Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  “Why is the Cessna essential?” Wally asked.

  “Because it’s got high wing configuration.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s easier to jump out of.”

  Wally’s curiosity was satisfied.

  Gravelli and Dicandia did the rounds. They inspected everything, and in between they discussed the situation.

  After conferring with the guards outside the main gates, they walked back through the gardens.

  “Another week and it will be too late,” Dicandia said.

  “It may already be too late,” responded Gravelli. “There’s a war in Turin. In Rome, three Families are squaring up. Even in Calabria there’s trouble. Don Mommo was promised tranquillity while he was in jail. Two days ago there was an attempt on his life. Cantarella does nothing. He squanders his respect sitting here like a mouse in its hole. Abrata is arriving tomorrow to confer with Cantarella. He won’t believe it when he sees the state he’s in.”

  Dicandia felt the words were a little strong. He had worked for Cantarella over twenty years — his loyalties were anchored deep. It would have to blow a little harder to shift them.

  Suddenly Gravelli gripped his arm, and the two men froze on the gravel pathway.

  The two black shadows came out of the darkness without a sound. They came very close, noses twitching, and then, as silently, disappeared.

  Dicandia spoke fervently. “Those fucking dogs give me the creeps!”

  “They’re safe enough,” Gravelli said with a short laugh. “As long as they smell what they know.”

  “They just better have good memories,” Dicandia said, and continued on up the path.

  They entered the villa through the kitchen door. It was a huge, stone flagged room and had been turned into a canteen for the extra bodyguards. Half a dozen of them sat around lounging and watching television in the corner. The remains of a meal were spread messily on the wooden table. Submachine guns and a couple of shotguns lay near to hand.

  A passage led from the kitchen through the centre of the villa. In the first room, off this passage, wooden bunks had been installed, and more bodyguards were sleeping or resting before going on the midnight shift.

  At the end of the passage a staircase led up to the first floor where Cantarella had his study and bedroom. Dicandia and Gravelli also had their rooms on the first floor.

  They spoke a few words to the men in the kitchen and then went upstairs.

  Cantarella’s personal bodyguard sat on a chair outside the study, a submachine gun cradled in his arms. He stood up as they approached, tapped twice on the door, and opened it. They went in to report that all was secure.

  After two days the gusty north wind abated. The forecast was for twenty-four hours of mild weather. There would be cloud patches and a light easterly wind over northern Sicily. Possibility of occasional showers.

  Creasy prepared.

  In the early evening he opened the big, wide suitcase and took out the parcel that the general had sent to Marseilles. Outside on the grass Paddy and Wally watched as he unwrapped it and pulled open the voluminous black folds of fabric.

  “It doesn’t look like a parachute,” Wally commented.

  “It’s more like a wing,” Creasy answered. “The old days of jumping out and trusting to luck are gone. This is a French ‘Mistral.’ A well-trained ‘para’ can fly one even upwind — and land within yards of his target.”

  They helped him lay out the cords and then stood back and watched as he expertly straightened and sorted them and folded the canopy.

  “You don’t have a spare?” Wally asked. He had seen pictures of parachutists with smaller packs strapped to their fronts.

  Creasy shook his head. “I can’t afford the weight.” He went on to explain that a “para” would normally jump with an equipment bag dangling from a cord five metres below him. The heavy bag would impact first and so lighten the landing of the jumper: but precious seconds could be lost retrieving the bag and extracting weapons. Creasy would jump with his weapons ready. He would risk a heavy landing.

  He finished packing the parachute and laid it against the side of the Mobex. He turned to Wally and said, “I’ll be ready to leave in half an hour.”

  “Do you need any help?” Wally asked.

  “No; I’ll do it myself — please wait out here.”

  Inside the Mobex, Creasy took out the smaller parcel that had been sent from Brussels. As he unwrapped it, he smelled the slightly musty odour of clothing long unused. It was his old camouflage combat uniform. It still had the color-coded insignia of the 1st R.E.P.

  He held it in his hands for a long time, his mind going back — going back over twelve years. Abruptly he tossed it onto the bunk and started undressing.

  When he emerged from the Mobex it was almost dark. Paddy and Wally were leaning against the Lancia. Creasy stood by the door and Paddy started to cry softly.

  They knew what he was, and what he was going to do; but it was only now, as he stood prepared, that they felt the real impact.

  His normal bulk was expanded like an overinflated tyre. He wore mottled overalls tucked into black, high laced boots. Pockets bulged down the seam of each leg; webbing enclosed his upper body. Two rows of grenades were clipped to it on each side of his chest. Between them a flapped bulky pouch hung to his waist. A canvas snap down holster was on his belt to his right side. Beside it, to the front and rear, were several small canvas pouches. The Ingram submachine gun hung from a strap around his neck. His right forearm was looped through the strap, holding the stubby weapon flat against his side. From his left hand dangled a black, knitted skullcap.

  He picked up the parachute and moved toward the Lancia and asked quietly, “You ready?”

  Wally nodded and started to speak, but nothing came out. Numbly he opened the door of the car. Creasy tossed in the parachute and turned to Paddy.

  “I don’t have the words, Paddy; but you understand.” She sniffed and shook her big head and said, “You’re a stupid shit, Creasy — it’s such a waste.”

  He smiled and reached out his hands to hold her by the shoulders.

  “It’ll be alright, I’ve done it before — it’s almost routine.”

  She wiped a hand across her wet cheeks, and then hugged him. Hard metal pressed against her painfully, but she didn’t care. Then she released him and walked to the Mobex and climbed inside and shut the door.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the airfield. Creasy lay across the back seat, out of sight. It was five minutes before Wally asked, “How will you get out?”

  “The Cessna’s door can be held open against the wind,” Creasy said.

  “I meant the Villa Colacci,” Wally retorted. “I know you’ll get in, but how will you get out?”

  The answer was short, precluding further inquiry.

  “If there’s a way in, there’s a way out.”

  They drove in silence for several minutes before Creasy asked, “You’re clear on everything, Wally? The sequence?”

  “Very clear,” Wally answered. “There won’t be any foul-ups.”

  “And about afterward?”

  “Sure; we’ll be on the road tonight.”

  “Don’t delay a minute,” Creasy said. “There’ll be a lot of confusion, but you’ve got to be on that ferry in the morning.”

  Wally spoke firmly. “Creasy, don’t worry, we’ll be on it. Come visit us in Australia.”

  A soft laugh came from the back seat. “I will — look after her — you’ve got a good one there.”

  “I know it,” Wally said. “Airfield coming up — only two cars outside. Looks OK.”

  Wally parked behind the hangar, reached for his suitcase, and opened the door. He didn’t turn his head.

  “Good luck, Creasy.”

  “Thanks, Wally. Ciao!”

  Cesare Neri went through the start-up checks. He would be glad to get this charter over with. He was a conscientious pilot, trained by the Air Force, and he followed the rules. Bei
ng on six-hour standby for the past two days meant that he’d been unable to have a drink; and he liked to drink. He would stay over in Trapani and have a night out. He had good friends there.

  He glanced at the Australian in the right-hand seat. He appeared to be a little nervous. Cesare was used to that. People would sit cheerfully in a great jet flying machine and think nothing of it; but put them in a small plane next to the pilot, and suddenly everything seemed fallible.

  “We’re ready to go.”

  The passenger nodded. “Fine.”

  The engine clattered to life. Cesare watched the oil pressure gauge. The passenger tapped him on the arm and spoke loudly above the noise of the engine.

  “How long to Trapani?”

  “Just under an hour,” Cesare answered, his eyes moving over the dials.

  “There’s no toilet in here?”

  Cesare shook his head, and the passenger said, “Do you mind? I’d better take a leak.”

  Cesare smiled slightly. This one really was nervous. He reached across and unlatched the right door.

  “Go ahead. Stay clear of the prop.”

  The passenger undid his seat belt and climbed out. Cesare went back to the dials.

  Two minutes went by and then a figure appeared at the door. Cesare’s eyes flicked sideways and he went rigid. Slowly he turned his whole head, looked at the pistol and then at the man holding it.

  “Just carry on,” the man said, pulling himself, with difficulty, into the small cockpit. “You are not in danger. Just follow procedure.”

  He didn’t attempt to strap himself in. He just leaned forward in the small seat, his right hand resting on the top of the instrument panel, his body turned sideways facing the pilot; the gun held low, close to Cesare’s ribs.

  “Complete your checks,” he said. “Do everything by the book. I know how to fly one of these. I know the radio procedure; so don’t get stupid.”

  Cesare sat absolutely still, his hands on his knees, his mind working. The new passenger didn’t interrupt his thoughts, just sat waiting. Finally Cesare made up his mind. He didn’t say anything; he simply went on with the take-off procedure.

  Ten minutes later they were climbing through 4000 feet over the Strait of Messina, the lights of Sicily ahead.

  “You can put away the gun. I know who you are.”

  Creasy considered for only a moment, then slipped the Colt into its canvas holster and snapped it down. He moved around, positioning the parachute pack more comfortably; then he reached between the seats and picked up Cesare’s chart. The route to Trapani had been pencilled in. They would pass three miles to the south of Villa Colacci. He glanced at the pilot.

  “After you cross the beacon at Termini Imerese, I want you to make a very slight detour.”

  Cesare smiled grimly.

  “I should have charged more for this charter.”

  Creasy returned the smile.

  “Less — your passenger isn’t going all the way.”

  “Lucky I got paid in advance,” Cesare said. “You’d better brief me.”

  Creasy leaned forward with the map and pointed,

  “You can’t miss it. It’s five kilometres due south of Palermo and three kilometres due east of Monreale. It’s lit up like a Christmas tree.” He glanced at the instrument panel. They were climbing through 5000 feet.

  “At what height would you normally level off?”

  “Seven thousand feet.”

  “That’s fine. Stay at that height until you cross the beacon. Then go up to twelve thousand feet.”

  Cesare glanced at him and Creasy said: “I’ll do a ‘Halo’ drop.” He noted the look of puzzlement and explained, “High altitude, low opening.”

  Cesare nodded. “We call it a delayed float. At what height will you open?”

  “Not more than two thousand feet, depending on my free-fall drift. The wind is easterly at ten knots, so I’ll drop just short of the target.”

  Cesare looked at the parachute pack.

  “What is it?”

  “A wing — a French ‘Mistral.’”

  Now Cesare looked at the equipment festooning Creasy’s body.

  “I know you’re an expert,” he said. “You’re going to need to be. You’ll come in fast and hard.” He thought for a moment, and then went on: “I know that area. You’re likely to meet a down draught off the side of the mountain. You won’t notice it on the free fall. It will start below two thousand feet. I would advise you to drop more to the south.”

  Creasy hardly thought about it. The pilot’s voice was obviously sincere.

  “Thanks, I will. Have you had experience?”

  Cesare nodded.

  “I had five years in the Air Force — on transports. I’ve dropped a lot of you people. Also amateurs — parachute clubs.”

  “Alright,” Creasy said. “I’ll leave you to call it. I’m sorry. All this might cause you some trouble. I’m going to have to smash your radio.”

  Cesare didn’t speak for a while. Just gazed out through the windshield. His voice, when it came, held a note of emotion.

  “I’m glad it’s me. Many people — most people — are behind you. My family has lived for generations in Calabria. We know of the power of these people. We are all affected. We admire you. I’m glad it’s me. I’ll drop you exactly right.”

  There was a silence, and then Creasy asked:

  “Will you go on to Trapani?”

  Cesare shook his head.

  “I’ll fly back to Reggio — it’s safer. Who was the Australian?”

  In the dull red light of the cockpit, Creasy’s features softened slightly. He said simply, “A man like you.”

  * * *

  In Palermo it was warm; and in the bar of the Grand Hotel the windows were open. Satta, Guido and Bellu stood at the bar drinking a pre-dinner cocktail. Satta was in an American mood, and his cocktail was a highball. The mood had been brought on by the presence of two American girls sitting at a corner table. They were late tourists, and one of them was a beautiful redhead. Satta was partial to redheads. The other was a blonde — passable. “Not a remora,” Sata had commented, and to Bellu’s query had explained, “Usually a beautiful girl has with her an ugly one. Both benefit. The beautiful girl is enhanced by the comparison, and the ugly one picks up the leftovers. A remora is a fish — a scavenger. By means of a sucker, it attaches itself to a shark and feeds off it.” He looked at the blonde and smiled. “But she is not a remora; she can feed by herself. What do you think, Guido, is she your type?”

  Guido looked across at the table. The blonde was attractive, and in the age-old language of glances, lowered eyelashes, and feigned indifference, had already indicated that Guido was to be favoured. Obviously the two girls had already divided the spoils. But Guido was not in the mood. For days a tension had been building within him. He couldn’t tear his mind from Creasy.

  A simple radio, designed by the human brain, can send signals around the world and millions of miles into space. It must be conceivable that the brain itself, infinitely more sophisticated, can also send signals, can communicate.

  Guido did not think of that. But something told him that his friend was coming. Was near. He couldn’t be drawn this night by a girl. So he shrugged and smiled and replied to Satta, “I defer to the Carabinieri, you all work so hard” — he glanced around the opulent bar — “and live so uncomfortably that we, the grateful public, should allow you an occasional bonus.”

  “Have you noticed,” Satta asked Bellu, “that Neapolitans are invariably sarcastic?”

  He raised an eyebrow at the bartender for more drinks.

  “So be it,” he said. “Captain Bellu, as further job training in your progress to promotion, the strategy of conquest is in your hands. Obviously we must start by inviting them to join us for dinner. How will you go about it?”

  Bellu shrugged nonchalantly.

  “I’ll take them a bottle of champagne and tell them to join us for dinner.”

 
“Tell them?” asked Satta, in mock surprise. “Not ask them?”

  “Colonel,” Bellu answered, “did you yourself not say that a woman should be treated like a headwaiter — politely but firmly?”

  Satta beamed at Guido.

  “Definitely promotion material.”

  But Guido didn’t respond. He reached out and gripped Satta’s arm.

  “Listen!”

  Very faintly through the open window came the drone of an aircraft.

  “Creasy!”

  Satta and Bellu looked at him blankly.

  “Creasy! He comes.”

  Guido slammed down his drink and headed for the door.

  “He’s a “para,”’ he called over his shoulder. “How else would he arrive? Come on!” Satta looked at Bellu and then across at the redhead.

  “Come on,” he snapped. “He hasn’t improved his timing!”

  The door had been pushed back. Creasy’s face and shoulders were visible in the gap. His rubber soled boots rested on the undercarriage strut. The skullcap was pulled down tight; his lower face had been blackened. The eyes watched Cesare intently.

  The pilot’s face was set in concentration. He banked the plane gently, eyes flicking from left to right, picking up bearings, correlating them to the compass. His left foot moved on the rudder, flexing, ready to apply pressure when the weight was gone.

  His right hand stabbed out.

  “GO CREASY!”

  He turned his head. The doorway was empty.

  The windows were closed in the Villa Colacci. All of them. But Cantarella had opened the curtains slightly in his study and looked down at the garden. Darkness, relieved only by the faint glow of the floodlights beyond the walls. Over the last days his fear had been gradually overcome by emotions of frustration and anger. People subservient for generations were questioning his power. Even those around him. He could see it in their faces. Only a few minutes before, Abrata had been insolent in this very room. Soon this madman would be dead, and he would turn on the others and they would feel his power. They would understand. His smooth face hardened with the thought. The thick lips were compressed in determination. He drew the curtains tight and turned back to his desk.