In vain, he called her name, knowing that she could not hear. He picked her up and carried her out of the cave. At the main door to the house he paused, then carried her to Creasy’s bedroom, laid her on the vast bed and went into the bathroom. He ran luke-warm water into a high-sided pine tub in the Japanese style, then picked her up, carried her into the bathroom, laid her in the bath and carefully washed every part of her. Then he wrapped her in a big towel and laid her back on the bed. She had murmured occasionally, but had not moved. He went back to the bathroom and took a scalding hot shower, as though to wash away the memories of seven days of hell. In the bedroom he checked her breathing. It was shallow but regular.
He went to the kitchen and began to cook. First, he took the carcasses of two large chickens, cut them up, braised them briefly in the frying pan with a little olive oil and put the pieces in a large cooking pot and covered them with water. He then chopped up onions, carrots, tomatoes, broad beans, fennel, parsley and basil and dropped all of them into the pot. He turned the flame down low, covered the pot, and went back to the bedroom. He lay with her and held her through the night. Her body was still agitated and she twitched and turned, but always came back to his arms. Had she been conscious, she would have felt the wetness of his tears on her cheeks and shoulders. But she slept the sleep of an angel, and he slept the sleep of a martyr.
In the morning he stirred the broth, and brought it to her in a cup. He held her head and gently fed it into her mouth. She slept again, and after a few hours woke again and drank more broth. He noticed her looking at her naked body with slight embarrassment, and in a drawer he found one of the colourful sarongs that Creasy always wore in bed. He wrapped her in it and kissed her cheek and told her to sleep.
The papers came two days later. They came from Marseille, from the arms dealer Leclerc, in a large envelope, delivered by courier. He took it at the gate, signed for it, walked into the kitchen, made himself a strong black coffee and opened it. Inside, he found adoption papers for a thirteen-year-old girl called Juliet Creasy. She had been adopted two years earlier by one Marcus Creasy and his wife Leonie. The papers indicated that she was of Belgian nationality and an orphan. It named the orphanage in Bruges. They looked totally authentic, as did the Maltese passport and her photograph,
Michael smiled and took the papers into the bedroom. She was barely awake, but she smiled as she perused the papers and the passport. She reached up an arm around his neck, pulled him down and kissed him on the cheek.
‘You have a sister,’ she said.
‘You have a brother,’ he answered.
Chapter 28
Massimo Bellu was the antithesis of his boss, Colonel Satta, in every way except two: the quality of his brain, and his dedicated application in using it. Otherwise, no two men could have been more different. Satta was handsome, elegant, sardonic, cynical and an aristocratic gourmet. Bellu, on the other hand, was short, plump, and balding. He dressed like the most junior clerk in a seedy trading company and his main culinary delights ranged from a hamburger with an extra layer of onions to spaghetti carbonara. He also hated to play backgammon and a couple of years earlier had finally put his foot down and refused to play against his disconcerted boss during the many nights they spent together, waiting for a phone call or something to happen.
He had worked for Satta for eight years. During the first year he had spent much of his time trying to think up a viable reason to apply for a transfer to another department. But after that year he had begun to appreciate and understand the subtlety of Satta’s mind. At the same time, Bellu’s younger sister, who was highly qualified, had applied to enter Catanzaro University to study medicine. There were very few places and it was very hard to get in without a connection. She had been turned down, but a week later had received a letter reversing the decision. Many weeks had passed before she had learned that a certain Professor Satta, senior surgeon in Naples’ Cardarelli Hospital had intervened on her behalf.
Bellu had confronted Colonel Satta, who had simply shrugged, and said, ‘You work with me. Of course I had to do something.’
All thoughts of a transfer had left Bellu’s head. It was not what Satta had done but simply the words he had spoken: ‘You work “with” me, not “for” me’. Over the years they had developed a very relaxed working arrangement, which had slowly turned into a partnership.
Now Bellu sat late in his office, in front of his pride and joy, a new Apple Macintosh computer. He had an affinity with computers and their progeny; the department’s computer expert could teach him nothing. Within weeks he had transferred a vast amount of information onto the Apple’s hard disk. On this night he sat and watched the screen, looking for something that might give him a clue into the workings of Jean Lucca Donati’s mind.
When it came he did not see it at first, but two minutes later something in his brain clicked. He tapped his keyboard and went back, studied the screen for several minutes and then pushed more keys and went into a different file, the file of a man called Anwar Hussein. This was an Arab. In fact a Nubian Arab with antecedents in Egypt. Also a trader, with excellent contacts in the Middle East. He, too, had an impeccable reputation, and had lived in a luxurious villa on the outskirts of Naples for the past twenty years. He also paid his taxes. The only possible blemish on his reputation had occurred some two years earlier, when Saudi Arabian customs had discovered a small quantity of child pornography and associated Satanism in a container of fashion garments shipped to Riyadh by one of Hussein’s Italian companies. It had been traced to an underling whom Hussein had promptly fired.
The faint link between Jean Lucca Donati and Anwar Hussein was that they were both members of the cultural group, the Italian Arab Circle, and four years earlier had both served on the committee. The only reason that Bellu had a file on the Italian Arab Circle was because in the late sixties and early seventies it had been thought that it may have been a front for one or more Arab intelligence services; much as suspicion had been directed at the British Counsel, Alliance Française and the Goethe Institute. In the case of the Italian Arab Circle, these suspicions had proved groundless.
Bellu went back and forth through his files, and then discovered another common denominator. Jean Lucca Donati was an honorary consul for Egypt in Milan and Anwar Hussein held the same honorary position in Naples. It gave them both access to the diplomatic bag. He switched off the computer and looked at his watch. It was close to midnight but he phoned Satta anyway and briefed him on his discovery. Satta instructed him to put full surveillance on both men and their families. Then Satta phoned Creasy at his hotel. He caught him just as he was leaving to catch a night flight to Brussels. He passed on the information. Creasy remarked that it looked pretty flimsy. Satta laughed softly and commented, ‘Two men who pay their considerable taxes and enjoy the confidence of the Egyptian government . . . Not so flimsy, I think.’
Chapter 29
Michael took Juliet to the Schembris’ for Sunday lunch. It was a sort of ritual. When he and, or Creasy were in Gozo, they always went to the Schembris’ on alternate Sundays. On the other weeks the Schembris would come to them for a barbecue.
Before leaving the house he took her into Creasy’s bedroom and said, ‘There is a safe in this room. It is well-concealed. Since you are now a member of the family you must know how to open it.’
He was carrying a folder containing her newly-arrived passport and papers. He went to the head of the wide double bed and pointed to the top right-hand corner of one of the huge slabs of limestone which made up the thick wall.
‘You count up four slabs from the floor,’ he said, ‘and then press it firmly here.’ He pushed the heel of his hand against the limestone and it silently swung open. Behind it was a metal door about one metre high and half a metre wide. Set into the metal was a handle and, alongside that, a dial for the combination lock. ‘Do you have a good memory?’ he asked. She nodded solemnly. He could see that she was impressed, as any child would be, with the confid
ence shown her. ‘83 . . . 02 . . . 91.’
She repeated the numbers twice and then nodded. He reached forward, dialled the numbers and pulled open the heavy door. Inside were several shelves. He pointed to the top shelf which contained bundles wrapped in chamois leather.
‘Weapons,’ he said. ‘Hand-guns and two small submachine-guns plus suppressors and ammunition. Later on I’ll teach you how to use them.’ He pointed at the middle shelf which contained several thick files. ‘There are various files on people, some are enemies and some are friends.’ He pointed at the bottom tray. There were more files but they were thinner. ‘These are personal papers.’ He took one of the files out, opened it and dropped her passport and adoption papers into it. Beneath the bottom shelf was a thin drawer. He pulled it out and pointed. She leaned forward to look and saw the tightly wrapped bundles of paper currency.
‘There are US dollars, Swiss francs, pounds sterling, deutschmarks and Saudi Arabian riyals.’ He lifted out a small canvas bag and shook it. She heard the clink of the coins. ‘Gold sovereigns and krugerrands. Very useful as currency in the Middle East.’ He dropped the bag back into the drawer and slid it closed. Then as he closed the door of the safe and spun the dial he said, ‘In total, there’s more than the equivalent of five hundred thousand US dollars in that drawer. In a crisis, and if Creasy and I are not around, use what you need.’ He gave her a mock stern look. ‘But next week I don’t want to see you driving around in a new Mercedes sports car.’
She smiled, and he decided that as she recovered and as she grew older she was going to turn into a very beautiful young woman. She had been made thin and gaunt by her ordeal. The bone structure of her face was clearly etched and her limbs were little more than sticks. He calculated that while going cold turkey she had lost at least up to twelve kilos, about a quarter of her body weight. But she had been eating well since then, and within a week or so her body and face would start to fill out. She had also begun to exercise, swimming several lengths of the pool in the mornings and evenings.
As they drove through Rabat and on to Nadur, he told her in detail about Paul and Laura Schembri and their son Joey and his wife of two years, Maria, who would also be at the lunch. He explained the long connection between the Schembri family and Creasy and himself, summing it up succinctly. ‘We consider them our family, and they reciprocate.’ He turned to glance at her and went on, ‘So, in a way, now they become your family and you theirs. You can trust them all totally, and respond to any trust they give you.’
She was silent as they drove down the winding dirt road towards the farmhouse. She sat in the jeep, looking out over Comino to Malta, and then she said in a quiet voice, ‘I hope they like me.’
He glanced at her again and saw that she was nervous. He took a hand off the wheel and squeezed her shoulder.
‘Don’t worry. Just be yourself. Offer to help Laura and Maria with the washing up. They won’t let you . . . but offer.”
They did like her. Michael had not told them who she was, but when he had rung up had simply said he was bringing along a friend. As the jeep pulled up in the courtyard they all came out to greet them. He introduced her simply as ‘Juliet . . . my new sister,’ and then laughed at the expression on their faces. He gave Laura and Maria a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’ll explain over lunch.’
As usual, the lunch was enormous. Tortellini to start, followed by a lamb casserole and a vast array of vegetables from their own fields. The others were all silent during the meal while Michael related Juliet’s story.
At the end of it Laura spoke with an angry edge to her voice. ‘You should have called us the moment you got back. We would have helped . . . taken it in turns to be with her. You know we can be trusted, all of us.’
Before Michael could open his mouth in defence, Juliet leaned towards Laura and said very seriously, ‘It was better that Michael did it alone. He knew what to expect and was prepared for it . . . besides by the time it started I knew him, and I trusted him, and I felt no shame. You cannot imagine how much shame I would have felt if there had been any strangers there to see me at that time.’ Her voice dropped and she looked down at her plate. ‘I know that I almost died several times . . . if anybody but Michael had been there I think I would have died.’ She looked up straight into Laura’s eyes. ‘I know that for sure.’
Slowly, Laura nodded her head in understanding.
‘Perhaps you are right. We cannot imagine what you went through, but if anything like that ever happens again and there is no Michael or Creasy, then you must come to us.’
Juliet smiled and nodded.
‘I will.’ She gestured at the steaming pot of lamb. ‘Especially with such food.’
In answer, Laura ladled more from the pot onto the girl’s plate, despite her protests.
‘How will you explain her?’ Paul asked Michael.
The young man shrugged. ‘It will have to remain a mystery for most people. We have adoption papers dated two years ago from Belgium. We also have a Maltese passport.’
‘Forgeries, I suppose,’ Joey said.
Again, Michael shrugged. ‘No one except an expert would know.’
Then Maria, who worked as a clerk in the Malta police force, said, ‘It’s taken a long time, but over the past few months all immigration records, passports, ID cards etc have been computerised. If she passes through immigration coming in or going out of the country her passport number will not show on the computer and questions will be asked.’
Michael smiled. ‘I am sure that before Creasy left Marseille he would have sent a letter to George Zammit.’
Juliet was looking puzzled.
‘George is my nephew,’ Paul explained, ‘and a very senior policeman, who also happens to have immigration within his departments. Creasy has done him some favours in the past.’ He glanced at his daughter-in-law and asked, ‘Do you have access to the immigration software?’
‘Yes, First thing in the morning I’ll check out if a certain Juliet Creasy holds a Maltese passport.’
Juliet still looked puzzled.
‘How can you do all this? I mean, it sounds like something in the Mafia!’
They all laughed and Joey said, ‘We don’t have the Mafia here,’
‘That’s true,’ Laura said seriously and Juliet saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘In fact, they come down here occasionally . . . but only to learn.’
When Maria started to clear away the plates from the table, Juliet immediately stood up to help.
Very sternly, Laura told her to sit down. ‘Guests don’t help here,’ she said.
Juliet did not sit down. Equally sternly, she said, ‘I’m not a guest . . . I’m family.’
They liked her.
Chapter 30
‘You want to go, don’t you?’
Nicole spoke with a wry smile. Maxie glanced at her and shrugged.
‘It’s only natural, Nicole. When you’ve got good friends, and when you’ve been doing that kind of work most of your life, it’s only natural.’ He punched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry, I made you that promise two years ago and I’m going to keep it. You know I’m happy. Sure, I get restless feet once in a while, but not enough to make me want to lose what I’ve got here with you.’
It was after midnight and they were standing behind the bar of the bistro. Maxie was polishing glasses. Nicole had her elbows on the bar. A glass of Armagnac was in front of her. She picked it up and took a reflective sip, looking again at the last three customers. They were sitting at a table in the far corner; three men talking in low voices. She knew Creasy, of course, and owed her present happiness to him. She had also met Frank Miller, an Australian ex-mercenary who had worked with Creasy in Africa and Asia. He looked like the antithesis of a mercenary. He was in his mid-forties, completely bald with a big body and a small head; his face was slightly cherubic. She had met Maxie and Miller at the same time, on Maxie’s last job, when the two of them had been spectacularly successful in protecting
a prominent American senator from a Mafia kidnap gang. Creasy had hired them for that job. She had also met the other man very briefly on the same job. His name was Rene Callard, an ex-legionnaire and mercenary who had also worked with Creasy for many years. He looked more like a mercenary: tall and lean with a tanned, lined, scarred face. But he had a ready smile which took away his air of menace. She turned to look at Maxie again. He was watching the three men through lowered eyes. He felt her gaze on him and quickly picked up another glass and polished it thoroughly.
She smiled and ruffled his hair and asked, ‘Were you . . . are you as tough as them?’
He smiled a little sheepishly.
‘I guess so. Well, at least as tough as Frank and Rene. I wouldn’t rate myself alongside Creasy.’
Curiously, she asked, ‘Would you rate anyone alongside him?’
He thought only for a moment and then answered, ‘Yes, his best friend, Guido Arellio. You’ve heard us talk about him. He also promised his wife that he’d never fight or kill again from the day they married.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You told me about it. . . . but there is a difference. She died about seven years ago, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, about then.’
‘In that case,’ Nicole said, ‘under the same circumstances, she could not let him break his promise. I can let you break yours.’ He started to say something but she touched his arm, and very quietly said, ‘Listen, Maxie. I was a whore when I met you. You knew that and you didn’t care. You showed me more love in the first few days than I had known all my life. It was that love that cleansed all the sin I had in me. When I went to your bed I felt like a virgin. You took in my sister and treated her like your own. I love you now as much or more than during those first days in Florida.’ She smiled at the memory, and then her face turned serious as she went on. ‘I think I’m an intelligent woman. I want to keep that love and if it means risking seeing you back in that world then I will take the risk.’ She gestured at the table and said firmly, ‘Now go and sit with your friends. You’re dying of curiosity.’ She smiled. ‘And so am I. I’ll bring over coffee and Cognacs in a few minutes.’
The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 14
