He put a hand on George’s shoulder.
“It was imaginative planning, but I suggest less reliance on the transceivers. They’re useful in a stakeout, but the assault force should ignore them unless they get bogged down. Reporting every move is inhibiting. They all know what to do, they’re trained to react as individuals — let them.” He smiled. “On the whole, George, good. Especially as a first effort.”
George was pleased.
“Thanks,” he said. “I have the building for a month. We’ll have two more exercises with it and Air Malta will let us borrow one of their Boeings for a couple of hours next week for a simulated hijack assault.”
The squad was grouped around the back of a police Land Rover, and cold bottles of beer were being passed out. Creasy and George walked over to join them. As they stood around drinking, George suddenly said with mock severity,
“By the way, I thought you weren’t planning to work in Malta.”
Creasy was puzzled for a moment, and then understood. He feigned innocence. “Christ, George, I’m only helping your uncle on the farm.”
The fifteen young policemen were all listening and smiling. So was George. “That’s not what I meant, Creasy, and you know it; but anyway, it was a good thing. It saved us some work and stopped an injustice.”
He was referring to an incident that had occurred a few days before.
The lampuki season had started, lampuki being the favourite fish of the Maltese. Creasy had driven Nadia down to Mgarr one evening to buy the first of the catch direct from the fishermen. They could see the brightly painted boats coming up the Comino channel. He left her at the quay and went into Gleneagles for a drink.
There was a small group at the bar. Michele and Victor, Tony and Sam and “Shreik.” The group opened to let him in and Sam poured him a beer, and they went back to their conversation. They were unusually serious, and Creasy listened with interest.
The problem centred on a Gozo “character” called Benny, nicknamed “Tattoo” — his huge arms were covered with them. Benny was very big, very strong, and in looks resembled a reject for Frankenstein. Although a Gozitan, he had spent many years on the big island. Creasy had heard some of the stories about him. One concerned the previous election. A politician had promised that, in return for help during the election, Benny would be given a plum job once the new government was installed. Benny, a trusting type, worked hard, and after the politician was duly elected turned up at his office for the promised job. He was kept waiting a couple of hours and then informed by a secretary that the politician had no recollection of any job offer and was too busy to see him. Benny, irritated, pushed past the secretary to the door of the office. The politician had foresight, and the door was locked. Benny became angry and smashed down the door. The politician disappeared through the window, blessing his luck that he had a ground floor office. It was a nice office, newly furnished and decorated. Benny vented his anger on it. When the police arrived they could still hear the sounds of splintering wood.
None of the policemen relished the idea of making an arrest — Benny had a reputation. They had two Alsatian dogs with them and they told Benny through a megaphone that if he didn’t come out peacefully they would send the dogs in. There was a very brief silence, and then the sounds of destruction started again. They sent in the dogs. Within half a minute they came back — thrown out the window with broken necks.
Benny was lucky. The judge was neither an animal lover nor a supporter of that politician. Benny got only three months.
His latest brush with the law had occurred six months earlier. He had a temporary job as a “keeper of the peace” in a bar on Strait Street in Valletta. This street, known as “the gut,” had been a favourite hangout of sailors for generations, but, with the closing of the British naval base, it had fallen on hard times. Only a few bars remained open, and some of these became the favourite drinking spots of various gangs of Malta’s small but dedicated tough guy element. Benny had his enemies among this group and, in “keeping the peace” one night, sent two of them to the hospital for a long time.
The same judge had given him a year’s sentence, suspended for six months. In order to keep out of the way of temptation, Benny had come home to Gozo to wait out the six months in relative seclusion.
He was often in Gleneagles and several times had drinks with Creasy. He was popular with the locals. Friendly and always ready to lend a helping hand — pulling up a boat or painting a house or threatening a difficult outsider.
Creasy liked him. On one occasion Benny had come in with a girl — a peroxide blonde tourist, a bit drunk and fascinated by his tough guy image. Twice she knocked Creasy’s glass over, the second time while Benny was in the toilet. Creasy spoke to her sharply.
“It was an accident,” she said indignantly. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
When Benny came back, she complained that Creasy had insulted her.
The room had gone quiet. Benny looked at Creasy inquiringly.
“She’s trying to set us up,” Creasy explained, and told him about the spilled drinks.
Benny nodded and gave Tony a look and two fresh drinks were put on the bar.
“Are you frightened of him, then?” the girl asked scornfully.
Benny shook his head. “No, and he’s not frightened of me. Now shut up or get out.”
So Creasy liked him and had listened sympathetically to the discussion of his problem.
It seemed that Benny’s period of suspension would end in a few days. If he broke the peace before then, he would have to do the full year in jail. That thought appealed to some of his enemies on Malta. On the previous ferry run, Victor had seen two of those enemies at the Cirkewwa jetty. They were waiting in a line of cars to make the crossing and, by judicious spacing, Victor had ensured that they didn’t get on. But they were first in line for the next trip. The group at the bar discussed what could be done. It was known that Benny was drinking that afternoon in Marsalforn but it was no good asking him to keep out of the way. His pride wouldn’t permit that. It was also no use informing the police of the impending clash. It was obvious that Benny’s two enemies were coming to provoke a fight, but they could bide their time, and Benny wouldn’t need much provoking. They all cast about for a solution, but Creasy kept silent, holding a debate with himself. He didn’t want to get involved; he never did, in other people’s fights. It wasn’t his business — but still, for six weeks he had lived in this community and been accepted by it. These people had been good to him. To some extent, their problems must be his problems. He liked Benny.
So when Victor looked at his watch and announced that he had to go, Creasy asked Tony to have someone drive Nadia home. “I’ll make the trip with Victor — get some fresh air.”
He stood with Victor in the wheelhouse as the Melitaland edged into the jetty at Cirkewwa.
‘That’s their car,” Victor pointed. “At the front of the queue.”
It was a big old Dodge, painted white and red and adorned with strips of chrome and a mascot of a rearing stallion.
“They all drive cars like that,” Victor said. “Be careful, Uomo. They are not soft, those two.”
Creasy nodded. “When do you leave?”
“In half an hour.”
Creasy opened the wheelhouse door.
“If I’m not back I’ll catch you on the next trip — don’t wait.”
The cars had started to roll down the ramp, and Victor leaned forward to watch as Creasy picked his moment and crossed in front of them and off the ferry. He walked casually to the line of waiting cars. As he passed the Dodge he suddenly stopped, and in one motion opened the rear door, got in, and closed it behind him.
The Dodge started to rock on its soft springs. From his position up in the wheelhouse, Victor couldn’t see into the car. He ran to the wing of the bridge, but he still couldn’t see anything. Then the rocking stopped. Victor heard the Dodge’s engine start and, very slowly, it pulled out of the line, turned do
wn the road away from the jetty, and a mile away disappeared round a bend.
Half an hour later all the cars were loaded. A crew member looked up to the bridge for the signal to raise the ramp. “Wait,” Victor called down. He had seen the Dodge reappear.
It pulled up broadside to the ramp, and Creasy got out of the back seat and crossed onto the ferry. The Dodge headed back toward Valletta.
“What happened?” Victor asked eagerly when Creasy appeared at the wheelhouse door.
Creasy shrugged. “They decided not to visit Gozo this summer.” His tone precluded any further questions, and they had crossed to Mgarr in silence.
* * *
“Do you know every single little thing that goes on in these islands?” Creasy asked.
George nodded. “Just about — what did you do to them?”
“We had a conversation.” Creasy tried to change the subject. “When is the next exercise?”
George grinned. “Next week, same time. It must have been a hell of a conversation. Those two haven’t shown a nose in three days.”
“Reformed characters,” Creasy grunted. He turned to one of the grinning men. “Grazio, you’re ready to go?”
Paul’s Land Rover was in for repair and Creasy had got a lift into Valletta in the morning. Grazio had offered to run him back to Cirkewwa.
As they drove along the winding coast road, Grazio tried to make conversation. He soon gave up. Creasy was obviously in a reflective mood. In fact, he was thinking of his impending departure. Two more weeks, he decided, and he’d be ready. The thought of leaving brought conflicting emotions. Now that he was reaching full fitness, he felt an impatience to get on with the job. The preparation had been long and hard, only endured because of the purpose. He was almost ready and his mind ranged forward, combing through his strategy, trying to foresee problems. His mind was ahead of his body — waiting for it to catch up. In two weeks they would come together.
Nadia — she was the other emotion. Nadia and his life on Gozo. Leaving would be final. He had a premonition of that. He loved her. Admitting that to himself had been a physical shock, releasing adrenalin into his blood.
After the first night, she had moved her clothes into his rooms. He had accepted it. A month, that was all. She had been warned — so be it. But it had taken only a few days. He woke early one morning. The sun lit her sleeping face. Serious and vulnerable; and he loved her.
She said she would be his woman and in those few short days had shown what it meant. Complete but not suffocating. She had the natural wisdom to make her presence a mere extension of himself. After that first day, she never spoke again of love. She was never clinging, never maudlin. She balanced passion with practicality.
She established a gentle routine.
At dawn she would slip out of bed and go down to the kitchen and prepare a pot of coffee. He was always up when she returned, doing his morning exercises. She would sit on the bed watching solemnly while he put his body on the rack. Then he would drink the coffee, sitting next to her on the bed. The early mornings were quiet. They didn’t talk much. He would go on his run — up to five miles now, and when he finished, always at the cove, she would be waiting, with cold beer and towels. He would swim to Comino and back, and the tide didn’t bother him. They would lie on the flat rock for half an hour or so, taking in the sun, and then walk up to the house. By an unspoken understanding, her mother had abdicated the job of making Creasy’s breakfast. Nadia would fry the eggs and ham and serve him in a casual, comfortable way, as if from long habit. Later he would go to the fields and work through the day with Paul and Joey.
The evenings for Nadia were special. She would meet him again at the cove, and they would swim together and talk. Nothing momentous: but the talk itself cementing the feelings — the communicating — the lack of stated commitment. The easy warmth of being together, and private. She would see him smile, sometimes joke. She discovered his dry sense of humour, tinged with cynicism. He discovered a woman, deeply intelligent and mysteriously erotic. A woman who could fill his life, but leave him unconstricted. After dinner they would often go out. At first, just to please her. He sensed she wanted it. Wanted people to see them together. She needed to establish, in the community, that she was his woman and not ashamed of it. They usually went first to Gleneagles for an early drink. Creasy would sit on the corner stool, part of the usual crowd, mostly just listening to the conversation and repartee flowing back and forth. Nadia would sit next to him, an arm round his waist — proclaiming possession by her attitude. Nobody commented. To “Shreik” and Benny and Tony and Sam, and all the rest, it was somehow right — the Schembri girl and Uomo. It was tidy.
Curiously, the only person to say anything at all had been Joey. The day after Nadia had moved her things into Creasy’s rooms he had been helping Joey load sacks of onions into a trailer. Joey had been silent and preoccupied. Abruptly he said, “About Nadia.” His tone was very serious. “I’m her brother . . . well, I know what’s going on. I don’t want you to misunderstand.”
Creasy stood shirtless and huge beside him.
“Misunderstand what?” he asked softly.
Joey groped for words. “Well . . . normally, if a man seduced a fellow’s sister under his own roof, he’d do something about it.” He was both embarrassed and slightly defiant.
“I didn’t seduce your sister,” Creasy said shortly.
“I know.” Joey heaved a sack onto the trailer, and turned and said, “It’s just that I don’t want you to think I’m not up to defending my sister’s honour. If you had seduced her, or hurt her at all, I’d take you on. Tough as you are.”
Creasy smiled. “I know you would. I won’t hurt her . . . not intentionally. Not if I can help it.”
They worked on in silence and then Joey smiled at a thought and said, “Anyway, if I’d tried to interfere, Nadia would have brained me with a frying pan.”
After Gleneagles, they would occasionally go out for a meal: to Il-Katell in Marsalforn or to Ta Cenc, the small, deluxe, Italian owned hotel. Expensive food, but good.
Sometimes they would end the evening at Barbarella’s, the discotheque on the hill above Marsalforn. It was a place Creasy enjoyed. An old, converted farmhouse — the dance floor being the central courtyard. It had a bar on the roof, cool and open to the stars. The bartender, Censu, was another favourite of his, shy and smiling, unruffled and all-knowing. Creasy would nurse a cognac and enjoy the disco music while Nadia chatted to her friends. She had been really surprised when, on the first visit, Creasy had said gruffly, “Let’s dance.” He just didn’t seem the dancing type. But he was a natural dancer — his body gifted with coordination; and he moved perfectly with the music, his brooding eyes almost closed, letting the sounds wash over him.
“He shambles out like a bear,” Joey had told his mother. “And then it’s like he throws a switch and plugs right into the sound system.”
They would always be home before midnight. She never asked him to stay out later. She knew the stress of his physical program.
In the big bed they would end the day making love. And that too was good. Complete and satisfying. Without artifice or pretence. They discovered each other’s bodies and explored sensations. He was dominating, but gentle. She was submissive, but equal. Afterward, the brief time before she slept was the best time for her — the perfect time. The time when she lay, always lower than he in the bed, her head resting just under his chest, secure in the sweep of a muscled arm, her body against his, her feet twined in his feet. It was a time when she lost her memory. A time made perfect because she knew that, in the morning, the arm would still be there; she could sleep, peaceful as a child.
Laura had been right. Nadia never talked of his impending departure. By unspoken agreement the future was never mentioned.
He came out of his reverie as they bounced down the hill to Cirkewwa and onto the jetty. He got out and turned to the driver.
“Thanks, Grazio. See you next week — and practi
se that magazine change.”
Grazio grinned. “I know. Until my fingers ache.”
Creasy crossed over in the wheelhouse. Michele was on duty and told him that Salvu had, at last, caught his fish — a big silver bream.
“He’s been waiting for you in Gleneagles all afternoon. If he doesn’t leave there soon, he won’t be able to find it, let alone cook it.”
But Salvu was holding up well. His wide leather belt had sagged a bit and he had even unbuttoned his shirt sleeves. But he was standing. The bar was full and noisy, Tony and Sam working hard. Joey was in a corner with Nadia and waved at Creasy.
“We came to pick you up. The Land Rover’s fixed.”
Creasy moved through the throng of people, knowing suddenly that he would miss all this. “Shreik” was in deep conversation with Benny. They broke off with the standard greeting.
“Alright, Uomo?”
“Alright, Shreik?”
“Alright, Benny?”
“Alright!”
Salvu weaved over and passed him a beer. “Dinner tonight, Uomo. I got him at last.”
“The same one, Salvu?”
The old man smiled. “The very same. The bastard that jumped off last month,”
“How do you know?” Creasy asked seriously.
The smile widened to a grin. “Because when I pulled him in, he took one look at me and said: ‘Christ! Not you again.’”
“That’s a blasphemous bream,” Creasy said, keeping a straight face.
Salvu nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll confess for him on Sunday. He’ll do advanced penance tonight — in the hell fire of the oven.” Salvu pointed with his chin at Nadia. “Bring your girl with you. Eight o’clock. You’ll need her to carry you home.”
It was a magic evening. They sat in the arched kitchen of old Salvu’s old farmhouse, drinking his strong wine and watching as he prepared his fish. The farmhouse had been built in the sixteenth century and the black iron oven looked like an original fixture. The bream had been filleted in the early morning and marinated all day in wine and lemon juice. Salvu added herbs from a variety of unmarked jars, sniffing each one and humming to himself like an old sorcerer. Then everything went into the oven, and he joined them at the table and poured a mug of wine. “Forty minutes,” he said, with a wink at Nadia. “Time for a quick sip.”
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 18
