Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  “The Mafia have most things, but they don’t own tanks.”

  Guido explained, “It has other uses — demolishing buildings or blowing open steel gates. It will go through twelve inches of armour plate.”

  Satta digested that in silence. When he commented, his voice was wistful.

  “Slightly more penetrative power than my pecker.”

  Guido smiled in agreement.

  At that moment the R.P.G.7 Stroke D, together with two rockets, was being carried through the streets of Rome in a canvas bag. It was not a large bag. The rocket launcher was a simple tube, thirty-seven inches long, which unscrewed into two halves for easy handling. It weighed about fifteen pounds. The rockets weighed less than five pounds each.

  Giuseppe and Theresa Benetti had just finished lunch when the knock came on the door. They were both in their late sixties and she had bad legs, so it was Giuseppe who went to answer it. The first thing he saw was the silenced pistol, and he became very frightened. Then he looked up at the man’s face and his fright increased, freezing him like a statue. The man spoke softly, reassuringly.

  “You are not in danger. I mean you no harm. I am not a thief.”

  He moved forward through the door, easing the old man back.

  A few minutes later Giuseppe and Theresa were taped, immobile, to two of their chairs. The man had been very gentle, talking to them casually with his slight Neapolitan accent. He just wanted to borrow their home for a short time. They would not be harmed.

  Their fear dissipated, and they watched with interest as he opened his bag and took out two fat tubes. He screwed them together and then slid an attachment into a grooved slot. In his youth, Giuseppe had served in the army and he guessed that the tube was a sophisticated weapon, the attachment a sight. His guess was confirmed when the man produced the squat, cone shaped missile. He depressed the fins and slipped it backward into the tube. The bulk of the missile projected outward, the point of the cone to the front.

  The man pulled out a second missile and a pair of goggles and moved quietly out into the back yard. Giuseppe could see him peering cautiously over the low wall that separated the yard from the avenue.

  In the penthouse of the building opposite, Conti had also just finished lunch.

  At 2:30 precisely, the lift opened in the basement garage and he stepped out, followed by his personal bodyguard. The Cadillac was waiting, engine running. A black Lancia containing four bodyguards waited directly behind. Conti eased himself into the back seat and his bodyguard closed the door and got in beside the driver. The two cars moved up the ramp. At street level the bright sunlight made all three men narrow their eyes. But they still saw, across the wide avenue, the figure rise behind the low wall. His face was distorted by goggles, and a fat tube rested on his right shoulder. Before they could react, a great gout of flame erupted from the back of the tube and a black object detached itself, enlarging as it homed in. Conti screamed and the driver stood on the brakes. The heavy car dipped forward and then bounced up on reinforced springs. Its rise continued as the missile pierced the centre of the radiator, demolished the engine, and burned everything inside to a cinder. For a moment the Cadillac teetered upright on its rear fender and then the second missile arrived, striking just below the front axle and hurling the five ton car backward onto the Lancia behind.

  Only one escaped instant death. As the Lancia crumpled, a rear door was popped open and a bodyguard ejected on all fours. He scrabbled away from the hissing, twisted mass of metal, rose to his feet and instinctively pulled out his gun. Again instinct started him up the ramp, but then he stopped and looked back. Instinct ended. Whatever was out there had caused this carnage.

  Shock took over and he backed away until he came up against the garage wall. Slowly he sank to his haunches. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the concrete. He was still crouched there when the first police car arrived.

  Satta waited in the car, tense with anticipation; but, when Guido reappeared alone, his disappointment was tinged with slight relief.

  “He’s not there?”

  Guido shook his head. “I guess we wait.”

  The wait was a short one. It was only three minutes before the radio came alive. Captain Bellu calling Colonel Satta — urgently.

  Satta and Bellu stood at the top of the ramp looking down. Neither said anything. What they saw was beyond their experience. Finally Satta turned to look for Guido. He had his back to them, facing across the avenue. Satta followed his gaze and saw the circular, black burn mark on the side of the whitewashed house,

  “R.P.G.7 Stroke D?”

  Guido turned and nodded.

  “I told you — it has other uses.”

  Satta looked thoughtfully down the ramp. He couldn’t help the sardonic smile as he said to Bellu, “Conti lost his no claims bonus.”

  Book Four

  Chapter 20

  “Power grows from the barrel of a gun.”

  Cantarella knew the quotation and had witnessed its truth. But a gun must have a target. He felt like a weight lifter with nothing to lift — Michelangelo without a ceiling.

  Frustration fertilized his fear. Conti had been a right arm, the physical instrument of diplomacy. His death struck to the core of Cantarella’s fear. He tried to conceal it, but Dicandia and Gravelli were not misled. They sat across the desk and absorbed it from the atmosphere. It astonished them and created deep concern.

  But he was their boss. Everything they had; their stature, their wealth, and their ambitions were linked to the power of Cantarella. They had no other route.

  They listened to their orders for the strengthening of the security of the Villa Colacci. Two days ago they would have been astounded and would have advised restraint; but Conti’s death and the manner of it had made a great impact on their minds. So had the thick dossier lying on the desk. It detailed the dimensions of a man who could practice violence on a scale that was alien — even to them.

  So they listened in silence as Cantarella went on about floodlighting the outer walls and two hundred metres beyond. About the purchase and razing of all buildings within a radius of one kilometre. About twenty-four-hour patrolling of the entire area and the acquisition of guard dogs. A total of eighteen bodyguards were to be quartered in the villa. They would work in three shifts. A roadblock was to be set up half a kilometre from the villa’s gates. No car was to pass that point without being searched, inside and out. No vehicle at all was to enter the grounds of the villa. No other boss or emissary was to enter the villa, except alone, and after being thoroughly searched. The state of Cantarella’s mind was most clearly revealed when he gave orders to cut down over fifteen fruit trees that bordered the inside of the walls.

  Twenty years ago, when Cantarella had first purchased the villa, he had personally supervised the planting of the orchard. It had become a great pride to him. His entourage would even joke about it; but only among themselves, and very quietly. Cantarella’s wife had died childless thirty years before, and he had never remarried. They used to call the trees his children; and now to hear orders for even a small number to be destroyed illustrated vividly the depth of his fear.

  Cantarella moved on to the general situation. Every point of entry into Sicily was to be watched. Every port down to the smallest fishing village; every airport, every airstrip, every train or car that crossed on the ferry from Reggio, His mouth twisted in irritation as he asked:

  “The police? The Carabinieri? They still do nothing?”

  “Very little,” answered Dicandia. “They put up token roadblocks around Rome after Conti’s death — several hours after; and they’ve put out a general alert for the American, and a description. But they haven’t named him, and they haven’t issued a photograph.”

  “Bastards!” snarled Cantarella. “Above all, that swine Satta. All this must give him such pleasure — bastard!”

  “He arrived in Palermo this morning,” Gravelli said.

  “Together with his assistant
Bellu and the Neapolitan.” Cantarella’s anger grew. “Bastards! They think this is one grand spectacle. You’re sure there’s no chance to get to this Neapolitan?” He tapped the dossier. “He must be in contact with this maniac.”

  Gravelli shook his head. “They are in a two bedroom suite in the Grand, and they never leave him alone for a moment. There’s no chance unless we take out Satta and Bellu.”

  Dicandia interjected quickly, “That would cause more trouble than we’ve got now — there would be no end.” Cantarella nodded reluctantly. “And Satta knows it. One day I’ll settle the hash of that overbred vulture.”

  Gravelli shrugged. “Meanwhile, he causes problems. Even while he sits in Palermo, his people are cracking down all over. They even took Abrata in for questioning. He’s feeling exposed and very nervous.”

  “Satta’s using the situation,” said Dicandia. “There’s confusion in the north and in Rome. Satta is stirring it up like a sorcerer.”

  Cantarella leaned forward and opened the dossier. A blown-up passport photograph of Creasy was clipped to the inside cover. For several minutes Cantarella studied the face. His tongue moistened dry, thick lips, and he tapped the photograph.

  “We’ll have nothing but problems until he’s dead.” He looked up and said with great emphasis: “The man who kills him will want for nothing — nothing! You understand?”

  Gravelli and Dicandia nodded silently, and then received another shock. Cantarella unclipped the photograph and tossed it across the desk.

  “I want this photograph on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning.”

  Dicandia recovered first:

  “Don Cantarella! That will mean they have the whole story — is it wise?”

  “They will have it anyway,” his boss answered. “They know most of it now. It was only Satta clamping a silence on his department that’s delayed things.”

  He explained his reasoning: “It’s a distinctive face — look at the scars and the eyes. We have thousands of people looking for him. It would take days to distribute his picture. The papers will do it for us.”

  “You will make a hero of him,” Gravelli warned.

  “Then he’ll be a dead hero,” snapped Cantarella. “And the dead are soon forgotten.”

  Paddy stepped down from the Mobex and stretched her big frame. There were disadvantages to being tall, and feeling cramped when travelling was one of them. Wally followed her onto the pavement and turned back to ask: “You want anything?”

  Creasy shook his head. “Have a good lunch. Sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”

  “No, the walk will do us good,” Paddy said. “We’ll wander round a bit. Don’t worry, we’ll find the site.”

  They had driven down the eastern coast from Pescara to Bari. Paddy thought that after three days Creasy would want a change from her admittedly basic cooking. She wanted a change herself, and also to buy a couple of sweaters — winter was chasing out autumn.

  But Creasy had declined, preferring to drive on to the campsite south of the city. She noted that he hardly left the Mobex even when they were in a campsite. It increased her curiosity. She spoke a little French, and the first night she had tried it out on him. He had smiled and answered fluently. Then she spoke to him in English, and again he had smiled, and asked in English if she were probing. She had noticed the slight American drawl.

  “No,” she had answered. “It’s just that you don’t look like a Frenchman.”

  Wally had interrupted, telling her not to be so bloody nosy, but that hadn’t dampened her curiosity.

  Creasy had arrived on foot at the campsite in Rome carrying two very large leather suitcases and a canvas bag. Wally had helped him load them through the narrow door, and later commented to Paddy, that the bloke didn’t exactly travel light.

  He had not been very talkative, merely pointing at the map to a spot outside Avezzano and suggesting that they camp the night there. In fact, they had stayed two nights. The site, in a pleasantly wooded valley, had been almost deserted. He was tired, he had explained, and in no hurry.

  “There’s a boutique.” Wally pointed across the busy street.

  “And there’s a restaurant,” Paddy said, pointing farther ahead. “Let’s eat first, I’m starving.” She grinned. “Besides, after what I eat, I might need a bigger size,”

  “They don’t make a bigger size,” Wally commented, ducking away, knowing that a playful swing from her huge arm could put him on the pavement.

  But she didn’t react. They were opposite a newsstand and she stood mesmerized. He followed her gaze.

  From the front page of a dozen different newspapers, Creasy’s face gazed back.

  An hour later they were arguing fiercely. Wally was being stubborn.

  “You’ve got the money and passports in your bag. We go straight to the bloody railway station and catch a bloody train. We buy what we need in Brindisi. Tomorrow morning we’re on the bloody boat to Greece.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going.”

  Wally sighed and pushed away his plate of half eaten food.

  ‘Paddy, you’re being sentimental. It doesn’t suit you. He’s a killer. We owe him nothing — he’s got the Mobex. He’s just been using us as cover.”

  Again she shook her head, and he picked up the paper and held it in front of her face.

  “They’re looking for him. Hundreds, maybe thousands — we’re not going to be there when they find him.”

  “Then piss off, Wally Wightman.”

  The restaurant was busy and she said it quietly, but it rocked him back in his chair. She leaned forward, her angry face close to his.

  “Yes, he’s been using us. Why not! He’s alone. He’s doing it all alone. Hundreds, you say? Thousands? Also the police. He needs help. I’m going to help him. You can do what you bloody like.”

  “But why?” he asked desperately. “It’s none of our business. Why get involved?”

  She snorted. “When did an Aussie ever need a reason to get into a fight?” She tapped the paper. “They killed that girl. Those people raped her and killed her. Eleven years old! Now they’re paying for it. He’s making them pay. If he needs a little help, he’ll get it from Paddy Collins. I’m not leaving him on his own.”

  Suddenly Wally grinned.

  “Alright, you silly cow, calm down.”

  For a moment she was speechless, but only for a moment.

  “You agree?”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Why the sudden change?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not sudden. My instinct is to help, but it’s dangerous. One thing for a bloke, but something else for a girl.”

  Paddy smiled at him and reached over and ruffled his hair.

  “I like it when you’re chivalrous — let’s go.”

  Outside on the pavement, something occurred to him.

  “How do you think he’ll react when he finds out we know? He might get violent, might worry that we’ll turn him in or something. Paddy, that’s one tough bastard.”

  She shook her head and linked an arm in his.

  “I doubt it. With his picture in the papers, he’s going to need all the help he can get. He’ll understand that. Anyway, tough as he is, I’m not frightened.”

  “You’re not?”

  She smiled down at him.

  “Not with you to protect me, Wally.”

  Satta put down the phone and turned to face Guido and Bellu.

  “It was almost certainly Cantarella,” he said. “The papers all got the information at about the same time.”

  “But why?” asked Guido.

  Bellu supplied the answer. “It’s just another sign of his state of mind. It’s the quickest way to generally identify Creasy.” He looked at Satta quizzically and asked:

  “What now, colonel?”

  Satta gazed back at him enigmatically, and Guido felt the sudden air of tension.

  Bellu spoke again. “Perhaps we should talk privately, co
lonel.”

  Satta sighed, glanced at Guido and shook his head.

  “Not necessary.”

  He turned to the phone and called Carabinieri headquarters in Rome. For a long time he issued precise instructions, then hung up and turned to face Guido.

  “You cynical bastard!”

  Satta spread his hands in resignation. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. If Cantarella couldn’t find him until now, neither would our people.”

  He looked down at the newspapers spread over the low coffee table. “He has very little chance now. That face is easily recognized. Let’s just hope we find him before they do.”

  Guido stood up and walked to the window and stood looking down at the busy street. A light rain was falling. Umbrellas obscured the moving people.

  “Guido, believe me; there was very little chance. We’ll do everything now. You heard me on the phone.” Satta’s voice was apologetic. Bellu had never heard him talk that way before.

  Without turning, Guido asked bitterly, “Has he served his purpose now? Will they make you a general?”

  Satta’s voice lost its note of apology. “I didn’t send him! I didn’t arm him, or equip him with safe houses and transport and false papers; and I didn’t encourage him. Aren’t you being hypocritical?”

  Guido turned and looked at him, his face, for once, showing emotion.

  “Alright!” he snapped. “I helped him, and I’m not ashamed of it. Things changed. I confided in you. I thought you were a man with some honour. I was mistaken.”

  Now Bellu spoke up. “You’re wrong, Guido, very wrong. The colonel has no personal responsibility for Creasy. But I know he has sympathy for him. He’ll do everything he can now. Everything.”

  Guido’s anger subsided. He asked sadly, “Well — has he been useful?”

  Satta nodded. “Yes — very. I would never admit it to anyone else. His killing of Conti was the whole key. I never realized that Cantarella would react with such panic. Even if Creasy doesn’t get to him, his power will be finished. Already the organization on the mainland is in a state of flux. He will never reimpose control. Only here, in Sicily, does he keep his power, and day by day that too will slip away.”