Man on Fire (23 page)

Creasy spoke earnestly-persuasively.

"Look, Laura, I like Nadia very much. That's all. But even if I felt more for her, it would be useless. That's what she can't seem to understand. In a few weeks I'll be leaving. There's something I have to do. It's extremely unlikely that I'll ever return. Her hopes will be smashed again-it isn't logical."

Laura smiled at him again.

"Logical! Such words. When has love ever been logical?" She held up her hand. "Wait-listen. You know of her marriage. It affects her more than you think. Not what has happened. Not in her mind. It affects her status here in Gozo. She wants to stay here. She is determined. But we are not like other places. She cannot live here like other women. She cannot start again. But she is a warm girl. She wants to give of herself, not hiding it, or being ashamed. That's why she talked to us last night."

He shook his head.

"Laura, why me? There's too much against it. First, I'm so much older than she is, and second, I'm leaving-definitely leaving."

He thought of something.

"Maybe she thinks she can change my mind. Persuade me not to go." He looked hard at Laura, into her eyes, and said with great emphasis: "That's impossible. You must convince her. Then she may forget this nonsense."

Laura was thoughtful for a moment. This aspect did puzzle her, for Nadia was a practical girl. She was holding something back. Last night, when she confronted her parents, she had been simple and direct, and they had quickly pointed out that there was no future in it.

Her father had been blunt. "He will go away and leave you," he had told her. "Nothing will stop him. I know that." But she had answered that she knew it too and accepted it. Meanwhile, she loved him. She was not a child. She was not looking for permanence. She knew that was impossible. But she was entitled to some happiness-even temporary happiness.

So now Laura shook her head and said, "I doubt it. I don't think she will try to persuade you to stay." She noted his expression. Puzzled and embarrassed and defiant. Her voice softened.

"Creasy, you are attractive to women. You must know that. And you can't live in isolation. You affect people. Everybody does, one way or another. You can't expect to go through life without having an influence on others. Without being influenced yourself. Take this house; in the case of Joey, he hero-worships you. That's natural. He's young, and you represent an exciting world he's never seen. In Nadia's case, it's love. That too may be natural. After the mess of her marriage perhaps she has swung the other way. Perhaps she sees, in you, everything her husband wasn't."

The thought amused her as she looked at Creasy: huge forearms resting on the table. Scarred hands and face.

"You're not exactly a delicate flower." He didn't react. Didn't seem to hear her last words. Something she had said earlier had triggered a response in his mind. Had taken him back.

"You don't live in isolation." That was true. He had for so long. But that had changed.

He came back to the present and stood up and said,

"Anyway, it takes two. Whatever's in her mind, she can forget it."

He turned to leave, and at the door he said, "Laura, I'm sorry this happened. I don't want to cause any problems. Perhaps I should go away?"

She shrugged.

"As far as we're concerned, there are no problems-and there won't be. We like having you here. And you have been a big help to Paul. He needed help this summer. But you have to work it out yourself with Nadia. I won't say anything more. I won't interfere with her-or with you." She smiled. "But you don't seem like a man who runs away-even from a woman."

He glared at her and saw the smile broaden and he went out banging the door behind him.

She came two nights later, just after midnight. The door opened quietly and he heard the patter of bare feet on the stone floor. Moonlight through the small window showed her dimly at the bedroom door, standing still-watching him. She moved to the bed. A rustle of cloth on skin.

"Go back to your own room," he said. She pulled back the single sheet and slipped in beside him.

"I don't want you here. Go back to your own room."

A soft arm crossed his waist and soft lips kissed his shoulder and moved up toward his neck. He lay completely still-unresponsive.

"Nadia, understand. I don't want you."

She raised herself slightly. Small, soft breasts pressed down on his chest. Her mouth moved slowly from his neck to his chin and then to his lips. He tried to tell her again to leave; but it had become difficult.

Chapter 12

He was short and thickset and clad in camouflage uniform. Grenades and a small transceiver hung from webbing on his chest, and he held a Sterling submachine gun. He leaned against the stone wall breathing deeply, steadying himself after the sprint across the open ground to the two-storied building.

Ready now, he inched toward the corner. He knew that around it was a long windowless corridor, and at the end, a flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. He bunched and sprang forward in a low crouch, his finger tightening on the trigger. The staccato rattle of the Sterling echoed through the building.

Creasy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched him coming, eyes taking in every detail.

The man reached the stairs with a squeal of rubber-soled boots and again flattened himself against the wall. An empty magazine clattered to the floor and a full one clicked into place. He lifted a hand to the transceiver.

"Going up now," he said, and with a glance at Creasy, hurled himself up the stairs. Creasy followed, hearing more bursts of firing and, at the other end of the building, the crack of grenades.

They streamed out into the rocky garden, all fifteen of them, dressed in camouflage gear and talking excitedly. George brought up the rear, ushering them over to a low wall, telling them to sit.

The exercise had lasted five minutes, but the debriefing went on for an hour. George took them through all phases of attack, criticizing here, praising there. He stood in front of them, Creasy alongside. The squad was in high spirits; it was their first full-scale exercise and the noise and action had been stimulating.

George finished and turned to Creasy. "Any comments?"

Creasy stepped forward and the squad stilled expectantly.

"On the whole, good," he said, and there was a row of smiles.

"But in a real fight, half of you would be dead or wounded."

The smiles faded. He pointed at the short, squat one.

"Grazio, you came down that corridor hugging the wall-a stone wall. That just brings you closer to a ricochet. You've been told-always come down the center. You feel more exposed, but it's safer. You came around the corner low, but straightened up almost immediately, and you were aiming waist-high. Always aim low. An enemy can lie on the floor, but he can't fly in the air. In a stone or brick building like that, use the ricochet to your own advantage."

Grazio nodded, crestfallen, but Creasy didn't let up.

"If I'd been a terrorist, you'd be dead now. And another thing, your magazine change was slow-very slow. That's the critical time, when you're most vulnerable. You must practice until your fingers ache. Until it's reflexive." His eyes swept the line. "All of you-practice! It's the difference between being dead or alive. You don't have time to fumble."

He pointed to a taller man, with a heavy black mustache.

"Domi, you followed Charlie into Room Two. You should have stayed in the corridor, covering the doors of Rooms Three and Four. It didn't need both of you in there. It wasn't a bedroom. There were no girls waiting for you!"

The squad laughed. Domi was a noted Romeo.

Creasy went on to comment on the performance of almost every man in the squad. George was quietly astonished by the volume and scope of Creasy's observations. He noted again the change in Creasy's manner whenever he was instructing. Reticence gone-clear, incisive sentences. And he noticed how the men listened, absorbing everything. It was the voice of total experience and authority. They had seen Creasy change an empty Sterling magazine. A blur of motion, the thread of fire hardly broken. They had seen him fire handguns, SMG's, and carbines, and strip them down and reassemble them with the same assurance that they handled a knife and fork. And they had all practiced unarmed combat with him and been amazed at his speed and reflexes. They were all fit, hard, young men in their twenties, and they knew that Creasy, so much older, could have beaten any of them in a serious fight. So they listened.

He ended by telling them that as a first exercise they had all done well. He praised their speed in the initial assault and their lack of hesitation once they were in the building.

"But don't hang around," he stressed. "Always keep moving. Moving and watching. You know yourselves how easy it is to hit a stationary target. So keep low, keep moving, and keep watching:"

He stepped back and George spoke a few more words and dismissed the squad.

Creasy had been deliberately left out of the planning of the exercise. George had wanted an independent opinion. Now he took Creasy aside and asked him, "What about the overall tactics?"

Creasy stood looking at the building and considering. The scenario had been that four terrorists, without hostages, had been holed up, presumably on the top floor. Efforts to talk them out had failed, and the squad had been ordered to storm the building.

"It was out of balance," he said finally. "You had five men covering the outside and you sent in ten. Better the other way round. First, because too many men in the assault force get in each other's way, and second, because once the assault started, the terrorists were likely to break out, and in different directions." He pointed to the upper-story windows. "They could have jumped-it's not very high."

He softened his criticism: "The method and direction of entry were good. I liked the idea of driving the truck below the upper south windows; and the diversion from the front was well-timed and realistic."

He put a hand on George's shoulder.

"It was imaginative planning, but I suggest less reliance on the transceivers. They're useful in a stakeout, but the assault force should ignore them unless they get bogged down. Reporting every move is inhibiting. They all know what to do, they're trained to react as individuals-let them." He smiled. "On the whole, George, good. Especially as a first effort."

George was pleased.

"Thanks," he said. "I have the building for a month. We'll have two more exercises with it and AirMalta will let us borrow one of their Boeings for a couple of hours next week for a simulated hijack assault."

The squad was grouped around the back of a police Land Rover, and cold bottles of beer were being passed out. Creasy and George walked over to join them. As they stood around drinking, George suddenly said with mock severity,

"By the way, I thought you weren't planning to work in Malta."

Creasy was puzzled for a moment, and then understood. He feigned innocence. "Christ, George, I'm only helping your uncle on the farm."

The fifteen young policemen were all listening and smiling. So was George. "That's not what I meant, Creasy, and you know it; but anyway, it was a good thing. It saved us some work and stopped an injustice."

He was referring to an incident that had occurred a few days before.

The lampuki season had started, lampuki being the favorite fish of the Maltese. Creasy had driven Nadia down to Mgarr one evening to buy the first of the catch direct from the fishermen. They could see the brightly painted boats coming up the Comino channel. He left her at the quay and went into Gleneagles for a drink.

There was a small group at the bar. Michele and Victor, Tony and Sam and "Shreik." The group opened to let him in and Sam poured him a beer, and they went back to their conversation. They were unusually serious, and Creasy listened with interest.

The problem centered on a Gozo "character" called Benny, nicknamed "Tattoo" his huge arms were covered with them. Benny was very big, very strong, and in looks resembled a reject for Frankenstein. Although a Gozitan, he had spent many years on the big island.

Creasy had heard some of the stories about him. One concerned the previous election. A politician had promised that, in return for help during the election, Benny would be given a plum job once the new government was installed. Benny, a trusting type, worked hard, and after the politician was duly elected turned up at his office for the promised job. He was kept waiting a couple of hours and then informed by a secretary that the politician had no recollection of any job offer and was too busy to see him. Benny, irritated, pushed past the secretary to the door of the office. The politician had foresight, and the door was locked. Benny became angry and smashed down the door. The politician disappeared through the window, blessing his luck that he had a ground-floor office. It was a nice office, newly furnished and decorated. Benny vented his anger on it. When the police arrived they could still hear the sounds of splintering wood.

None of the policemen relished the idea of making an arrest-Benny had a reputation. They had two Alsatian dogs with them and they told Benny through a megaphone that if he didn't come out peacefully they would send the dogs in. There was a very brief silence, and then the sounds of destruction started again. They sent in the dogs. Within half a minute they came back-thrown out the window with broken necks.