Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  ‘Just words, Creasy . . . I want you to do it.’

  No words were spoken for more than a minute, while the two men looked at each other, and then Creasy said, ‘I’ll make you a promise. We’ll get back to Gozo, and in three months from now, to the day, if you still want me to do it, then I’ll arrange for you to have an accident.’

  Another long silence, finally broken by Michael. ‘Three months?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it’s a promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michael nodded almost imperceptibly, and squeezed Creasy’s hand again, it’s a deal.’

  Chapter 29

  Creasy got back to the Churchill Arms Hotel just after 8 p.m. It was in the Hillside suburb and not far from the hospital. The receptionist gave him his key and three messages. One was from Gloria Manners, informing him that she was in her suite with Inspector Gilbert and Commander Ndlovu. The second was from Inspector Gilbert, informing him that he and Commander Ndlovu were waiting in Mrs Manners’ suite. The third was from Maxie, informing him that he was waiting in the bar. Creasy went into the bar.

  Maxie was nursing a large whisky. Creasy eased himself on to the stool next to him and said to the bartender, ‘A cognac. Remy Martin. Straight.’

  Maxie’s face mirrored Creasy’s own exhaustion. Neither of them had slept for forty-eight hours.

  They were silent until Creasy’s drink came and then Maxie asked, ‘Sitrep?’

  ‘Bad . . . he wanted me to top him.’

  ‘How did you handle it?’

  ‘I told him that I’d take him back to Gozo, and if he felt the same in three months, I would do it.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes . . . but I think, in three months, he’ll have a different frame of mind. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yes. It’s always that way. That kid had no luck. A few millimetres to the left or right and he’d be walking around in a couple of weeks.’ He glanced at Creasy and asked. ‘How are you taking it?’

  Creasy took a sip of cognac and shrugged.

  ‘I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Sure. We’ve both seen it all before.’

  A bunch of smartly-clad businessmen came into the bar and noisily ordered drinks. Maxie said, ‘I phoned home and spoke to Nicole. Of course, I had to talk to Lucette as well.’

  ‘You told her?’

  ‘No. I just told her that Michael was wounded and that I’d let her know his condition in a few days. Of course, she wanted to fly out immediately. There were a lot of tears. She loves that man.’

  ‘Will she love him in a wheelchair?’

  Maxie thought about it for a long time and then said, ‘I think so.’

  ‘That might be important.’

  ‘Yes. It might. Leave that side to me over the coming weeks. Then I’ll make a judgement. The worst thing is if she starts off down the road and then gives up.’

  Creasy looked at his friend and said, ‘I’ll leave it to you, Maxie. Now why don’t you go and get some sleep?’

  Maxie shook his head.

  ‘No. You’ve got John Ndlovu and Robin Gilbert upstairs in Mrs Manners’ suite. It will be at least an hour before we can get to bed. Maybe after the meeting, we come back downstairs and hang a big one on.’

  ‘Maybe. What’s the mental state of that old bitch?’

  Maxie said, ‘I would never have believed it, but she was in tears when she heard about the extent of Michael’s wounds.’

  ‘In tears?’

  ‘Yes. I guess she’s blaming herself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe because she started this whole thing.’

  ‘She should be happy. We did what we came for. Took out the men.’

  ‘She’s not happy,’ Maxie said. ‘By the way, she’s got a Chinese woman with her. She arrived today from Hong Kong. There’s some connection between what happened here and the Triads in Hong Kong.’

  ‘The Triads are in this?’

  ‘Yes. The files we took out of Becker’s safe indicate that very strongly. It all comes down to the rhino horn. Becker was behind the poaching. The Triads were financing it. That woman up there had her family killed by them.’

  Creasy finished his drink and said, ‘Let’s go up and get it over with.’

  When Creasy knocked on the door of Gloria’s suite, it was opened by John Ndlovu.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son. I spoke with the doctor on the phone. I just wish there was something we could do.’

  ‘There is,’ Creasy said, still standing in the open door. ‘You can wrap up all the legal proceedings quickly and, if possible, have those proceedings take place in Bulawayo. I don’t want to have to be commuting between here and Harare in the next few days.’

  ‘That will be done,’ the African answered. ‘Robin Gilbert will handle it full-time.’

  He stood aside and Creasy walked into the room, followed by Maxie. Gloria was in her wheelchair. Robin Gilbert was sitting on the settee next to a young Chinese woman. Creasy looked at Gloria. Anguish was stamped on her face.

  She asked, ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s paralysed from the waist down, and you can understand how he is better than I can,’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘With strength.’

  Her voice had lost all its edge of authority and bitterness. She said, ‘I can have the best specialists in the States here within forty-eight hours.’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘Mrs Manners, the time for waving magic wands is long gone. The doctors here are very experienced in these things.’

  She lifted her head and asked almost plaintively, ‘Then what can I do?’

  ‘Only one thing,’ Creasy answered. ‘We found the people that killed your daughter and we killed them. Our deal was that if we found them, you paid half a million Swiss francs and, if we subsequently killed them, another million. We did our job. I’d be glad if you could pay that money as soon as possible. I’m going to need it.’

  ‘Of course. You’ll be paid immediately. Can I see Michael?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t be cruel, Creasy. You said just now that maybe I understand how he feels better than anyone. That’s true. Maybe I can talk to him. Maybe I can help.’

  Irritation began to well up inside Creasy’s mind. Then he realised he was looking into a woman’s eyes which contained compassion and sorrow.

  He said, ‘You can see him tomorrow morning. Just don’t cry or be maudlin.’

  She stiffened in her wheelchair and said, ‘I know enough not to do that.’

  Chapter 30

  Michael woke and saw the sunlight streaming in through the window. He had been awake most of the night, in spite of the medication, but realised he must have slept for at least a couple of the last few hours. He turned his head. The nun sitting by his bed was white. She was reading a book.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

  Her head jerked up in surprise. She had black hair under her starched white wimple.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Not so bad. What are you reading?’

  Sheepishly, she said, ‘A Mills and Boon romance . . . I know, but I quite like them.’ She put the book aside, stood up and went about her duties, taking his pulse and temperature and talking to him in a soft Irish brogue. Finally, she made some notes on the clipboard at the foot of his bed, looked at her watch and said, ‘The doctor will be here in about half an hour.’ She picked up the phone by his bed and he heard her tell the duty matron that his condition was stable.

  After she had hung up, Michael said, ‘I like to read too. I’m going to be here for quite a while . . . does the hospital have a library?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A good one. A selection of
books are sent around the wards in the mornings and evenings.’

  ‘What time in the mornings?’

  ‘Between ten and eleven.’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  She lifted the watch hanging from her habit and said, ‘Seven-thirty.’

  He turned his head and looked at the bedside table. There was a jug of water and a glass.

  ‘Can I have some water?’

  She bustled over, half-filled a glass, put a soft hand behind his neck, pulled him up slightly and held the glass to his lips. Pain stabbed through his shoulder but he made no sound. He laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. The nun sat down and picked up her book. Five minutes passed, then he opened his eyes and turned his head and looked at the open window and the sunlight shining through. Another five minutes passed. He turned his head and looked at the nun.

  ‘What’s your name, Sister?’

  She smiled. She had a round comely face.

  ‘Agatha. Named after the saint, of course, but I could have wished for a namesake with a prettier name.’

  He managed a smile.

  ‘A rose by any other name . . . Agatha, I have to ask a favour.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  He gestured at her book with his good arm.

  ‘I won’t sleep again and I need something to occupy my mind. Is it possible that you could go to the library and pick out a couple of books for me?’

  She thought about it and then glanced at her watch.

  ‘I suppose I could do that. It’s just down the corridor. What kind of books do you like?’

  ‘Well, maybe you could pick four or five for me. I like westerns or detective stories. Inspector Maigret or something; or a good thriller.’

  She put her book down and stood up, saying, ‘I shouldn’t really leave you, but it won’t take more than ten minutes.’ She pointed to the button dangling from a line behind his head. ‘If you come over badly, just press that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sister Agatha, I feel OK. A good book will take my mind off things.’

  As the door closed behind her, Michael closed his eyes. He lay absolutely still for two minutes, then he opened his eyes and with his right hand pulled aside the sheet. He looked down at his useless feet. He was dressed in a white shift, loosely tied at the back. He pulled the shift up and looked at his useless legs. Beside them was a piece of paper. He picked up the paper and laid it on the table next to the water-bottle. Then he rolled out of the bed, on to the floor and lay moaning for many seconds. He managed to roll over on to his stomach.

  Inch by inch, he dragged himself across the carpet towards the window, using his right elbow and gasping from the pain in his left shoulder. In his mind, it seemed to take an eternity, but finally he was there. He reached up with his right hand and gripped the window-sill. His arms and hands were strong from a regular routine of exercises, but still he had to use every ounce of strength to get his right elbow on to the window-sill with his legs dragging under him and pain shooting through his body like electric shocks. He levered himself higher with his elbow, until he got his lower chest across the window-sill. He looked out. A well-ordered parkland stretched out in front of him, with trees and lawns and manicured beds of flowers. He levered himself further forward and looked down. The private rooms of the hospital were on the top floors, the fourth floor. Directly below him was a flagstoned pathway. Another minute passed while he looked down at it. Then he muttered something in Maltese and, with one last effort, pulled himself out and over.

  Ruby pushed the wheelchair down the corridor, checking the numbers of the rooms, but Gloria spotted it first and pointed.

  ‘There; Number Twelve.’

  Ruby tapped on the door. There was no answer.

  Gloria said, ‘The matron told us he was awake. Go ahead.’

  Ruby turned the handle and pushed the door open and came back behind the wheelchair and pushed it through. The bed was empty.

  Through the window, they heard people shouting. Ruby ran to the window. She looked down and saw the white-clad body and people crouching over it, shouting in alarm.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  With a hand over her mouth, she turned back to Gloria. The old woman’s wheelchair was next to the bed. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand and reading it. The piece of paper fluttered from her hands and those hands came up to cover Gloria Manner’s face.

  Ruby walked across the room and picked up the paper and, with the sounds of her employer’s sobs in her ears, she read the note.

  ‘My Juliet and Creasy,

  Do not blame the nun. I knew I would have to trick her. Creasy, I knew the promise you made to me would be the only promise you ever failed to keep. You could not have done it and I know that I would never have changed my mind. Over the past days, I have watched that woman in her wheelchair, bitter and twisted, taking out that bitterness on others. The years were few but they were good. Better than I ever dreamed of. Creasy, those years were a gift from you. Juliet, live my life for me.

  Michael’

  Chapter 31

  He walked for two hours after leaving the Land Rover. He wore long khaki trousers and a grey shirt. He carried no weapon. He walked into the southern end of Matopos, the small game sanctuary, south of Bulawayo. He was far away from the northern area where the occasional tourist appeared. There were no roads or man-made trails, just wild African country and its inhabitants. He passed herds of kudu and impala and zebra. At a distance, he saw buffalo and skirted them. There were wild dogs, hyenas and warthogs. He walked as though he was on auto-pilot; he had been this way before, many years ago.

  It was an extraordinary landscape: rolling hills covered by huge boulders, some as big as several houses, some perched on others in a perpetual balancing act. To the north was the burial place of Cecil Rhodes, who had tricked and fought the Matabele into giving up their land. The Matopos resembled an area where God had played a game, tossing vast boulders around on the seventh day of rest.

  Creasy came to the small lake just before sunset. Several times on his solitary journey, he had stopped and listened. He was confident that no human being was within miles of him. The noises of nature had only been disturbed by himself and that disturbance was negligible. As he had walked, it seemed as though the animals had taken him back into themselves. He found a flat area under a Mopani tree and, for the next half hour, gathered dry wood. All around him, the animals were coming down to drink at the lake: the skittish impala, the careful kudu, the giraffes which had to straddle their legs in order to reach the water. It was an orderly parade. Somehow, each species knew its place in that parade. An hour earlier Creasy had passed a pride of lions feasting over a kill. There were not many lions in Matopos, and so a sort of bush telegraph must have gone through the area, telling the other animals that they would be safe from the lions these coming days, until they had to kill again.

  As the sun went down, Creasy lit his fire. Close behind him, he had piled up enough dry wood to keep that fire burning all night. He pulled up a log and sat on it. From one back pocket of his trousers he took a hip flask, and from the other back pocket, a wedge of biltong. As the animals departed, he chewed at the biltong and drank the water from the hip-flask.

  The night noises started. The roosting birds in the surrounding trees, settling and gossiping, the myriad sounds of the insects, the grunting of a pair of mating warthogs. Far away, the cackle of a hyena and, still further, the coughing roar of a lion. Small black shapes dipped and swooped over the fire: bats, feeding off the insects attracted by the light.

  Creasy tried to come to terms with the pain. It was so easy in company to show his strength and hide his emotions. He had walked into Matopos to try to commune with a God whom he did not understand. A God who would take Michael’s life but not his. He looked around in the dying light and wondered how God could create such a paradise and yet could, so often, allow undeserved death and suffering. His whole life had been witness to that conu
ndrum.

  Here in the Matopos, it seemed that God had no part to play. Only nature. The selection of death was simple. No one pointed a finger. A lion or a leopard or a cheetah hunted only from instinct. There was no malice or forethought. It was just a meal.

  The lions came about two hours later. Four of them, three females and a black-maned male. Creasy recognised the male as the animal he had seen on his way in, feeding over the kill while the females waited their turn.

  Like all cats, they had come out of curiosity. Their bellies were full. They approached the warmth of the fire slowly, but without any indication of fear. They sank down on to the earth and looked across the flames at Creasy. He looked back. They were twenty metres away. The fire was dimming. He reached behind him and gently piled on more branches. One of the females rolled over, exposing her distended belly to the fire.

  The male lion sat crouched, his vivid yellow eyes watching Creasy. Over the next hour, the other two females also crept a little closer to the fire and rolled into sleep. The black-maned male remained motionless, and so did Creasy, except for occasionally placing another branch on the fire. Another hour passed while Creasy held a deep-down debate with himself. Once in a while, he bit off a piece of biltong and drank some water. Sometimes the black-mane belched inelegantly from his recent feast. Finally, Creasy eased off the log, folded his arms, lay down and half-slept. The black-mane lowered his head to the ground and also closed his eyes.

  The noises of the night continued. Just before dawn, another sound was added. The coughing grunt of a hyena. The sound came from behind Creasy. He opened his eyes.

  Before he could turn to look, he noticed the black-mane had raised his head and was looking beyond the fire and Creasy. The lion pushed himself to his feet, walked around the fire and stood not more than seven metres from the prone human. The animal looked into the darkness beyond, then drew in a breath and let forth the roar that for millennia has sent fear through the heart of Africa.