Man on Fire (39 page)

"I don't have the words, Paddy; but you understand."

She sniffed and shook her big head and said, "You're a stupid shit, Creasy-it's such a waste."

He smiled and reached out his hands to hold her by the shoulders.

"It'll be alright. I've done it before-it's almost routine."

She wiped a hand across her wet cheeks, and then hugged him. Hard metal pressed against her painfully, but she didn't care. Then she released him and walked to the Mobex and climbed inside and shut the door.

It was a twenty-minute drive to the airfield. Creasy lay across the back seat, out of sight. It was five minutes before Wally asked, "How will you get out?"

"The Cessna's door can be held open against the wind," Creasy said.

"I meant the Villa Colacci," Wally retorted. "I know you'll get in, but how will you get out?"

The answer was short, precluding further inquiry.

"If there's a way in, there's a way out."

They drove in silence for several minutes before Creasy asked, "You're clear on everything, Wally? The sequence?"

"Very clear," Wally answered. "There won't be any foul-ups."

"And about afterward?"

"Sure; we'll be on the road tonight."

"Don't delay a minute," Creasy said. "There'll be a lot of confusion, but you've got to be on that ferry in the morning."

Wally spoke firmly. "Creasy, don't worry, we'll be on it. Come visit us in Australia."

A soft laugh came from the back seat. "I will-look after her-you've got a good one there."

"I know it," Wally said. "Airfield coming up-only two cars outside. Looks OK."

Wally parked behind the hangar, reached for his suitcase, and opened the door. He didn't turn his head.

"Good luck, Creasy."

"Thanks, Wally. Ciao!"

Cesare Neri went through the start-up checks. He would be glad to get this charter over with. He was a conscientious pilot, trained by the Air Force, and he followed the rules. Being on six-hour standby for the past two days meant that he'd been unable to have a drink; and he liked to drink. He would stay over in Trapani and have a night out. He had good friends there.

He glanced at the Australian in the right-hand seat. He appeared to be a little nervous. Cesare was used to that. People would sit cheerfully in a great jet flying machine and think nothing of it; but put them in a small plane next to the pilot, and suddenly everything seemed fallible.

"We're ready to go."

The passenger nodded. "Fine."

The engine clattered to life. Cesare watched the oil pressure gauge. The passenger tapped him on the arm and spoke loudly above the noise of the engine.

"How long to Trapani?"

"Just under an hour," Cesare answered, his eyes moving over the dials.

"There's no toilet in here?"

Cesare shook his head, and the passenger said, "Do you mind? I'd better take a leak."

Cesare smiled slightly. This one really was nervous. He reached across and unlatched the right door.

"Go ahead. Stay clear of the prop."

The passenger undid his seat belt and climbed out. Cesare went back to the dials.

Two minutes went by and then a figure appeared at the door. Cesare's eyes flicked sideways and he went rigid. Slowly he turned his whole head, looked at the pistol and then at the man holding it.

"Just carry on," the man said, pulling himself, with difficulty, into the small cockpit. "You are not in danger. Just follow procedure."

He didn't attempt to strap himself in. He just leaned forward in the small seat, his right hand resting on the top of the instrument panel, his body turned sideways facing the pilot; the gun held low, close to Cesare's ribs.

"Complete your checks," he said. "Do everything by the book. I know how to fly one of these. I know the radio procedure; so don't get stupid."

Cesare sat absolutely still, his hands on his knees, his mind working. The new passenger didn't interrupt his thoughts, just sat waiting. Finally Cesare made up his mind. He didn't say anything; he simply went on with the takeoff procedure.

Ten minutes later they were climbing through 4000 feet over the Strait of Messina, the lights of Sicily ahead.

"You can put away the gun. I know who you are."

Creasy considered for only a moment, then slipped the Colt into its canvas holster and snapped it down.

He moved around, positioning the parachute pack more comfortably; then he reached between the seats and picked up Cesare's chart. The route to Trapani had been penciled in. They would pass three miles to the south of Villa Colacci. He glanced at the pilot.

"After you cross the beacon at Termini Imerese, I want you to make a very slight detour."

Cesare smiled grimly.

"I should have charged more for this charter."

Creasy returned the smile.

"Less-your passenger isn't going all the way."

"Lucky I got paid in advance," Cesare said. "You'd better brief me."

Creasy leaned forward with the map and pointed.

"You can't miss it. It's five kilometers due south of Palermo and three kilometers due east of Monreale. It's lit up like a Christmas tree." He glanced at the instrument panel. They were climbing through 5000 feet.

"At what height would you normally level off?"

"Seven thousand feet."

"That's fine. Stay at that height until you cross the beacon. Then go up to twelve thousand feet."

Cesare glanced at him and Creasy said: "I'll do a 'Halo' drop." He noted the look of puzzlement and explained,

"High altitude, low opening."

Cesare nodded. "We call it a delayed float. At what height will you open?"

"Not more than two thousand feet, depending on my free-fall drift. The wind is easterly at ten knots, so I'll drop just short of the target."

Cesare looked at the parachute pack.

"What is it?"

"A wing, a French "Mistral."'

Now Cesare looked at the equipment festooning Creasy's body.

"I know you're an expert," he said. "You're going to need to be. You'll come in fast and hard." He thought for a moment, and then went on: "I know that area. You're likely to meet a down draft off the side of the mountain. You won't notice it on the free fall. It will start below two thousand feet. I would advise you to drop more to the south."

Creasy hardly thought about it. The pilot's voice was obviously sincere.

"Thanks, I will. Have you had experience?"

Cesare nodded.

"I had five years in the Air Force on transports. I've dropped a lot of you people. Also amateurs parachute clubs."

"Alright," Creasy said. "I'll leave you to call it. I'm sorry. All this might cause you some trouble. I'm going to have to smash your radio."

Cesare didn't speak for a while. Just gazed out through the windshield. His voice, when it came, held a note of emotion.

"I'm glad it's me. Many people-most people are behind you. My family has lived for generations in Calabria. We know of the power of these people. We are all affected. We admire you. I'm glad it's me. I'll drop you exactly right."

There was a silence, and then Creasy asked:

"Will you go on to Trapani?"

Cesare shook his head.

"I'll fly back to Reggio it's safer. Who was the Australian?"

In the dull red light of the cockpit, Creasy's features softened slightly. He said simply, "A man like you."

In Palermo it was warm; and in the bar of the Grand Hotel the windows were open. Satta, Guido and Bellu stood at the bar drinking a predinner cocktail. Satta was in an American mood, and his cocktail was a highball.

The mood had been brought on by the presence of two American girls sitting at a corner table. They were late tourists, and one of them was a beautiful redhead. Satta was partial to redheads. The other was a blonde-passable. "Not a remora," Sata had commented, and to Bellu's query had explained, "Usually a beautiful girl has with her an ugly one. Both benefit. The beautiful girl is enhanced by the comparison, and the ugly one picks up the leftovers. A remora is a fish-a scavenger. By means of a sucker, it attaches itself to a shark and feeds off it." He looked at the blonde and smiled. "But she is not a remora; she can feed by herself. What do you think, Guido, is she your type?"

Guido looked across at the table. The blonde was attractive, and in the age-old language of glances, lowered eyelashes, and feigned indifference, had already indicated that Guido was to be favored. Obviously the two girls had already divided the spoils. But Guido was not in the mood. For days a tension had been building within him. He couldn't tear his mind from Creasy.

A simple radio, designed by the human brain, can send signals around the world and millions of miles into space. It must be conceivable that the brain itself, infinitely more sophisticated, can also send signals, can communicate.

Guido did not think of that. But something told him that his friend was coming. Was near. He couldn't be drawn this night by a girl. So he shrugged and smiled and replied to Satta, "I defer to the Carabinieri, you all work so hard"-he glanced around the opulent bar-"and live so uncomfortably that we, the grateful public, should allow you an occasional bonus."

"Have you noticed," Satta asked Bellu, "that Neapolitans are invariably sarcastic?"

He raised an eyebrow at the bartender for more drinks.

"So be it," he said. "Captain Bellu, as further job training in your progress to promotion, the strategy of conquest is in your hands. Obviously we must start by inviting them to join us for dinner. How will you go about it?"

Bellu shrugged nonchalantly.

"I'll take them a bottle of champagne and tell them to join us for dinner."

"Tell them?" asked Satta, in mock surprise. "Not ask them?"

"Colonel," Bellu answered, "did you yourself not say that a woman should be treated like a headwaiter-politely but firmly?"

Satta beamed at Guido.

"Definitely promotion material."

But Guido didn't respond. He reached out and gripped Satta's arm.

"Listen!"

Very faintly through the open window came the drone of an aircraft.

"Creasy!"

Satta and Bellu looked at him blankly.

"Creasy! He comes."

Guido slammed down his drink and headed for the door.

"He's a 'para,'" he called over his shoulder. "How else would he arrive? Come on!" Satta looked at Bellu and then across at the redhead.

"Come on," he snapped. "He hasn't improved his timing!"

The door had been pushed back. Creasy's face and shoulders were visible in the gap. His rubber-soled boots rested on the undercarriage strut. The skullcap was pulled down tight; his lower face had been blackened.

The eyes watched Cesare intently.

The pilot's face was set in concentration. He banked the plane gently, eyes flicking from left to right, picking up bearings, correlating them to the compass. His left foot moved on the rudder, flexing, ready to apply pressure when the weight was gone.

His right hand stabbed out.

"GO CREASY!"

He turned his head. The doorway was empty.

The windows were closed in the Villa Colacci. All of them. But Cantarella had opened the curtains slightly in his study and looked down at the garden. Darkness, relieved only by the faint glow of the floodlights beyond the walls. Over the last days his fear had been gradually overcome by emotions of frustration and anger.

People subservient for generations were questioning his power. Even those around him. He could see it in their faces. Only a few minutes before, Abrata had been insolent in this very room. Soon this madman would be dead, and he would turn on the others and they would feel his power. They would understand. His smooth face hardened with the thought. The thick lips were compressed in determination. He drew the curtains tight and turned back to his desk.

Seconds later Creasy floated in over the wall like a great, black, pregnant bat.

Chapter 22

He landed on grass, close beside the orchard. A good impact: legs cushioning, rolling easily, hitting the release, and dragging the canopy backward into the fruit trees.

The Colt came into his hand; the silencer, quickly pulled from a belt pouch, was screwed home. He crouched, his back against a tree, and from the chest pouch took out the Trilux night sight.

He scanned the grounds from left to right, picking them up as they rounded the side of the villa. Two low, black shapes, side by side, coming fast. The Trilux and the Colt were exactly aligned. He drew in air deeply and steadied himself. The Dobermans had been trained to attack silently and to kill silently.

They died silently. The first at ten meters with bullets in head and throat. The second had closed to five meters before the bullet took it in the heart. Momentum carried it on. It died, with a whimper, at Creasy's feet.