THE PERFECT KILL (31 page)

An hour later, they sat at a food stall and the teacher watched closely as Michael ate from a dozen dishes.

The teacher was pleased. Within a few more days, Michael would be able to go into any Arab mosque or souk and be taken for nothing less than a full-blooded Arab, albeit one who had spent much of his life within a European culture. The teacher knew the age of his pupil and marvelled at his confidence. He had the bearing and stature of a well-travelled man of thirty.

After they left Tunis, the teacher would not see his pupil again. That was the agreement. The teacher had not grown fond of his pupil but he had built an immense respect for him. Creasy would be pleased.

For ten years during the sixties and early seventies, Piet de Witt had been an agent of BOSS, the notorious South African Security Service. He had been a field agent operating mainly in Angola and Mozambique and occasionally carrying out assassinations in South Africa itself against ultra-liberals, communists or anybody else his superiors took a dislike to. All that had ended when he was caught running an extortion racket on the side. He had been kicked out of the service and in a natural progression, had become a mercenary, first in West Africa and then South East Asia.

He was ruthless and merciless and liked to hurt people. He also liked money and of late, money was very scarce. Work was scarce. The only offer he had had in the last three months was to join a dubious gang to rob a small bank in Luxembourg. He had not liked the plan or the people and had declined.

He had heard a rumour of a job being set up by Denard in Paris. Something to do with taking over an island in the Indian Ocean. He decided to go to Paris to check it out.

But at Brussels Airport he had diverted. He was about to get out of his taxi at the departure terminal, when the man crossed in front of him. He recognised the figure immediately. Tall and bulky. He also recognised the walk. A curious walk with the outsides of the feet coming onto the ground first. He watched the man walk into the terminal building carrying a canvas bag. He thought about the French journalist, Georges Laconte, and the offer that he had made three nights ago in Blum’s Bar.

He entered the terminal building cautiously, his eyes sweeping the hall. He saw the man at the Sabena ticket counter and moved behind a column, dropping his battered leather suitcase at his feet.

As he watched, Piet de Witt’s emotions were a mixture. Part indelible hatred. Part fear. Part consuming curiosity. The hatred stemmed from an incident many years before in Vietnam. The man at the ticket counter had physically humiliated him. The fear stemmed from the terrible beating he had received at his hands. The broken bones and the weeks in hospital. The curiosity stemmed from the fact that the rumours were true; Creasy was alive. Where was he going? What was he doing? There was money in the answers.

He waited until Creasy had moved away from the counter towards Immigration. Then he walked up to the same ticket clerk, who was a middle-aged woman. He smiled at her. He was a tall man, sandy-haired and with a bushy, sandy beard. His smile was very charming.

“I think I just saw a friend of mine going through Immigration. Haven’t seen him for years. Maybe you can help me. He was coming from this direction. Did he buy a ticket here?” He described Creasy. She nodded and answered, “Yes, to London on the two forty-five.”

“Economy or Club?”

“Club.”

De Witt looked up at the departure screen. Apart from the two forty-five there was another flight to London at four-thirty.

To the woman he said, “I’m going to London myself but on the four-thirty. Any chance of switching me to the two-forty-five?”

She punched some buttons on her console, studied the screen, then nodded.

“There are a few seats left but only in Economy.”

“That’s fine,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

The ferry was warped alongside the dock. The ramp clanged down and Michael raced over and into Leonie’s arms.

As they drove back to the house, he said with a grin, “It’s good to be home. What’s for dinner? I’m fed up with Arab food.”

She laughed. “I’m taking you out to dinner. To Sammy’s. It’s a special treat. He’s got a fresh lobster and he’s keeping it for us.”

“Why a special treat?”

She glanced at him, marvelling at how rapidly he had grown up. “Because tomorrow afternoon I’m leaving for London,” she said. “Creasy phoned a few days ago.”

In mock disappointment, he asked, “And you’re not taking me with you?”

She slowed the jeep to let a flock of sheep cross the road. “Very definitely not,” she answered with a smile. “I’m only going for three days. It will be a sort of delayed honeymoon.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “Any other news?”

“Nothing. Creasy will brief me in London and I’ll brief you when I get back. He said you should be ready to move in about a week. He wants you to go to Malta for a couple of days and get some time in with the Heckler and Koch on the range. He’s fixed it with George.”

Later that night, they sat in the harbour, hardly talking as they enjoyed the lobster. Over coffee, he glanced at his watch. She noticed and said, “Yes, I know, Michael. It’s Friday night and La Grotta will be swinging. But tonight you have to spend another half hour with your mother.”

He grinned, reached forward, covered her hand with his and said with total conviction, “I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else.” He gestured at the crowded restaurant. “The people here who don’t know us think you’re my girlfriend and they’re all mad with jealousy…I like that.”

She laughed and answered, “And the women are jealous of me for having such a lovely toy boy.” Her face turned serious and she looked at the young man’s face for a long time before shaking her head and saying, “No, Michael, you are not a toy boy. You are a man. I’m proud of you…and frightened for you.”

“Don’t be frightened,” he said softly.

“But I am. As I waited for the ferry this afternoon, I realised that for the first time in my life I’m truly happy. Sometimes in the past I thought I was happy, but I didn’t understand the word. It has to be matched to contentment.”

Suddenly she looked up again into his face and said, “I believe that Creasy loves me. I don’t know why…but I believe it…I know he’ll never say it because he’s not like that…but inside I believe it.”

Equally serious, Michael said, “I believe it too.”

He picked her up at Heathrow in her battered Ford Fiesta. As they drove through the heavy evening traffic into London he said, “I’ve booked a table at Lou Pescadou. They have excellent seafood. Especially shellfish.”

She laughed and said, “I had lobster last night with Michael. At Sammy’s.”

“You’re spoiling him,” he said sternly but with a smile. “So where would you like to go?”

“How about that Indian place, off the Gloucester Road? I really like a good curry.”

“No problem.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go straight there and on to the flat afterwards. I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

“Like what?”

“Like a surprise.”

She watched his big hands move on the small steering-wheel. She noticed again the mottled scars on the backs of both of them. She reached out and touched his left hand and asked,

“How did you get those, Creasy?”

His reaction was instantaneous. He jerked his hand away. The car swung to its right almost hitting a truck in the next lane. She pulled herself up in shock, while he corrected. She looked at his face. At the ice-cold expression.

Apprehensively, she asked, “What did I say? Do?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s just that…”

She glanced again at his face and saw the trouble in it. Saw him struggling to find the right words.

Gently, she said, “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”

He shook his head.

“It’s not that. It’s just that a few years ago, someone sitting next to me in a car, like you are, touched my hand and asked the same question.”

“A woman?”

“No. A young girl.”

They threaded through the traffic in silence, then she murmured: “The girl in Italy…the one who was killed?”

“Yes.”

She touched his hand again and said, “I’m so sorry, Creasy.”

He shook his head, lifted his hand from the wheel and looked at the scars. Quietly he told her, “It was while I was with the Legion, in Vietnam. We had just lost the battle of Dien Bien Phu. With many others in the Legion I was captured. We were marched many miles through the jungle to a prisoner of war camp. Many died on the way. I survived. At the camp, I was questioned by a young, French-educated Viet Minh captain. There were many questions. My hands were strapped down to a table. I refused to answer. The captain smoked a lot. There was no ashtray.”

They drove in silence, then he glanced at her. He felt the same sense of deja vu and heard himself speak the words he had spoken to the girl those years ago.

“Sometimes bad things happen in the world.”

The sense of deja vu increased dramatically as he heard her reply. She smiled warmly, touched his hand again and said,

“Good things happen too.”

At the restaurant their mood lightened. It was small, dark and intimate. They sat at a corner table and held hands between four different curry dishes. They did not talk very much. Somehow it was not necessary. The impending operation was never mentioned. What little conversation took place concerned Gozo.

She wanted to make some changes to the garden and to redecorate the sitting room. She raised the matter tentatively, knowing that the whole house and garden had been planned by Nadia. He was not at all concerned.

“It’s your house now,” he said. “You must put your own character in it. Nadia would have understood.” He paused and smiled slightly. “Nadia would have liked you.”

Sensing the ease with which he was able to talk about it, she asked, “Was she like Laura?”

“Yes, in many ways. Also in many ways she was like you.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “But the past is the past. What do you want to do tomorrow?”

She thought about that and then answered, “In the morning, I want a long lie-in. Then I want to go shopping. I want to buy some new furnishing fabrics and curtains, and some things for the kitchen.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “You do that on your own because I hate shopping, then in the evening we’ll go and see a movie, have a good meal somewhere, go on to a club and do a little dancing.”

She smiled. “It’s a deal.”

He was lucky and found a parking place across the road from the flat.

The surprise in the flat was a bottle of chilled pink champagne.

“Let’s drink it in bed,” she said in delight.

So they undressed and kissed and felt each other and climbed into the bed with the two glasses and the champagne in an ice-bucket on the floor.

Between sips of champagne, they made love and it was near perfect. When they fell asleep, the bottle of champagne was half full. Three hours later, she woke him up and the lovemaking was totally perfect. She spoke some words. When they fell asleep again, the champagne bottle was empty.

He woke at dawn, slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He came out fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and changed and wearing a white towelling robe.

He stood at the foot of the bed watching her sleeping face, then he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.

For the next two hours he sat at the table studying his notes and maps and diagrams; and making more notes in a small, compact notebook.

Once or twice, she murmured in her sleep. Each time he stood up, went over to the bed and looked down at her.

At nine o’clock he went into the kitchen and made her scrambled eggs and a mug of tea. He carried the tray into the bedroom and put it next to her on the side table. Then he bent over and kissed her awake.

She reached an arm around his neck and pulled him close in a tight hug.

“You’re sweet,” she said and heard his grunt of amusement.

“No one has ever called me that before.” He pulled himself up and looked down at her. She smiled tentatively and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

She shook her head and with the back of her hand wiped the tears away.

“It’s just that I’m so happy…I never believed I could be so happy.”

“Eat your breakfast,” he said gruffly.

She pulled herself up in the bed and the sheet fell to her waist.

He surveyed her body and then murmured, “You are beautiful.”

She reached for the plate, “You told me that last night…you told me other things last night. Did you mean them?”

“I meant everything I said.”

She ate the scrambled eggs in silence, put the plate back on the side table and said, “Do you know why you love me?”

He shrugged, looking puzzled, and she knew he would never find the words.

“I’ll tell you,” she said. “It is not because you find me beautiful. It is because of Nadia.”

His head jerked up in surprise. “Nadia!”

“Yes,” she answered firmly. “You met Nadia when you were in your forties. Did you ever love any woman before that?”

“No.”

“Do you know why you loved her?”

“No.”

She spread her hands and said simply, “It was Nadia who awakened and nourished in you instincts you never knew you had…never expected to have. Once they were awakened, they remained. Those instincts remained even after Nadia and your daughter died. Without those instincts you could never have fallen in love with me. Nadia made it possible.”

He sat looking at her for a long time, then cupped her face with his hands and kissed her.

“Thank you,” he said.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a very small smile.

She rang her friend Geraldine and arranged to meet her for lunch and a shopping spree.

Creasy dressed, made several terse overseas telephone calls, then sat back at the table studying his notes and maps.

She came out of the bedroom wearing a silk blouse and navy trousers, and putting her arms into the sleeves of a cream cashmere blazer, looking radiantly lovely. She leaned over and kissed him on the ear and said, “I’ll be back at four and I promise not to spend a fortune.”