‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just that . . . ’
She glanced again at his face and saw the trouble in it. Saw him struggling to find the right words.
Gently, she said, ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.’
He shook his head.
‘It’s not that It’s just that a few years ago, someone sitting next to me in a car, like you are, touched my hand and asked the same question.’
‘A woman?’
‘No. A young girl.’
They threaded through the traffic in silence, then she murmured:
The girl in Italy . . . the one who was killed?’
‘Yes.’
She touched his hand again and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Creasy.’
He shook his head, lifted his hand from the wheel and looked at the scars. Quietly he told her, ‘It was while I was with the Legion, in Vietnam. We had just lost the battle of Dien Bien Phu. With many others in the Legion I was captured. We were marched many miles through the jungle to a prisoner of war camp. Many died on the way. I survived. At the camp, I was questioned by a young, French-educated Viet Minh captain. There were many questions. My hands were strapped down to a table. I refused to answer. The captain smoked a lot. There was no ashtray.’
They drove in silence, then he glanced at her. He felt the same sense of déjà vu and heard himself speak the words he had spoken to the girl those years ago.
‘Sometimes bad things happen in the world.’
The sense of déjà vu increased dramatically as he heard her reply. She smiled warmly, touched his hand again and said, ‘Good things happen too.’
At the restaurant their mood lightened. It was small, dark and intimate. They sat at a corner table and held hands between four different curry dishes. They did not talk very much. Somehow it was not necessary. The impending operation was never mentioned. What little conversation took place concerned Gozo.
She wanted to make some changes to the garden and to redecorate the sitting room. She raised the matter tentatively, knowing that the whole house and garden had been planned by Nadia. He was not at all concerned.
‘It’s your house now,’ he said. ‘You must put your own character in it. Nadia would have understood.’ He paused and smiled slightly. ‘Nadia would have liked you.’
Sensing the ease with which he was able to talk about it, she asked, ‘Was she like Laura?’
‘Yes, in many ways. Also in many ways she was like you.’ Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘But the past is the past. What do you want to do tomorrow?’
She thought about that and then answered, ‘In the morning, I want a long lie-in. Then I want to go shopping. I want to buy some new furnishing fabrics and curtains, and some things for the kitchen.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ he said. ‘You do that on your own because I hate shopping, then in the evening we’ll go and see a movie, have a good meal somewhere, go on to a club and do a little dancing.’
She smiled.
‘It’s a deal.’
He was lucky and found a parking place across the road from the flat
The surprise in the flat was a bottle of chilled pink champagne.
‘Let’s drink it in bed,’ she said in delight
So they undressed and kissed and felt each other and climbed into the bed with the two glasses and the champagne in an ice-bucket on the floor.
Between sips of champagne, they made love and it was near perfect. When they fell asleep, the bottle of champagne was half full. Three hours later, she woke him up and the love-making was totally perfect. She spoke some words. When they fell asleep again, the champagne bottle was empty.
Chapter 65
HE WOKE AT DAWN, slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He came out fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and changed and wearing a white towelling robe.
He stood at the foot of the bed watching her sleeping face, then he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. For the next two hours he sat at the table studying his notes and maps and diagrams; and making more notes in a small, compact notebook.
Once or twice, she murmured in her sleep. Each time he stood up, went over to the bed and looked down at her.
At nine o’clock he went into the kitchen and made her scrambled eggs and a mug of tea. He carried the tray into the bedroom and put it next to her on the side table. Then he bent over and kissed her awake.
She reached an arm around his neck and pulled him close in a tight hug.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said and heard his grunt of amusement.
‘No one has ever called me that before.’ He pulled himself up and looked down at her. She smiled tentatively and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head and with the back of her hand wiped the tears away.
‘It’s just that I’m so happy . . . I never believed I could be so happy.’
‘Eat your breakfast,’ he said gruffly.
She pulled herself up in the bed and the sheet fell to her waist. He surveyed her body and then murmured, ‘You are beautiful.’
She reached for the plate, ‘You told me that last night . . . you told me other things last night. Did you mean them?’
‘I meant everything I said.’
She ate the scrambled eggs in silence, put the plate back on the side table and said, ‘Do you know why you love me?’
He shrugged, looking puzzled, and she knew he would never find the words.
‘I’ll tell you,’ she said, ‘It is not because you find me beautiful. It is because of Nadia.’
His head jerked up in surprise.
‘Nadia!’
‘Yes,’ she answered firmly. ‘You met Nadia when you were in your forties. Did you ever love any woman before that?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know why you loved her?’
‘No.’
She spread her hands and said simply, ‘It was Nadia who awakened and nourished in you instincts you never knew you had . . . never expected to have. Once they were awakened, they remained. Those instincts remained even after Nadia and your daughter died. Without those instincts you could never have fallen in love with me. Nadia made it possible.’
He sat looking at her for a long time, then cupped her face with his hands and kissed her.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
The corners of her mouth turned up in a very small smile.
Chapter 66
SHE RANG HER FRIEND Geraldine and arranged to meet her for lunch and a shopping spree.
Creasy dressed, made several terse overseas telephone calls, then sat back at the table studying his notes and maps.
She came out of the bedroom wearing a silk blouse and navy trousers, and putting her arms into the sleeves of a cream cashmere blazer, looking radiantly lovely. She leaned over and kissed him on the ear and said, ‘I’ll be back at four and I promise not to spend a fortune.’
He smiled and asked, ‘What’s that perfume you’re wearing?’
‘Oscar de la Renta,’ she answered. ‘Michael bought it for me, duty free, on his trip to Tunisia. Do you like it?’
‘If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to rip those clothes off you and drag you back to bed.’
She laughed, kissed him on the cheek and walked to the front door. He stood up.
‘I deserve a better goodbye kiss than that.’
She turned and smiled and walked back, put her arms around him and kissed him deep and fiercely.
‘I’ll cancel Geraldine if you like,’ she said. ‘I’ll cancel shopping if you like. Nothing’s important any more except being with you.’
He gave her another kiss and then gestured at the papers on the table. His voice was gruff.
‘You go ahead. Have a good lunch. And buy a new dress for yourself. Something slinky for tonight.’
She kissed him again. He watched the door close behind her and then moved to the window and pulled a
side the white lace curtains. He watched her cross the road, watched her climb into the battered blue Fiesta. It was a clear, bright day. The Fiesta pulled out of its parking space and began to accelerate down the road. He was turning away when he saw the yellow-white flame erupt beneath the car, saw it bulge and lift onto its front end. Instinctively, he ducked below the window, heard the glass shatter above him, felt the pressure in his ears and heard the dull, rolling roar of the explosion.
It took him less than two minutes to pack his canvas bag and leave the apartment. He pushed his way through the crowd, past people, some dazed, some crying, some screaming. He walked quickly for ten minutes hearing the sirens behind him, then he went into an underground station and caught the tube train to Heathrow.
Chapter 67
AHMED JIBRIL READ the report and studied the newspaper critically. Yet again he felt a twist of fear deep inside him.
‘He was lucky,’ he muttered.
‘No,’ Dalkamouni answered. ‘The IRA were at fault. They should have risked using a line-of-sight radio controlled bomb. Sooner or later, they would have got him.’
‘Who was the woman?’ Jibril asked.
‘As yet, we don’t know,’ Dalkamouni answered. ‘British security have clamped a silence on the whole matter.’
‘British security? You think they are involved?’
Dalkamouni shrugged.
‘Who knows? We know that this man is coming at you. It’s likely that the Americans know, and the British. I guess that they’re sitting back and waiting for it to happen. I guess that they’ll give him any passive help they can. After all, why not? The woman might well be a lead to him but they’ll keep a lid on it for as long as possible.’
Jibril was looking down at the press photographs of the wrecked car.
‘A pity,’ he muttered. ‘A great pity.’
There’s more,’ his aide said. The Frenchman Laconte has cancelled his contract. Wants nothing more to do with it. You can be sure he’s informed the French SDECE, who’ll inform the British.’
‘What else can we be sure of?’ Jibril asked sarcastically. Dalkamouni grimaced.
‘We can be sure the man Creasy is on his way here.’
‘Then he will die here, ’Jibril answered harshly.
Chapter 68
THE FOLDED WHITE HANKERCHIEF landed on Michael’s lap. The harsh voice said, ‘That’s enough. Dry your tears.’
The young man looked up. His wet face was a picture of pain.
They were sitting in a room in the Pensione Splendide on the hills above Naples. Michael had followed the brief instructions contained in a phone call from Blondie forty-eight hours earlier. He had packed his bag, locked up the house, taken the overnight ferry to Naples and then a taxi to the Pensione Splendide. He had enjoyed the ferry trip, having met a young female American back-packer, who was going to sleep on deck. Instead she had slept in his cabin. At the pensione he had been met by a taciturn, middle-aged man called Guido who had shown him his room and said, ‘Creasy will arrive soon. He said to wait in here until then.’
In fact it had been three hours before Creasy turned up. He had walked stone-faced into the room, tossed his bag onto the bed and said tersely, ‘Your mother’s dead. Car bomb in London meant for me. Probably the IRA fronting for Jibril.’
He had briefly sketched in the details and then Michael’s tears had started.
Now Michael wiped his face with the handkerchief and asked, ‘You didn’t go back to check? . . . to make sure she was dead?’
‘I did not. I saw the explosion. There was no chance.’ His voice softened slightly. ‘Michael, it was instantaneous. She would have known nothing.’
Michael stared down at the floor, then drew a deep breath, looked up and said, ‘The night before she left, we had dinner together at Sammy’s. We had lobster.’
‘I know.’
‘She talked about you. Did you know how much she loved you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘Yes . . . and she knew it before she died.’
Creasy stood up.
‘Dry your tears, Michael. Think of who did it . . . think of Jibril.’
They had dinner on the open terrace of the pensione together with Guido at a table set apart from the others.
The lights of Naples dropped away beneath them, the bay beyond. An old waiter served them. Obviously he knew Creasy long and well.
As they sat down Creasy gestured at Guido and said to Michael, ‘This man is your friend and the friend of your friends. You can tell him anything you wish. You can talk to him as you talk to me. If you need anything . . . and I mean anything . . . come to Guido.’
The young man was composed now with his confidence fully restored. He glanced at the Italian and then asked Creasy, ‘What makes him so special?’
Creasy smiled, as did Guido.
‘He’s my closest friend,’ Creasy answered. ‘He was married to Nadia’s sister which also makes him my brother-in-law . . . Over the years he has saved my life more times than I can remember.’
Michael glanced at the Italian. He was short and square, the black hair greying at the temples. He had a Roman nose above a wide mouth and eyes that saw everything.
‘You were also a mercenary?’ Michael asked.
Guido nodded soberly.
‘Yes, for most of my life, but after I married I gave it up. Before Julia died I promised her I would never kill or fight again. I’ve kept that promise.’ He smiled and waved a hand at the other tables and guests. ‘So now I run a pensione and watch football on television.’
Michael studied the Italian, then turned to Creasy and asked, ‘Was he as good as you?’
Creasy nodded. ‘Yes. And with a machine-gun he was the best ever.’
‘And as a sniper?’ Michael asked with a smile.
Creasy shrugged and answered, ‘First class.’
‘As good as me?’
Slowly Creasy shook his head. ‘No, but then he was not trained by Rambahadur Rai.’
Guido’s face showed surprise.
‘You had this kid trained by Rambahadur Rai?’
The American nodded. ‘He was with him for a month and at the end pronounced himself very satisfied.’
Guido looked at the young man with more respect. Michael said tetchily, ‘And I’m not a kid.’
Guido smiled and nodded in acceptance of the rebuke.
The old waiter brought three huge plates of baby calamari with rice, salad and red wine in an unlabelled bottle.
‘Eat everything,’ he said to Creasy, ‘or the cook will kill you. She knows it’s your favourite and sent out especially for the calamari.’
For the next ten minutes there was silence as the three men ate.
Michael finally broke the silence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, glanced at Guido and then asked Creasy, ‘So what’s the next step?’
‘On a certain day next week there’s a ninety-five per cent chance that Ahmed Jibril will attend a ceremony in Damascus on the anniversary of the establishment of the State of Palestine. It’s an open-air ceremony. He’ll be heavily guarded but from a distance it will be possible to get a single shot at him.’
‘What is the distance?’
Creasy sighed. ‘About five hundred metres.’
‘What time of day?’ Michael asked urgently.
‘Evening, just before sunset.’
Michael said simply, ‘Rambahadur Rai.’
Creasy looked up sharply. ‘I would never use him.’
Michael shook his head and said tersely, ‘I don’t expect you to use him. It is personal. And don’t forget it’s personal for me too. You don’t have a monopoly of vengeance. I mentioned Rambahadur because of his opinion. He said ‘I’m a better sniper than you are.’
Defensively Creasy answered, ‘That’s debatable. On a firing range maybe. But you have no experience in the field. I’ve had plenty, as Guido will tell you.’
The Italian nodde
d and said, it makes a difference. A human being is not like a cardboard target. Shooting at flesh and blood can affect the mind and the eye.’
‘Jibril is not flesh and blood,’ Michael retorted. ‘My mind and my eye will be cold and sharp. I will not miss.’ He asked Creasy, ‘How many rifles do you have in Damascus?’
‘Two.’
‘Heckler and Kochs?’
‘Yes.’
Michael leaned forward and said with great intensity, ‘Then I make the hit. You act as backup. Have you got that, Creasy?’
Michael stood up, dropping his napkin on the table. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said. ‘Creasy, she was my mother.’ He turned to Guido and said, ‘Thank you for a fine meal. It was a pleasure meeting you. I will obey Creasy. I will look on you as a friend. I hope it will be a two-way street.’
He turned and walked through the tables to the door.
‘Where did you find him?’ Guido asked with a wry look.
‘In an orphanage,’ Creasy answered gruffly.
‘Is he as good as he thinks he is? Is he really a better sniper than you . . .? I’ve seen you take a man between the eyes at six hundred metres.’
Creasy shrugged and said, ‘Rambahadur Rai is the greatest sniper I’ve ever known. He rates Michael his equal. He’s got an affinity for it. It’s something that you’re born with and then trained for. He was born with it and he had the best trainer on earth.’
‘What about other weapons?’ Guido asked curiously.
‘Very, very good,’ Creasy answered. ‘I turned that kid into a killing machine. And in a way he’s right. I don’t have a monopoly of vengeance. He loved Leonie and in a way he loved Nadia and Julia. And maybe I’m taking him to his death,’ he said. His voice turned very sombre. ‘I seem to have the curse of death on me.’
Quietly Guido answered, ‘We always had that on us. We were born with it,’
Chapter 69
THE TWO DINNERS took place about a thousand miles apart, but the conversations covered the same topic.
The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2) Page 26
