This set Creasy thinking, and the next day he asked Paul if his nephew might allow him to train with the squad. Paul had made a phone call and it had been easily arranged.
It had been a useful afternoon. The squad used weapons donated by the departed British Army: Sterling submachine guns and a variety of handguns. They had a good animated range in the bowels of the fort, and Creasy had enjoyed getting the feel of weapons again. He was rusty and, by his own standards, clumsy; but that would improve over the coming weeks. After the firing range, the squad of fifteen plus Creasy had gone to the gym and worked out and practiced unarmed combat. They were a good squad, recently formed; as yet inexperienced, but enthusiastic and hardworking.
George Zammit, a big, friendly policeman, had been cordial, and then very thoughtful as he watched Creasy handle the weapons.
Now, as the Melitaland chugged across the channel to Gozo, George called his uncle on the phone.
"Paul, do you know what kind of man you have as a houseguest?"
"He's a friend of Guido's," Paul answered. "He didn't cause any trouble, did he?"
"Not at all. But Paul, he's a professional-an expert. Exactly what is he doing in Malta?"
Paul explained about the kidnapping and wounding, and how Creasy had come merely to get fit.
"He's not planning to work here, is he?" George asked.
"Definitely not. Of course, I know he's a mercenary. So was Guido. What kind of work would a man like that do here?"
George laughed. "You're not planning a coup d'etat, then."
The laugh was returned. "Seems I have the man to do it. Is he that good?"
There was a pause and then George said, "The best I've seen, and I've been on training courses in England and Italy. He handled our weapons as though he'd carried them from his mother's womb-very, very practiced."
There was another pause, and then George asked: "Invite me to dinner, will you, Paul? I didn't like to ask him any questions at this first meeting, it would have seemed rude. But I'd like to learn more about him. We're short of instructors, and maybe I could use him-very unofficially, of course."
Paul invited him to dinner for the coming Saturday and hung up, well-pleased.
Creasy was the last off the ferry, and Victor climbed into the passenger seat for the short ride to Gleneagles. The bar was busy and noisy and the crowd opened to let them through. "Shreik" was getting a round in and passed a pint of beer to Creasy. It was the heavy drinking hour, work done for the day. Joey waved from across the room, and Creasy spotted Nadia sitting at one of the few tables with Victor's wife. She smiled at him and raised her glass, and he felt uncomfortable. There was a fatalistic ambience growing between them.
They swam together almost every day. She didn't intrude, was usually quiet-absorbed with her thoughts. But she was a presence, always on the periphery of his mind.
He had come to accept the fact that he was changed. Had been made more aware of people and their individuality-and she attracted him physically, with her stiff-legged walk and long waist and serious face.
He glanced at her again and saw her watching him with a speculative look. He had grown used to that look. She seemed to be weighing him.
He turned away and signaled Tony to fill the glasses at the bar. "And have one yourself."
"Thanks, Creasy, but it's too early."
Creasy put money on the bar and waited patiently. Conversation swirled around him, and he had almost given up when Tony's big smile came.
"Why not!"
Just after dawn on Saturday morning Creasy set off to swim to Comino. He paced himself carefully, aiming for a point in front of the blue and white hotel. There was a slight breeze, barely ruffling the water, but it blew from the west down the channel and gave an added impetus to the current. Creasy had not checked the tide table, didn't think it necessary; but as he neared the midpoint between the islands, he could see more of the hotel and realized he was drifting to the east. He adjusted his angle of attack and quickened his stroke, but it soon became obvious that the current was winning.
He thought he might make the second bay to the east of the hotel, but again that started to drift by and he silently cursed his stupidity. Beyond that bay, the shoreline rose in high, inhospitable cliffs, and so he turned back toward Gozo. He had begun to tire now and it was clear that he was going to be swept beyond both islands.
He stopped fighting the current, trying to conserve his strength for what would be a critical effort after he was in deep water and out of the grip of the tidal race. The southeast shore of Gozo opened up, and he could see the red sand of Ramla Beach. But it was a long way off; well over a mile. He started swimming again, slowly and tiring fast.
He was exhausted and treading water when he heard the chugging of the diesel engine and looked up to see the brightly colored Luzzu fishing boat. He could make out two figures in the bows, scanning the water-Nadia and Joey. He tried to shout, and he waved an arm and sank under the water, sputtering for breath. Then they saw him and turned and came quickly alongside. He was too weak to pull himself up, and Joey dived in and put a shoulder under him and the two fishermen took an arm each and hauled him in.
He lay in the scuppers, gasping for breath, and then vomited out pints of seawater.
As they motored back to Mgarr, he sat silently in the stern, breathing deeply. Nadia covertly watched his angry face. She had stood at her bedroom window and seen him swim out into the channel in the early light, and guessed that he was trying for Comino. She had seen the current take him and his failed effort to get back to Gozo and had screamed for Joey. They had raced down to Mgarr in the Land Rover. Most of the fishermen were already far out to sea, but one boat was just getting ready. Fortunately the fishermen, two brothers called Mizzi, had drunk late the night before in Gleneagles, and hangovers had slowed them down. Nadia and Joey had leapt into the boat with urgent explanations.
"You were lucky, Creasy," she said. "We could have easily missed you."
"I know," he granted. "Damned stupid. I should have checked the tides."
She saw him look at Comino and then across to Gozo-his face malevolent. He hated that strip of water. She guessed he would try again, and soon.
Back in the harbor, Creasy asked Joey for five pounds and tried to press it on the fishermen. It was too late for them to go out now. They shook their heads, laughing.
"You're the biggest thing we've caught all summer," one brother said.
The other agreed. "I'm trying to decide whether to have you grilled or fried."
They all went in to Gleneagles and Creasy bought the drinks, standing at the bar in his swimsuit.
It was an occasion, adding spice to routine. Tony prepared his patent remedy for near-drownings-a huge mug of hot, sweet tea laced with a great slug of brandy and a tot of rum for good measure. He was so proud of it he made one for himself. Then Victor and Michele came in from the first ferry run and, hearing the story, decided they would try it too.
"But you have to be either a bartender or half-drowned," Tony explained.
"We qualify," Victor retorted. "We were half-drowned in here last night-from the inside."
"Shreik" arrived for his prebreakfast stiffener, and a celebration started.
"They are grateful to you, Creasy," Nadia said with mock disdain. "Anything for an excuse to get drunk before lunch."
"Shreik" nodded solemnly. "Pity you didn't get properly drowned, Uomo. We could have had a real party." He smiled. "In commiseration, you understand."
On the drive back to the house, Creasy asked, "What's this Uomo business?"
"Your nickname," Joey explained. "Everyone in Gozo has to have a nickname."
Creasy digested that in silence. Uomo meant "man" in Italian. It was a complimentary nickname. After the morning's effort, he mused, they ought to call him "jackass."
But it meant that he had been accepted. Outsiders don't merit nicknames.
Creasy and George sat on the outside patio alone. They had enjoyed a
good dinner. Laura and Nadia had worked most of the afternoon preparing it: a minestra, and then timpano, Maltese style, followed by rabbit stufato, and rounded off with fruit and the local pepper-cheese made from goat's milk. Creasy had spent a quiet day after his near mishap. In the afternoon he had driven into Rabat to the police station and picked up a set of tide tables.
He noted that Paul and Joey had deliberately gone off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. Nadia brought out a tray with coffee and cognac and then went back into the kitchen.
George thoughtfully filled and tamped a large pipe, I struck a match, and sucked flame down into the bowl. Creasy poured the coffee and cognac. He knew what was coming. Paul had felt it right to brief him.
Satisfied with the small furnace he had created, George leaned back and said, "You know I'm in charge of security for the islands?"
Creasy nodded and passed him a cup. "You want to know whether I'm a security risk?"
George waved his pipe deprecatingly. "No, Paul explained why you're here. In any event, I've already learned quite a lot about you." He was a little embarrassed. "I sent a telex this morning to Paris."
Creasy was puzzled. "Paris?"
"Yes-Interpol." His smile took away any potential offense. "Not what you think. It's just that for the past few years many countries have been keeping tabs on all known mercenaries-ever since the fiasco in Angola. It's just convenient to have it centralized at Interpol. There is no criminal implication, you understand."
Creasy remained silent, and after a pause George continued.
"The fact is, I let you come and join our squad on Thursday because you're my uncle's friend; but if it's going to be a regular thing, it's my duty to check that there are no wrinkles."
"I understand that," Creasy said. "Are there any wrinkles?" George shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket and passed over a folded piece of paper.
"That's the telex reply I received this afternoon." He shrugged. "I really shouldn't show it to you."
Creasy read while George puffed at his pipe. There was a very long silence, then Creasy asked, "What does the bit at the end mean?"
George leaned over and translated the coded suffix: "Not politically motivated. No known criminal affiliations. No group affiliations. More details available on request."
Creasy folded the paper and handed it back and there was another pregnant silence.
"Is it basically correct?"
Creasy nodded and, for the first time, smiled. "Except that I'm no longer a bodyguard. What are the other details they refer to?"
"I sent a Grade Two inquiry," George explained. "It's cheaper, and we are not a rich department. So they sent brief details. A Grade One inquiry would have elicited every single thing they know about you."
Creasy was impressed. "How do they get their information?"
"Intelligence services, mainly," George answered. "We pool certain information. It's a sensitive world, and mercenaries can be a nuisance. For example, they've taken over the Comoro Islands in the Indian Ocean as a personal fief-there are some bums in your profession, Creasy."
"You're right," Creasy agreed, "and those bums sometimes make it tough for us bums." He looked at George appraisingly. "You're worried that it might happen here?"
George shook his head. "Not at all. But we're a neutral country. No more foreign bases. We can look after ourselves, although not everyone would agree. The fact is, Malta is in the middle of things. We don't want people basing themselves here who may be planning action elsewhere in the region."
It was deftly done. A question without form.
"I'm one man," Creasy said, with a faint smile. "As the report said, I've no group affiliations, and I've no plans which would embarrass you. I'm just here to get fit."
"That's fine," George said. "You're welcome to use our facilities-strictly unofficial, of course."
"I'm grateful."
George smiled. "There's one condition-nothing onerous." He tapped his pocket. "You are very experienced. I want to use that experience."
"How?"
George's pipe had gone out and he busied himself relighting it while he gathered his thoughts. Then he spoke at length.
"My squad was formed for brushfire incidents. Terrorist attacks-hijack attempts, and so forth. These days, almost every country has such a squad. But we lack actual experience. In the past, Malta has always been occupied by foreign powers who have provided security. We have a small military establishment, the AFM-Armed Forces of Malta. We are not a rich country, and we can't afford the luxury of a one-purpose army, so the AFM is also involved in civil projects-road building and such. It's cost-effective, and I agree with it. The fact is, we can't afford to import skilled instructors for all facets of combat. The British helped before they left, and the Libyans have donated equipmen-helicopters, naval patrol boats, and so on, and they help train our people to use them. But for specialist work we lack both actual experience or instructors. My squad, for example. I've been overseas for training and I'm passing on what I've learned, but I've never seen combat. We have to work with theory, based on set situations. In the world today-the world of terrorism-a lot of unforeseen things can happen."
He sat back in his chair, the pipe clenched between his teeth, and looked quizzically at Creasy. "You've been there, in all manner of situations-on both sides."
"Alright," Creasy agreed. "I'll do what I can. Apart from the stuff I saw on Thursday, what other equipment do you have?"
The two men went on to discuss technicalities, and it was after midnight when they finished. They had established a comfortable rapport. Both practical, undemonstrative men who had weighed each other and liked what they found.
This time he plunged off the flat rock fifteen minutes before the turn of the tide. Again there was a slight breeze blowing from the west, but the current was slack, and Creasy swam steadily towards his target. Nadia stood at the bedroom window and watched through her father's binoculars. She saw him reach the point of the small bay and continue swimming around to the hotel jetty. Then she went downstairs and phoned Joey. She had sent him down to Gleneagles every morning for the last three days to stand by-Creasy hadn't said anything about trying the swim again, but she knew him by now. Then she phoned her friend, the receptionist at the Comino Hotel.
Creasy was walking barefoot and wet past the front of the hotel when he heard his name called. The girl came down the steps carrying a plastic bag and a tall, frosted glass of beer.
"Compliments of Nadia," she said with a smile. Creasy had to laugh. He turned and looked across the channel. He could pick out the farmhouse high on the hill and at an upper window a flash of light as the sun caught the binocular's lenses. He waved and held up the glass in a silent toast.
Inside the bag were a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and rubber sandals-all new; and a towel and a note.
"This is a very Catholic country," he read. "You can't walk around half-naked!"
The girl pointed.
"There's a changing room around the side there, and that path leads to the Blue Lagoon." She glanced at her watch. "The ferry goes in forty minutes."
He thanked her and handed back the empty glass.
The jeans and the T-shirt fitted perfectly. An observant girl, he thought, as he pulled them on. The path rose to the brow of a low hill and then down again to the transparent water of the lagoon. The sun was well up now, and heat rose off the dry, barren ground. Up to his left, Creasy saw a man dressed in baggy trousers held up by a wide leather belt. The top of a bulging sack was tucked into the belt on one side, a plastic bag on the other. He wore a gray, longsleeved shirt, buttoned at the wrists, and a flat cap on his head-the normal dress of a Gozitan farmer; but his actions were far from normal. He held a long, bushy branch in both hands and moved along the slope of the hill beating the ground with it, occasionally bending down to pick something up and put it in the plastic bag. Mystified, Creasy walked on down to the jetty. He could see the small, yellow ferry in the dist
ance, just coming out of Mgarr harbor. He sat on a rock and watched the old man work his way steadily down the hill toward him.
He reached the jetty as the ferry pulled in and nodded to Creasy, who looked closely at the transparent bag at his waist. Grasshoppers! Live grasshoppers. He was still mystified as they climbed aboard, but as they chugged out of the bay, the old man reached into his voluminous sack and pulled out a fishing line. Bait-the grasshoppers must be for bait. But the line was attached to an old and battered rubber squid, which was quickly paid out into the boat's wake.
Curiosity won.
"What are the grasshoppers for?"
The old man took his eyes off the line. "I have a nightingale. They are to feed it."
Creasy was still puzzled.
"But there are plenty of grasshoppers on Gozo. I've seen them."
The old man smiled. "But the Comino grasshoppers are tastier."
That silenced Creasy for a while, and the two of them sat looking back toward the submerged rubber squid.
"You catch many fish?"
The old man shook his head. "Very infrequently."
Creasy thought that it might have something to do with the age and state of the bait, but then the infrequent happened. The water was so clear that he saw the flash of silver as the fish darted in from the side.
Pandemonium erupted. Amid shouts and scrambling, the ferry was stopped and the three young crew members crowded to the stern, all offering unnecessary advice. The old man pulled in the line-evenly and unhurried. It was a big fish, and as it neared the stern the excitement increased. The old man leaned forward to give it a final, boarding jerk and the fish was already in the air when it parted company with the hook. There came a slap as it hit the water and a final flash of silver, and it was gone.
Man on Fire Page 15