The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Instantly Creasy turned and fired two shots into the heart of the unconscious guard and a third into his brain. Then, within seconds, he had unscrewed the silencer and changed the magazine. Corelli stood frozen as Creasy reholstered the pistol and unclipped the SMG.

  ‘Move!’ the American said. ‘I follow you to the basement and no tricks. I’ve got my thumb on the button.’

  In the basement they heard the single shot. Boutin’s head jerked up in surprise and he turned to the open door and the long flight of stone steps leading up to the kitchen.

  ‘Get up there,’ he snapped at one of the guards, and to another he ordered, ‘Cover the steps.’

  The first guard ran up the steps three at a time, his pistol outstretched. The second guard took up position at the open door, gun raised.

  Michael lifted his chin and looked up and around the room. Boutin had grabbed Denise’s arm and had pulled her away from the line of fire into a corner. He was holding a pistol. She looked frightened. A guard was standing over Jens with his pistol pointed at his head. Michael assumed that the remaining guard was doing the same behind him; he decided to wait before making any move. From above he heard a two-second burst from an SMG and a scream, and knew that Creasy was in the building. Michael’s brain shifted into high gear. If it was Creasy and he had an SMG he would have other weapons. He definitely would not come down those stairs unprotected, and he wouldn’t come down firing, in case Michael or Jens were hit by a stray bullet. No, he would neutralise everybody in the room first. Michael tensed.

  Upstairs in the kitchen, Creasy stepped over the body of the guard he had just shot. Corelli was immobilised, handcuffed by one hand to a steel pipe by the big oven. He stood and watched, his face ashen.

  Creasy moved up to the top of the steps, pulling out the dark goggles and adjusting them over his eyes. He reclipped the SMG and unclipped a phosphorescent grenade. He edged to the open door and, in a fraction of a second, took a glance down the stairs, then took the pin out of the grenade, set the lever free, counted in his head and with great force hurled it down the steps. It hit the floor between Jens and Michael, ricocheted off the back wall and then exploded in a blinding white light. Everyone in the room instinctively covered their eyes.

  Michael shouted, ‘Jens, don’t move!’ Then he shouted again, this time up the stairs: ‘Three of them armed! One unarmed.’

  Boutin was shouting something which Michael could not understand. Then Michael heard a thud and two short bursts from an SMG. Then a single shot. The woman was screaming in terror. Michael knew that the thud would have been Creasy, rolling into the room. Two short bursts would have taken out the two guards. Then Creasy would have changed the SMG to single shot and disabled Boutin.

  Slowly the glare on the other side of Michael’s eyelids diminished and Michael opened them. The scenario was exact. Creasy was crouched just inside the door. Michael noted the webbing under the open coat, holding the grenades and spare mags. He saw the blur of Creasy’s right hand as he changed the mag of the SMG. The guard by the door was lying face down, Michael turned his head. The guard who had been standing over him was lying crumpled in the corner. Boutin was on his knees, one arm across his eyes, the other clutching his shoulder. His gun lay on the floor a few feet away from him. The woman was slumped against the wall, both hands across her eyes.

  Creasy’s voice snapped out. ‘Jensen! Stay still! Michael, move! Get Boutin’s gun.’

  Michael scrambled to his feet, ran over and picked up Boutin’s gun. By now the light in the room was returning to normal. Creasy rose, pulled off the goggles and dropped them into his pocket.

  He said, ‘Michael, the guards are kaput.’ He gestured at Boutin and his mistress. ‘Cover those two from the other side of the door. There are other guards in the grounds. They’ll be on their way.’ He disappeared up the steps.

  Boutin’s eyes were open now. He looked up at Michael and then at his two dead bodyguards. His mistress had sunk to her haunches, trembling in shock. Boutin took his hand from his shoulder and looked at the blood on his palm. He started to say something, but Michael’s voice cut him off.

  ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll put a bullet through it.’

  From upstairs they heard two more bursts from the SMG, and then nothing.

  From the floor, Jens asked in a dazed voice, ‘Who the hell was that?’

  Michael grinned down at him.

  ‘That was my old man.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ the Dane muttered. ‘Can I get up now?’

  ‘No. He said to lie still. It won’t take long.’

  It took a minute, then Creasy’s voice called down the stairs. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Yes. Everything OK here.’

  ‘Good. Does Jensen know how to use a gun?’

  Jens provided the answer himself in a pained voice. ‘Yes! Jensen does know how to use a gun and he’s fed up lying here doing nothing.’

  Jensen heard a short laugh and then Creasy shouted, ‘Get one of the guard’s guns and come up here.’

  The Dane scrambled to his feet, moved to the guard near the door and rolled him over onto his back with his foot. The pistol was lying under him, its barrel covered in blood. Quickly Jens picked it up by the barrel, wiped it against the guard’s jacket, checked the safety was off and that the magazine was full, and then ran up the stairs.

  He found Creasy in the kitchen with Serge Corelli.

  ‘What the hell?’ Jens asked, astonished.

  ‘Later!’ Creasy snapped. ‘We don’t have much time. The outside guards are dead and I doubt there are any more upstairs. They’d be here by now, or they might be hiding. Let’s check it out. I’ll go first. You watch my back, from about five metres.’

  There were no guards upstairs, only an old woman, cowering at the end of the corridor. There were also two drugged girls in separate cell-like rooms. Jens recognised the first one immediately.

  ‘Hanne Andersen,’ he said. ‘I was studying her file only a few days ago.’

  She sat on the bed, looking back at him with glazed eyes. He spoke a few words in Danish to her, mentioning her name, and her eyes cleared for a moment and she nodded.

  ‘Later,’ Creasy said. ‘Let’s check the other rooms.’

  They found the other girl in the next one. She was sitting in a corner with her arms around her drawn-up knees. There were bruises on her arms and face. She was very young, dark and beautiful, and very frightened. She cringed further back into the corner, mumbling in English, ‘No . . . No . . . Please . . . No more.’

  Jens moved forward, speaking to her softly, but she only cowered lower, her eyes reflecting fear and despair.

  Creasy said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. First we’ll get them to the car and you stay with them while I collect Michael. I’ll take care of the old woman.’

  Startled, Jens asked, ‘Are you going to kill her?’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘No, but she deserves it, being part of this slime.’

  He walked quickly down the corridor to the woman, who watched his approach and started speaking rapidly in French. He did not answer, he just grabbed her by the hair and slammed his fist into her jaw. She crumpled to his feet. He turned away.

  In the basement, Denise Defors had recovered some of her composure. She tried pleading with Michael, telling him that the business had nothing to do with her. He told her to shut up. Then, with the instinct of any cornered animal, she tried to escape. Her life had been such that anything she had ever wanted from any man she had always received. She could not conceive that any man would willingly shoot her. She pushed herself away from the wall and ran for the door.

  Michael shot her in the back. As she slumped against the doorpost, he shot her again in the back of her head, then immediately levelled the pistol back at Boutin, who put up his good hand as if to ward off a blow.

  ‘No . . . Please, no,’ he stammered. His face was dripping with sweat.

  ‘Just shut up,’ Michael said ha
rshly. ‘There’s a small chance you might live.’

  A minute later, Creasy came down the steps, glanced at the dead woman and then at Michael.

  Michael said, ‘She made a run for it.’

  Creasy nodded, took out a piece of paper from his pocket, gave it to Michael and said, ‘Jens is in the Renault outside -’ he gestured at Boutin - ‘together with two of this bastard’s victims. Take the Renault and wait for me outside the main gates. The kitchen window faces the road there. If you hear any police sirens, fire a bullet through it. Do the same if any car goes through those gates - there’s a mobile phone on the driver’s seat - then drive away and phone the number on that bit of paper. The man at the other end will give you directions to a hole. Wait for me there. Otherwise I’ll be finished here in five minutes. I’ll meet you at the car.’

  Michael simply nodded and headed out through the door. Creasy looked at Boutin expressionlessly and said, ‘We’re going up to the kitchen to have a brief but informative conversation.’ He gestured with his gun. ‘Move.’

  With a grunt of pain, the Frenchman moved.

  Outside, Michael found Jens in the back seat of the Renault with the two girls. One of them was slumped against the window, seemingly unconscious. The other was holding Jens’ hand, while he was talking to her quietly in what Michael guessed was Danish, Michael got into the driver’s seat without a word, turned the ignition and drove the car down the driveway to the open gates. He turned right and parked the car fifty metres down the road, took out the pistol and watched the window of the kitchen about one hundred and fifty metres away.

  ‘What now?’ Jens asked.

  ‘We wait,’ Michael said, and explained Creasy’s instructions, ‘What shape are those girls in?’ he asked.

  ‘Very bad shape,’ the Dane answered bitterly. ‘They were damn lucky - one of them was due to be shipped out tonight. The other wasn’t quite ready yet. Bastards!’

  ‘We were lucky too,’ Michael said quietly, ‘First, very stupid, then very lucky.’

  ‘I wonder what Corelli was doing there? Handcuffed . . .?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Michael answered.

  Six minutes later, Creasy slipped into the front passenger seat.

  ‘No movement,’ Michael said. ‘Did you let them live?’

  Creasy answered, ‘I handcuffed Boutin to Corelli, back to back. Someone will find them.’

  From the back seat, Jensen said with bitterness, ‘I’m a cop. But men like that don’t deserve to live. The way things are here they’ll probably get away with it.’

  Creasy turned to look at him and then showed him the small black box in his hand, and very quietly said, ‘Not this time.’

  The Dane watched Creasy’s thumb depress the button and heard the dull explosion from the house.

  Creasy said, ‘Well, they’ll only find bits of them. They’ve just gone to that special hell reserved for such people.’

  Chapter 20

  It was a comfortably furnished, three bedroom apartment. Jens and Michael sat at the dining-room table, drinking coffee. Creasy came out of one of the bedrooms and gently closed the door. His face showed little emotion, but the two younger men could feel rage and disgust emanating from his whole body.

  He looked at them for a moment and then said quietly, ‘I’ve killed many people in my life and sometimes regretted it. But I have no regrets about those bastards we left back there. Only human beings do that to their own kind. The lowest form of animal life would never understand it.’

  They said nothing. Just watched him. He moved to the phone on the sideboard, picked it up and punched a number. Although it was five in the morning, he received an immediate answer. He talked into the phone in rapid French. Michael did not understand, but Jens caught the drift. Creasy indicated that everything had gone well. He then ordered what were obviously medical drugs. Jens recognised only one: methadone.

  Then Creasy said, ‘My friend, I’m going to need one of your men for maybe up to a week. He should be compassionate as well as tough . . . Yes, I said compassionate. I’ll call later in the morning. Try to have the drugs here as early as possible with your man. Tell him to use the code words “Red Three”. The answer will be “Green Four” . . . Thanks again.’ He cradled the phone and came over to the table. Michael poured him black coffee.

  ‘That was Leclerc,’ Creasy said to him. ‘Remember me telling you about him?’

  Michael nodded. ‘Yes, the arms dealer. I guess you got your arsenal from him.’

  Jens interjected, ‘We have to get those girls into a clinic as soon as possible.’

  Creasy shook his head. ‘Mr Jensen -’

  Jens interjected again ‘After what has happened tonight, maybe you can call me Jens?’

  Creasy nodded solemnly and continued, ‘Jens, you’re a policeman, and obviously you have to think and, as much as possible, act like one. But this situation is different. Normally you’d pick up the phone and call the Marseille police headquarters or even police headquarters in Paris. But what would you tell them? That you’ve just been in a full-scale battle, involving pistols, grenades, SMGs and a bomb that killed the number one criminal in the region, together with the corrupt head of the Missing Persons Bureau in Marseille. How would you explain that? How would you explain myself and Michael? Bear in mind that I just killed seven men and Michael killed one woman. We’d all be stuck in this city for months, including you. Michael and I would be arrested and held in a jail which no doubt is run by other corrupt officials. That’s definitely not on my agenda.’

  Jens thought about that and said, ‘I could call my top boss in Copenhagen and he would call the top man in Paris.’

  Michael said, ‘They would still want answers, and we still could not provide them.’

  Jens thought again and slowly nodded. ‘So what do we do? What about those two girls? They need treatment, and soon.’

  ‘They’ll get it,’ Creasy answered. ‘I’ve had experience in such cases. First, let’s examine their situation. I was able to talk to them both. They speak good English. Hanne’s situation is infinitely better than the other girl’s . . . Her name is Juliet. She wouldn’t tell me her second name. Hanne has a Danish policeman sitting right outside her bedroom door. She was reassured as soon as you showed her your ID. She comes from a wealthy and loving family. We have to get her back to Copenhagen,’ Creasy looked at Jens. ‘You can’t just take her on a plane, not in her condition. I assume that her passport and clothing are being held by the Marseille police?’

  Jens nodded,

  ‘In that case,’ Creasy went on, ‘we’ll have to get her a false passport.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘You don’t. I do.’

  ‘And how do I get her back to Copenhagen?’

  ‘You drive her back,’ Creasy answered. ‘Together with another man. The car’s in the basement garage, fully fuelled with spare jerrycans of petrol in the trunk. You make it in one go. Her passport will give her the identity of your sister: she ran off with a low-life character while on holiday. He mistreated her and you came down to bring her home. It’s a common enough story. We’ll go into details later.’

  Michael leaned forward and asked, ‘What about the other one . . . Juliet?’

  Creasy shook his head. In a flint-hard voice he said, ‘Her situation is very, very different. She’s American. Her father was a GI with an American unit at Wiesbaden Airbase in Germany. He was killed during exercises three years ago, when Juliet was ten years old. Her mother had a secretarial job at the airbase and stayed on there. About a year ago she remarried. It seems that Juliet’s stepfather’s a total bastard. Within weeks he was abusing her mentally and physically. Her mother did little or nothing to stop it.’ He sighed and then went on, ‘About a month ago she stole some money from the house and ran away. She had some romantic notion about Paris and managed to get there, where she was quickly spotted by one of Boutin’s scouts, who no doubt showed her great sympathy. Well, she
ended up in that villa, up to her eyeballs in heroin . . . I’d guess she was destined for the Middle East within a few days.’

  Michael muttered, ‘Animals . . . fucking animals!’

  Jens was shaking his head. ‘No . . . like Creasy said, animals don’t do that to their own.’ He glanced at Creasy. ‘So what do we do with her?’

  As though talking to himself, Creasy said, ‘There’s no way we can send her home. There’s no way we can hand her over to the authorities here, or anywhere else for that matter. They would put her in a detox centre and then either into a social centre or maybe send her back to her mother. Either option would be a disaster.’

  ‘So what do we do with her?’ Jens persisted.

  Creasy was looking at Michael, who was staring at the top of the table and his empty coffee cup. Slowly he stood up, walked to the kitchen counter, refilled his cup from the percolator and, over his shoulder, said, ‘We have no choice.’

  ‘I agree,’ Creasy answered.

  The puzzled Dane looked first at Michael and then at Creasy. ‘You agree what?’ he asked.

  Michael came back to the table and sat down and provided the answer. ‘We keep her,’ he said.

  ‘Keep her?’ Jens asked.

  ‘Yes, keep her,’ Creasy said, ‘We take her back to Gozo. She’ll have to go cold turkey to get off the heroin, then she’ll need a hell of a lot of counselling to get her mind together. Gozo is the best place for that.’