The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2)

by A. J. Quinnell

  A voice shouted back, ‘Coming, Joey, coming!’

  Joey walked back to the table and grinned down at Creasy.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling that later on tonight he just might be. That girl is crazy about him.’

  ‘Don’t let the young bastard drink too much!’

  Joey shrugged.

  ‘The deal is I take him there and bring him home. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry. Last week was just his first real night out and he went over the top, I did the same thing.’

  ‘You went over the top more times than I like to remember.’

  Joey grinned again and then as he heard the clattering of the pans in the kitchen, the grin faded. He looked down at Creasy and said, ‘By the way, I have a message from my mother.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday. She said don’t bother coming to lunch unless you bring your wife with you.’

  Creasy grimaced.

  ‘Your mother can be a pain in the ass. When was the last time she played Bingo?’

  Joey spread his hands.

  ‘I didn’t even know she’d ever played and you’re right, she can be a pain in the ass.’

  Michael walked out under the trellis and Joey whistled and said, ‘Holy shit, man. What a knockout! Where did you get that T-shirt?’

  The boy grinned and said, ‘I had it flown in yesterday from London. You haven’t got a chance tonight!’

  Creasy made his announcement on Monday night over dinner. In the morning he had picked up a number of letters from Gleneagles. One of them was post-marked Washington.

  In the afternoon, he had not gone to work with Joey on the farmhouse. He had stayed in his study and made a series of overseas phone calls and some local ones.

  ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll be away a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Here and there. I’ve got things to do.’

  He looked at the boy steadily and said, ‘You know a man called George Zammit . . . He’s Paul Schembri’s nephew, Joey’s cousin?’

  Michael nodded.

  ‘You know what he does?’

  Again Michael nodded.

  ‘OK. Well I talked to him early this afternoon on the phone and made some arrangements. Starting tomorrow, and thereafter every Tuesday and Thursday, you’ll catch the seven o’clock ferry in the morning and then the bus to Valetta. From the terminal, you’ll walk down to Fort St Elmo. George will be there.’

  ‘What will I do?’

  Creasy thought for a while and then glanced at Leonie.

  ‘Further your education,’ he said in a flat voice.

  To Leonie he said, ‘It’s very early, but I’d prefer your driving him to the ferry, while I’m away.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Chapter 13

  FIRST HE WENT TO Luxembourg and spent an hour in an office of a small private bank. Then he went to London and checked into the Gore Hotel in Queensgate, a small, comfortable family-run hotel. They knew him there as Mr Stuart. The concierge arranged a single ticket for him for Phantom of the Opera that night.

  When he returned to the hotel it was after midnight. The night porter let him in and told him that there was a man waiting for him in the bar. The bartender had been long gone but the night porter made them drinks and then left them alone.

  The man was short and slightly plump with sandy hair. He was in his late fifties.

  They’ve been asking about you,’ he told Creasy.

  ‘Who has?’

  The walls of the bar were covered with paintings, all done by one man, a friend of the owners of the hotel. They were all for sale but in the years that Creasy had been coming to the hotel he had never known one of them to be sold. The sandy-haired man was looking at one.

  He said, ‘I don’t like these paintings, Creasy, they’re too bizarre, what do you think?’

  Creasy shrugged and said, ‘You get used to them. Who’s been asking?’

  ‘First of all Peter Fleming. He’s in charge of the Lockerbie investigation He asked Special Branch, who asked us. It landed on my desk.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so I gave him the one-sheet hand-out, the one that ends up with you dead in Naples. A week later I had a query on it.’

  ‘And so?’

  The small man smiled. ‘And so I told the man at Special Branch that’s all we had . . . and what with all that’s happening around Eastern Europe these days, I had enough on my plate not to waste time on a one-time mercenary who died five years ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The small man took a sip of his whisky.

  ‘That’s OK, Creasy, but then we had a G1 request from the FBI from high up.’

  ‘How high?’

  ‘A man called Bennett. He’s a Deputy Director.’

  Creasy leaned over the bar, took the top off the ice bucket and dropped some cubes into his glass.

  ‘Was he specific?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, very. He came through the DG personally.’

  The small man’s voice became apologetic.

  ‘I had to push all the buttons on my little console and give them everything we have.’

  Creasy was swirling the ice in his glass and looking down at it reflectively.

  ‘And what was the bottom line?’

  The small man’s voice was still apologetic.

  ‘The bottom line, Creasy, was that we had three reported sightings of you over the past five years, during the years that you’re supposed to have been dead. The last only two months ago at Heathrow Airport . . . A man from the SB anti-terrorist squad . . . a watcher . . . you should have had plastic surgery, Creasy.’

  ‘It was expected, especially from the FBI. I set it up myself.’

  The small man looked surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I needed someone to know. Now he knows. How’s the investigation going?’

  The small man smiled grimly.

  ‘Like all such investigations, very slowly. The last memo I saw was a week ago. That man Fleming is tenacious, but he’s having problems with the German police. He thinks there’s a cover-up or a foul-up. The Germans are determined to prove that the bomb didn’t originate in Frankfurt. They’re trying to pin it on Heathrow. Naturally, Security at Heathrow are trying to pin it on Frankfurt. It’s got bitter enough to go to Foreign Office level.’

  Creasy turned on his stool.

  ‘George, give us another one.’

  The night porter came into the bar. He had a very pronounced limp. Silently he refilled their glasses, then limped out.

  ‘What’s your view?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘It’s got to be Abu Nidal or Ahmed Jibril, paid for by the Iranians, probably using other groups to front for them. Fleming will find out, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘A simple policeman?’

  The small man shook his head.

  ‘Not simple, Creasy. Very bright and very tenacious and apart from the Germans he’s getting very good co-operation. From the FBI, the CIA and us. We’ve got a whole team on it, eight people. Four of them in the field.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I’d guess within a year. Less, if the Germans start cooperating.’

  ‘But you think it’s Nidal or Jibril?’

  The small man drained his glass and stood up. Creasy also stood up.

  'That will be the bottom line, Creasy . . . and both very hard to get to. Mossad have been trying for years.’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘You’re wrong. Mossad only say they’ve been trying . . . lip service to the Americans. Mossad just love those two bastards. Every time they kill an innocent, they hurt the Palestinian cause.’

  He took a sip of his drink. He was looking at one of the bizarre paintings. It depicted a bunch of West Indians, working in a field. Their features were distorted.

  Wryly he said, ‘It wouldn’t even surprise me if Mossad were funding those two bastards.’

&n
bsp; He held out a hand and the smaller man shook it.

  'Thanks, I owe you one.’

  The small man shook his head and very quietly said, ‘You’ll never owe me one, Creasy. Not in a million years. Not since the night you came through that door and pulled me out. We were a bit younger then.’

  Creasy grinned.

  ‘We sure were and perhaps a little wiser.’

  The small man nodded.

  ‘If anything breaks, I’ll be in touch. Walk on water, Creasy.’

  Michael finished the last of the chicken casserole, glanced at his watch and stood up, saying, ‘I’d better get changed. Joey will be picking me up in five minutes.’

  He had almost reached the door when Leonie’s voice stopped him. It was a low voice but very determined.

  ‘Michael, come back here and sit down.’

  Slowly the boy walked back and sat down, glancing at his watch again.

  ‘Did you enjoy your meal, Michael?’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, it was very good. I ate everything.’

  ‘And you enjoyed your lunch and your breakfast and the roast lamb I made last night and the rabbit stew I made the night before?’

  ‘Yes . . . the rabbit stew is my favourite. You make it like a Gozitan.’

  She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his face.

  ‘Yes, you ate enough for two men. Laura gave me the recipe . . . Michael, what is my name?’

  He was no longer puzzled. He was looking down at the table. Very quietly he said, ‘Your name is Leonie.’

  ‘Good. I thought you had forgotten, now go and get changed, Michael.’

  The boy stood up and walked to the door, then he turned and looked at her. He said nothing, just looked at her for about half a minute, then turned away.

  Two hours later he was standing at the bar in La Grotta, drinking a Heineken and surveying the dance floor.

  Joey said, ‘Michael, next week, you’ll be on your own.’

  The boy turned in surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Joey’s smile was rueful, almost embarrassed.

  ‘Tonight before I picked you up, I stopped by in Nadur, to see Maria.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I stopped off to see her at the house. I went in. Had a drink with her parents.’

  The boy whistled softly and then muttered, ‘So it’s like that, Joey?’

  Joey was looking at the dance floor. There were scores of people dancing. The girls’ ages ranged from sixteen to thirty. Almost all of them were tourists, mostly Scandinavians, Germans and English.

  He watched them, then sighed and said, ‘You know what it means, Michael. If I’m down here next week I’ll be with Maria and I’ll have to take her home at midnight and after that, go home myself.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ the boy replied immediately. ‘She’s a great girl.’

  ‘She is,’ Joey agreed. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘It’s no problem. I can walk down to Rabat and hitch a lift.’

  Joey smiled. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  Joey gestured with his chin at the dance floor.

  'There are two girls dancing. Both of them fancy you like hell. Have done for the past week. Now you and I know you’re a virgin and it’s time you ceased to be one. I’m not going to be around next week. I know you’re as nervous as hell but tonight has got to be the night. You’ve got to make your mind up and go and do it.’

  Michael looked at him, then turned to look at the dance floor. He heard Joey’s whispered voice.

  ‘But which one, Michael, the English or the Swedish one?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do. I remember the first time for me. I was a bit younger than you and even more nervous. It was a disaster because the girl was as young as me and also nervous. The Swedish girl is beautiful but she is only seventeen. The English one is a woman of about twenty-five; you go for her,’

  ‘But how do I do it?’

  Joey laughed out loud. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I mean how do I go about getting her?’

  Joey watched the woman dancing. She was tall, small-boned with very typical English features, soft, milky-white complexion like a cameo, and slightly flushed cheeks. Thick fair tresses waved down her back. She wore a khaki, three-quarter-length skirt with a black lycra top, cut low and tight to reveal her small breasts.

  As she danced, she tossed her hair from her face and smiled at the young Gozitan boy dancing in front of her. He moved in, mistaking her smile for mutual attraction. He was mistaken. She was looking at Michael.

  Without turning his head and speaking almost in a whisper, Joey said, ‘When she finishes dancing she’ll come to the bar and order a drink. She’ll come very near to you to order it. She always does. What does she drink, Michael?’

  Michael whispered back, ‘Scotch and soda water . . . Johnny Walker Black Label.’

  ‘Right’

  Joey gestured at the bartender.

  ‘Vince has been chatting her up all week. Without success. You’ve heard his questions and her replies?’

  Michael muttered, ‘Yes, I have.’ His eyes were still on the woman.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Saffron.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘A place called Devon.’

  ‘Where does she stay here?’

  ‘In a flat in Marsalforn, with her girlfriend.’

  ‘What work does she do?’

  ‘She works in a bank, she’s taking a management course.’

  ‘When is she leaving?’

  Michael sighed. Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘You know enough,’ Joey whispered. ‘It’s got to be tonight. You also know that half the guys in here have been chasing her every night and getting nowhere. You also know that she fancies you . . . so what are you going to do, Michael?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Joey had a half smile on his face.

  ‘What you do, Michael, is that you change gear half-way through. First, you’re going to be ultra-cool, then you’re going to be very uncool. You’ve got to throw them, Michael. In the last two weeks she’ll have listened to the pulling words of dozens of smooth operators.’ He gestured with his chin at the dance floor. ‘Those guys out there. Some of them have been around a long time. Sammy over there has had more girls than you’ve had hot breakfasts and he hasn’t got a hair on his head. Now listen.’ He leaned closer. ‘First you order a large Black Label Scotch and soda and keep it next to you. Tell Vince it’s for Saffron and when you do that give him a hard look in the eye. He knows he’s shot his bolt. When she’s stopped dancing, which I guess will be the end of this track, she’ll come next to you and order a drink. Vince will point to the drink already on the bar and tell her you bought it. She’ll be a little confused or pretend to be. Immediately, you’ll say, ‘Saffron, can I talk to you?’ Don’t forget to use her name. Then slowly and without looking at her, you walk over there.’ He gestured to the other side of the dance floor at some tables and chairs, in subdued lighting under some trees. ‘You do not look back, you just go over there and sit down. If she follows you, you’re half-way there.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  ‘If she doesn’t you’re going to look and feel like an idiot.’ Joey laughed. ‘Order that drink now, and be ready.’

  ‘And what if she does follow me?’

  ‘If she follows you and sits down you don’t say a word, you just look at her with those eyes, straight into her face, into her eyes. Don’t say a word. Make her start the conversation. She will say something like, ‘What do you want to talk about?’ You will sigh and say, ‘it’s a bit embarrassing . . . a bit difficult to talk about.’ At that moment you will look at her again. If her face shows any sign of concern or if she says something like ‘Tell me about it, Michael’ then you are three-quarters of the way there.’

  The boy was intrigued
. ‘And then what do I say?’

  ‘You tell her that you’re a virgin.’

  ‘What!’

  Joey smiled. ‘Exactly that. She will laugh and ask you how old you are. You will lie a little. You look eighteen or nineteen. You tell her that you’ll be nineteen next month, on the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘You say that you know tonight is her last night. And then, Michael, you don’t say one more word, not a single word.’

  ‘What if she asks me a question?’

  Joey’s voice was emphatic.

  ‘You say nothing. Not a word. You just look at her. Straight into her eyes. Either she will get up and walk away or take you down to the flat in Marsalforn.’

  She walked off the dance floor, came straight to the bar and Joey edged away from Michael. She moved into the gap between them. Joey turned his back to her.

  She called out to the bartender, ‘Vince, give me the usual, please.’

  Vince pointed to the full glass in front of her and then at Michael. She turned her head, looking slightly puzzled. From behind him, Joey heard Michael say, ‘Saffron, can I talk to you a moment?’

  Joey waited for a while then turned. Michael was walking behind the dance floor to the table under the trees and the woman was following him.

  Five minutes later, Joey watched them walk up the long sweep of stairs to the entrance. He turned his attention back to the dance floor, to the Swedish girl. After all, it was going to be his last week of freedom.

  *

  ‘Is it really true?’ ‘Yes, it is.’

  They were on the balcony of a flat in Marsalforn, looking across the bay at the reflected lights. It was after midnight. Michael made a decision. ‘It is true,’ he said, ‘but I lied to you about something else.’ ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m not nineteen next month. I’m seventeen.’ She laughed and poured the last few drops of the duty-free Black Label into the two glasses.

  ‘The first time for me was awful,’ she said. ‘It was in the back of a car, a small one. It was messy. I was drunk.’

  They were lying on the bed and she was looking down at him. She stroked the black hair from his forehead and smiled. ‘For you, Michael, it will not be awful . . . it will be beautiful.’