Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  He finished oiling the holster and slipped in the Beretta. Then he walked over to the bed and hung the harness over the knob on the brass bedstead. The butt rested close to the pillow. Back at the table he opened a road map of the area between Milan and Como, his mind now occupied with the technicalities of the job. Although he had never worked as a bodyguard, he viewed it in simple, military terms. He was to protect an “asset.” A potential enemy might attempt to capture it. He considered the tactics, and a lifetime of experience made him view the situation from the opposition’s point of view. They could attempt to capture his “asset” at its base, i.e., the house; or outside the base, either at another often used location or on route to it, i.e., the school or on the road.

  In the morning he would check the grounds from a security standpoint and later, it had been decided, Pinta would show him where the school was, and he would have a chance to examine their security arrangements. He decided that if an attempt was made it would most likely occur on the road; therefore it was important to vary the daily route on a random basis. He traced the road network on the map and made notes in the margin.

  This done, he went to the wardrobe and lifted down his suitcase. Inside were several bottles of Scotch wrapped in newspaper. He opened one of them and fetched a glass and poured his first drink. Then he thought about the main problem again — the girl. The important thing, he decided, was to get the relationship established on the right basis at the beginning. The right basis would be functional and nothing more. He was not a paid companion but a protector, and she must be made to understand that, even if he had to be blunt and unkind to do it. Her parents would also have to understand it. He would make it very plain and if they couldn’t accept it, they would have to find someone else.

  He hadn’t thought about this aspect before taking the job, but meeting the child had brought it very much to mind. He could feel her enthusiasm and expectation, and it made him uneasy. She would have to be stopped short.

  He drank steadily until the bottle was empty and then went to bed; a big, battered, introspective man, unsure about his new job.

  But Guido had been right. His mind was occupied.

  Below, in the main bedroom, Rika and Ettore made love. She was very demanding, her breath coming in short gasps, her fingers digging deep into his shoulders. She always paced herself with him, raising the tempo in tiers until she brought him to the top, knowingly and surely.

  But tonight she was concerned only for herself, taking her pleasure in mental isolation. He tried to match her but felt her building to a climax, shuddering into her orgasm. He had not matched her and was left behind and felt her subside beneath him. He wasn’t concerned. He knew that later she would rouse him again and play him like an instrument, using her magnificent body and mouth until all his passion was sated. She prided herself on her skill with him, enjoyed the control over his body. She never teased him sexually, but was imaginative and varied, and revelled in her skill.

  Her breathing evened out and she ran a hand from his neck down his back and sighed contentedly. He could expect endearments and soft kisses, and later she would roll him onto his back and repay him slowly and artfully, smiling down at him, as in a conspiracy.

  “She likes him.”

  He came out of his reverie.

  “Who?”

  “Creasy — Pinta likes him.”

  He shook his head.

  “She likes the idea of no more governess. She’d like him if he was Count Dracula.”

  “No,” she said. “When I put her to bed she told me he was like a bear. ‘Creasy Bear,’ she calls him.”

  Ettore laughed.

  “She thinks all bears are like the toy one she cuddles at night. But bears can be dangerous.”

  “Why would he want to be a bodyguard?” she mused. “It’s a tame job after the kind of life he’s been used to.”

  They were getting onto dangerous ground.

  “He’s probably tired of it,” he said. “Besides, he’s no spring chicken.”

  “Forty-nine,” she commented, remembering the file. “And no family, no children. Does he have a home anywhere?”

  “I don’t know, I doubt it. That kind of man doesn’t put down roots.”

  He wondered at the cause of Creasy’s drinking. Perhaps that was part of it. A lifetime of fighting and adventure and then getting too old for it, and not knowing what to do.

  Rika’s thoughts were paralleling his.

  “There’s a flaw somewhere there,” she said.

  “A flaw?”

  “Yes. There’s something about him. As though he’s been very ill recently. He’s very self-assured, but there’s something not quite right. Maybe it was a woman.”

  He smiled. ‘That’s a typical woman’s guess.”

  But then she shook her head.

  “No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Something else. Something missing. A part of his personality is missing. He interests me, this Creasy — at least he’s not boring.”

  Ettore was content. It would never occur to him that she would be interested in Creasy in any sexual way. He had long ago closed his mind to such thoughts. But he knew how she liked to analyse people. Slot them into neat categories. She would try to do this with Creasy. She wanted him numbered, tagged, and tidy, within her view of the world. He thought that might prove difficult with the man upstairs. He was outside her world. Right outside it. The influences and emotions that guided her were alien to the American. Still, Ettore was content. She had accepted the man, Pinta was going back to school on Monday, and he could concentrate on sorting out his business problems. Then he remembered something curious.

  “You said he frightens you.”

  “Yes. But perhaps ‘frightens’ is the wrong word. In a way, he’s menacing. A bit like an animal that’s been domesticated, but you’re never quite sure. Do you remember that Alsatian the Arredos had? After five years, it suddenly turned on him and bit him.”

  “He’s not a dog, Rika!”

  “It’s just an example. He seems to be brooding. Smouldering. It’s only an attitude, I’m not worried. It’s interesting, really. I’d like to know more about him — his past — I mean how he feels about things.”

  She yawned and slipped lower in the bed. Her words had reminded Ettore how little he did know about Creasy. Perhaps he should have dug deeper. Still, he presumed the agency would have been satisfied. They must have checked for a criminal record, at least. Anyway, it was done now.

  Rika moved against him slightly, and her breathing deepened. She was asleep.

  It wasn’t until the morning that he remembered she had left him unsatisfied.

  Chapter 5

  Pinta sat quietly in the front seat beside Creasy. He told her that he needed to concentrate on the route. She was a little mystified because they were on the main Como-Milan road and that was easy enough to follow. But Creasy wanted to look out for potential danger spots. Places where he would have to slow for a sharp bend and which were away from buildings. He simply transposed a military ambush situation for a kidnap attempt and his trained eye picked out and noted the likely places.

  After half an hour Pinta pointed out the turnoff, and a few minutes later they pulled up in front of the school gates. She jumped out and pulled a metal handle set in the wall. Creasy remained in the car, taking note of the high, spike topped walls and the lack of cover in front of the heavy gates.

  A shutter opened at eye level and Pinta held a conversation into it and the gates were opened slowly by an old watchman. She beckoned and walked through and Creasy followed in the car. Inside was a big, rambling, ivy clad building set in spacious grounds. Creasy parked in the courtyard and followed Pinta as she pointed out the features, a playing field and running track to the left of the building and a small copse on the right, well back from the circling wall. They walked around to the front, with Creasy concluding that the school itself was reasonably secure.

  An elderly grey-haired woman appeared from the entr
ance and Pinta ran over and kissed her on both cheeks and brought her over to Creasy.

  “This is Signora Deluca, the headmistress.”

  She turned to the woman and said with a note of pride, ‘This is Creasy, my bodyguard.”

  “Mr. Creasy,” admonished the woman.

  “No, Signora, he told me just to call him Creasy.”

  They shook hands and she invited them in for coffee.

  She had a small apartment on the top floor, comfortably over furnished, every flat surface supporting framed photographs. She noticed Creasy looking at them.

  “My children,” she laughed. “Hundreds of them, grown up now. But for an old schoolteacher, they are always children.”

  It was all very strange to Creasy. He had never thought of schools as being warm, happy places. His own brief experience had been the opposite. He had an inkling now of why Pinta was so anxious to return.

  A maid brought in a silver tray with the coffee and, as she poured, the headmistress chatted to Pinta about the school. Then, feeling perhaps that she was neglecting Creasy, she turned to him.

  “Have you been long in this kind of work, Mr. Creasy?”

  “No,” he answered. “I’ve only just started, but I’ve done similar things.”

  The woman sighed. “It’s a terrible business. I have had two of my children kidnapped. Not from here, of course, and neither of them was hurt, but it’s an awful experience, and they take a long time to get over it.”

  She put her hand on the girl’s knee.

  “You must look after our Pinta. We are so pleased she is coming back to school.”

  “Not as pleased as I am,” laughed the girl, and went on to relate the terrors of her governess.

  After a few more minutes, Creasy caught Pinta’s eye and they rose to go.

  “You are not Italian?” the woman asked as she walked them back to the car.

  “He’s American,” piped up Pinta, “from Tennessee.”

  The woman smiled at Pinta’s enthusiasm.

  “Then I compliment you on your Italian, Mr. Creasy. Did you learn it in Naples?”

  “From a Neapolitan.”

  She nodded in satisfaction.

  “I can detect the accent.” She pointed to a door at the back of the building. “That’s the kitchen. We try to get the girls away on time but if you have to wait, the maid will give you coffee.” She smiled ruefully. “Quite a lot of the girls have bodyguards.”

  Creasy thanked her and Pinta kissed her cheek and they left.

  He decided to take a different route home. The girl was curious, but he told her that he wanted to try another way and drove on, concentrating again on the road and its surroundings.

  Pinta kept quiet for a while, but the visit to the school and seeing Signora Deluca had excited her. She kept glancing at the big silent man next to her and finally asked:

  “Did you like school, Creasy?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  His short answers should have discouraged her but didn’t.

  “But why not?”

  “It wasn’t a school like yours and there was no one like Signora Deluca.”

  They drove on in silence while she thought about that, and then she asked, “So you were unhappy?”

  He sighed in irritation and said, “Being happy is a state of mind. I never thought about it.”

  The girl sensed his mood but was not old enough or aware enough to respond to it. Since his arrival had coincided with and had even been the cause of her happy feelings, she wanted to share them. But his mood confused her. She didn’t know that he was always taciturn and withdrawn. But she did want to get to know him. She looked at his hands on the steering wheel with their disfiguring scars, and she reached out and touched one of them.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  He jerked away and said sharply, “Don’t touch me when I’m driving!”

  Then he seemed to reach a decision. “And don’t ask questions all the time. I’m not here to make small talk. You don’t want to know about me. I’m here to protect you — that’s all.”

  His voice was hard, cracking at her, and she withdrew, hurt, to her side of the car.

  Creasy glanced at her. She sat staring ahead at the road, her mouth in a straight line. Her chin quivered.

  “And don’t start crying,” he said in exasperation. He took a hand off the wheel and gestured. For some reason he was genuinely angry.

  “It’s all kinds of a world out there. All kinds. Not just the simple kind of being happy or not so happy. Bad things can happen. You’ll find out when you’re no longer a child.”

  “I’m not a child!” she flared back. “I know bad things can happen. I had a friend who was kidnapped and his finger was cut off. I had to stay at home for months, never going out, and now I have you with me all the time with your silences and sour looks — and I’m not crying.”

  But there were tears in her eyes, even though they glared at him angrily.

  He pulled the car onto the side of the road and stopped. Only the sound of her sniffling disturbed the silence while he thought.

  “Listen,” he said finally. “It’s just the way I am. I don’t get on with kids. I don’t like lots of questions. You have to understand that or ask your father to find someone else. OK?”

  Her sobbing ceased and she sat still, staring straight ahead. Abruptly she opened the door and got out and then into the back seat.

  “You can take me home now — Mr. Creasy.”

  She emphasized the “Mr.”

  He glanced back at her. She wouldn’t look at him. Just sat, straight-backed and angry.

  He drove on, his feelings ambivalent. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wasn’t hired to be a nursemaid. It had to be done. Anyway, it could well be over. Her parents ought to realize she needed a friend — a companion. He was the last person fitted for that role.

  On Sunday, after dinner, Creasy was reading when the tap came on the door. He wasn’t feeling good. The night before he had drunk more than usual. Apart from his meals, he had stayed in his room. He had been expecting Rika or Ettore to come up.

  It was Rika.

  “I wanted to make sure you have everything you need,” she said, standing at the door.

  He put the book down.

  “I have everything.”

  Her eyes swept the room.

  “Is the food alright? Maria tells me you have hardly eaten all day.”

  “The food is good. Very good. I’ve just been off colour. I’m alright now.”

  She came farther into the room.

  “Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?”

  He indicated the chair and moved over and sat on the bed.

  He admired the way she moved as she crossed the room and sat down. Like a dancer — controlled and smooth and flowing. She crossed one leg over the other. He noted with surprise that she wore stockings with seams. He hadn’t seen that for years. They looked right on her.

  “How are you getting along with Pinta?” she asked.

  He replied bluntly.

  “We’ll get along fine when she understands that I’m not a new toy.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s only natural that she’s excited — having a bodyguard and going back to school. She’s been bored — you must be patient with her, Creasy.”

  I'm paid to protect her, not amuse her.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment and asked, “Did you argue? She wouldn’t tell me, but last night she was very quiet and seemed disappointed.”

  He got up and walked to the window and looked out with his back to her.

  “Look,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t going to work. I didn’t think much about it before, but I’m not the type to be a social companion. Maybe you’d better ask your husband to find someone else — someone younger.”

  He turned to look at her. She was shaking her head.

  “No, you’re right. Yo
u were hired to protect her. Nothing more. I’m confident you’ll do that.”

  She was looking at the bed. The gun had attracted her attention. It hung in its holster from the bedstead.

  “I didn’t realize you had a gun.” She smiled. “I know — that’s a silly thing to say, but it makes the whole thing so serious.”

  He said nothing and she went on.

  “I suppose I thought you would be a karate expert or something.” Then she remembered the report. “Unarmed combat, is that right? Weren’t you an instructor?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But armed combat is more effective. Anyway, the gun is a deterrent. I don’t expect to use it.”

  She considered that,

  “But you will if you have to, if Pinta is in danger?”

  “Naturally.”

  Now he could sense her interest and guessed what was coming.

  “You must have killed a lot of people.”

  He shrugged, and she looked at him speculatively.

  “I can’t imagine it. I mean in a war and from a distance, yes. But close up, face to face, it must be horrible.”

  “You get used to it. And getting used to it is not great preparation for being a nursemaid for a child.”

  She laughed. “I suppose not. But we didn’t hire a nanny.” She abruptly changed the subject. “We have a spare radio downstairs. I’ll give it to Maria for you. Do you like music?”

  He nodded slowly, wondering at her change of direction.

  “Some.”

  “What kind?”

  “Country and Western, that kind of thing.”

  She stood up and said, “Ah yes, Tennessee — Pinta told me. Well, it plays cassettes, but we don’t have any Country and Western.”

  She walked to the door, turned, and said, “But I’m sure you can find some in Milan. We are going there tomorrow. I’m having lunch with friends.”

  She looked at him reflectively, then said, “It would have been better if we had had more children. She’s quite lonely, but . . .”

  She shrugged and opened the door and left.

  He went back to the chair and took up the book, but she had distracted him. He couldn’t pick up the thread. So he went to the wardrobe and pulled down his suitcase and took out a bottle.