Man on Fire (38 page)

Satta agreed. "It's probably the best known face in Italy today. What a reaction! I wouldn't have believed it." He shook his head in astonishment. "In Rome and the north, girls are wearing T-shirts printed with his photo and 'GO CREASY!' The public's right behind him, and the newspapers are having a field day. I'm not sure it's healthy."

"It's inevitable," Bellu said. "People are fed up with the power of the bosses, and their arrogance. The government fails to do anything, so they make a hero out of this one man-it's natural."

"For me," Satta said, "the great puzzle is, where does he stay? He must be isolated, totally unseen; but how?"

He looked hard at Guido. "You're sure he had no safe house after Rome?"

"Not that I know of," Guido answered. "He never talked of his plans after Rome-you know why."

"It's a great pity," Satta said. "And no contact at your mail drop. We're monitoring it twenty-four hours a day."

"A pity?" Guido asked dryly. "You really want to find him now?"

Satta grimaced. "Guido, believe me. I don't want to see him die. He's done enough." He signaled the waiter, and they ordered desert. When the waiter had left, Satta reached out and put a hand on Guido's arm and said softly:

"It's true. I owe him. I feel I know him, would like to meet him. In fact, he fascinates me. If anyone had told me that one man could have done so much, I would have laughed. I still can't comprehend it, especially the way he killed Conti."

Guido smiled grimly. "Yes, a technicolor funeral."

The other two looked puzzled and Guido explained.

"It's sort of a catch phrase. Every closed fraternity has them. Mercenaries too. It came out in Laos many years ago. A bunch of us were standing around watching an Air America DC6 land at a remote strip. It was carrying ammunition, explosives, and gasoline. It lost its undercarriage and skidded a long way; a wing tip caught, and it cartwheeled." Guido paused as memory took him back.

"Well?" Bellu prompted. "What happened?"

"It blew up," said Guido. "Slowly, would you believe? First the gasoline, then the explosives, and finally the ammunition. We all knew the pilots-two Canadians, good men. When the noise died down, there was a long silence, then an Australian, Frank Miller, summed it up. He said, 'At least they had a technicolor funeral."'

Guido shrugged. "It became a catch phrase. If a mercenary wanted to threaten someone, he talked about a technicolor funeral."'

"What makes a man become a mercenary?" Bellu asked.

Guido smiled at the question.

"A thousand reasons. No two are the same. There are all types: misfits, perverts, misguided do-gooders, plain fools." He shrugged. "Very often it's just an accident-not calculated."

The waiter brought the desserts-a local zabaglione-and, while they ate, there was silence.

But Bellu was curious. For him it was a different world, and his questions started again.

"But Creasy must be special-to achieve what he has. What makes him that good?"

"You've seen his dossier," Satta commented. "It's experience. Experience and training; and perhaps something more." He looked at Guido inquiringly.

"Yes, something more," Guido agreed. "It's like sex appeal-intangible. All the components can be there, but a soldier can lack it, no matter how good he is technically. Here and there, occasionally, you meet one that has it. He is set apart. Maybe it's a combination of luck and willpower. A platoon of trained and experienced soldiers can fail to take a position. One man, with that ingredient, will take it."

"Did you have it?" Satta asked softly.

"Yes," answered Guido. "But Creasy has it in abundance-that's what has carried him this far. And most likely will get him into the Villa Colacci."

"Will it get him out?" asked Satta.

"Who knows?" The question bothered Guido. He was sure that Creasy had figured out a way to get in, but he wasn't sure about the opposite.

Wally parked the hired Lancia alongside the Mobex. Paddy sat on the step and watched him get out. He closed the Lancia's door and stood looking at her silently. For a long while, she didn't move. Then she crossed her arms about herself and began rocking back and forth. Then the laughter started.

Creasy appeared behind her and studied Wally. He nodded and smiled. Paddy slipped off the step and rolled on the grass. Gusts of laughter swept round the deserted campsite.

"Bloody woman!" Wally said.

Creasy agreed. "No appreciation of real beauty."

Slowly Paddy got herself under control and sat up, her arms clasping her knees.

"Wally Wightman," she said, with a broad grin, "you look like a pooftah!"

Wally stood by the black Lancia in his dark-blue, pinstripe suit, holding his black briefcase. He ignored her.

"Do I look alright?" he asked Creasy.

"Perfect," Creasy answered. He turned to Paddy.

"You just don't appreciate class, and if he looks like a pooftah, why were you crying all last night?"

"Bullshit!" Paddy said, pushing herself up. "I wouldn't miss him for a year, let alone one bloody night!"

But she walked over and hugged Wally affectionately.

"Go easy, girl," he said with a grin. "You'll rumple my new suit."

They all went into the Mobex and squeezed around the small table. Wally related, in detail, how he had followed Creasy's instructions. "What now?" he asked expectantly.

Creasy reached behind for the map and pointed out the small airfield.

"This is the headquarters of the Aero Club of Reggio di Calabria. I want you to drive over there now and charter an aircraft to fly you to Trapani, on the west coast of Sicily."

Wally and Paddy exchanged glances.

"So that's it," Paddy said. "You're going to fly in."

"Not exactly," Creasy answered. He explained that originally he had planned to charter a night flight by telephone, and if necessary hijack the pilot and aircraft. Wally's offer of help had made it easier.

The previous day's charade had set the scene. Wally would explain that he was a businessman on a tight schedule. He had a series of meetings in Reggio and, as soon as they finished, he wanted to leave for Trapani. If the Aero Club or anyone else checked, they would discover that he was staying in the best suite in a luxury hotel. He spent unstintingly on the best food and drink, hired the best available car, and made expensive overseas phone calls. In short, he was plausible.

Creasy told him to explain that he was not sure exactly when he would want to leave. He would give six hours' notice. It would probably be late evening, and certainly within the next three days.

"Why can't you fix a time?" Wally asked.

"It depends on the weather."

"Then why within three days?"

"Because there's little or no moon."

Wally's curiosity was still not satisfied, but he held his questions while Creasy went on to explain that the Aero Club had four aircraft: two Cessna 172's; a Piper Commanche, and a Commander. It was essential he get one of the Cessnas. In the event of a query, Wally was to say that he had flown in that type before and was familiar with it. He was to pay for the charter in cash, in full, in advance.

"Why is the Cessna essential?" Wally asked.

"Because it's got high wing configuration."

"So?"

"So it's easier to jump out of."

Wally's curiosity was satisfied.

Gravelli and Dicandia did the rounds. They inspected everything, and in between they discussed the situation.

After conferring with the guards outside the main gates, they walked back through the gardens.

"Another week and it will be too late," Dicandia said.

"It may already be too late," responded Gravelli. "There's a war in Turin. In Rome, three Families are squaring up. Even in Calabria there's trouble. Don Mommo was promised tranquillity while he was in jail. Two days ago there was an attempt on his life. Cantarella does nothing. He squanders his respect sitting here like a mouse in its hole. Abrata is arriving tomorrow to confer with Cantarella. He won't believe it when he sees the state he's in."

Dicandia felt the words were a little strong. He had worked for Cantarella over twenty years-his loyalties were anchored deep. It would have to blow a little harder to shift them.

Suddenly Gravelli gripped his arm, and the two men froze on the gravel pathway.

The two black shadows came out of the darkness without a sound. They came very close, noses twitching, and then, as silently, disappeared.

Dicandia spoke fervently. "Those fucking dogs give me the creeps!"

"They're safe enough," Gravelli said with a short laugh. "As long as they smell what they know."

"They just better have good memories," Dicandia said, and continued on up the path.

They entered the villa through the kitchen door. It was a huge, stone-flagged room and had been turned into a canteen for the extra bodyguards. Half a dozen of them sat around lounging and watching television in the corner. The remains of a meal were spread messily on the wooden table. Submachine guns and a couple of shotguns lay near to hand.

A passage led from the kitchen through the center of the villa. In the first room, off this passage, wooden bunks had been installed, and more bodyguards were sleeping or resting before going on the midnight shift.

At the end of the passage a staircase led up to the first floor where Cantarella had his study and bedroom. Dicandia and Gravelli also had their rooms on the first floor.

They spoke a few words to the men in the kitchen and then went upstairs. Cantarella's personal bodyguard sat on a chair outside the study, a submachine gun cradled in his arms.

He stood up as they approached, tapped twice on the door, and opened it. They went in to report that all was secure.

After two days the gusty north wind abated. The forecast was for twenty-four hours of mild weather. There would be cloud patches and a light easterly wind over northern Sicily. Possibility of occasional showers.

Creasy prepared.

In the early evening he opened the big, wide suitcase and took out the parcel that the general had sent to Marseilles. Outside on the grass Paddy and Wally watched as he unwrapped it and pulled open the voluminous black folds of fabric.

"It doesn't look like a parachute," Wally commented.

"It's more like a wing," Creasy answered. "The old days of jumping out and trusting to luck are gone. This is a French 'Mistral.' A well-trained 'para' can fly one even upwind-and land within yards of his target."

They helped him lay out the cords and then stood back and watched as he expertly straightened and sorted them and folded the canopy.

"You don't have a spare?" Wally asked. He had seen pictures of parachutists with smaller packs strapped to their fronts.

Creasy shook his head. "I can't afford the weight."

He went on to explain that a "para" would normally jump with an equipment bag dangling from a cord five meters below him. The heavy bag would impact first and so lighten the landing of the jumper: but precious seconds could be lost retrieving the bag and extracting weapons. Creasy would jump with his weapons ready.

He would risk a heavy landing.

He finished packing the parachute and laid it against the side of the Mobex. He turned to Wally and said, "I'll be ready to leave in half an hour."

"Do you need any help?" Wally asked.

"No; I'll do it myself-please wait out here." Inside the Mobex, Creasy took out the smaller parcel that had been sent from Brussels. As he unwrapped it, he smelled the slightly musty odor of clothing long unused. It was his old camouflage combat uniform. It still had the color-coded insignia of the 1st R.E.P.

He held it in his hands for a long time, his mind going back-going back over twelve years. Abruptly he tossed it onto the bunk and started undressing.

When he emerged from the Mobex it was almost dark. Paddy and Wally were leaning against the Lancia. Creasy stood by the door and Paddy started to cry softly.

They knew what he was, and what he was going to do; but it was only now, as he stood prepared, that they felt the real impact.

His normal bulk was expanded like an overinflated tire. He wore mottled overalls tucked into black, high-laced boots. Pockets bulged down the seam of each leg; webbing enclosed his upper body. Two rows of grenades were clipped to it on each side of his chest. Between them a flapped bulky pouch hung to his waist. A canvas snap-down holster was on his belt to his right side.

Beside it, to the front and rear, were several small canvas pouches. The Ingram submachine gun hung from a strap around his neck. His right forearm was looped through the strap, holding the stubby weapon flat against his side. From his left hand dangled a black, knitted skullcap.

He picked up the parachute and moved toward the Lancia and asked quietly, "You ready?"

Wally nodded and started to speak, but nothing came out. Numbly he opened the door of the car. Creasy tossed in the parachute and turned to Paddy.