Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  That silenced her for ten minutes. He watched her in the rear-view 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 re-enacted 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 their 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 analysing. 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 metres 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 colour 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 moulding 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 birt
hday?”

  “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.”

  “But we must do something. Mummy and Daddy will be away.” An idea came to her. “What about a picnic? We could drive up into the Alps.”

  “Alright. But only if you win on Saturday.”

  “Creasy, that’s not fair.”

  “It will give you an extra incentive. No win, no picnic.”

  She smiled. “OK. I’ll win anyway.”

  “After all this effort,” he growled, “you better!”

  Her parents were in New York and Pinta was greatly disappointed. To be fair, Rika felt guilty, but she knew that Ettore needed her on this important trip. And there would be other sports days.

  So when Creasy parked in the school courtyard, Pinta asked: “Will you come and watch, Creasy? Please.”

  He hesitated. There would be a lot of parents around, and he would be out of place, perhaps unwelcome.

  ‘It will be alright,” she pleaded. “Nobody will mind.”

  He looked at her anxious face and nodded and got out of the car.

  It obviously was a social occasion. A big, striped marquee had been set up and parents were standing around, richly dressed and with drinks in their hands.

  Pinta ran off to change and Creasy stood off to one side, feeling uncomfortable. He spotted Signora Deluca approaching and his discomfort increased.

  “It’s Mr. Creasy, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile.

  He nodded and explained about Pinta’s parents being away. She was sympathetic.

  “It’s only natural that a child should want her parents along on a day like this.”

  She took his arm. “Never mind. Today you are a surrogate father. Come and have a drink. The hundred metres doesn’t start for half an hour.”

  She took Creasy into the marquee and gave him a cold beer and introduced him to one or two parents. He still felt uncomfortable and was relieved when everyone moved off to watch the first events.

  It was a warm spring day, and the girls, many of them maturing, were an attractive sight in their tiny running shorts. Creasy looked on approvingly. But when Pinta appeared for the start of the hundred metres, he didn’t see her in the same light.

  Many others did. She was the most beautiful and vivacious girl on the field, but to Creasy she was simply a child and a friend.

  He watched critically as they prepared for the start, and felt a twinge of anxiety. He willed the girl to do well.

  He need not have worried. The training had paid off. She left the blocks well ahead of the others and broke the tape five yards clear.

  She continued running to where he stood and threw her arms around his neck.

  “I won, Creasy! I won!”

  He smiled down at her proudly.

  “You did well. No one else was in it.”

  For Pinta, it rounded off a perfect day — it was the first time she had seen him smile.

  “Happy birthday, Creasy.”

  He was laying the tartan blanket out on the grass and looked up in surprise.

  She held out the small package.

  “What’s this?”

  “A birthday present.”

  “I told you no fuss.”

  She plumped down on the blanket.

  “It’s just to say thank you for helping me win the race.”

  He put the package down and went to the car to get the picnic hamper. He was confused — not used to saying thank you. He remembered now that Pinta had gone shopping with her mother in Milan earlier in the week. She must have bought it then. He hoped it wasn’t something expensive or silly. He didn’t know how to pretend and say the right things.

  The package lay untouched as Pinta opened the hamper. She was in tune and recognized his mood. Maria had taken trouble over the picnic lunch, and Pinta exclaimed in delight as she unwrapped it all. There was a cold roast chicken, eggs wrapped in veal and ham in the Florentine style, and small flat pizza called gardenera; crusty bread with pepper cheese, a selection of fruit, and finally two bottles of dry white wine, heavily wrapped in newspaper and still chilled.

  They had picked a spot above Lake Maggiore. It was high summer grazing land studded with clumps of pines. Away to the north and west, snow-capped mountains rose ever higher toward Switzerland. In front of them, to the south, the Po Valley swept away to the horizon.

  Soon the blanket was scattered with plastic plates and tinfoil. Creasy poured wine into two beakers.

  “A votre santé.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s French. It means “Cheers.”‘

  “Yamsing,” she replied, and laughed at his look of surprise. “It’s Chinese.”

  “I know, but how . . . ?” and then he remembered the book on Marco Polo. She absorbed everything.

  They talked about different languages and he told her a joke.

  A Texan went to Europe for the first time, travelling by sea on the steamship France. The first night out, the chief steward put him at a dinner table with a Frenchman who spoke no English. When the food arrived, the Frenchman said: “Bon appétit” and the Texan, assuming he was introducing himself, replied, “Harvey Granger.”

  The next morning at breakfast the Frenchman again said, “Bon appétit.” The surprised Texan again replied, “Harvey Granger.” This went on at every meal for the next five days.

  On the last night out the Texan was having a drink in the bar before dinner and struck up a conversation with another American.

  “Strange people, these French,” remarked the Texan.

  “How so?”

  The Texan told how he’d met the Frenchman at least a dozen times and that he always introduced himself.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bon appétit.”

  The American laughed and explained that that wasn’t the Frenchman’s name. He was merely wishing him a good appetite.

  The Texan was very embarrassed and, when he sat down for dinner that night, he smiled at the Frenchman and said, “Bon appétit.”

  The Frenchman beamed back and replied, “Harvey Granger.”

  The girl laughed and clapped her hands, and Creasy reached out, picked up the package, and unwrapped it. Inside was a small box, and as he opened it, Pinta’s laughter stilled as she waited for his reaction.

  It was a solid gold crucifix on a thin, finely wrought gold chain, and he knew why she had given it to him. They had talked once about religion. For him, it was a subject of massive contradiction. His parents had been Catholics, and he had been raised in that faith. His mother, like Guido’s, had been fatalistic. God would provide — God hadn’t. The grinding poverty had finally condemned his mother.

  Ill with pneumonia, with no money to pay for adequate attention, she had died. A year later his father followed, in his case the passing eased by alcohol. Creasy, aged fourteen, had been taken in by neighbours and used in the fields as the cheapest form of labour. At sixteen he ran away and a year later had joined the Marines.

  That early experience, followed by a lifetime of war, had not brought him to God. He could not fathom a Supreme Being so disinterested as to allow millions of innocents to die in all the wars he had seen.

  A baby roasted in napalm could not have been punished for a sin. A young girl, endlessly raped, could call upon God and hear nothing. A sadist could torture a priest to death and live to a ripe age. Then to be consigned to hell? After spending a lifetime creating hell for others — for innocents? Creasy could not see the logic of it.

  But he had seen the hierarchy of it, the panoply and wealth. He had been in the
Philippines when the Pope visited. The biggest Catholic country in Asia and perhaps the poorest. Beautiful churches set in a sea of poverty. The bishops of the area had convened in Manila to meet the Pope. Creasy had flown to Hong Kong a few days later, and a half a dozen bishops had travelled homewards on the same plane. They sat in first class and drank champagne. There was no logic to it.

  But also there was no logic to the other side of the coin. He had seen missionaries, in the Congo and Vietnam, who had worked a lifetime for no material reward, who had never tasted champagne. He remembered driving with Guido to a mission hospital outside Leopoldville. They informed the four Belgian nuns that they must leave. The simbas were coming within twenty-four hours. They could not be protected. The nuns had refused. Their duty was to stay with their patients. Creasy pressed them hard, finally describing graphically what they could expect. They stayed. One of them had been young and attractive. As he sat in the Land Rover, reluctant to drive away, he beckoned her over. You will suffer the worst, he had told her. You will suffer long and then you will die. He had seen fear deep in her eyes, and also resolve. “Go with God,” she had said, and smiled at him serenely.

  Their unit had been forced to retreat, and it was a week before they had regrouped and fought their way back. He and Guido had been the first to reach the hospital. A generation of viewing barbarity had not prepared them for what they saw that day.

  They had taken spades and dug a grave and tipped what was left into it. Later that day they caught up with the simbas and Creasy had killed more than his share, many more — long into the night. Guido had driven the Land Rover while Creasy manned the mounted machine gun. Perhaps he killed more than had raped and mutilated the young nun. Who knows? God’s will? God’s revenge?

  Logic? Where was it? He had heard the argument that faith must be tested. But who was doing the testing? The bishops with champagne? Officials at the Vatican?

  But some met the test. So could they all be fools? He had met enough to know that intellect and faith could go together, but he didn’t understand how.