Man on Fire

by A. J. Quinnell

  "Play badly."

  She grinned up at him. "I will."

  He went back and sat in the car and picked up a newspaper. Faint tinklings reached him from an open upper window.

  The hour passed and he looked up as the apartment door slammed shut on its spring. She waved at him and started toward the car. She was still forty meters away when the black car came round the corner behind him and mounted the curb onto the grass. He saw the four men and instantly realized what was happening. He came out of the car fast, reaching for his gun. Pinta had stopped in surprise.

  "Run, Pinta, run!" he shouted.

  The car skidded to a stop in front of her, blocking her path to Creasy. The back door opened and two men jumped out. But Pinta was quick. She ducked under a reaching arm and scampered round the back of the car toward her running bodyguard. The two men were fast behind her. They both held revolvers. Creasy tried to draw a line on them but the girl was between and he hesitated. Then one of them caught up and scooped an arm round her, lifting her off her feet and turning back to the car. The other faced Creasy and fired a shot-high. Creasy shot him in the chest twice.

  The one holding Pinta was trying to force her into the back seat but she struggled wildly, screaming and kicking. Creasy was very close by the time he had finally flung her in and turned with his gun coming up.

  Creasy fired high aiming for the head, for fear of a bullet ricocheting into the car. The bullet hit the gunman below the nose, angling upward into the brain and slamming the body against the door-closing it. Then three shots rang out from the front seat and Creasy went down. Wheels spun and gripped and the car accelerated away. As it bounced back onto the road, the girl screamed out his name.

  He could barely move, his nervous system stunned by the bullets. It was very quiet. He lay waiting for help. Through the pain and shock his one hope was not to die. He had heard Pinta scream his name. Not a cry for help-she had seen him fall-a cry of anguish.

  Chapter 9

  A nurse sat by the bed, reading a book. Creasy was barely awake and heavily drugged. Above him two bottles were suspended upside down on a metal frame.

  Colorless liquid dripped rhythmically into transparent tubes. One snaked down to his left nostril. The other disappeared under a bandage around his right wrist. The door opened and a uniformed policeman spoke to the nurse.

  "A visitor. The doctor said just one minute."

  Guido entered the room, crossed to the bed, and looked down. "Can you hear me, Creasy?"

  The nod was almost imperceptible. "The worst is over. You're going to make it."

  Again the faint nod.

  '"I'll stay in Milan. Come to see you later when you can talk." Guido turned to the nurse. "You will stay with him?"

  "Somebody will always be with him," she said. Guido thanked her and left the room. Elio and Felicia waited in the corridor.

  "He's awake, but it will be a day or two before he can talk. Let's go home, I'll come back tomorrow."

  The doctor had told them that Creasy had been almost dead when they brought him in. They had operated immediately, patching and sewing rapidly. It was, the doctor explained, interim emergency surgery. If Creasy lived through the postoperative shock, they would build up his strength and operate again-more thoroughly. In the meantime-The doctor had shrugged eloquently. It was touch and go.

  For two days Creasy had been on the edge, and then he had come through. He must have a will, the doctor had remarked to Guido. A great will to live.

  The next day Creasy could talk.

  His first question to Guido was, "Pinta?"

  "They are negotiating," Guido replied. "Such matters can take time."

  "My condition?"

  Guido explained carefully and clinically. They were both experienced in such things.

  "You were hit twice. In the stomach and the right lung. Fortunately the bullets were thirty-two caliber. Anything heavier and you would have had it. They've patched the lung, and it should be alright. The stomach wound is the problem. It needs more surgery, but the doctor is hopeful, and he's experienced. There have been many gunshot wounds in this hospital."

  Creasy listened intently and asked: "The two I shot are dead?"

  Guido nodded. "You got one in the heart. Both bullets. The other through the brain. It was good shooting."

  Creasy shook his head.

  "I was slow-too damned slow!"

  "They were professionals," said Guido flatly.

  "I know, and they weren't expecting much opposition. They fired high at first, to frighten me off. If I'd been quicker I'd have gotten them all. They were too casual."

  He was getting tired now, and Guido rose to go. "I'll go to Como and see Balletto. See if there's anything I can do."

  Something caught his eye and he stood looking down, curiously. It was the crucifix. Creasy noted his gaze and said, "I'll tell you about it later."

  The visit to Como was not a success. Guido took Elio with him. Vico Mansutti and his wife were at the house. He seemed to be taking charge of matters. Ettore was subdued, dazed by events. But Rika, when she entered the room, was in a fury. The facts had come out. She had learned that Creasy was hired for a pittance, just to appease her. Now she was aware of the flaw.

  "A drunk!" she screamed at Guido. "A lousy drunk to protect my daughter." She looked at her husband scornfully. "A boy scout could have done better!"

  Elio started to protest but Guido silenced him, and they picked up Creasy's things and left.

  "She'll calm down when she gets her daughter back," Guido commented.

  He didn't mention the meeting to Creasy, and a week later the doctors operated again-successfully.

  Guido came into the room and pulled a chair up close to the bed. Creasy looked better, with more color in his face. He noted Guido's troubled expression and his eyes asked the question.

  "She's dead, Creasy."

  The wounded man turned his head away and looked up at the ceiling, his face expressionless, the eyes empty.

  Guido hesitated and then went on.

  "It was unintentional. The ransom was paid two days ago. She was supposed to have been released that night. She didn't turn up, and in the morning the police found her in the trunk of a stolen car. There had been a big sweep for a Red Brigade gang. It's thought that the kidnappers got nervous and went to ground for several hours. Her hands and mouth were taped and she had vomited-probably from petrol fumes. You know what can happen under those circumstances. There has been an autopsy. She choked to death."

  His voice petered out and there was a long silence, then Creasy asked: "Anything else?"

  Guido stood up and walked to the window. He stood looking at the garden below. The voice cracked behind him.

  "Well?"

  He turned around and said softly, "She had been raped. Frequently. There were bruises on her shoulders and arms."

  Another long silence. In the distance the bell of a church rang faintly.

  Guido moved to the foot of the bed and looked down at Creasy.

  The face was still set and expressionless. The eyes still looked up at the ceiling, but they were not empty-They glittered with hatred.

  The overnight train from Milan to Naples clattered over the points outside Latina. It was the middle of June and the train was long, with many carriages carrying holidaymakers south to the sun. The last carriage, dark blue, was lettered with the insignia of the International Sleeping Car Company. In Compartment 3 Creasy sat on the lower bunk, reading from a notebook. He had wakened at Rome after four hours' sleep.

  In a while he would go down the corridor and have a shower, and if the steward was awake, get a coffee. He had slept well. He always did on trains. The early light showed the face, thinner and pale.

  It had not seen much sun. He wore a pair of faded jeans and was bare from the waist up. The two recent scars were puckered, red weals.

  He finished reading and picked up a ball-point pen from the small corner table and made notes on the last blank
page. At one point he smiled briefly. A memory triggered.

  It was fully light when he finished. He tore out the page and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, hanging behind the door.

  He took a towel and his shaving gear and walked down the corridor. The steward was up and in the galley preparing breakfast trays. A small neat man, with a small neat mustache and, despite the early hour, a cheerful smile.

  "Good morning-Naples in an hour."

  Creasy smiled back.

  "The coffee smells good. Are the showers vacant?"

  The steward nodded.

  "No one else up yet." Creasy went through and took his shower and shaved leisurely. It beat traveling by car, or even by plane.

  His recovery had been steady. He was a good patient, listening carefully to the doctor and following all instructions.

  A week after the second operation, he was able to get out of bed and into a wheelchair. A few days later he was walking.

  He didn't push himself. He was experienced and knew that his body needed time. To move too fast would be counterproductive.

  They let him into the garden and he walked a little each day, with his shirt off, and the sun warming his back between the bandages.

  He was popular with the nurses and staff. Not bothering them unnecessarily and undergoing all the indignities of being an invalid quietly and without fuss. Also they had nursed him back from the very edge of death, and that made him special.

  He had given one of the nurses some money and she brought him all the newspapers covering the period since the kidnapping. Later she was able to borrow copies of newspapers going back many months. He asked her for a notebook and this gradually filled with his jottings.

  He had had only one visitor and that was a surprise. Late one evening Signora Deluca was shown in, carrying a bag of fruit. She had stayed half an hour and talked of Pinta and had cried a little. He found himself comforting her. Of all her children, she had said, it had to be Pinta. She had dried her tears and looked at him with kindly eyes. She had heard the talk, that he was not a real bodyguard, had just been for show. But she knew of his affection for the girl. She asked him what he would do, and he had shrugged and told her he had no plans. But she had been puzzled. He seemed assured and at ease. Not what she had expected. Finally she had kissed his cheek and left.

  He began to go to the physiotherapy room, gently exercising and swimming in the heated pool. They gave him small spring exercisers for his hands and, as he walked around the garden farther each day, he squeezed them constantly, feeling the strength returning to his fingers.

  After a month the doctor told him his recovery was excellent-beyond expectation. He thought another week would be enough.

  He spent most of that week in the physiotherapy department, using the full range of equipment.

  When he left the hospital he was still weak and a long way from fit, but his body functioned in all aspects.

  The doctor and matron and several nurses wished him good-bye and good luck and received his thanks. They stood at the steps and watched him walk down the drive, suitcase in hand.

  "A strange man," the matron had commented.

  The doctor agreed. "He has much experience of hospitals."

  The train pulled into the Naples central station and Creasy tipped the steward and followed the crowd out into the Piazza Garibaldi. He quickly found a taxi.

  "Pensione Splendide," he told the driver, reaching forward to turn on the meter. The driver cursed under his breath. He hadn't had a real tourist yet and it was June already.

  The taxi arrived as Pietro pulled up in the van after his morning's visit to the market. He looked Creasy up and down, and they shook hands.

  "How do you feel?"

  "OK. Let me give you a hand with those baskets."

  Guido was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, when they walked in.

  "Qa va, Guido." He put a basket on the table.

  "Qa va, Creasy." Guido studied him carefully and then stood up and they embraced.

  "You don't look half bad. They patched you up well."

  "Good mechanics up there," Creasy answered, and they both smiled at words often used before.

  It was after dinner when the two men talked at length, sitting out on the terrace in the warm night. To Creasy it seemed a long age since he had last sat there.

  He quietly explained to Guido what he intended to do. He did not invoke moral issues. It was not a question of justice-a crime to be punished.

  Anyway, Guido knew him too well for that. It was simply revenge. They had killed someone precious to him. He would kill in turn.

  "An eye for an eye?" asked Guido quietly.

  Creasy shook his head slowly and said with great emphasis, "More than that. More than an eye. Every bloody piece of them."

  "You were really fond of the girl!" It was half-question, half-statement.

  Creasy thought carefully before answering. He was searching for the words. It was so important that Guido understood. Really understood.

  "Guido, you know what I am. Five months ago I sat here and saw nothing in front of me. I took the job only to keep myself from blowing my brains out."

  He smiled wryly at Guido's look.

  "It's true. I really thought about it. I felt things were over-pointless to go on. The girl changed that. I don't know how. She sort of crept up on me. Day by day she slipped into my life."

  He shook himself at the memory. Guido remained silent, intrigued by the revelation.

  "You know what I am." He repeated the phrase, trying to clarify exactly what had happened to him.

  "Never had any truck with kids. Just a nuisance. Then this one comes along. She was so fresh. My life was over-all behind. Then I kept seeing things through her eyes. For her, nothing had existed before, as though the whole world suddenly appeared one morning, just for her."

  The monologue stopped and he sat looking down over the lights and the dark sea. Then he said softly, "She loved me, Guido-me!" He looked up. "Not like that, you understand. Not physical. Better than that."

  Guido said nothing, and Creasy went on.

  "I cut right back on the drinking-didn't need it. In the mornings I'd bring the car around to the front and she'd run down the steps. Christ, man, she seemed to carry the sun on her shoulder. She had nothing bad in her. No malice, no greed, no hate."

  His face showed the struggle of trying to explain. Using words alien to him. He suddenly asked, "You ever hear music by Dr. Hook?"

  Guido shook his head.

  "Well, he's Country and Western. He sings about a woman that's older. Tells her he can't touch the sun for her, can't reach the clouds, can't make her young again. But Guido, that's just what she did for me-touched the sun."

  The words should have sounded incongruous, even ridiculous, coming from such a man. But to Guido they were real. Painful but real. And he understood. In a different way, the same thing had happened to him when Julia had entered his life.

  He remembered something.

  "The crucifix?"

  "Yes, she gave it to me. A present for my birthday." He smiled. "Told me if I met the devil to hold it up in front of me."

  The smile faded, and his voice hardened.

  "Then those bastards took her, and abused her and left her to choke to death in her own vomit! I keep seeing it. They would have kept her eyes taped. Tied to some dirty bed somewhere. Using her whenever they got bored. Filth!"

  Anger and hatred radiated from him.

  "Do you understand, Guido, why I'm going after them?"

  Guido stood up and walked to the railing. He was very moved. He had seen the depth of Creasy's feelings. At last someone had turned the key, no matter that the lock had been rusty.

  "Yes, Creasy, I understand. It happened to me. I loved Julia. Different, but the same. In a way I envy you. When she died I wanted to take revenge, but against who? The driver of the car was a kid. The accident unbalanced him." He shrugged. "It would have been empty. And she wo
uldn't have wanted it but I know what you feel."

  Creasy joined him at the railing.

  "I need help, Guido."

  Guido nodded and put his hand on Creasy's shoulder.

  "You have it, Creasy. Anything I can do. But I won't kill again. I gave that up. Promised her. But anything else."

  "I wouldn't ask you to, or want you to. I'll do the killing. But helping me could put you in some danger."

  Guido smiled.

  "It's possible, but that's no stranger."

  He looked at Creasy quizzically.

  "You know who did it?"

  Creasy nodded.

  "I'm certain. I got a good look at them and I've been doing some research. The man who shot me is called Sandri. The driver of the car is one Rabbia. They work for a man called Fossella."

  He smiled grimly.

  "They are so sure of themselves. They claimed they were in Turin at the time. Had a dozen witnesses."

  "How do you know their names?"

  "The police showed me a whole book of mug shots and I picked them out easily."

  "You didn't tell the police?"

  Creasy shook his head. "What would have happened to them? Tell me, Guido."

  It was a rhetorical question, but Guido gave the answer.

  "A few years in jail at the most. Comfortable years. Lots of perks. An early parole. You know the way it is."

  "Exactly. Well, it won't be that way. Not this time."

  Guido considered the project and said, "Shouldn't be difficult. They won't be expecting it. You'll be able to pick them off and get clear. They're probably not top-level men."

  "It won't be like that, Guido." Creasy said it quietly but with emphasis, and Guido looked puzzled.

  "How then?"

  "Not just those two. I'm going after anyone who had a hand in it, or profited from it. Right to the top. The whole stinking, filthy nest."

  Guido looked astonished and then laughed out loud. As the implication sank in, he laughed harder, not in disbelief, but at the sheer scope. Creasy smiled.

  "So you see why I need your help."

  "And how! You know what it means? You understand their setup?"

  Creasy nodded. "Reasonably well. Not everything, but I know the basics. There are two main bosses in Milan. Fossella and Abrata. Fossella pulled this kidnap, so he's in line after Rabbia and Sandri. Conti in Rome would get a cut, so he gets it too, and finally the fat cat in Palermo-Cantarella. He gets a piece of everything. Now he gets a piece of the killing."