Man on Fire

by A. J. Quinnell

  Leclerc smiled. "Electronics make things so much easier. Guido specified a kilo of Plastique. I have it ready elsewhere."

  "Good," Creasy said, looking back along the table. "That's everything I need."

  Leclerc surveyed the assortment, his curiosity tinged with satisfaction. For him, fitting out Creasy was an exercise in professional pleasure. He wasn't sure what Creasy wanted the stuff for, and he wasn't about to ask, but he would be reading the Italian papers in the coming weeks. Knowing the American's background and experience, he could imagine the potential destruction that the weapons represented.

  "Can you get me a good light shoulder-holster for the Webley, and a belt holster for the Colt?"

  Leclerc nodded. "Standard issue canvas for the Colt."

  "That'll do fine." Creasy had taken out a tape measure and a notebook. "Do you have any scales?"

  "Sure." Leclerc went out into the main warehouse and Creasy got busy with the tape measure.

  "Where can I drop you?"

  "Anywhere near the fishing harbor."

  Creasy didn't mention the name of his hotel. He had decided that Leclerc could be trusted-but old habits die hard.

  The Frenchman asked, "Anything else I can do for you in Marseilles? -Female company?"

  Creasy smiled and shook his head. "I thought you were an arms dealer."

  "You know what it's like," Leclerc answered. "When you're selling, you have to hang bells on the stuff. The Arabs are the worst-they get so little at home."

  "Business must be good out that way," Creasy commented. "They've got enough little wars going on to keep half the arms factories in Europe on overtime."

  "It's a fact," grunted Leclerc, "and it will get better-or worse, depending how you look at it. This Islamic resurgence means more wars-it's a violent religion."

  He glanced at Creasy. "Apart from arms dealers, there'll be a lot of work for men like you."

  Creasy shrugged. "Could be."

  They pulled up by the wharf, and Creasy opened the door.

  "Ten o'clock then, Thursday night," he said.

  Leclerc nodded. "I'll be waiting."

  Creasy consulted the street map and told the taxi driver to leave him at the corner of Rue St. Honore. He had changed at the hotel and now wore more simple work clothes-denim jeans and shirt. His eyes roamed the streets idly as they drove eastward through the city. He liked Marseilles. A man could sink into it and be anonymous. People minded their own business. It was an ideal city for drug smuggling, arms dealing, or just getting lost.

  The taxi pulled up and Creasy paid the driver and walked for ten minutes until he reached the corner of Rue Catinat. He stood for several minutes, watching the street.

  It was a working-class suburb. Tenement buildings, small workshops, and factories. Halfway down was a row of lock-up garages. He located Number 11, and without looking around took out the key and unlocked it, then switched on the light and closed the door.

  Most of the space was taken up by a Toyota Hiace van. It was painted a deep gray, with faded black lettering on the side: Luigi Racca-Vegetable Dealer.

  The van looked old and suitably battered, but Creasy knew that the engine and suspension would be in perfect order. He opened the back doors. Immediately in front of him, on the van floor, was a coil of electrical cord attached to an electrical plug. He smiled briefly at Guido's forethought, picked up the plug, went over to the wall, and connected the plug to the socket. The bulb inside the van lit up the rest of the contents. There were lengths of timber, several sacks packed tight with cotton waste, a long roll of thick felt, a wooden bench with a vise attached, and a large toolbox. Creasy unloaded all this onto the floor behind the van, then moved to the front of the compartment and carefully examined the paneling that backed onto the driver's seat. He went to the toolbox, selected a screwdriver and, being careful not to mark the paint, eased out the dozen countersunk screws. The false panel fell gently back, revealing a space about a foot deep and as wide and high as the van's compartment. He grunted in satisfaction and carried the panel out and rested it gently against the garage wall. Next he took out a tape measure and a notebook and jotted down the exact dimensions of the secret compartment.

  Referring to previous notes, he then drew a rough plan and stuck it on the garage door.

  For the next two hours he worked steadily, measuring the timber and cutting it up with a small power saw.

  He enjoyed the work, but eventually had to stop because the air in the closed garage had become stuffy. It was dark outside, and he walked for ten minutes in the cool night air to clear his head. Then he found a small bistro and went in to have dinner.

  At eight the next morning he was back in the garage.

  He worked through till noon, then went for lunch to the same bistro. The food was simple and good, and with his rough clothes and colloquial French, he was not out of place among the other customers. By midafternoon he had finished shaping the timber, and he fitted it into the compartment. First the heavy frame and then the cross pieces, each slotting exactly into its prepared joint. He stood back and surveyed his work. The compartment now resembled a giant, half-finished child's puzzle. On Thursday he would fit in the missing pieces.

  Back at the hotel he looked in the yellow pages and rang a rental agency. In the name of Luigi Racca, he arranged to hire a Fiat van the next day, for twenty-four hours.

  Leclerc waited with a watchman. There was no one else on the street. At five past ten, a dark-blue van turned the corner and parked a hundred meters away. Its lights flickered twice and went out.

  "Go down to the other corner and wait," Leclerc told the watchman. "Don't come back until that van has left." As the watchman disappeared into the dark, the van moved forward again.

  "OK?" Creasy asked, jumping down from the cab.

  "OK," Leclerc replied, and unlocked the warehouse door. Just inside were three wooden packing cases on a fork lift. They were lettered "A," "B," and "C." Leclerc pointed to each in turn. "Ammunition, weapons, other equipment." Within a couple of minutes the cases were loaded in the van and Creasy climbed back into the cab.

  Leclerc looked up at him. "Come into my office tomorrow afternoon. Your papers will be ready."

  Creasy nodded and drove away.

  He drove around the city for forty minutes, varying his speed and making unpredictable turns. Then, satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he drove to Rue Catinat and parked fifty meters from the garage. He turned off the lights and engine and sat listening and watching for half an hour. Then he started the engine and backed up close to the garage door. He quickly wrestled the three cases from the van and into the garage. He locked up and drove back to his hotel-again constantly watching his mirror.

  In the early morning he returned the rented van and by nine o'clock was back in the garage. He prized the lids off the three cases and, one by one, fitted the weapons, the boxes of ammunition, and the grenades into their allotted places. He took handfuls of cotton waste and packed it into all remaining gaps between equipment and frame. Then a curtain of felt was tacked across the entire framework. He fetched the false panel and, again being careful not to scratch the paint, he screwed it back into place. He banged the side of his fist against it in several places. It felt and sounded solid. Finally, he spread his legs and shifted his weight back and forth, rocking the van on its springs.

  He nodded in satisfaction. His weapons carrier was ready and loaded.

  Leclerc passed the envelope across the desk and Creasy shook out the passport and papers and examined them closely.

  "They're good," he said. "Better than I expected-how much?"

  Leclerc shrugged ruefully. "Eleven thousand francs."

  "They're worth it," Creasy said, and took out a roll of money and counted out the notes. "You've arranged with Guido about payment for the other stuff."

  Leclerc nodded. "He'll pay into my account in Brussels."

  He paused, and then said, "You're getting it for cost-I've added nothing."


  "Thanks," Creasy said, and smiled slightly. "That evens us up."

  Leclerc smiled and stood up. 'Is my life worth so little?-I hope not."

  Creasy held out his hand. "If a favor is returned, it's the act-not the size of it. Incidentally, I know you have to cooperate with the government in your business, and I know our transaction is very unofficial. If you get any pressure, tell them you thought I still acted for the Rhodesians. But don't mention the papers to anyone-not even Guido."

  Leclerc smiled. "OK. I can look very innocent when necessary. Good luck."

  At the door Creasy hesitated, and then made up his mind.

  "You went to a lot of trouble," he said quietly. "I appreciate it. Ever I can do something for you, contact me through Guido."

  Leclerc had been about to sit down, but as the door closed he remained half-crouched over the chair, his mouth open in surprise. Then he sank slowly back, and crossed himself. Miracles do happen.

  Chapter 15

  Guido stood on the terrace watching through binoculars as the blue and white ferry docked. He had confidence in the papers, but vehicles arriving from Marseilles were often thoroughly searched.

  The ramp came down and a stream of private cars drove out and were directed into three lines. Several trucks and a container-trailer followed. Then the gray van. He watched Creasy get out of the cab and lounge against the side of the van in an attitude of bored indifference.

  He was dressed in faded denim overalls and he carried a large Manila envelope which he, slapped idly against his leg.

  It was twenty minutes before the customs inspector reached him. In the meantime, Pietro had come out onto the terrace.

  "He's arrived?"

  "Yes," Guido grunted, without moving his gaze from the docks.

  The official checked the papers carefully and then walked to the rear of the van. Creasy opened the doors and the customs man handed back the envelope and pulled himself up and in. It seemed an eternity before he reappeared, holding something. Guido stiffened and leaned forward, adjusting the binoculars for better vision.

  Finally he recognized the object and saw Creasy nodding, and his pent-up breath hissed out.

  "What is it?" asked Pietro.

  "A melon!-the bastard wants a melon."

  Pietro laughed. "A small price to pay."

  The gray van moved to the security gates; only a brief pause this time, and then it pulled out into the traffic. Guido lowered the binoculars and looked at his watch.

  "He'll call within the hour. So I'll be out for lunch-can you handle it by yourself?"

  "Sure," Pietro answered. "Tell him good luck for me."

  "I will," Guido said seriously. "He's going to need it."

  Guido entered the restaurant carrying a canvas bag. He paused at the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was barely noon and apart from Creasy, sitting at a corner table, and a bored waiter, the place was deserted. Creasy rose as Guido approached and they embraced warmly. Guido stepped back and looked at his friend critically.

  "Gozo agrees with you. You've shed ten years."

  Creasy smiled. "They all send their love."

  They sat down and ordered a light lunch of calzoni and salad.

  "Everything OK in Marseilles?" Guido asked as soon as the waiter left.

  "Perfect," answered Creasy. "Leclerc was very helpful but resented your threatening him."

  Guido grinned. "Anyway, it didn't hurt-How's Nadia?"

  The question threw Creasy for a moment.

  "She's fine-You know about that?"

  "I guessed."

  Guido told him about the phone call and how he had tried to discourage her. "But I assume it didn't put her off."

  Creasy shook his head. "It didn't."

  "How did she take your leaving?"

  Creasy shrugged-it puzzled him a bit.

  "Very casual. No tears, no emotion-she's a strange girl."

  The waiter approached with the food and a bottle of wine, and then left them alone.

  "I sent Pietro to Marseilles," Guido said. "He's done most of the legwork, even in Rome and Milan."

  "He's a good kid," Creasy remarked.

  They ate in silence for a while. It was not necessary for Creasy to question Pietro's reliability, but still, something had to be said.

  "He might be in danger."

  Guido nodded. "I'm sending him to Gozo once it starts. He'll stay there until the whole thing is over. Anyway, he needs a holiday."

  "He deserves it," Creasy agreed, and repeated, "He's a good kid-will you manage without him?"

  Guido smiled. "I'm closing the pensione for the duration. I'll just do lunch and dinner for the regulars. The work load will be much lighter."

  Creasy didn't utter platitudes about losing money.

  Nothing needed to be said.

  Guido unzipped the canvas bag and took out five bunches of keys, two street maps and a folder. He passed the keys over. They all had tags attached. He said, "The apartment in Milan, the cottage at Vigentino, just outside the city, the Alfetta GT, the apartment in Rome, and the Renault 20 in Rome." Creasy held the keys and smiled. "I feel like a property owner!"

  "Renter." Guido smiled back. "They're all rented for three months, starting ten days ago."

  "There's no way they can be traced to you?"

  Guido shook his head. "No way-the apartments and cottage were rented by Remarque in Brussels, using a false name-and there's a cut-off in between. I rented the cars using the name of Luigi Racca. Incidentally, he's a widower, visiting his daughter in Australia -won't be back for months."

  He opened the street maps and pointed out the circled locations of the apartment in Milan and the bungalow outside.

  "It's very secluded and has a lock-up garage-the Alfetta is inside." He pointed out the apartment in Rome, and the garage, two blocks away, which contained the Renault.

  "The apartment and bungalow are provisioned with canned food and stuff." He tapped the folder. "Addresses in here."

  "Good," Creasy said, well-satisfied. "Did you remember the chargers?"

  Guido grinned and reached into the bag and passed across two shiny cylinders. Creasy examined one of them carefully.

  It was made of anodized aluminum-about three and a half inches long, three quarters of an inch in diameter, and beveled at both ends. He held the ends and twisted gently and the cylinder opened on fine threading. He looked inside the two halves. The inner surface was as smooth as the outside.

  "I had them made in a local machine shop," Guido said, taking the cylinders back and dropping them into the bag. "They are a bit bigger than normal-uncomfortable, I would think."

  Creasy smiled thinly. "He can complain-I'll be very sympathetic."

  Guido put away the keys and maps, leaving just the folder in front of him. "Do you remember Verrua?" he asked. "From the Legion?"

  "Yes," Creasy replied. "Second R.E.P. He did two hitches and then left-he was getting old."

  "Right," said Guido. "He lives here now, in Naples. For ten years, after he left the Legion, he worked for Cantarella in Sicily-strong-arm stuff. They put him out to grass a couple of years back, and he came to live here with his married daughter. He comes to eat at the pensione a lot. Likes to reminisce. I hardly remembered him-I was only in a few months before he left-but he remembers you. Often talks about you-about the early days in Vietnam."

  Creasy nodded. "He talked too much even then. He doesn't know anything about this operation?"

  Guido shook his head. "Nothing. But the point is, he's very disenchanted with Cantarella. Feels he wasn't looked after properly. Frankly, he's a complainer by nature. However, with a little nudging, he talked a lot about the Villa Colacci and the setup there." He passed over the folder. "It's in there, with other bits and pieces I've picked up."

  Creasy looked through the folder. There was a sketch map of the villa and its grounds, and several pages of notes.

  He looked up and said: "Guido, this is a real help-I appreciate
it."

  Guido shrugged and called out to the waiter to bring them coffee.

  "I know you plan to get information as you go along," he said. "But that might save you some time."

  "It will," Creasy agreed, looking down at the sketch map. "Villa Colacci is the tough one-and he rarely moves out of it."

  Guido grinned. "He won't move at all when he knows he's a target. Any ideas on getting in?"

  "Several," Creasy answered, "but I'll keep my options open till I know more."

  In fact, he already knew exactly how he was going to get in. He had decided after his visit to Palermo three months before. He would have discussed it with Guido, but he had a reason for not doing so.

  The coffee arrived, and Creasy took a sip and brought the subject up: "After Conti in Rome, I'll be entirely on my own. No contact and no fixed base. I'll have dumped both cars and the van by then-you understand why?"

  Guido smiled briefly. "Sure. By then, both the police and Cantarella may have figured out who's doing the killings. It won't take them long to trace you back to me, and then they'll be asking me questions-I can't tell them what I don't know."

  Creasy nodded, his face serious.

  "And if you don't know, it will become obvious. It always does-we've both had experience in asking such questions. If you genuinely don't know, you will be safer."

  "But you're making it difficult for yourself," Guido commented. "And God knows it's going to be difficult enough."

  The American smiled. "I'll improvise-it won't be the first time. Meanwhile, how do I get in touch with you? I don't want to use the phone."

  Guido pointed at the folder. "Front page. There's a Post Restante number here in Naples-cable a phone number and a time, and I'll call you from outside."

  Creasy flicked open the folder and read the number.

  "OK-if things go smoothly, I won't be in contact at all-until it's all over."

  There was a long silence.

  "You are still as determined?"

  "Yes-nothing's changed-I want them so bad, it's an ache."