THE PERFECT KILL (3 page)

Creasy smiled, “I meant the boy.”

“Of course he is,” the priest answered. “Anyone who can make a pass like that has to be intelligent. I tell you, he’ll play for Malta.”

“What about other subjects, apart from Arabic and football?”

“Yes, consistently good.”

“In other sports?”

“He’s the best table tennis player in the orphanage, and there are some good ones. Apart from football, that’s about the only recreation they get.”

Creasy’s eyes had never left the moving boy.

“And his character,” he asked. “What about his character?”

The priest spread his hands. “Difficult to fathom, he’s a loner. We have sixty-eight boys in the orphanage, and most of them seem to form groups within their ages. But Michael never joined a group. He’s got a couple of friends, but I couldn’t say they were very close.”

There was a silence between them and the priest could sense Creasy’s continuing curiosity.

He went on: “Like all young boys he’s sometimes naughty, but less than most, and now hardly ever at all.”

“Did he ask about his parents?”

“Yes, on his thirteenth birthday he came to see me, and he asked.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

“What did he say?”

“He said nothing. He thanked me for telling him and left the room. He has never mentioned the subject since.”

Another silence, and then Creasy asked quietly: “Is he religious?”

Sadly the priest shook his head. “I fear not.”

“But he attends Mass?”

“He has to. They all have to, but not with great enthusiasm.”

The referee blew the final whistle and the orphan players all hugged each other. Creasy and the priest stood up, the priest brushing the dust from his cassocked backside.

“Could you send him to see me?” Creasy asked.

Father Zerafa looked surprised. “To see you? Up at the house?”

Creasy was looking across the pitch over the low village houses towards a long ridge. On its left, nestling below the highest point, was an old stone farmhouse, blending into the hill.

“Yes,” he said, “at the house, at around six o’clock this evening.” He turned to look at the priest. “It was a good win, Father. Well done.” He punched the priest lightly on the shoulder and walked down the steps of the church to his jeep.

The priest watched him drive off and was then engulfed by his players.

The sun was dipping to the west as the boy walked up the dusty path to the house on the hill. The priest had been brief as usual. Back at the orphanage, he had simply taken him aside and said: “Go up and see Uomo at his house at six o’clock.”

“What for?” the boy had asked.

The priest had shrugged, “I don’t know. Just be there.”

The boy knew all about Uomo, or at least what everyone else on the small island knew. Apart from his nickname, he was also known in Maltese as Mejjet: The Dead One. He knew that some years ago, Uomo had spent several months on the island and then disappeared. Knew that he had returned in the night some months later, and remembered that he and all the other boys had been told by Father Zerafa never to talk about him. He knew something else. Gozo was the most religious community on earth in that more than ninety-five per cent of the population attended church. He knew, on that same Sunday, every priest in every church on the island had included in their homilies a message to their congregation.

“Do not speak about the man known as Uomo, especially to strangers. He is one of us.”

Naturally, on a small island, everyone immediately talked of Uomo, but only among themselves and never to strangers, not even to Maltese. And so in that small community the rumours grew and multiplied. The boy knew that Uomo had returned on a police launch, in the middle of the night. He knew that for many months he had stayed without going out in the farmhouse of Paul Schembri and later had married his daughter Nadia, and they had had a baby girl. He knew that the wife and daughter had been killed in the Pan Am crash, over Loccurbie.

He knew something else. The boy was friendly with the son of Rita, who ran the village grocer shop. Her husband was a policeman and a member of the elite squad that was formed within the police force to act against any terrorist attacks that might take place against Malta. His friend had told him some years ago that Creasy had helped train that squad in weaponry and tactics. It was no coincidence that Paul Schembri, the farmer, had a nephew, who had been and still was the commanding officer of that squad.

He reached the farmhouse, sweating slightly and very curious. There was a rubble wall around the farmhouse which looked very old, but the boy knew it had been built only a few years ago.

From the village, the boy had watched it being built and sometimes had walked across the ridge and watched the workers converting the farmhouse, using only old stone. The wall was five feet thick and about twelve feet high. Set into it was a wide wooden door, and beside that an old-fashioned metal bell handle.

The boy was wearing frayed jeans and a T-shirt. He tucked the T-shirt tighter into the jeans and pulled the bell handle, curious and a little nervous. From inside he heard the bell tinkle, a minute later the door opened.

The man was wearing a brightly coloured swimsuit and nothing else. There were terrible scars down his left side and across his stomach and also from his right knee, disappearing under his swimsuit. The man held out his hand and said, “Hello Michael, welcome.”

Michael shook his hand and noticed immediately that the little finger was missing. He also noticed the mottled scars on the back of the hand, on the backs of both hands. The man released his grip and stood aside. The boy passed through the door. In front of him was a wide expanse of limestone paving, surrounding a blue rectangular swimming pool. The pale limestone was relieved by splashes of colour. Palms, bougainvillaea and vines, spread up the walls of the house and over a wooden trellis work, extending out from the two wings. Under the shade of the trellis was a round stone table, surrounded by old, wooden chairs. The man gestured towards the table.

“Have a seat. What do you drink?”

The boy was stuck for an answer. The man said, “It’s quite a walk up here. Some cool wine or a cold beer?”

Pocket money from the orphanage was minimal, and the boy had only drunk alcohol during the village feast the year before.

“Could I have a lager?” he asked.

“Sure. I’ll join you with the same.”

The man went into the house and the boy stood by the table, looking out at the vista of Gozo spread in front of him, and in the distance the small island of Comino, and beyond that the island of Malta. At that time of the year it was a vision of patchwork: green fields, deep blue sea and light blue sky. The house was set on the highest point of Gozo. He was looking down on the capital and the ancient Citadel. At that moment the boy decided that it was the most perfect spot in the only place he had ever known.

Father Manuel Zerafa was not a man to be surprised easily. He had been a priest for thirty-three years, the first ten of which had been spent in Somalia and northern Kenya. He was a man of the world and knew the world. He sat on the balcony of Gleneagles Bar in Mgarr, looking out over the small harbour and the brightly-coloured traditional fishing boats. Creasy sat next to him. Both had empty glasses in their hands. For several minutes the priest digested the words he had just heard. Then, without turning his head, he said in a sombre voice, “You would have to marry again…It’s the regulations, Uomo…only a married couple.”

Uomo nodded, “I understand that.”

Now the priest turned his head sharply. Surprise showed in his eyes and also shock.

“You will marry again so soon?”

Again Creasy nodded, “As you say, it’s necessary.”

The priest shook his head. “The people here would be shocked, even offended. They all loved Nadia. They all know how much you loved her…It’s only been five months…The church was overflowing at the mass we said for her and Julia. It had never been so full.”

“It will be a marriage of convenience, Father, only to satisfy the authorities…your authorities.”

Again the priest was shaking his head. “But whom will you marry?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

The priest’s head snapped up in surprise.

“You don’t know! You want to rush this adoption through in the shortest time and you don’t know whom you are going to marry?” he snorted, almost in derision. “She’ll have to be acceptable to the panel who will interview you both to be sure you’re suitable parents.”

Gruffly Creasy said, “She will be acceptable.”

The priest sighed. “But why the rush? Why not wait at least a year? It will be more acceptable to the panel and to the people here. Besides, you’ve only spoken to the boy once.”

“That was enough,” the American answered. Abruptly, he reached for the priest’s empty glass and stood up. He walked into the cool, high-ceilinged bar and put the glasses in front of the balding bartender, “Two more lagers, Tony, please.”

There was a group of fishermen playing cards in the corner, a local game called Bixkla, a game where it was necessary to cheat in collaboration with your partner. They excelled at it. Creasy watched them bluff and counter-bluff while Tony filled the glasses. One of the fishermen winked at him. He was the only foreigner who could ever hold his own at the game. He picked up the glasses and said, “Have one yourself, Tony.”

The bartender shook his head, “It’s too early for me.”Creasy waited patiently. After ten seconds the bartender grinned from ear to ear and said, “Blue Label Beer.”

Creasy turned away. It was always like that. It was no coincidence that the bartender’s nickname was “Why Not”.

Back on the balcony, he handed the priest the glass.

It was early evening. A big, white ferry was pulling away from the jetty, taking the day-trippers back to Malta. The lowering sun was turning the limestone hills a coppery colour.

“You said, six to eight weeks.”

The priest sighed, “Yes, but only with a lot of hustling and only because the bishop knows you and you have connections with the civil authorities.”

Creasy took a sip of his beer. “Then I’ll talk to the boy tomorrow, and the day after I’ll leave. I’ll be back within four weeks with a wife and all the legal documentation. How long will she have to stay?”

The priest turned to look at him, the puzzled look back in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how long will the wife have to stay in Gozo?”

Slowly, awareness came into the priest’s eyes. “So it’s like that?”

The ferry was turning out of the harbour entrance. Quietly Creasy said, “Yes, Father, it is exactly like that!”

The priest said, “At least six months, otherwise it would be too obvious. It would make me look bad and the panel look even worse. She would have to stay in your house and cohabit with you and the boy, and live the part of his mother.” A note of sternness crept into his voice. “Six months, Uomo.”

Creasy drained his glass and stood up, “So be it,” he said. “Six months. Will you talk to the bishop tomorrow and then to the boy? And then send him up to the house to see me at six o’clock…That’s assuming that he wants to come.”

The priest made one last effort. Looking up at the man he said, “Why not wait a few months…why not adopt a younger boy? I have several that would be suitable.”

Creasy shrugged, “I’m sure you do, but I want Michael Said, and I want him within eight weeks.” He turned and went out.

At the orphanage, Michael Said sat in a corner of the courtyard, looking at a magazine without seeing it. His mind was in the house on the hill, and the evening before.

He had stayed for two hours at the table under the trellis, and during those two hours he had drunk three lagers. At one stage the big American had gone to the kitchen and returned with a large plate. On it were thin strips of dried beef.

He said, “In America we call it “jerky” but I learned to make it in Rhodesia.” He glanced at the boy, “Do you know what Rhodesia is called now?”

“Zimbabwe,” the boy replied instantly.

The man’s head nodded in approval. He munched a strip of beef and said, “There they call it biltong, and there they make it from game, usually gazelle. It’s heavily salted and then hung in the sun for several days. It keeps for years. A man can survive on ten pounds of biltong for several weeks.” He had pointed with his chin towards the village.

“I have to use beef, which I get from John the butcher. Try some.”

The boy picked up a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. It tasted like leather. He chewed vigorously. It tasted like salty leather.

He chewed some more and began to taste the meat. He decided it was delicious. Within fifteen minutes the plate had been cleared.

They had talked. The American had asked many questions. The boy realised now that he had been probing his mind. At the house he had not noticed it. He had answered the questions easily, without difficulty. After the second beer, he was relaxed enough to say the words he had been rehearsing all the way up the hill.

Looking straight into the big man’s eyes, he asked, “What do I call you?”

The man had smiled slightly. “Creasy,” he said. “Drop the “Mr”; or by my nickname. You know what that is?”

The boy had nodded and said very simply, “Uomo, I want to tell you how sorry I am about your wife and daughter. We are all sorry. She used to bring presents to the orphanage at Christmas and she used to bring special food sometimes. Good cuts of meat, I think from her father’s farm, and lots of fruit. We all miss her.”

He was still looking into the man’s eyes. They had showed no emotion. Heavy-lidded, almost drowsy, they had just stared back at the boy. Then he had nodded, stood up and gone into the kitchen to fetch two more lagers.

They had talked on as the sun dipped away behind them. The boy had felt relaxed enough to ask questions of his own. The first was, “How did you get the scars, Uomo?”

The man shrugged. “In several wars.”

“Where?”

“All over. Africa, North, South and West. Asia, the Middle East. All over.”