Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  They climbed out of the pool and dried themselves and went to his bedroom. It was a huge vaulted room with a vast bed, framed by a wispy mosquito net hanging from the ceiling. In Lucy’s eyes, that bed was akin to sanctuary. It was as though the net added even more protection. He opened a drawer and gave her a sarong, saying, I always sleep in these, ever since my Far East days.’

  For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to tie the sarong about her breasts or around her waist. Finally, she decided that, since he had already seen her naked, around her waist would be more appropriate and certainly more comfortable. He lifted the mosquito net and she slipped under it and on to the bed. He followed. She was facing away from him. He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close, and murmured, ‘Sleep now. Nothing can harm you.’

  She could not sleep.

  She heard the soft sound of his breathing, near her ear. She snuggled back against him. She felt totally secure, but still she could not sleep.

  After fifteen minutes, he said, ‘What’s the matter? Your body is tense, I told you nothing would happen. You won’t wake up in the night and find me on top of you. You have to trust me.’

  With total honesty, she said, ‘I do trust you . . . more than anybody I’ve ever known. I’m not worried about that, it’s just that I’m nervous. I guess I’ve been that way ever since my family were killed.’

  He took his arm from around her and sat up and switched on the low light above the headboard. She rolled on to her back and looked up into his face. He was smiling slightly and in the dim light, the hardness of his features had given way to a shaded softness.

  ‘There’s going to be a major role reversal here,’ he announced.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, you’re a beautiful Oriental woman, and I spent many years in the Orient. Whenever I came out of Cambodia or Laos or Vietnam, the first thing I did after checking into a Hong Kong hotel was go to a local massage parlour. A real one, not a sex joint. On dozens of occasions, the hands and fingers of an Oriental girl eased the tension out of my body. I know the technique. So maybe now it’s my turn. Roll over on to your stomach.’

  She did so and he straddled her and the next moment, scarred hands and fingers were working at the muscles in her shoulders and neck. It only took her a minute to realise that he knew exactly how to find the areas of tension. He used a strength that bordered on pain, but after fifteen minutes, her whole body began to relax. Then he pulled himself from on top of her, knelt beside her and with the sides of his hands beat a tattoo down her back, like a drummer. It went on for many minutes and again came close to pain. It was as though her body was taking in thousands of electric shocks. He moved lower and did the same to her buttocks. Five minutes later, it all changed.

  He began to rub her back with the palms of his hands. At first, with a lot of pressure, but then slower and softer. She felt like a kitten being stroked and she heard his voice saying, ‘Now, your muscles are relaxed. Maybe you can sleep,’

  There was no possibility of sleep. During the past few minutes, the gentleness of his hands had aroused her. She reached down to her sarong and pulled it off. She lay naked on her stomach and murmured, ‘Some more, please . . . just a little more.’

  For a moment, she thought she might have broken the spell, but then his hands were sliding over her naked bottom and down her thighs, and later still between the cheeks of her bottom as she inched her legs apart. She heard him saying gruffly, ‘This is supposed to be purely therapeutic.’

  ‘It is,’ she answered, her face against the pillow, it’s more therapeutic than you would believe . . . When was the last time you made love?’

  Above her, he chuckled. ‘That’s not a polite question to ask a man who hasn’t had the time or been in the situation to make love for months.’

  She rolled over on to her back and smiled up at him and whispered, ‘Now we will reverse the roles again. How long is it since you made love to a Chinese woman?’

  She watched his face as he thought about that.

  He said, ‘At least fifteen years.’

  ‘Have you forgotten how it was?’

  ‘No. Such things are never forgotten. It’s a coincidence, but she was a nurse at a private hospital in Hong Kong.’ He touched the scar on his shoulder and said, ‘I’d been wounded in Laos. I was in bed, immobile, in that hospital for about three weeks. She looked after me. She had to give me bed-baths. She was very thorough and every day washed every part of me. I had a great embarrassment one day when I got an erection during that ritual. But she wasn’t embarrassed. I was in a private room. She closed the door and locked it and she came back to me and made love to me while I lay on my back.’

  ‘Was she beautiful?’

  ‘Perhaps to others she was no great beauty, but she was sweet and gentle and, in my eyes, definitely beautiful.’

  ‘Did you give her money?’

  ‘No. I think I’m a good enough judge of character to know that she would have been insulted. It only happened once. I waited for two months after I had left the hospital, then sent her a jade bracelet, with a note of thanks for looking after me.’

  As she watched his shaded face, she felt a surge of emotion. She asked, ‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

  He was looking at her face. His eyes travelled down her naked body: the small high breasts, the curved waist, the wisp of jet black hair at the apex of her thighs, and the long slim legs all the way down to small highly-arched feet.

  ‘That’s a rhetorical question,’ he said.

  She frowned in puzzlement, ‘What does “rhetorical” mean?’

  ‘It means to ask a question, when you already know the answer.’

  ‘But I thought you hardly noticed me.’

  ‘I’m very good at not showing things. But for the past days I’ve hardly been able to keep my eyes off you.’

  ‘I would not have guessed,’ she murmured, and then patted the bed beside her. ‘Lie here.”

  He slid down beside her and then definitely experienced the role reversal. She gave him a kiss on the lips, at first chaste, just touching his mouth with hers, but her fingers were moving through the hairs on his chest like a flock of butterflies fluttering through grass. As the butterflies moved further down, the kiss became less chaste. Her small tongue probed between his lips and the fingers on his chest were replaced by her breast moving in gentle circles. He could feel the nipples as they became erect; he could feel his own erection, and so could the butterflies.

  She eased him on to his stomach and this time, she straddled him. As she leaned forward, he felt her warm breath on his neck. Her tongue flicked gently around his neck and across his shoulders, meandering along his spine. She nipped at his skin with her teeth as she slid towards his feet and as she moved down, the soft mound between her legs brushed his buttocks. As her tongue flicked between his inner thighs, he clenched his teeth and gripped the pillow. It was akin to pain . . . but the pain of self-control was becoming unbearable. He rolled over to face her.

  It had been a long time for him and he groaned with pleasure. She had, in such matters, an exquisite sense of timing. Her whole body slithered over his as she lifted her mouth and whispered ‘Don’t move . . . and don’t be macho . . . let me do it.’

  The butterflies had become a velvet vice as they gripped him and guided him into her. It was as though he was piercing an oyster made of silk . . . an oyster that was hungry and that devoured him. Her tongue was in his mouth again, soft and inquisitive. He ran a hand down her back and on to her smooth bottom, put his other hand around her neck, and in his mind began to worry that it would all be over too quickly. He felt the passion building up from his feet and tried to slow it down, but she gave him no chance. She moved her bottom to a perfect rhythm. She was kissing his ear. Again her tongue was probing, and he could hear the mounting beat of her breath and realised that she was as close to release as he was. Suddenly, she brought her legs around his waist and he could feel her feet on his buttock
s, forcing him harder into her. Her body spasmed as he came with her. She burst into tears. She shed tears for her family, and for the security and warmth. He held her close to him and her sobs subsided.

  Chapter 40

  The Owl was listening to Beethoven on his Walkman and, with his right hand in the air, trying to emulate von Karajan.

  He was lying on the plush settee and looking out over a very busy Hong Kong harbour. One of the two bedroom doors opened and Jens Jensen came out. He was talking, but it did not penetrate The Owl’s earphones. The Dane started shouting. The Owl held up a hand. The symphony was coming to an end. His hand beat the air and then with three short downward movements, he brought the symphony to a close. He switched off the Walkman, took off the earphones and looked at his friend. Jens was dressed in Bermuda shorts and a bright Hawaiian shirt, and carrying a smart black leather briefcase. He glanced at his watch and said, ‘Let’s go. Our appointment’s in half an hour.’

  The Frenchman shook his head.

  ‘Jens, I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that. You look like you just walked out of Disney World after having hijacked the pay-roll. We’re going to meet a senior policeman at police headquarters. If you walk in looking like that, Inspector Lau is not going to take you seriously.’

  He received a very disgruntled look from the Dane, who said, ‘You don’t understand these things. Our cover is that we’re here on holiday, during which time I’m going to do some research for a newspaper article on the Triads.’

  The Owl swung his feet to the ground and stood up, saying, ‘You would certainly be a threat to the Triads. If they saw you dressed like that, they’d die laughing. Now, go and change into a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.’

  ‘You’re like my wife,’ Jens said. “Every morning when I wake up, she’s already laid out the clothes for me to wear that day.’

  The Owl said, ‘Apart from marrying you, your wife has good sense and style.’

  The Dane went back into the bedroom.

  They crossed the harbour on the Star Ferry. It only took ten minutes and during that time, they both gazed at the metropolis in front of them.

  ‘I feel at home here,’ The Owl said. ‘It’s bigger and busier, but it reminds me of Marseilles.’

  ‘It’s got a lot more crooks, as well,’ Jens observed.

  ‘That’s true. And it’s got one more, since I arrived last night.”

  ‘So you really see yourself as a crook?’

  ‘I have to,’ the Frenchman answered. ‘Don’t forget, I started off in the streets of Marseille, an urchin stealing everything I could lay my hands on. Then I worked for a whole series of villains, strong-arming protection rackets. It was only when I was hired by Leclerc to watch his back, that I more or less went straight . . . I have a feel for this city and I’ll be useful to Creasy because, as sure as the Pope is a Catholic, if I’d been born Chinese, I’d be a Triad. I know their minds.’

  The Dane glanced at him. They had been the closest friends now for three years, ever since Creasy had borrowed The Owl from the arms dealer Leclerc in Marseille, to watch Jens’s back. It had been a lasting arrangement. After helping Creasy to crush the drug-dealing and white-slave trafficking Blue Ring, Jens had left the police force and opened his own detective agency in Copenhagen. The Owl had come in as an open partner and rented a small flat in the same district as Jens’s home. He was a regular fixture. Jens’s wife enjoyed his quiet company and their eight-year-old daughter Lisa considered him her favourite uncle. The business had thrived. They specialised in locating missing persons and had tracked them down all over Europe. It was, in a way, bounty money, but when they found a person who genuinely wanted to remain missing and had committed no crime, they sometimes took a moral stand and quietly left that person where he or she was. Although Jens was competent with a hand gun or a rifle, he was no expert. He relied more on his brains and his IBM, and although The Owl looked exactly like an owl, he was deadly with a throwing knife, a pistol, a rifle or a submachine-gun.

  *

  They were ushered into Inspector Lau’s office by a young constable. The Inspector was in his mid-forties, slim and dressed in a civilian suit and tie.

  Jens handed over the letter from the newspaper. Inspector Lau read it, and then looked up and said, ‘The Triads operate in most European cities with a Chinese population but, to the best of my knowledge, they don’t operate in Copenhagen. Are your readers really going to be interested?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Jens answered. ‘We have a small Chinese population, but it’s growing and, for sure, the Triads will become interested sometime in the future.’

  ‘What do you know about the Triads at this point?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Quite a bit,’ Jens answered, I know of their origins and how their good intentions were perverted to crime. What I would like to know is something about their size, their influence and their power in Hong Kong today. For my articles, I’ve decided to concentrate on one particular Triad — the 14K.’

  ‘Why that one?’

  ‘Because they’re the biggest and they have branches not only in America but also in several cities in Europe.’

  Inspector Lau nodded thoughtfully and then asked him, ‘Mr Jensen, were you ever a policeman?’

  The Owl glanced at his friend and saw the brief, startled expression.

  ‘Yes . . . How did you know?’

  The Inspector took a file from the top left-hand corner of his desk and opened it. He read out: ‘Jens Jensen. Born 15 April 1959 in Aarhus, Denmark. Educated at Katedralskolen in Aarhus and the University of Copenhagen, majoring in social sciences. Joined the police in September 1982. After serving for three years in the Vice and Prostitution Department, was transferred to missing persons. Resigned from the police in June 1990 and opened a private detective agency called Jensen and Associates, together with a partner called Marc Benoit, a French citizen.’ The Inspector looked up and gestured at The Owl. I assume, this gentleman.’ There were several other pages in the file, but the Inspector closed it and laid it in front of him and looked up at Jens.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ the Dane said. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘It was circumscribed, Mr Jensen. You have to understand that I have taken a personal, almost obsessive, interest in 14K Triad since they murdered my boss, Colin Chapman. He was a man close to me, and for the past two weeks I have been doing everything to find evidence against them and their leader. I know that Miss Lucy Kwok Ling Fong flew to Zimbabwe to try to meet up with a man called Creasy, who was working on a case which was linked to that of the murder of her family here by the 14K. As you well know, this man Creasy is a mercenary. My late boss already had an Interpol file on the man. You may know that Interpol keep files on all known mercenaries. I have been in communication with Commander John Ndlovu, of the Zimbabwe Police, and so I know that Mr Creasy eliminated the killers, in that case. I checked further on Mr Creasy’s activities, and discovered that three years ago he and a group of other mercenaries wiped out a criminal group in Italy, France and Tunisia. The computer threw up the name Jens Jensen, a Danish policeman who had taken unpaid leave and was thought to have been involved in that operation.’ The Inspector smiled and spread his hands. ‘And so, Mr Jensen, when you phoned me yesterday to ask for an appointment to discuss your article on the Hong Kong Triads, a little bell went ding-a-ling in my head and I reached for my files.’

  Jens said, ‘I think you’re a good policeman, Mr Lau, and I think I have to come clean.’

  ‘That is not necessary, Mr Jensen. I think I’ve worked it out. You are staying in a double suite at the Regent Hotel, which is not the cheapest abode in the world. So you were definitely not hired by Lucy Kwok, because she does not have that kind of money. I found I had a rapport on the telephone with Commander John Ndlovu. He told me all about Mrs Gloria Manners and her private jet, so I guessed that she is your employer, together with Mr Creasy and the man called Maxie MacDonald. I deduced that you and your
partner, Mr Benoit, are the advance guard. You are on a recce, building up a dossier on the 14K, and the others will follow.’ He tapped the file to his left. ‘If I understand Mr Creasy, he will not be coming just with Maxie MacDonald, even though the two of them appear to be formidable. They are not enough to go against the 14K and so I deduce that while you are here, compiling your dossier, Mr Creasy is building a team.’ He flipped open the file on his left and riffled through the pages. ‘That team will almost certainly include an Australian mercenary called Miller and an ex-Foreign Legionnaire, a Belgian by the name of Rene Callard. They also worked with Mr Creasy and you on that operation three years ago.

  Jens glanced at The Owl, who simply shrugged. He had a bored expression on his face, but the Dane knew that he was taking everything in and analysing it with a razor-sharp mind. Jens looked back at the Chinese Inspector and also shrugged. Inspector Lau’s face assumed a stern expression.

  He said, ‘I suppose that in the next few days Mr Creasy will arrive with a group of mercenaries and, of course, try to smuggle some arms into Hong Kong or acquire them locally. That, of course, is illegal and will not be tolerated. It’s also illegal for a Danish private detective to arrange an interview with a Hong Kong police officer under false pretences,’

  Again Jens glanced at The Owl, who this time shifted uneasily on his chair,

  ‘Are you going to arrest us?’ Jens asked.

  Inspector Lau shook his head.

  ‘No, not this time. But I’m giving you an official warning and I want you to pass that warning on to your friend Mr Creasy. If you or he have or find any evidence which may link the 14K with the murder of Lucy Kwok’s family, then you must contact me immediately. But Mr Jensen — it must be firm evidence. Thank you for your visit.’

  The two men stood up and mumbled their thanks and turned to go. Inspector’s Lau voice stopped them.

  ‘I think you have forgotten something, Mr Jensen.’

  Jens turned in surprise. The Inspector was pointing at a small square yellow envelope which had suddenly appeared on the desk. Jens studied it with puzzled eyes.