The Blue Ring (10 page)

He
looked up into Creasy's face and heard the words: "I only get careless
with these things when I get angry. I'm quite safe sitting here. It's not a
fragmentation bomb. If I press that button the outer casing will hit the back
wall." He pointed at the wall in front of Corelli.

"And
the inner casing will hit that wall, together with your blood and guts. It will
probably take you quite a few very painful minutes to die." He picked up
the phone and said, "Now you're going to call your good friend, Yves
Boutin, and ask him what happened to Jens Jensen and his friend. If he's
holding them you want to know where, because you want to question them yourself
before he disposes of them. I'll be listening to the conversation and if I
think you're not being sincere or convincing enough, I hit the button."

The
mobile phone was a handless, speaker-phone type. Creasy positioned it between
them and asked, "What's the number?"

"6854321...That's
his personal mobile, which he carries with him...Even to bed."

Creasy
pressed in the numbers and pushed the 'send' button. Then he sat hunched
over, one finger poised over the 'end' button and one finger of the
other hand over the red button on the detonator. Corelli drew a deep breath.

A few
seconds later Boutin's cold, harsh voice came out of the speaker.
"Boutin."

Corelli's
eyes flickered to the speaker. "Serge," he said in a voice which
didn't betray his tension. "Did those two show up?"

A laugh
came out of the speaker. "Sure, they're in The Pink Panther right now.
They've seen the cold show and Denise has persuaded them to go upstairs to see
the hot one. We'll take them out in a few minutes."

"To
where?" Corelli asked sharply.

"The
usual place."

"Don't
do anything until I get there," Corelli said. "I want to question
them myself first."

Boutin's
voice showed a trace of surprise. "Are you sure? Even if they're
blindfolded they may recognise your voice."

"It
won't matter," Corelli replied. "When it's over they can go to the
fish."

Immediately
after the word 'fish', Creasy's finger hit the 'end' button on the
phone. "What's the 'usual place'?" he asked.

"It's
a big old house, about five kilometres outside the city on the coast. It has
its own small harbour and Boutin keeps a couple of fast motorboats there."

"Tell
me more."

"It
stands in its own grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall."

"Guards?"

"Always."

"How
many?"

"Never
less than four, sometimes more."

"Armed?"

"Yes...with
handguns."

"What
goes on in that house?"

The
policeman sighed and tried to look mournful. "He keeps drugs there and
processes them."

"What
else?"

Another
sigh and the policeman answered, "Sometimes girls."

"What
kind of girls?"

The
policeman was silent, looking down at the table, but when Creasy started to
move, his head jerked up and he said hurriedly, "Lost girls."

"Explain."

The
policeman explained. He explained how the girls, mainly from northern Europe,
were abducted and then forcibly made heroin addicts and sold into prostitution
in other parts of the Mediterranean, in the Middle East and North Africa.

Creasy's
voice was very low, but it drove straight into the policeman's brain. "You
mean he 'processes' them like he 'processes' the drugs?"

A
pause, then Corelli nodded, his eyes again looking down at the table.

"You're
a wonderful human being," Creasy said. "Head of the Missing Persons
Bureau and duty-sworn to protect such innocents. You are conspiring to do
exactly the opposite. I don't know if there is a heaven or hell, but I'm damn
sure there's a place for people like you."

Jens
was wrong. It was erotic. Denise led them into an expensively furnished room at
the end of a long corridor. In the middle was a white-carpeted, round dais with
two steps leading up to it. On the dais was a solitary white cane chair. On it
was a pair of black high-heeled shoes. Draped over the back of the chair was a
flame-red silk gown and on top of that a pair of sheer black stockings,
suspender belt and ivory-coloured silk French knickers. Beside the chair was a
small white cane table. On that lay an open white leather box and next to it
was a plate-sized mirror on a stand.

Circling
the dais were a dozen embossed black leather settees of the type normally found
in exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London.

Half of
them were occupied by middle-aged business types. Michael noted that two of
them were Arabs; the others were Europeans and one oriental, probably Japanese.
They all had hostesses beside them.

In
front of each settee was a low table with an ice bucket containing vintage
champagne. One of the Arabs was already fondling the breasts of his companion
under her gown, while she licked his ear.

Denise
guided them to a settee and whispered with a smile, "This has the most
strategic view."

Jens
was surprised at the choice of music floating out from the quadraphonic
speakers. It was Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons', one of his favourites. With a twitch
of guilt he realised that he often played it while making love to Birgitte.
Especially the 'Summer' movement.

Denise
sat between them. They could both feel the warmth of her thighs and inhale the
musk of her perfume. As she leaned forward and poured three glasses of
champagne, a door opened to her left and a woman emerged.

She was
tall, almost six feet, and in her early thirties. A dark brunette with slightly
curly hair falling outwards and down over her shoulders. She was slender,
almost thin. Her face had no makeup.

Her
legs and her neck were so long as to be almost out of proportion but not quite.
In spite of her height she walked to the dais like a ballerina. She was totally
naked.

There
had been a murmur of conversation around the room, but it stilled completely as
she walked up to and on to the dais. She did a slow pirouette, her green eyes
lingering on each man in turn. Each man was convinced that they lingered on him
the longest. The Arab had stopped stroking his companion's breasts. In a matter
of fact, contralto voice she spoke a single sentence: "I prepare myself
for a man."

She turned, stepped up to the small table and looked into the white leather box.
The only sound in the room was Vivaldi, entering the 'Summer' movement. Jens
squirmed with some embarrassment against Denise's thigh. His erection was
building. He glanced across to Michael whose eyes were transfixed on the naked
woman. He noted that Denise's right hand was resting on Michael's left thigh.

His eyes were drawn back to the dais. The naked woman had taken several items out
of the leather box. They were cosmetics. For the next fifteen minutes she
applied light make-up to her face, leaning low to study herself in the mirror.
Her legs were straddled.

Jens
and Michael did have the most strategic view. Jens had been faithful to
Birgitte since their marriage, but still had to admit that ten feet away was
the most perfect bottom he had ever seen. Finally, satisfied with her make-up,
she turned to the chair, picked up the suspender belt and fastened it around
her slim waist. She sat down and slowly rolled the sheer black stockings, first
one, then the other, up to her thighs and hooked them to the suspender belt.
She did it naturally and without any overt eroticism. Then she rose, picked up
the French knickers, stepped into them and pulled them up to her waist. She
stepped into the shoes and then picked up the wispy gown, pulling it up to and
just over her small breasts. It shimmered from the alabaster white of her
shoulders to the jet black of her shoes.

For the
first time she lifted her head again, surveyed the men, and said in a quiet,
sad voice, "I have wasted my time." She made a small smile and lifted
her hands in front of her face and said, "No, I have not wasted my
time...I have made myself beautiful for myself." Her shy smile broadened.
"If I don't have a man to take me, I will take myself." Slowly she
pirouetted again, looking at each man and saying, "Have you ever seen a
woman take herself? We all do it differently. I do it with my thumbs."

Slowly
she reached down and pulled up the front of her dress exposing her French
knickers and then sank to her knees on the shag carpet and rolled forward onto
her stomach. The audience watched in total silence as she pulled her arms
underneath herself and slid her hands between her thighs. Only her elbows were
visible and they were trembling. The dais very slowly started to rotate. Her
bottom began to rotate at about the same speed. Her chin was flat on the
carpet, her neck and back arched as each man in the audience came into her
view. She looked them straight in the eye. She had a gentle smile on her lips.
Every man was imagining her long, slender, red-tipped thumbs sliding against
her clitoris. At this point all their companions had been forgotten and they
were leaning forward, watching avidly.

The
woman spoke again. Her soothing contralto voice had grown husky. "It's
good...so very good...but never as good as a man inside me." Then she
spoke very slowly and even huskier, during the course of one rotation of the
dais. "Is there no man who can take me?" She kept repeating the
phrase, emphasising the word 'take' as she looked directly into the eyes of
each of the men.

Her
bottom began to rotate even faster and it was obvious that what she was feeling
was genuine. Abruptly the Arab who had been fondling his hostess' breasts rose
to his feet, unzipping his trousers. He jumped onto the dais, pulled out his
engorged penis, pulled up the back of her skirt, knelt between her legs,
pushing them further apart, pulled aside the French knickers and with a grunt
plunged into her. She did not remove her hands but continued rubbing herself,
but she turned her head and said, "That's perfect now."

Denise
leant forward between Jens and Michael, who were watching the tableau intently.
Occasionally she moistened her lips with her tongue. Her right hand had moved
to Michael's crotch, kneading the hard lump. With her left hand she made a
gesture towards the abandoned hostess, who immediately rose to her feet and
stepped up onto the dais in front of the woman. This hostess was seductive like
a fox was crafty. Her movements were graceful, as natural to her as the raw sex
she enjoyed. Kneeling down, she raised her skirt, showing her slender thighs
which were encased in sheer white stockings. She wore nothing else. With her
right hand she masturbated inches away from the brunette's glazed eyes. At that
moment Denise took her hand away from Michael's crotch, put her hand behind
both men's heads, pulled them towards her and said huskily, "This is a
little tame. Something more interesting is about to start in a room above.
Follow me."

They
followed her like lambs. As they left the room they could hear the brunette
moaning into her orgasm.

Denise
opened another padded door halfway down the corridor above and ushered them
through. The room was dimly lit, but they could see the three men standing in a
line in front of them, each holding a silenced pistol. They heard the door
close behind them and the suddenly hard voice of Denise.

"We
are going to have a different show...and you are going to be the stars."

"I'll
make a deal," Corelli said flatly.

Creasy
looked up from the canvas bag in the corner of the garage. Corelli was still
sitting in front of the table, leaning forward intently, his hands still cuffed
behind him.

"I'll
make a deal," Corelli repeated.

Creasy
picked up the canvas bag, carried it to the table and unzipped it. "What
deal?" he asked.

"I'll
guarantee your friends are released unharmed. My personal guarantee."

Creasy
was taking several items out of the bag and laying them on the table. Casually
he said, "Your personal guarantee isn't worth a dog's turd."

The
Frenchman's voice took on an insistent tone. "I have the power. If I tell
Boutin to let them go, he'll do it...he needs me."

Creasy's
laugh was short and mirthless. "He needs you like a second left foot. From
what I hear he's paying off half the Marseille police force. If you call him up
and tell him to let them go, they'll vanish forever and he'll deny any
knowledge of ever having heard of them. And I guess within a matter of days
you'll be dead meat as well. You're just a crooked cop, Corelli. Boutin is way
above your league. You're his puppy and nothing else."

Creasy
had been preparing while he had been talking. He had taken off his black jacket
and slipped into the black webbing and the two sling shoulder-holsters. Corelli
watched in mute fascination as the eight grenades were clipped onto the
webbing. Then Creasy stripped down the submachine-gun, reassembled it, inserted
a magazine and clipped it onto the holster under his left shoulder. It fitted
snugly under his arm. Three times in quick succession he practised releasing it
and aiming. It was a blur of motion. Then he clipped the Colt under his right
arm and again practised the release. Satisfied, he slid the spare magazines and
the SMG into the pockets of the webbing, near the waist. He stepped back and
the policeman watched in awe as Creasy released the SMG, changed the magazine
and reclipped the weapon in about three seconds.

Like
all modern forces, the Marseille police force had its own regional special
assignment group, trained to react to hijackings or any other criminal or
terrorist activity. Corelli had watched them train. They were good. But he
realised that none of them could compare to the man in front of him.

Finally
Creasy took out a black three-quarter-length denim coat and slipped it on. It
was loose and came down to his thighs; even unbuttoned it concealed the
weaponry. He reached forward and picked up the small black remote control.
Corelli stiffened in his chair. Creasy slipped it into his right-hand pocket
and said tersely,