The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Michael turned and looked behind him. At the back of the chapel was a long table, covered by a black cloth and laden with bowls of food. Fruit, almost overripe; huge mounds of grey caviar nestling in beds of ice; undercooked joints of ham, beef, lamb and game. Surrounding it all was a ring of jugs containing heavy red wine. There were no knives or forks or plates. Michael knew that after the sacrifice the frenzied congregation would strip naked and gorge themselves, using only their hands, letting the juices and blood run over their bodies . . . before they mixed those bodies with each other.

  To the left of the altar were three men. He recognised Donati and Hussein. He also recognised the third man from Rene’s description passed on by Satta, which had been passed on by Gandolfo. The face under the cowl was dark, and the deep eyes were darker. He knew he was looking at Gamel Houdris, the supreme leader of ‘The Blue Ring’. He saw the dark eyes looking back at him.

  Abruptly Michael realised that this was not going to be a long ceremony. There was no need for minor animal sacrifices to wind up the anticipation of this congregation. He glanced around and was able to see some of their faces, dripping with sweat in the cool air, mouths slack, and eyes already half-glazed. Days, maybe weeks, of anticipation had turned them into starving animals whose gluttony for evil craved to be sated.

  Again the Bishop was speaking and gesturing at the Initiate, and then gesturing at the poised knife. Michael could not understand the words but knew they were in Latin. At the same time he realised that he might have waited too long.

  At once he discarded the carefully timed plan. He reached to his waist and felt the outline of the tiny transmitter. He pressed the button and sent out the code: three quick bleeps and one long one. The Initiate had risen to his feet. He stepped up in front of the altar and stood looking down at the naked child.

  Michael’s mind was ice-cold. It flicked along like a computer. He could almost see what was happening in the darkness outside: Creasy’s team moving swiftly towards the chapel, Maxie’s team moving to take out the guards, Jens revving the engine of the van a kilometre away, Satta hearing the beeps from his own receiver three kilometres away and ordering his men to move.

  The Initiate had reached for the knife. He plucked it from the cork and with both hands held it high above the child’s heart. The Bishop was intoning a prayer in Latin, no doubt backwards. His eyes were also fixed on the child’s breasts. Michael glanced around at the congregation. All their eyes were transfixed on the altar. With his left hand he pulled up the hem of his gown past his knees and to his waist. With his right hand he reached across and pulled out the heavy Colt. The Initiate raised the golden knife higher.

  Michael shot him in the back of the head. The unsilenced explosion echoed around the chapel. The Initiate was hammered forward over the child’s body. Blood and brains sprayed the face of the black-clad bishop. Michael fired two shots into that face. Both hit the open mouth. Then there was confusion, screams. Michael twisted away from his pew and ran down the aisle to the back. He turned at the table and shouted in Italian the words he had practised,

  ‘Stand still! Who moves dies.’

  The teams had moved the instant that Michael’s signal came over the airwaves. Maxie was only ten metres away from one of the mobile guards. A one-second burst from his SMG spun the man around and dropped him. Another mobile guard twenty metres away was shouting in panic. A two-second burst cut him down. In a blur of motion Maxie changed the magazine and ran in the direction of one of the static guards. Two hundred metres away Frank also opened fire with his SMG. He was in a fortunate position. The other two mobile guards had been lax; they had stopped for a whispered chat and the drag of a shielded and shared cigarette thirty metres from his crouched position. It was not shielded enough. He got them both with a full burst. Like Maxie, his magazine change was a work of high-speed art. He also turned towards the villa and his targeted static guard.

  From the back of the villa they heard the crump of a grenade. That static guard had just heard his wake-up and goodbye call. Neither Maxie nor Frank had time to take care of the other static guards. The Owl did that. They heard three short bursts from his SMG, a single scream and then another burst.

  Maxie crouched and looked at the chapel. The red light from the high window suddenly turned bright white. He knew that Creasy and Guido were inside. He ran towards the back of the chapel.

  Chapter 98

  Only Gamel Houdris got away. He combined the survival instincts of a snake, a fox and a hungry shark. When the front door of the chapel crashed open and the first flares blinded the room, he pulled his cowl further over his head and screamed at Donati and Hussein. ‘The back door! Get to the back door!’

  They could not see, but he pushed them towards it. Behind him he heard Delors scream in agony as a bullet smashed into his right knee. Once behind and below the altar their eyes functioned again. Donati opened the door and ran out, followed by Hussein. Houdris paused, watching and waiting. They had not gone five metres before Rene cut them down. Hussein did not die immediately. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his torn belly, and with the rage of a wounded bull charged his attacker. Another burst from Rene’s SMG slammed him back and down. Houdris heard the click of the magazine being changed. In a crouch, he ran into the darkness and towards the distant trees.

  From behind him he heard the stutter of the SMG. He threw himself to the ground. A bullet plucked at his robe and seared the skin at his waist. He rolled and kept rolling until he crashed into some low bushes. Bullets whiplashed over his head. He crawled into the trees. Minutes later he dragged himself to the top of the dry-stone wall. He looked back towards the villa and the chapel. External lights had come on now. He saw a black mini-van pull up and black-clad, armed men jumping into it, then he heard the scream of its tyres as the engine revved and it pulled away.

  He waited, considering his options. He was dressed in the black robe and nothing else. Obviously the black-clad men had not been the law. He saw some of the congregation coming out of the chapel, walking around like zombies. He considered going back down but rapidly changed his mind as the headlights of several vehicles swept into view. He saw the two cars, the three jeeps and the two armoured personnel carriers. He saw the uniformed carabinieri spew out of the vehicles. He turned and jumped from the wall.

  A westerly wind had blown away the clouds, and the thin curve of the moon cast little light onto the clearing in front of him. A black-clad man was standing there, five metres away. A man with a square, scarred face, cradling a submachine-gun.

  Houdris leaned back against the stone wall. He recognised the man who had burst into the chapel and thrown the flares. The man moved slowly forward until he was standing a metre away. His voice was deep and carried a trace of an American accent.

  ‘You die tonight. You can die making a joke with your past. You would not have died for the evil you have done tonight or the evil you have done these past twenty years. You die for the evil you did to a woman in Malta twenty years ago. You die for a woman who sat so often on a dry-stone wall to catch a glimpse of her son, whom you fathered and discarded.’

  The mind of Gamel Houdris was trying to understand the words when the man tossed aside the submachine-gun, reached out with his square hands and slowly strangled the supreme leader of ‘The Blue Ring’.

  EPILOGUE

  The girls had long gone home. Blondie was in her over-furnished suite of rooms, putting the last of her curlers into her hair. The doorbell rang. She cursed eloquently in three languages, glanced at her watch and went to her door. As she opened it she heard Raoul moving down the corridor. He was also cursing quietly. Whatever over-sexed drunk had arrived at four in the morning would get short shrift from him.

  She stood on the upper landing and listened as Raoul opened the front door. She dimly heard voices. Raoul’s voice was not angry. She put on her flowered nightdress and went down the stairs. The voices were now coming from the kitchen. Creasy was sitting at the kitchen table. I
n all her years she had never seen his eyes so tired. His whole body seemed bloodshot.

  ‘Michael?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘Go to bed, then. Tell me in the morning.’

  He sighed and pushed himself wearily to his feet, managed to smile at her and said, ‘Will you join me for breakfast?’

  She smiled.

  ‘I will prepare your breakfast and join you.’

  It was like the old times. He looked down at his plate: six rashers of bacon, four fried eggs, hash brown potatoes, grilled tomatoes and grilled kidney.

  He cleared the plate, drank two cups of coffee, looked at her and said, ‘You want it from the beginning?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It took him the best part of an hour. She knew some of it, but only the early part. He took her through the entire story of ‘The Blue Ring’, without a single interruption.

  When he had finished she said, ‘Of course I have read in the papers about that final black mass. It has titillated the whole of Europe. I was angry that it took you two weeks before you came to tell me all about it.’ She began to ask her questions. ‘How is Satta progressing?’

  He lifted his head and said with a tired smile, ‘Colonel Satta will soon be promoted to General Satta. It will not compensate for the permanent pain he feels for Bellu, but he has much to keep him occupied. He is cutting a swathe through entrenched Italian corruption. He has a new assistant called Captain Brisci. I hope in a way that it’s like losing an old and faithful dog: the best therapy is to get a new puppy. Meanwhile Satta is closing in on Benito Massaro. That will be something to watch.’

  ‘What about the child on the altar?’

  Creasy sighed contentedly.

  ‘Satta’s mother, the venerable Sophia, has taken an interest. Her elder son Giovanni has been married for ten years and has yet to produce a child.’ He shrugged. ‘I think his mama will arrange something.’

  Blondie nodded firmly, as though such an event was both practical and correct. ‘I know Maxie has been home these ten days, but that’s all I know.’

  ‘Maxie is fine and well. I got slightly drunk with him in his bistro last night. But he cannot solve my problem, which is why I came to see you.’

  With a wave of her arm she brushed that aside. ‘What about Frank and Rene?’

  ‘They’re on holiday in Gozo, staying at my house and being spoiled rotten by Juliet. She has turned them into a couple of maudlin pussycats.’

  ‘What about the Dane and The Owl?’

  A twinkle came into Creasy’s eye.

  ‘They’re in Copenhagen. Jens resigned from the police force. They’ve opened a private detective agency specialising in missing persons.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I like that policeman . . . that ex-policeman. Tell him he’s always welcome here, and his friend The Owl.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘What about Michael?’

  Creasy took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘That’s my problem.’

  ‘You deserve a problem,’ Blondie said severely. ‘What is it?’

  Creasy sighed.

  ‘I strangled the man, Gamel Houdris. Michael does not know that Houdris was his natural father. My problem is that I do not know whether to tell him.’

  Blondie shrugged dismissively.

  ‘What’s the difference? He must have hated the man anyway.’

  ‘I would have thought so,’ Creasy answered quietly. ‘But I assumed that he hated his natural mother. I was wrong . . . I almost lost Michael.’

  The old woman patted her curled hair into place. It was a gesture she always employed while thinking deeply. ‘Where’s Michael now?’ she asked.

  ‘Not far from here. He’s across the border in Germany, at a place called Wiesbaden.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Creasy looked up from his mug and said flatly, ‘Killing Juliet’s stepfather.’

  Blondie rolled her eyes to the ceiling and muttered, ‘What a pair you are.’ Her face became very serious. ‘Creasy, I understand you and I understand Michael, who is your creation. I’ve lived a long time and seen much of life and death . . . I worry that for you and Michael death has lost its real meaning . . . I worry that you and Michael dispense death like a poker player deals cards.’

  Creasy looked up at her and shook his head.

  ‘Blondie, don’t judge me and don’t judge Michael. We react to what people do to us and to those we love.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Creasy, the trouble is I understand you, and I know what drives you, and I know what drives Michael . . . But it doesn’t make me sleep easy. I would wish to see a softer side to both of you.’

  Creasy shrugged.

  ‘Maybe one day we'll both find that softer side. I thought Michael would be here. He was supposed to do the job a couple of days ago.’

  ‘You've heard nothing?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I offered to go with him, but he wanted to do it alone.’

  The doorbell rang. Two minutes later Michael came into the kitchen, looking troubled. He hugged Blondie and kissed her on both cheeks, then sat down opposite Creasy. Blondie moved to the stove and started cooking Michael a breakfast.

  The young man looked across the table and said, ‘I sort of fucked up.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Michael was obviously embarrassed. ‘I got a bomb from Corkscrew Two. I wired it up under the bastard’s new BMW and sat three hundred metres away with the remote control. I sat there, relishing the moment when I would hit the button. I sat there thinking of Juliet and what that bastard had done to her. I thought about that bitch of her mother standing by and doing nothing. I thought of that BMW going up in a blinding flash.’

  ‘So?’

  Michael sat back in his chair, looked at the ceiling and said, ‘I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The young man leaned forward, cupped his face in his hands, looked at his adoptive father and said, ‘While I sat there with that remote control in my hand I had this feeling that we had killed enough people lately. I found that vengeance had become a very cold meal.’

  Creasy also leaned forward and said, ‘I’ve heard that somewhere before. So you didn’t press the button.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Oh, sure. I blew up that nice new BMW with no one in it. He’ll have a hard time explaining that to the insurance company.’

  They both laughed. Blondie watched them from the stove. She watched the laughter leave their faces.

  She heard Creasy say very quietly, ‘Michael . . . you know I strangled Gamel Houdris.’

  ‘Of course I know.’

  ‘You don’t know that Gamel Houdris was the man who forced the woman on the wall to forsake you . . . He was your natural father.’

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yes.'

  Michael leaned back in his chair and again looked at the ceiling. His breath came out with one exultant word. 'Hallelujah!'