He often thought about Creasy. He was able to build a picture in his mind as Guido talked of his friend. He understood clearly the motivation and felt a tangible sympathy and a bond for this man who moved alone to satiate a craving for revenge.
Guido would talk of the past, but never the present. He was emphatic. The last time he had seen Creasy was when he left the hospital. Satta didn’t press, just shrugged and waited. He held all the aces. Let Conti and Cantarella worry.
But he wasn’t playing cards, but backgammon — and he was losing.
“Enough,” he said, as Guido laid out the counters again. “I’m a public servant and can’t go on losing a week’s salary every day.”
They sat out on the terrace as the late afternoon sun edged toward the horizon. Soon Guido would start preparing dinner; but now was the quiet time, and they fell silent as they watched the changing colours around the bay. It was dusk when the phone rang. Milan calling Colonel Satta.
Guido had gone to the kitchen and was chopping vegetables when Satta came in after the long conversation.
“Balletto,” he said. “He committed suicide.”
“You’re sure it was suicide?” Guido asked.
Satta nodded. “No question. He sat on the window ledge of his eighth floor office for half an hour before he made up his mind.”
His hands moved in an expressive gesture.
“He was always a vacillating man.”
Guido went back to the vegetables and Satta started to help around the kitchen. Then he stopped and asked, “You met his wife?”
“Once,” answered Guido. “It was not a pleasant meeting.”
He explained the circumstances and Satta nodded sympathetically.
“You picked a bad time. No doubt her opinion has changed. No doubt she herself has changed.”
They worked in silence and then Satta said, “While Balletto was trying to make up his mind, the police phoned and asked her to come down and try to talk him out of it. You know what she said?”
“What?”
Satta shook his head.
“Nothing, nothing at all — she just laughed.”
They worked on again, and then Satta said musingly, “A strange woman — and very beautiful.”
Guido looked up at him quizzically, started to say something, but then shrugged and went back to work.
Chapter 19
In each of the capitals of Europe, there is an Australian Embassy, and on a side street close to each embassy, house trailers and mobile homes can be found, parked, during the daylight hours of summer. They are for sale, although why near the Australian Embassy, no one knows.
Rome was no exception, but because it was late summer, there was only one vehicle — a Mobex on a Bedford chassis.
“Wally” Wightman and his girlfriend, “Paddy” Collins, sat on the high curb, waiting unexpectantly for a customer.
He was in his late twenties and short, his appearance made notable by hair. Hair flowed from his head to his shoulders and from his face and chin to his chest. Intelligent eyes peered through it all. He was dressed in denim overalls that could have qualified for a certificate of antiquity. She was in her early thirties and large all over. Not fat, simply oversized, from her toes to her nose. She was not unattractive, but her size contradicted femininity. She wore a peasant dress that looked incongruous.
They were Australians, and their story was at once typical and different. Typical in that they had both travelled to Europe to broaden their minds, and different in that they had met each other. Wally was a perennial student who had long ago found a temporary job teaching English to Italians in a night school in Turin. There he had met Paddy, who for twelve years had been an executive secretary in Brisbane. One day she had thrown it all up and taken off to “do” Europe. She also ended up teaching English in Turin. The result was that a whole generation of Italians spoke English with a strong Australian accent; and instead of “doing” Europe, she “did” Wally. In fact, she loved him. A love brought on by his total indifference to accepted standards of female beauty. Her size did not bother him. He liked her mind and her sense of humour, which was rough, and her ability to be dominating by day and totally submissive and quiescent by night. In bed he was the boss; outside it, she organized everything, including his creature comforts. It was an un-Australian arrangement, but it worked.
They’d had a good winter and early summer and had pooled their resources to buy the Mobex, the idea being to drive it as far east as possible, at least to Bombay, and then ship it down to Perth and drive across to Northern Queensland. There the government was giving land and grants to people who would develop remote areas and grow trees. The government needed trees, and Wally reasoned that they took a long time to grow, and they could live in the Mobex, and maybe grow children as well, and contribute to Australia’s balance-of-payments problem and get paid for it. But things had not worked out. The changes in Iran meant that driving very Far East was a nonstarter, and then Paddy had got sick with jaundice and the hospital bills had piled up and at the end they had no choice but to sell the Mobex and travel home the cheapest way. So they sat on the curb and waited.
But they had been there three days, and the only inquiry had been from a Turk who had no money but an ingenious scheme for smuggling Pakistani immigrants into Britain. So they were not hopeful, and they hardly looked up when the big, scar faced man approached and did a circuit of the Mobex.
“It’s for sale?” he asked, speaking in Italian.
Wally shook his head and answered in the same language.
“No, we just park here for the view.”
The man didn’t smile but went back to inspecting the vehicle. Paddy stood up, brushing dust from her ample backside.
“Are you really interested?”
The man turned and looked at her appraisingly and then nodded. Wally was ignored.
“Can I look at the motor?”
Wally followed them as she pointed out the advantages and then suggested that they go inside for a cool beer.
The Mobex was only two years old, with less than ten thousand miles on the clock, and Paddy argued fiercely over the price. Wally kept quiet, sipping his beer, admiring her determination.
They finally settled at ten million lire, and the man asked: “You have the transfer papers?”
Paddy nodded. “They have to be registered and stamped by the police.”
They filled out the papers, the buyer’s section reading: Patrice Duvalier. Nationality: French.
“I don’t want delivery for three days,” he said, pushing the papers across the small fold down table.
Paddy’s face showed rank suspicion.
“You’ll leave a deposit?”
Then they got a great shock. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a great wad of hundred thousand lire notes. He counted out a hundred and pushed them across the table.
“But don’t register the papers until then,” he said. There was a long silence, ended by Wally making his first contribution to the conversation.
“You’re bloody trusting, mate! What if we take the money and drive off?”
Creasy said softly, “I’m not trusting.”
Wally looked into the narrow eyes. Then, to cover his sudden confusion, he reached behind to the refrigerator for more beers. The air of tension eased and Paddy asked, ‘You’ll take delivery here?”
Creasy shook his head and pulled out a street map of Rome. He pointed to a small, inked x just outside the city, near the Eastern Autostrada.
“There’s the Monte Antenne campside. I’ll pick it up in the early afternoon, if that’s OK.”
Paddy nodded. “Meanwhile, we can leave our bags at the railway station.”
“Where are you heading?” Creasy asked.
“Brindisi,” she replied. “We get the ferry from there to Greece.”
Creasy took a pull on his beer and looked thoughtfully around the small but comfortable interior. Then he silently studied t
he two Australians. Finally he said, “I’m going south myself. I could give you a lift — it would be a chance to point out the wrinkles, if there are any.”
They discussed the idea, and it made sense. Creasy explained that he was in no hurry; in fact, he planned to take three or four days on the journey. So agreement was reached, and then Creasy suggested they wait until reaching Brindisi before registering the transfer.
To celebrate the deal, and since it was lunchtime, Paddy opened some cans and made a meal, and Wally opened more beers.
When Creasy left, Paddy commented, “He’s not French, he’s American.”
“How do you know?” asked Wally.
“The way he eats. Only Americans eat like that.”
Wally looked sceptical, but Paddy was adamant.
“It’s true. They hold the knife and fork like everyone else, but when they’ve cut a piece of meat they lay down the knife and transfer the fork to the right hand. It’s very inefficient, which is strange, being Americans; but they all do it.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. But he’s not French.”
“You think he’s alright? He didn’t even leave an address or anything. Just walked off.”
Paddy shrugged. “Anyway, we have his money.” She paused thoughtfully. “He’s not what he seems, but who is these days.”
“He’s a tough bastard,” Wally said, and grinned. “Christ, he’s even bigger than you!”
Paddy grinned back, but then was thoughtful again.
“I like him,” she said. “Doesn’t mince about. Doesn’t talk for the sake of it. We’ll see.”
“The Cowboy” eased his buttocks on the hard bench. As a young priest, he had enjoyed the confessional — not something to admit to the bishop, but it did relieve the routine. Now, as he grew older, he found the whole thing increasingly tiresome. Perhaps in big cities there were more interesting sins, but here on Gozo, in the village of Nadur, he could predict just about every transgression of his parishioners. True, old Salvu, who had just left, did have an inventive mind; but he too was becoming predictable.
He heard the curtain rustle, and Laura Schembri’s voice came through the grill.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“The Cowboy” leaned forward.
“What do you remember?”
There followed the list of usual minor infractions, and he duly admonished, set the minor penances, and leaned back to wait for the next parishioner.
But he didn’t hear the rustle of her exit, only the shallow, uncertain breathing of a woman in doubt.
“You have something more?”
Doubt was resolved.
“Forgive her, Father. My daughter has sinned.”
“Then it is she who must confess.”
The routine had been broken.
The Schembri girl was an enigma to “the Cowboy.” Every morning she came to early Mass, something she had not done before, but she never came into the confessional. Yet she prayed every day.
“You cannot confess for another.”
The voice came back bluntly.
“I don’t want to. I want advice.”
Routine had been shattered.
In all his years as parish priest, Laura Schembri had never asked his advice, although she had quite frequently offered her own, especially in his younger days; she was not a woman to be overawed by the cloth. His interest was tinged with apprehension. Advice concerning Nadia might be difficult to formulate.
“She is with child.”
Apprehension justified! “The Cowboy” sighed. That girl’s journey through life was truly strewn with boulders.
“The American?”
“Who else? She is not given to indiscriminate fornication!”
He sensed that the combative tone was defensive, and he controlled his rising irritation. He asked gently, “So what advice do you seek?”
He felt the tension in her subside.
“She has not informed Creasy, and she has forbidden me or her father to do so. That is part of her sin. She conceived the child deliberately. She used him only as a provider of the seed.”
“She does not love him?”
“I’m not sure — I don’t know.” Laura’s voice indicated uncertainty.
“You are her mother, and you don’t know?”
“I only know that in the beginning she went with him to get herself pregnant. I’m not sure now how she feels. She is different. She told me of the child, but that’s all. She is not herself.”
“So what advice do you seek?”
“Do I tell him or not?”
“The Cowboy” leaned back and collected his thoughts. He knew, like others in Gozo, that Creasy was engaged in dealing out violent death. The Schembri girl never did anything without its being complicated.
“You know what this American is doing?”
“Yes.”
“It is a sinful thing.”
“He has a reason.”
“Vengeance belongs to God.”
“God moves in strange ways.”
“The Cowboy” sighed again. This woman would have made a good priest.
“Even if you wish to tell him, can you do so?”
“It’s possible.”
“Have you discussed it with your husband?”
“No — I know what his answer would be, and I don’t wish to hear it:”
“The Cowboy” moved uneasily on the wooden bench. He was getting himself right into the middle of things. An uncomfortable position. But then he was a priest and had forsaken comfort. He considered all the aspects, knowing that if he gave advice it must not be couched in platitudes. His was a farming parish, his congregation hardnosed pragmatists, none more so than Laura Schembri.
He reached his decision: “A man should know.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Guido walked out onto the terrace and Satta sensed the change in him. He pulled up a chair and reached for the coffeepot. His face showed the indecision. The phone call had come an hour earlier, and it was forty minutes since Guido had hung up. Satta was not impatient. Within an hour Bellu would let him know if the call had any significance.
Guido drank his coffee and then made up his mind.
“What would happen if Creasy gives himself up — to you personally?”
Satta’s pulse quickened. The call had truly been significant. He made an expressive gesture.
“Of course he would go to prison. But in view of the type of people he’s killed, and his motive, the sentence would probably be only around five years. Such things can be arranged, and with remission he could be out in three.”
“Could he be kept alive in prison?”
Satta grimaced. “I know what you mean and the answer is, yes. We’ve just completed a new prison outside Rome for ‘sensitive’ prisoners. It’s staffed and run by the Carabinieri. I guarantee his safety. Frankly, it’s when he comes out that he will be in real danger.”
Guido looked at the colonel thoughtfully, obviously assessing, weighing his decision. Satta kept quiet. It was not the time to ask questions.
“All right.” Guido made up his mind. “We’ll drive to Rome and I’ll talk to him.”
“But why? Tell me why?”
Guido stood up. “Come on. I’ll tell you in the car — we may not have much time.”
Satta held up a hand. “In that case, let me call Bellu. He’s a good man and I trust him. He can pick Creasy up in ten minutes.”
Guido shook his head. “If he killed your friend Bellu and half a dozen other policemen, how many years would he get?” Satta took the point. “You can’t phone him?”
“He has no phone there — let’s go.”
As they reached Satta’s car, a police motorcyclist drew up and handed him an envelope.
‘Telex message for you, colonel.”
Satta suggested that Guido drive and, as they threaded their way through the city toward the Autostrada, Guido explained: “He’s going to be a fa
ther.”
Satta’s look of surprise was comical. For once he didn’t have a quick or clever comment. Guido glanced at him and smiled wryly, then he told him about Gozo and Nadia. He told him in detail, because it was important that he understand everything.
“You think it will make a difference?” Satta asked. Guido nodded emphatically. “I do. It’s absolutely the only thing that might stop him. It’s hard to explain exactly why.”
Satta thought it over, reviewing what he knew of the man. He was inclined to agree that it would make a difference. Abruptly he leaned forward and picked up the microphone of the radio transmitter. Guido looked at him sharply, but he held up a placating hand. Within two minutes he was patched through to Bellu in Rome, and was instructing him to collect the tape of the last phone intercept, and personally destroy it. The same with any transcript. He emphasized that nobody else was to handle them. To Bellu’s puzzled query, he told him to wait at headquarters. They would be in Rome by lunchtime.
Guido expressed his thanks and Satta shrugged.
“You know what it’s like. These people have their informers everywhere, but Bellu I trust implicitly.” Suddenly he remembered the envelope. He ripped it open and read the long telex in silence,
“Holy Mother of God.”
Satta said it quietly.
“What is it?”
He waved the telex and explained that he had guessed that Creasy had gone to Marseilles for equipment. He had asked his counterpart there to apply pressure to find out who had supplied him, and with what. The telex contained the list.
“What’s an R.P.G.7 Stroke D?” he asked.
“Antitank rocket launcher,” Guido answered with a grim smile. “Mercenaries call it the ‘Jewish Bazooka.’”
“It’s an Israeli weapon?”
Guido shook his head. “Russian, but with the rocket loaded, it looks like a circumcised penis.”
Satta didn’t smile. “Creasy knows how to use it?” he asked.
Guido stayed with the analogy.
“He handles it with the same familiarity as you handle your pecker when you take a pee.”
Now Satta smiled; but he was puzzled.
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