She was back in five minutes, holding a thick envelope. The body had been covered by a long, white towel, which had a red stain at one end. Creasy counted out the money. It came to seventy-eight thousand dollars in used fifty-dollar bills. From that pile he counted out twenty thousand, put it back in the envelope and handed it to her.
Chapter 18
SENATOR JAMES GRAINGER walked into the same restaurant in Washington and saw Creasy at a banquette in a corner with another man. He walked over and sat down. Creasy introduced the other man.
‘Frank Miller,’ he said.
The Senator studied the man. He was in his mid-forties and totally bald. He had a small head and a big body. His face was round and plump, almost cherubic, his eyes nestling between a low forehead and fat cheeks. He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and deep blue tie. He looked like everybody’s favourite uncle. They ordered dinner and the Senator told Henry the sommelier to bring the same wine as before.
The Senator had received a phone call the night before telling him that events had changed. The dinner meeting had been set up.
‘What events have changed?’ the Senator asked Creasy, with a wary glance at the other man.
Creasy noticed the glance.
‘We can talk in front of Frank,’ he said. ‘I’ve known him a long time . . . Jim, I made a mistake. I hope that’s the last one. I should have taken Joe Rawlings out in Cannes but instead I gave him Tap City Money ... thought that would buy his silence . . . it did not. He worked things out and sold my name and yours to Ahmed Jibril from the PFLP-GC. The fact that Jibril paid him confirms, to me at least, that Jibril planted the bomb. Now Jibril knows I’m coming after him. He knows what I’m capable of. He will not know where to find me. But Jim, he will know where to find you . . . you cannot hide yourself. It’s almost certain that the PFLP-GC has a cell in the USA. It’s almost certain they will try to get to you . . . abduct you and force information out of you.’
He gestured at Miller.
‘I’ve brought this man over to make sure they don’t do that.’
The Senator glanced at Miller and said, ‘I have adequate security. All Senators do.’
Creasy shook his head.
‘Adequate is not enough . . . Jim, you’re going to have to live with this man, and his two partners, until the matter is over. Not just for your sake, but also for mine. You’ll have to live with them for twenty-four hours a day . . . they’ll be within yards of you, even when you take a shit . . . twenty-four hours a day, Jim. That’s the way it has to be . . . until the operation’s over, and that could be months or even a year or more.’
As though Frank Miller did not exist, the Senator asked, ‘Who is he?’
Creasy replied, also as if Frank Miller was not sitting between them.
‘He was a mercenary,’ he answered. ‘An Australian. Since mercenary work became scarce, he went into the protection business. Spent some years in Germany and Italy, looking after industrialists who were targets of terrorist groups . . . the Red Brigade and so on . . . he’s the best. He never lost a client.’
The Senator looked at the Australian.
‘And he needs two other people to help him?’
Creasy gestured.
‘He has to sleep . . . occasionally he has to find a woman . . . or have you find one for him.’ A half-smile formed on Creasy’s lips. ‘Don’t worry, Jim, they’re house-trained, Do what they tell you . . . in everything. It’s your life and it’s mine.’
The Senator said, ‘He and his partners must be expensive.’
‘Yes. The best always are. But it’s ironic. A bit like the Irangate affair, Jibril is paying their wages.’
The Senator straightened in his chair, surprise on his face. Creasy said, ‘Jibril paid Rawlings a lot of money for our names. I recovered some of it. For a few months, it will pay for Frank and his boys.’
The food came and Henry decanted the wine. He treated Creasy like a prodigal son.
The Senator noted that the Australian did not drink any wine. Only mineral water. He noted that he did not talk much, that his eyes constantly swept the room, watching every arrival and every departure. Over coffee the Australian said something to Creasy in French. Creasy answered in the same language and then said to the Senator, ‘Jim, we both noted that there’s a ‘watcher’ in here. He’s by himself, over in the corner. Don’t look round but I guess he’s a Fed. Is your friend Bennett watching over you?’
‘It’s possible,’ the Senator conceded. ‘He may be questioning what I’m up to. Maybe he’s worried about me.’
‘Can you call him off and keep him off? It’s important.’
‘It’s very important,’ the Australian added, ‘I don’t want extraneous people hanging around.’
The Senator lifted a finger and within seconds, the maître d’ was by his side.
‘Bring me a phone,’ the Senator said curtly.
A minute later the Senator was punching the number into a portable phone. It was answered. Into the phone the Senator said, ‘Curtis, if you know where I’m dining, you’re having me watched. If so I want it stopped immediately. If not, I get heavy.’ He handed the phone back to the hovering maître d’.
Three minutes later a man walked into the restaurant. He went to the man in the corner, dining alone, and whispered into his ear. The man dining alone called for his bill and paid it. Both men left, without a glance at the Senator.
‘It’s better that way,’ the Australian said. ‘Now, if anyone’s watching you, I’ll know who they are.’
‘You’re sure it’s Jibril?’ the Senator asked Creasy.
‘He wouldn’t pay good money for nothing . . . he’s my target.’
‘When will you move?’
‘I’m moving.’
‘How long?’
Creasy shrugged and took a sip of his wine.
‘I move slowly and very carefully. The bad thing is that Jibril knows I’m coming. Damascus is not an easy city. He has immense protection. Both his own people and the Syrian Intelligence.’ He took another sip of his wine and then looked into the Senator’s eyes. ‘But Jibril is the living dead. I need a little time to hone my weapon . . . a little time to let him sweat and wait. I make you a promise, Jim, when he dies, the last words that will enter his ears will be Harriet, Nadia and Julia. He will know why he died.’
The Senator drained his glass and said quietly, ‘I never hated anyone before. Disliked, yes . . . many. But never really hated. I hate Jibril from my soul and I hate Joe Rawlings. That man conned me and then sold me.’
Creasy shook his head.
‘Don’t hate Rawlings. It’s pointless to hate the dead.’
The Senator looked up at him.
‘You took him out?’
‘Between the eyes.’
The Senator had another breakfast meeting. ‘The worst invention ever in America,’ he said before leaving. As he stood up Frank Miller said, ‘Wait.’
The Australian stood; went to the door of the restaurant and went out into the street. He came back two minutes later and nodded towards the table.
‘He’s careful,’ the Senator commented to Creasy.
‘He’s your mother and father, Jim,’ said Creasy, and then smiled. ‘Introduce him to your Dobermann, they’ll get on well. Also, be straight with him. If you break away from him, you break away from me. Keep something in your mind. Jibril has maybe a hundred bodyguards. All heavily armed. He’d be safer with Frank Miller alone.’
They shook hands and the Senator left with the Australian as his shadow. Henry brought a large goblet of Hennessy Extra and put it in front of Creasy.
‘Come back at least four more times,’ he said with a smile. ‘I only have four more bottles of the ‘49 Rothschild left.’
Creasy nodded in acknowledgement, smiled and asked for a phone.
From memory, he dialled the number. When a voice answered he said, ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Tracey. Be naked.’
The vo
ice answered, ‘I am naked.’
It’s best to judge a woman’s beauty when she sleeps. Artifice is lost. Pretence also sleeps. If wine brings out the truth then sleep brings out beauty.
It was early morning. He had been to the bathroom and then opened the curtains. Sunlight lit the room, reflecting off the pale walls onto her face. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her face. Watched it like a predator not knowing what it was hunting. She was in a very deep sleep. A sated sleep. The curves of her face were those of a child. He thought of his own child, of Julia. He thought of his life, and the waste.
He thought of what he was doing, and why. He had done it all before. He felt for a moment like he was on a treadmill, walking on into nothing. Thought of the boy’s past life and his future, tried to analyse what he thought about the boy, but could not. He thought about Senator James Grainger, Frank Miller, the Corkscrew and Corkscrew Two. About what he was doing and why.
There was no why.
Only a heat inside of him, not in his brain but deep down. His brain was cold. Made cold by the image of the well-dressed Arab. He thought of Nadia the woman and Julia the child. He moved across the bed and placed his hand on the cheek of the child-woman.
The woman woke up and he made love to her.
Chapter 19
THIS TIME JIBRIL went to see the Colonel. He was not even offered a coffee. The Colonel simply handed him a piece of paper. On it were two names.
‘That’s what you got for your hundred thousand.’
‘What do we know about them?’ Jibril asked.
They both had relatives on Pan Am 103,’ the Colonel answered. ‘Grainger is a United States Senator for Colorado and a very wealthy man. The other one, Creasy, is also American, an ex-mercenary. The strange thing is he’s supposed to have been killed five years ago in Italy. ‘It’s documented.’
Bitterly, Jibril said, ‘So that bastard sold me the name of a dead man?’
The Colonel stood up and stretched, walked to the window and looked down at the traffic.
‘I think not, he said. Two nights ago, Joseph Rawlings was found dead in a Paris hotel. He had a single bullet in the brain. Maybe he was compromised by meeting my man in Paris. Maybe the meetings were observed. Maybe this man Creasy is alive.’
He turned and looked at Jibril and smiled slightly.
‘If he is, you have a problem, Ahmed . . . a serious one.’
‘A problem from one man?’
The Colonel moved back to his desk and picked up a folder. He handed it to Jibril.
‘One man, but a special man. Interpol keep a register of all known mercenaries. This morning I requested information on this man Creasy. In that file is the information they sent me through our police force. Read it, Ahmed.’
The Colonel moved back to the window and stood there for fifteen minutes, looking down at the traffic.
When he turned, Ahmed Jibril was reading the faxed papers in the file for the second time.
The Colonel moved back to his desk, sat down and said affably, ‘You have very good security, Ahmed. So do I. But I tell you, I would not like to have that man coming for me. Not with the motive he has. Or with the kind of money behind him that Grainger can supply.’
His words were spoken with the faint pleasure of one man informing another of his possible impending doom.
Jibril clamped down on his irritation and asked, 'is there any information on their location?’
The Colonel shrugged and said, ‘Grainger is easy. He has homes in Washington DC and Denver, Colorado. He commutes between the two. As for Creasy, the last information anyone has is that he died of gunshot wounds in a Naples hospital five years ago. That’s the last information, Ahmed . . . it’s on the file. No one knows where he is.’ His half smile came back again. ‘But personally, I suspect that two nights ago he was in Paris.’
Chapter 2 0
CREASY ARRIVED at Luqa Airport in Malta just after noon. He was met by George Zammit who drove him to Cirkewwa to catch the Gozo ferry. On the way Creasy asked, ‘How’s he doing?’
‘He’s more than just a natural,’ George answered. ‘He drives himself. He’s like a sponge, he soaks up everything he’s told.’
‘Weapons?’ Creasy asked.
‘It’s only been three weeks but already he’s achieved a three inch cluster at twenty metres with a Colt 1911. Yesterday he fired four magazines. Not one was outside of a six inch cluster.’
The policeman turned and looked at his passenger, smiled and said, 'That’s almost at your level, Creasy, and three weeks ago he’d never held a hand-gun.’
‘And the other weapons?’ Creasy asked.
‘Again, more than a natural. With the submachine-gun he has a total affinity. It’s as though he carried it out of his mother’s womb.’
‘Maybe he did,’ Creasy said thoughtfully, as though talking to himself. ‘What about the sniper rifle?’
‘A little too impatient as yet,’ George answered. ‘As you know, a sniper needs infinite patience. The best snipers are older and more mature. Michael is young and reacts instantly. He will be very good but it will take time.’
‘Unarmed combat?’
‘Wenzu says that he’s going to be more of a street fighter. Sure he’ll learn all the tricks but his nature is to be a street fighter and he’ll be a dangerous one.’
‘Good.’
‘Incidentally, he’s got a lot of guts. Last week I took the squad to a disused quarry. They practised rappelling down a sheer rock-face. It’s damn frightening the first time. Most of the squad were reluctant to trust themselves to a thin rope against a hundred metre drop. Michael was over the edge without a murmur. How did you find him?’
‘I saw him score a goal in a soccer match.’
George Zammit glanced at him and then he concentrated again on the traffic. Quietly he asked, ‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘Maybe nothing. Maybe one day he’ll watch my back . . . maybe one day I’ll aim him at somebody.’
George drove on in silence to Cirkewwa. Before Creasy got out of the car, the policeman said, ‘I know what you have in mind, Creasy, and I want a promise from you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know my position here as head of security. Don’t do anything in Malta without letting me know first.’
‘It’s a promise,’ Creasy replied.
‘I want a second promise,’ George said.
‘It’s all promises today, George. What is it?’
‘If the boy survives, he’s to join the police force . . . join my squad.’
‘I promise to influence him in that direction. But the final decision will be his.’
As Creasy got out of the car the policeman called, ‘Another promise.’
Creasy turned in exasperation.
‘What now?’
‘Next Wednesday is Stella’s fortieth birthday. I’m throwing a party for her at the house. Be there.’
‘OK.’
‘Be there with Michael.’
‘OK.’
‘Be there with your wife.’
Creasy muttered something inaudible and strode away.
He carried his bag up to Gleneagles and ordered a lager. He also ordered drinks for Shriek and Baglu, who as usual were propping up the bar. Then he said to Tony, ‘Have one yourself.’
'Too early for me,’ Tony replied.
They all waited patiently, then after a couple of minutes Tony said, ‘Why not,’ and helped himself to a beer.
God was in His Heaven and everything in Gozo was normal.
After a couple more drinks, he phoned Leonie and asked her to pick him up. On the short drive home, she said, ‘I left Gleneagles as a forwarding address for my agent. I got a letter yesterday,’
He glanced at her and said curtly, ‘Don’t tell me he’s got you a part. Don’t tell me you’re gonna break our contract.’
She shook her head.
‘No, I wouldn’t do that. It’s just my friend Gerald
ine . . . my best friend . . . perhaps my only friend; she thinks that I’m working on a TV series in Malta and she’s coming out on Friday and staying at the Suncrest Hotel for a week. Can I see her and if so, what do I tell her?’
‘I prefer that you don’t,’ Creasy answered. ‘That was in the contract if you remember. No visitors.’
They drove on in silence. As they got out of the car Creasy noticed the look on her face and said again, ‘It was in the contract, Leonie.’
‘I know,’ she answered. ‘Forget about it.’ She started to walk away.
He pulled his bag from the back seat and called after her.
‘Wait.’
She turned and watched him.
Finally he said, ‘OK maybe you need a break. It’s been tough on you here, with the people and all. The manager of the Suncrest is a friend of mine. He’ll give you a very good rate on a room for a week. I’ve stayed at the hotel myself, it’s a bit touristy but very good. They have an excellent restaurant called Coral Reef. Spend the time with your friend, have a holiday.’
‘What do I tell her?’ Leonie asked.
He shrugged.
‘Tell her that the funding for the series has been held up . . . it usually is. Tell her that you’re being paid, but you’re sitting around on your butt. Tell her nothing about Gozo, me or Michael. Make a promise on that.’
She smiled, it lit up her face.
‘I promise.’
‘By the way, next Wednesday, you’re going to have to get away from your friend for the night. Tell her that you have to have dinner with the producer or something.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘We’re going to a birthday party in Malta. A friend’s wife. I’ll pick you up from the Suncrest at eight.’
‘OK. What about food while I’m away? Shall I cook some things and put them in the freezer?’
He shook his head.
‘No, while you’re away, Michael and I will be away.’
‘Where are you going?’
His voice was curt.
The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2) Page 12