‘Another old friend . . . an ex-Legionnaire. He has a small vineyard in the Rhone valley. One day when all this is over, we’ll go and stay with him.’
‘One last question,’ Leonie said. ‘Why am I elegantly dressed and looking ten years younger?’
Creasy poured the wine, tasted it and nodded in approval.
‘It was an exercise,’ he said to her. ‘Do you remember what you said to me in your apartment in London, after Michael had gone back to the hotel?’
‘I told you several things,’ she answered.
‘You told me that you wanted to be part of what we were doing. After you’d gone to sleep I thought about it and I decided that the only way this thing could work is if you were part of it. That’s why I called the lawyer the next morning to cancel the divorce. That’s why I agreed that you should come to Brussels with us. That’s why I wanted you to meet my friends.’
There was a silence and then she reached out and covered his hand with hers.
‘But why am I looking like this?’
‘Because of a man called Khaled Jibril.’ As he said the name, she saw his face harden. She glanced at Michael and from his expression, realised that he knew all about Khaled Jibril.
Tell me.’
‘He is the son of Ahmed Jibril, who is the man who arranged to have the bomb planted on Pan Am 103.’
He gave her a thumbnail sketch of Jibril’s organisation and structure. When he finished she asked again, ‘But, why am I looking like this?’
‘Because Khaled Jibril has a fascination, even an obsession, with beautiful, blonde Scandinavian women. He spent more than two years operating a PFLP-GC cell in Sweden. That’s where the fascination began. He lived with a Swedish woman, who was blonde and beautiful but she left him when she discovered that he was a terrorist. It’s just possible that I may get to Ahmed Jibril through his son’s obsession.’
She digested that and then remarked, ‘But I am not beautiful and blonde.’
Creasy looked at Michael, who immediately said, ‘You are beautiful, even without Blondie’s make-up.’
She smiled at him and then touched her long, straight black hair.
‘But I am certainly not blonde.’
‘By tomorrow afternoon, you will be,’ Creasy answered. ‘As blonde as the blondest Scandinavian ever born. After lunch, Nicole will take you to the hairdresser. Incidentally, do not ask what she did before she met Maxie.’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me?’
He thought for a moment and then said, ‘She did similar sort of work to what I used to do.’
‘She was a mercenary?’ Michael asked in surprise,
‘Something like that.’
A young waitress, Nicole’s sister, came out of the kitchen carrying a huge black metal pot. She placed it in the centre of their table and took off the lid.
‘What is it?’ Michael asked inhaling the aroma.
Proudly the girl said, ‘Pot-au-feu provençal. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. It’s been cooking very slowly all afternoon.’
They demolished the food in almost total silence. The pot-au-feu was followed by salad, cheese and then sabayon niçois.
‘Homemade,’ the waitress said sternly, as she served.
Creasy smiled and said to Leonie, ‘Before they opened this place, I once asked Nicole if she could really cook.’
‘She’s a genius,’ Leonie stated. ‘Do you think she’d give me the recipe for the pot-au-feu?
‘If she doesn’t, I won’t pay the bill.’
‘She’s also very beautiful,’ Michael said. ‘And so is her sister,’ he muttered reverently.
Later, when all the other customers had left, Maxie and Nicole joined them at the table. The two men talked about old friends and current politics, while Nicole wrote out the recipe for pot-au-feu and for the sabayon. Michael kept silent but his eyes never left the young waitress as she cleared the tables. Finally, she joined them, poured herself a brandy and then asked her sister something in French. Nicole shook her head. The girl started to argue and then Creasy intervened. Turning to Michael he said, ‘There’s a disco nearby. Lucette wants to go but after midnight sometimes rough types get in there and there’s trouble. I told Nicole that you would take her and keep an eye on her. Just make sure she’s home before two and since you’re looking after her, make sure you don’t have more than a couple of drinks.’
Michael grinned and then Creasy spoke a few rapid sentences to him in Arabic. The young man nodded solemnly, took Lucette’s arm and they left the restaurant.
‘What did you say to him?’ Nicole asked curiously. ‘I told him not to show off.’ ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Any tough kids in the disco would be no match for Michael. Not even two or three of them together. He’s well aware of that. He’s also with a beautiful girl. The temptation is obvious.’
Chapter 54
IT WAS SPRING when Senator James S. Grainger was summoned to the White House late one afternoon.
He was shown into the Oval Office. The President greeted him warmly and personally poured him a whisky and soda. Curtis Bennett was also there, nursing a drink and looking serious but expectant.
When they were all seated, the President said, ‘Jim, we have a final conclusive report that the PFLP-GC were responsible for the Lockerbie bombing. Sure they used others: Libyans, Syrians and probably a few freelance. But they were behind it.’ The President leaned forward and continued sternly, ‘Now, Jim, you know the difficulties executing arrest warrants. You will also remember your promise to me some months ago, when you phoned me and asked that I instruct the Director to pull all security off you. I went along with it. You promised that when I asked you to co-operate with the FBI, then you would do so.’
‘Yes, Mr President,’ Grainger replied.
‘I’m asking you now, Jim.’
Grainger said, ‘Of course I will keep my promise.’
‘Good.’ The President turned to look at Bennett and said,
‘Curtis, I don’t want to know anything. I don’t want to know that the Senator here is involved in any way whatsoever. I don’t even want to know that this conversation ever took place. I don’t want any Watergates, Irangates, or any fucking gates at all. Are you clear about that?’
Bennett nodded firmly. ‘Yes, Mr President.’
‘I don’t want any internal memos circulating in the CIA which mention myself or the Senator. All I want to get one day is a report telling me that those men have either been arrested or eliminated by third parties unknown.’
‘Yes, Mr President.’
The President nodded, turned to Grainger with a grim smile and said softly, ‘Now tell me, Jim. How are you going to vote tomorrow on the tax bill?’
Grainger grinned.
‘Naturally, in favour, Mr President.’
An hour later, Grainger and Curtis were closeted in an office in the White House basement. For half an hour Grainger studied the final CIA report on the Lockerbie bombing. He made notes on the pad beside him.
When he finished he looked up and asked, ‘Are you sure that you’re getting a total input from Mossad?’
Bennett shrugged and said, ‘I’m sure that we’re getting everything that they give to the FBI. But that’s all I’m sure about.’
‘What about the BND and MI6?’
The same thing applies, but I’m more confident with MI6. Since the plane came down over Britain and killed some of their citizens, they have a stronger motive. We’re working together on it. Now, Senator, tell me about Creasy and what you’re up to.’
Grainger closed the report and studied his notes. He said, ‘Curtis, over the past months, Creasy has been preparing his team. I don’t know what that team is or who it consists of but if it’s anything like the team he sent over to look after me, I’d say he has a good chance of exacting justice.’
‘I go along with that,’ Bennett said. ‘Do you know how he’s going to go about it?’
‘I d
o not,’ Grainger answered. ‘Or when. I have two functions. One to supply half of the money and the other to pass on any information which comes my way.’ He tapped his notes, ‘I’m going on that Congressional junket to Europe on Thursday. I’ll set up a meeting with Creasy and pass this on. When he makes his play is anyone’s guess. According to the report, Ahmed Jibril has moved into his training camp outside Damascus. His son Jihad is also there. The last sighting of Khaled was three weeks ago in Tripoli, Libya. Curtis, I need constant updates as they come in. I don’t want Creasy to think he’s alone out there.’
‘He won’t be alone out there,’ Curtis answered firmly, collecting up his papers.
Chapter 55
AHMED JIBRIL WAS by nature a patient man. It is a necessary trait for a terrorist. But after two months in the camp at Ein Tazur, his patience was wearing thin. He missed the cosmopolitan life of Damascus and the occasional company of his two mistresses. None of his soldiers were allowed to have women in the camp and it would have set a bad example for him to do so. He decided that he was over-reacting to the threat and drove back to his headquarters in Damascus with an armed escort. He took his son Jihad with him. His other son, Khaled, had returned from Libya a few days earlier. On arriving at his headquarters, Jibril’s first action was to call a meeting. It comprised himself, his two sons and Dalkamouni, his Chief of Staff. For the first time, he outlined the full situation to them and showed them the file supplied by Colonel Jomah.
Khaled was dismissive.
‘One man,’ he said derisively, ‘Mossad and half the Western intelligence agencies have been trying to kill you for years without success. What is one man going to do?’
Jihad had nodded in agreement, but Dalkamouni was more concerned. He leafed through the file and studied the photograph.
‘He effectively stopped us from getting hold of Senator Grainger,’ he said. ‘And he was not alone. Obviously the people with him are well trained.’
But Jihad was unconvinced. He waved a hand at the file and said, 'They were up against a bunch of common criminals. You cannot compare a Mafia gang to the PFLP-GC.’ He turned to his father and said, half apologetically, ‘We should have mounted an operation ourselves, with our own people.’
Jibril shook his head and replied firmly, ‘It would have taken too long. Besides our strength lies here in the Middle East and in Europe.’ He turned to look at his Chief of Staff. ‘I agree with Hafez. The threat has to be taken seriously. We all know that sometimes, one man can do what an army cannot. We have sent our fighters as individuals against the army of the Israelis. They have succeeded and usually die because they have the motive of hatred and patriotism.’ He gestured at the file, now back on the desk in front of him. 'This man Creasy has a similar motive and if we are to be honest, he has more experience and training than any of our soldiers. I think that he does not care for his own life, even though he is an Infidel and has no thoughts of eternal paradise.’ He looked at the three men in turn and then asked, ‘Does anyone have any suggestions?’
Khaled immediately answered.
‘Yes. We have to find him first and kill him.’
‘And how do we do that?’ Jibril asked softly. ‘We do not know where his base is, not even on which continent he is. For all we know, he could be in Damascus right now.’
There was a silence then Dalkamouni said thoughtfully, ‘But he has to have a base. I doubt if he will work completely alone. We have to look at his background for clues, to find out who his friends and associates were and are. We know something of his past and so we must delve into it to find clues to the present’
‘How do we do that?’ Jihad asked.
‘With patience and thoroughness,’ Dalkamouni replied. To Jibril he said, ‘Ahmed, will you leave this with me for a day or two? Let me think on it. I may wish to send someone to Europe.' Probably Paris. If so I will send Dajani. He is experienced, intelligent and patient. If we send him, we would need to ask for the co-operation of Colonel Jomah.’
‘We will get it,’ Jibril stated. To Khaled he said, ‘I’m going to do something else . . . I’m going to sacrifice those two Libyans who helped us plant the bomb.’
His son looked startled. ‘But why?’
Jibril smiled thinly. ‘To lay a false trail. We will leak their names and some evidence to our contacts in the French SDECE. They will pass it straight on to the British police and the FBI. Grainger, with his connections, will get it from the FBI and pass it on to that bastard Creasy, and maybe he will change direction and target Gaddafi instead of me . . . I’ve never liked that jumped up peacock anyway.’
‘But he knew nothing about it,’ Khaled protested. ‘We bribed his men in Malta directly.’
Jibril shrugged. Tough luck.’
Khaled was about to protest but he saw something in his father’s eyes that he had never seen before - fear. He stilled his protest and muttered, ‘I will arrange it immediately.’
Jibril nodded firmly. To Jihad, he said, ‘Return to the camp. I want to bring forward Operation Kumeer, try to launch it before the end of the month. I do not want people to think that we are inactive.’ He turned to Khaled. ‘I want you to remain here and take personal charge of my bodyguards.’ To Dalkamouni he said, ‘That will be your task, my friend. To find this man Creasy . . . and to kill him.’
Chapter 56
AS AN AUTHOR of fiction Georges Laconte was a failure, something he could never bring himself to acknowledge. He constantly waged a war with himself and concurrently with his bank manager, who happened to be an old friend.
‘Forget the great novel,’ the bank manager would say with stern patience. ‘You are one of the best investigative journalists in France. Every serious newspaper and magazine in the country begs to give you assignments, lucrative assignments. And yet you sit out there in the wilds of Brittany for weeks on end, trying to do something which is not going to work.’
But Georges Laconte was fifty-five, and he felt a novel was to him like a cancer which had to be cut out. And so he sat in his tiny farmhouse, pounding away at a battered old Royal typewriter, which had been his constant companion for thirty years.
But writers have to eat and eating costs money, so when his agent rang from Paris summoning him to an urgent meeting, he had no choice but to climb into his battered old Citroen.
‘I smell a rat,’ was his first reaction. 'They are compiling a book on élite forces around the world, past and present. Why don’t they simply stick with military historians and experts and why do they want me?’
‘They want you because they are going to include a section on mercenaries,’ his agent replied with studied patience. ‘You happen to be an expert on mercenaries . . . Your book Wolves of War is recognised as being definitive on the subject . . . apart from that, it pays extremely well.’
He sighed and spread his hands and said, ‘Fifty thousand francs plus expenses is very good money for what should be no more than a month’s work.’
‘True enough,’ Laconte conceded. ‘But it’s very fishy, an obscure Jordanian company producing such a book in the first place. Secondly the section on mercenaries is confined to three men: Mad Mike Hoare, John Peters and Creasy. Why not a couple of Frenchmen like Denard or the Rhodesian, Max MacDonald? They’re both still alive. It’s only rumoured that Creasy is alive and yet they want me to concentrate on him. Furthermore, they want all the information sent on a weekly basis. Why?’
‘Who knows?’ the agent replied. ‘And who cares? You get twenty-five thousand francs up front plus twenty thousand for expenses and the balance on completion. You already have all you need on Peters and Hoare so all you have to do is nail down the rumour about Creasy being alive. If he is, you try to find and interview him. If not, bury the rumour once and for all. Can you afford to turn it down?’
Ruefully, Laconte shook his head. ‘You know very well I cannot. I need to make at least a dent in my overdraft.’ He looked at his watch and stood up saying. ‘I’ll send you ten thousand words o
n Mad Mike Hoare and John Peters by the weekend and then I’ll head for Brussels. If Creasy is alive, that’s where the trail will start.’ He turned towards the door, but his agent’s voice stopped him.
‘You don’t believe the rumour?’
Laconte shrugged, ‘I don’t disbelieve it, for the simple reason that I never believed anyone could kill that man, outside of an act of God.’
Chapter 57
RAMBAHADUR RAI HAD BEEN exactly right in his assessment of Michael. With the flaw removed, his mind and concentration blended into perfect harmony with his born skills and his training.
On his eighteenth birthday Creasy bought him a Suzuki jeep. Leonie bought him a steel Rolex Oyster watch. The Schembri family all came to lunch and bought him an old but very usable shotgun, to use in early summer when the turtle doves migrated across Malta from Africa back to Europe. They also brought a few litres of their homemade wine. It was a good and relaxed afternoon. Creasy barbecued great chunks of steak, lamb chops and a whole Denci fish. Michael cooked the jacket potatoes and made a huge bowl of salad. Leonie was not allowed to do anything except pour the wine. She chatted with Laura and Maria under the trellis, while the men stood around the barbecue telling each other what to do.
After lunch, Creasy set up a clay pigeon trap and the four men took turns. Paul and Joey were very good and hit about seventy percent of the clays. Creasy and Michael hit one hundred percent.
That’s unbelievable,’ Maria commented in awe. ‘My brothers shoot all year. Even out of season. But they could never shoot like that.’
With each resounding echo of the gun Leonie’s mood headed downwards to depression. In bed that morning she and Creasy had made love. It had grown better every time and for her the affection had turned to a deepening love. But afterwards Creasy had told her that in a few days he and Michael would be leaving Gozo.
The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2) Page 24
