Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  He glanced at the sweep second hand on his Rolex and waited a full ninety seconds. It would be reasonable to expect a man to need a minute to be woken at five in the morning and get ready to receive visitors. It would also give his Matabele time to arm themselves and be on their way.

  As he took his eyes from the luminous dial of the watch and started to move to the door, Beethoven sounded again, and in his tense mind, Becker thought that the chimes held a note of impatience. Holding the rifle with its barrel pointing towards the ceiling, he unchained the door and opened it. His son was standing five metres in front of him, a look of sheer terror on his face and his voice was gabbling.

  ‘Pa, do nothing stupid . . . This thing is tied round my neck.’

  Becker spoke harshly to his son, ‘Karl. Keep your mouth shut. Just stand still.’

  One of the men was standing behind and slightly to the left of his son, and holding the rifle casually in his right hand, his forefinger on the trigger. Becker knew that he was the ex-Selous, Maxie MacDonald. The other man was standing three metres away from his son on the right. He had one rifle in his right hand, with the barrel resting over his shoulder. He held another rifle in his left hand, pointing at the ground. Becker recognised that rifle as being his son’s and he realised that the man holding it must be the mercenary Creasy.

  The mercenary spoke. ‘If you move the barrel of that rifle even an inch, my friend will pull the trigger of his rifle. And you will be childless.’

  ‘Please, Pa! They mean it.’

  ‘Shut up, Karl!’ his father shouted at him. He did not move the rifle. He looked at Creasy and asked, ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Your son tracked us through the bush and tried to kill us. Just like he killed Carole Manners and Cliff Coppen.’

  Becker’s eyes flickered to his son and then back to the mercenary. He said, ‘That’s nothing but shit! Karl had nothing to do with that. And if he tried to kill you in the bush, he would have succeeded.’

  Creasy smiled at him through his grimy growing beard, and slowly lifted the rifle in his left hand. Becker noticed that he was holding it by a strip of fabric.

  ‘This is your son’s rifle,’ Creasy said. ‘He tells me you gave it to him as a young boy. There’s no doubt that police forensics will match the murder bullets to this rifle. Your son tells me that he acted under your instructions. So I came to have a chat.’

  ‘My son would never say that,’ Becker said. But then he was looking at his son and he saw the scorch marks on the side of his head and the burn marks on his shirt and shorts. His voice turned to a snarl. ‘You tortured my boy?’

  ‘I warmed him over a fire,’ Creasy answered. ‘He was lucky. I usually don’t waste time talking when I catch someone trying to kill me or a good friend of mine. They usually get dead very quickly. Now, let’s go inside and have that chat, and then we can phone the police.’

  Becker’s gaze flickered around the darkness beyond the semi-circle of light. He could see nothing and so he played for time.

  ‘Sure, we’ll call the police, but if you don’t untie my son immediately, you’ll be charged with kidnapping, torture and attempted murder. You’ll spend the rest of your lives rotting in a very uncomfortable prison.’

  Creasy smiled again.

  ‘I doubt it, Becker. Your son gets released when the police arrive and not before.’

  Finally, Becker caught a glimpse of movement behind him in the darkness and another to the right. His Matabele had arrived and were taking up position.

  From his vantage point, Michael had also watched their arrival. The six men were outlined against the light. Three of them carried what looked like AK47 rifles. The other three held hand-guns. Silently, he edged closer along the ridge.

  It was Becker’s turn to smile. Creasy heard a sound behind him, twisted his head and saw the six dim black shapes at the fringes of the light.

  ‘There won’t be any police here tonight,’ Becker told him. ‘The odds have changed. You walked through an infra-red alarm.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ Creasy answered. ‘Your one and only son is a millisecond away from death. Even if one of your men shoots me or my friend, we will have time to pull the trigger.’

  Becker understood the situation very well, but he was still playing for time. He had counted six of his men in the semicircle. He knew that with every passing second, his situation would be improving.

  ‘So let’s talk,’ Becker said to Creasy. ‘You are a mercenary. We’ll make a deal. You go back and tell the Manners woman that you reached a dead-end. She pays you and goes home and I pay you also. How about a hundred thousand of your dollars, in cash or in gold?’

  Maxie joined the conversation. He said, ‘Your research is defective, Becker. We never work for two masters.’

  ‘I know all about scum like you,’ Becker answered. ‘You’ll do anything for money.’

  Michael had moved to within a hundred yards of the semicircle of Matabele. He could just hear the conversation. Suddenly, from the periphery of his vision, he saw another dark figure moving in from his left. He would have been invisible to Creasy or Maxie, from inside the halo of light. He saw the figure stop, crouch and then saw the rifle raise.

  Michael took an-instant decision. He screamed out, ‘Creasy! Down!’ And then his AK47 was spitting flame at the crouched sniper.

  Like all fire-fights, it seemed to go on forever, but in reality it only lasted a few seconds. As Creasy dropped to the floor, Maxie fired his rifle and then the loop of twine pulled back the already dead Karl Becker. Maxie gripped him around the chest, disengaging his rifle and using the twitching body as a shield.

  Rolph Becker managed to get off one shot which grazed Creasy’s left buttock, and Creasy pumped three quick shots into Rolph Becker, slamming him back into the hall. Creasy rolled rapidly away to his right, twisted and then started firing again.

  Maxie was squatting behind Karl Becker’s body, firing his rifle with one hand. He grunted as a bullet passed through Becker’s body and lodged itself in his right thigh. From the darkness beyond, Creasy heard the deadly fire of Michael’s AK47, watched the bodies spinning in front of him and heard the screams.

  There came a watchful silence and then Creasy’s voice.

  ‘Maxie?’

  Maxie’s voice cracked back, I got a number two or three in the leg.’

  Creasy’s voice called out into the darkness, ‘Michael?’

  Michael’s voice came back,’ I’m hit.’

  Creasy was still lying in the dust with his rifle aiming at one of the Matabele, who was lying on his back, clutching his shoulder and moaning loudly.

  ‘Don’t move, Michael,’ Creasy called, and turned his head to look at Maxie.

  ‘Are you mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Recce the house.’

  Maxie dropped the body of Karl Becker in the dust and moved to the doorway. Creasy followed.

  Rolph Becker was lying on his back with his hand clutching his stomach, his face a picture of agony. Creasy kicked the rifle further out of his reach and looked closely at the wound. His three bullets had stitched a line across Becker’s naked body. Only Becker’s spread fingers were holding in his guts. He would be dead within minutes.

  He looked up into Creasy’s eyes and said, ‘Get me to the hospital, quick. It’s only six kilometres away at Binga. Quick!’

  Creasy shook his head. ‘I’ll get you to hospital when you’ve answered a couple of questions.’

  Maxie was moving quickly from room to room, kicking open doors with his rifle ready. The bullet in his thigh was no hindrance. He could feel the outline of it under his skin. Karl Becker had been a good cushion. He found nobody in the house, but in the master bedroom he found a huge wall-safe with a combination lock. He moved back to the hall and saw Creasy bending over Rolph Becker.

  ‘The house is clear,’ Maxie said. ‘But I’ve found a big safe with a combination lock.’

  Creasy looked down
at Becker’s twisted face. ‘The combination,’ he said. ‘Then you get to the hospital.’

  Becker almost screamed out a series of numbers. Maxie turned and ran back down the hall. In the bedroom, he dialled in the numbers, and pulled down the large handle. The heavy door swung open, revealing rows of files, bundles of money and two pistols. He ran back to the hall. The flesh wound was beginning to send pain through his body.

  ‘It was correct,’ he said. ‘The safe is open.’

  Creasy straightened up, looking down at Rolph Becker.

  ‘Are you going to send him to hospital?’ Maxie asked.

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘It would be a waste of petrol.’

  Becker’s voice came out in a long sigh. He shuddered over on to his side as his hands came away from his belly. His guts oozed out on to the maroon tiles, then he died.

  ‘He confessed,’ Creasy said, ‘I guess the files in that safe will confirm it. Now, quick, phone the police while I check out Michael.’

  Creasy ran up the small slope and through the bushes. Suddenly he could hear Michael groaning, then he saw him lying, sprawled on his stomach. He knelt beside him and asked. ‘Where, Michael?’

  Michael’s voice was clear and firm. ‘I took one in the shoulder and it spun me round, then I got one in the back . . . low down.’

  ‘Do you feel pain?’

  ‘I feel nothing.’

  ‘Don’t move.’

  Carefully Creasy pulled up the blood-soaked shirt. There was just enough light to see the wound in the lower spine. A stream of silent curses went through Creasy’s brain, but he said calmly, ‘Don’t move, Michael. Stay completely still. We’ll get you out of here very soon.’

  Michael lay with his cheek against the soil. He said, ‘I can’t move, Creasy.’

  Chapter 27

  Gloria Manners sat in her wheelchair in the garden of the Azambezi Lodge, The great Zambezi River flowed past not more than twenty metres away and to her right, she could hear the thunder as it plunged over the Falls. She sat alone. After lunch, she had given Ruby an hour off to go and see the Falls.

  There were birds in the trees above and small vervet monkeys played on the lawn. She had expected to hate this country, especially after the events of last night, and at first she had. But during the day that hatred had faded away. Maybe it was the serenity of the hotel. It was a two-storey structure shaped in a curve, the pool and gardens in front and the wide river beyond. The entire structure was covered in dark thatch. When they had checked in, the African manager had explained proudly that it was the largest thatched building in the world.

  Her thoughts turned to the two men in the bush. She expected them to return in a few days and announce that they had found nothing. She had mentally prepared herself for that. At least she would have the solace of knowing she had done everything possible. She thought about Creasy and how, in some ways, he reminded her of her husband. He was certainly one of the few men who had ever faced her down. She would leave Zimbabwe, knowing that she had hired the very best, and if Creasy failed, then there was nothing more she could do. She would simply live out her boring, chair-bound life in Denver. Perhaps it would not be for much longer. She felt no disquiet about that. Suddenly she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Mrs Manners?’

  She saw the young Oriental woman and felt irritation at having her thoughts interrupted. She snapped. ‘Yes! I doubt there is another old woman in this hotel in a wheelchair.’

  The young woman hesitated for a second and then walked round in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve come a very long way to talk to you. My name is Lucy Kwok.’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘About the murder of your daughter and Cliff Coppen. And the almost simultaneous murder of my father, mother and brother in Hong Kong.’

  After a pause Gloria said, ‘You’ve come from Hong Kong to talk to me?’

  ‘Yes. I think the murders are connected. So do the Hong Kong Police. I know that you’re here, trying to find the killers.’

  The old woman gestured and said, ‘Pull up a chair, Miss Kwok.’

  They talked for twenty minutes, by which time Gloria had recounted the events since her arrival in Zimbabwe and Lucy had explained why there was a connection between the murders in Hong Kong and the ones by Lake Kariba.

  Gloria turned her head to gesture for a waiter, but instead saw Inspector Robin Gilbert walking across the lawn towards them. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Gloria introduced him to Lucy and said, ‘This young lady thinks there’s a Hong Kong connection with my daughter’s murder. She’s just arrived from Hong Kong.’

  ‘Yes. I know. Commander Ndlovu called me last night.’ He drew a breath. ‘Mrs Manners, I have to inform you that the men who killed your daughter and Cliff Coppen were shot dead just before dawn today, together with four of their men.’

  For a long time, the old woman stared at the policeman’s face and then she said, ‘Are you sure it was them?’

  ‘Yes. We have complete evidence.’

  ‘Did Creasy kill them?’

  ‘Yes. Together with Maxie MacDonald and Michael. There was a gun battle at Binga, down the lake.’

  ‘I thought Michael was in Harare.’

  ‘Yes. So did we. But he checked out of his hotel yesterday and must have travelled fast to get there.’

  ‘Were the murderers blacks?’

  ‘No. They were whites. Father and son.’ He looked at his watch and said, ‘But I’ll give you all the details on the plane.’

  Gloria was a little dazed. She blinked her eyes a few times and then asked, ‘Plane?’

  ‘Yes. Your plane, Mrs Manners. We are going to Bulawayo right away. I ran into your nurse at reception and asked her to pack your things. I also asked the manager to alert your crew. I’d like to be on the way as soon as possible.’

  Gloria was getting her thoughts together. She asked, ‘Why Bulawayo?’

  The Inspector stood up and looked down at her. He said, ‘Because Michael was badly wounded during that shoot-out.’

  ‘Oh, God. Will he be all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. I happened to be at Binga when the alert came in. We got him to the hospital in Binga, but it’s very small. When I left Binga, two hours ago, his condition was stable. About now, he’s being flown down to the hospital in Bulawayo, which is well-equipped. Creasy and Maxie are with him. In the meantime, Commander Ndlovu is on his way from Harare to Bulawayo, together with three of the murderers’ associates, who are under arrest.’

  Suddenly Gloria was all business. ‘OK, Inspector, let’s go. I guess Miss Kwok should come with us.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Gilbert said, walking around to push Gloria’s wheelchair.

  Chapter 28

  It was late evening when Creasy walked into the room. The black nurse, who was also a nun, stood up from her chair beside the bed.

  Creasy said, ‘Would you please leave us now, Sister?’

  She nodded and bustled out, closing the door behind her. Creasy sat on the edge of the bed and took Michael’s hand in his and asked, ‘How do you feel?’

  Michael did not answer the question. He looked up into Creasy’s eyes and said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  Creasy paused for a moment and then said, ‘Your shoulder wound is no problem. You’ll recover full use of your arm.’

  ‘And the other wound?’

  ‘That’s bad. The bullet cut your spinal cord. You’ll be paralysed from the waist down.’

  There was a long silence and then Michael said, ‘I guessed it. I also guessed there’s no remedy at all. Not now, not ever.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Creasy said, ‘I had the doctor here speak to a specialist in London and got the same diagnosis. The damage is irreparable. After eighteen years of war here in this country, the doctors have a lot of experience of gunshot wounds. There can be no reprieve. You must be strong. You can
leave here in about two weeks and get back to Gozo and get started on a new kind of life. It won’t be easy but you’re strong and you’re tough . . . and you’ll handle it. Juliet and I will be with you.’ He squeezed Michael’s hand, and then felt his own hand gripped tightly and heard Michael’s strained voice.

  ‘I don’t want to handle it. I don’t want to go through life like that. Every time I looked at the mean bitter woman in her wheelchair, I asked myself how anyone could live like that. OK, so she’d lived a long time before it happened, but do you think I want to go through forty or fifty years, getting meaner and more bitter as every day goes by? There’s no way, Creasy.’

  ‘It looks bad now,’ Creasy said, ‘but it’s amazing how people get over it and make a reasonable life — even a good life. I’ve known many such people. At first, they can’t face the thought, but later on they come to grips with it. It’s hard work, but you can handle it. I know you.’

  Michael was very slowly shaking his head on the pillow.

  ‘I don’t want that life, Creasy . . . I just don’t want it and I’m not going to change my mind. You know what I want you to do?’

  Creasy sighed. ‘Michael, I’m not going to do it. Get that right out of your mind. You’re not my natural son, but you’re my son in every other way. Your life has to go on. Who knows? In five or ten or fifteen years, they might find a new surgical technique to reconnect the spinal cord.’

  Again, Michael was slowing shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, Creasy. They’re just words.’

  ‘Who the hell can know, Michael? They’re making tremendous strides in medical and surgical techniques. There are guys I’ve known who died from wounds in Vietnam who’d still be alive today.’