The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Michael would be going to Tunisia with his Arab teacher for two or three weeks to learn how to live like an Arab. To eat Arabic food, learn how to pray like an Arab and to absorb their customs. Creasy would be going to Europe to have a meeting with Senator Grainger, and then to start the operation rolling. As they lay on the vast bed entwined in each other’s limbs she had asked, ‘When will you be back?’

  He had stroked her shoulder.

  ‘When it’s over. It could be many weeks.’

  ‘What can I do?’ she had asked.

  ‘You have the hardest part. You have to wait here in case there’s any messages. If so, they will always come via Blondie. Later, I may need you.’ He had stroked her long newly blonde hair.

  ‘I will be trying to find a way to aim you at Khaled Jibril. It may be very dangerous and physically unpleasant.’

  ‘You mean I may have to go to bed with him?’ she asked.

  He had looked into her eyes and said softly, ‘I hope not, but it may be necessary.’

  She had kissed him and answered, ‘I will do what is necessary.’

  Chapter 58

  ‘THE SOLE IS overcooked,’ Creasy remarked, ‘which is a pity because the Montrachet is perfect.’ He picked up his glass and drank half of the amber liquid.

  ‘Send it back,’ Senator Grainger suggested.

  They were sitting at a window table in the Riverside Restaurant of the Savoy Hotel.

  Creasy shook his head and grinned. ‘I’ll save my appetite for the cheese tray and a couple of glasses of their own port. It’s been ten years since I drank it here and by now it should be even better.’

  Over the months the two men had drawn close.

  The Senator had given Creasy the latest update from the FBI. He told him that a few hours before, he had received a phone call from Curtis Bennett. Apparently the French SDECE was getting information from a Middle East source that two Libyans were involved in the actual planting of the bomb, both Intelligence agents. One, named Fhimah, had been the Libyan Airways station manager in Malta at the time of Lockerbie. He had since returned to Libya. A strong theory was that the bomb had started its journey from Malta.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Creasy conceded. 'Those bastards will cooperate, but Jibril is the mastermind. He would never have paid Rawlings all that money if Gaddafi or anyone else was behind it. No, Jibril remains my target.’

  I agree,’ Grainger said. ‘So what are your plans?’

  Creasy told him that the operation was now active and that he would make the ‘kill’ within four to six weeks.

  Over the cheese and port the Senator had asked how he was going to do it.

  Creasy answered, ‘He will die by a bullet. That’s all I can tell you, Jim, except that it will be in Damascus.’

  ‘How big is your team?’

  ‘We are three. Myself, an actress and a young man. She is my wife and he is my son,’

  The Senator’s head jerked up in surprise. Creasy nodded.

  ‘Yes, my wife. I married her to get the son . . . he is adopted.’

  Grainger was puzzled.

  ‘But why use them?’ he asked. ‘Why not Frank and Maxie or Rene? Christ, those men are the best, even the FBI admit that.’

  ‘There are two reasons,’ Creasy answered. ‘First because this is a very personal matter and my wife and son are very personal to me now. I did not expect that to happen but it did. Secondly this matter is not going to end in a shoot-out. It’s going to be a single bullet and it only takes one finger to pull the trigger.’ He reached out and tapped the red folder on the table between them. ‘According to this Jibril left the camp at Ein Tazur four days ago with an armed convoy and returned to Damascus. He probably got bored out there in the desert. His son Khaled also returned to Damascus from Libya, Over the next three or four weeks, I will be travelling in and out of Syria, confirming my cover. You know the phone number to call as each update comes in to your intelligence services.’

  Grainger said, ‘You will be kept fully informed. The President has made sure of that. He wants Jibril dead and he doesn’t care how. He’s been told on good authority that you’re the most likely man to succeed. He doesn’t want to know any more than that.’

  Creasy took a sip of his port and said, ‘I can only tell you one more thing, Jim. Ahmed Jibril will die from a single bullet. Harriet, Nadia and Julia died almost instantly when that bomb went off. Some might say a quick death is an easy death. A death without time to dwell on it.’ He drained his glass and looked at the Senator and his voice went very cold. ‘Ahmed Jibril will not die an easy death. He will die knowing why. His journey to hell will be lit by arc lamps. He will see the flames from far away.’

  Chapter 59

  THE MOULES MARINIÈRES were delicious and so was the coq au vin that followed. Later, at the bar, Georges Laconte complimented Maxie MacDonald warmly. In return he got a complimentary Cognac.

  'Are you really out of the business, Maxie?’ the Frenchman asked.

  Maxie nodded firmly.

  ‘Damn right. And glad to be out.’

  Laconte glanced around the small, busy bistro, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  ‘I’ve been in town a few days and dropped in on a few of the old places. It’s a bit sad to see all those ageing mercs hanging about, waiting for a job that’s never going to come. It’s the end of an era, Maxie . . . you did well to get out when you did.’ He gestured at the room behind him. ‘You have a nice place here. The food is good . . . very good, and you have a good woman. Do you ever get any of your old comrades in here?’

  Maxie was polishing a glass. He turned and put it on a shelf behind him, shook his head and said, ‘No. I discourage them. I leave all that behind me.’

  ‘So, you’re completely out of touch?’

  ‘Yes, completely, and as a favour I’d like you not to broadcast it around, where I am and what I’m doing.’ He poured more Cognac into the Frenchman’s glass.

  Laconte nodded in appreciation, took a sip and said, ‘It’s a promise, Maxie, and perhaps you can do me a favour in return?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The Frenchman leaned forward again.

  ‘While I’ve been in Brussels I’ve heard a rumour, repeated several times.’

  Maxie was polishing another glass. ‘What rumour?’ he asked.

  ‘That Creasy is alive.’

  Maxie stopped polishing. He lifted his head and looked the Frenchman in the eye, then shrugged and said, off-handedly, ‘You know how rumours get around. Creasy died five years ago in Italy. You should know that, you’re the expert.’ He started polishing again.

  Laconte smiled.

  ‘I was the expert, but I’ve been out of touch for a few years.’ He drained his glass, slid off his stool and said, ‘Well, if anyone would know, it would be you, Maxie. I guess it is just rumours.’ He reached for his wallet to pay the bill but Maxie affably waved it away.

  ‘It’s on the house, Georges. It’s been good to see you again.’

  Outside in the street Georges Laconte walked slowly back to the hotel, deep in thought. He had noticed that at the mention of Creasy’s name, Maxie MacDonald had briefly stopped polishing the glass. It was a sort of confirmation. During the previous two nights he had hung around three bars frequented by mercenaries and ex-mercenaries. The rumour of Creasy being alive had been a talking point. There was a further rumour that Maxie MacDonald had just completed a job with Callard and Miller, the Australian. A very lucrative job. Was it a coincidence that all three men had worked closely with Creasy in the past?

  Consequently, the Frenchman had offered a substantial reward to various people in the three bars he had visited, to anyone who could substantiate the rumour. In particular, he had offered it to a South African and an Italian who, if Creasy were alive, would dearly like to see him dead.

  Back in the kitchen of the bistro, Maxie was on the telephone to Blondie. He gave her the gist of his conversation with Laconte, listened to her r
eply and then said, ‘No, just pass it on when he comes in. I doubt there’s much to it but Laconte could be fronting for somebody.’

  He hung up, gave Nicole a kiss and went back to the bar.

  Chapter 6 0

  OVER A TEN DAY period, Creasy and Corkscrew Two were in and out of Damascus twice. They had checked the holes and the machinery in both Damascus and Lattakia. Creasy had been well satisfied. They also had several meetings with small Syrian import-export companies and instigated some business. Heavily disguised, Creasy had made two recces of Ahmed Jibril’s headquarters and several buildings in the city.

  During this period he had made Blondie’s his European base but on returning from Syria the second time and getting Maxie’s message, he decided to relocate to London. He would use Leonie’s flat. Being the kind of man he was, he first called Gozo to ask her permission. She laughingly agreed and suggested he also use her battered Ford Fiesta and save money on taxis. They chatted on easily for ten minutes and after he had cradled the phone, he stood looking down at it for a long time, picturing her in the house on the hill. Then he did something on impulse. He picked up the phone and called her again.

  ‘Why don’t you come to London for a few days?’ he asked. ‘We could take in a couple of shows and sort of have a relaxed time before this thing happens.’

  Her answer was immediate.

  ‘When?’

  He chuckled and answered, ‘Give me four or five days to sort out some business. Try and book a flight for the weekend. I’ll be in London tomorrow afternoon. Phone me at the flat in the evening to let me know when you’re coming.’

  He hung up again and then called the airport to book his own flight.

  Chapter 61

  MICHAEL WASHED HIS hands and feet, then followed his teacher through the entrance into the crowded mosque. Side by side they laid their prayer mats on the dusty floor and knelt facing Mecca. The teacher listened carefully as Michael intoned his prayers.

  An hour later, they sat at a food stall and the teacher watched closely as Michael ate from a dozen dishes.

  The teacher was pleased. Within a few more days, Michael would be able to go into any Arab mosque or souk and be taken for nothing less than a full-blooded Arab, albeit one who had spent much of his life within a European culture. The teacher knew the age of his pupil and marvelled at his confidence. He had the bearing and stature of a well-travelled man of thirty.

  After they left Tunis, the teacher would not see his pupil again. That was the agreement. The teacher had not grown fond of his pupil but he had built an immense respect for him. Creasy would be pleased.

  Chapter 62

  FOR TEN YEARS during the sixties and early seventies, Piet de Witt had been an agent of BOSS, the notorious South African Security Service. He had been a field agent operating mainly in Angola and Mozambique and occasionally carrying out assassinations in South Africa itself against ultra-liberals, communists or anybody else his superiors took a dislike to. All that had ended when he was caught running an extortion racket on the side. He had been kicked out of the service and in a natural progression, had become a mercenary, first in West Africa and then South East Asia.

  He was ruthless and merciless and liked to hurt people. He also liked money and of late, money was very scarce. Work was scarce. The only offer he had had in the last three months was to join a dubious gang to rob a small bank in Luxembourg. He had not liked the plan or the people and had declined.

  He had heard a rumour of a job being set up by Denard in Paris. Something to do with taking over an island in the Indian Ocean. He decided to go to Paris to check it out.

  But at Brussels Airport he had diverted. He was about to get out of his taxi at the departure terminal, when the man crossed in front of him. He recognised the figure immediately. Tall and bulky. He also recognised the walk. A curious walk with the outsides of the feet coming onto the ground first. He watched the man walk into the terminal building carrying a canvas bag. He thought about the French journalist, Georges Laconte, and the offer that he had made three nights ago in Blum’s Bar.

  He entered the terminal building cautiously, his eyes sweeping the hall. He saw the man at the Sabena ticket counter and moved behind a column, dropping his battered leather suitcase at his feet.

  As he watched, Piet de Witt’s emotions were a mixture. Part indelible hatred. Part fear. Part consuming curiosity. The hatred stemmed from an incident many years before in Vietnam. The man at the ticket counter had physically humiliated him. The fear stemmed from the terrible beating he had received at his hands. The broken bones and the weeks in hospital. The curiosity stemmed from the fact that the rumours were true; Creasy was alive. Where was he going? What was he doing? There was money in the answers.

  He waited until Creasy had moved away from the counter towards Immigration. Then he walked up to the same ticket clerk, who was a middle-aged woman. He smiled at her. He was a tall man, sandy-haired and with a bushy, sandy beard. His smile was very charming.

  ‘I think I just saw a friend of mine going through Immigration. Haven’t seen him for years. Maybe you can help me. He was coming from this direction. Did he buy a ticket here?’ He described Creasy. She nodded and answered, ‘Yes, to London on the two-forty-five.’

  ‘Economy or Club?’

  ‘Club.’

  De Witt looked up at the departure screen. Apart from the two-forty-five there was another flight to London at four-thirty.

  To the woman he said, ‘I’m going to London myself but on the four-thirty. Any chance of switching me to the two-forty-five?’

  She punched some buttons on her console, studied the screen, then nodded. There are a few seats left but only in Economy.’ That’s fine,’ he said, reaching for his wallet.

  Chapter 63

  THE FERRY WAS warped alongside the dock. The ramp clanged down and Michael raced over and into Leonie’s arms.

  As they drove back to the house, he said with a grin, ‘It’s good to be home. What’s for dinner? I’m fed up with Arab food.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I’m taking you out to dinner. To Sammy’s. It’s a special treat. He’s got a fresh lobster and he’s keeping it for us.’

  ‘Why a special treat?’

  She glanced at him, marvelling at how rapidly he had grown up. ‘Because tomorrow afternoon I’m leaving for London,’ she said. ‘Creasy phoned a few days ago.’

  In mock disappointment, he asked, ‘And you’re not taking me with you?’

  She slowed the jeep to let a flock of sheep cross the road. ‘Very definitely not,’ she answered with a smile. ‘I’m only going for three days. It will be a sort of delayed honeymoon.’

  ‘Good,’ he said firmly. ‘Any other news?’

  ‘Nothing. Creasy will brief me in London and I’ll brief you when I get back. He said you should be ready to move in about a week. He wants you to go to Malta for a couple of days and get some time in with the Heckler and Koch on the range. He’s fixed it with George.’

  Later that night, they sat in the harbour, hardly talking as they enjoyed the lobster. Over coffee, he glanced at his watch. She noticed and said, ‘Yes, I know, Michael. It’s Friday night and La Grotta will be swinging. But tonight you have to spend another half hour with your mother.’

  He grinned, reached forward, covered her hand with his and said with total conviction, ‘I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else.’ He gestured at the crowded restaurant. The people here who don’t know us think you’re my girlfriend and they’re all mad with jealousy . . . I like that.’

  She laughed and answered, ‘And the women are jealous of me for having such a lovely toy boy.’ Her face turned serious and she looked at the young man’s face for a long time before shaking her head and saying, ‘No, Michael, you are not a toy boy. You are a man. I’m proud of you . . . and frightened for you.’

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said softly.

  ‘But I am. As I waited for the ferry this afternoon, I realise
d that for the first time in my life I’m truly happy. Sometimes in the past I thought I was happy, but I didn’t understand the word. It has to be matched to contentment.’

  Suddenly she looked up again into his face and said, ‘I believe that Creasy loves me. I don’t know why . . . but I believe it . . . I know he’ll never say it because he’s not like that . . . but inside I believe it.’

  Equally serious, Michael said, ‘I believe it too.’

  Chapter 64

  HE PICKED HER UP at Heathrow in her battered Ford Fiesta.

  As they drove through the heavy evening traffic into London he said, ‘I’ve booked a table at Lou Pescadou. They have excellent seafood. Especially shellfish.’

  She laughed and said, ‘I had lobster last night with Michael. At Sammy’s.’

  ‘You’re spoiling him,’ he said sternly but with a smile. ‘So where would you like to go?’

  ‘How about that Indian place, off the Gloucester Road? I really like a good curry.’

  ‘No problem.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s go straight there and on to the flat afterwards. I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a surprise.’

  She watched his big hands move on the small steering-wheel. She noticed again the mottled scars on the backs of both of them. She reached out and touched his left hand and asked, ‘How did you get those, Creasy?’

  His reaction was instantaneous. He jerked his hand away. The car swung to its right almost hitting a truck in the next lane.

  She pulled herself up in shock, while he corrected.

  She looked at his face. At the ice-cold expression. Apprehensively, she asked, ‘What did I say? Do?’