The Blue Ring (14 page)

"Nothing
onerous. I want you to accompany my Danish friend to Copenhagen with a girl. It
will be about a forty-eight hour drive. You'll take turns at the wheel. The
girl is a heroin addict and will have to be sedated all the way. My friend is a
Danish policeman."

The
Frenchman's eyes widened, and Creasy said, "Don't worry. He's a good one.
After you leave them in Copenhagen you bring the car back here. You will be
well paid."

The
Frenchman shook his head. "You will pay me nothing. I work for Leclerc. He
pays me."

Creasy
nodded in assent, stood up and peered into the open briefcase.

He reached
out and shuffled around the medicines inside. He found the disposable syringes
of methadone. He put two on the table, and asked, "You know how to
administer this?"

Marc
nodded, and then said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Go
ahead."

"On
the car radio on the way over I heard a news report of a gang battle out in
Boutin's villa on the coast...a lot of dead. You have anything to do with
that?"

Creasy merely shrugged but it conveyed the message.

"Is Boutin dead?" the Frenchman asked.

Almost imperceptibly, Creasy nodded. The Frenchman stood up and held out his hand.
Creasy shook it.

The Frenchman asked, "Did the girl come from that villa?"

"Yes. And one other in the other bedroom. A child of thirteen."

Creasy saw the anger and hatred in the Frenchman's eyes.

"Are you sure Boutin is dead?"

Again Creasy nodded slightly, and said, "Boutin is in very small pieces."

The Frenchman said simply, "Now we are friends."

Creasy wrapped the two syringes in a white napkin, together with some cotton wool and
a small bottle of surgical spirit. They went to the first bedroom. Creasy
tapped on the door. When Jens opened it, Creasy introduced him to Marc. Hanne was sitting
up in bed. She was shaking slightly, and her face was so pale as to be almost white. Jens
spoke to her quietly in Danish, gesturing at Marc. The Frenchman smiled at her. It transformed
his face. He looked like everybody's favourite uncle.

"Do you speak French?" he asked her.

She looked at him, and then said in a quivering voice, "Just a little."

"English?" he asked.

"Yes, I speak it well."

"Good. Then we shall talk in English. Mine is not so good but over the next two or
three days you will help me to improve it. We will be friends." He smiled
again and she replied with a very tentative smile.

On impulse, Creasy handed the Frenchman the white napkin and said, "You do
it. And again every eight hours until she is safe in Copenhagen." He
gestured at Jens and they left the room and closed the door.

"Who
is he?" Jens asked.

"A
friend of a very close contact. He doesn't look tough but I'm very sure that he
is, and that you can trust him totally. He will drive with you to Copenhagen.
Her papers will be ready tonight and you leave as soon as they are here."
He gestured at the telephone. "You had better phone Birgitte now, before
she goes to school. Keep it very brief. Just tell her you are fine and that
you'll be home within seventy-two hours. Instruct her to tell nobody else. Do
not make any other phone calls until you've crossed the Danish border. Then
call your boss. Make arrangements to drive her straight to the clinic. Only
then do I suggest you call her parents."

Jens
nodded thoughtfully and asked, "What about you, Michael and the
child?"

Creasy glanced
at his watch. He said, "In an hour I call Gozo. Within a couple of days a
friend will come in a fast boat, pick up Michael and the child and take them
home."

"Home?"

"Yes.
Home to Gozo."

"And
you?"

Creasy
shrugged. "I go to Milan to have a conversation with a man who buys
girls."

He
gestured at the phone again. Jens moved to it and dialled the number. After a
moment he spoke a few brief words in Danish and hung up. Creasy noted with
satisfaction that he did not identify himself or mention her name.

"No
questions?" he asked.

Jens
shook his head and smiled. "She's a policeman's wife."

Marc
came out of Hanne's bedroom, closed the door quietly and said, "She is
calm. She will sleep within a few minutes." To Jens he said, "I
suggest you stay with her until then...she trusts you." He gave a wry
smile. "Although I can't think why anyone would ever trust a
policeman."

Jens
grunted something about not being French, and moved past him to the bedroom.
Marc was still carrying the white napkin. Creasy tapped on the other bedroom
door and Michael opened it. Creasy made the introductions and they all looked
at the child lying on the bed. It seemed as though her dark eyes dominated her
face; eyes filled with desperation. The Frenchman looked at her and the other
two men heard the almost inaudible curses coming from his lips. Quietly, Creasy
said, "Michael, introduce her to Marc. He will show you how and where to
inject the methadone."

Half an
hour later the four men were sitting around the kitchen table. It was now
seven-thirty a.m. A curious bond had grown between them. It was as though they
were a sports team, about to go into action. Marc had brought with him detailed
road-maps covering the area between Marseille and Copenhagen. Together with
Jens, he traced their route and calculated that, without stopping, and
depending on traffic, they could reach Copenhagen in under forty hours.

Creasy
made his phone call to Gozo. Again it was very brief. Joe Tal Bahar had left
Gozo at the age of eighteen to seek his fortune in New York. He had returned
ten years later with a fortune beyond his dreams. Having spent a fraction of
his fortune on every conceivable toy a man could want, he was now bored. The
little jaunt that Creasy outlined in euphemistic terms quickly sparked his
imagination. Yes, he could be up the coast from Marseille with his Sunseeker
within a couple of days and yes, his 'guests' would arrive in Gozo very
discreetly.

Creasy
arranged to phone him back with a landing site. Marc made a couple of quick
phone calls and then from his briefcase took a Polaroid camera.

"I
need photos of the girls for their papers," he said.

Jens
and Michael started to stand up, but the Frenchman held up a hand.

"Stay
here. They are tranquil."

He went
into the first bedroom, leaving the door open. They heard his gentle voice and
Juliet's calm answer.

Jens
turned to Creasy and asked, "Who is the man in Milan with whom you want to
have a conversation?"

"I only have a name," Creasy answered. "The name was given to me by Boutin as
he begged for his life. It was only a surname...an Italian
surname...Donati."

"That's all you have?" Michael asked. "Just one name?"

"There
was another," Creasy answered. "But not very clear. You have to
understand that Boutin was in trauma. He was talking, even babbling, but
knowing he was about to die. Apparently, this man Donati had an emissary. In a
sense he was a cut-out between Boutin and Donati. Boutin thought that he was
half-French, half-Italian because he spoke both languages fluently. This
cut-out had no name, but referred to himself only as The Link."

"You
have a description?" Michael asked.

"Yes,
but only one thing of note. He was totally bald, about forty years old, very
fit and a man of few words. However, Boutin indicated that whenever he came to
Marseille he enjoyed using the girls. He had one other habit. He only drank
Campari on the rocks, and in copious quantities."

"Not
much to go on," Michael commented. "I guess we have to concentrate on
Donati. At least it's a name. Is he Mafia?"

"No,"
Creasy answered quietly. "According to Boutin he is 'Blue Ring'. He's the
only contact that Boutin had with the organisation. Whenever he had a girl
ready he would phone a number and be told where to send her and how."

Thoughtfully
Jens said, "My department has contacts with the Italian police and the
carabinieri. Maybe I can get a lead on him."

Total
silence. Then Michael said, "A lead like Corelli?"

Jens
took the rebuff well, but when he spoke his voice was defensive.

"Well,
I can check our own files in Copenhagen." A thought struck him. "By
the time I get back there, I'm still going to have seven weeks' leave of
absence. What am I supposed to do twiddle my thumbs?"

He gave
them both a belligerent look. Creasy smiled but then his eyes turned
thoughtful.

"Maybe
you can help," he said. "Maybe I can use you as a point man."

"What
the hell is that?" the Dane asked.

Creasy
glanced at Michael and explained. "A point man goes out in front at an
angle and diverts the opposition. In this case it will not be dangerous. You
would be blundering around in an official capacity, not posing any real threat
to them. They would see you as a bumbling policeman and not get nervous."

Michael
laughed and the Dane got angry.

"What
does 'bumbling' mean?" he asked.

Creasy
smiled to take away any hint of offence. "A sort of Inspector
Clouseau," he explained. "While they're laughing at you, I'll be
sneaking in the back door."

Jens
digested that, and then said, "I've never 'bumbled' in my life! But if it
helps I'll learn." He said the last words seriously. He was obviously keen
to stay in the team.

Creasy
said, "We may well need you, Jens. I'll know within a week. Hopefully
Michael will be free to travel again in about three weeks. This will not be a
quick operation. I have to activate past contacts in Italy."

"Like
who?" Michael asked.

"First
of all your nominal Uncle Guido in Naples. He's passive but still has
incredible contacts, and always gives good advice."

Jens'
face mirrored his curiosity. Creasy explained that Guido Arellio was his best
friend. They had served in the Legion together and for many years afterwards as
mercenaries in all corners of the world. The partnership had ended when they
found themselves in Malta many years before, and Guido had fallen in love with
Laura Schembri's eldest daughter Julia. They had married and gone to live in
Naples, where they ran a small pensione. A few years afterwards, Julia had been
killed in a car crash. Subsequently, Creasy had married her sister, Nadia, who
in turn had died with their daughter over Lockerbie on Pan Am 103.

"I
will also contact a Colonel Mario Satta," he said.

Now
even Michael's face showed curiosity. Creasy explained.

"He's
another old friend. An unusual one. For many years he was head of carabinieri
Intelligence against the Italian Mafia. Some years ago, I had a war with a
family of the Mafia which stretched from Milan to Sicily. I did not know Satta
then. But he knew about me and what I was doing. He gave me a clear field, even
though I was assassinating Italians right down the country. Sure, they were
mafiosi, but by law he should have tried to arrest me. Instead he pulled off
all his men until the last battle in Palermo when I killed the head don and
most of his lieutenants. I was badly shot up myself and damn near died. Satta's
elder brother, the senior surgeon at Cardarelli hospital in Naples, pulled me
through. He also signed my death certificate, so that the remains of that Mafia
family did not waste time trying to find me." He smiled briefly at the
memory. "I'm told it was a lovely funeral."

"So
that's how you got your Gozo nickname," Michael said. He turned to Jens
and remarked, "Everyone in Gozo has a nickname."

"What
is it?" Jens asked.

"Mejjet,"
Michael answered. "It means 'the dead one'. They also call him Uomo,
which is Italian for 'man'."

Jens
was intrigued. "What's your nickname?" he asked Michael.

Michael
looked uncomfortable.

Creasy
laughed and supplied the answer. "They call him Spicca. It means
'Finished'. He got that nickname after they brought him home after
his first time at a disco. The name's stuck." He turned to Jens and said
seriously, "We have to give you a nickname now. It will also serve as a
code word. If anyone calls you by that name you will know they come from me or
Michael." He looked at Michael and said,

"What
shall we call him?"

Michael
thought for a moment and then grinned. "We'll call him 'Pavlova'. Jens is
very partial to exotic desserts," Michael explained, "as you can see
from his waistline."

"Perfect."
Creasy nodded. "From now on you're 'Pavlova'."

Marc
came out of the second bedroom, carrying the camera and several prints. He laid
them on the table and pointed to one of them. It was Juliet. He said,
"That girl is quite a character. She insisted on borrowing my comb before
she would let me take her photo."

He
scooped them up and dropped them into his briefcase, together with the camera.
Then he slipped into the harness of his shoulder-holster and clicked the
Beretta into it. He picked up the briefcase, saying, "I'll be back in a
couple of hours with all the papers."

He
turned to go, but Jens' voice stopped him. "Wait, Marc. Do you have a nickname?"

The
Frenchman muttered, "Not really."

"What
is it?" Creasy asked sharply in French.

There
was a pause and then the Frenchman tapped his thick round glasses and said,
"If you must know, they call me 'The Owl'."

The
other three men smiled and Creasy said, "That is your password. If we ever
get a phone call from The Owl we know who it is. Never use your real
name."

The
Frenchman grimaced and went out, muttering something under his breath which
included the word 'crazy'.

Grete
and Flemming Andersen lived in the wealthy part of the Hellerup suburb of
Copenhagen, in a large old house with a sprawling, tree-enclosed garden. The
house was too big for a couple with only one child, but when they bought it
they had hoped for several children. They were in bed when the phone rang at
ten minutes to midnight. Sleepily Flemming reached for the bedside extension.
He listened for half a minute and then abruptly sat upright.