Man on Fire (26 page)

A few minutes later he said his farewells and left with Nadia.

They were like young lovers on an early date. There was no sense of departure. No sadness. They had a table on the terrace and ordered fish. They agreed that though it was delicious, Salvu's was better. They drank a bottle of icy Soave wine, and then another. For Creasy, the occasion was made more poignant, because in the morning his mind would be occupied by plans and dispositions for death and destruction; and because Nadia, by her manner, comforted him. He had worried about what he would leave behind in Gozo. He didn't want to remember sadness, and she gave him no cause. Her attitude proclaimed her independence and her strength. It was a balm to his unadmitted conscience. And that was exactly what she intended.

After dinner they went to Barbarella's. Creasy wanted to say good-bye to Censu. He found he couldn't pay for the drinks. "It's on me," Censu said, with his gentle smile.

He asked Nadia if she wanted to dance and she shook her head. "It's almost a full moon-let's go for a last swim." So they finished their drinks, drove back to the farm, and walked down the rocky path to the cove.

They embraced in the cool water. Her skin was slippery-like wet glass.

On the flat rock they made love. Creasy lay on his back to take any discomfort from the rough stone; but as Nadia eased herself over him, he felt nothing except her warm softness. As always, they made love slowly, their passions rising up a gentle slope. He looked up at her small breasts, shining wetly in the moonlight, and her oval face and dark eyes, narrowed in pleasure. They reached the top of the slope and she moaned deep in her throat and her knees gripped him in a gentle vise.

Later he talked, and she sat, naked, with her arms clasping her knees and her eyes watching his intently.

He told her what he was going to do, and why. He described his mental and physical state when he had arrived in Naples. How Guido and Elio had arranged to get him the job. He told her of the first days and how he had deliberately shut Pinta off and then how, slowly but inexorably, they had grown together.

He had eloquence. For once in his life he was able to truly describe his feelings. It may have been the ambience in the night, or the recent lovemaking, or simply that he loved the woman who was listening so intently. He found the words to describe how he had felt and what had happened.

He told her of the day in the mountains when Pinta had given him the crucifix. Described it as the happiest, most natural day in his life. His words brought Pinta alive, and Nadia's head nodded in understanding as he talked of the girl's awareness, and curiosity, and simple joy of living.

And the final day. The kidnapping, and her shouting out his name as he lay on the grass. How he woke in the hospital, not sure if he would live, but willing it with every nerve in his body and always hearing that last shout and the anguish in her voice.

Then Guido telling him she was dead and how she had been abused.

He stopped talking and a silence engulfed the small cove. It was a long time before she spoke. She had lowered her head onto her knees and her wet, black hair fell almost to the rock. When she raised her head he saw the tears glistening in the pale light.

"I'm not crying because you're leaving, Creasy. I promised myself I wouldn't do that-not while you're here." Her low voice quivered. "I'm crying for Pinta. I knew her. You brought her alive when you talked, and I knew her, as though she were my own child, and when you talked of her death, I saw that too-I cry for her."

Her words comforted him. She could understand why, even though he loved her, he had to go.

He told her, "I love you."

Her head came up higher. "I know. I didn't expect you to tell me."

"I didn't intend to."

"Then why?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe it's talking about Pinta, and being honest, and wanting you to know before I leave even though it's useless."

"It hasn't been useless, Creasy." She wanted to go on. To tell him everything. But like the tears, she had promised herself about that too. She stood up and looked out over the moonlit sea.

"What chance do you have of living through it?" she asked.

"A very slim chance," he answered flatly.

"But if you do, will you come back here to me?" She turned to face him, and he rose to his feet.

"Yes, but don't wait. I'm not going off to commit suicide. It's not suicide while there's even a one percent chance but Nadia, that's about what the odds are." He moved and took her into his arms. "So don't wait."

"I just wanted to know," she said. She kissed him hard fiercely. "Do it, Creasy!" Her voice was intense. "Do it. Kill them. All of them-they deserve it. I hate them as much as you hate them." She gripped him tightly, feeling his strength, moving her hands over the tight muscles of his back and shoulders. She spoke against his neck. "Don't worry about me. Don't think about me. Think only of them, and what they did." Her voice carried the hatred-he could feel it, feed off it.

"I'll go every morning with my mother to the church. I'll pray that you kill them. I shall not confess. Just pray. When you are dead, or returned here, then I'll confess."

They picked up their clothes and walked up to the house. Her words and her mood had affected him deeply. There was something he didn't understand, a factor that eluded him. But her reaction and her emotion about his coming struggle, and her identifying with it, all combined to settle his mind and to clear it of everything but his purpose.

She didn't want to make love again. She didn't want to sleep. It was only a few hours to dawn. She lay with him in the bed, her head against his chest, listening to his steady breathing.

At first light, she quietly disengaged herself, got up and moved about the room collecting his clothes and packing his bag. On top she put the cassette player.

The half-dozen cassettes went into a side pocket. Then, with a faint smile, she took them out again, selected one and slotted it into the machine, ready to play.

Then she went down to the kitchen and cooked breakfast and brewed coffee and carried the tray up.

He was to catch the first ferry to Malta. Joey put his bag into the Land Rover and climbed into the driving seat. Laura put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek, and wished him luck. He held onto her and thanked her for helping him regain his strength. Then he shook Paul's hand.

"Alright, Paul?"

"Alright, Creasy!"

Nadia decided not to go with him to the ferry. She came forward and reached up and kissed him on the mouth, and wished him luck, and then stood back with her parents while the Land Rover moved up the track. Her face was without expression.

Half an hour later, she went to the front of the house and watched the Melitaland as it pulled out of the harbor.

She knew he would be in the wheelhouse with Victor or Michele. As it cleared the entrance, she saw him come out onto the wing of the bridge and look up the hill toward her and wave. She waved back, and stood watching as the ferry turned to pass Comino, and he was hidden from view. She went into the kitchen to help her mother, who was mystified, for Gozitans are emotional, and her daughter's face showed no emotion. In the evening she walked along the path to Ramla and stood on the brow of a hill and in the distance saw the white ship come out of Grand Harbour and steam northward.

Salvu, working his fields below, saw the girl standing looking out to sea, and was about to call to her but then followed her gaze and saw the ship and went silently back to his work.

It had gone over the horizon into the twilight before she turned and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.

She went up to the rooms they had shared, and took off her clothes and climbed into the bed. She pulled his pillow down beside her, and hugged it to her belly.

Then she wept into the night.

Book Three

Chapter 14

The two Arabs drove a hard bargain. A package deal or nothing. Without the rocket launchers, they didn't want the fifty M.A.S. machine guns or the five hundred Armalites. It put Leclerc in a quandary. Like many arms dealers, he had semiofficial backing-an outlet for his country's arms industry. His contact at the ministry had told him that these particular Arabs were not to be sold rocket launchers. Such is politics. Even though they had an end-user certificate from a small Persian Gulf state, the consignment was to be transhipped in Beirut, which could mean anything-left wing, right wing, Falangists, P.L.O. or Troop 4 of the Lebanese Boy Scouts.

He sighed; he would have to call his contact again. "I might be able to get you a couple," he said to the older of the two, a smoothly dressed, hawk-faced man, who shook his head.

"At least six, Monsieur Leclerc," he said, in excellent French. "Or we may be forced to take our order elsewhere -Monte Carlo, perhaps."

Leclerc sighed again and swore under his breath. That damned American in Monte Carlo was trying to hog all the business. He'd sell them rocket launchers, alright-enough to start World War Three.

"I'll see what I can do." He stood up and moved around his desk. "Call me in the morning, at eleven."

They all shook hands, and Leclerc ushered them out of his office.

Creasy was sitting in the reception area, reading a magazine. "Go on through to my office," Leclerc said. "I'll be right with you."

Creasy was looking at the pictures of weapons adorning the walls when Leclerc returned. The Frenchman gestured at a chair and sat down behind his desk. The two men studied each other. Leclerc spoke first.

"You look very fit. A great difference from when I last saw you."

"I was a lush when you last saw me," Creasy said shortly.

There was antagonism in the air. Leclerc voiced it.

"There was no need to have Guido threaten me."

Creasy remained silent, brooding eyes studying the Frenchman-evaluating him. Leclerc was a tall, florid man, running slightly to fat. He wore a dark-gray suit and was well-barbered and manicured. He looked like a successful stockbroker, but Creasy had known him when he was a very hard and ruthless mercenary. Leclerc sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Creasy, we've never been friends. That's not my fault. But I owe you. I owe you on two counts-you saved my life in Katanga, and that alone is enough."

He smiled thinly. "I also owe you for Rhodesia, you helped me land a very good order-very profitable. So it's natural I would help you-without Guido talking about a technicolor funeral."

"You don't owe me for Rhodesia," Creasy said. "They paid me to give advice. It just happened you were offering what they needed."

"OK," Leclerc conceded, "but Katanga is different. Try to accept the fact that, apart from Guido, there are people who consider you a Mend, whatever your own reaction."

There was a silence and then Leclerc received a great shock-Creasy smiled. An open, easy smile.

"Alright. Thanks," he said. "I accept that."

Leclerc recovered slowly, realizing that the man in front of him had truly changed. He was not just healthier-he had known him way back, when he was as fit as any man could be. He was changed mentally. He still gave off an aura of menace, but the smile had been genuine and unprecedented.

"Have you got all the stuff together?" Creasy asked.

Leclerc collected his thoughts and nodded.

"Yes. It was a diverse order, and I've got several alternatives. You can take your pick." He glanced at his watch. "Let's have lunch and go to the warehouse afterward. Meanwhile, I'll have my people put everything out."

Creasy nodded but didn't get up. He seemed to be considering something. He made up his mind.

"Leclerc, do you have connections to get false papers?-passport, driving license-so on?"

"It's possible," the Frenchman said. "But of what country?"

"French, Belgian, Canadian, or American," Creasy answered. "It really doesn't matter-it's only a question of language. I speak French, and my English has a blurred North American accent. The problem is, I need them quickly-four to five days."

Leclerc steepled his fingers and thought about it.

"French would be the easiest," he said finally, "but not if you plan to use them in this country."

"I don't-nor the weapons-you have my word on that."

Leclerc nodded. "I already have that assurance from Guido-photographs?"

Creasy reached into an inside pocket, drew out an envelope, and tossed it onto the desk.

"There's a dozen. I need papers that an ordinary Frenchman would carry on an overseas trip." Leclerc opened a drawer and dropped in the envelope.

"OK, I'll get onto it this evening." He looked apologetic.

"It will be expensive, Creasy. Not me, you understand-I won't charge any commission. But the time element adds to the price."

Creasy smiled again. "It's OK. Let's get that lunch."

As they headed for the door, Leclerc was thinking that if Creasy smiled at him once more, he'd pass out.

The Toletela had arrived in Marseilles the night before.