The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2)

by A. J. Quinnell

  The American moved to the table and sat down.

  ‘Exactly. But Father Manuel, apart from believing in God, don’t you believe in justice?’

  ‘Vengeance is not justice.’

  The man’s voice was grim. ‘It is in my book.’

  The two men looked at each other across the table, then the priest said, ‘You will use the boy as a weapon.’

  ‘Only if I have to.’

  ‘But he is only just seventeen . . . and are you no longer a weapon yourself?’

  The scarred man shrugged.

  ‘Yes, but this weapon is getting old. Yes the boy is only seventeen but if I need him it will not be next month or even maybe next year. Vengeance . . . even justice has patience! It will take time to identify the target.’

  The priest drew hope from that last statement

  ‘Are you sure it will ever be identified?’ he asked.

  The American immediately sensed his own strategy.

  ‘It’s impossible to be sure,’ he answered, shaking his head. This adoption is only a contingency. It might take several years.’

  ‘He will have to know,’ the priest said. ‘I’ll only go along with it if the boy knows.’

  The man nodded, ‘I understand your position, Father. You can tell him everything that we have talked of. He is intelligent as you know. He is almost a man. Let him make his own decision.’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘No, Uomo, I will only tell him that you wish to adopt him and only on the condition that you will tell him exactly why you want to adopt him. Then let him make his decision.’

  ‘You accept the word of a Godless man?’

  The priest moved toward the gate saying, ‘I will accept your word, Uomo. I will talk to the boy and if he wishes it, I will send him up to see you.’

  At the gate the priest turned and looked at the American.

  ‘There is something you should know, Uomo. When Michael Said was seven years old a couple from Malta wanted to adopt him. They were a very pleasant couple who could not have children. There’s a system in our rules that if within one month either the parents or the boy wish to break the arrangement, then that is permissible. Within three days, they brought him back to the orphanage, and they would not or could not explain why. When I questioned him, he just shrugged. When he was thirteen, another couple wanted to adopt him. He was a wealthy Arab businessman, living in Rome. She was an Italian. They had adopted two other children, a boy from Vietnam and a girl from Cambodia. They were a fine couple. He talked to them for five minutes and then walked out of the room.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ the American said.

  Creasy worked in his study in the old part of the farmhouse. It was the only upstairs room and backed directly onto the rock-face of the ridge. Its ceiling was high and arched. Down the length of one wall was a long old refectory table. On it were piles of newspaper cuttings and magazines. Opposite, against the other wall, was a row of heavy steel filing cabinets. His desk was in front of a large arched doorway. From it, he could look down over the surrounding wall at the track which led up to the house. He was going through a batch of magazines and cuttings which had arrived that morning. He had clipping services in London, New York and Bonn. Anything that appeared in any newspaper or magazine which referred to Lockerbie was sent to him. The flow had slowed down a lot over the last three months but was still enough to keep him busy for two or three hours a day. He was reading an article in Time magazine, speculating about a connection between the bombing and Arab terrorist organisations in Germany and Scandinavia. Occasionally, he jotted a note on a pad beside him. More often, he lifted his head and looked down at the track leading up from the village. Each time he did that, he would then glance at his watch.

  It was an hour after the priest had left when he saw the boy far down on the track, walking steadily upwards. He concentrated again on the article. He had left the gates of the house open.

  Fifteen minutes later he heard the gates close. He stood up, moved round the desk and looked down. The boy was standing by the pool, wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘I’ll be down in ten minutes,’ he called. ‘Help yourself to a drink and there’s some biltong in the cupboard above the fridge.’

  He went back behind the desk and concentrated on the article.

  They walked around the pool, the boy on the outside. There was a faint south-westerly blowing, rustling the palms. They walked steadily for half an hour. When they finally stopped, they stood, looking at the house.

  The American said, ‘When I die, this house will be yours and enough money to maintain it.’

  The boy looked at the house for a few minutes, then turned and for another minute looked out at the view of the islands, then back at the American. Almost imperceptibly he nodded his head.

  They resumed walking.

  ‘What happened with that first couple who wanted to adopt you?’

  The boy spread his hands, ‘I don’t know. I suppose they just didn’t like me.’

  ‘Did you like them?’

  They were all right. The food was better than at the orphanage.’

  Creasy looked down at the boy, ‘And what about the second couple, when you were thirteen?’

  Michael Said shrugged and said, ‘He was an Arab.’

  Creasy stopped walking. The boy walked on a few paces, then also stopped and turned. They looked at each other.

  The boy smiled slightly and said in perfect Arabic, ‘Yes, Uomo, you chose well.’

  They started walking again. And talking in Arabic, a language he had learned during years in the Foreign Legion in Algeria, Creasy said, ‘So why did you choose to come with me?’

  This time it was the boy who stopped. He was looking at the house again and then at the vista sweeping beneath it.

  Reverting to English he said simply, ‘Uomo, you will know that my mother was a whore.’

  At the gate, Creasy reached into his pocket and handed the boy a bunch of keys, saying, ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow and will be gone between two and four weeks. Use the house. You will have to sleep at the orphanage until the papers go through in about eight weeks. I will return with the woman.’

  They shook hands and the boy walked down the track without looking back. The American stood by the open gate watching until he had disappeared into the village. Then he went back up to his study. He phoned the airport to make his booking and then spent two hours working through the stacks of magazines and cuttings.

  Chapter 5

  SHE WAS THE seventh out of the fourteen he had interviewed the previous day. This was the second interview, the one where he would tell her the full details of the job and the role.

  They sat facing each other across the table in the drab interview room of the Agency office in London, just off Wardour Street in Soho. He had the open file in front of him. It contained a typical actress portfolio. He guessed that the photos had been taken some years ago. She retained a severe attractiveness and from the way she walked and held herself she had obviously kept herself fit. He looked again at the name at the top of the portfolio. Leonie Meckler. She was dressed in a smart, two-piece black suit, with a cream blouse.

  He noted her age on the file, thirty-eight.

  ‘When did you last work?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight months ago,’ she answered. ‘I had a small part in a TV serial.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I did some fringe work at the Edinburgh Festival the year before.’

  She had a sad look on her dark face. She smiled grimly, ‘If I were in great demand, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

  ‘Why are you sitting here?’

  Again the grim smile.

  ‘I have a flat in Pimlico, and with the interest rates what they are at the moment, I stand to lose it if I don’t find work soon. It’s all I own apart from my clapped-out Ford Fiesta.’

  He looked down at the portfolio again. It had only scant personal details.
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  ‘Were you ever married?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Children?’

  She nodded again. ‘A son.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘He was eight.’

  She reached for her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No.’

  She lit up and inhaled deeply. He noticed again the nicotine stains on her fingers.

  She exhaled and said, with only a trace of bitterness, ‘His father was a very heavy drinker . . . an alcoholic. He was driving him home from prep-school one afternoon, after a heavy liquid lunch. He hit the back of a container lorry on the motorway. My son died.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘He survived.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  She shook her head. She had straight, black hair to her shoulders, ‘I don’t know. I divorced him very soon after.’

  There was a silence, then Creasy asked, ‘Do you have a drink problem?’

  Again, she shook her head and said firmly, ‘No, and I never have. I enjoy a glass or two of wine. That’s all.’

  He studied her face, then he pushed a pad and pen across the table to her and said, I'm going to tell you what the job is, precisely. It will be easier if you don’t interrupt. Just make notes about any questions you want to ask at the end.’

  He talked for fifteen minutes and when he finished she was looking down at an empty pad.

  ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

  She lifted her head. ‘Just two. First, can you give me a thumbnail sketch of the boy?’

  He thought for a moment and replied, ‘As I told you, he’s just seventeen years old. He’s intelligent but does not communicate too well . . . perhaps chooses not to. He’s been in an orphanage all his life. Although it’s a caring one it tends to make a child mentally tough and withdrawn. I doubt that he will stir any maternal instincts.’

  She smiled wryly and said, ‘Second question, of course, is money. Harry said it would be good . . . how good?’

  The American closed the portfolio, stood up and stretched.

  ‘As I told you, it’s essential that you stay the full six months, not a day less. In four days, I will phone and let you know if you have the job.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘During those four days, I will be having you checked out . . . very thoroughly, and during those four days you can reconsider. If you check out and you accept the job we will go to a lawyer, of your choice, and draw up the contracts. At the same time we will post the banns at the Register Office. You will then receive three thousand pounds for expenses and I will give the lawyer a certified cheque for fifty thousand American dollars, which he will hold in escrow for you until he receives a declaration from a Gozitan notary confirming that you have spent six consecutive months in cohabitation with me in Gozo. During those six months you will receive an allowance of one thousand American dollars a month. Of course I will pay all household expenses. You will have your own car.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Coincidentally, a not-so-clapped-out Ford Fiesta, but you will not have an independent social life.’ He could see that she was calculating the sums in her head.

  ‘Does it cover your mortgage?’ he asked.

  For the first time, her whole face smiled.

  ‘Yes, it does, and more besides . . . I hope I check out OK.’

  ‘So do I. I’ll call you in four days, Ms Meckler.’

  She wore a simple, white lace dress, slim-fitting to just above her knees. Tapered at the waist, it revealed her soft, long curves. She showed considerable beauty. He wore beige cotton trousers, teamed with a salmon-coloured polo shirt and brown suede brogues.

  They stood in front of the registrar, who decided that they made a handsome couple. He also decided that this was a marriage of convenience. He had married thousands of couples and his judgement was honed. First the man had arrived without a ring. The registrar had pointed out, tartly, that although it was not a necessity, it was a nicety. The man had gone off down the King’s Road to a jeweller’s and come back with what must have been the cheapest ring in the shop. Also the registrar had to verify the various documents. The two birth certificates, her divorce papers, and his late wife’s death certificate. He had noted the date on the latter document, 21 December 1988 - only six months previous. Yes, it was certainly a marriage of convenience, but the registrar couldn’t fathom what the convenience might be. Usually, it was a would-be immigrant, marrying a British girl for permanent status.

  They had not even brought the required two witnesses and so the registrar had drafted in a clerk and his secretary. When the brief ceremony was over they did not kiss, but they did shake hands with the registrar and the witnesses.

  *

  Back on the pavement of the King’s Road, Creasy looked at his watch and said, ‘I have to grab a cab and head for Heathrow.’

  She nodded solemnly.

  ‘When will you call?’

  ‘In about a week.’

  She noticed the impatience on his face but said stubbornly, ‘When will we leave for Gozo? I need to know. If I can let my flat, it will help with the mortgage over the next six months.’

  He answered, ‘Between two and three weeks from now . . . I’ll call you.’

  He turned away and walked down the street.

  She stood on the crowded pavement, watching him, with his strange walk, weave through the pedestrians. The sides of his feet seemed to come into contact with the ground first.

  She looked down at her dress and her new shoes and felt somehow used. She looked up. He was walking back. He came close to her. ‘How much remains on your mortgage?’

  Thirteen thousand four hundred and twenty pounds and fifty-seven pence.’

  ‘How much interest do you pay?’

  ‘Seventeen and a half per cent.’

  For half a minute he calculated. Then he reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick roll of hundred dollar bills. He counted off several, put them in her hand and said, That will take care of the interest for the next six months . . . I’ll call you.’

  She stood, clutching the money, watching him walk away. He hailed a cab and ducked in. She turned and walked down the road, until she came to a wine bar. She went straight to the ladies’ room, counted the money and made her own calculation. It was at least a hundred dollars more than she needed.

  She checked her face in the mirror and walked out to the bar.

  ‘What’s the most expensive vintage champagne you have?’

  ‘Dom Perignon, ‘59.’

  ‘I’ll have a bottle.’

  He served her the bottle of champagne in an ice bucket at a table in the corner.

  An hour later the bartender watched as she drained the last drop. Then she took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  Joe Rawlings had paid top money, and when he paid top money he expected the best, the very best. He was in a suite at the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. That was certainly the best, but the girl under him was not the best, and he had paid top money.

  ‘Turn over,’ he muttered. She turned over. He tried to force himself into her rectum. She muttered something in French, and pulled away.

  ‘Dammit,’ he snarled, ‘I gave you five hundred bucks up front.’

  ‘For that it’s another five hundred,’ she said flatly.

  He cursed and then said, ‘OK bitch.’

  He tried again, and again she writhed away.

  ‘Five hundred in my hand,’ she said.

  Another curse. He rolled off the bed and walked into the bathroom. A minute later he came out holding five hundred-dollar bills. She was lying on her stomach, her bottom raised, her left hand open. He put the bills into her hand. She pulled them in front of her face and studied them all carefully, just as she had the first five.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Go ahead.’

  It was brutal, but it didn’t last long. There was not a shred of gentleness in him. When it was ov
er, he rolled off with a satisfied grunt.

  Within seconds she had gathered her clothes and her large handbag and disappeared into the bathroom. Within five minutes she came back out fully dressed. She did not look at him, just walked out into the lounge and then into the corridor; the door slammed behind her.

  ‘Bitch,’ he thought, but then all his thoughts were frozen. The heavy maroon curtains opening onto the balcony had parted and a man was standing there.

  Joe Rawlings always liked to have sex with the lights full on. He recognised the man instantly and his heart turned to ice.

  The man, dressed in black trousers and a black long-sleeved polo neck shirt, walked over and stood looking down at him.

  ‘Hello Joe,’ he said. ‘Or should I say hello Creasy?’

  The man held a black bag in his right hand, the kind of bag that doctors carry around. It was a full minute before Joe Rawlings moved. He edged himself up on the bed into a half sitting position.

  ‘Go and get it, Joe.’

  Joe Rawlings’s eyes were those of a cornered snake looking into the eyes of a mongoose. His voice was a croak. ‘Get what?’

  ‘The money, Joe, what’s left of it - go get the money - it’s in the bathroom.’

  Again a croak, ‘What money?’

  The money Senator James S. Grainger gave you, Joe . . . the sodomy money, Joe. Go get it, and if you leave as much as a single dime, I’ll cut your prick off . . . and Joe, if I do that the girl who just left would give me the whole damn thousand back.’

  Joe Rawlings very slowly, very carefully rolled off the bed. He moved to the chair on which his clothes were draped.

  ‘No, Joe. Go into that bathroom naked.’

  Rawlings crept to the bathroom door. He had matted black hair on his back. As he reached the door the voice stopped him. The voice that was so soft, so gentle.

  ‘Joe, also bring the gun, the little Beretta - the one you always leave with your stash. And Joe, when you come out of that bathroom door, you will be carrying the bucks in your right hand and holding the Beretta in your left - holding it by the end of the barrel between your thumb and forefinger.’