Man on Fire

by A. J. Quinnell

  After dinner they went to Barbarella's. Creasy wanted to say good-bye to Censu. He found he couldn't pay for the drinks. "It's on me," Censu said, with his gentle smile.

  He asked Nadia if she wanted to dance and she shook her head. "It's almost a full moon-let's go for a last swim." So they finished their drinks, drove back to the farm, and walked down the rocky path to the cove.

  They embraced in the cool water. Her skin was slippery-like wet glass.

  On the flat rock they made love. Creasy lay on his back to take any discomfort from the rough stone; but as Nadia eased herself over him, he felt nothing except her warm softness. As always, they made love slowly, their passions rising up a gentle slope. He looked up at her small breasts, shining wetly in the moonlight, and her oval face and dark eyes, narrowed in pleasure. They reached the top of the slope and she moaned deep in her throat and her knees gripped him in a gentle vise.

  Later he talked, and she sat, naked, with her arms clasping her knees and her eyes watching his intently.

  He told her what he was going to do, and why. He described his mental and physical state when he had arrived in Naples. How Guido and Elio had arranged to get him the job. He told her of the first days and how he had deliberately shut Pinta off and then how, slowly but inexorably, they had grown together.

  He had eloquence. For once in his life he was able to truly describe his feelings. It may have been the ambience in the night, or the recent lovemaking, or simply that he loved the woman who was listening so intently. He found the words to describe how he had felt and what had happened.

  He told her of the day in the mountains when Pinta had given him the crucifix. Described it as the happiest, most natural day in his life. His words brought Pinta alive, and Nadia's head nodded in understanding as he talked of the girl's awareness, and curiosity, and simple joy of living.

  And the final day. The kidnapping, and her shouting out his name as he lay on the grass. How he woke in the hospital, not sure if he would live, but willing it with every nerve in his body and always hearing that last shout and the anguish in her voice.

  Then Guido telling him she was dead and how she had been abused.

  He stopped talking and a silence engulfed the small cove. It was a long time before she spoke. She had lowered her head onto her knees and her wet, black hair fell almost to the rock. When she raised her head he saw the tears glistening in the pale light.

  "I'm not crying because you're leaving, Creasy. I promised myself I wouldn't do that-not while you're here." Her low voice quivered. "I'm crying for Pinta. I knew her. You brought her alive when you talked, and I knew her, as though she were my own child, and when you talked of her death, I saw that too-I cry for her."

  Her words comforted him. She could understand why, even though he loved her, he had to go.

  He told her, "I love you."

  Her head came up higher. "I know. I didn't expect you to tell me."

  "I didn't intend to."

  "Then why?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe it's talking about Pinta, and being honest, and wanting you to know before I leave even though it's useless."

  "It hasn't been useless, Creasy." She wanted to go on. To tell him everything. But like the tears, she had promised herself about that too. She stood up and looked out over the moonlit sea.

  "What chance do you have of living through it?" she asked.

  "A very slim chance," he answered flatly.

  "But if you do, will you come back here to me?" She turned to face him, and he rose to his feet.

  "Yes, but don't wait. I'm not going off to commit suicide. It's not suicide while there's even a one percent chance but Nadia, that's about what the odds are." He moved and took her into his arms. "So don't wait."

  "I just wanted to know," she said. She kissed him hard fiercely. "Do it, Creasy!" Her voice was intense. "Do it. Kill them. All of them-they deserve it. I hate them as much as you hate them." She gripped him tightly, feeling his strength, moving her hands over the tight muscles of his back and shoulders. She spoke against his neck. "Don't worry about me. Don't think about me. Think only of them, and what they did." Her voice carried the hatred-he could feel it, feed off it.

  "I'll go every morning with my mother to the church. I'll pray that you kill them. I shall not confess. Just pray. When you are dead, or returned here, then I'll confess."

  They picked up their clothes and walked up to the house. Her words and her mood had affected him deeply. There was something he didn't understand, a factor that eluded him. But her reaction and her emotion about his coming struggle, and her identifying with it, all combined to settle his mind and to clear it of everything but his purpose.

  She didn't want to make love again. She didn't want to sleep. It was only a few hours to dawn. She lay with him in the bed, her head against his chest, listening to his steady breathing.

  At first light, she quietly disengaged herself, got up and moved about the room collecting his clothes and packing his bag. On top she put the cassette player.

  The half-dozen cassettes went into a side pocket. Then, with a faint smile, she took them out again, selected one and slotted it into the machine, ready to play.

  Then she went down to the kitchen and cooked breakfast and brewed coffee and carried the tray up.

  He was to catch the first ferry to Malta. Joey put his bag into the Land Rover and climbed into the driving seat. Laura put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek, and wished him luck. He held onto her and thanked her for helping him regain his strength. Then he shook Paul's hand.

  "Alright, Paul?"

  "Alright, Creasy!"

  Nadia decided not to go with him to the ferry. She came forward and reached up and kissed him on the mouth, and wished him luck, and then stood back with her parents while the Land Rover moved up the track. Her face was without expression.

  Half an hour later, she went to the front of the house and watched the Melitaland as it pulled out of the harbor.

  She knew he would be in the wheelhouse with Victor or Michele. As it cleared the entrance, she saw him come out onto the wing of the bridge and look up the hill toward her and wave. She waved back, and stood watching as the ferry turned to pass Comino, and he was hidden from view. She went into the kitchen to help her mother, who was mystified, for Gozitans are emotional, and her daughter's face showed no emotion. In the evening she walked along the path to Ramla and stood on the brow of a hill and in the distance saw the white ship come out of Grand Harbour and steam northward.

  Salvu, working his fields below, saw the girl standing looking out to sea, and was about to call to her but then followed her gaze and saw the ship and went silently back to his work.

  It had gone over the horizon into the twilight before she turned and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.

  She went up to the rooms they had shared, and took off her clothes and climbed into the bed. She pulled his pillow down beside her, and hugged it to her belly.

  Then she wept into the night.

  Book Three

  Chapter 14

  The two Arabs drove a hard bargain. A package deal or nothing. Without the rocket launchers, they didn't want the fifty M.A.S. machine guns or the five hundred Armalites. It put Leclerc in a quandary. Like many arms dealers, he had semiofficial backing-an outlet for his country's arms industry. His contact at the ministry had told him that these particular Arabs were not to be sold rocket launchers. Such is politics. Even though they had an end-user certificate from a small Persian Gulf state, the consignment was to be transhipped in Beirut, which could mean anything-left wing, right wing, Falangists, P.L.O. or Troop 4 of the Lebanese Boy Scouts.

  He sighed; he would have to call his contact again. "I might be able to get you a couple," he said to the older of the two, a smoothly dressed, hawk-faced man, who shook his head.

  "At least six, Monsieur Leclerc," he said, in excellent French. "Or we may be forced to take our order elsewhere -Monte Carlo, perhaps."

  Leclerc s
ighed again and swore under his breath. That damned American in Monte Carlo was trying to hog all the business. He'd sell them rocket launchers, alright-enough to start World War Three.

  "I'll see what I can do." He stood up and moved around his desk. "Call me in the morning, at eleven."

  They all shook hands, and Leclerc ushered them out of his office.

  Creasy was sitting in the reception area, reading a magazine. "Go on through to my office," Leclerc said. "I'll be right with you."

  Creasy was looking at the pictures of weapons adorning the walls when Leclerc returned. The Frenchman gestured at a chair and sat down behind his desk. The two men studied each other. Leclerc spoke first.

  "You look very fit. A great difference from when I last saw you."

  "I was a lush when you last saw me," Creasy said shortly.

  There was antagonism in the air. Leclerc voiced it.

  "There was no need to have Guido threaten me."

  Creasy remained silent, brooding eyes studying the Frenchman-evaluating him. Leclerc was a tall, florid man, running slightly to fat. He wore a dark-gray suit and was well-barbered and manicured. He looked like a successful stockbroker, but Creasy had known him when he was a very hard and ruthless mercenary. Leclerc sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Creasy, we've never been friends. That's not my fault. But I owe you. I owe you on two counts-you saved my life in Katanga, and that alone is enough."

  He smiled thinly. "I also owe you for Rhodesia, you helped me land a very good order-very profitable. So it's natural I would help you-without Guido talking about a technicolor funeral."

  "You don't owe me for Rhodesia," Creasy said. "They paid me to give advice. It just happened you were offering what they needed."

  "OK," Leclerc conceded, "but Katanga is different. Try to accept the fact that, apart from Guido, there are people who consider you a Mend, whatever your own reaction."

  There was a silence and then Leclerc received a great shock-Creasy smiled. An open, easy smile.

  "Alright. Thanks," he said. "I accept that."

  Leclerc recovered slowly, realizing that the man in front of him had truly changed. He was not just healthier-he had known him way back, when he was as fit as any man could be. He was changed mentally. He still gave off an aura of menace, but the smile had been genuine and unprecedented.

  "Have you got all the stuff together?" Creasy asked.

  Leclerc collected his thoughts and nodded.

  "Yes. It was a diverse order, and I've got several alternatives. You can take your pick." He glanced at his watch. "Let's have lunch and go to the warehouse afterward. Meanwhile, I'll have my people put everything out."

  Creasy nodded but didn't get up. He seemed to be considering something. He made up his mind.

  "Leclerc, do you have connections to get false papers?-passport, driving license-so on?"

  "It's possible," the Frenchman said. "But of what country?"

  "French, Belgian, Canadian, or American," Creasy answered. "It really doesn't matter-it's only a question of language. I speak French, and my English has a blurred North American accent. The problem is, I need them quickly-four to five days."

  Leclerc steepled his fingers and thought about it.

  "French would be the easiest," he said finally, "but not if you plan to use them in this country."

  "I don't-nor the weapons-you have my word on that."

  Leclerc nodded. "I already have that assurance from Guido-photographs?"

  Creasy reached into an inside pocket, drew out an envelope, and tossed it onto the desk.

  "There's a dozen. I need papers that an ordinary Frenchman would carry on an overseas trip." Leclerc opened a drawer and dropped in the envelope.

  "OK, I'll get onto it this evening." He looked apologetic.

  "It will be expensive, Creasy. Not me, you understand-I won't charge any commission. But the time element adds to the price."

  Creasy smiled again. "It's OK. Let's get that lunch."

  As they headed for the door, Leclerc was thinking that if Creasy smiled at him once more, he'd pass out.

  The Toletela had arrived in Marseilles the night before.

  Creasy had taken a taxi straight to the railway station and picked up the black-leather briefcase from the baggage room. At the station restaurant he found a quiet table, ordered a coffee and took out Guido's letter. He looked up the numbers and opened the combination lock. Inside was a large Manila envelope. It contained a key, a street map of Marseilles, and two sets of papers. One set was the passport and personal papers of one Luigi Racca-a vegetable importer from Amalfi. The other set were papers for a Toyota van. He opened the street map and noted the small inked circle and the instructions in the margin, then he put them all back into the briefcase and spun the lock. As he sipped the coffee, his eyes roamed around the restaurant and through the glass partition to the movement on the station concourse. But his mind was on Guido.

  Without his help the whole operation would have been infinitely harder. Creasy knew that Luigi Racca would be a genuine vegetable importer, quite unaware that his name was being borrowed. He knew that the passport and other papers would be the work of the best forger in Naples-a city justly proud of its forgers.

  When he arrived in Naples he knew that everything would be ready. Within a week the killing would begin. He guessed that Pietro had delivered the van to Marseilles-driving overland. He must talk to Guido about his safety once the business started.

  He finished his coffee and caught a taxi to the post office and picked up the parcels that had arrived from Paris and Brussels. Then he checked into a small hotel, using the papers of Luigi Racca.

  Their steps on the stone floor echoed up into the high steel girders. Long lines of packing cases were stacked on pallets under a maze of pipes and sprinklers. Creasy inhaled the familiar smell of an arsenal, the coppery odor of grease on metal. A section of the warehouse was partitioned off with heavy steel sheeting and a padlocked door. Leclerc unlocked it and threw a switch. A bank of overhead neon tubes flickered on, illuminating two long metal tables, one bare, the other covered with a variety of weapons and equipment.

  Leclerc stood by the door while Creasy walked slowly past the laden table, examining the different groupings. Then he moved back and stopped at the first set-the pistols. Leclerc joined him.

  "You wanted a forty-five and something smaller and lighter." He gestured. "Take your pick."

  There were a dozen pistols on the table from a variety of countries, and several silencers. Creasy picked up a Colt 1911 and a British Webley .32. Leclerc looked a bit surprised at his second choice.

  "I know," said Creasy. 'It's old-fashioned, but it's reliable, and I'm used to it."

  He turned and put the two guns on the table behind him, and then picked up two silencers and put them with the guns. "I'll take five hundred rounds for each."

  Leclerc took out a small pad and a ball-point pen and made a note. They moved to the next grouping-submachine guns. There were four types, the Israeli Uzi, the British Sterling, the Danish Madsen, and the one Creasy immediately picked up-the Ingram Model 10. The metal butt was folded, and the weapon measured only ten and a half inches. It looked more like a large pistol than a submachine gun, and it had a firing rate of eleven hundred rounds a minute.

  "You've used one?" asked Leclerc, and Creasy nodded, hefting the gun in his hands.

  "Yes. In Vietnam. Its biggest advantage is its size. The rate of fire is too high if anything, but for my purposes it's perfect. Do you have a suppressor?"

  "I can get one within a couple of days."

  "Good." Creasy put the gun on the table behind him. "I'll take eight magazines and two thousand rounds."

  Next were two sniper rifles, a modified M14 with the Weaver sight and the British L4A1 with the standard 32 sight. Creasy selected the M14.

  "It's got twice the feed," he commented. '"I'll have two spare magazines and a standard box of cartridges."

  They moved to
the rocket launchers.

  "It's no contest," Creasy said. "For the size and weight, it's got to be the R.P.G.7."

  Leclerc grinned and picked up the squat tube. "I could sell a million if I could get them." He held the tube at each end and twisted. It unscrewed in the middle.

  Creasy nodded with satisfaction. "The Stroke D," he said. "Better still. What's the standard packing for the missiles?"

  "Cases of eight or twelve," Leclerc answered, screwing the launcher together and laying it next to the Ingram.

  "A case of eight, then," Creasy said, passing on to the grenades. He picked out the British Fragmentation 36 and the Phosphorous 87.

  '"I'll need less than standard packing. Can your boys knock up a case for fifteen of each?"

  "Can do," Leclerc replied.

  Next Creasy picked up a double-barreled shotgun, barrels and stock sawed off short. He flicked open the breach, held it up to the light, and examined it, then snapped it shut and put it down next to the grenades. It looked incongruous alongside the other weapons.

  "A couple of boxes of S.S.G.," he said, and Leclerc made a note.

  He went on to select a Trilux night sight, a commando knife in its sheath, and a variety of webbing.

  Finally, at the end of the table, a number of small objects lay in a shallow metal tray. Creasy picked up several and examined them closely.

  "They're the very latest," Leclerc said at his shoulder. "Perhaps you haven't seen them before?"

  Creasy held a small circular tube in his hand. A narrow needle projected half an inch from one end.

  "I've used this type of detonator," he said, "but not the timer."

  Leclerc picked up another metal tube. It had two prongs, like an electric plug. He unscrewed the tube and showed Creasy the cadmium cell battery and the two graduated dials. Then he plugged the timer into the detonator. The combined mechanism was less than two inches long and three quarters of an inch in diameter.