Guido laughed again, but quietly.
"Conti I know. I won't be at all sorry about him. I'll tell you why later. How did you get all this?"
Creasy shrugged.
"A lot of it's in the old newspapers. I had plenty of time to go through them. They are so damned arrogant that they practically advertise. I also read a book by a journalist called Andato-The Other Country. He really dug deep. It's a wonder he's still alive."
Guido shook his head.
"Not after the book was published. They only kill outside their own circle to protect a secret, and once the book was out there was no more secret."
He considered awhile.
"Anyway, I can help you. I still have a few old connections. I'll check the setup."
"Connections?"
Guido smiled.
"Yes. I never told you how I came to join the Legion. Now it's very ironical. But I'll tell you later. Meanwhile, how else can I help?"
The two of them went into the kitchen to get coffee, and they sat at the table and went into details.
Creasy had worked out a careful strategy. He mapped it out, and Guido was impressed. He made notes on a pad about requirements for transport and accommodations. Finally he sat back and took a sip of coffee and surveyed his friend over the cup.
"It's good, Creasy-very good. I can understand that you have to improvise after Milan, but by then you should have good information. But do you really know what you're up against?"
"Tell me."
Guido arranged his thoughts.
"They are even more powerful than most people believe, or want to believe. They defy the police and sometimes control them. They even subvert the courts. They bribe politicians at all levels, from village councillors to Cabinet ministers. In some areas, particularly the south and Sicily, they are literally the law, punishing and rewarding as they see fit. They practically run the prisons from within. Several times, over the years, the authorities have made an effort. They are making one now, in Calabria. There's a big trial in Reggio about corruption and forced purchase of land for the new steel complex, but..."
He waved his cup in an eloquent gesture and continued.
"The weapons the authorities have-the police, the Carabinieri, the courts and prisons-are often corrupt and infiltrated. There are a few good policemen and brave prosecutors and judges, but the system is too weak. Only Mussolini in the thirties had any success and only because he used Fascist methods. A lot of innocent people suffered along with the Mafia. After Mussolini, they came back stronger than ever. They can call on thousands of informers. Even contacts inside the police forces. They have their own groups in every city and town of any size and, as you get south, in every village. A whole army of strong-arm men."
He poured more coffee and told Creasy of his early associations in Naples and particularly of Conti. Finally he sat back and waited for Creasy's reaction.
"It won't be easy," Creasy agreed. "But I have several points in my favor. First, like Mussolini, I can use tactics the police cannot use. Terror, for example. These people use it as a weapon but are not used to facing it themselves. Second, I'll get information as I move along-one to the next. Information the police can't get because they can't use my methods."
Guido took the point. Creasy would get them talking.
"Third," Creasy went on, "unlike the police, my aim is not to collect evidence and bring them to court. My aim is to kill them."
His voice went quieter.
"Fourth, I have more motivation than the police. Motivation that a policeman or a judge couldn't have. They're doing a job. They have wives, families, careers to think about. I don't, and I'll come at them in a way they've never experienced."
Guido thought about it. They were distinct advantages, perhaps crucial.
"Weapons?" he asked.
Creasy reached into his jacket pocket.
"Is Leclerc still operating out of Marseilles?"
"I think so," Guido answered. "I can check with a phone call." He took the sheet of paper and read the list that Creasy had drawn up on the train. He whistled softly.
"Hell, Creasy, you really are going to war! Do you think Leclerc will have all this?"
"He can get it," said Creasy. "He was offering most of it to the Rhodesians a couple of years back. I was called in for advice. He did good business. Do you think he'll play it straight? It's just peanuts to him."
"He should," answered Guido. "You pulled him out of that mess outside Bukavu. He should be suitably grateful."
"Maybe, but he's a sharp bastard, and he's made a lot of money since he's been selling arms instead of using them himself. Being rich can change people. You may have to lean on him."
"Any suggestions?"
"Tell him about a technicolor funeral."
Guido smiled at the memory. "That should do it." He waved the paper. "When will you need the stuff?"
"Not for two months. It will take me at least that long to get fully fit. I'll pick it up in Marseilles myself. I've worked out a way to get it in."
The question of fitness raised another point.
"I need to go somewhere quiet," he said. "Any suggestions?"
Guido thought for only a moment.
"Why not Malta? To Julia's family, on Gozo. They still have the farm and it's very quiet. You would be welcome. I know that. I go every year myself for a couple of weeks. I can phone them."
Creasy thought about it and then nodded. "Sounds good. Sure I won't be in the way?"
Guido smiled. "You can help Paul on the farm. It's hard work and will harden you up. You always liked working with your hands. You'll make a good farmer."
So that was settled. They went on to talk of money. Guido suggested he finance the weapons and various purchases in Italy. He still had an account in Brussels and it would be easier than for Creasy to transfer money around. He could pay Guido back when it was over.
"What if I don't make it?" asked Creasy seriously.
Guido grinned. "Remember me in your will!"
Creasy smiled back but didn't say anything, didn't need to.
They talked on into the night. It was decided that Creasy would leave in two days on the ferry to Palermo. He wanted a quiet look at Cantarella's base. From there he would take the train to Reggio di Calabria and pick up the ferry to Malta.
It was almost dawn when the two friends finished, but they hadn't noticed. It was the tonic of old times. When they finally rose from the table, Guido picked up his pad and flicked through the pages, checking that nothing had been forgotten. Then he looked up and said, "The main thing now is for you to get fit."
Creasy stretched and yawned and smiled grimly.
"Yes fighting fit."
Book Two
Chapter 10
The Melitaland was not a beautiful example of marine architecture. It sat in the water squat and belligerent-disdainful of sleek lines or raked funnels. Its job was to transport cars, trucks, and people the two miles between Malta and Gozo.
Creasy stood on the top deck, suitcase at his feet. The Italian ferry from Reggio had been delayed twelve hours by a strike and so had arrived in Malta's Grand Harbour in the early morning. It had saved him from spending a night on the big island, and this had pleased him-he was eager to settle in and get started on his program.
The ship passed the small island of Comino, with its old watchtower set high above the cliffs. The water below was a vivid blue above a sandy bottom-the Blue Lagoon. Creasy remembered swimming there, eight years before, with Guido and Julia.
Pollution had been minimized here by the tides and currents-the water was still clear and the shoreline uncluttered.
He looked ahead toward Gozo-steeper and greener than Malta, with villages crowning the hills. It was an island of intensive agriculture, and the fields were terraced right down to the water's edge.
He had liked Gozo on his previous visit. It was unique, in his experience, for having no class in its society. The poorest fisherman knew he was as good as
the richest landowner. A man who thought himself better than others should avoid Gozo. He remembered the people as being noisy and cheerful and, once they knew you, friendly. The noise started now as they turned into the small harbor of Mgarr and the passengers bustled forward to be the first off.
He walked up the hill to a bar with the unlikely name of "Gleneagles." It was an old, oblong building and had a narrow balcony facing the water. Guido had told him to phone Julia's parents from there and they would pick him up. The interior was high-ceilinged and cool-a barn of a place, with paintings of local landscapes on the walls and an assortment of locals propping up the bar.
Creasy left his suitcase by the door. The sight of pint mugs of beer reminded him that he was thirsty, and he gestured at the draft pump. The bartender, a short, balding, round-faced man, asked, "Pint or half?"
"Pint, thanks." Creasy eased himself onto a stool and put a pound in front of him. The beer was cool and amber, and he drank deep. When the bartender brought back his change, Creasy asked, "Would you have the phone number of Paul Schembri?"
He received a blank look.
"Paul Schembri," he repeated. "He has a farm near Nadur, you must know him."
The bartender shrugged and said, "Schembri is a common name, and there are lots of farmers on Gozo." He went down the bar to serve someone else.
Creasy was not annoyed. In fact, he approved. The man had to know Paul Schembri. It was a very small island. But it was an island that protected its privacy. Even a mild invasion of tourists couldn't change that. They were friendly to strangers but didn't tell them anything until they knew who they were and what they wanted. A Gozitan would deny knowing his own brother until he knew who was doing the asking. So Creasy drank his beer and bided his time. Then he called for another one, and when it arrived said,
"Guido Arrellio sent me. I'm to stay with Paul Schembri."
Light dawned.
"Oh you mean that Paul Schembri? The farmer-near Nadur?"
Creasy nodded. "That's the one."
The bartender studied him and then smiled. He had one of those rare smiles that light a room. He held out a hand.
"I'm Tony. I remember you now. You were here when Guido married Julia." He gestured down the bar to a younger man. "My brother Sam," and then to a grease-covered drinker, "That's 'Shreik,'" and to the two others, "Michele and Victor-when they're not drinking in here, they run the ferry."
Creasy remembered them supervising the loading of the cars and trucks and collecting the fares. He was no longer a stranger. Tony picked up the phone and dialed a number and spoke a few words in Maltese.
Then the smile came again. "Joey will be down in a few minutes to pick you up."
Sam put another pint in front of Creasy and gestured towards the grease-covered "Shreik." Creasy remembered the drinking prowess of the Gozitans, and how, once they started to buy each other rounds, a day and a half could go by. He felt good and relaxed. He could relate to these people. He wouldn't get a bunch of questions.
No one would pry or try to slot him into a category or throw a spurious friendship at him. Everything would be face value. Be what you want to be. Do what you want to do. Just don't step on toes, and don't be mean when it's your round and, above all, don't be "proud." Being "proud" was the greatest possible sin in Gozo. It could be equated with being stuck-up. A man could be an arsonist or a sodomist and still be accepted, but if he was "proud"-forget it.
Creasy finished his beer and caught Tony's eye. Tony was one of those bartenders, the rare breed, that see everything, no matter how busy they are. He moved down the bar, filling drinks, and took more money from in front of Creasy.
"Yourself?" Creasy asked.
Tony shook his head. "Too early for me."
Ten minutes went by before the smile came again and he picked up another ten cents and said, "Why not," and pulled himself a beer.
Creasy was to learn that this was Tony's habit. He always turned down a drink and then spent anything from ten minutes to half an hour asking himself why. The cogitation always ended in a smile and the inevitable "Why not!"
Every Gozitan has a nickname, and it was no surprise to learn that this bartender was called "Why Not."
A battered Land Rover pulled up outside and a young man loped in-long-legged and open-faced, with black curly hair. He stuck out a work-calloused hand.
"Hi, I'm Joey. Welcome to Gozo."
Creasy could vaguely remember Julia's young brother, but he would have been only ten at the time. Joey looked at Tony and panted exaggeratedly and was presented with a beer.
"You're not in a great rush, are you?" he asked with a smile. Creasy returned the smile and shook his head.
Joey downed half his beer. "That's good. I've been sacking onions all day and it's thirsty work."
A mild drinking session got under way with a lot of good humor. English is the second language of the Maltese Islands, and only occasionally the drinkers would lapse into Maltese to emphasize a point. The language contains a lot of Arabic and Italian, and has a curious singsong lilt to it. With his knowledge of both those languages, Creasy could pick up many words.
Fishermen started to drift in, thirsty after a day in open boats under a hot sun, and then Victor and Michele went off to make the last ferry run.
Most of the drinkers had switched from beer to hard liquor when Joey looked at his watch.
"Ghal Madonnal Six o'clock-let's go, Creasy. Mother will be building up a head of steam."
They drove up the steep hill through the tiny village of Qala and then dipped down again before turning off the Nadur road.
The farmhouse was built around an inner courtyard in the old style-a sprawling stone building. One corner wing looked newer than the rest, and was reached by an outside staircase.
A tall, plump woman came out from the kitchen. She had a round, pleasant face, rich in character, and she smiled as Creasy climbed down, embraced him, and kissed his cheek.
"Welcome, Creasy. Long time." She glared at her son.
"Creasy was thirsty, Ma." This was said with a wink at Creasy and an impish smile.
She scolded him gently, told him to take the suitcase upstairs and led Creasy into the kitchen.
He remembered the huge, arched room. It was the center of family activity-the dining room and lounge were used only on formal occasions.
It made him realize that he was within a family unit, and that could have made him uneasy, but Laura bustled around making a large pot of coffee and asking how Guido was and tending a trio of simmering pots on the big stove. He couldn't feel uneasy. His presence was quietly accepted, and this feeling was reinforced when Paul Schembri came in from the fields. He was smaller than his wife and at first appeared thin; but his arms were sinewy and corded, and Creasy got the impression of strength and compactness. He nodded at Creasy and asked, "Alright?"
It was the most commonly used word in Malta, in any language, and covered the spectrum of meaning from a question to a statement to a greeting or even a farewell. It equated the French "Qa va" and more.
"Alright," Creasy replied, and Paul sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from Laura.
His greeting was such that Creasy might have been gone just overnight instead of eight years, and it made the American relax even more.
Creasy had bought a small cassette player in Naples, and he slipped in one of the cassettes Guido had retrieved from the house at Como. Then he lay back on the bed, and as Dr. Hook sang a lament of love, he considered his situation and the people around him. Guido's suggestion that he use Gozo as a base had been a good one; he had known that Creasy would get a warm but undemonstrative welcome from the Schembris.
He also knew that they had recently rented a series of fallow fields from the church, and that reterracing and preparing this land would be hard work. Creasy would enjoy and benefit from helping. Guido had spoken at length to Paul on the phone and explained Creasy's condition and recent events. He had not spoken of the future.
C
reasy had been given a small suite of rooms to himself. It was the newer wing he had noticed, with its own entrance by the outside staircase. Over dinner, Paul had explained that it used to be storage rooms and a hay loft. Guido had sent money every year since his marriage to Julia, and this had continued after her death. At first, Paul had been angry-after all they were not poor people-and he had threatened to send it back. But Guido had been disarming, had told him that it was for tax reasons.
"You know what he's like," Paul had commented to Creasy.
They had used part of the money to convert the old storerooms, so that Guido would have a comfortable place and some privacy when he came to stay each year.
There were two big rooms and a small bathroom, all arched and vaulted in the usual manner. The thick stones had been oiled, rather than painted, and they retained a soft ocher color. The rooms were furnished simply. A big old bed and chest of drawers in the bedroom, with wooden pegs on the wall on which to hang clothes. In the other room, a grouping of low, comfortable chairs and a coffee table, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. It would be home for at least two months and already, on his first night, Creasy felt comfortable and settled.
He thought about the Schembris. They were, to all appearances, simple farmers, but in Gozo the level of education is high, and while the people are conservative and close-knit, they take an interest in the outside world and are often well-read. Because of overpopulation, many Gozitans have settled overseas, particularly in North America and Australia, and some of them, coming home to retire, buy houses in their original villages. So there is a rejuvenation of ideas, and a movement of people within the community.
Paul Schembri was a typical farmer, his values rooted in a life of hard work and the productive cycle. He kept his counsel and didn't parade his views for all to see. He had money in the bank and could look any man in the eye. He was a bit like the stone walls that surrounded his fields-dry and a bit dusty, but well made, each stone fitting against the other without cement or plaster and able to stand up to the Gregale winds that, in winter, come across the sea from Europe and scour the low hills.
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