty-eight hours since Michael had come into his life and marvelled at the composure and confidence of the young man. Jens had been a policeman throughout his working life and had seen and done a great deal. He had worked in the CID, the Vice department and the Drugs department. He was twice Michael’s age and yet, since the moment they had got on the plane at Copenhagen’s Kastrup airport, he had deferred to Michael as the leader of this particular operation. His first surprise had been at Charles-de-Gaulle airport in Paris, where they had a two hour wait for the connection to Marseille. Michael told him that they would not stay in the transit lounge but check through Immigration. They had gone to the coffee shop, sat in a corner and both ordered cappuccinos.
After five minutes a thin, dark-haired man in his late forties had slid onto a chair beside Michael. No greetings had been exchanged. The man passed Michael a very small briefcase and asked, ‘How’s your father?’
‘He’s well,’ Michael had replied, ‘And yours?’
‘Getting old and bad-tempered.’
Michael smiled and said, ‘Give him my respects.’
The man nodded, and said quietly, ‘Nine zero nine,’ and then went away.
‘Who was that?’ Jens had asked.
‘He’s called Corkscrew Two,’ Michael replied, straight-faced, then smiled at Jens’ puzzled look. ‘His father was called Corkscrew. He took over the family business when his father retired a few years ago.’
‘What business?’
Michael thought for a minute and then replied in a low voice. ‘He’s based in Brussels, which used to be the centre for recruiting mercenaries and similar types. His father has known my father for years. Corkscrew got his nickname because he could get into anywhere in the world and then get himself out. He could obtain almost anything from weapons to information. He passed on his knowledge and skills to his son, who naturally became Corkscrew Two. It was Corkscrew Two who set up the safe houses and equipment that we needed on that operation in Syria a couple of years ago.’
Jens had been intrigued. He had tapped the briefcase on the table. ‘What’s in it?’
‘The keys to an apartment in the old fishing harbour in Marseille,’ Michael had replied. ‘Plus a detailed street-map of the city.’
‘That’s all?’
Michael had shaken his head. ‘No, there’ll be a pistol for shooting very effective tranquilliser darts, two flick-knives and two pistols with silencers and plenty of ammunition in spare magazines.’
Jens’ gaze had been on the small black briefcase, but at that moment it had risen sharply to look at the young man. ‘Are you crazy?’ he had hissed. ‘You’re going to carry that through the security checks? Don’t you know they check everything?’
Michael nodded, then tapped the bag on the other side of his chair. ‘The briefcase will go in my bag which I will check through. The bag will be X-rayed as usual. The X-ray will show the outline of the briefcase and the outline of its contents. That outline will not resemble anything that I have told you about. The flick-knives will look like two marker pens, which is what they would look like even if you held them in your hand. The guns and ammunition will look like video cassettes, which is what they are in - very special lead-lined cassettes. Superimposed above the lead-lining is the embossed outline of a real cassette. Even if the bag and briefcases are searched it would take an extremely clever inspector to find its real contents. It’s an acceptable risk. There will also be various innocuous business files in the briefcase.’
Jens had been impressed but still felt nervous. ‘You set all this up on open line from your hotel room in Copenhagen?’
Michael had nodded. ‘Certainly. I rang an old friend without mentioning names. We had a brief conversation which contained several code words. I don’t know what make the pistols will be, but they’ll be the best: nine millimetre and untraceable. You’ll have noticed that Corkscrew Two was wearing gloves - no fingerprints on the briefcase or on its contents.’
His total confidence had reassured the Dane, as had events when they arrived at Marseille’s Marignane airport. They collected their bags and walked through customs and had another coffee at the airport. Michael took the briefcase out of his bag, set the combination lock at nine zero nine and opened it. Jens had leaned forward. The contents were exactly as Michael had described: three video cassettes, two fat ‘Bon’ marker pens, a fat street-map of Marseille and two keys on a key-ring, plus half a dozen files.
Michael had taken out the street-map and opened it. He had pointed to an inked circle near the old fishing harbour. ‘That’s our base. Let’s go.’
They had taken a taxi to the modern city centre, then walked for half a mile with their bags, then taken another taxi to within half a mile of the apartment. They walked the rest of the way, stopping several times to look at shop windows like a couple of tourists.
Again, as an experienced policeman, Jens had been impressed with the technique, especially when they actually reached the apartment. It was on the top floor of a three-storey building, old but in good repair. At the door Michael had taken two pairs of dark blue thin cotton gloves from a side pocket of his bag and handed one pair to Jens, saying, ‘While we’re inside we wear these at all times.’
The apartment itself had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen and a combined lounge and dining room. It was sparsely but adequately furnished. Jens had opened the curtains and seen the balcony and fishing harbour below and strangely felt immediately at home. It was the sort of place that hopefully, in a few years, he would be looking for in Denmark. Michael had gone straight to the telephone, unscrewed the base and peered into its insides. Satisfied, he reattached the base and went prowling around the apartment, checking light sockets and plugs.
‘You’re very cautious,’ Jens had remarked,
‘It’s been drummed into me over many months,’ Michael had answered. ‘I don’t expect to find anything, but you can’t be too sure. What do you like for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast?’
‘Yes. There’s a small supermarket around the corner; I’m going to stock up for a few days, while you rest those old bones.’
Jens grinned and tapped his slight paunch. ‘I’m coming with you and getting all the fattening things that Birgitte won’t let me eat at home.’
Michael had gestured to the phone. ‘OK, but first call your contact and set up a meeting for early tomorrow morning. Do you think he’ll let us look at his files?’
‘Yes, I think so, I’ve met him a couple of times at seminars and we get on well.’
‘How much are you going to divulge?’
‘Nothing,’ Jens had answered. ‘He’ll understand that. I’ll explain that I’m on a private case, earning a bit of money on leave of absence, financed by a missing person’s family. I’ll tell him I’ll brief him later on, by which time we’ll be long gone.’
Michael had nodded approvingly.
For breakfast Jens ate smoked salmon, toast, half a Camembert, smoked ham, salami and a large tin of fruit salad. Michael had a cup of tea and a piece of toast.
At nine o’clock they were in Inspector Corelli�
��s office. He was a tall, grey-haired, hook-nosed man, wearing an elegant grey suit, a pale blue shirt and a maroon tie. He was also very friendly. Jens introduced Michael as his new assistant and explained briefly that to satisfy a wealthy family they were going through the motions of an on-sight investigation. Corelli had nodded understandingly; it was not an unusual occurrence. He found them an empty office, called in an assistant and told him to supply them with whatever files they wanted plus coffee when they asked for it.
Jens had brought along his newest toy, a small Sanyo lap-top computer. During the next four hours they went through a stack of files together and Jens transcribed all the relevant material onto the computer. They thanked Corelli for his help, and Jens promised to call him in a few days to invite him out for lunch or dinner. On good expenses, Jens explained with a smile. Then they found a good restaurant a couple of blocks away which had tables wide enough apart to allow private conversation. Michael had wanted to order bouillabaisse but Jens, who had been in the city once before, a long time ago, told him to save that famous dish for an equally famous restaurant on the outskirts of Marseille. Instead they both had steaks and discussed what they had learned that morning.
During this discussion Jens learned something else about the young man. Not only was he intelligent and highly competent, both in fieldcraft and tactics, but he was totally ruthless. His plan was simple. They knew from Corelli’s files that the top criminal in Marseille dealing with vice and drugs was a certain Yves Boutin. He operated out of the red-light district between the Opéra and the Vieux Port. He had connections with the Italian Mafia, the Spanish underground and, reportedly, criminal elements in North Africa. He had been arrested several times but never convicted. His political connections in the city, the police department and in Paris were known to be very strong.
The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 5
