In short, the whole world was a vast, unexplored, and fascinating territory. She had the perception to understand that she was placing her foot on the first step of discovery. Creasy became her guide. Her mother lived in her own limited world and her father treated her very much as a child, and this was reflected in his manner and conversation.
So Creasy was a revelation and she quickly realized the importance of not just listening to him but of commenting on what he had to say. So she always responded, and after a while a dialogue developed that spanned two opposite backgrounds and several generations.
The watershed had been the Sunday lunch with Elio and Felicia. She knew that Creasy had opened the door, and she passed gratefully through.
It was acceptance, and she had been happy but careful, responding slowly at first to Elio and Felicia and constantly looking to Creasy for a lead. But he had been relaxed and unconcerned, not like a parent, but like someone who had brought a friend to meet friends. So she too had relaxed and played with the children and helped Felicia in the kitchen and joined her in teasing the men. It had been a wonderful day, and since then she had been easy with Creasy, understanding him and opening him up with a delicate mental crowbar.
He even started answering questions about himself.
She first asked about Guido. The two men had talked of him over lunch. She learned of their friendship and the years they had been together. She noticed that when Creasy talked of Guido, the hard lines of his face softened. She decided she would like to know him.
For Creasy, it was a catharsis. He found talking to Pinta easy. Maybe it was her lack of knowledge and experience. Maybe her uncluttered mind. But he talked and felt better for it. Even the bad things, the pain of war, the brutalizing. She had led the way, consciously, as if it were a test. Driving home from that lunch, she had reached out and touched one of his hands.
"Creasy, what happened to your hands?"
He hadn't jerked away as before but glanced down at the mottled scars, and his mind went back to 1954 and the end at Dien Bien Phu. Surrender, humiliation, and then three weeks of forced marching to a P.O.W. camp. Every day dragging one foot after the other. Little food and much death. When a man fell and couldn't get up, the guards shot him. Many fell, but Creasy stayed up and survived and carried a young wounded officer on his back. After survival, interrogation. The suave, Sorbonne-educated, Viet Minn captain sitting small and immaculate across the wooden table from the huge, gaunt Legionnaire. The questions, the many questions, and the shake of his head to denote refusal to answer. The Vietnamese captain chain-smoking and always the Gauloise cigarettes being stubbed out on the backs of Creasy's strapped-down hands.
"A man once asked me questions. He smoked a lot. There was no ashtray."
She understood immediately and was long silent. Tears filled her eyes.
He glanced at her.
"Bad things happen in the world. I told you that, once."
She smiled through the tears.
"Good things happen, too."
After that she was free with personal questions, but she learned only sparsely of his youth. His parents, poor and crushed by the Depression. A small holding in Tennessee barely enough to eat. Joining the Marines at the earliest possible age. Korea the recognizing of a talent for fighting. Striking an officer who had been stupid and let good men die. Disgrace, and nowhere to go back to. So then the Legion and all that followed.
Apart from Guido, this eleven-year-old child learned more about Creasy than anyone on earth.
Rika was radiant. Spring had arrived and lightened her life. Creasy was definitely a factor. She talked to her friends about her "gem." Told them how fond he was of Pinta. The big shambling bear with the puppy gamboling along behind. She didn't recognize the profound change in him. To her, he was still silent and remote and mysterious. Pinta had tamed him, she said to Ettore, and he had nodded in acquiescence. He didn't see Creasy as more than an adjunct to his life. Useful in that Pinta and, more importantly, Rika were happy; but still just an employee-poorly paid, and with a secret drinking problem.
But the drink had ceased to be a big problem. Now, most nights, Creasy would consume less than half a bottle. The need to blot out the mind was eased. He had never been an alcoholic in the clinical sense. It was not an addiction, and although its accumulated effect still conditioned him and slowed him, his mind had sharpened again. Also, he was mentally preparing to get his body back into shape. It had started with Pinta and the forthcoming sports meeting. As soon as her ankle healed, Creasy knocked up a pair of starting blocks and set them into the front lawn. Then, with Pinta in a blue-and-white track suit, they worked on her starts. Creasy told her about reaction time. "Your ears hear the bang of the starting gun and pass the message to your brain; then your brain sends out a message to the nerves in your legs and arms. This message says GO. The secret is to cut down the time needed for sending those messages."
He taught her how to concentrate on the sound itself. Not to consciously listen for it or anticipate it. When the bang came, her reaction must be automatic. He simulated the starting gun by clapping his hands, and after an afternoon's practice she was coming up out of the blocks like a startled deer. Every day, he told her-every day we practice for an hour, and on the big day, you will win.
That night he lay in bed listening to Johnny Cash and thinking about the girl. She was so alive, so quick, her body tuned and fit. It made him think of himself. He decided that after the three months, when he was confirmed in the job, he would locate a gym in Como or Milan and spend a couple of evenings a week getting fit. If he left it too much longer, it would be too late.
He recognized what the girl had done to him. A vacuum was filled. In a way he had changed his course. She had a life in front of her. He would watch her develop. Play a part in her moving mind. There were no deaths, no destruction, no mutilation-it was not futile. Johnny Cash finished and he reached out and changed the tape.
Linda Ronstadt sang "Blue Bayou"; and downstairs Pinta smiled as she heard the music.
Rika came out of the hairdresser's and looked around for the car. It was a dull, overcast day and the Milan traffic was heavy. She spotted the car parked about thirty meters away, Creasy standing beside it. As she walked toward him, a flurry of movement across the street caught her eye: two men jumping from the side door of a Volkswagen van. They ran toward a man unlocking the door of a white Fiat. She saw the guns in their hands and as the first shots rang out, she came to a stunned halt. The man had turned, reaching under his jacket, and then Creasy reached her, an arm coming around her waist, sweeping her off her feet into a shop doorway. She found herself on the pavement under his heavy body. More shots, and she screamed as glass shattered above them. She saw the gun in Creasy's hand, held low down by his side. Sounds-the slamming of the van door and the squeal of tires and a racing engine and finally silence.
"Wait here, don't move." His voice was calm, flat, and positive. The weight eased off her as he stood up, carefully backing away so that glass didn't fall on her. She lay still, watching, as he walked back to the car. His gun had disappeared. He stood by the car looking across the street. Her eyes followed. A man lay across the bonnet of the Fiat-red blood on the white metal. Instinctively she knew he was dead. He lay that way. Creasy opened the back door of the car and walked back to her. He put down a hand and helped her up. She was unsteady, but he put an arm round her and walked her slowly to the car. People were moving again. A woman was sobbing in shock. A siren sounded, wailing closer. He put her into the back seat.
"Stay in there. It will take some time. The police will put up roadblocks and ask questions all around."
She was shivering slightly, her face very white against her black hair. He reached forward and put the back of his hand against her cheek. It was cold. He cupped her chin and raised her face, looking into her eyes. They were dull-glazed.
"Are you alright? Rika, look at me!"
Her eyes focused, and she nodded slowly. A po
lice car had arrived, its rhythmic light flashing, its siren dying. Excited voices, and more sirens homing in. She nodded again, her mind functioning.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll talk to the police. We'll leave as soon as possible." He looked at her closely, then, satisfied, closed the door and walked across the street.
It had been a Red Brigade killing, the victim a prosecuting attorney. Not an unusual event in Milan.
Creasy showed the police his bodyguard's license and told them what he had seen, which was not much. He gave them a description of the two gunmen that could have fitted a hundred thousand youths in the city. Also the number plate of the Volkswagen, which was certainly stolen.
Half an hour later he drove out of the suburbs toward Como with a silent Rika in the back seat. They were halfway home when she suddenly burst out:
"Animals! Shooting people down in the street-Animals!"
The shoulders in front of her shrugged.
"You had the gun in your hand," she said. "I saw it. Why didn't you shoot them?"
"Nothing to do with me-or you," he answered shortly. "Besides, apart from the driver, there was another one in the front of the van. He had a sawed-off shotgun. If I'd started shooting at his friends, he would have blasted us. As it was, we were lucky. The victim got off one shot. It passed only a couple of feet over us."
That silenced her for ten minutes. He watched her in the rearview mirror. Her private world had been invaded. Violence had leapt off the television screen and slapped her in the face. He saw her visibly compose herself, relate again to her own world. She leaned forward and picked a tiny shard of glass from his hair.
"You were so fast, Creasy. I never saw you coming-thank God you were there."
He pulled in through the gates and up to the front door.
"I need a brandy," she said, stepping out. "A big one. Come on in."
"Pinta," he said, staying at the wheel.
"Pinta?"
"It's quarter to five."
"Oh, of course. That thing made me forget. Go ahead. I'll see you later."
She stood at the foot of the steps and watched as he reversed the car and drove off. Then she went in and poured the large brandy. Shock wore off, and she reenacted the scene in her mind. The sudden sharp movement-the sounds-breaking glass and the weight of Creasy lying over her. His stillness. The copper taste of fear in her mouth. Creasy so sure-so calm. Later she would phone Ettore in Rome and tell him about it.
And then some of her friends. It was an event-The bodyguard justified. He had been so unaffected-looking at the dead man without expression or emotion. He had seen it all so often. She remembered his hand against her face, cupping her chin. The scarred hand-Pinta had told her how. The heavy eyes studying her-steadying her. She poured another brandy and sipped it slowly. She would not call Ettore tonight. The morning would be soon enough.
He had not been fast-far from it. At least not by his standards. He lay in bed thinking about it. He didn't play a cassette and he wasn't drinking. Part of his mind was waiting, part analyzing. He decided that if Rika had been the target, she would now be dead. A time ago he could have picked off the man with the shotgun and the two on foot before they had gone five paces.
They were novices. Determined amateurs. The victim had got off a shot; a wild one, but the terrorists had been lucky. They should have done the job with the shotgun and never left the van. Both barrels from ten meters would have been totally positive-amateurs.
But still he had been slow. His reactions dull.
Rika would have been dead.
It decided him. All his life he had considered his body as a weapon. Cared for it as he cared for his other weapons. Nursed it back from injury. Exercised all the parts and kept it responsive to his brain. Now it would be difficult. Unlike a gun, he couldn't take a cleaning rag to it, burnish it up, lubricate the moving parts. The whole thing had to be rebuilt, and slowly. It would be a long and painful process. He didn't look unfit-was barely overweight. Only Guido, who had known him in earlier days, could discern it-the slackness and the lack of muscle tone. A fine machine rusted and neglected.
It would take months. Carefully at first, ten minutes of circuit training in his room every morning, stepping up the tempo. Then sessions in a gym, using weights and bars. It would come back. It was not too late. He had caught it just in time.
It was after midnight when the soft tap came on the door. The waiting had ended. She wore a nightdress, white and long, and she carried, cradled in her hand, a large goblet of cognac. Silk rustled as she crossed the room. The cognac was proffered and he took it with a touch of fingers. She sat on the bed and watched as he sipped. The sheet came to his waist and she studied his face and upper body, then reached out and traced a finger down the scar on his shoulder. She picked up his free hand and placed it against her cheek, pressing against it, moving her head gently, ebony hair swaying. He put the glass on the bedside table and moved his hand behind her neck pulling her towards him. The kiss was long-searching.
She stood and the white silk slipped to the floor. She showed herself to him, standing just out of reach. Not evocative, not posing, just showing. This is my body, look at it; I'm going to give it to you. A gift-a gift that only I can give.
The single, shaded light fell on her softly. Long and full and curved. Perfect proportion from the bell of hair to points of color at eyes and wide, full mouth. Soft shadow in the cleft chin, curved strong neck. His eyes passed down, unhurried, appreciating. More shadows under high breasts, nipples erect, a young girl's waist, and then the sweep out. Shadowed triangle above long symmetry of leg.
She stood absolutely still, her eyes never leaving his face as he took her in.
He understood at that moment. Understood how any man could be captured and drugged by such beauty. It saturated the mind.
He looked up again into her eyes and she moved back to him. Still standing-but close. He ran a hand slowly down from her waist to the soft flesh behind her knee. Her skin trembled slightly at the contact.
She moved again, sitting on the bed, pulling away the sheet. Her turn to look. Again she traced a scar with her finger-from his knee almost to the groin; and then the black hair swung down and her mouth and tongue followed the finger and moved higher. It was sudden. His breath forced out as moist warmth took him in.
A hand came up over his chest to his face and mouth. Long fingers felt his lips and probed between them.
He felt the cool air as she lifted her head and slid up beside him. Her mouth joined her fingers, her tongue moved alongside them. She raised her head now and looked into his eyes, hair falling to the pillow, darkening her face, and his. She positioned herself and lowered, never shifting her gaze. Moist warmth again, like her mouth: but different. So slowly-first contact; just joining, pausing; and then the warmth moving down and clamping tight, and the soft belly against his and her release of breath, and pleasure, and breasts moving on his chest, and rippling tremors.
For a while he was passive-receptive. Then his arms came around her, one over her shoulders, holding her tight, the other lower, to her undulating bottom, resting lightly-shaping the curve, steadying the rhythm. Then he twisted, holding her close and pulling her under him.
Now she closed her eyes. Senses lost. She had wanted to control. To lead. But that had gone. She felt his mouth on her face, on her closed eyes and then her lips. A quickening of movement and breathing. His grip tightened. Instinct told her he was near. She wanted it to be together and thrust up to him. She would be late. She felt the spasms in him. Her back arched, and she opened her eyes and above her, inches away, saw the dull blue grip of the pistol jutting from its oiled holster and she came to the top suddenly, shuddering against him and together.
They lay for a long time-no words. Just feeling. Mostly his hands over her. Feeling and molding like a blind man seeing with his fingers. Occasionally he kissed her face, tracing its contours with his lips.
She rose at first light, picking the silk nightdress
up from the floor. She looked down at his sleeping face and shivered slightly and slipped on the nightdress. She would not come again. In the night she had felt like a child, giving away her will, all her emotions. It frightened her.
And she knew he wouldn't call her. Would not need to. Since she had entered the room, they had not spoken a word.
"Why don't we use your gun?"
"Because it's not that kind of gun."
They were driving to Como. Creasy had decided that more realism was needed in her training. Clapping his hands was no substitute for the real thing. They would try to find a sports shop that stocked starting pistols or, failing that, a toy shop that had cap guns.
"But it makes a bang, doesn't it," she persisted.
"Yes," he said. "And it also fires a bullet."
"But you could aim into the air."
"Pinta, what goes up must come down, and a bullet dropping from over a mile could be dangerous."
She saw the logic in that and turned her attention to the local newspaper. She was looking for an advertisement for a sports shop. Instead she came across the horoscopes.
"What's your sign, Creasy?"
He looked puzzled.
"Your stars. When is your birthday?"
"April fifteenth."
"April fifteenth! But that's in a few days!" She calculated. "On Sunday!"
He shrugged, uninterested, but she was at an age when birthdays were exciting.
"It's the day after the sports meeting. I'll ask Maria to make a cake. How old will you be?"
He turned to her sternly.
"You will tell Maria nothing. No fuss. I'm past the age when birthdays are a cause for celebration."
Man on Fire Page 10
