THE PERFECT KILL (14 page)

The bar was busy, and the clientele smartly dressed; a mixture of wealthy locals and wealthy tourists. His eyes immediately picked out the woman sitting alone at the end of the bar. Remembering the line from My Fair Lady, he made his approach; “oozing charm from every pore, he oiled his way across the floor” like a lizard, and slid onto the barstool beside her.

From the bartender he ordered a twenty-five year-old Macallan Scotch. He guessed instantly from her clothes and jewellery, that she was from the upper class. Her dress was midnight blue silk. Soft and clinging. Rawlings knew something about precious stones. He knew that the jade pendant at her neck, nestling between her high breasts, was worth a small fortune. He knew that the diamond bracelet on her left wrist contained genuine, flawless blue-white diamonds. At least ten carats. At least fifty thousand dollars.

He changed gear into overdrive, his mind working rapidly. He decided not to waste time.

“Are you alone,” he asked her “…or waiting for somebody?”

“I’m waiting for my husband,” she answered coolly. “But unfortunately he doesn’t arrive until tomorrow.”

He noted the accent and asked, “Are you French?”

“Belgian.”

“Staying in the hotel?”

“Yes, we normally stay at the Ritz but it’s booked up. Full of Arabs.”

It took Joe Rawlings half an hour to make the pick-up. Or at least he thought it did. Following her query, he told her that he was a top international lawyer, at the moment on assignment for IBM, on a patents case. Then in an aside he said, “Normally when I travel on business, I like to dine alone. I follow Gulbenkian’s adage that the perfect number for dinner is two. Myself and a damn good head waiter.”

She smiled and said half-sadly, “I hate to dine alone.”

They had dinner together at La Poupoule. During the meal he touched her from time to time, on her arm or her hand. Occasionally, his leg brushed hers under the table. By the time the coffee came he felt he was onto a winner. He had learned that her husband was the vice-president of a large steel corporation and that he was twenty-five years her senior. He felt the eroticism that was growing and decided to wind it up.

“I had planned to see the late show at the Crazy Horse,” he said, touching her hand…”but would that be too risque for you?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“I would not go there alone…but I like things risque.”

After taking in the immaculate show at the Crazy Horse, and absorbing the beauty of the showgirls, Joe Rawlings was in a mood to be led anywhere. He was led to her room at the Plaza Athenee. She preferred it that way. In the lobby she had told him in a soft voice that after she had made love she preferred not to get out of bed.

She opened the door and ushered him in, saying with her soft, lilting voice, “You thought you were going to get fucked tonight. You are, but not the way you imagined.”

The door closed behind him. He was looking at the large double bed, looking at Creasy sitting on it, looking at the silenced pistol pointing at him.

The words crossed the room, slow and deadly. “I gave you Tap City Money, Joe…and you did that?”

Joe Rawlings’s voice was strangled, his fear palpable.

“Did what, Creasy?”

Creasy tossed an eight by ten photograph at him. It hit him on the knee and dropped beside him on the floor. He looked down at it. It was the photograph of himself and Merwad Kwikas, sitting in a restaurant.

He knew he was dead.

“Easy or hard, Joe? I’ve got all night.”

Joe Rawlings tried to say something but could not. His eyes were fixed on the gun.

“You gave them my name?” Creasy asked.

Rawlings nodded.

“You gave them Grainger’s name?”

Rawlings nodded.

“You approached Abu Nidal?”

Rawlings nodded.

“Did he pay?”

Rawlings shook his head.

The voice was musing.

“So you gave them all you know, and I got what I needed to know. Jibril paid. I guess it’s in the bathroom.”

Rawlings nodded. He was mesmerised by the gun and by the eyes.

The gun exploded with a soft plop. The bullet went into his brain between his eyes.

Creasy opened the door. Nicole was standing across the corridor. He gestured and she walked into the room, looked at the body on the floor. Creasy hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside handle and closed the door.

He said, “Do you have his key?”

“It’s in his pocket.”

He reached down, rummaged in the pockets and found the key. He handed it to her, saying, “Go to his room and search the bathroom. You’ll find a wad of money, probably behind the toilet system. Bring it here.”

She was back in five minutes, holding a thick envelope. The body had been covered by a long, white towel, which had a red stain at one end. Creasy counted out the money. It came to seventy-eight thousand dollars in used fifty-dollar bills. From that pile he counted out twenty thousand, put it back in the envelope and handed it to her.

Senator James Grainger walked into the same restaurant in Washington and saw Creasy at a banquette in a corner with another man. He walked over and sat down. Creasy introduced the other man.

“Frank Miller,” he said.

The Senator studied the man. He was in his mid-forties and totally bald. He had a small head and a big body. His face was round and plump, almost cherubic, his eyes nestling between a low forehead and fat cheeks. He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and deep blue tie. He looked like everybody’s favourite uncle. They ordered dinner and the Senator told Henry the sommelier to bring the same wine as before.

The Senator had received a phone call the night before telling him that events had changed. The dinner meeting had been set up.

“What events have changed?” the Senator asked Creasy, with a wary glance at the other man.

Creasy noticed the glance.

“We can talk in front of Frank,” he said. “I’ve known him a long time…Jim, I made a mistake. I hope that’s the last one. I should have taken Joe Rawlings out in Cannes but instead I gave him Tap City Money…thought that would buy his silence…it did not. He worked things out and sold my name and yours to Ahmed Jibril from the PFLP-GC. The fact that Jibril paid him confirms, to me at least, that Jibril planted the bomb. Now Jibril knows I’m coming after him. He knows what I’m capable of. He will not know where to find me. But Jim, he will know where to find you…you cannot hide yourself. It’s almost certain that the PFLP-GC has a cell in the USA. It’s almost certain they will try to get to you…abduct you and force information out of you.”

He gestured at Miller.

“I’ve brought this man over to make sure they don’t do that.”

The Senator glanced at Miller and said, “I have adequate security. All Senators do.”

Creasy shook his head.

“Adequate is not enough…Jim, you’re going to have to live with this man, and his two partners, until the matter is over. Not just for your sake, but also for mine. You’ll have to live with them for twenty-four hours a day…they’ll be within yards of you, even when you take a shit…twenty-four hours a day, Jim. That’s the way it has to be…until the operation’s over, and that could be months or even a year or more.”

As though Frank Miller did not exist, the Senator asked, “Who is he?”

Creasy replied, also as if Frank Miller was not sitting between them.

“He was a mercenary,” he answered. “An Australian. Since mercenary work became scarce, he went into the protection business. Spent some years in Germany and Italy, looking after industrialists who were targets of terrorist groups…the Red Brigade and so on…he’s the best. He never lost a client.”

The Senator looked at the Australian.

“And he needs two other people to help him?”

Creasy gestured.

“He has to sleep…occasionally he has to find a woman…or have you find one for him.” A half-smile formed on Creasy’s lips. “Don’t worry, Jim, they’re house-trained. Do what they tell you…in everything. It’s your life and it’s mine.”

The Senator said, “He and his partners must be expensive.”

“Yes. The best always are. But it’s ironic. A bit like the Irangate affair. Jibril is paying their wages.”

The Senator straightened in his chair, surprise on his face.

Creasy said, “Jibril paid Rawlings a lot of money for our names. I recovered some of it. For a few months, it will pay for Frank and his boys.”

The food came and Henry decanted the wine. He treated Creasy like a prodigal son.

The Senator noted that the Australian did not drink any wine. Only mineral water. He noted that he did not talk much, that his eyes constantly swept the room, watching every arrival and every departure. Over coffee the Australian said something to Creasy in French. Creasy answered in the same language and then said to the Senator, “Jim, we both noted that there’s a “watcher” in here. He’s by himself, over in the corner. Don’t look round but I guess he’s a Fed. Is your friend Bennett watching over you?”

“It’s possible,” the Senator conceded. “He may be questioning what I’m up to. Maybe he’s worried about me.”

“Can you call him off and keep him off? It’s important.”

“It’s very important,” the Australian added. “I don’t want extraneous people hanging around.”

The Senator lifted a finger and within seconds, the maitre d’ was by his side.

“Bring me a phone,” the Senator said curtly.

A minute later the Senator was punching the number into a portable phone. It was answered. Into the phone the Senator said, “Curtis, if you know where I’m dining, you’re having me watched. If so I want it stopped immediately. If not, I get heavy.”

He handed the phone back to the hovering maitre d’. Three minutes later a man walked into the restaurant. He went to the man in the corner, dining alone, and whispered into his ear. The man dining alone called for his bill and paid it. Both men left, without a glance at the Senator.

“It’s better that way,” the Australian said. “Now, if anyone’s watching you, I’ll know who they are.”

“You’re sure it’s Jibril?” the Senator asked Creasy.

“He wouldn’t pay good money for nothing…he’s my target.”

“When will you move?”

“I’m moving.”

“How long?”

Creasy shrugged and took a sip of his wine.

“I move slowly and very carefully. The bad thing is that Jibril knows I’m coming. Damascus is not an easy city. He has immense protection. Both his own people and the Syrian Intelligence.”

He took another sip of his wine and then looked into the Senator’s eyes. “But Jibril is the living dead. I need a little time to hone my weapon…a little time to let him sweat and wait. I make you a promise, Jim, when he dies, the last words that will enter his ears will be Harriot, Nadia and Julia. He will know why he died.”

The Senator drained his glass and said quietly, “I never hated anyone before. Disliked, yes…many. But never really hated. I hate Jibril from my soul and I hate Joe Rawlings. That man conned me and then sold me.”

Creasy shook his head.

“Don’t hate Rawlings. It’s pointless to hate the dead.”

The Senator looked up at him. “You took him out?”

“Between the eyes.”

The Senator had another breakfast meeting. “The worst invention ever in America,” he said before leaving. As he stood up Frank Miller said, “Wait”

The Australian stood; went to the door of the restaurant and went out into the street. He came back two minutes later and nodded towards the table.

“He’s careful,” the Senator commented to Creasy.

“He’s your mother and father, Jim,” said Creasy, and then smiled. “Introduce him to your Doberman, they’ll get on well. Also, be straight with him. If you break away from him, you break away from me. Keep something in your mind. Jibril has maybe a hundred bodyguards. All heavily armed. he’d be safer with Frank Miller alone.”

They shook hands and the Senator left with the Australian as his shadow. Henry brought a large goblet of Hennessy Extra and put it in front of Creasy.

“Come back at least four more times,” he said with a smile. “I only have four more bottles of the ‘49 Rothschild left.”

Creasy nodded in acknowledgement, smiled and asked for a phone.

From memory, he dialled the number. When a voice answered he said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Tracey. Be naked.”

The voice answered, “I am naked.”

It’s best to judge a woman’s beauty when she sleeps. Artifice is lost. Pretence also sleeps. If wine brings out the truth then sleep brings out beauty.

It was early morning. He had been to the bathroom and then opened the curtains. Sunlight lit the room, reflecting off the pale walls onto her face. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her face. Watched it like a predator not knowing what it was hunting. She was in a very deep sleep. A sated sleep. The curves of her face were those of a child. He thought of his own child, of Julia. He thought of his life, and the waste.

He thought of what he was doing, and why. He had done it all before. He felt for a moment like he was on a treadmill, walking on into nothing. Thought of the boy’s past life and his future, tried to analyse what he thought about the boy, but could not.

He thought about Senator James Grainger, Frank Miller, the Corkscrew and Corkscrew Two. About what he was doing and why.

There was no why. Only a heat inside of him, not in his brain but deep down. His brain was cold. Made cold by the image of the well-dressed Arab.

He thought of Nadia the woman and Julia the child. He moved across the bed and placed his hand on the cheek of the child-woman. The woman woke up and he made love to her.

This time Jibril went to see the Colonel. He was not even offered a coffee. The Colonel simply handed him a piece of paper. On it were two names. “That’s what you got for your hundred thousand.”

“What do we know about them?” Jibril asked.

“They both had relatives on Pan Am 103,” the Colonel answered. “Grainger is a United States Senator for Colorado and a very wealthy man. The other one, Creasy, is also American, an ex-mercenary. The strange thing is he’s supposed to have been killed five years ago in Italy. It’s documented.”