‘Something like what?’
The older woman took a sip of her Cognac and said, ‘Something like affection.’ She smiled without humour. ‘The sort of affection you might feel for a gorilla caged up in a zoo.’
‘Is he caged up?’
‘Definitely. At least his emotions are. Caged up by hatred.’
‘Were you attracted to him physically?’
Leonie smiled again without humour.
‘Yes. I won’t deny that. He has something about him. A sort of presence. An aura. Many women would be attracted to him physically. There’s a mystery about him and that can bring physical attraction. Also his hardness. He’s the hardest man I’ve ever known in my life.’
‘And Michael?’
Leonie had obviously thought all that out.
‘Michael is somehow different but somehow the same. He’s also hard and has his emotions caged in but I’ve been inside the cage, been with him when he was totally vulnerable. My feelings for Michael are maternal and I know that his feelings for me are similar. He never had a mother before I came along. There was never a woman in his life. That’s why I’m so bitter . . . Michael needs me.’
‘But he said he would see you again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Leonie took another sip of her Cognac, shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know exactly, but if he says he will see me again, he will. In some ways, Michael is as hard as Creasy.’
Chapter 47
MICHAEL LAY STILL as stone for four hours. It was a Saturday afternoon, two weeks after the arrival of Rambahadur Rai. For four hours he had been lying up against a mound of rocks in the garden between the palm trees. He did not know where the Ghurkha was.
In fact Rambahadur Rai had been sitting cross-legged on the fiat roof of the lounge, overlooking the garden. But for the last hour, he had not been watching the young man. He had been gazing out over the sea, his mind far away. Finally he looked at his watch, rose to his feet and went down. Michael did not hear him approach. He just felt a finger on his shoulder and a voice saying, ‘The stone can move.’
That night Rambahadur cooked a mutton curry. He had brought some of his ingredients with him, and after the first mouthful Michael thought that his mouth had caught fire.
‘Is it good?’ the Ghurkha asked him.
Michael drew air into his lungs, clamped his teeth together and nodded. Rambahadur smiled.
‘I made it mild,’ he said. ‘I know that some people don’t like it too hot. It takes a new British officer at least a year in a Ghurkha battalion to eat curry the way we like it.’ He grinned, showing yellow teeth, 'it’s traditional among them. They are considered soft if they show it. Believe me they go through hell that first year.’
Michael took a gulp of cold lager and then another mouthful of curry. He glanced at Creasy. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he was munching away unconcerned.
Michael decided that Creasy was suffering. He then decided that if Creasy could suffer and not show it, he could too.
‘Now do I get to fire the rifle?’ he asked the Ghurkha.
Rambahadur shook his head.
‘Tomorrow and Monday, you learn how to hold it, how to carry it, how to look after it and maintain it. Have you ever had a lover, Michael?’
The surprise showed on Michael’s face. He glanced at Creasy, who was looking at him interestedly and the sweat on his forehead was now more than a sheen. It had begun to run down the sides of his face. He wiped it away with his napkin, still watching the younger man.
‘Well, yes,’ Michael muttered.
‘How many?’ the Ghurkha asked.
Michael squirmed on his chair. ‘Well, not many,’ he answered.
‘How many?’
Michael looked down at the pot of curry in the middle of the table and was silent.
‘Answer your teacher,’ Creasy said gruffly.
Michael looked up at the Ghurkha and said quietly, ‘Only two.’
Rambahadur did not smile. Instead, he nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good. It means you will not be spoilt for the new lover you will meet tomorrow.’
‘New lover!’
‘Yes,’ the Ghurkha answered. ‘You will hold her, caress her, and treat her like a ranee . . . a queen. You will even sleep with her.’
Michael began to get the drift. He smiled and asked, ‘What is her name?’
‘Her name is Heckler and Koch PSG1, the best sniper rifle I ever fired. She is not the newest. They have some fantastic weapons now, specially in America. But she is sturdy and reliable and has never let me down. And I tell you, Michael, she is more beautiful than the two lovers you have had and more beautiful than any you will ever have.’
‘So when will I get to fire her?’ Michael asked.
‘When you have seduced her,’ Rambahadur answered.
He reached forward and pushed the pot of curry towards him.
‘Have some more, Michael. I think you like curry.’
Michael groaned inwardly and reached for his lager.
He did not seduce her. She seduced him. In the morning Rambahadur came out of his bedroom carrying a long, hand-tooled black leather case. He laid it on the table under the trellis, worked the combination locks and lifted the lid. It was strapped down, recessed into a bed of soft chamois leather. In other recesses were a day scope, a night scope, a wind gauge and four magazines.
Rambahadur undid the leather straps, gestured to Michael and said, ‘Meet your lover.’
Chapter 48
CREASY’S EYES ACHED from the strain of the search. He lowered the binoculars, turned to Rambahadur beside him and said, ‘You’re sure he’s within four hundred yards, to the south-east?’
‘Yes,’ the Ghurkha answered.
‘Can you see him?’
‘Yes. But I know where to look.’
It was late afternoon and the two men were sitting cross-legged on the roof of the house. Michael and Rambahadur had left an hour before dawn. Rambahadur had returned just after dawn and spent the entire day on the roof, watching. Creasy had been in Malta to see George Zammit and had only returned half an hour earlier. He lifted the binoculars again and studied the terrain in front of him. Dry stones, low rubbled walls and limestone rocks. After ten minutes he lowered the glasses.
‘You have done well, my friend,’ he said. ‘When will he make the shot?’
‘Five seconds after I show him the target,’ Rambahadur answered. He tapped the empty beer bottle on his lap. Creasy looked away to his right at two farmers about five hundred yards away, who were using a small rotavator to plough their field.
The rifle is silenced?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the Ghurkha answered. ‘And as you know, at that distance it makes the shot more difficult’
‘You think he will make it?’
Rambahadur nodded.
‘I think he will.’ Then he turned to look at Creasy. He said, ‘He is good, my friend. Very good.’ He smiled to take away any offence.’ He is better than you, Creasy . . . and you are very good.’
‘I’m grateful to you,’ Creasy muttered, searching again with the binoculars.
‘I only repay a kindness,’ Rambahadur answered. ‘And I only repaid a small part of that kindness. Now I’m going to repay some more.’
Noting the tone of his voice, Creasy lowered the binoculars and turned to look at him. The Ghurkha lifted his head and pointed with his chin. He said, ‘I’m going to tell you something about that young man out there. Something perhaps you know or do not know. It is important that you know.’
Creasy remained silent and the Ghurkha continued in a low monotone.
‘There is a flaw in him. You selected him well and he has been trained by the best, but there is a flaw.’
Creasy started to say something but the Ghurkha held up his hand,
‘Hear me, Creasy. Yes, he has lain there all day, Dunga Justo Basne. Yes,
I believe he will make the shot. I have seen him on the range in Malta with hand-guns and SMGs. He is as good as I have ever seen. Except for you with an SMG.’ He smiled slightly at a memory. ‘Except for you and Guido, but I tell you honestly, my friend, I would not wish to take Michael on a mission with me, if it was just the two of us.’
Again Creasy started to speak and again the Ghurkha held up a hand.
‘Be silent, my friend. Listen to a man who is older than you. Listen to a man who has seen as much war as you. Listen to a man who loves you as only a man can love another. The flaw is in his mind. It was created by you, just as you created everything else in his mental and physical state.’ He leaned over and touched Creasy lightly on the shoulder. ‘My friend, only you can take away the flaw. If you can and if you do, he will be as near perfect a soldier as is humanly possible. He will also be a man I would trust with my life.’
Quietly, Creasy asked, ‘What is the flaw?’
Equally quietly, Rambahadur Rai answered, ‘You created him. He should worship you. But he hates you.’
‘He told you this?’
Sadly the Ghurkha shook his head. ‘He told me nothing.’ He reached for the beer bottle, leaned far over to his right and placed it on the very edge of the roof.
Five seconds later, it shattered into shards behind them.
Chapter 49
THAT NIGHT RAMBAHADUR got drunk. Michael took them to dinner at Ta Cenc. In the bar before dinner the Ghurkha drank six gin and tonics. At the table Michael ordered a bottle of dry, Italian white wine. The day before, he had rung a friend who worked as a waiter in the restaurant. In turn the friend had gone to the kitchen and given the Italian chef a bottle of Chivas Regal whisky. The chef had produced a superb chicken curry, hotter than he had ever made it in his life. Rambahadur was both impressed and grateful. They finished the bottle of wine and Michael ordered another. The Ghurkha drank most of it and happily answered Michael’s questions about his days in the army. Creasy remained almost silent throughout the meal, listening only with half an ear, eating and drinking sparingly, his mind elsewhere.
Rambahadur drank two large Cognacs with his coffee. After Michael had proudly paid the hefty bill from his roll of ten-pound notes, they stood up to leave. The Ghurkha had to hold onto the table. Before Creasy could move, Michael was next to the small man, supporting him with an arm. They staggered out to the car and Michael lifted him, like a baby, into the back seat of the jeep. When they were back at the house, he was fast asleep. Michael climbed out and stood looking at him. He smiled and said, ‘Dunga Justo Basne.’
Creasy stood at the other side of the jeep, unsmiling. He asked, ‘What do you think of him, Michael?’
The young man’s answer was immediate.
‘He is a man,’ he said, and reached down to pick him up.
When Michael came out of Rambahadur’s bedroom, Creasy was standing by the pool, looking down at the dark water. Michael moved to the wall and flicked a switch. The water lit up, pale blue. The young man walked over and stood next to Creasy and said very quietly, ‘Now is the time.’
‘The time for what?’
‘The time for the race.’
Creasy turned to look at him. He could feel the radiating antagonism and the challenge.
‘How many lengths?’
‘Fifty.’
‘What is the bet? The same bottle of wine?’
Michael shook his head.
‘If you win,’ he said, ‘I will do any single thing you ask . . . anything.’
‘I will beat you,’ Creasy said flatly. His voice was hard and as cold as an arctic wind. ‘You think too much of yourself.’ His voice became angry. ‘You may be a marginally better sniper than me,’ he gestured upwards at the roof behind him, ‘but the only thing you’ve ever hit is a target or a beer bottle.’ He stabbed a finger at the pale blue water. ‘But in there, I’ll beat you.’
‘And if you don’t?’ Michael asked.
Creasy started to unbutton his shirt.
‘I will return your bet,’ he said. ‘Any single fucking thing you want.’
For forty-nine lengths they swam shoulder to shoulder. Twice, Creasy tried to break away. Both times Michael quickened his stroke and stayed on his shoulder. At the end of the forty-ninth lap, Michael made the perfect racing turn that Creasy had taught him over the months. Creasy’s turn was slower. They started the last length with the younger man three feet ahead. That’s how it ended.
They stood in the shallow end with the water up to their waists, both chests heaving. Michael gasped out, ‘What was your mistake?’
Creasy drew in a deep breath, exhaled and snarled, ‘You tell me!’
‘I have a greater motive than you,’ Michael answered.
‘What was it? Hatred?’
Michael pulled himself out of the pool and sat on the edge. He was still drawing in great gulps of air.
‘No, the opposite,’ he said. ‘It was to do with the bet.’
‘What do you want of me?’ Creasy asked.
Michael lifted his head, drew a breath and said, ‘I want you to go and fetch my mother.’
‘Your mother is dead.’
Michael shook his head. ‘My mother is a whore in Malta. My mother is a painting on the wall. My mother is in London.’ He reached out a hand and pointed. ‘For twelve hours today I lay out there like a stone, lizards crawled over me, insects bit me, twice I had cramp in my fingers. I did not move. For twelve hours, I lay there and thought about my mother. In Malta. Hanging on the wall. In London. I thought of the one question I ever asked Rambahadur Rai about you. I asked him if you were a man who kept your word. He answered, ‘Yes.’ I beat you, Creasy.’
A long silence and then Creasy muttered, ‘You beat me . . . and I honour my bets.’
Chapter 50
‘HOW DID YOU get to be so wise?’ Creasy asked.
They were bumping along the road in the jeep towards the ferry. Rambahadur’s suitcase was on the back seat. The Ghurkha massaged his aching forehead.
‘What do you mean?’
Creasy grinned.
‘About Michael and the flaw that I created. You saw something that I did not see.’
Rambahadur grimaced and said, ‘The only flaws I know about this morning are in my stomach and in my head.’
Creasy laughed. ‘It’s traditional, my friend. You always got drunk after a successful mission.’
‘What are you going to do about that flaw?’ Rambahadur asked.
‘I’ve already done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Managed to marginally lose a swimming race.’
‘When?’
‘Around midnight, when you were snoring in a drunken stupor.’
‘So?’
‘So I lost a bet.’
Light dawned in the Ghurkha’s eyes. ‘So! That’s why Michael asked me that question when I left him on that outcrop of rock at dawn yesterday.’
*
At the ferry the small man and the big man embraced and the small man carried his suitcase across the ramp and started his long journey back to the village in the eastern mountains of Nepal. Creasy went to Gleneagles, drank two ice-cold lagers and phoned his travel agent.
Chapter 51
THEY WERE HALF-WAY through dinner when the doorbell rang. Leonie looked at her watch and said, ‘Who can that be? I hope it’s not the creep from next door wanting to borrow some sugar or some other excuse to get his foot in the door.’
Geraldine pushed back her seat and stood up.
‘I’ll go. If it is, I’ll remind him that the corner shop stays open till midnight.’
She went down the corridor, out of Leonie’s sight. Leonie poured more wine into the two glasses. She heard muttered voices and then Geraldine’s cheerful voice calling, ‘It’s not the creep from next door.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the gorilla from Gozo.’
Leonie spilled wine onto the white table cloth and looked up startled as
Creasy came into the room, followed by Michael, who was followed by Geraldine, her eyes aglitter with curiosity. Leonie stood up in confusion. Michael brushed past Creasy and in a moment was holding her in a tight hug. She found herself crying.
Lightly, Geraldine said to Creasy, ‘Can I get you a drink?’
It took a few minutes for the situation to settle down.
Geraldine poured a whisky and soda for Creasy and a lager for Michael and then deftly took her leave.
‘But you haven’t finished your meal,’ Leonie said, once more composed.
‘No matter,’ Geraldine answered, putting on her coat. She gave Leonie a look that said, ‘Call me later or I’ll kill you,’ and then she was gone.
Michael lifted the lid off the casserole dish and inhaled the aroma of coq au vin.
‘The food on the plane was awful,’ he said with a grin.
‘Sit down and eat,’ she said and pulled up another chair for Creasy. She ladled out the food, saying, ‘Fortunately I made plenty. I always make enough to reheat a day or so later. Now tell me what you’re doing here.’
‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Michael said simply.
She looked at Creasy and he nodded. He was looking uncomfortable.
‘But why?’ she asked.
Creasy had decided not to rehearse anything with Michael. He shrugged and said quietly, ‘We miss your cooking.’
She smiled without humour.
‘Then go to an agency and hire a cook. They can even send her over here and I’ll teach her how to make Yorkshire pudding.’
Creasy smiled, but said nothing. Michael glanced at him and then said to Leonie, ‘I beat him last night over fifty lengths of the swimming pool.’
‘So?’
Creasy supplied the answer. ‘The bet was that the winner could ask the other to do anything he wanted to.’
That’s why we’re here,’ Michael injected. ‘It was close, but I won.’
She looked from one to the other then said to Creasy, ‘So you lost a bet and came to fetch me like a sack of potatoes?’
The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2) Page 22
