Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  He had tried to tell Pinta some of this, how he saw the contradictions. She had surprised him.

  You can never know, she had said. If you know for sure, you don’t need faith.

  Yes — the ultimate contradiction. The faith to be ignorant.

  She had a very simple and uncomplicated view herself. She would believe until someone proved, beyond doubt, that it was all a load of rubbish. “And how will you know if it’s proved?” he had asked. She had smiled at him impishly and answered: “It will be announced on television!”

  “I bought it myself, with my own money,” she said. “I saved it.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.

  “It can’t hurt, can it?” she asked with a smile. “At least keep it until the announcement.”

  Now he smiled back, and lifted the chain and dropped it over his neck.

  “Thank you.” He reached out a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it and said, “I suddenly feel very holy.”

  She laughed and jumped up.

  “If you ever meet the devil, Creasy, you must hold it up in front of you.”

  He smiled wryly. It would make a change from holding a machine gun.

  A tinkling of bells intruded and a herd of cows came over the rise, being driven to the upper pastures. They moved toward the picnic spot and a dog bounded ahead to investigate.

  Pinta offered a piece of ham in friendship, and it was gratefully accepted. She ran off with the dog to play while Creasy poured the herder a beaker of wine.

  It was an afternoon to be remembered. The two men sat, talking casually, with the cows grazing around them and the girl and dog chasing each other among the herd.

  “You have a fine girl,” the herder remarked, and was puzzled at the look that crossed Creasy’s face.

  At sunset they packed the hamper and walked back to the car in the twilight.

  The fresh air and exercise had made Pinta drowsy, and as the car wound down the hills toward Como she yawned and slipped lower in her seat. Finally she tucked up her legs and rested her head on Creasy’s lap.

  He drove home very slowly; occasionally glancing down at the girl’s sleeping face. In the fading light his scarred features and brooding eyes were relaxed in rare contentment. He was at peace.

  Chapter 8

  The day of the piano lesson.

  It had become fashionable in Milanese society for parents to develop their children’s musical talents — if they had any. Rika couldn’t picture Pinta playing a trumpet or a flute. It had to be the piano.

  An appointment was made with an eminent teacher and Creasy drove her to the all-important lesson. If the eminent teacher declared that Pinta had even a glimmer of talent, a piano would be purchased and regular lessons would start.

  Pinta was not enthusiastic. Neither was Creasy. The thought of listening to the girl fumbling through her exercises was not pleasant.

  Still, it was only a small cloud on the horizon. He had cut down his drinking to virtually nothing, merely taking a glass or two of wine at meals. He had started the morning exercises and had located a small gym in Como that stayed open late into the evening. The fence around the property was now repaired, and he would concentrate on getting fit.

  His mood would have been less sanguine had he overheard a conversation between Rika and Ettore soon after their return from New York.

  “He must go, Ettore, and quickly. I insist!”

  “But why, Cara, after you were so pleased with him?”

  There were two reasons, both genuine, but she could explain only one.

  “She is getting too fond of him — to the exclusion of everything else.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything sinister to it?”

  She shook her head. “Not in that way. It’s mental — he looks on her as a friend.” She paused for effect. “And she looks on him as a father.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. It’s been developing, I just haven’t noticed it before. Oh, I’ve known she’s been fond of him, but since we got back this time it’s become so obvious.”

  Ettore thought about it and said, “You exaggerate. Certainly she’s fond of him. She’s with him a lot, and perhaps we have been away too much — but as a father?”

  Rika sighed. “Ettore, you have always been distant with her. Too distant. You never really talk to her. I wouldn’t have believed it, but Creasy does, and she responds. She looks up to him, respects him. She begrudges every minute that she’s not with him. God! She can’t wait for dinner to end so she can run into the kitchen.”

  He had to admit the truth of it. He was made uncomfortable by the realization — found wanting.

  “I’ve just been so busy, Rika, and when I get home I like to relax, not listen to a lot of childish chatter.”

  She sighed again. He really didn’t know his daughter.

  “I understand, darling, but you’re going to have to make an effort, and if you listen to her you will find she’s not so childish. She’s very intelligent. Beyond her years.”

  Rika had started thinking about the problem when Pinta had bought the crucifix for Creasy’s birthday. She had dragged her mother from shop to shop until she found just the one she wanted. It had seemed a strange present for such a man, and Rika had said so. Pinta had laughed.

  “I know, Mama, it’s exactly the opposite of what he might expect, but Creasy bear is a strange man. He will understand.”

  Rika had suddenly seen Creasy as a threat to Ettore. A double threat. One through Pinta and the other through herself. For that night with Creasy had lit a fuse. It had been several days before she caught herself remembering how she had felt, standing in the dawn light, looking down at him asleep. It hadn’t only been the physical love, the deep satisfying. She had known that before, known it with Ettore and others. It had been the other effect, the losing herself. Losing the fine control. With Ettore and others, she had given and accepted pleasure. Measured it, even. With Creasy on that night she had given up more. Every day the memory had become more vivid. His body, his hands on her, the absorption of her will. The moment when she opened her eyes and the only thing in her vision had been the gun hanging over her and the only feeling his hardness spurting into her. Vision and feeling had been blended and confused. And more — the aftermath, when she lay in his arms and for so long a time her mind had been lost, while his hands moved on her, possessed her.

  It had been on her mind in New York, and when they returned and she saw Creasy again, she knew that the danger was real. As she made love to Ettore that night she couldn’t wrench her mind away from the man upstairs. The blunt fingers, the scars, and the blue black gun hanging by his head.

  But she couldn’t talk of that. Only of Pinta. She had never thought about her daughter’s feelings for Ettore. There had been no one else before with whom to make a comparison. But seeing the girl with Creasy, she could recognize the depth of feeling in the child. If it wasn’t channelled from Creasy to Ettore soon, it would be too late.

  “So, Caro, he must go — immediately.”

  “Well,” Ettore said reflectively, “the three-month trial ends in another week. I just won’t confirm the position. That possibility was understood when I hired him.”

  She was strangely agitated.

  “No, Ettore. Don’t wait. Tell him tomorrow. Of course you must pay for the full time and also give him a good bonus. It’s not his fault.”

  “Another week won’t make any difference,” he said reasonably. “And I don’t want to create a bad feeling.”

  She started to insist, bringing her will to bear, even suggesting that, as an excuse, they could take Pinta to Rome for a few days, and then he could reasonably leave before the three months were fully up.

  But Ettore had been firm. Another disruption at school would be bad for her.

  They argued heatedly, Ettore reminding her that it was her original paranoia that had created the whole problem. Finally, for once, she had to give way. He w
ould tell Creasy at the end of the week.

  “It will be a hard break,” he had commented.

  Rika shrugged. “She’s young — she’ll get over it.”

  His reply was, for once, perceptive and also in character. “I wasn’t thinking of Pinta.”

  Sublimely unaware, Creasy drove Pinta to her piano lesson. They talked of the coming Sunday. Creasy was going to Elio’s again for lunch, and Pinta wanted to come along.

  “Your parents are home. You should be with them.”

  “But I want to see Elio and Felicia again and the children.”

  He gently argued her out of it. There would be plenty of other opportunities. Her parents were away a lot.

  He had difficulty locating the teacher’s apartment, and she got out the map and guided him to the Corso Buenos Aires. It was a wide, tree lined avenue with the block of flats set well back beyond a lawn. He parked on the avenue and they walked across the grass to the entrance. The door had a security lock and intercom and Creasy announced her and the door buzzed open.

  “I won’t be long Creasy, just an hour.”

  “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 metres 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. Colourless 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 calibre. 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 colour 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 an
d 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 ballpoint 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 moustache 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 travelling by car, or even by plane.