He enjoyed the work, but eventually had to stop because the air in the closed garage had become stuffy. It was dark outside, and he walked for ten minutes in the cool night air to clear his head. Then he found a small bistro and went in to have dinner.
At eight the next morning he was back in the garage. He worked through till noon, then went for lunch to the same bistro. The food was simple and good, and with his rough clothes and colloquial French, he was not out of place among the other customers.
By mid-afternoon he had finished shaping the timber, and he fitted it into the compartment. First the heavy frame and then the cross pieces, each slotting exactly into its prepared joint. He stood back and surveyed his work. The compartment now resembled a giant, half-finished child’s puzzle. On Thursday he would fit in the missing pieces.
Back at the hotel he looked in the yellow pages and rang a rental agency. In the name of Luigi Racca, he arranged to hire a Fiat van the next day, for twenty-four hours.
Leclerc waited with a watchman. There was no one else on the street. At five past ten, a dark blue van turned the corner and parked a hundred metres away. Its lights flickered twice and went out.
“Go down to the other corner and wait,” Leclerc told the watchman. “Don’t come back until that van has left.” As the watchman disappeared into the dark, the van moved forward again.
“OK?” Creasy asked, jumping down from the cab.
“OK,” Leclerc replied, and unlocked the warehouse door. Just inside were three wooden packing cases on a fork lift. They were lettered “A,” “B,” and “C.” Leclerc pointed to each in turn. “Ammunition, weapons, other equipment.” Within a couple of minutes the cases were loaded in the van and Creasy climbed back into the cab.
Leclerc looked up at him. “Come into my office tomorrow afternoon. Your papers will be ready.”
Creasy nodded and drove away.
He drove around the city for forty minutes, varying his speed and making unpredictable turns. Then, satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, he drove to Rue Catinat and parked fifty metres from the garage. He turned off the lights and engine and sat listening and watching for half an hour. Then he started the engine and backed up close to the garage door. He quickly wrestled the three cases from the van and into the garage. He locked up and drove back to his hotel — again constantly watching his mirror.
In the early morning he returned the rented van and by nine o’clock was back in the garage. He prized the lids off the three cases and, one by one, fitted the weapons, the boxes of ammunition, and the grenades into their allotted places. He took handfuls of cotton waste and packed it into all remaining gaps between equipment and frame. Then a curtain of felt was tacked across the entire framework. He fetched the false panel and, again being careful not to scratch the paint, he screwed it back into place. He banged the side of his fist against it in several places. It felt and sounded solid. Finally, he spread his legs and shifted his weight back and forth, rocking the van on its springs.
He nodded in satisfaction. His weapons carrier was ready and loaded.
Leclerc passed the envelope across the desk and Creasy shook out the passport and papers and examined them closely.
“They’re good,” he said. “Better than I expected — how much?”
Leclerc shrugged ruefully. “Eleven thousand francs.”
“They’re worth it,” Creasy said, and took out a roll of money and counted out the notes. “You’ve arranged with Guido about payment for the other stuff.”
Leclerc nodded. “He’ll pay into my account in Brussels.” He paused, and then said, “You’re getting it for cost — I’ve added nothing.”
“Thanks,” Creasy said, and smiled slightly. “That evens us up.”
Leclerc smiled and stood up. “Is my life worth so little? — I hope not.”
Creasy held out his hand. “If a favour is returned, it’s the act — not the size of it. Incidentally, I know you have to cooperate with the government in your business, and I know our transaction is very unofficial. If you get any pressure, tell them you thought I still acted for the Rhodesians. But don’t mention the papers to anyone — not even Guido.”
Leclerc smiled. “OK. I can look very innocent when necessary. Good luck.”
At the door Creasy hesitated, and then made up his mind.
“You went to a lot of trouble,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it. Ever I can do something for you, contact me through Guido.”
Leclerc had been about to sit down, but as the door closed he remained half crouched over the chair, his mouth open in surprise. Then he sank slowly back, and crossed himself. Miracles do happen.
Chapter 15
Guido stood on the terrace watching through binoculars as the blue and white ferry docked. He had confidence in the papers, but vehicles arriving from Marseilles were often thoroughly searched.
The ramp came down and a stream of private cars drove out and was directed into three lines. Several trucks and a container trailer followed. Then the grey van. He watched Creasy get out of the cab and lounge against the side of the van in an attitude of bored indifference. He was dressed in faded denim overalls and he carried a large Manila envelope which he slapped idly against his leg.
It was twenty minutes before the customs inspector reached him. In the meantime, Pietro had come out onto the terrace.
“He’s arrived?”
“Yes,” Guido grunted, without moving his gaze from the docks.
The official checked the papers carefully and then walked to the rear of the van. Creasy opened the doors and the customs man handed back the envelope and pulled himself up and in. It seemed an eternity before he reappeared, holding something. Guido stiffened and leaned forward, adjusting the binoculars for better vision. Finally he recognized the object and saw Creasy nodding, and his pent-up breath hissed out.
“What is it?” asked Pietro.
“A melon! — The bastard wants a melon.”
Pietro laughed. “A small price to pay.”
The grey van moved to the security gates; only a brief pause this time, and then it pulled out into the traffic. Guido lowered the binoculars and looked at his watch.
“He’ll call within the hour. So I’ll be out for lunch — can you handle it by yourself?”
“Sure,” Pietro answered. “Tell him good luck for me.”
“I will,” Guido said seriously. “He’s going to need it.”
Guido entered the restaurant carrying a canvas bag. He paused at the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was barely noon and apart from Creasy, sitting at a corner table, and a bored waiter, the place was deserted. Creasy rose as Guido approached and they embraced warmly. Guido stepped back and looked at his friend critically.
“Gozo agrees with you. You’ve shed ten years.”
Creasy smiled. “They all send their love.”
They sat down and ordered a light lunch of calzoni and salad.
“Everything OK in Marseilles?” Guido asked as soon as the waiter left.
“Perfect,” answered Creasy. “Leclerc was very helpful but resented your threatening him.”
Guido grinned. “Anyway, it didn’t hurt — How’s Nadia?”
The question threw Creasy for a moment.
“She’s fine — You know about that?”
“I guessed.”
Guido told him about the phone call and how he had tried to discourage her. “But I assume it didn’t put her off.”
Creasy shook his head. “It didn’t.”
“How did she take your leaving?”
Creasy shrugged — it puzzled him a bit.
“Very casual. No tears, no emotion — she’s a strange girl.”
The waiter approached with the food and a bottle of wine, and then left them alone.
“I sent Pietro to Marseilles,” Guido said. “He’s done most of the legwork, even in Rome and Milan.”
“He’s a good kid,” Creasy remarked.
They ate in
silence for a while. It was not necessary for Creasy to question Pietro’s reliability, but still, something had to be said.
“He might be in danger.”
Guido nodded. “I’m sending him to Gozo once it starts. He’ll stay there until the whole thing is over. Anyway, he needs a holiday.”
“He deserves it,” Creasy agreed, and repeated, “He’s a good kid — will you manage without him?”
Guido smiled. “I’m closing the pensione for the duration. I’ll just do lunch and dinner for the regulars. The work load will be much lighter.”
Creasy didn’t utter platitudes about losing money. Nothing needed to be said.
Guido unzipped the canvas bag and took out five bunches of keys, two street maps and a folder. He passed the keys over. They all had tags attached. He said, “The apartment in Milan, the cottage at Vigentino, just outside the city, the Alfetta GT, the apartment in Rome, and the Renault 20 in Rome.”
Creasy held the keys and smiled. “I feel like a property owner!”
“Renter.” Guido smiled back. “They’re all rented for three months, starting ten days ago.”
“There’s no way they can be traced to you?”
Guido shook his head. “No way — the apartments and cottage were rented by Remarque in Brussels, using a false name — and there’s a cut-off in between. I rented the cars using the name of Luigi Racca. Incidentally, he’s a widower, visiting his daughter in Australia — won’t be back for months.”
He opened the street maps and pointed out the circled locations of the apartment in Milan and the bungalow outside.
“It’s very secluded and has a lockup garage — the Alfetta is inside.” He pointed out the apartment in Rome, and the garage, two blocks away, which contained the Renault.
“The apartment and bungalow are provisioned with canned food and stuff.” He tapped the folder. “Addresses in here.”
“Good,” Creasy said, well satisfied. “Did you remember the chargers?”
Guido grinned and reached into the bag and passed across two shiny cylinders. Creasy examined one of them carefully.
It was made of anodized aluminium — about three and a half inches long, three quarters of an inch in diameter, and bevelled at both ends. He held the ends and twisted gently and the cylinder opened on fine threading. He looked inside the two halves. The inner surface was as smooth as the outside.
“I had them made in a local machine shop,” Guido said, taking the cylinders back and dropping them into the bag. “They are a bit bigger than normal — uncomfortable, I would think.”
Creasy smiled thinly. “He can complain — I’ll be very sympathetic.”
Guido put away the keys and maps, leaving just the folder in front of him. “Do you remember Verrua?” he asked. “From the Legion?”
“Yes,” Creasy replied. “Second R.E.P. He did two hitches and then left — he was getting old.”
“Right,” said Guido. “He lives here now, in Naples. For ten years, after he left the Legion, he worked for Cantarella in Sicily — strong-arm stuff. They put him out to grass a couple of years back, and he came to live here with his married daughter. He comes to eat at the pensione a lot. Likes to reminisce. I hardly remembered him — I was only in a few months before he left — but he remembers you. Often talks about you — about the early days in Vietnam.”
Creasy nodded. “He talked too much even then. He doesn’t know anything about this operation?”
Guido shook his head. “Nothing. But the point is, he’s very disenchanted with Cantarella. Feels he wasn’t looked after properly. Frankly, he’s a complainer by nature. However, with a little nudging, he talked a lot about the Villa Colacci and the setup there.” He passed over the folder. “It’s in there, with other bits and pieces I’ve picked up.”
Creasy looked through the folder. There was a sketch map of the villa and its grounds, and several pages of notes.
He looked up and said: “Guido, this is a real help — I appreciate it.”
Guido shrugged and called out to the waiter to bring them coffee.
“I know you plan to get information as you go along,” he said. “But that might save you some time.”
“It will,” Creasy agreed, looking down at the sketch map. “Villa Colacci is the tough one — and he rarely moves out of it.”
Guido grinned. “He won’t move at all when he knows he’s a target. Any ideas on getting in?”
“Several,” Creasy answered, “But I’ll keep my options open till I know more.”
In fact, he already knew exactly how he was going to get in. He had decided after his visit to Palermo three months before. He would have discussed it with Guido, but he had a reason for not doing so.
The coffee arrived, and Creasy took a sip and brought the subject up: “After Conti in Rome, I’ll be entirely on my own. No contact and no fixed base. I’ll have dumped both cars and the van by then — you understand why?”
Guido smiled briefly. “Sure. By then, both the police and Cantarella may have figured out who’s doing the killings. It won’t take them long to trace you back to me, and then they’ll be asking me questions — I can’t tell them what I don’t know.”
Creasy nodded, his face serious.
“And if you don’t know, it will become obvious. It always does — we’ve both had experience in asking such questions. If you genuinely don’t know, you will be safer.”
“But you’re making it difficult for yourself,” Guido commented. “And God knows it’s going to be difficult enough.”
The American smiled. “I’ll improvise — it won’t be the first time. Meanwhile, how do I get in touch with you? I don’t want to use the phone.”
Guido pointed at the folder. “Front page. There’s a Post Restante number here in Naples — cable a phone number and a time, and I’ll call you from outside.”
Creasy flicked open the folder and read the number.
“OK — if things go smoothly, I won’t be in contact at all — until it’s all over.”
There was a long silence.
“You are still as determined?”
“Yes — nothing’s changed — I want them so bad, it’s an ache.”
“I thought Nadia might have changed that — taken away some of the hate.”
Creasy was a long time answering — thinking about Guido’s words. Then he shook his head and said softly, “I love her, Guido — and she loves me. But it hasn’t changed anything. That child made it possible. That child allowed me — showed me how to let it happen.” His square face was somber, his voice thick with emotion, “I told Nadia everything and, in a strange way, she hates them as much as I do. I don’t really understand, but it’s as though she’s with me — urging me on.”
He leaned back in his chair and drew in a deep breath, controlling his feelings.
“I know it’s a contradiction — I try not to think of Nadia.” He smiled faintly. “Would you believe it, Guido? Me! Fifty years old, and falling in love.”
Guido shook his head. He felt very sad.
“When will you start?”
Creasy leaned forward again. His voice became matter-of-fact.
“I’ll drive up to Milan today — I should arrive early tomorrow morning at the cottage. Rabbia and Sandri are the first targets, but I only need to talk to one of them — probably Rabbia. Apparently he’s just muscle, and slow-witted — he’ll crack faster than Sandri.”
He shrugged. “A few days to watch him, then I’ll pick him up.”
Guido picked up the folder, dropped it into the bag, and zipped it up. The two men rose,
“You go first,” Guido said.
“OK — Tell Pietro to have a good holiday — and tell him thanks.”
“I will,” said Guido. “He sends you luck.”
They embraced and Creasy picked up the bag and left.
Chapter 16
Giorgio Rabbia was at work. It was not strenuous. For the past two hours, he had moved in and out of a number of
bars in the eastern part of Milan. It was Thursday night and, for his boss, that meant payday.
Rabbia was a huge, ponderous man with a vicious nature. When he became angry his movement quickened, and he liked to beat people. He was perfectly suited to his job, and he did it efficiently, if slowly — always following the same routine.
It was midnight, and he had finished the bars and was about to start the clubs. He wore a loose-fitting jacket which exaggerated further his great bulk. Beneath the jacket, under his left arm, he carried a Beretta pistol in a shoulder holster. Under his right arm hung a long, soft, chamois leather bag, closed with a drawstring. It was half full.
He pulled his Lancia into a No Parking zone in front of the Papagayo nightclub and eased his bulk out onto the pavement.
He was proud of the Lancia — it was painted metallic silver and fitted with a Braun stereo and a musical horn. On the ledge, behind the back seat, sat a toy dachshund; its head bobbed up and down with the car’s motion. A present from a favourite girlfriend.
In spite of these expensive and sentimental attachments, Rabbia did not bother to lock the car or even take the key from the ignition. Every petty thief in Milan knew to whom it belonged, and the consequences of touching it.
He ambled into the club with mild anticipation for, according to his routine, he always took his first drink of the night here.
The owner saw him enter and snapped his fingers at the bartender. By the time Rabbia had reached the bar, a large Scotch was waiting. He drank appreciatively and surveyed the room.
Several couples danced to the soft music of a single pianist. The men were middle-aged, business types, the girls young hostesses. It was an expensive and successful club. He watched a girl walk from the powder room to a table — tall and blonde, with large breasts bulging out of a low-cut dress. He hadn’t seen her before, so she must be new. He made a slow, mental note to have her sent over one afternoon.
He finished his drink and the club owner approached and gave him a sheaf of notes. Rabbia counted them carefully and then reached under his jacket, loosened the drawstring, and dropped them into the bag. He nodded at the smiling club owner and pointed with his chin.
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 21
