The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Michael was still puzzled. ‘Virginity, youth and life...’ He shrugged and stood up. ‘Let’s go. I’ll make a barbecue tonight.’

  They drove in silence until they had passed through Rabat. Then she said, ‘Michael, tonight I think I will sleep.’

  He glanced at her and smiled.

  ‘You will sleep. After a big meal and two or three glasses of good red wine you’ll sleep like a baby.’

  At the house he carried the cool box into the kitchen just as the phone rang. She had gone to her bedroom to shower and change. He slid the cool box under the sink and picked up the phone. It was Guido from Naples. He told Michael that Creasy had disappeared that morning. He had arranged to meet Colonel Satta at ten a.m. but had not turned up or phoned. Satta had checked with the airport and learned that Creasy had arrived on an Alitalia flight from Brussels at seven a.m. Satta had then checked with the hotel and been told that Creasy had checked in around eight a.m. but had left the hotel half an hour later. He had not returned. His overnight bag was in his room. Meanwhile the Dane, Jens Jensen, had arrived and was at the hotel, together with a Frenchman whom Guido knew only as The Owl. Michael responded that maybe Creasy had established a link to ‘The Blue Ring’ which he had to follow up without having time to contact Satta. Guido’s voice was dismissive.

  ‘You know Creasy well, Michael, but I know him better. He would have left word somehow.’

  ‘You think he’s been “snatched”?’

  ‘I think it’s ninety per cent sure.’

  ‘“The Blue Ring”?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not . . . He has plenty of enemies in Italy. Satta has got his people on to it, and I’m leaving for Milan within the hour. I got word to Maxie and he’ll be flying in with Miller and Callard. I tried to get you earlier but you must have been out, so I booked you on an Alitalia flight at eight tonight. The ticket will be at the Alitalia desk at the airport.’

  Michael looked at his watch and said, ‘I’ll be there.’

  Half an hour later he was driving Juliet to the Schembri farmhouse. He had been pleased by her response to the news and at his having to leave immediately. First she had wanted to go with him; maybe she could help in some way, but she had seen the look on his face. So she had packed her bag and begged him to keep her informed.

  At the farmhouse Laura welcomed her warmly, and pointed upstairs to Creasy’s old bedroom. She told her to unpack. Juliet hugged Michael goodbye and obediently picked up her bag and went into the house.

  Laura stood with Michael next to the jeep. He saw the concern in her eyes and simply said, ‘We have a good team assembling in Milan, a very good team.’

  Nothing else needed to be said. As she hugged him, Laura whispered, ‘Good luck’ and turned away.

  Chapter 34

  ‘I did you a favour,’ Creasy said. Across the table, Gino Abrata snorted in derision. ‘A favour!’ He looked up at the two bodyguards standing behind Creasy. They both held submachine-guns, cocked and pointed at the American’s back, even though his arms and legs were bound tightly to the heavy chair. One of them sneered, but the other never took his narrowed eyes from the back of the head of the man in front of him. He was a careful and cautious bodyguard and he had heard all the stories about the man known as Creasy. His eyes flickered very briefly to his boss’ face. It was a fat face above a short fat neck which itself was above an elegant suit. Gino Abrata was known for his good taste in food, clothing and maliciousness. He snorted again, ‘What favour did you ever do me?’ Creasy shrugged painfully; the right side of his face was swollen and blood had dried from a cut on his forehead. He said, ‘Six years ago I made you the most important capo in Milan.’ ‘You what!’

  ‘Sure. Cast your mind back . . . if you have one.’ Abrata lifted a finger and one of the bodyguards took two paces forward and with carefully calculated force smashed the butt of his submachine-gun into Creasy’s back, just below his neck. Creasy made no sound and his eyes never left Abrata’s face.

  ‘Yes, I have a mind,’ the Italian said. ‘And right now I’m using it to work out the most painful way to kill you. What fucking favour are you talking about?’

  Creasy moved his shoulder slightly but no expression of pain showed on his face. ‘Six years ago,’ he said, ‘you were the junior capo in this city, under Fossella. I killed Fossella. Do you remember?’ At this Abrata smiled. It made his face even more ugly.

  ‘Sure, I remember. You stuck a bomb up his ass and splattered him against the ceiling.’

  Creasy nodded, ‘I also killed his top lieutenants, which gave you a free hand to become the top capo here.’

  Abrata sneered at him and leaned forward. ‘I would have become a top capo anyway.’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘I doubt it. Fossella was smarter than you and he attracted better people.’

  ‘If he was so smart,’ Abrata answered, ‘then how did he let one man working alone snatch him and stick a bomb up his ass? It would never have happened to me.’

  He saw the slight smile on the American’s lips, and then heard him say quietly, ‘I had no argument with you, only with Fossella and his bosses in Rome and Palermo. If I had an argument with you then be sure you would not be sitting here now.’ He gestured behind him with his head, then leaned forward and said, ‘But I tell you, Abrata, if one of your monkeys hits me again we shall have an argument.’

  The room was very quiet and seemed to be colder. For a long time Abrata looked into the American’s heavy-lidded eyes, then up to the eyes of his bodyguards. When he spoke his voice carried a measure of disdain. ‘So you have nerve . . . we all know that. You sit trussed up like a turkey with machine-guns at your back and you offer threats. You are threatening the man who is deciding not when to kill you but how to kill you.’

  The small smile touched the American’s lips again. He said, ‘Let me paint the picture. You positively identified me two hours ago. No doubt the first thing you did was to phone Paolo Grazzini in Rome. I’m sure that’s the first thing you ever do when faced with a big decision. If you acted alone on something like this, Grazzini would come up here and smack your bottom. No . . . I can be sure that Grazzini told you to keep me alive and in a physical condition to be able to answer his questions when he arrives either tonight or tomorrow morning.’ Creasy looked into the Italian’s eyes and saw the truth of his words reflected in them,

  Abrata tried to bluster.

  ‘No one gives Gino Abrata orders . . . no one.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Abrata stood up, walked around the table and took the SMG from one of the bodyguards. He placed the muzzle against Creasy’s left ear and repeated, ‘No one gives Gino Abrata orders.’

  Creasy sighed and said, ‘So pull the trigger, asshole.’ Seconds passed and then Abrata said lightly, ‘In the Cosa Nostra we co-operate. It is true that Paolo Grazzini now sits on the council. Of course I will co-operate with him and he with me. Certainly, I informed him of the fish I had caught. Since he has a special interest in you . . . Conti was his brother-in-law, and you brutally killed Conti. It is reasonable that I let him talk to you before I take pleasure in killing you.’

  Creasy turned his head, pushing the muzzle of the SMG away from his ear. He looked up at Abrata. ‘Of course that’s reasonable. It’s also reasonable that you ask one of your monkeys to bring me a glass of cold water or, better still, a glass of good red wine. I’m looking forward to talking to Grazzini . . . after all he owes me the same favour as you do. Six years ago Conti used to treat him like an office boy, even if he was married to his sister.’

  Again there was a long silence, then Abrata nodded to one of the bodyguards who left the room. Creasy stretched his shoulders and said, ‘Also I have to take a leak.’ Abrata sat down again. ‘Then pee in your pants. You’re not getting out of that chair until Grazzini gets here . . . and when you get out of it you won’t be worrying about taking a leak.’

  Chapter 35

  Early autumn rain lashed across the darknes
s of Milan airport as Michael walked through customs. He could hear it on the high-tech roof. It was in keeping with his mood.

  That mood lightened when he saw Guido at the back of the welcoming crowd. They embraced and Guido led the way through the concourse to the parking area. As they approached the black Lancia the back doors opened and they slid inside. Maxie MacDonald was at the wheel. Frank Miller sat next to him. They pulled out into the traffic.

  Over his shoulder, Maxie said, ‘Rain and shit, but hello, Michael.’ He gestured with his right hand. ‘This is Frank Miller. You’ve heard about him.’ Frank turned his head and in the dim light Michael saw the almost cherubic face.

  Miller said, ‘Good to finally meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Michael turned to Guido and said, ‘Fill me in.’

  Guido was hunched up in the corner of the car. He spoke rapidly and concisely. ‘Creasy is almost certainly held by the Mafia . . . We think by the major capo here, Gino Abrata. He must have been recognised, and of course the Mafia never forgets a vendetta.’

  Michael’s voice was terse. ‘What do we have?’

  Guido told him, ‘Creasy has strong connections in this city, particularly with a Colonel Satta of the carabinieri . . . You will have heard of him. Satta has learned that Creasy left his hotel about half an hour after he arrived from Brussels. About two blocks away there was a commotion. Six men were involved. Two in a large black limousine and four on the pavement. A single shot was fired into the air and then Creasy was bundled into the limousine. Eye-witnesses here are reticent, but it was almost certainly Creasy. That was this morning, and since then we have more information, which is being updated by the hour. It’s better that we wait until we get to our base and Satta will bring us all completely up to date.’

  ‘Who do we have here?’ Michael asked.

  Guido gestured at the front seats. ‘Well, we have Maxie and Frank; we also have Rene Callard, the Dane, Jens Jensen, a French guy called The Owl, Satta, of course, his number two, Bellu, and one of Satta’s undercover men, known only as The Ghost.’

  Michael murmured, ‘So within our team we have three Italian policemen . . . I’m suspicious of any policeman.’

  Guido shook his head. ‘You can trust those three and the rest of our team. Trust nobody else.’

  It was a small house in a nondescript suburb of Milan. An old woman opened the door, looked them over carefully and ushered them in. The lounge was crowded. Michael knew Jens and The Owl. Guido introduced him to Callard, Bellu, The Ghost and Satta, saying, ‘You know the rest.’ It was half an hour to midnight.

  Michael embraced them all. Chairs had been pulled around a table. The man called The Ghost was sitting at a small, sophisticated radio console, speaking into a microphone. As Michael sat down, the others ignored him; they were deep in discussion. Bellu was talking.

  ‘It’s certainly Abrata . . . all his “soldiers” are off the street. We know he has two main boltholes on the outskirts of the city. Creasy will be held in one of them. We think the one to the north, which is on high ground and easily defended.’

  Rene Callard asked, ‘When will we know which one?’

  ‘Within the hour,’ Bellu answered. ‘But we have to be careful.’ He glanced at Michael. ‘Unfortunately, like every other institution in Italy, the carabinieri is infiltrated by the Mafia. We have to work only with those few that we can trust . . . and they are very few,’

  Satta grimaced, nodded his head and confirmed, ‘We can count them on the fingers of one hand.’

  Maxie said, ‘The machinery has arrived from Marseille. We’re well-equipped. Once we know the location, we can blast our way in.’

  Satta shook his head.

  ‘By the time you finish blasting your way in, Creasy will have a bullet in his head. Let’s think about it. Let’s think carefully.” He gestured at Guido. ‘Our friend here was once Mafia and understands how they work.’ He tapped his chest and then gestured at Bellu. ‘Together we spent five years fighting the Mafia. We know the structure, and we know how they think. Tell them, Bellu.’ The short, round-faced Italian gave them a thumbnail sketch of the situation.

  ‘Creasy once waged a one-man war against the major Mafia family . . . around six years ago. He set them back about ten years. The current situation is that Gino Abrata is the chief of two capos in Milan. His nominal boss in the hierarchy is Paolo Grazzini from Rome. We know that Grazzini had a meeting late this evening in Rome with a visiting capo from Detroit. We know they had dinner in the Ristorante Adessio, and just after midnight Grazzini left in his limousine, followed by another car full of bodyguards, and took the autostrada to Milan. He hates travelling by plane or train. He will arrive at approximately five-thirty a.m. Until that time we know that Creasy will be kept alive. Both Abrata and Grazzini will be very puzzled, because for the last six years they thought that Creasy was in a grave in Naples. They will suspect that he is again waging war against the Mafia. They will torture him to find out how and why.’ He looked around the room at all the others. ‘We know that Creasy will tell them nothing. We know he will hold on for many hours . . . My guess is at least twenty-four . . . After that they will kill him painfully, and will leave his body publicly, as an example of vengeance, and a sign not to mess with the Mafia.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We have about thirty hours.’

  Maxie stood up and started walking around the table. He was agitated. ‘Thirty hours is plenty of time. Once we know the location for sure we mount an operation. We throw up a diversion . . . and Frank, Rene and I hit the place.’

  Satta shook his head.

  ‘The obvious answer would be for the carabinieri to seal off the location and go in with our anti-terrorist unit. There are two things against this: firstly, with the corruption in our unit, they would have at least an hour’s warning. Secondly, we would need a magistrate’s approval to mount such an operation, and that would take many hours. We would first have to find an honest magistrate or judge, and most of those have been killed.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘That is our situation.’

  Then Rene Callard stood up and spoke in his heavily accented English. ‘We need nobody except ourselves. We have done this before. Creasy is our man. Give us the location. We’ll get him out.’

  Michael had been looking at the table in front of him. Now he lifted his head, looked at Satta and said, ‘I need some more information. Does Abrata have family?’

  Satta looked at Bellu, who provided the information.

  ‘Abrata’s parents are both dead. He has no children. His brother and sister live in New York. His wife is estranged and living in Bologna, shacked up with a minor capo.’ He gave Michael a wry smile. ‘You have no route there.’

  Michael asked, ‘And Grazzini?’

  Bellu shrugged.

  ‘A wife and countless mistresses. He has no emotional ties except to his mother.’

  ‘Where is his mother?’

  For the first time, Satta’s lips twisted into a thin smile. He was catching the drift and supplied the answer. ‘Grazzini’s mother is called Graziella. She lives in a small town twenty miles north of Rome called Bracciano Lago. She is aged and very religious. She prays every day in church for the soul of her son . . . I would say that her prayers are futile.’

  Michael looked at The Ghost and said, ‘It’s going to be a long night. Can we get something to drink and maybe some pasta?’

  The Ghost stood up, went to the door and shouted down the stairs. ‘Bring us some food and drink, you old bag! Don’t you know an army marches on its stomach?’

  In a manner unknown to them all, the group of hard, experienced men found themselves deferring to the youngest of them all. Michael pointed first to Guido. ‘I want you to return immediately to Naples. You have no part in what is to come, except to act as a communicator between us all.’ He pointed to Maxie. ‘We will not try to storm their bolthole.’ He pointed at Bellu. ‘Before dawn tomorrow I have to be in Bracciano Lago. Frank, Rene and The Owl will be with me. We will take
Grazzini’s mother and trade her for Creasy.’ He pointed to Satta. ‘Colonel, by dawn tomorrow I need a wheelchair and a priest’s outfit -’ he pointed at Jens Jensen - ‘to fit that Dane.’ He pointed to The Ghost. ‘Since you know the terrain, you will lead Maxie to the closest point to their bolthole and wait for instructions, in case we fuck up in Bracciano Lago. If that happens you will not go in. Maxie will go.’ He stood up and started pacing, deep in thought. He pointed again at Satta. ‘We need voice communication, not just between ourselves, but also direct to The Ghost and Maxie,. Can that be arranged within the next couple of hours?’

  Satta nodded. He had a smile on his face. He was sitting in a room surrounded by some of the most dangerous human beings he had ever met in his dangerous life, and he was observing a young man, almost a boy, dominate them. It appealed to his sense of irony. ‘What else do you need?’ he asked.

  Michael stopped pacing.

  ‘Apart from The Ghost, who I assume is clean, I need you to keep the carabinieri right out of this, for reasons you understand. I need two unmarked vehicles here in Milan for The Ghost and Maxie, and two more in Rome for myself and the back-up team. I need a hole in Rome. I assume we can use this place as a base here in Milan. I also need to charter a plane to get my team to Rome in three hours. It should be a private charter and not connected with the carabinieri. Can do?’

  Satta nodded as the door opened and the old woman came in, carrying a tray piled with bottles of wine, glasses, a huge saucepan of pasta and plates. She looked at The Ghost. Old eyes in an old face, but a smile which held affection.