Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  A bird cage hung from a hook in the ceiling. The nightingale was somnolent and overawed by the rare company.

  “That’s a fat bird,” Creasy said. “You feed him too many grasshoppers.”

  “You’re right,” Salvu agreed. “He needs exercise. Next time you go running, take him with you.”

  “Or on the swim to Comino,” Nadia suggested. “He can catch his own grasshoppers.”

  Salvu shook his head sadly. “He’ll think he’s a duck, and demand fish every day.”

  The fish, when it came, was delicious. Soft and delicately flavoured and accompanied by vegetables from Salvu’s own fields and crusty bread warmed in the oven.

  Creasy and Nadia ate silently, while Salvu, mellowed by the wine, reminisced about the old days on Gozo. To Nadia’s amusement and occasionally feigned shock, he told them some of the old scandals.

  “You’d be surprised what goes on under the surface,” he said to Creasy with a wink. “You take Nadia’s grandfather, for example — on her father’s side. He was a one.”

  “You dirty old man,” Nadia said. “Don’t you malign my grandfather. He’s been dead twenty years!”

  “That’s true,” agreed Salvu, “and many a female tear was shed on that day.”

  He went on to relate some of her grandfather’s escapades. “Be careful,” he warned Creasy. “She’s got the same blood — she’ll need watching.”

  They finished the meal with strong peppery cheese.

  “It helps the drinking,” Salvu said, emptying the jug of wine into Creasy’s glass. He went out for a moment and when he returned the jug was brimming again.

  They left well after midnight.

  “There’s a Chinese saying,” Creasy told him at the door. “‘Govern a country as you would cook a small fish.’ You ought to be Prime Minister, Salvu.”

  “True — but I’d have no time for fishing.” The old man smiled, propping himself up against the doorpost.

  After the amount of wine he had drunk, it was a miracle he was standing at all.

  Creasy felt it too, and although Nadia didn’t exactly have to carry him home, she had to steady him occasionally as he stumbled on the rock-strewn path.

  In the morning he was hung over, the first time in months. “No exercises today,” she told him, putting the coffee tray on the bed.

  He looked at her, bleary-eyed, and got up and went into the bathroom. She heard the shower running and a few minutes later he came out with a towel round his waist and started his exercises.

  She sat on the bed, watching. Nothing is going to slow him down, she thought. I’ve cooked for him, and made love with him and last night I even put him to bed, but nothing I do can stop him.

  He confirmed it a few minutes later, sitting with her on the bed, drinking the coffee.

  “Nadia, in about ten days I’ll be leaving.” He spoke softly, not looking at her. “I’ll be going to Marseilles. I’ll check the sailings today.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve a friend who works in a travel agency in Valletta. I’ll call her. I think there’s a ship once a week — the Toletela.”

  The next day Guido’s letter arrived. Creasy took it up to his room and examined the envelope carefully. It had been opened and resealed. The flap had not been precisely realigned with the original gum. Creasy sat for a long time, thinking — the envelope in his hand. Then he opened it. Four pages covered by Guido’s neat handwriting, and, clipped to the first page, a ticket stub for the baggage room at the Marseilles railway station.

  That night he wrote two letters, one to Paris to a general in the French Army. At Dien Bien Phu the general had been a lowly subaltern, and badly wounded. After the surrender Creasy had carried him, on his back, for three weeks to the P.O.W. camp: and so saved his life.

  Now Creasy needed a favour, a special piece of equipment. He asked the general to send it to Poste Restante, Marseilles.

  The second letter was to a bar owner in Brussels, an ex-mercenary, who had become an official post office and repository. Again, a request for a parcel to be sent to Marseilles.

  Chapter 13

  Time accelerated.

  In two days he would sail for Marseilles, and tomorrow he would have his last practice with George’s squad.

  He worked late into the night. Through the open bedroom door he could see Nadia sleeping. Long black hair covering the white pillow.

  He liked to pay his debts, and the work he did this night was for George. They had discussed pairings in the squad. Creasy had recommended it. He knew from his old days with Guido how two men, familiar with each other’s thinking and actions, were more effective in fire fights than individuals, even in great numbers. So he evaluated each member of the squad and judged who would work well with whom.

  Against each pairing, he made notes about specialised training, again making evaluations gleaned from the past weeks.

  That done, he drew up a list of equipment that would be useful to the squad.

  Finally he made notes on tactics, trying to envisage the type of situation George might face.

  He had been working since nine o’clock, and when he finished it was well after midnight — the table covered with paper. He rose, stretched, flexed the cramped fingers of his right hand, and went into the bedroom.

  He looked down at Nadia as he undressed. The night was warm, and only a sheet covered her to the waist. He found himself comparing her with Rika. The body slimmer but the same skin texture — velvet under glass. The face more severe, but the hair as black, as long, and as thick. A different kind of beauty, less conventional, more subtle. In his eyes, conditioned by love, Nadia’s beauty was more personal and linked to her mind. A mirror to her character...

  He slipped into the bed beside her, and she murmured in her sleep and reflexively slipped lower in the bed; moved her head against his chest, slid an arm across his waist, and resumed her deep, contented breathing.

  The ultimate intimacy. To lie naked with a beautiful woman and not to make love. To draw pleasure only from the contact — to sleep together.

  The improvement in the squad was obvious. It was their third exercise and they had learned, and they knew it. Afterward they faced George and Creasy confidently and received more praise than criticism.

  Since it was Creasy’s last session, they insisted he have a farewell drink. Creasy protested that he would miss the last ferry, but they had planned ahead. An AFM patrol boat would take him from the Customhouse steps to Mgarr.

  “I’ve already phoned Nadia,” George told him. “She’ll meet you in Gleneagles at eight o’clock.”

  In the bar they presented him with a tie. It had a black eagle superimposed on red and white stripes — Malta’s colours. It was the squad’s own tie, and its presentation signified Creasy’s unofficial membership. George made a brief speech, thanking him for his help and wishing him well in the future, and then the young policemen got into the heavy drinking.

  After a while Creasy took George over to a corner table and gave him the notes he had drawn up the night before. He took him through the list of equipment, pointing out several items.

  “These are made by Russia or its satellites — you might be able to get them from the Libyans.”

  George grinned. “I’ll take their military attaché out for lunch tomorrow.” He looked at Creasy reflectively and said, “You’ve been a great help. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Creasy’s face had turned serious and his voice went flat as he said, “Yes, George. Tell me if you’ve been opening my mail.”

  George was an honest man and without guile, and the answer showed on his crestfallen face. Creasy relaxed and sat back and took a pull at his beer.

  “You know what my job is, Creasy.” George’s voice was heavy with embarrassment. “I didn’t want to pry . . . but . . . well, it’s my job to pry. And you’re not a regular type tourist.”

  “It’s OK, George. I don’t blame you. I just had to know that it wasn
’t done at the other end.” Something occurred to him. “How many people in your outfit saw that letter?”

  George shook his head. “Only me,” he said emphatically, “and no copies were made. I even opened the envelope myself and resealed it.”

  Creasy smiled. ‘You need practice.”

  George returned the smile, relieved that Creasy was taking the matter lightly, and then he became serious again. “Guido was very circumspect, but I could understand enough to guess what you’re up to. Obviously you know the risks. I wish I could help, but you know I can’t.”

  Creasy nodded. “But you head an intelligence organization. Will you feel obliged to report my plans to the Central Bureau at Interpol?”

  George looked blank and asked, “What plans?” He glanced at his watch. “Drink up, the launch will be waiting, and if you’re not in Gleneagles by eight o’clock, Nadia will be displeased with me. And that lady can be formidable.”

  The two men stood up, but before they rejoined the others, George added: “You’ve made friends here, Creasy, especially on Gozo. Whatever the outcome of your trip, don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t,” said Creasy. “And thanks.”

  It was a night for farewells. Creasy was to take Nadia for dinner at Ta Cenc, but as he entered Gleneagles and saw the crowd, it was obvious he would have to spend at least an hour there first.

  He had never made friends before, and it was a curious sensation for him to walk into the big, high-ceilinged room and be absorbed into the noise, and the circle of affection. They were all there: the fishermen and the farmers, “Shreik” and Benny, the Mizzi brothers; Paul, Laura and Joey. Victor passed him a drink and Nadia moved to his side and gave him a cable that had arrived in the morning. It was from the general in Paris. His request had been honoured.

  The drink and the talk flowed easily, and Creasy felt a warmth and a sense of belonging. He did not feel sad and he did not question his decision to leave in the morning. Although, in this place, he had found happiness, he had lived long enough and hard enough to understand that to forget his purpose would mean the end of that happiness. He could not live on here with the thoughts of what he had turned away from.

  And the will for revenge had never slackened. It had been like a closed drawer, and in the morning the drawer would be opened and in the coming weeks the emotion of revenge would dominate his mind — exclude everything else.

  But on this last night, the drawer was still closed. There was no sadness. Even Nadia was vibrant and laughing. He would talk to her later, he decided. Try to explain to her. She was owed at least that much. Not once over the past weeks had she tried to persuade him to stay. Not once — no hint or gesture. It had surprised him a little, but he knew her determination and her composure. Once she had made up her mind, she would not change it.

  Benny brought him over a fresh drink and said to Nadia, “I take him away for a minute.”

  They walked onto the quiet of the balcony, and the big, brawny Gozitan said solemnly, “Uomo. You ever need help, and you don’t call me first — I get very mad.”

  Creasy smiled.

  “I call you first — I promise.”

  Benny nodded, satisfied. “Just send a cable here to Gleneagles, Tony will find me — anytime.”

  They went back inside and this time Creasy took Paul aside. “I owe you money, Paul,” he said.

  The farmer looked surprised. “For what?”

  “You know very well,” Creasy answered, “I’ve lived in your house for over two months and eaten a mountain of food — it costs money.”

  Paul smiled. “OK,” he said. “I’ll charge you fifteen pounds a week — that’s the same as a farm labourer gets here — that makes us even.” He held up his hand to stop further argument. “Creasy, I could never have found a worker this summer who would have done as much as you — I’m serious. I won’t talk of it.”

  He turned back to the crowd, and Creasy could do nothing but shrug and follow him.

  A few minutes later he said his farewells and left with Nadia.

  They were like young lovers on an early date. There was no sense of departure. No sadness. They had a table on the terrace and ordered fish. They agreed that though it was delicious, Salvu’s was better. They drank a bottle of icy Soave wine, and then another. For Creasy, the occasion was made more poignant, because in the morning his mind would be occupied by plans and dispositions for death and destruction; and because Nadia, by her manner, comforted him. He had worried about what he would leave behind in Gozo, He didn’t want to remember sadness, and she gave him no cause. Her attitude proclaimed her independence and her strength. It was a balm to his unadmitted conscience. And that was exactly what she intended.

  After dinner they went to Barbarella’s. Creasy wanted to say goodbye 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 vice.

  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 — 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.