Man on Fire (35 page)

"I don't want delivery for three days," he said, pushing the papers across the small fold-down table.

Paddy's face showed rank suspicion.

"You'll leave a deposit?"

Then they got a great shock. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a great wad of hundred thousand lire notes. He counted out a hundred and pushed them across the table.

"But don't register the papers until then," he said. There was a long silence, ended by Wally making his first contribution to the conversation.

"You're bloody trusting, mate! What if we take the money and drive off?"

Creasy said softly, "I'm not trusting."

Wally looked into the narrow eyes. Then, to cover his sudden confusion, he reached behind to the refrigerator for more beers. The air of tension eased and Paddy asked, "You'll take delivery here?"

Creasy shook his head and pulled out a street map of Rome. He pointed to a small, inked x just outside the city, near the Eastern Autostrada.

"There's the Monte Antenne campsite. I'll pick it up in the early afternoon, if that's OK."

Paddy nodded. "Meanwhile, we can leave our bags at the railway station."

"Where are you heading?" Creasy asked.

"Brindisi," she replied. "We get the ferry from there to Greece."

Creasy took a pull on his beer and looked thoughtfully around the small but comfortable interior. Then he silently studied the two Australians. Finally he said, "I'm going south myself. I could give you a lift-it would be a chance to point out the wrinkles, if there are any."

They discussed the idea, and it made sense. Creasy explained that he was in no hurry; in fact, he planned to take three or four days on the journey. So agreement was reached, and then Creasy suggested they wait until reaching Brindisi before registering the transfer.

To celebrate the deal, and since it was lunchtime, Paddy opened some cans and made a meal, and Wally opened more beers.

When Creasy left, Paddy commented, "He's not French, he's American."

"How do you know?" asked Wally.

"The way he eats. Only Americans eat like that."

Wally looked skeptical, but Paddy was adamant.

"It's true. They hold the knife and fork like everyone else, but when they've cut a piece of meat they lay down the knife and transfer the fork to the right hand. It's very inefficient, which is strange, being Americans; but they all do it."

"So?"

"So, nothing. But he's not French."

"You think he's alright? He didn't even leave an address or anything. Just walked off."

Paddy shrugged. "Anyway, we have his money." She paused thoughtfully. "He's not what he seems, but who is these days."

"He's a tough bastard," Wally said, and grinned.

"Christ, he's even bigger than you!"

Paddy grinned back, but then was thoughtful again.

"I like him," she said. "Doesn't mince about. Doesn't talk for the sake of it. We'll see."

"The Cowboy" eased his buttocks on the hard bench.

As a young priest, he had enjoyed the confessional-not something to admit to the bishop, but it did relieve the routine. Now, as he grew older, he found the whole thing increasingly tiresome. Perhaps in big cities there were more interesting sins, but here on Gozo, in the village of Nadur, he could predict just about every transgression of his parishioners. True, old Salvu, who had just left, did have an inventive mind; but he too was becoming predictable.

He heard the curtain rustle, and Laura Schembri's voice came through the grill.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"The Cowboy" leaned forward

"What do you remember?"

There followed the list of usual minor infractions, and he duly admonished, set the minor penance's, and leaned back to wait for the next parishioner.

But he didn't hear the rustle of her exit, only the shallow, uncertain breathing of a woman in doubt.

"You have something more?" Doubt was resolved.

"Forgive her, Father. My daughter has sinned."

"Then it is she who must confess."

The routine had been broken.

The Schembri girl was an enigma to "the Cowboy." Every morning she came to early Mass, something she had not done before, but she never came into the confessional. Yet she prayed every day.

"You cannot confess for another."

The voice came back bluntly.

"I don't want to. I want advice."

Routine had been shattered.

In all his years as parish priest, Laura Schembri had never asked his advice, although she had quite frequently offered her own, especially in his younger days; she was not a woman to be overawed by the cloth. His interest was tinged with apprehension. Advice concerning Nadia might be difficult to formulate.

"She is with child."

Apprehension justified! "The Cowboy" sighed. That girl's journey through life was truly strewn with boulders.

"The American?"

"Who else? She is not given to indiscriminate fornication!"

He sensed that the combative tone was defensive, and he controlled his rising irritation. He asked gently, "So what advice do you seek?"

He felt the tension in her subside.

"She has not informed Creasy, and she has forbidden me or her father to do so. That is part of her sin. She conceived the child deliberately. She used him only as a provider of the seed."

"She does not love him?"

"I'm not sure-I don't know." Laura's voice indicated uncertainty.

"You are her mother, and you don't know?"

"I only know that in the beginning she went with him to get herself pregnant. I'm not sure now how she feels. She is different. She told me of the child, but that's all. She is not herself."

"So what advice do you seek?"

"Do I tell him or not?"

"The Cowboy" leaned back and collected his thoughts. He knew, like others in Gozo, that Creasy was engaged in dealing out violent death. The Schembri girl never did anything without its being complicated.

"You know what this American is doing?"

"Yes."

"It is a sinful thing."

"He has a reason."

"Vengeance belongs to God."

"God moves in strange ways."

"The Cowboy" sighed again. This woman would have made a good priest.

"Even if you wish to tell him, can you do so?"

"It's possible."

"Have you discussed it with your husband?"

"No-I know what his answer would be, and I don't wish to hear it."

"The Cowboy" moved uneasily on the wooden bench.

He was getting himself right into the middle of things. An uncomfortable position. But then he was a priest and had forsaken comfort. He considered all the aspects, knowing that if he gave advice it must not be couched in platitudes. His was a farming parish, his congregation hard-nosed pragmatists, none more so than Laura Schembri.

He reached his decision: "A man should know."

"Thank you, Father."

Guido walked out onto the terrace and Satta sensed the change in him. He pulled up a chair and reached for the coffeepot. His face showed the indecision. The phone call had come an hour earlier, and it was forty minutes since Guido had hung up. Satta was not impatient. Within an hour Bellu would let him know if the call had any significance.

Guido drank his coffee and then made up his mind. "What would happen if Creasy gives himself up-to you personally?"

Satta's pulse quickened. The call had truly been significant. He made an expressive gesture.

"Of course he would go to prison. But in view of the type of people he's killed, and his motive, the sentence would probably be only around five years. Such things can be arranged, and with remission he could be out in three."

"Could he be kept alive in prison?"

Satta grimaced. "I know what you mean and the answer is, yes. We've just completed a new prison outside Rome for 'sensitive' prisoners. It's staffed and run by the Carabinieri. I guarantee his safety. Frankly, it's when he comes out that he will be in real danger."

Guido looked at the colonel thoughtfully, obviously assessing, weighing his decision. Satta kept quiet. It was not the time to ask questions.

"All right." Guido made up his mind. "We'll drive to Rome and I'll talk to him."

"But why? Tell me why?"

Guido stood up. "Come on. I'll tell you in the car-we may not have much time."

Satta held up a hand. "In that case, let me call Bellu. He's a good man and I trust him. He can pick Creasy up in ten minutes."

Guido shook his head. "If he killed your friend Bellu and half a dozen other policemen, how many years would he get?"

Satta took the point. "You can't phone him?"

"He has no phone there-let's go."

As they reached Satta's car, a police motorcyclist drew up and handed him an envelope.

'Telex message for you, colonel."

Satta suggested that Guido drive and, as they threaded their way through the city toward the Autostrada, Guido explained: "He's going to be a father."

Satta's look of surprise was comical. For once he didn't have a quick or clever comment. Guido glanced at him and smiled wryly, then he told him about Gozo and Nadia. He told him in detail, because it was important that he understand everything.

"You think it will make a difference?" Satta asked. Guido nodded emphatically. "I do. It's absolutely the only thing that might stop him. It's hard to explain exactly why."

Satta thought it over, reviewing what he knew of the man. He was inclined to agree that it would make a difference. Abruptly he leaned forward and picked up the microphone of the radio transmitter. Guido looked at him sharply, but he held up a placating hand. Within two minutes he was patched through to Bellu in Rome, and was instructing him to collect the tape of the last phone intercept, and personally destroy it. The same with any transcript. He emphasized that nobody else was to handle them. To Bellu's puzzled query, he told him to wait at headquarters. They would be in Rome by lunchtime.

Guido expressed his thanks and Satta shrugged.

"You know what it's like. These people have their informers everywhere, but Bellu I trust implicitly."

Suddenly he remembered the envelope. He ripped it open and read the long telex in silence.

"Holy Mother of God."

Satta said it quietly.

"What is it?"

He waved the telex and explained that he had guessed that Creasy had gone to Marseilles for equipment. He had asked his counterpart there to apply pressure to find out who had supplied him, and with what. The telex contained the list.

"What's an R.P.G.7 Stroke D?" he asked.

"Antitank rocket launcher," Guido answered with a grim smile. "Mercenaries call it the 'Jewish Bazooka.'"

"It's an Israeli weapon?"

Guido shook his head. "Russian, but with the rocket loaded, it looks like a circumcised penis."

Satta didn't smile. "Creasy knows how to use it?" he asked.

Guido stayed with the analogy. "He handles it with the same familiarity as you handle your pecker when you take a pee."

Now Satta smiled; but he was puzzled.

"The Mafia have most things, but they don't own tanks." .

Guido explained, "It has other uses-demolishing buildings or blowing open steel gates. It will go through twelve inches of armor plate."

Satta digested that in silence. When he commented, his voice was wistful.

"Slightly more penetrative power than my pecker."

Guido smiled in agreement.

At that moment the R.P.G.7 Stroke D, together with two rockets, was being carried through the streets of Rome in a canvas bag. It was not a large bag. The rocket launcher was a simple tube, thirty-seven inches long, which unscrewed into two halves for easy handling. It weighed about fifteen pounds. The rockets weighed less than five pounds each.

Giuseppe and Theresa Benetti had just finished lunch when the knock came on the door. They were both in their late sixties and she had bad legs, so it was Giuseppe who went to answer it. The first thing he saw was the silenced pistol, and he became very frightened. Then he looked up at the man's face and his fright increased, freezing him like a statue. The man spoke softly, reassuringly.

"You are not in danger. I mean you no harm. I am not a thief."

He moved forward through the door, easing the old man back.

A few minutes later Giuseppe and Theresa were taped, immobile, to two of their chairs. The man had been very gentle, talking to them casually with his slight Neapolitan accent. He just wanted to borrow their home for a short time. They would not be harmed.

Their fear dissipated, and they watched with interest as he opened his bag and took out two fat tubes. He screwed them together and then slid an attachment into a grooved slot. In his youth, Giuseppe had served in the army and he guessed that the tube was a sophisticated weapon, the attachment a sight. His guess was confirmed when the man produced the squat, cone-shaped missile. He depressed the fins and slipped it backward into the tube. The bulk of the missile projected outward, the point of the cone to the front.