Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  “But you have to be either a bartender or half drowned,” Tony explained.

  “We qualify,” Victor retorted. “We were half drowned in here last night — from the inside.”

  “Shreik” arrived for his pre-breakfast stiffener, and a celebration started.

  “They are grateful to you, Creasy,” Nadia said with mock disdain. “Anything for an excuse to get drunk before lunch.”

  “Shreik” nodded solemnly. “Pity you didn’t get properly drowned, Uomo. We could have had a real party.” He smiled. “In commiseration, you understand.”

  On the drive back to the house, Creasy asked, “What’s this Uomo business?”

  “Your nickname,” Joey explained. “Everyone in Gozo has to have a nickname.”

  Creasy digested that in silence. Uomo meant “man” in Italian. It was a complimentary nickname. After the morning’s effort, he mused, they ought to call him “jackass.”

  But it meant that he had been accepted. Outsiders don’t merit nicknames.

  Creasy and George sat on the outside patio alone. They had enjoyed a good dinner. Laura and Nadia had worked most of the afternoon preparing it: a minestra, and then timpana, Maltese style, followed by rabbit stufato, and rounded off with fruit and the local pepper cheese made from goat’s milk. Creasy had spent a quiet day after his near mishap. In the afternoon he had driven into Rabat to the police station and picked up a set of tide tables.

  He noted that Paul and Joey had deliberately gone off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. Nadia brought out a tray with coffee and cognac and then went back into the kitchen.

  George thoughtfully filled and tamped a large pipe, struck a match, and sucked flame down into the bowl. Creasy poured the coffee and cognac. He knew what was coming. Paul had felt it right to brief him.

  Satisfied with the small furnace he had created, George leaned back and said, “You know I’m in charge of security for the islands?”

  Creasy nodded and passed him a cup. “You want to know whether I’m a security risk?”

  George waved his pipe deprecatingly. “No, Paul explained why you’re here. In any event, I’ve already learned quite a lot about you.” He was a little embarrassed. “I sent a telex this morning to Paris.”

  Creasy was puzzled. “Paris?”

  “Yes — Interpol.” His smile took away any potential offence. “Not what you think. It’s just that for the past few years many countries have been keeping tabs on all known mercenaries — even since the fiasco in Angola. It’s just convenient to have it centralized at Interpol. There is no criminal implication, you understand.”

  Creasy remained silent, and after a pause George continued.

  “The fact is, I let you come and join our squad on Thursday because you’re my uncle’s friend; but if it’s going to be a regular thing, it’s my duty to check that there are no wrinkles.”

  “I understand that,” Creasy said. “Are there any wrinkles?” George shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket and passed over a folded piece of paper.

  “That’s the telex reply I received this afternoon.” He shrugged. “I really shouldn’t show it to you.”

  Creasy read while George puffed at his pipe. There was a very long silence, then Creasy asked, “What does the bit at the end mean?”

  George leaned over and translated the coded suffix: “Not politically motivated. No known criminal affiliations. No group affiliations. More details available on request.”

  Creasy folded the paper and handed it back and there was another pregnant silence.

  “Is it basically correct?”

  Creasy nodded and, for the first time, smiled. “Except that I’m no longer a bodyguard. What are the other details they refer to?”

  “I sent a Grade Two inquiry,” George explained. “It’s cheaper, and we are not a rich department. So they sent brief details. A Grade One inquiry would have elicited every single thing they know about you.”

  Creasy was impressed. “How do they get their information?”

  “Intelligence services, mainly,” George answered. “We pool certain information. It’s a sensitive world, and mercenaries can be a nuisance. For example, they’ve taken over the Comoro Islands in the Indian Ocean as a personal fief — there are some bums in your profession, Creasy.”

  “You’re right,” Creasy agreed, “and those bums sometimes make it tough for us bums.” He looked at George appraisingly. “You’re worried that it might happen here?”

  George shook his head. “Not at all. But we’re a neutral country. No more foreign bases. We can look after ourselves, although not everyone would agree. The fact is, Malta is in the middle of things. We don’t want people basing themselves here who may be planning action elsewhere in the region.”

  It was deftly done. A question without form.

  “I’m one man,” Creasy said, with a faint smile. “As the report said, I’ve no group affiliations, and I’ve no plans which would embarrass you. I’m just here to get fit.”

  “That’s fine,” George said. “You’re welcome to use our facilities — strictly unofficial, of course.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  George smiled. “There’s one condition — nothing onerous.” He tapped his pocket. “You are very experienced. I want to use that experience.”

  “How?”

  George’s pipe had gone out and he busied himself relighting it while he gathered his thoughts. Then he spoke at length.

  “My squad was formed for brushfire incidents. Terrorist attacks — hijack attempts, and so forth. These days, almost every country has such a squad. But we lack actual experience. In the past, Malta has always been occupied by foreign powers who have provided security. We have a small military establishment, the AFM — Armed Forces of Malta. We are not a rich country, and we can’t afford the luxury of a one purpose army, so the AFM is also involved in civil projects — road building and such. It’s cost-effective, and I agree with it. The fact is, we can’t afford to import skilled instructors for all facets of combat. The British helped before they left, and the Libyans have donated equipment — helicopters, naval patrol boats, and so on, and they help train our people to use them. But for specialist work we lack both actual experience or instructors. My squad, for example. I’ve been overseas for training and I’m passing on what I’ve learned, but I’ve never seen combat. We have to work with theory, based on set situations. In the world today — the world of terrorism — a lot of unforeseen things can happen.”

  He sat back in his chair, the pipe clenched between his teeth, and looked quizzically at Creasy, “You’ve been there, in all manner of situations — on both sides.”

  “Alright,” Creasy agreed. “I’ll do what I can. Apart from the stuff I saw on Thursday, what other equipment do you have?”

  The two men went on to discuss technicalities, and it was after midnight when they finished. They had established a comfortable rapport. Both practical, undemonstrative men who had weighed each other and liked what they found.

  This time he plunged off the flat rock fifteen minutes before the turn of the tide. Again there was a slight breeze blowing from the west, but the current was slack, and Creasy swam steadily towards his target. Nadia stood at the bedroom window and watched through her father’s binoculars. She saw him reach the point of the small bay and continue swimming around to the hotel jetty. Then she went downstairs and phoned Joey. She had sent him down to Gleneagles every morning for the last three days to stand by — Creasy hadn’t said anything about trying the swim again, but she knew him by now. Then she phoned her friend, the receptionist at the Comino Hotel.

  Creasy was walking barefoot and wet past the front of the hotel when he heard his name called. The girl came down the steps carrying a plastic bag and a tall, frosted glass of beer,

  “Compliments of Nadia,” she said with a smile.

  Creasy had to laugh. He turned and looked across the channel. He could pick out the farmhouse high on the hill and at
an upper window a flash of light as the sun caught the binocular’s lenses. He waved and held up the glass in a silent toast.

  Inside the bag were a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and rubber sandals — all new; and a towel and a note.

  “This is a very Catholic country,” he read. “You can’t walk around half naked!”

  The girl pointed.

  “There’s a changing room around the side there, and that path leads to the Blue Lagoon.” She glanced at her watch. “The ferry goes in forty minutes.”

  He thanked her and handed back the empty glass.

  The jeans and the T-shirt fitted perfectly. An observant girl, he thought, as he pulled them on. The path rose to the brow of a low hill and then down again to the transparent water of the lagoon. The sun was well up now, and heat rose off the dry, barren ground. Up to his left, Creasy saw a man dressed in baggy trousers held up by a wide leather belt. The top of a bulging sack was tucked into the belt on one side, a plastic bag on the other. He wore a grey, long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the wrists, and a flat cap on his head — the normal dress of a Gozitan farmer; but his actions were far from normal. He held a long, bushy branch in both hands and moved along the slope of the hill beating the ground with it, occasionally bending down to pick something up and put it in the plastic bag. Mystified, Creasy walked on down to the jetty. He could see the small, yellow ferry in the distance, just coming out of Mgarr harbour. He sat on a rock and watched the old man work his way steadily down the hill toward him.

  He reached the jetty as the ferry pulled in and nodded to Creasy, who looked closely at the transparent bag at his waist. Grasshoppers! Live grasshoppers. He was still mystified as they climbed aboard, but as they chugged out of the bay, the old man reached into his voluminous sack and pulled out a fishing line. Bait — the grasshoppers must be for bait. But the line was attached to an old and battered rubber squid, which was quickly paid out into the boat’s wake.

  Curiosity won.

  “What are the grasshoppers for?”

  The old man took his eyes off the line. “I have a nightingale. They are to feed it.”

  Creasy was still puzzled.

  “But there are plenty of grasshoppers on Gozo. I’ve seen them.”

  The old man smiled. “But the Comino grasshoppers are tastier.”

  That silenced Creasy for a while, and the two of them sat looking back toward the submerged rubber squid.

  “You catch many fish?”

  The old man shook his head. “Very infrequently.”

  Creasy thought that it might have something to do with the age and state of the bait, but then the infrequent happened. The water was so clear that he saw the flash of silver as the fish darted in from the side. Pandemonium erupted. Amid shouts and scrambling, the ferry was stopped and the three young crew members crowded to the stern, all offering unnecessary advice. The old man pulled in the line — evenly and unhurried.

  It was a big fish, and as it neared the stern the excitement increased. The old man leaned forward to give it a final, boarding jerk and the fish was already in the air when it parted company with the hook. There came a slap as it hit the water and a final flash of silver, and it was gone.

  There was a great wailing from the crew and numerous invocations to Ghal Madonna, but the old man remained calm and unruffled.

  “We are all very sad,” Creasy commiserated.

  The old man shook his head. “Not all,” he said. “The fish is not entirely unhappy.”

  “Why do grasshoppers on Comino taste better than grasshoppers on Gozo?” Creasy asked Paul at dinner. He got a blank look and told him about the philosophical fisherman.

  “That’s old Salvu.” Paul laughed. “He has a small farm near Ramla. He only says that as an excuse to take the ferry every day and do some fishing.”

  “He’s a character, that Salvu,” Laura commented. “His wife died five years ago. Every Sunday he goes to the church in Nadur and confesses his sins to ‘The Cowboy’ — confesses to the worst imaginable things, just to get a rise out of him.”

  “I thought the confessional was secret,” Creasy said.

  “It is,” said Laura. ‘“The Cowboy’ wouldn’t say anything, but Salvu brags about it — says it’s just to help ‘The Cowboy’ understand a bit more about life: know what he’s missing.”

  “Well,” said Creasy, “he’s invited me for dinner next time he catches a fish.”

  Paul was impressed. “That’s unusual. He keeps to himself, old Salvu; but go. He makes the strongest wine on Gozo, and you’ll get a good meal.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the phone. It was Guido calling from Naples. He and Creasy had a very oblique conversation. From it Creasy understood that contact had been made in Marseilles with Leclerc, who was being cooperative. All other preparations were going ahead smoothly. Creasy indicated that he would be ready to move in four to six weeks, and asked Guido to send him a letter when everything was complete.

  That night Creasy lay in bed listening to Johnny Cash and reviewing his situation — physical and mental. He was satisfied with his progress. His body was responding well, the slackness going. In another month or so, it would be well tuned and responsive. He had been fortunate in finding George Zammit and in being allowed to train with his squad. By the time he left Malta, he would be fully prepared for the task ahead. Mentally also. He recognized the fundamental change in himself. He looked on life with greater clarity. With compassion, even. Before, in his life, the people around him had seemed incidental. He did not consider them on a personal or emotional basis. His interest had always been remote and clinical. Pinta had changed that. Everything she saw had affected her. He imagined her in Gozo — how delighted she would have been with old Salvu. How she would have reacted to the people he had met, seeing in them the angles and facets of life. He saw now through her eyes. A year ago Salvu would have been an uninteresting old man who kept a bird and chased grasshoppers for it and therefore was a bit simple in the head. But now Creasy looked forward to having dinner with him and talking to him and learning more about him. Pinta had done that, had made it possible that he could come to Gozo and be accepted by the introverted community. And also enjoy being accepted. He reflected on the unjust twist of fate that had ended her short life. No, not fate. Nothing was fated. Every incident, every event involving people, was the result of actions by themselves or others. Luck was not a random phenomenon. Destiny was predetermined by the destined.

  His thoughts turned to Nadia. He knew what was happening, could feel the magnetic force. He would fight it. There were just too many complications — too little time — too much planned.

  But then, surely, that was fate. A meeting at a different time and place could have resulted in a different ending. How often had that happened, he wondered. How many people had come together on the wrong occasion? But that too wasn’t fate. That was a melding of separate experiences, the contact and recognition of similar hopes and expectations.

  Well. His own expectations were clear and simple, his future, or lack of it, projected.

  In another part of the house, in her own room, Nadia’s thoughts ran parallel. Experience had made her cynical. Her future was also limited. Within her community, a woman, once married, was just that, no matter what the circumstances. Even if the Vatican eventually annulled her marriage, she could not expect to start again with fresh hopes. Mothers would not want their sons to marry a woman so scarred, and those sons would look at her only as a woman. Desirable, certainly, but not a potential wife.

  This did not add to her cynicism. It left no extra bitterness. She would seek her own corner and put her back to it and face outward.

  But there was something she wanted. She would not be denied everything. Others could have their husbands and their positions and their reputations and their communal security, but she at least would have something. People could talk and even criticize. She didn’t care. Her own family would understand. That was important — vital. With th
at understanding, she would face out confidently from her corner.

  There was little time. Four to six weeks, she had heard him say on the phone. It would have to be soon.

  In the morning Paul and Joey were in the fields, and Creasy was swimming. Nadia could see the small dot of his head approaching Comino. Her mother was in Nadur at the market. She went downstairs and phoned Guido, She had always been close to her brother-in-law. She asked him about Creasy, about the future. What it held for Creasy. Where he was going and why.

  Guido realized immediately what had happened. He felt a great sadness for her. Tried to explain that it was useless — had no future. But he would not answer her questions. She must ask Creasy.

  By his tone and his sympathy and his refusal, he had, in effect, answered the question. But his conclusions had not been entirely accurate. She needed to know that Creasy’s future was marginal. That confirmed the futile dimension, but it didn’t alter her plans — only increased her determination.

  In the early evening she walked down the fields to where her father and Creasy were finishing the last few metres of a terrace wall. She knew Creasy would go for a quick swim before he came back up to the house. She sat on the wall watching the two men, her father small and wiry and dwarfed by the huge American. She noted the change in Creasy, the deep brown tan, solid muscles, hands calloused from weeks of hard work.

  “You have no work to do?” her father asked gruffly, but unable to keep the affection from his voice.

  “I’m finished,” she answered. “I’m going for a swim. I’ll wait for Creasy.”

  Creasy lifted a large stone up onto the wall.

  “Still worried I’ll drown?” he asked mockingly.

  She shook her head.

  “No. I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I’ll tell you after we swim.”

  “You go on, Creasy,” Paul said. “Swim while it’s still light. I’ll finish the last bit in a few minutes.”

  They swam out a little way into the channel. Comino was bathed copper in the lowering sun. The water was flat calm, broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish. She turned and swam back, but he moved out farther, conscious of the tension in her. Disturbed by it.