Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Satta looked again into the car. The body lay across the front seats with the head resting against the far door. There was blood everywhere — on the dashboard, on the seats, and in a pool on the floor. It still dripped rhythmically from the huge gash under Violente’s chin.

  Satta turned away with a sniff.

  “Violent in name and in death,” he commented. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  Bellu gestured to the waiting fingerprint men to carry on and followed his boss.

  Sandri lay on his back on the second floor landing. A once white towel covered his head and shoulders. The police photographer was packing away his camera.

  The apartment door was open and Satta could see into the bedroom. A girl sat on the bed, loosely wrapped in a sheet. A young policeman sat next to her, writing in a notebook and trying not to look too obviously under the sheet.

  Bellu pointed with his chin. “He was just leaving after a session with his girlfriend.”

  Satta looked down at the body and muttered, “He was luckier than me, then.” He reached down and lifted a corner of the towel. “Perhaps not,” he said quietly, and dropped the towel back into place. He looked distinctly pale under his tan.

  “Shotgun,” Bellu said. “At very close range.”

  Satta nodded, looking down at the blood-stained towel. His lips twitched in a slight smile.

  “Yes, I can see the pathologist’s report now: ‘Massive brain damage, presumably brought about by passage of vast multitude of projectiles.’”

  He looked through again into the apartment. “Give me what you know.”

  “This is Sandri’s love nest,” Bellu answered. “He keeps the place and changes the girls — regularly. He comes here almost every night. Lately, since Rabbia was hit, Violente has always waited for him outside. The killer cut Violente’s throat from ear to ear and left him propped up in the seat. It’s dark down there, and a casual passer by wouldn’t notice anything. Meanwhile, the killer comes up here and waits. He probably wore a loose coat with the shotgun under it. When Sandri came out, he got both barrels full in the face.”

  “Did the girl see anything?” Satta asked.

  “Nothing,” Bellu replied. “She’s very young but not entirely stupid. When she heard the blast, she stuck her head under the pillow and kept it there until the police arrived.” He pointed up with his thumb. “The woman in the apartment upstairs heard the bang and came down the stairs a bit and took a peek. When she saw Sandri lying there with only half a head, she started screaming. She only stopped a few minutes ago. Someone’s with her, trying to calm her down and get a statement.”

  “It’s interesting,” Satta commented.

  “What is?”

  “Earlier, you referred to the ‘killer’ in the singular — why only one?”

  Bellu shrugged. “I don’t know — it’s just a feeling I have — Rabbia and these two were killed by a single man.”

  “Very logical,” Satta sniffed, and walked through into the apartment. The young policeman saw him coming and walked over and read from his notebook:

  “Amelia Zanbon, aged fifteen, from Bettola — probably a runaway. There’s likely to be a missing person’s call out for her, dated six weeks ago — that’s how long she’s been with Sandri.”

  Satta looked past him at the girl, sitting small and frightened on the bed.

  “Tell her to get dressed and pack her things, and then take her down to headquarters. Find out all you can about her association with Sandri and then pass her on to Missing Persons. She’s to have round-the-clock protection until she’s out of Milan.”

  He turned and left the bedroom and the door closed behind him. He walked a few paces and then stopped, went back, and opened the door. “You can wait for her out here,” he said dryly, and the disappointed policeman followed him out.

  Bellu came over.

  “It looks like a full-scale war is starting,” he said. “That’s three in three days.”

  Satta nodded, deep in thought. “It’s the ‘Union Corse,’” he said firmly. “They like to use knives and shotguns.” His face showed his irritation.

  “I don’t like it — they’re over reacting. Soon innocent people will get caught in the cross fire.” He looked down at the body of Sandri. “Rabbia told them where he would be — I wonder what else he told them.”

  “Anything they asked, I suppose,” Bellu said.

  “Yes,” agreed Satta. “But what did they ask?”

  They stood watching as Sandri’s body was eased into a plastic bag. Then Satta turned away, saying over his shoulder, “Follow me to the office — we’ve got a busy night — and a busy week.”

  Now the newspapers became interested. Three killings in three days was going some, even by Milan’s standards. Crime reporters were hauled out of bars and beds and told to come up with plausible stories. Inevitably they reached the same conclusion as Satta and Cantarella. Headlines the next morning proclaimed a war with the “Union Corse.” Editorials pontificated about international crime and naturally called for more law and order.

  Satta began to feel the pressure from above. Something must be done, his boss, the general, told him. It’s bad enough for Italian criminals to kill each other, but totally disgraceful that Frenchmen should be doing it.

  In Gozo, “Shreik” walked into Gleneagles and tossed a copy of Il Tempo onto the bar. The regulars gathered around and discussed the story. Was it over? Had Creasy completed his mission?

  Guido in Naples and Leclerc in Marseilles also read the story; they knew it had just begun.

  Dino Fossella was worried and angry. Worried because his men were being killed and angry because of Cantarella’s reprimand. He resented it — deeply. He had never liked Cantarella. For years the smug little “arbitrator” had sat in his villa outside Palermo, hardly ever going out, never getting his hands dirty, but getting a nice slice of all the action. Just like a son-of-a-bitch politician.

  Fossella sat in his car and gritted his teeth as he recalled the message carried by Dicandia: “We are displeased with you.”

  Pompous little bastard! If it wasn’t for Cantarella’s alliance with Conti, he would tell him what to do with his displeasure. Still, the little weasel had alliances with every boss in Italy — a real politician.

  It was Wednesday evening, and Fossella was on his way to the village of Bianco to have dinner with his mother. He was a good son and always had dinner with his mother on Wednesdays. If he failed to do so, he felt guilty and his mother became angry, and even Cantarella couldn’t match his mother when she became angry.

  He travelled with caution, his own car sandwiched between two others full of bodyguards.

  Filthy “Union Corse”! Such a fuss over twenty million lire. Anyway, his own envoy would shortly arrive in Marseilles with the money, and he would be able to relax.

  The convoy swept into Bianco and up the terraced street to his mother’s house. Bodyguards leapt out, hands hovering near open jackets. Melodrama, thought Fossella; not even the animals of the “Union Corse” would involve family in business matters.

  “Wait here,” he instructed irritably. “I’ll be two hours, no more.”

  He was short, balding, and running to fat, and he panted slightly as he climbed the stone stairway and walked into the small house.

  His mother glared at him angrily. She didn’t say anything because there was a strip of white tape across her mouth. Tape also bound her wrists and ankles to a chair. A very large man stood beside her, holding a shotgun. Its short barrels rested on the old woman’s shoulders. The muzzles were against her left ear.

  “One little sound,” said the man quietly, “and you become an instant orphan.”

  Fossella was instructed to face the wall, place his hands against it and spread his feet. He didn’t hear the man approaching and was trying to work out who he could be when the blow put an end to speculation.

  The blow had been nicely calculated. As he regained senses, his knees and ankles were being pre
ssed together and taped tight; his wrists were already bound and his mouth sealed. Then he was picked up and carried through to the back of the house. He cursed his stupidity and felt anger and humiliation. One man, picking him up like a child and carrying him off.

  A grey van was parked on the cobbled street behind the house, its side door open. Fossella was quickly dumped inside and the door quietly eased shut. He felt the van move as it freewheeled down the gentle slope and he thought of his melodramatic bodyguards, no more than thirty metres away on the road below. He cursed again but his anger was being replaced by fear. He had not been blindfolded. He had seen the faded lettering on the side of the van: Luigi Racca — Vegetable Dealer. It didn’t mean anything to him, but the fact that he had been allowed to see it indicated a one-way journey.

  During the next two hours his limbs became stiff and sore and then numb. His mind remained active, but he had come up with no answers when the van finally pulled to a halt and the engine was switched off. The side door was opened and once again he was picked up with casual ease. It was dark, but he could see the outline of tall trees and a small whitewashed cottage. His abductor carried him to the door and pushed it open with a foot. Fossella was laid none too gently onto a stone floor and a light switched on. He kept still and heard the man moving around the room. After a few minutes the footsteps approached and he was rolled onto his back. From his position and foreshortened view, the man seemed to tower to the ceiling. Abruptly he knelt down and took off Fossella’s shoes. Then he unwound the tape from his ankles and knees. Fossella flexed cramped muscles but didn’t try anything violent. He knew that physically he had no chance at all. He lay back, his body arched over his bound hands, very frightened and then very puzzled as he felt his belt being loosened and his trousers unzipped. A hand moved under his back and he was lifted slightly as first his trousers and then his underpants were pulled off. Only when he was rolled over onto his belly and his legs pulled roughly open did puzzlement change to consternation and rising panic. He felt the hands on his buttocks, prizing them apart, and he screamed in his throat and struggled wildly. He was being sodomized!

  The struggle was brief. The hands left his buttocks and a blow behind the ear put him into oblivion.

  As he came to he felt no sharp pain, only discomfort, and his whole body ached.

  In front of him was a rough wooden table. Slightly off centre, to the left, was a dark stain surrounding a small hole. He raised his eyes to the man sitting opposite. There was an open notebook in front of him and several other items, including an old-fashioned alarm clock. Its dial faced him. It showed 9:02,

  “Can you hear me?”

  Fossella nodded painfully. Although his wrists and ankles were bound to the chair, the tape had been removed from his mouth. But he didn’t say anything — he was older and wiser than Rabbia.

  The man reached forward and picked up one of the items — a metal cylinder, rounded at both ends. He unscrewed it in the middle and showed Fossella the two hollow halves.

  “This is a ‘charger.’ It’s used by convicts and others to conceal valuables — money — even drugs. It is hidden inside the body — in the rectum.”

  Fossella squirmed in the chair — remembering — feeling the discomfort. Opposite him the man picked up a lump of what looked like grey plasticine. The voice continued:

  “This is Plastique — high explosive.”

  He moulded the lump into one end of the cylinder, tamping it tight with his thumb.

  “This is a detonator.”

  He held up a small, round, metal object with a single prong jutting from one end. The prong was slipped into the Plastique.

  “This is a timer.”

  Another round metal object, with two prongs. The two prongs were plugged into two sockets in the exposed end of the detonator, and the two halves of the cylinder were screwed together. The cylinder was held up between thumb and forefinger.

  “So the charger becomes a bomb. Very small, but very powerful.” The Voice became slightly conversational.

  “It’s modern science. Ten years ago a bomb of similar power would have weighed over a kilo.”

  The cold eyes bored into Fossella. The voice went very flat.

  “You have an identical bomb up your ass. It’s timed to explode at ten o’clock.”

  Fossella’s eyes flicked to the alarm clock — 9:07.

  The situation was explained. Fossella would answer some questions. If he did so, fully and honestly, and before ten o’clock, he would be allowed to remove the bomb.

  Fossella demurred — he would be killed anyway.

  It was explained that, unlike the others, Fossella was needed alive. Fossella didn’t believe it. The man shrugged and remained silent, his face expressionless.

  Minutes went by; the only sounds in the room the loud ticking of the clock and Fossella’s short nervous breathing. Every feeling in his body was sublimated to the pressure in his bowels. It was 9:22 when he cracked. He had nothing to lose anyway.

  “What do you want to know?”

  The man picked up the pen and uncapped it.

  “I want to know about Conti and Cantarella; but first I want to know why a man of your intelligence kidnapped a girl whose father had no money.”

  At 9:53, the questions ended. The man capped the pen, picked up the notebook and stood up. He looked at Fossella for a few moments and then walked to the door and went out. Fossella heard the sound of the van’s engine. It faded away, leaving only the rhythmic ticking of the clock. He didn’t shout or struggle. He just sat rigid, his eyes fixed on the dial. At 9:58, the alarm rang stridently, and Fossella’s mind disintegrated. Two minutes later his body did the same — upward.

  Satta looked down at the actress. Her curved, naked body was glossy with a sheen of sweat; her red, smudged mouth slack with desire.

  He was waiting for her to say it.

  For half an hour he had laboured with great skill to bring her to this peak of expectation. Every inch of her body had felt his lips and teasing fingers. He was only waiting for her to say it.

  The evening had been a total success. Once again he had cooked a delicious meal and then gone on to win three quick, decisive games of backgammon. True, he had a suspicion she played deliberately badly; but no matter — it only remained for his tactile skills to be acknowledged.

  She said it.

  “Please, caro! — please!”

  His heart sang. He slid a leg over slippery thighs, raised himself slightly, looked down into her imploring eyes and said masterfully: “Put it in.”

  A slim hand slithered between them, urgent fingers seeking and finding, drawing him against moist, silky hair. He groaned with the sensation and sank in an inch. God, she was tight! He leaned down, kissed the tip of her nose, flexed for the first consummating stroke — and the phone rang.

  Chapter 18

  “It’s not the ‘Union Corse.’”

  Satta said it emphatically, looking down at the pathologist’s report. Bellu sat opposite him, across the desk.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Satta tapped the report. “They don’t have that kind of imagination.” He smiled. “Knives, yes, shotguns, yes, revolvers, yes. Bombs, yes; but not up the rectum.”

  He shook his head. “This is a different kind of mind.”

  It was two days after Fossella’s death and Satta was under increasing pressure to come up with answers. The newspapers were full of the story and all its gory details.

  Consultation with Montpelier in Marseilles had only convinced Satta that his deduction was correct. The “Union Corse” in that city had convinced both the Marseilles police and Gravelli that they were blameless, if not grief-stricken.

  Among the bosses, suspicion was spreading like a brush fire. Cantarella was seething and worried. Someone was upsetting three decades of statesmanlike planning. But who?

  It was to be expected that Satta, with his analytical mind, should be the first to work it out. For two days he hardly
left his office. Anyway, his affair with the actress was over.

  “There are limits,” she had told him. Such interruptions could cause a girl to break out in a rash. Her career would never stand it.

  So Satta was able to concentrate. He went endlessly through the different permutations: Rabbia, Violente, Sandri, and Fossella. It was only when he extracted Violente from the equation that he made the connection. He cursed himself for his stupidity — Violente’s killing was incidental. He was protecting Sandri.

  “The Balletto kidnapping!”

  Bellu raised an eyebrow, “What about it?”

  His boss’s face showed increasing comprehension.

  “That’s the connection! Rabbia and Sandri worked together on it. Fossella organized it.”

  For the next hour the two policemen were very busy. They quickly decided that Balletto himself would not be directly involved, although he might be financing an act of revenge. They turned their attention to the bodyguard, although at first they were highly sceptical. They knew he had been only a “premium” bodyguard, and an alcoholic; but a phone call to the hospital quickened Satta’s interest. He talked to the senior surgeon, who happened to be a friend of his brother, and he learned that the bodyguard had made an excellent recovery and had great determination to get fit. The next phone call was to the agency, and this supplied the information that the bodyguard had once been a mercenary. An urgent Grade One inquiry was telexed to Paris, and while they waited for the reply they traced the connection to one Guido Arrellio, owner of the Pensione Splendide in Naples.

  In all these inquiries, Satta’s rank, reputation, and connections brought rapid answers. He personally called the director of immigration in Rome and that department’s computer quickly advised that the bodyguard had left Reggio di Calabria on the ferry for Malta six days after leaving the hospital. It had no information on his returning to Italy.

  Next, Satta made an overseas call to his opposite number in Malta. He had met George Zammit at a training course the year before in Rome, and had liked him. When he hung up after the brief conversation, he looked at Bellu thoughtfully and said, “Interesting and curious.”