myself. Did you pick up the expertise in the Legion?”
Creasy nodded.
“That’s where it started. People don’t know much about the Legion. They have this romantic thing about Beau Geste and the desert. It’s not like that. It’s a highly modern Corps. It’s also unique in that a Legionnaire never has to leave if he doesn’t want to…for many it’s like an orphanage. The Legion has its own vineyards in France and makes its own wine. When a Legionnaire retires he can go and work in the vineyards or in the handicraft workshops they also have. The food is the best of any army in the world, not just for the officers but for everybody.”
“But you were pushed out?” the Senator said quietly.
“Yes, I was in the second REP. We had a Colonel we all worshipped. He was the bravest man I have ever known. He also worshipped his men.”
The Senator could see the memory in Creasy’s eyes. The man went on: “The Colonel decided to join the Generals’ Putsch. We even got ready to parachute into Paris itself.” He smiled at the memory.
“After the Putsch failed we blew up our barracks and marched out singing Edith Piaf’s song about having no regrets…Je ne regrette rien…The officers went into hiding or faced court martial, the NCOs were kicked out and the Legionnaires dispersed into other units.”
Quietly the Senator said, “Yes, I read of it in your file. You were an NCO…would you have stayed on, if they hadn’t kicked you out?”
Creasy thought for a moment, then nodded.
“I guess so, but I wouldn’t be fighting now, I’d be on a vineyard north of Marseilles, picking grapes and making wine.” He smiled. “But not quite like the wine we’re going to drink in a while.”
The sommelier brought the wine, holding the bottle like a nurse holds a new-born baby. Very carefully he placed it on a trolley. Then he extracted the cork and rolled it between his fingers before holding it beneath his nostrils.
He nodded with satisfaction and said to Creasy, “I think it’s good, sir. It has lasted.”
The sommelier put the cork on the plate in front of Creasy and said, “Senator, in all these years, you’ve never ordered a bottle of wine like this.”
As the sommelier had done, Creasy rolled the cork in his fingers and then sniffed it. He nodded and said, “Perhaps you’d tell the chef to hold our order for half an hour to give the wine time to breathe.”
The sommelier walked away with the air of a surgeon who has just completed a complicated but successful operation.
Creasy was wearing a sober grey suit with a faint pinstripe, cream shirt and a maroon tie. He reached into an inside pocket, took out a small business card and passed it across.
“Senator, that’s the name of a bank in Luxembourg. On the back of it is the account number. I’d like you to transfer the quarter mill to that account within the next seven days. Unlike with Rawlings, you won’t get any lists of expenses. At the end, whichever way it goes you’ll get back any balance due to you. My quarter mill is already in that account. If you want to check that you call the man whose card that is and you give him the code, “East is East and West is West”. He’ll tell you anything you want to know about that account.”
The Senator looked at the card and said quietly, “Creasy, since you sent me that finger, I’ve decided not to ask any more personal questions. Naturally, we’ll stay in touch and pass back and forth whatever we know. Of course I want to know how things are going and also if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Later on you might be able to,” Creasy said. “By the way, has your friend Curtis Bennett come up with any new information?”
“How do you know Curtis?”
“He’s been asking questions about me.”
“How do you know?”
“That I have to keep to myself, Senator.”
Grainger nodded thoughtfully.
“I understand that. By the way “Senator” is a mite formal. Call me Jim; my friends
Creasy nodded.
“That’s where it started. People don’t know much about the Legion. They have this romantic thing about Beau Geste and the desert. It’s not like that. It’s a highly modern Corps. It’s also unique in that a Legionnaire never has to leave if he doesn’t want to…for many it’s like an orphanage. The Legion has its own vineyards in France and makes its own wine. When a Legionnaire retires he can go and work in the vineyards or in the handicraft workshops they also have. The food is the best of any army in the world, not just for the officers but for everybody.”
“But you were pushed out?” the Senator said quietly.
“Yes, I was in the second REP. We had a Colonel we all worshipped. He was the bravest man I have ever known. He also worshipped his men.”
The Senator could see the memory in Creasy’s eyes. The man went on: “The Colonel decided to join the Generals’ Putsch. We even got ready to parachute into Paris itself.” He smiled at the memory.
“After the Putsch failed we blew up our barracks and marched out singing Edith Piaf’s song about having no regrets…Je ne regrette rien…The officers went into hiding or faced court martial, the NCOs were kicked out and the Legionnaires dispersed into other units.”
Quietly the Senator said, “Yes, I read of it in your file. You were an NCO…would you have stayed on, if they hadn’t kicked you out?”
Creasy thought for a moment, then nodded.
“I guess so, but I wouldn’t be fighting now, I’d be on a vineyard north of Marseilles, picking grapes and making wine.” He smiled. “But not quite like the wine we’re going to drink in a while.”
The sommelier brought the wine, holding the bottle like a nurse holds a new-born baby. Very carefully he placed it on a trolley. Then he extracted the cork and rolled it between his fingers before holding it beneath his nostrils.
He nodded with satisfaction and said to Creasy, “I think it’s good, sir. It has lasted.”
The sommelier put the cork on the plate in front of Creasy and said, “Senator, in all these years, you’ve never ordered a bottle of wine like this.”
As the sommelier had done, Creasy rolled the cork in his fingers and then sniffed it. He nodded and said, “Perhaps you’d tell the chef to hold our order for half an hour to give the wine time to breathe.”
The sommelier walked away with the air of a surgeon who has just completed a complicated but successful operation.
Creasy was wearing a sober grey suit with a faint pinstripe, cream shirt and a maroon tie. He reached into an inside pocket, took out a small business card and passed it across.
“Senator, that’s the name of a bank in Luxembourg. On the back of it is the account number. I’d like you to transfer the quarter mill to that account within the next seven days. Unlike with Rawlings, you won’t get any lists of expenses. At the end, whichever way it goes you’ll get back any balance due to you. My quarter mill is already in that account. If you want to check that you call the man whose card that is and you give him the code, “East is East and West is West”. He’ll tell you anything you want to know about that account.”
The Senator looked at the card and said quietly, “Creasy, since you sent me that finger, I’ve decided not to ask any more personal questions. Naturally, we’ll stay in touch and pass back and forth whatever we know. Of course I want to know how things are going and also if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Later on you might be able to,” Creasy said. “By the way, has your friend Curtis Bennett come up with any new information?”
“How do you know Curtis?”
“He’s been asking questions about me.”
“How do you know?”
“That I have to keep to myself, Senator.”
Grainger nodded thoughtfully.
“I understand that. By the way “Senator” is a mite formal. Call me Jim; my friends
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