Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  When he returned to the cove she was lying on a towel, stretched out on the flat rock. He lay down wet beside her, letting the last of the sun dry him. Several minutes passed before she spoke.

  “Creasy, I’m in love with you.” She held up her hand.

  “Please don’t interrupt.” She picked her words carefully.

  ‘I know you also feel something, but don’t want to get involved. I know that you’re at least twenty years older than me. I know you’re leaving in about a month and probably won’t come back.”

  She turned her head to look at him and said very quietly, “But for sure I love you, and while you are here I will be your woman.”

  He stared up at the sky, immobile, and then slowly shook his head.

  “Nadia, you’re crazy. All the things you said are true, especially that I’m not coming back. There’s no future in it. As for being in love with me — that’s a word too easily used.”

  “I know,” she answered. “But I’ve only used it once before in my life and that turned out to be a joke — a sick joke.” She told him about her marriage and her husband. He grimaced and got to his feet and looked down at her.

  “So you should know better than to walk into hopeless situations.”

  She lay with her hands behind her head, olive skin against the black swimsuit, looking up at him impassively.

  “Don’t you like me?”

  “You know I do. But it’s not right. There’s no future in it.” He bent down to pick up his clothes. “You’re very young. Compared to me, still a child. In spite of what’s happened, you have a whole life in front of you. You’ll find a good man to share it with.”

  He tried to sound matter-of-fact. Dismissing her declaration as an irrational outburst. She stood and picked up her towel.

  “That’s possible,” she said evenly. “Who knows? But in the meantime I’ll share it with you.” Now her voice was matter-of-fact.

  He became exasperated.

  “Nadia, it’s ridiculous. How can you just come out with it so calmly, as though you’re inviting me to the cinema?”

  A thought struck him. “Besides, what about your parents? I’m a guest in their house. It would be a great insult.”

  “They’ll understand,” she said. “I’ll talk to them tonight.”

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  “You will what!”

  She smiled.

  “Creasy, although my parents are old-fashioned Gozitan farmers, they are still my parents, and I understand them. I know exactly how to talk to them and explain. As long as we are not indiscreet, it will be alright.”

  She picked up her dress and slipped it on, while Creasy stood speechless. Then she started up the path.

  “Wait a minute,” Creasy called. “Just wait a minute!”

  She turned and looked down at him, at his expression of puzzlement and rising consternation.

  “What the hell is this? A damned cattle market?” He waved his clothes at her, trying to find the words. “Don’t I have any say about it? You can forget the whole thing. I want no part of it. You understand!”

  She smiled. A slow, enigmatic smile.

  “But you said you liked me.”

  “Exactly,” he said, as if discovering a sudden truth. “I said ‘like you,’ not ‘love you.’ It’s not the same, you know.”

  “It’s good enough for the moment,” she replied over her shoulder and continued on up the path, leaving Creasy standing on the rock, disgruntled and disconcerted.

  There was no lock on his door. He had considered wedging a chair under the knob, but that seemed silly. But she didn’t come, and he lay in bed wondering whether she would really discuss such a thing with her parents. He considered leaving and finding some other place to finish his preparations, or talking to Paul himself, man to man. Explain the position and ask him to talk to Nadia. But how to tell a man that his daughter was throwing herself at him? He cursed the girl for a distracting nuisance and drifted into a troubled sleep.

  In the morning, very early, he set off for a run. As he skirted below Nadur, he saw Laura coming down the path from early Mass. She waved at him and he waved back, running on. Probably a good sign, he thought. At least she didn’t throw a rock at me. The clear light of morning diffused his problem. He saw it in perspective. Nadia had been flying a kite — testing his reaction. His obvious lack of enthusiasm would have turned her right off. As he jogged along he had to admit that he had been tempted. A young, desirable woman, offering herself like that. He was old enough to be her father. Still, getting fit must have added something. He slapped his flat stomach. Only one man in a hundred his age could be as fit, maybe one in a thousand. He preened himself gently.

  He had worked his way down to Ramla Bay, and a voice interrupted his reverie, calling his nickname — Uomo. He looked up to see Salvu working in his fields and he stopped for a chat.

  “I don’t see you on Comino the last couple of days,” said the old man.

  “Tomorrow,” Creasy answered. “I’ll swim over tomorrow. No fish yet?”

  Salvu shook his head.

  “But soon, Uomo. I’m due for one — I’ll leave word,”

  Creasy went back to his running.

  By the time he reached the cove, sweat glistened on his face. He pulled off his track suit and dived gratefully into the cool water.

  Afterward, lying on the flat rock, he thought again about Nadia. She would probably be embarrassed when she saw him. He hoped the easy atmosphere in the house would not be changed. It would be a damned nuisance if he had to move at this stage. He would try to be relaxed with her. Treat the whole thing as a bit of a joke. That would make it easier. He knew she was sensitive. Who wouldn’t be; after that mess of a marriage? Perhaps that’s what made her irrational. If she tried it again he would be gentle, but firm. There was no place in his life for such a relationship.

  He stood up, dried from the sun, and pulled on his track suit and walked up the rocky path to the house.

  Nadia was nowhere to be seen, but Laura was in the kitchen.

  He looked at her closely.

  “Breakfast, Creasy?” she asked brightly. “You were up extra early this morning.”

  In spite of being mentally preconditioned, he felt relief. Laura was her normal self, nothing had been said the night before. He sat down, suddenly hungry, and Laura cracked four eggs into a skillet and slid a wedge of ham alongside them.

  “Is it true that Americans eat pancakes for breakfast?” she asked over her shoulder.

  He nodded. “With syrup. But I haven’t eaten pancakes since I was a kid.”

  She put the plate in front of him and another piled high with warm bread. Then she poured him a big mug of black coffee and shovelled in three heaped spoonfuls of sugar. She poured herself a coffee and sat down opposite, watching with satisfaction as he ate hungrily. It made cooking worthwhile when a man could really eat. She was conscious of the change in him. Good food and exercise had done that.

  She spoke conversationally:

  “Nadia talked to Paul and me last night.”

  Creasy choked on the food.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “We are a very close family, and Nadia would not do anything behind our backs. She is an honest girl,”

  “She’s a silly girl!” Creasy burst out, angry in his discomfort. “The whole thing is crazy.”

  Laura smiled.

  “Love is always crazy. Such a drama is made of it; but it’s a natural thing, don’t you think?”

  “‘Love!’ he snorted. I’m told it’s good when it’s mutual. How can she talk of love? I never gave her any encouragement. I don’t know why she talks of it.”

  Laura nodded solemnly.

  “I know you didn’t, so does Paul. That’s why I brought up the subject. I want you to know that we don’t blame you for anything.”

  Creasy spoke earnestly — persuasively.

  “Look, Laura, I like Nadia very much. That’s all. But even if
I felt more for her, it would be useless. That’s what she can’t seem to understand. In a few weeks I’ll be leaving. There’s something I have to do. It’s extremely unlikely that I’ll ever return. Her hopes will be smashed again — it isn’t logical.”

  Laura smiled at him again.

  “Logical! Such words. When has love ever been logical?” She held up her hand. “Wait — listen. You know of her marriage. It affects her more than you think. Not what has happened. Not in her mind. It affects her status here in Gozo. She wants to stay here. She is determined. But we are not like other places. She cannot live here like other women. She cannot start again. But she is a warm girl. She wants to give of herself, not hiding it, or being ashamed. That’s why she talked to us last night.”

  He shook his head.

  “Laura, why me? There’s too much against it. First, I’m so much older than she is, and second, I’m leaving — definitely leaving.”

  He thought of something.

  “Maybe she thinks she can change my mind. Persuade me not to go.” He looked hard at Laura, into her eyes, and said with great emphasis: “That’s impossible. You must convince her. Then she may forget this nonsense.”

  Laura was thoughtful for a moment. This aspect did puzzle her, for Nadia was a practical girl. She was holding something back. Last night, when she confronted her parents, she had been simple and direct, and they had quickly pointed out that there was no future in it. Her father had been blunt. “He will go away and leave you,” he had told her. “Nothing will stop him. I know that.” But she had answered that she knew it too and accepted it. Meanwhile, she loved him. She was not a child. She was not looking for permanence. She knew that was impossible. But she was entitled to some happiness — even temporary happiness.

  So now Laura shook her head and said, “I doubt it. I don’t think she will try to persuade you to stay.” She noted his expression. Puzzled and embarrassed and defiant. Her voice softened.

  “Creasy, you are attractive to women. You must know that. And you can’t live in isolation. You affect people. Everybody does, one way or another. You can’t expect to go through life without having an influence on others. Without being influenced yourself. Take this house; in the case of Joey, he hero-worships you. That’s natural. He’s young, and you represent an exciting world he’s never seen. In Nadia’s case, it’s love. That too may be natural. After the mess of her marriage perhaps she has swung the other way. Perhaps she sees, in you, everything her husband wasn’t.”

  The thought amused her as she looked at Creasy: huge forearms resting on the table. Scarred hands and face.

  “You’re not exactly a delicate flower.”

  He didn’t react. Didn’t seem to hear her last words. Something she had said earlier had triggered a response in his mind. Had taken him back.

  “You don’t live in isolation.” That was true. He had for so long. But that had changed.

  He came back to the present and stood up and said, “Anyway, it takes two. Whatever’s in her mind, she can forget it.”

  He turned to leave, and at the door he said, “Laura, I’m sorry this happened. I don’t want to cause any problems. Perhaps I should go away?”

  She shrugged.

  “As far as we’re concerned, there are no problems — and there won’t be. We like having you here. And you have been a big help to Paul. He needed help this summer. But you have to work it out yourself with Nadia. I won’t say anything more. I won’t interfere with her — or with you.” She smiled. “But you don’t seem like a man who runs away — even from a woman.”

  He glared at her and saw the smile broaden and he went out banging the door behind him.

  She came two nights later, just after midnight.

  The door opened quietly and he heard the patter of bare feet on the stone floor. Moonlight through the small window showed her dimly at the bedroom door, standing still — watching him. She moved to the bed. A rustle of cloth on skin.

  “Go back to your own room,” he said.

  She pulled back the single sheet and slipped in beside him.

  “I don’t want you here. Go back to your own room.”

  A soft arm crossed his waist and soft lips kissed his shoulder and moved up toward his neck.

  He lay completely still — unresponsive.

  “Nadia, understand. I don’t want you.”

  She raised herself slightly. Small, soft breasts pressed down on his chest. Her mouth moved slowly from his neck to his chin and then to his lips. He tried to tell her again to leave; but it had become difficult.

  Chapter 12

  He was short and thickset and clad in camouflage uniform. Grenades and a small transceiver hung from webbing on his chest, and he held a Sterling submachine gun. He leaned against the stone wall breathing deeply, steadying himself after the sprint across the open ground to the two storied building.

  Ready now, he inched toward the corner. He knew that around it was a long windowless corridor, and at the end, a flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. He bunched and sprang forward in a low crouch, his finger tightening on the trigger. The staccato rattle of the Sterling echoed through the building.

  Creasy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched him coming, eyes taking in every detail.

  The man reached the stairs with a squeal of rubber soled boots and again flattened himself against the wall. An empty magazine clattered to the floor and a full one clicked into place. He lifted a hand to the transceiver. “Going up now,” he said, and with a glance at Creasy, hurled himself up the stairs. Creasy followed, hearing more bursts of firing and, at the other end of the building, the crack of grenades.

  They streamed out into the rocky garden, all fifteen of them, dressed in camouflage gear and talking excitedly. George brought up the rear, ushering them over to a low wall, telling them to sit.

  The exercise had lasted five minutes, but the debriefing went on for an hour. George took them through all phases of attack, criticizing here, praising there. He stood in front of them, Creasy alongside. The squad was in high spirits; it was their first full-scale exercise and the noise and action had been stimulating.

  George finished and turned to Creasy. “Any comments?”

  Creasy stepped forward and the squad stilled expectantly.

  “On the whole, good,” he said, and there was a row of smiles.

  “But in a real fight, half of you would be dead or wounded.” The smiles faded.

  He pointed at the short, squat one.

  “Grazio, you came down that corridor hugging the wall — a stone wall. That just brings you closer to a ricochet. You’ve been told — always come down the centre. You feel more exposed, but it’s safer. You came around the corner low, but straightened up almost immediately, and you were aiming waist high. Always aim low. An enemy can lie on the floor, but he can’t fly in the air. In a stone or brick building like that, use the ricochet to your own advantage.”

  Grazio nodded, crestfallen, but Creasy didn’t let up.

  “If I’d been a terrorist, you’d be dead now. And another thing, your magazine change was slow — very slow. That’s the critical time, when you’re most vulnerable. You must practice until your fingers ache. Until it’s reflexive.” His eyes swept the line. “All of you — practice! It’s the difference between being dead or alive. You don’t have time to fumble.”

  He pointed to a taller man, with a heavy black moustache.

  “Domi, you followed Charlie into Room Two. You should have stayed in the corridor, covering the doors of Rooms Three and Four. It didn’t need both of you in there. It wasn’t a bedroom. There were no girls waiting for you!”

  The squad laughed. Domi was a noted Romeo.

  Creasy went on to comment on the performance of almost every man in the squad. George was quietly astonished by the volume and scope of Creasy’s observations. He noted again the change in Creasy’s manner whenever he was instructing. Reticence gone — clear, incisive sentences. And he noticed how the
men listened, absorbing everything. It was the voice of total experience and authority. They had seen Creasy change an empty Sterling magazine. A blur of motion, the thread of fire hardly broken. They had seen him fire handguns, SMGs, and carbines, and strip them down and reassemble them with the same assurance that they handled a knife and fork. And they had all practised unarmed combat with him and been amazed at his speed and reflexes. They were all fit, hard, young men in their twenties, and they knew that Creasy, so much older, could have beaten any of them in a serious fight. So they listened.

  He ended by telling them that as a first exercise they had all done well. He praised their speed in the initial assault and their lack of hesitation once they were in the building.

  “But don’t hang around,” he stressed. “Always keep moving. Moving and watching. You know yourselves how easy it is to hit a stationary target. So keep low, keep moving, and keep watching.”

  He stepped back and George spoke a few more words and dismissed the squad.

  Creasy had been deliberately left out of the planning of the exercise. George had wanted an independent opinion. Now he took Creasy aside and asked him, “What about the overall tactics?”

  Creasy stood looking at the building and considering. The scenario had been that four terrorists, without hostages, had been holed up, presumably on the top floor. Efforts to talk them out had failed, and the squad had been ordered to storm the building.

  “It was out of balance,” he said finally. “You had five men covering the outside and you sent in ten. Better the other way round. First, because too many men in the assault force get in each other’s way, and second, because once the assault started, the terrorists were likely to break out, and in different directions.” He pointed to the upper-storey windows. “They could have jumped — it’s not very high.”

  He softened his criticism: “The method and direction of entry were good. I liked the idea of driving the truck below the upper south windows; and the diversion from the front was well timed and realistic.”