The night after his arrival, he had talked to Guido in his usual reticent and disjointed way. Sentences related only by the silences in between. Long pauses to think out and frame the next words. Guido had said nothing. Just sat and nursed a drink and let his friend drag out his thoughts. The whole convoluted monologue was summed up at the end when Creasy said:
"I just get the feeling that I've lived enough or too much-a lot happened-I'm a soldier, nothing else ever-never wanted anything else-known anything else-but I'm sick of it. Have been for the last five years or so."
He had become embarrassed then. Expressing such feelings, even to his only friend, had been painful and out of character. Guido had stretched out a hand and touched his shoulder in a gesture of understanding.
For Guido did understand, completely. He had gone through the same thing after Julia's death. It had been two years before he could adjust to a life without her.
But the difference between them was fundamental. He had known a love and a happiness which had sharply defined his outlook on life. Its clarity was partly a result of its unexpectedness. He had fought and killed, drunk and whored his way around the world with hardly a passing thought about the effect he had on others. He had long assumed that the deep feelings of love, or compassion, or jealousy, or possession, were not inside him. His only feeling for any human being was for Creasy and, vaguely, his mother and brother.
His conversion had been dramatic. After a week with his mother, the two mercenaries had gone to Malta to look up a contact from their Congo days. The contact had been recruiting for a sheikdom in the Persian Gulf, but they hadn't liked the terms or the prospects. They decided to stay on a few days and look around. They ended up on the sister island of Gozo in a small hotel in a fishing village. It had been warm and relaxing and the people friendly.
Julia had worked at the hotel as receptionist. Guido had a way with girls, even shy, very religious, and highly protected girls, and within a few days she had agreed to meet him for a drink after work. She was slight and beautiful, and very direct in speech and manner. She repulsed his early advances, telling him she was a good girl and a virgin. Guido was intrigued. He had never known a virgin. Creasy looked on at the pursuit with benign amusement and agreed readily to stay on in Gozo while Guido talked and charmed and persuaded.
The conquest took three weeks, and it was not how Guido had imagined. They had gone, late at night, to swim at Ramla Bay and afterward sat on the dull red sands and talked for a long time. She had told him of her life, simple and unexceptional, her family farmers for generations. He found himself talking also about his life and it was difficult to convey because she kept asking "why" and he couldn't answer. The sun was coming up before they stopped talking and he had forgotten his original purpose. Then she told him that her parents would be very upset. In Gozo for a girl to stay out all night was the paramount crime.
"But we haven't done anything," protested Guido and saw her enigmatic look and realized that perhaps he was not the pursuer.
They had made love, and she had truly been a virgin and Guido had hesitated but she pulled him into her, cried out, and pulled him against her still harder. Guido would never forget those moments and all the women he had known were suddenly not women.
In the growing light he saw the blood on her thighs, the only blood he had ever seen caused by love. He watched her wipe it from her and look up at him and smile, shy but proud, and he knew that his life had changed.
They had walked together up over the hill, through Nadur to her parents' farm. Her father, already in the fields, watched them, still and silent, as they approached.
"This is Guido," she had said. "We are going to be married."
Her father had nodded and gone back to work. He knew his daughter. A night away from home meant a son-in-law.
They were married in the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Nadur. A young priest officiated. He was big and strong and reminded Guido a little of Creasy. He didn't look like a priest and his manner was abrupt and gruff, but the people of Nadur liked him. He worked hard and was practical. Farmers appreciate that. Gozitans give everyone nicknames and this priest they called "the Cowboy."
Guido had been concerned over how Creasy would react to this marriage. They had been friends for over fifteen years and had hardly ever been separated. But Creasy had been pleased and not really surprised. He had realized the girl loved Guido and had seen the strength in her and was happy for his friend.
He was best man at the wedding, silent and as gruff as "the Cowboy," and afterward at the wedding feast had drunk a lot of the strong Gozo wine and felt in himself a great deal of Guido's joy. It was happiness by proxy, but for all that a good emotion.
Julia had instinctively understood the friendship and didn't resent it. She looked upon Creasy as an integral part of Guido. When they left to go to Naples, Creasy had taken them to the airport, and when he bent down to kiss her cheek she had put her arms around him and held onto him for a long moment, and when she drew away he saw the tears in her eyes.
"Our home is your home," she said simply.
He nodded, his face strangely set, and said, "If he snores at night, just whistle-it shuts him up."
She had smiled and turned away unable to say any more. In the plane she had asked Guido what Creasy would do and he had answered that he would go and find a war somewhere.
So Guido returned to Naples with a wife and bought back the lease on his property and turned it into the Pensione Splendide. His mother's cup had run over and the church in Positano was bright with candles.
Creasy had visited them in Naples several times, coming or going to a war. He never wrote or phoned, just arrived. He always brought a present for Julia. Something distinctive. Once it had been a batik painting from Indonesia, rich and detailed, another time a string of natural aquamarine pearls from Japan. They were presents not bought on the spur of the moment, but thought about and distinct. She knew this and it gave her more pleasure than their beauty or obvious value.
He usually stayed only a few days, relaxed and comfortable, and then one evening would announce he was leaving and in the morning would be gone. But on the last occasion he had stayed more than a month. He was never idle, busying himself with small repairs around the building. He liked working with his hands.
When the last customers had left after dinner, the three of them would sit around the big kitchen table, watch television or read or just talk. Julia used to smile at the conversation of the two men, their mental rapport so acute that whole sentences would be reduced to one or two words. Guido might start it off with a question about a past acquaintance.
"Miller?"
"Angola."
"Still bitching?"
"As ever."
"But sharp?"
"A needle."
"The Uzi?'"
"Wedded to it."
Much of the conversation would be incomprehensible to her, especially when they talked of weapons. After the first couple of visits, Guido would be restless for a few days following Creasy's departure, but she said nothing. And by the last visit he was settled and adjusted and happy. On that last visit when Creasy announced he was leaving in the morning she had told him flatly that he was welcome to stay with them and make his home. Guido had said nothing; he didn't need to. Creasy had smiled at her, one of his rare smiles, and said, "One day I might do that and fix all your wiring and paint the place once a month." They knew he meant it. He would come and just never announce that he was leaving, and it would be good and right.
But Julia had gone shopping one day and the local football team had won and the supporters were driving in convoy through the city, horns blowing and flags flying, and one of the cars with eight drunks aboard had lost control and smeared her against a wall.
Creasy had arrived a week later, tired from a long journey. Guido had forgotten to ask how he knew. He stayed a couple of weeks and his presence brought Guido through.
Now Guido sat in his car and wat
ched the twilight over the bay. The sun had gone, leaving only refracted light. He tried to imagine his life if he had never known Julia and he could picture it and so could understand Creasy now.
He needed to do something different, if only for a while. Something to occupy his time and his mind. Something to halt the slide.
Creasy had gone to Rhodesia and tried to fit in. He had trained young white recruits and led them in the bush. But it was a different world, and he couldn't identify. He didn't try to differentiate between right and wrong on the war. He sympathized with the whites. They were not bad people. Time had just caught up.
They lived in the wrong century. They had come as pioneers, opening up a new country, and they looked on themselves as akin to the early American settlers. But times had changed. They couldn't wipe out the blacks as the American Indians had been wiped out, or the Australian aboriginals. Most of the whites wouldn't have wanted to and the few that did found that some of the blacks had land mines, grenades, rocket launchers, and Kalashnikovs. It was a different world. The terrible thing was the futility. It stared Creasy in the face. The others couldn't see it, but he had a lifetime to recognize it. Dien Bien Phu to Algeria to Katanga, back to Vietnam and into endless circles of futility. The war in Rhodesia brought his whole past into focus. Futile battles fighting for people who talked of patriotism, final stands, and never say die but death to the last man. He looked into his future and saw the exact same sequence. If not in Rhodesia, then somewhere else. Futile: it was an epitaph on his past and an adjective for his tomorrow.
He had lost interest. He started drinking heavily and let his body slacken and become lethargic. Finally they took him off operations and made him just an adviser. They would have kicked him out, but they remembered his earlier days and were grateful. It wasn't long before he realized the charity, and his pride picked him up and took him away. He went to Brussels, where he had known a woman, but she had moved on and so he took the train to Marseilles and on an impulse caught the ferry to Corsica. The main contingent of the Legion was based in Corsica and an instinct led him there. Many years had passed since the 1st R.E.P. had mutinied. The Legion itself had forgiven. There was a home there. Maybe the orphan could return to the orphanage.
He had arrived in Calvi in the afternoon and sat in the square and had a drink. The barracks lay up the hill and as he tried to decide whether to go up or not he heard the sound of singing. It was the Legion marching hymn, "Le Boudin," and then they came around the corner with the distinctive slow march eighty-five paces a minute. It was a unit of recruits, smart in their new uniforms, showing off their drill for the first time. He looked at the faces, young and scrubbed, and he felt a thousand years old.
When they had passed and the last sounds had died away, he finished his drink and walked to the station. The next day he was in Bastia, sitting by the docks drinking again and waiting for the ferry to Livorno. He would go and see Guido. Maybe they would get together again. Maybe it wouldn't be futile.
He had watched the few passengers go aboard and crossed the road to join them, passing the boy. As the ferry pulled out, he stood at the stern and saw the boy wave at him. He waved back. Goodbye, Corsica. Goodbye, boy.
"A bodyguard," said Guido.
Creasy looked at him blankly.
They sat in the kitchen and Guido explained about Elio's suggestion.
His brother had prospered. After a good education he had qualified as an accountant, all paid for by Guido.
He had joined a firm of auditors in Milan and had done well. He had explained to Guido that one of his clients was a security agency that supplied bodyguards to industrialists.
There was a great demand and a shortage of trained men. The pay was excellent. Guido had demurred.
Creasy was totally unfit and virtually an alcoholic. It would be taking a job under false pretenses, and Creasy wouldn't do it. Then Elio had explained about "premium bodyguards" and Guido had become interested. "But the pay is lousy," Elio had remarked.
That didn't matter, thought Guido. He knew that Creasy had plenty of money. He had earned a great deal over the years and spent little.
So he made the suggestion to Creasy and Creasy looked blank.
"A bodyguard," repeated Guido.
"You're crazy," replied Creasy, "in my state I couldn't guard a corpse."
Guido told him about "premium" bodyguards, but Creasy was unconvinced.
"People would hire a complete has-been-a drunk?"
Guido shrugged. "It's just a device to keep premium costs down."
"But a drunk?"
Guido sighed.
"Obviously you would have to keep the drinking under control. Drink at night. You do here, and you don't look so bad during the day."
"And what happens if there's a kidnap attempt?"
"You do your best. You're not paid to perform miracles."
Creasy thought about it but remained skeptical. He had always worked with military people of one kind or another. He raised a further objection.
"A bodyguard has to be close to someone all the time. I'm not good at that-you know it."
Guido smiled.
"So you'll be a silent-type bodyguard. Some people might appreciate that."
Creasy thought up other problems, but Guido pressured him gently. Elio had invited him to stay in Milan for a few days.
"Why not go up anyway, and look around?"
Finally Creasy agreed to see what kind of job was available. Then he went to bed, shaking his head and muttering incredulously, "Goddamn bodyguard!"
Guido fetched paper and a pen and wrote a letter to Elio. He knew that the agency would require information on Creasy's qualifications and that Creasy would be reluctant to provide anything but the barest details. He wrote for a long time, first sketching Creasy's career in the Legion and later in the various wars in Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Then he listed familiarity with different weapons. It was a long list. Finally he mentioned Creasy's decorations. Italians are impressed by medals.
He sealed the letter and left it on the table with a note asking Pietro to post it first thing in the morning. He went to bed feeling more encouraged than at any time since his friend's arrival.
Chapter 4
"Did they provide you with the gun?"
"Yes."
"Show me, please."
Creasy took his right hand off the steering wheel, reached under his jacket, and passed it over.
Ettore held it gingerly. He had never before held a pistol, and he was fascinated.
"What is it?"
"Beretta 84."
"Have you used this type before?"
"Yes, it's a good pistol."
"Is it loaded?"
Creasy took his eyes off the road and glanced at the Italian.
"It's loaded," he said dryly.
Ettore handed the weapon back and they drove on towards Como.
He had asked the American to drive the Lancia so that he could judge his capability. He was relieved that Creasy drove easily and smoothly.
It had been less simple finding a bodyguard than Vico had suggested. At least, a bodyguard to suit Rika's requirements.
She had been delighted with the result of his lunch with Vico and had immediately started making plans. She decided that the bodyguard would have a large room at the top of the house. She and Pinta busied themselves putting in extra furniture; a small table and a large easy chair, and several casual rugs. The room already had a big brass bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. He would eat with Maria, the housekeeper, and Bruno, the gardener, in the kitchen.
She drew up a list of his duties. Driving Pinta to school and picking her up in the afternoon were the most important. In between, he could chauffeur Rika herself to shopping and lunch engagements.
Naturally he would have to be presentable and of a polite and respectful disposition. She had also urged Ettore to hurry as the new school term started soon, and she wanted to join Ettore on his coming trip to Paris.
All this created problems. The first two applicants had been patently unacceptable, little more than street toughs whom Rika wouldn't have let through the door. The third had been an obvious homosexual, and Ettore had a thing against homosexuals. He had phoned the agency and complained about the quality of the applicants, but they had answered that bodyguards were scarce. They also implied, politely, that you got what you paid for. Nevertheless, they rang up the next day to arrange for an appointment for a fourth applicant; an American.
Ettore had not been encouraged. A foreigner was something unexpected, especially an American. He anticipated a gum-chewing, crew-cut gangster.
So he was pleasantly surprised when Creasy had been shown into his office. He looked hard enough, with the scars on his square face and the menacing eyes, but he was dressed smartly in a dark-blue suit and beige shirt. He stood at the door holding a large Manila envelope sealed with red wax, looking at Ettore without expression.
Ettore gestured and Creasy moved forward and took a seat in front of the desk. Then he handed over the envelope.
"The agency told me to give you this."
His Italian was almost perfect, with a slight Neapolitan accent.
Ettore took the envelope and asked, "Would you like coffee?" He was encouraged. He had not offered coffee to the others.
Creasy shook his head and Ettore broke the seal, pulled out the file, and began to read. It was a report on Creasy's qualifications and history provided by the agency from Guido's information.
Ettore read in silence and when he had finished he looked at the man in front of him for a long time. Creasy gazed back impassively.
"What's the catch?"
"I drink," came the flat reply.
Ettore digested this for a moment and glanced again at the file, then asked, "In what way does it affect you?"
Creasy's eyes narrowed in thought and Ettore sensed that he would get the absolute truth. "As it relates to this kind of job, it affects my coordination and reaction time. My ability to shoot fast and accurately is impaired. If I was a rich man, convinced that I or my family were going to be attacked, I wouldn't employ a man in my condition."
Man on Fire Page 5
