Man on Fire

by A. J. Quinnell

  At that time Colonel Dufour commanded the regiment and as the pace of the war quickened he recognized both the ability of the two men and their friendship. The 1st R.E.P. was constantly in action, and Creasy and Guido were put together with their units whenever possible. They made a formidable partnership and became well-known throughout the Legion.

  When it became obvious that de Gaulle was planning a political settlement of the war, the white settlers, the pieds noirs, reacted in fury. They set up barricades in Algiers and defied the army. Many of the professional soldiers were in sympathy, particularly the tough "para" units, who had borne the brunt of the battle. The gendarmes were ordered to clear the barricades, and two para units, one of which was the Legion's 1st R.E.P., were ordered up in support. Both units dragged their feet and the gendarmes lost many dead and wounded in the operation. Colonel Dufour was relieved of his command, but instead of being replaced by a politically reliable officer, the high command put Elie Denoix de St. Marc in temporary charge. St. Marc was the epitome of a Legion officer. Tough and idealistic, and uncompromisingly brave, he was worshipped by his men and could have led them anywhere. He chose to lead them into the "generals' rebellion" of 1961 against de Gaulle, and the 1st R.E.P. became the cornerstone of the generals' plans. They expected the rest of the Legion to follow suit, but they had miscalculated, and only the 1st R.E.P. under St. Marc was active against the government, even arresting Gambiez, the Army Commander-in-Chief.

  The rebellion failed, and on the 27th of April, 1961, the twelve-hundred Legionnaires of the 1st R.E.P. dynamited their barracks and fired off all their ammunition into the air. The pieds noirs lined the route and wept as the paras drove out of Zaralda, singing Edith Piafs "Je ne regrette rien."

  The regiment was disgraced and disbanded. It had lost three hundred men in the war for France, but de Gaulle was in a vengeful mood. Rank and file were absorbed into other units of the Legion. The officers fled to join the O.A.S., the underground extremist army, or surrendered to stand trial for mutiny. The senior NCO's were discharged-Creasy and Guido among them. They had done only what they had been taught to do-obey their officers.

  "They kicked you out?" asked Pietro incredulously. "Even though you had only followed orders?"

  Guido shrugged. "It was a time of great political passion. At one point we expected to parachute onto Paris itself and arrest de Gaulle. The French people as a whole were horrified, and with good reason. At that time, the Legion's strength was over thirty thousand men, and nothing could have stopped us if the Legion had acted as a whole."

  He worked silently for a while and then continued.

  "It was the first time that the French realized what a threat the Legion could be to France itself. That's why, even today, the bulk of the Legion is based in Corsica and other locations outside mainland France."

  "So what did you do?" asked the boy.

  "Creasy and I stuck together. The only training we had was military - I was still wanted by the police here and Creasy had nowhere to go. So we looked for a war and found one in Katanga."

  "Katanga?"

  Guido smiled. "I keep forgetting how young you are. Katanga was a province of the Belgian Congo. It's called Shaba now. When the Belgians pulled out in '61, Katanga tried to break away. They're a different tribe, and they had most of the mineral wealth. A lot of mercenaries went to fight in Katanga."

  They had joined a French ex-para colonel called Trinquier. He knew them from Algeria and was delighted to recruit such experienced men. So they became mercenaries, which wasn't much change really, except that they missed the Legion. This joint feeling of loss brought them even closer together and their friendship developed into a bond rare between two people of the same sex. Their fighting skills soon became a byword among the other mercenaries. They were so mentally tuned that they moved and fought as a single entity without apparent communication. They were particularly adept at "laundering buildings"-clearing the enemy in an urban situation. They had their own techniques, giving each other cover and moving from room to room or building to building in a rhythm so precise that other mercenaries would stand and watch in admiration.

  They brought the use of grenade and submachine gun to a fine art.

  With the failure of the Katanga secession they joined other mercenaries in the Yemen under Denard, but moved back to the Congo as soon as Tshombe returned from exile. Denard ran the French 6th Commando, and Guido and Creasy fought throughout the messy, convoluted war until Mobuto triumphed. Then, together with hundreds of other mercenaries, they retreated to Bukavu. They ended up in internment in Rwanda under the auspices of the Red Cross. They had to give up their weapons, and for Guido the next five months were a torment. Although they had plenty of room to move about, the fact of restriction brought on his claustrophobia.

  To keep his mind occupied, Creasy taught him English and had Guido teach him Italian. Guido found the English hard going, but Creasy proved to have a good ear for languages and quickly mastered Italian. They began speaking the language more and more together until, about a year later, they switched to it completely from French.

  After five months in Kigali they were repatriated out to Paris. Two weeks in the bars and brothels of Pigalle wiped out the bad memories, and they started to look for work. Mercenaries were not very welcome in black Africa, and anyway they thought a change of location might be stimulating. Apart from his months in the P.O.W. camp, Creasy had liked Indochina, and when they received a tentative approach from a certain Major Harry Owens, U.S. Army (retired), they listened with interest.

  The Americans were by now deeply involved in Vietnam and finding the going surprisingly tough. It was becoming apparent that sheer weight of manpower and ordnance might not be enough.

  The Central Intelligence Agency naturally had definite ideas on how to win the war and with a huge budget was busily recruiting and training a series of private armies, both in South Vietnam and neighboring Laos. They needed instructors for Laos, and ex-sergeants of the Legion made excellent instructors. Creasy's experience in French Vietnam was an added bonus.

  So they found themselves in Laos, nominally working as loading supervisors for the CIA. front company, "Air America." This was a charter firm which was supposed to ferry freight around Southeast Asia. In fact, it supplied equipment and food and much else to the CIA's private armies.

  Creasy and Guido spent eighteen months training Meo tribesmen on the Plain of Jars.

  As things got worse for the Americans, the CIA responded by setting up "intrusion units." These were mercenary groups that intruded into North Vietnam and Cambodia to harass the Vietcong supply lines. Creasy and Guido were "promoted" to such a unit, designated on the CIA computer at Langley Field, Virginia, as P.U.X.U.S.P.40. This meant "penetration unit non-American personnel containing 40 men." The computer considered it to be expendable.

  By late 1971, P.U.X.U.S.P.40 had been expended to the tune of thirty of its original members. Creasy and Guido decided to take a long, or perhaps permanent, break. They had done twelve covert missions and picked up several wounds apiece. They had also accumulated a great deal of money. The computer had been generous.

  In the meantime, Guido had learned that the Naples police could be persuaded not to look for him if he returned, and that Conti, having prospered, had moved his base to Rome, leaving Naples to a viceroy who had no great memory of events during 1953.

  The two mercenaries decided to take a trip to Europe so that Guido could visit his family and check out his property. Then they would take a look around and see what offered itself.

  Guido had found his building in Naples in a state of good repair. It was rented out to the Church as a dormitory for unwed mothers; a quaint link with its past. They stayed in Positano with his mother. Elio was in his last term at Rome University, studying economics. Guido's mother, aging now, gave thanks in the church for her son's safe return and lit a dozen candles. Such generosity, she knew, would have its reward.

  "And that was the
end of my mercenary days," Guido said to the engrossed boy.

  "The end? You just stopped?"

  "We went to Malta," answered Guido shortly, "and I got married and came back here."

  Pietro knew that, for the time being, he would learn nothing more. They worked on in silence. In half an hour the first lunch customers would arrive.

  Chapter 3

  Ettore and his lawyer had lunch at Granelli's. They sat in the semiprivacy of an alcove table and ate prosciutto with melon, followed by vitello tonnato, accompanied by a bottle of vintage Barolo. Slightly too heavy for the veal, but Vico liked it, so that's what they drank.

  They discussed Ettore's financial problems. Vico was smoothly reassuring. Matters could be arranged. He would personally talk to the bank managers. Ettore must not be pessimistic.

  Ettore felt at a disadvantage. He always did with his lawyer. Vico Mansutti was urbane, handsome, immaculately dressed, and cynical. He wore a silk-worsted suit with a faint pinstripe, tailored, Ettore knew, by Huntsman's of Savile Row. His shirt was Swiss cotton voile, his tie Como silk and his shoes Gucci. There was nothing synthetic about Vico-at least on the outside.

  He wore his hair fashionably long, and a black mustache balanced his lean, tanned face. As they talked his eyes noted every movement in the restaurant, and he would occasionally acknowledge a greeting with a flash of even, white teeth. At thirty-six, two years younger than Ettore, he was acknowledged as the cleverest, best-connected lawyer in Milan.

  So his words calmed Ettore but did nothing to dispel his feelings of inferiority.

  A waiter drifted by and poured more Barolo, and Ettore moved on to his next problem-Rika. He explained about her obsession over Pinta's safety and, because Vico was a Mend, explained about the social factors. Vico listened with an amused expression on his face.

  "Ettore," he said, smiling at his friend's doleful look, "I envy you profoundly. The problems you think you have are tiny problems, and the advantages you ignore are real and enormous."

  "Tell me," said Ettore. "I seem to have misplaced them."

  Vico put down his fork and held up his left hand with fingers spread. "Number one," he said, putting his right forefinger onto his left thumb. "Your reputation is such that, even owing the banks so much, they will continue to support you until conditions improve."

  "You mean my family's reputation," interjected Ettore, "particularly my father's."

  Vico shrugged. For him it was the same thing. He moved onto the next finger.

  "Number two-your house on Lake Como, which you bought eight years ago for eighty million lire, is today worth two hundred fifty million and still appreciating."

  "And mortgaged to the bank for two hundred million," said Ettore.

  Again the shrug; the finger moved on.

  "Number three, you have a daughter whose charm and beauty is only matched"-the finger moved again- "by number four-your wife, Rika. Yet you sit there looking as though your pupick dropped off."

  He signaled the waiter, ordered coffee, and turned back to Ettore.

  "You must get things into perspective. You have this little problem because you indulge Rika too much. That's entirely natural. Any man on earth, married to Rika, would do the same-I would."

  He paused to drink some wine and then continued.

  "The mistake you made, if I may say so, was allowing Rika to take Pinta out of school after the Carmelita kidnapping."

  "Now wait!" Ettore protested. "I knew nothing about it. I was in New York. When I got back she had already hired the governess. It was a fait accompli."

  Vico smiled. "Yes, well, of course Rika is impulsive, but at the time she made quite a drama of it. Now to send Pinta back to school under the same conditions would be to admit she was wrong." He raised an eyebrow. "When was the last time Rika admitted that she was wrong?"

  Ettore smiled ruefully at the rhetorical question.

  "So," continued Vico, "you must, as the Chinese say, allow Rika to save face."

  "And how," asked Ettore, "do I accomplish that?"

  Vico shrugged. "Hire a bodyguard."

  Ettore became irritated.

  "Vico. You are supposed to have a trained logical mind. We've just spent half an hour discussing my financial position-or lack of it. One of the reasons for this lunch was to ask you, as my friend and lawyer, and as Rika's friend, to explain to her the realities of the situation."

  Vico reached forward and patted Ettore's hand.

  "My talking to Rika will not save her face and that's the immediate problem. Besides when I suggested you hire a bodyguard, I didn't specify what type of bodyguard."

  They were interrupted by the waiter with the coffee.

  "What do you mean?" Ettore asked when they were alone again. Vico leaned forward, speaking more quietly now.

  "Ettore, there are many sides and angles to this kidnap business. You know that it's highly organized and nearly always carried out under the auspices of organized crime. It has become a huge business-eighteen billion lire last year. The big boys control it."

  Ettore nodded. "The Mafia."

  Vico winced. "Such a melodramatic word. It conjures up a bunch of Sicilian peasants stealing olive oil."

  He caught the waiter's eye again, and ordered two cognacs, then took a leather case from an inside pocket and extracted two cigars. A small gold guillotine appeared from his fob pocket and the cigars were meticulously beheaded. He passed one over to Ettore, and the waiter returned with the cognacs and a light. Vico favored him with a smile, puffed contentedly, and resumed his lecture.

  "Most families who feel threatened either send their children abroad, usually to Switzerland, or arrange very elaborate protection-specially guarded schools, bullet-proof cars-and, of course, highly competent bodyguards."

  "Expensive bodyguards," Ettore said.

  Vico agreed. "About thirty million lire a year. All told."

  Ettore raised his eyes expressively, but the lawyer went on unperturbed.

  "Such bodyguards are supplied through specialized agencies. The best are even international, with branches in several cities, including Milan and Rome. There is, however, a shortage brought about by all the terrorism going on in Europe-Red Brigades, Red Army, Basque Nationalists, and so on. So really good bodyguards are hard to find, and the price is rising accordingly."

  "I understand," interrupted Ettore, "and it doesn't solve my problem. Just the opposite."

  Vico held up a hand. "Be patient, my friend. There is another aspect to this business. As an additional and purely financial consideration, many wealthy families take out insurance against having to pay ransoms. The government does not allow Italian insurance companies to write that kind of policy. They believe, quite reasonably, that it might encourage kidnapping. However, insurance companies abroad are not so restricted. In fact, Lloyd's of London leads the world in this type of coverage. Last year they collected over one hundred million pounds in premiums. Two of their underwriting partnerships specialize. One even has a subsidiary that will negotiate with the kidnappers. It's all very civilized and British. There are two conditions. One, that the premiums must be paid outside of Italy, and the other, that the insured must never disclose that he is insured. The reason is obvious."

  Ettore was slightly bored. "It's very interesting, Vico, but what's it got to do with my problem?"

  Vico pointed his cigar at him. "Is your factory insured?"

  "Of course it is, and the beneficiary is the bank."

  "Right," said Vico, "but when you negotiated the premium, the rate depended on the amount of security you provided-correct?" Ettore nodded, and Vico continued.

  "Of course they insist on burglar alarms and so on, but if you provide a security service-watchmen, even guard dogs, the premium rate is much reduced. Well, the same thing applies to kidnap premiums, and because the rate is so high, and the amounts very large, any saving is a major factor."

  He warmed to his subject.

  "Consider a typical case. An industria
list takes out kidnap insurance for one billion lire. The rate could be as high as five percent, or fifty million. If, on the other hand, he hires a full-time bodyguard, the premium could be reduced to three percent or thirty million lire. So he saves twenty million."

  Ettore shook his head. "But you just told me that a bodyguard costs thirty million lire a year. Where's the saving?"

  Vico smiled. "There are such people as 'premium bodyguards.' They wouldn't do much to foil a kidnapping, but they do allow a lower premium rate, and they are cheap. About seven million lire a year."

  "But Vico," said Ettore, "I don't want to insure against a kidnapping that isn't going to happen."

  But he suddenly got the drift, and Vico laughed at his change of expression.

  "Now you understand! You hire one of these cheap premium bodyguards for a few months and then fire him for incompetence or something. In the meantime, Pinta is back at school and Rika's face is saved."

  Ettore sat quietly thinking a few minutes and then asked, "Where can I locate such a man?"

  Vico smiled contentedly. "First you pay for this excellent lunch and then we go around to my office where I have the name of an agency right here in Milan."

  Ettore had known that somehow he would end up paying the bill.

  Guido turned off the Naples coast road and drove up a narrow dirt track. It led to an olive grove on the lower slopes of Mount Vesuvius. Just below the grove the hill crowned off, and the track ended on a grassy slope overlooking Naples and the sweep of the great bay. He turned off the ignition and the silence was complete. It was late evening and the sun, blood red, was edging onto the horizon.

  He had been again to see his mother, and the presence of her two sons had healed her. It would be at least another month before the symptoms reappeared. Guido had talked to Elio about Creasy's arrival three days before, and Elio had offered a possible temporary solution. Guido needed to think it out.

  The truth was that Creasy couldn't find the reason anymore to go on living. He had reached the point where he was unable to generate even slight enthusiasm for a new morning.