Man on Fire
by
A J Quinnell

An Orion paperback

First published in Great Britain in 1981
by Macmillan London Limited
First published in paperback in 1982
by Futura
This paperback edition published in 2004
by Orion Books Ltd,
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane,
London WC2H 9EA

Copyright  by A. J. Quinnell 1980

The right of A. J. Quinnell to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.

isbn o 752.86 398 3

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

www.orionbooks.co.uk

Give me, God, what you still have,

Give me what no one asks for;

I do not ask for wealth

Nor for success, nor even health--

People ask you so often, God, for all that

That you cannot have any left.

Give me, God, what you still have;

Give me what people refuse to accept from you.


I want insecurity and disquietude,

I want turmoil and brawl,

And if you should give them to me, my God,

Once and for all

Let me be sure to have them always,

For I will not always have the courage

To ask you for them.


--ZlRHNHELD

The Paras' Prayer

Prologue

Winter in Milan. Expensive cars lined a suburban avenue.
In the large building, set back behind the trees,
a bell rang faintly, and minutes later children, wrapped
up against the wind, spilled down the steps and scattered
to the warmth of waiting cars.
Pepino Macchetti, eight years old, head pulled down
into his raincoat collar, hurried to the corner where his
father's driver always parked the blue Mercedes. The
driver watched his approach in the mirror and leaned
behind to open the door. Pepino dived gratefully into
the leathered warmth, the door clunked shut, and the
car pulled away. The boy struggled out of his raincoat
and the car had reached the next corner before he
looked up to discover that the driver was not Angelo.
As a query formed on his lips, the Mercedes pulled in
again to the curb, the door opened, and a heavyset man
got in beside the boy. The driver waited patiently for
a gap in the homebound traffic and then pulled
smoothly away. It was only January, but Pepino Macchetti
was already the third kidnap victim in Italy that
year.

The weather in the Corsican port of Bastia was unseasonably
warm, prompting one bar owner to put
chairs and a table out on the cobbled pavement. A sol
itary man sat drinking whisky and watching the docks
where the ferry to Livorno made ready for sea.

He had been there for two hours, frequently beckoning
inside for a refill, until the owner had brought
out the bottle and a large plate of black olives.

A small boy sat on the curb across the road, watching
intently as the man steadily washed down the olives
with the whisky.

It was quiet, out of the tourist season, and the
stranger was the only thing to occupy the boy's attention.
The man aroused his curiosity. He had a stillness,
an air of isolation. His eyes didn't follow the movement
of the sparse traffic, they just looked out across the road
to the docks and the waiting ferry. Occasionally he
glanced at the boy, eyes without interest set into a
square face. There was a vertical scar over one eye and
another on his chin. But it was the eyes that held the
boy's attention. Set deep and wide, and heavy-lidded.
Narrowed as if to avoid cigarette smoke even though
he was not smoking.

The boy had heard him order the whisky in fluent
French, but he guessed that the man was not French.
His clothes, dark blue corduroy trousers and denim
jacket over a black polo-neck sweater, looked expensive
but much used, as did the leather suitcase which lay
at his feet. The boy had much experience in assessing
strangers and particularly their financial worth. This
one confused him.

The man glanced at his watch and poured the last
of the whisky. He drank it in one swallow, picked up
his suitcase and walked across the street.

The boy sat still on the curb watching him approach. The body was like the face--square, and only when the
man was close did the boy realize that he was also very
tall--well over six feet. The walk was curious against
the man's bulk, light, and with the outsides of the feet
making first contact with the ground.

He glanced down as he passed, and the boy turned
and noted that, in spite of the whisky, he walked naturally
and steadily. The boy jumped up and ran across

the street to scoop up the half-dozen olives left on the
plate.
Half an hour later he watched the ferry warp out
from the dock. There were few passengers, and he saw
the stranger standing alone at the stern rail. The ferry
gathered speed, and on an impulse the boy waved. It
was too far to see the stranger's eyes, but he felt them
on him, then he saw the hand lift off the rail and gesture
briefly in acknowledgment.

It was warmer still in Palermo, and in the walled
villa set in the foothills behind the city the windows
and shutters were open, letting the mild, southerly
breeze flow into the first floor study. A business meeting
was in progress: three men, one sitting behind a
large polished desk, the other two facing him. The
breeze helped to disperse cigar smoke. They had already
discussed routine matters. The man behind the
desk had listened as the other two reported on a range
of enterprises spanning the country from the Alpine
north to the southern tip of Sicily. Occasionally he had
interrupted briefly to have a point enlarged or clarified,
but mostly he had just listened. Then he issued a series
of concise instructions and the other two had nodded
in unison. No notes were taken.
Having disposed of routine matters, they discussed
the situation in southern Calabria. Some years earlier
the government had decided to build a steel complex
in that poverty-stricken area. The man behind the desk
had collaborated with them unofficially. Thousands of
acres had been purchased from a large variety of landowners.
Such dealings involved long and laborious negotiations,
and in the meantime the composition of the
government had changed. Ministers had come and gone
and the Communist party was questioning the feasibility
of the whole project. The man behind the desk
was irritated. Businessmen everywhere had legitimate
grievances against vacillating governments. But still,
large amounts of money were involved. There should
have been better control.The two men finished their briefing and waited as
their boss considered his decision.
He sat on a flat cushion on a high-backed chair, for
he was a small man, barely five feet tall. Although he
was over sixty, his face remained smooth, slightly
plump, matching his hands, which lay motionless on
the desk. He was dressed in a dark blue three-piece
suit, beautifully cut, disguising his slight corpulence.
His lips, thick for the face, pursed slightly in thought.
He was, in appearance, sleekly small.
He reached his decision. "We shall withdraw. I foresee
more problems. Don Mommo will have to take all
responsibility."
The two men nodded. The meeting over, they rose
and moved to the drinks cabinet. The small man poured
three glasses of Chivas Regal.
"Salut," said the small man.
"Salut, Don Cantarella," said the two in unison.

Chapter 1

She looked out through the French windows and across
the lake. The lights of the Hotel Villa D'Este on the far
bank shimmered on the smooth water.
She was a woman of classic Neapolitan beauty. But
petulance showed in the mouth. Wide and full-lipped,
it dominated her face, which was set in a series of
curves. High cheekbones, large, slanted eyes, and a
cleft chin balancing exactly a rounded forehead. Heavy
ebony hair hung straight and ended in one inward
curve to her shoulders. The curves continued down
through a slim neck to a body narrow-waisted, long-legged,
and full and high in the breast.
She wore a simple, straight dress tied at the waist
and cut square across the shoulders. Its richness came
from the texture of knitted silk and dark printed pattern
in shades of blue. Her skin had a depth, like velvet
under glass.
Her beauty controlled her mind. From an early age
it had allowed her to tread different paths from most
women. It was a weapon, and a vehicle in which to
travel through life. An armored vehicle, protecting her
from discomfort and indignity. She had a good mind
and in a body even slightly less beautiful it would have
been free to expand and develop and see beyond the
circle of light which her beauty illuminated. But when
the vehicle moved, the shadows were pushed back and
she could not see them.

Such women have to be self-centered. Eyes watch
them, ears listen. If the character is strong enough
to survive until the beauty fades, it may emerge independently;
but such transitions are rare. The fading
beauty is usually accompanied by a grievance that
nature should take away what it had earlier bestowed.

The door opened behind her and she turned as the
girl came into the room. They could only be mother and
daughter, the child an embryonic cameo of the woman,
but still leggy and skittish. The face pale and animated,
as yet unaware, open in its innocence. There was no
sign of petulance, although her mouth was tight and
her eyes angry.

"I hate her, Mama! I hate her!"

"Why?"

"I did the algebra. I did the best I could, but she is
never satisfied, that one. Now she says I have to do
algebra again tomorrow for a whole hour."

The woman embraced the child. "Pinta, you have to
try harder or else when you go back to school you will
be behind the others."

The child looked up eagerly. "When, Mama? When
do I return to school? I hate having a governess."

The woman released her and turned to look again
across the lake.

"Soon, Pinta. Your father gets back tonight, and I
shall talk to him about it. Be patient, cam, it won't be
much longer."

She turned and smiled.

""But even at school you will have to learn algebra."

"I don't mind," laughed the girl. "At school the teachers
have to ask lots of girls questions, but with a governess
I get everything myself. It's no fun, Mama. Try
to make it soon, please!"

She reached up and hugged her mother.

"It will be soon," came the reply. "I promise."
* * *

Ettore Balletto drove from Milan to Como with
mixed feelings. After a week away he missed Rika and
Pinta, but the homecoming was going to be stormy.
Decisions had to be taken and Rika wouldn't like them,
and for her dislike and acceptance were incompatible.
He drove the big Lancia quickly through the evening
traffic, with only automatic attention to the road.
In thirteen years of marriage he had learned not to
underestimate the difficulty. He thought about those
years and asked himself whether he regretted them;
but the question had no answer. While he was married
to her he was an addict. Never off the drug and so
unable to question its effect.
He didn't see himself as a weak man, and neither
did his friends. It was a simple situation. He had a
beautiful, willful and self-centered wife. He knew she
was not going to change, so he could either accept her
or leave her. He had long ago discovered that the decision
was clear-cut. Acceptance was possible, leaving
her was not. There could be no cold turkey withdrawal,
no methadone treatment.
In the early marriage it had been physical more than
mental. A tactile sating, a conscious abandonment. Now
it was the knowledge of possession that held him. The intense
pride of ownership and the counterpoint--the mirror
to reflect envy and even respect from men who did not
possess her. He was a willing and complacent addict.
The Lancia turned right as the road forked at the lake, and his thoughts turned to Pinta. He loved his
daughter. The emotion was definite but narrow. In the
spectrum of his feelings the strong colors were absorbed
by Rika. He didn't see the girl as a separate entity but
as an appendage of her mother. A child might split a
father's emotions, even compete for them, but for Ettore,
Pinta was a daughter loved in the shade.

The three sat at dinner, Ettore and Rika facing each
other across the wide mahogany table with Pinta between
them. The maid served. It was a stylized, formal
setting and lacked family warmth. This was because
meals for Rika were something of a ceremony and on
this occasion a tenseness anticipated a confrontation.

Rika had greeted her husband affectionately, mixed
him a large martini and listened with decent interest
about his trip to Rome. But while Pinta was out of the
room, she had told him that the girl was unhappy and
something must be done.

He had nodded emphatically and said, "We'll discuss
it after dinner, when she's gone to bed. I've made up
my mind about it."

So she knew an argument was inevitable and sat
through dinner preparing her tactical dispositions.
Pinta sensed the atmosphere and the cause of it and
kept silent. As soon as dinner finished she jumped up,
kissed her parents, and excused herself.

"All that algebra gave me a headache," she said
pointedly. Tm going to bed."

She left a silence, finally broken by Rika.

"She doesn't like the governess."

Ettore shrugged.

"I don't blame her. Besides, she's lonely without her
school friends."

He got up and walked to the bar and poured a cognac
and stood sipping it slowly while the maid cleared away
the dishes. When she had closed the door behind her,
he said, "Rika, we must discuss things and discuss them
rationally. First, Pinta has to go back to school, and
secondly, you must cut down on your extravagances."

She smiled at him without mirth.

"My extravagances?"

"You know what I mean. When you want something
you don't ever consider its cost." He gestured at a painting
on the wall. "While I was away last month you
bought that--nine million lire."

"But it's a Klee," she answered, "and a bargain. Don't
you like it?"

He shook his head irritably.

"That's not the point. We just cannot afford it. You
know that business is not good. In fact, it's very bad.
What with the government in such a mess and the

competition from the Far East, we'll show a big loss
this year, and I'm heavily in debt to the banks."

"How heavily?"

He shrugged expressively. "Four hundred million
lire."

She shrugged in turn.

"As my father used to say, 'A man's worth can be
judged by what he has or what he owes. Only the
amount matters.'"

His anger erupted.

"Your father lived in a different world. And if he
hadn't died in bed with those two underage putas, he
would have lived to be the most sordid bankrupt this
country ever saw."

She smiled mockingly.

"Ah, Papa, he had such a sense of timing and such
style. Something you seem to lack even with your impeccable
breeding."

He brought himself under control.

"You have to face reality, Rika. You cannot go on
spending money without thought. Unless I reach agreement
with the banks in the next month or so, I could
face great embarrassment."

She sat still for a while thinking, and then asked,
"What are you doing about it?"

He answered her carefully--anxious that she should
understand.

"There are two sides to the problem. First, we are
losing our monopoly on knitted silk. The Chinese in
Hong Kong have already perfected the techniques and
they buy their yarn from across the border twenty percent
cheaper than I can. So by the end of the year we
shall have lost the market for plain silk fabrics. We
have to compete by widening the range of both fabrics
and patterns. We have to rely on selling fashion and
style and leave the low end of the market to them."

She had been listening intently and now interjected,
"So what's stopping you?"

"Machines," he answered. "Our knitting machines
are twenty years old. Very slow, and good only for basic

fabrics. We need to equip with new Morats and Leboces,
and they cost thirty million lire each."
"And the bank won't help?" she asked.
He turned back to the bar and poured more cognac
before answering.
"That brings us to the second problem. The mill is
already heavily mortgaged, together with this house,
and the apartment in Rome. So I need a new loan to
purchase the machinery and it has to be guaranteed
from outside. That's what I'm working on."
"Have you talked to Vico?"
He held down his irritation.
"Of course I've talked to Vico. We meet again for
lunch next week to discuss it. Cara, all I'm asking is
that you keep these problems in mind. Don't spend
without thinking."
"I should change my whole life-style," she asked, because you can't compete with a few little Chinese?"
Her smile was back, but not mocking any more. "Ettore,
bring me a cognac, please."
He poured the drink, and walked over and stood
behind her, and reached over to put the glass on the
table. She remained absolutely still, and his hand left
the glass and came to the back of her neck, under her
hair. She raised her own hand and covered his and
squeezed his fingers and moved her head back until it
rested against his shirt and rolled it slowly back and
forth, her hair brushing against him. She stood, and
turned, and kissed his eyes and his mouth, and said
softly,
"Caro, don't worry. I'm sure Vico will think of something."
In bed she kissed his eyes again and took him into
her and soothed his body, and, for a while, his mind.
Later, he lay back propped up against the pillow in
the old ornate four-poster. She had left the bed, naked,
to go downstairs to fetch more cognac and cigarettes.
He reflected that only after lovemaking did she spoil
him so. She always led him when they made love. She
directed and guided, but remained female--like a peris
feet dancer leading a well-coordinated partner. Afterward
he felt not drained but weakened. A violin
overplayed, its strings slack.

She came into the bedroom holding a balloon glass
of cognac in one hand and cigarettes in the other. She
gave him the glass and stood beside the bed lighting
two cigarettes--long-stemmed, like a rose with all
thorns intact, smelling pungent from the lovemaking.
It took an effort to bring his mind back to reality.

"Pinta," he said flatly. "She must go back to school.
It's no good for her with a governess. She's eleven already,
and falling behind."

She got back into bed, handing him a lit cigarette.

"I agree," she said, to his surprise. "I was talking to
Gina about it only yesterday. You know, they are sending
Aldo and Marielle to Switzerland. It's a very good
school--just outside Geneva, and they teach in Italian.
There are many Italian children there."

He sat up straighter.

"But Rika, that makes no sense. She will be even
more unhappy away from home, and you know what
that school will cost. Vico is a successful lawyer, and
makes a fortune, much of it outside the country. Besides,
they spend a lot of time in Geneva. It's almost
a second home."

Rika rearranged the pillows behind her back, and
settled down to what she knew was going to be a difficult
argument.

"Ettore, I have worked it out. We sell the apartment
in Rome, prices are very good right now, and Rome has
become boring lately anyway. Then we use the money
to buy an apartment in Geneva. It's only a thirty-minute
flight from Milan, and it takes you that long just
to get here by car."

He sighed, but she carried on.

"Besides, I get very bored here in winter, and you
are away so much, or staying over in Milan. I could
spend a lot of time in Geneva and be with Pinta at
weekends and you could fly over at weekends as well."

She ended on a rising note of utter reasonableness.

Ettore said impatiently, "Cora, the apartment in
Rome is mortgaged, as I told you. If I sell it, all the
money goes to the bank. They will not re-lend it to me,
especially to buy property outside the country. Also,
Geneva is the most expensive city in the world. Property
prices there are double those in Rome. Even if I
could do as you wish, all we could afford would be a
very small place that you, of all people, could never
bring yourself to stay in. Even for a weekend."
There was a long cold silence while Rika digested
this. Finally she lay down in the bed and pulled the
sheet up to her chin and said, "Well, you'll have to
think of something. My child's safety is at stake. I will
not allow Pinta to be at risk. Look what happened to
the Macchetti child. He was taken right outside his
school." Her voice rose. "Right outside--in broad daylight.
In Milan! Have you no thought for your daughter?
You have to find a way."
He spoke patiently.
"Rika, we have been through this before. The Macchettis
are one of the richest families in Milan. Nobody
is going to kidnap Pinta. God knows we are not rich--
and so do the people who plan such things."
His tone was bitter. He knew that his problems were
becoming known in financial circles in the city.
She was not deterred.
"How could they know? We live as well as the Macchettis,
or better. They are a mean family who hide
their money. Look where it got them."
He persevered.
"You don't understand, Rika, it is not amateurs who
arrange these kidnappings. It's very big business, carried
out by professionals. They have their sources of
information and they don't waste time taking children
whose fathers are virtually bankrupt."
"Then what about the Venucci child?"
She had a point. Eight-year-old Valerio Venucci had
been kidnapped six months before. The Venuccis were
in the construction business and had come on bad times.
The boy was held for two months while the kidnappers
reduced their demands from one billion lire to two
hundred million, which the family finally scraped together.

"That was different," he said. "It was done by outsiders.
Frenchmen from Marseilles. They didn't know
enough about the Venucci family, and they were stupid.
They were caught two weeks after they got the money."

"Maybe," she conceded, "but young Venucci lost a
finger and has been a mental case ever since. Is that
what you want for Pinta? Is that all you care?"

It was hard to argue against such a line and he felt
his temper rising again.

He turned to look at her. The sheet had slipped to
her waist, and even lying on her back her breasts retained
their shape, high and firm.

She saw him looking and rolled onto her side away
from him.

"Anyway," she stated emphatically, "I will not allow
my daughter to go back to school in Milan unless she
has protection."

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "What
protection?"

"A bodyguard."

"A what?" He pulled her over to face him.

"A bodyguard." Her face was set and determined.
"Someone to be with her, and protect hermaybe
against Frenchmen," she added sarcastically.

He threw his arm up. The discussion was going all
wrong.

"Rika, you are being illogical! A bodyguard will cost
a fortune, and what better way to attract attention?
There are thousands of children going to school in Italy
whose parents are richer than we are, and they don't
have bodyguards."

"I don't care," she said flatly. 'They are not my children.
Do you only care about what it costs? You put a
price on Pinta's safety?"

He tried to get his thoughts together, find a line of
argument that would convince her. There was something
here that he didn't understand.


He spoke quietly and reasonably.
"Rika, we discussed the financial situation earlier.
Things are very bad. How will I afford what is, after
all, another silly extravagance?"
She glared at him.
"Pinta's well-being is not an extravagance, not a
painting on the wall or a dinner party or a new dress.
Besides, the Arredos and the Carolines--even the Turellas--have
hired bodyguards for their children"
It was out in the open now. Not a simple concern for
Pinta's safety, but an important social adjustment. She
couldn't live with the idea that they should be thought
unable or unwilling to match her social rivals. He wondered
how many other Italian industrialists had been
brought to their knees by the same incredible conceits
that afflicted their society.
She remained glaring at him and he knew that the
limits of communication had been reached.
"We'll talk about it later."
She immediately relaxed.
"Caro, I know you worry about the money. But it
will be alright and I'm only thinking about Pinta."
He nodded. His eyes closed.
"Will you talk to Vico?" she went on. "He knows
about these things, he gives advice to many people."
He opened his eyes and asked sharply, "Have you
mentioned this to him?"
"No, caro, but at lunch yesterday, Gina told me that
Vico was advising the Arredos. He has such good connections.
They are our best friends, Ettore, and you
always tell me he is such a good lawyer."
Ettore thought about it. Maybe there was a way out.
If Vico were to tell her what a crazy idea it was, perhaps
she would listen.
He reached out and turned off the light. She snuggled
up against him, her back to him, warm bottom easing
close.
"You will talk to Vico, caro?"
"Yes. I'll talk to Vico."
She snuggled still closer, happy in her victory and
pleased with her cunning. She had sidetracked him
with her talk of Geneva and slipped under his defenses.
Who would want to live among all those cold Swiss?

She turned over and reached a hand down but Ettore
was asleep, above and below the waist.


Chapter 2


Guido Arrellio moved quietly onto the terrace of the
Pensione Splendide. In the dawn light he could just
discern the bulk of the man sitting in the chair. The
sun had risen behind the hills but here, facing the bay,
it would be a few minutes before the light developed
enough to see the man clearly. He wanted to see him
clearly.

Pietro had called him at his mother's house in Positano
just after midnight to tell him that a stranger
had arrived. A man called Creasy.

Guido watched as the man's features became defined.
Five years, he thought, and there's been a
change. A year earlier someone passing through, he
forgot who, had told him that Creasy was going downhill
and was drinking. The light now showed the empty
bottle.

He sat slumped in the chair, his body slack, somnolent,
but he was not asleep. The eyes, heavy-lidded
in the square face, looked down the hill as the light

turned the terraced houses into clear shapes. Then the
face turned and Guido stepped out from the shadows.

"Qa va, Creasy."

"Qa va, Guido."

Creasy pulled himself up and stretched out his arms
and the two men embraced and laid cheek to cheek and
held each other for a long moment.

"Coffee," said Guido, and Creasy nodded, but before
letting him go held the smaller, younger man at arm's
length and studied his face. Then he dropped his hands
and sat down.

Guido went to the kitchen, deeply troubled. Creasy
really had let himself go and that indicated things were
very wrong, for he was a man who had always kept
himself well, always cared for his body and his appearance.
They had last met just after Julia's death.

The memory added to Guido's troubled mood. But
then Creasy had been well, looking hardly older than
when they had first met. As the coffee warmed, Guido
calculated: twenty-three years, it would be, and Creasy
had always seemed agelessfixed at a young forty. He
calculated again. Creasy would be nearing fifty now
and looked it, and more. What had happened in those
five years?

The last time, Creasy had stayed two weeks, silent
as usual, but his quiet presence had given Guido
strength when he needed it, putting a link back into
a broken chain.

The sun was over the circling hills as he came back
onto the terrace, and Naples was waking up, the noise
of traffic dull but distinct. A warship lay at anchor in
the bay and, beyond it, a large liner showed its stern.
Guido put the tray on the table and poured the coffee
and the two men sat quietly, drinking and looking at
the view.

Creasy broke the silence.

"Did I interrupt anything?"

Guido smiled wryly.

"My mother, having one of her mysterious and periodic
illnesses."

"You should have stayed with her."
Guido shook his head.
"Elio will arrive this morning from Milan. She gets
these bouts when she feels we're neglecting her. It's not
so bad for me, only forty minutes' drive, but it's a hell
of a nuisance for Elio."
"How is he?"
"Good. They made him a partner last year, and he
had another baby, a son."
They sat in silence again for several minutes. An
easy silence, only possible between good and long
friends who don't need talk to hold the link. The liner
was almost over the horizon before Guido spoke.
"You're tired. Come on--I'll find you a bed "
Creasy roused himself.
"What about you? You haven't slept all night."
"I'll nap after lunch. How long can you stay?"
Creasy shrugged. "I have no plans, Guido. Nothing
on. I just wanted to see you, how you were."
Guido nodded. "That's good. It's been too long. Have
you been working?"
"Not for six months. I've just come from Corsica."
They had been walking to the door, but, hearing this,
Guido stopped and looked a question.
Creasy shrugged again.
"Don't ask me why. I didn't even see anyone. I just
happened to be in Marseilles and on an impulse jumped
on the ferry."
Guido smiled. "You did something on an impulse?"
The smile was returned, tired and wan. "We'll talk
about it tonight. Where's that bed?"

Guido sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Pietro to
get back from the market. The pensione had only six
rooms, but it was busy, and at lunch and dinner they
had a good local trade. Julia had started that, quickly
building a reputation for simple, well-cooked food. Her
Maltese-style rabbit stew had become well-known in
the district and she had soon mastered the local dishes.
After her death Guido had carried on and found to his

surprise that he too had a touch. The clientele had
stayed, first, perhaps, out of sympathy, but later because
of the merits of the food.

Guido wondered what had happened to Creasy. He
had never been easy to understand, but Guido knew
him better than anyone. He doubted it could have been
a woman. In all the years there had never been a
woman to affect Creasy in more than a passing way
Even twenty years before, when Creasy had taken up
with a French nurse in Algeria. Guido thought that
she had been special, but after three months she had
moved on.

"It's like trying to open a door with the wrong key,"
she had remarked to Guido. "It goes into the lock but
it won't turn."

Guido had repeated the remark to Creasy, who had
just said, "Maybe the lock's rusty."

Guido also doubted that Creasy had been involved
in any event which had traumatically marred him.
After a lifetime of events that would leave few men
unmarked, Creasy had always been just Creasy.

He lay sleeping now in Guido's own rooms. After ten
minutes Guido had looked in on him. He had lain on
his side, the sheet at his waist in the heated room, and
Guido had examined him covertly. The body was slack
with a faded tan and all the scars were old scars. The
back laced with faint pale weals which curved round
to each side of the stomach. The small puncture marks
under the left ribs. The backs of the hands mottled with
the marks of old burns. He new that underneath the
sheet one leg had a badly stitched scar above the knee,
stretching almost to the groin. The face had not escaped,
a thin scar going vertically from the right eyebrow
to the hairline, and another, smaller, on the left
side of the jaw.

They were all familiar to Guido and he knew their
histories. There was nothing new. The body of the sleeping
man had been much abused, but that abuse had
never before been self-inflicted.

Pietro interrupted his thoughts, coming into the

kitchen with two baskets under his arms. He stopped
in surprise at seeing Guido.

"I expected you later in the day," he said, putting
the baskets on the table.

"An old friend," said Guido, standing up and peering
into the baskets.

Pietro started to unload the fruit and vegetables for
Guido's inspection.

"Some friend, to bring you from your mother's sick
bed so quickly."

"Some friend," agreed Guido. "He's sleeping now."


Pietro was curious. He had worked for Guido for four
years, ever since Guido had caught him stealing the
hubcaps off his car. He got a severe beating and some
questions. Then, learning that he had no home, Guido
had taken him back to the pensione and given him a
meal and a cot under the stairs.

He hadn't known then, and didn't know now, that
Guido had seen himself at the same age.

Guido always treated the boy much as he had on the
first day--gruffly, always abrupt, and without the
least sign of affection. Pietro, in return, retained his
original cheeky, disrespectful attitude. Both knew the
affection that existed, but it never showed. It was a
very un-Italian relationship. Over the years, Pietro had
developed into a practical right arm for Guido and, with
the help of two aged waiters who came in to serve lunch
and dinner, they ran the small pensione between them.

In spite of living with him for so long, Pietro knew
little of his past. Guido's mother came to the pensione
on rare occasions and was garrulous and had talked
about Guido's brother and his family in Milan, and
about Julia, who had died five years before. But she
was strangely silent about Guido's own past. Pietro
knew that he spoke perfect French and passable English
and Arabic, and assumed he had traveled widely.
He never asked questions. Guido's reticence had rubbed
off on him.

So the new arrival puzzled him. When the bell had

rung just before midnight he had assumed that Guido
had returned early. The big man standing under the
light had appeared menacing at first.

"Is Guido in?" he had asked. Pietro had noticed the
Neapolitan accent.

He had shaken his head.

"When is he coming back?"

Pietro had shrugged. The man had not seemed surprised
by this lack of cooperation.

"I'll wait," he said and brushed past the boy and
walked up the stairs and out onto the terrace.
Pietro considered for a few moments and then followed
him. He felt he should get angry, demand an
explanation, but the feeling of menace was gone. The
man was sitting in one of the cane chairs that were
scattered about. He was looking down at the lights of
the city. His manner and demeanor reminded the boy
of Guido.

He asked if the man wanted anything.

"Scotch," had come the reply. "A bottle if you have
it."

He had brought the bottle and a glass, and then after
some more thought had just asked the man his name.

"Creasy," he answered. "And you?"

"Pietro. I help Guido here."

The man had poured the Scotch, taken a sip, and
looked hard at the boy.

"Go to bed. I won't steal anything."

So Pietro had gone downstairs and despite the late
hour phoned Guido at his mother's. Guido had said,
"Alright, go to bed. I'll be back sometime tomorrow."


They were preparing lunch when Guido surprised
the boy by suddenly remarking: "He's American."

"Who?"

Guido pointed at the ceiling. "My friend. Creasy."

"But he speaks perfect Italian--Like a Neapolitan."

Guido nodded. "I taught him."

Pietro's surprise continued as Guido went on to talk
at length.

"We were in the Legion together, and afterward--
until eight years ago, when I married."
"The Legion?"
"The Foreign Legion," Guido said. "The French one."
The boy became excited. For him, as for most people,
the words conjured up all the wrong images: sand
dunes, remote forts, unrequited love.
"I joined in 1955 in Marseilles." Guido smiled at the
keen interest on the boy's face. "I was in for six years."
He stopped chopping at the vegetables and his normally
impassive face softened slightly at the memory.
"It wasn't like you think. It never is. They were good
years--the best."

It was the arrival of Creasy and the boy's obvious
curiosity that triggered Guido's memory and took him
back to 1945. Eleven years old. A father dead in North
Africa. A six-year-old brother, always hungry, and his
own hunger. A mother whose faith and fatalism were
such that her only answer to catastrophe was to pray,
harder and longer, in the church at Positano.
Guido had no such faith. He had walked the fifty
kilometers to Naples. He knew the Americans were
there and so food was there.
He became one of the army of scroungers, and discovered
a gift for it. He had a keen intelligence, and
what he couldn't beg, he stole. He quickly established
himself, with a corner of a cellar to sleep in, among
half a dozen other urchins, and he learned the ways of
the Americans, their weaknesses and generosities.
He learned which restaurants they ate in and which bars they drank in, and the brothels and the women
they sated themselves in. He learned the best time to
beg: when drink had fueled their generosity; and the
best time to steal: when sex and desire diverted their
attention. He learned every bend and corner of the narrow,
cobbled streets, and he survived. Once a week he
walked the coast road back to Positano, carrying chocolate
and money and tins of meat. Elio no longer went


hungry and his mother prayed and lit candles in the church, her faith justified, her prayers answered.
Hunger and necessity are poor teachers of morality.
A society that cannot provide the basics of life does not get its laws obeyed. Guido never went back to live in
Positano. Naples was his school, his breadbasket, and
the horizon of his future. First he just survived, living
like a rodent on the refuse of the city; after the mere fact of survival, his intelligence took him on. By the
time he was fifteen he led a dozen others like him,
organized into a gang that stole anything that couldn't be bolted or cemented down. Childhood simply passed
him by. He knew nothing of children's games, of childlike
emotions. "Right" was first survival and then possession.
"Wrong" was weakness and getting caught. He learned early that boldness was the key to leadership.
Others watched and waited, and when they recognized
boldness, they followed.

The Americans liberated the city and they liberated
crime. Under the Fascists, first Italian and then German,
the criminals had lean pickings. Without the protection
of fair, democratic, and therefore pliable justice, they lost their power. Even the biggest and most highly
organized criminals had been shot or thrown into jail, and many innocents as well. The Americans released the innocents, and the criminals with them. Justice and crime returned to Italy hand in hand.
By the early 1950's the organization had clicked back
into place. Prostitutes, many of them coerced by hunger,
were brought under control. The bosses assigned
districts, designated pimps, and took their percentages. The wartime damage was repaired. Marshall Aid funded the reconstruction, and the bosses took their
cut. Restaurants and shops and taxis and landlords began making profits again and the bosses protected
them against criminals and were naturally paid for the
service.
Guido fitted neatly into this pattern. With his well-organized
gang of adolescents he operated as an in
strument in the reborn structure. He was recognized
and rewarded as a coming young man. His particular
asset was his violence--calculated, but seemingly
mindless in execution. He had learned the lesson early
that unexpected pain is the quickest way to get someone's
attention. He used to tell his followers:

"Always retaliate first."

He was assigned an area behind the docks and his
main job was to emphasize to the local small businessmen
that protection was necessary. Having provided
the proof, he then provided the protection. So he had
prospered, and as an additional reward was allowed to
operate on the docks themselves. He and his gang practiced
larceny on a grand scale. As supplies and equipment
for the postwar reconstruction poured through
the docks, a gratifying amount was diverted and usually
resold to its original consignees. With accumulated
profits, he bought the building that housed the present
pensione.

It had been the house of a moderately wealthy merchant
and was spacious and well-built, with a fine large
terrace overlooking the bay. The merchant had died,
and his two sons had been Fascists, and in the confused
situation at the end of the war, they too had died. The
house passed to a nephew who had also been a Fascist--
but not confused. He decided to go to America, and with
the money he got for the house was able to arrange the
necessary papers.

Guido bought the place in his mother's name, since
he was still a minor. Then he partitioned the large
rooms and turned it into a brothel for the exclusive use
of American officers. It did well and was known familiarly
as the Splendide. Guido's mother, unknowingly
but happily, banked the profits and lit candles in
the church.

By 1954 Guido had put himself in a position to move
up within the structure and foresaw a long and rising
career ahead of him. But as the bosses above him prospered,
so they argued, and finally they fought. The
structure, nationwide, had not yet become as solidified

and disciplined as in pre-Fascist days. The old bosses from the south had not yet been able to impose their
authority. They had just begun to do so in Rome and
in the industrial north, but they had left Naples until
last. It was traditionally the least tractable city in Italy,
and its criminals were no exception.
Two factions struggled for power in Naples. Guido
had had to choose, and so made the first mistake of his
budding career. He aligned himself with a boss called
Vagnino, and this was perhaps natural, as Vagnino's
strength lay in prostitution and the docks. But Vagnino was old, and had spent too long in prison, and lacked
the will. Consequently, the war went badly for Guido and his gang. Being low in the scale of things, they
were in the forefront of the battle. Within a month,
half his gang were dead or had deserted, and Guido
himself was in the hospital, his back and buttocks pitted
with lead from the blast of a shotgun. He was
lucky--he could have been facing the other way.
While he lay on his stomach, his mentor Vagnino,
tired and careless, ate dinner in the wrong restaurant
and was shot to death before he finished the fritto misto.
At this point, the police made a belated show of their
authority. Newspapers and politicians demanded action.
Deals were struck between the victors, led by one
Floriano Conti, and the public prosecutor.
Evidence was provided and an assorted dozen low-echelon
operators were tried and sent to prison. Guido
was among them. Sitting stiff and sore in the caged
box in the courtroom, he heard the judge sentence him
to two years in prison. He was eighteen years old.
Prison had been a terrible shock. Not the hardships
or the indignity--his upbringing had prepared him for
that. He discovered that he suffered from mild but positive
claustrophobia, which manifested itself in acute
depression. The Italian penal system of the time took
no cognizance of such problems and he suffered badly.
For two months after his release he stayed in Positano.
Not in his mother's home, but on the hills above
the town, sleeping in the open, high above the cliffs
and with the space of the ocean in front of him and the
hills ranging far behind. He slowly readjusted and he
resolved never to allow it to happen again. The experience
had not reformed him, but in the future getting
caught was not an option. Out there in the open, he
also thought about his future. The Splendide brothel
in Naples had been closed down by the police; the building
was unoccupied and producing no income. In the
past two years, Conti had tightened his grip on the city
and cemented working alliances with influential officials,
both in the police and the local government.
Guido knew that to put the Splendide back into business
he would need Conti's tacit approval, so his first
act on arriving in Naples was to seek a meeting.
Conti was still a young man, in his middle thirties,
and he was of the new breed of bosses. Having established
his territory by violence, he now adopted the
posture of the practical businessman. He realized that
to take full advantage of his power it was necessary to
come to arrangements with other nationwide bosses.
Cooperation was the theme, and when emissaries had
arrived from Palermo he had agreed to a series of meetings
to establish spheres of influence and a pecking
order of power.
These meetings during 1953-54 were curiously similar
to the election of a Pope--held in great secrecy,
and the result announced by something less than a puff
of smoke. A great deal of jockeying for position went
on. The hard traditionalists from Calabria did not want
the more sophisticated bosses from Milan and Turin to
have too much power. Similarly, those in the center
from Rome and Naples wanted more of a say than had
been normal before the war. Everybody accepted that
there had to be order and structure and that someone
had to be an arbitrator--which, in effect, meant the
man of most influence.
The bosses of the north wouldn't accept the Calabrians
and vice versa. Moretti in Rome was considered
too weak and Conti himself too young.
As usual under such circumstances, a compromise
was reached. The meetings had been instigated and
organized from Palermo. The boss there was Cantarella.
Small, dapper, and a diplomat. He was quietly
determined to reestablish Palermo as the fountainhead
and he had read the signs properly. The compromise
installed him as interim arbitrator. None of those present
fully appreciated his cunning and political genius
and were not to realize that over the next twenty years
those gifts would sustain and strengthen his position.
The scene was set for a long period of relative peace-- and great profit for all concerned.
Guido had been surprised and gratified by the
warmth of Conti's greeting and also impressed by the
businesslike appearance of the offices. The savagery of
two years ago truly was a thing of the past. Bygones
were bygones, Conti assured him. Things were different
now. Certainly he should reopen the Splendide. They
would cooperate. Financial arrangements would be
made.
Guido had left the office feeling confident. His confidence
was misplaced. Conti had not forgiven. Guido
and his gang had been the most lethal arm of the opposition
and Conti would not allow him to reestablish
himself.
But one of the first edicts from Palermo had been
that internal fratricide was to be kept to a minimum.
Conti did not yet feel strong enough to defy the new
arbitrator. He had an obvious solution. Let Guido reopen
his brothel, and at an appropriate time Conti
would withdraw his protection. The police would do his
job for him and his connections in the judiciary would
ensure that Guido was put away for a long time. It was
a modern, progressive solution.

Guido did not explain all this to Pietro. He started
his story at the point when he received a tip-off that
his protection had been lifted and that the police were
coming for him. He never knew who it was who called
him that night, but obviously Conti had his own enemies.
It had been a terrible moment. He realized that
Conti had not forgiven and he reviewed his options.
They were bleak: He could hide, but not for long. Either
the police or Conti's people would eventually find him.
He could fight, but he couldn't win. Finally, he could
leave the country. He never considered trusting himself
to the courts. Prison was not an option.
He had written a letter to his mother, giving her the
name of an honest lawyer in Naples and instructing
her to have that lawyer rent out the property and ensure
that the proceeds were used for her support and
Elio's continued education. He finished by telling her
that he would be away, perhaps for a long time. Then
he went down to the docks where he still had friends
who could hide him, if only for a few days.
His mother received the letter the next day and went
to the church and prayed. The same night Guido was
smuggled aboard an old freighter and two nights later
was smuggled off in Marseilles. He was twenty years
old, with little money and no prospects. The next day
he signed on with the Legion and within a week was
in Algeria at the training camp at SidibelAbbes.
"Were you frightened?" asked Pietro. "Did you know
what to expect?"
Guido shook his head and smiled briefly at the memory.
"I had heard the usual stories and I thought it would
be terrible, but I had no choice. I didn't have papers.
I couldn't speak anything but Italian, and I had very
little money. Besides, I figured after a year or two I
could desert and come back to Naples."
It hadn't been like the stories at all. Certainly it was
tough, especially the first weeks; and the discipline was
implacable. But he was tough himself, and the training
interested him and developed latent talents. The discipline
he accepted, for again he had no choice. Punishment
for disobeying orders was either a spell in the
punishment battalion, which was hell on earth, or, for
minor offenses, the stockade, which in his case would
have been worse. He was careful, therefore, to obey all
orders, and was a model recruit, which would have
surprised a lot of people in Naples.

He too had surprises. The first was the food--varied
and excellent, with good wine from the Legion's own
vineyards. His mistaken concept of the Legion as an
old-fashioned romantic desert army was quickly dispelled.
It was highly modern, with the most up-to-date
equipment and techniques. Its officers were the cream
of the French army and its noncommissioned officers,
promoted from the ranks, were veterans of Europe's
armies and had been battle-hardened all over the
world. There was a large German contingent, whose
collective memory went back only to 1945. East Europeans,
who didn't want to or couldn't go back behind
the Iron Curtain. Spaniards, who might have been debris
from the Civil War. A few Dutchmen and Scandinavians,
and several Belgians, some of whom were
probably French, as French citizens were not accepted
in the Legion except as officers. There were very few
Englishmen, and only one American.

The Legion was reconstituting itself after the shambles
of Vietnam and Dien Bien Phu. Several thousand
Legionnaires had been captured at that battle and over
fifteen hundred killed. By its nature and composition,
it was a corps invariably used as a last resort. Its history
was a history of lost, last, futile battles. For a
government losing an empire with poor grace, it was
gratifyingly expendable.

Such an army under such a sentence could be excused
for a lack of purpose or morale, but to Guido this
was another surprise, for the Legion generated its own
purpose. It fed off its lack of nationalism to create its
own entity. A Legionnaire was a mental orphan--the
Legion itself the orphanage. Guido discovered that it
was the only army in the world that never retired its
soldiers. When too old to fight, a Legionnaire could, if
he wished, stay on in the Legion home, or work in its
vineyards or its handicraft center. He was never forced
to go out into a world he had rejected.

The French people took pride in the Legion. They

believed it fought for France, thought of itself as
French. This was a misconception. It fought for itself.
That it was an instrument of French Government policy
was incidental. Even the French officers found their
loyalties pulled more to the Legion than to their country.

The training lasted for six months. During that time
Guido's short, thickset body filled out. The hard work
and the good food brought him to a peak of fitness. He
found himself taking pride in this, for like many young
men he had never realized his physical capabilities.
The Legion had a traditional pride in being able to
outmarch any other army on earth, and within a month
Guido had completed his first twenty-mile route march,
carrying fifty pounds of equipment. He took pride also
in his handling of weapons, especially the light machine
gun. Its power and mobility pleased him and he
found an affinity with it. This was noted by the instructors.

It was a period of mental adjustment. He had always
been taciturn and self-contained, and this aspect of his
character deepened. He didn't make friends among the
other recruits. He was the only Italian among his intake,
and as he struggled to learn French he felt out
of place. Early on he had been tested as to whether he
could be pushed around. His reaction had been savage
and uncompromising. A big Dutchman, mean and hard,
had needled him a point too far. Guido got his retaliation
in first and the Dutchman took a painful beating.
He had not broken discipline. The training NCO's allowed
this kind of thing to happen. They wanted to
know who could take it.

After that, Guido had been left alone, and the instructors
guessed that the Italian might develop into
a good Legionnaire. After training, he volunteered for
the elite First Paratroop Regiment based at Zeralda,
twenty miles west of Algiers. The Algerian war was
building into a major confrontation, and naturally the
Legion was at the forefront. The 1st R.E.P. was to be
the most successful and feared unit in the French army.

Guido was assigned to "B" Company. The company sergeant
had just returned to active service after nine
months at a Viet Minh prisoner-of-war camp. He had
been captured at Dien Bien Phu. He was the American,
Creasy.
It had been several months before the two men recognized
the empathy between them. There was a gap
at first--Guido, an untried Legionnaire and Creasy, a
decorated veteran of Vietnam and a top sergeant. But
there were similarities of character: both taciturn and
introspective, shunning normal contact, and intensely
private, in an environment where privacy was hard to
find.
The first time that Creasy talked to him, apart from
issuing orders, was after an action near a town called
Palestro. A patrol of French conscripts had been ambushed
by the Front Liberation Nationale and many
killed. The Legion went after them, and it was the 1st
R.E.P. that caught up. "B" Company was dropped to
cut off the escape route, and Guido saw action for the
first time. He was confused by the noise and movement,
but quickly settled down and used his light machine
gun to good effect. The FLN unit was wiped out.
That night the company camped in the hills above
Palestro, and as Guido ate his field rations Creasy came over and sat beside him and talked a little. It was only
the gesture of a company sergeant letting one of his
new men know that he had done well in his first action,
but Guido had felt good with the contact. He already
had a deep respect for Creasy, but this was universal
in the Legion. He was known as the complete Legionnaire,
an expert with all weapons, and a natural tactician.
Guido knew that he had fought for six years in
Vietnam and before that had been in the U.S. Marines,
for how long nobody knew. His favorite weapons were
the grenade and the submachine gun, and he always
seemed to carry more grenades and spare magazines
than anyone else.
Shortly after Palestro, the company had again been
dropped behind a retreating FLN unit. This time the
FLN had got away, and again at the evening meal
Creasy had brought his rations over to sit with Guido.
They talked about small arms and their effectiveness.
Guido always carried a pistol and four spare clips.
Creasy told him that it was a waste of weight. A pistol
was useful only if it had to be concealed. In combat,
concealment was unnecessary. The submachine gun,
on the other hand, was the perfect weapon for close
combat. Creasy told him to forget the pistol and carry
more spare magazines for his SMG.

Guido was a willing pupil. Having decided he liked
the life, he was determined to succeed, and in Creasy
he recognized the perfect teacher. He had been told of
the remark made by the legendary Colonel Bigeard
after watching Creasy retake a position at Dien Bien
Phu: "The most effective soldier I have ever seen."

So Guido took the advice to heart and modeled himself
on his sergeant, and by the time the battle of Algiers
started in January '57 he had made his mark and
had been promoted to Legionnaire first class. A year
later he too was an NCO and the friendship between
the two men had grown into a recognizable pact. It had
been a slow process, for both had long emotional antennae
and these probed carefully. They were at first
unaware of the process. Few words were exchanged,
and these related almost entirely to military subjects,
but as Guido's knowledge increased, the conversations
became less teacher-to-pupil dialogues and more discussions
between equals. Both noticed also that the
silences between them were never oppressive or strained,
and it was this that brought the surprising realization
to each that he had found a friend.

At that time Colonel Dufour commanded the regiment
and as the pace of the war quickened he recognized
both the ability of the two men and their friendship.
The 1st R.E.P. was constantly in action, and
Creasy and Guido were put together with their units
whenever possible. They made a formidable partnership
and became well-known throughout the Legion.

When it became obvious that de Gaulle was planning


A_
apolitical settlement of the war, the white settlers, the pieds noirs, reacted in fury. They set up barricades in
Algiers and defied the army. Many of the professional
soldiers were in sympathy, particularly the tough
"para" units, who had borne the brunt of the battle.
The gendarmes were ordered to clear the barricades, and two para units, one of which was the Legion's 1st
R.E.P., were ordered up in support. Both units dragged
their feet and the gendarmes lost many dead and
wounded in the operation. Colonel Dufour was relieved
of his command, but instead of being replaced by a
politically reliable officer, the high command put Elie
Denoix de St. Marc in temporary charge. St. Marc was
the epitome of a Legion officer. Tough and idealistic,
and uncompromisingly brave, he was worshipped by
his men and could have led them anywhere. He chose
to lead them into the "generals' rebellion" of 1961
against de Gaulle, and the 1st R.E.P. became the cornerstone
of the generals' plans. They expected the rest
of the Legion to follow suit, but they had miscalculated,
and only the 1st R.E.P. under St. Marc was active
against the government, even arresting Gambiez, the
Army Commander-in-Chief.
The rebellion failed, and on the 27th of April, 1961,
the twelve-hundred Legionnaires of the 1st R.E.P. dynamited
their barracks and fired off all their ammunition
into .the air. The pieds noirs lined the route and
wept as the paras drove out of Zaralda, singing Edith
Piafs "Je ne regrette rien."
The regiment was disgraced and disbanded. It had
lost three hundred men in the war for France, but de
Gaulle was in a vengeful mood. Rank and file were
absorbed into other units of the Legion. The officers
fled to join the O.A.S., the underground extremist
army, or surrendered to stand trial for mutiny. The
senior NCO's were discharged--Creasy and Guido
among them.
They had done only what they had been taught to
do--obey their officers.
* * *
"They kicked you out?" asked Pietro incredulously.
"Even though you had only followed orders?"

Guido shrugged. "It was a time of great political
passion. At one point we expected to parachute onto
Paris itself and arrest de Gaulle. The French people as
a whole were horrified, and with good reason. At that
time, the Legion's strength was over thirty thousand
men, and nothing could have stopped us if the Legion
had acted as a whole."

He worked silently for a while and then continued.

"It was the first time that the French realized what
a threat the Legion could be to France itself. That's
why, even today, the bulk of the Legion is based in
Corsica and other locations outside mainland France."

"So what did you do?" asked the boy.

"Creasy and I stuck together. The only training we
had was military-1 was still wanted by the police here
and Creasy had nowhere to go. So we looked for a war
and found one in Katanga."

"Katanga?"

Guido smiled. "I keep forgetting how young you are.
Katanga was a province of the Belgian Congo. It's
called Shaba now. When the Belgians pulled out in '61,
Katanga tried to break away. They're a different tribe,
and they had most of the mineral wealth. A lot of mercenaries
went to fight in Katanga."

They had joined a French ex-para colonel called Trinquier.
He knew them from Algeria and was delighted
to recruit such experienced men. So they became mercenaries,
which wasn't much change really, except that
they missed the Legion. This joint feeling of loss
brought them even closer together and their friendship
developed into a bond rare between two people of the
same sex. Their fighting skills soon became a byword
among the other mercenaries. They were so mentally
tuned that they moved and fought as a single entity
without apparent communication. They were particularly
adept at "laundering buildings"--clearing the
enemy in an urban situation. They had their own techniques,
giving each other cover and moving from room

to room or building to building in a rhythm so precise
that other mercenaries would stand and watch in admiration.
They brought the use of grenade and submachine
gun to a fine art.

With the failure of the Katanga secession they joined
other mercenaries in the Yemen under Denard, but
moved back to the Congo as soon as Tshombe returned
from exile. Denard ran the French 6th Commando, and
Guido and Creasy fought throughout the messy, convoluted
war until Mobuto triumphed. Then, together
with hundreds of other mercenaries, they retreated to
Bukavu. They ended up in internment in Rwanda under
the auspices of the Red Cross. They had to give up
their weapons, and for Guido the next five months were
a torment. Although they had plenty of room to move
about, the fact of restriction brought on his claustrophobia.
To keep his mind occupied, Creasy taught him
English and had Guido teach him Italian. Guido found
the English hard going, but Creasy proved to have a
good ear for languages and quickly mastered Italian.
They began speaking the language more and more together
until, about a year later, they switched to it
completely from French.

After five months in Kigali they were repatriated
out to Paris. Two weeks in the bars and brothels of
Pigalle wiped out the bad memories, and they started
to look for work. Mercenaries were not very welcome
in black Africa, and anyway they thought a change of
location might be stimulating. Apart from his months
in the P.O.W. camp, Creasy had liked Indochina, and
when they received a tentative approach from a certain
Major Harry Owens, U.S. Army (retired), they listened
with interest.

The Americans were by now deeply involved in Vietnam
and finding the going surprisingly tough. It was
becoming apparent that sheer weight of manpower and
ordnance might not be enough.

The Central Intelligence Agency naturally had definite
ideas on how to win the war and with a huge
budget was busily recruiting and training a series of

private armies, both in South Vietnam and neighboring
Laos. They needed instructors for Laos, and ex-sergeants
of the Legion made excellent instructors. Creasy's
experience in French Vietnam was an added bonus.

So they found themselves in Laos, nominally working
as loading supervisors for the CIA. front company,
"Air America." This was a charter firm which was supposed
to ferry freight around Southeast Asia. In fact,
it supplied equipment and food and much else to the
CIA's private armies.

Creasy and Guido spent eighteen months training
Meo tribesmen on the Plain of Jars.

As things got worse for the Americans, the CIA responded
by setting up "intrusion units." These were
mercenary groups that intruded into North Vietnam
and Cambodia to harass the Vietcong supply lines.
Creasy and Guido were "promoted" to such a unit, designated
on the CIA computer at Langley Field, Virginia,
as P.U.X.U.S.P.40. This meant "penetration unit
non-American personnel containing 40 men." The computer
considered it to be expendable.

By late 1971, P.U.X.U.S.P.40 had been expended to
the tune of thirty of its original members. Creasy and
Guido decided to take a long, or perhaps permanent,
break. They had done twelve covert missions and
picked up several wounds apiece. They had also accumulated
a great deal of moneythe computer had been
generous.

In the meantime, Guido had learned that the Naples
police .could be persuaded not to look for him if he returned,
and that Conti, having prospered, had moved
his base to Rome, leaving Naples to a viceroy who had
no great memory of events during 1953.

The two mercenaries decided to take a trip to Europe
so that Guido could visit his family and check out his
property. Then they would take a look around and see
what offered itself.

Guido had found his building in Naples in a state
of good repair. It was rented out to the Church as a
dormitory for unwed mothersa quaint link with its

past. They stayed in Positano with his mother. Elio was in his last term at Rome University, studying
economics. Guido's mother, aging now, gave thanks in the church for her son's safe return and lit a dozen
candles. Such generosity, she knew, would have its reward.


"And that was the end of my mercenary days," Guido said to the engrossed boy.

"The end? You just stopped?"

"We went to Malta," answered Guido shortly, "and
I got married and came back here."

Pietro knew that, for the time being, he would learn
nothing more. They worked on in silence. In half an
hour the first lunch customers would arrive.


Chapter 3


Ettore and his lawyer had lunch at Granelli's. They sat
in the semiprivacy of an alcove table and ate prosciutto with melon, followed by vitello tonnato, accompanied
by a bottle of vintage Barolo. Slightly too heavy for the
veal, but Vico liked it, so that's what they drank.

They discussed Ettore's financial problems. Vico was
smoothly reassuring. Matters could be arranged. He
would personally talk to the bank managers. Ettore
must not be pessimistic.

Ettore felt at a disadvantage. He always did with 46

his lawyer. Vico Mansutti was urbane, handsome, immaculately
dressed, and cynical. He wore a silk-worsted
suit with a faint pinstripe, tailored, Ettore knew,
by Huntsman's of Savile Row. His shirt was Swiss cotton
voile, his tie Como silk and his shoes Gucci. There
was nothing synthetic about Vico--at least on the outside.
He wore his hair fashionably long, and a black
mustache balanced his lean, tanned face. As they
talked his eyes noted every movement in the restaurant,
and he would occasionally acknowledge a greeting
with a flash of even, white teeth. At thirty-six, two
years younger than Ettore, he was acknowledged as
the cleverest, best-connected lawyer in Milan.

So his words calmed Ettore but did nothing to dispel
his feelings of inferiority.

A waiter drifted by and poured more Barolo, and
Ettore moved on to his next problem--Rika. He explained
about her obsession over Pinta's safety and,
because Vico was a Mend, explained about the social
factors. Vico listened with an amused expression on his
face.

"Ettore," he said, smiling at his friend's doleful look,
"I envy you profoundly. The problems you think you
have are tiny problems, and the advantages you ignore
are real and enormous."

"Tell me," said Ettore. "I seem to have misplaced
them."

Vico put down his fork and held up his left hand
with fingers spread. "Number one," he said, putting his
right forefinger onto his left thumb. "Your reputation
is such that, even owing the banks so much, they will
continue to support you until conditions improve."

"You mean my family's reputation," interjected Ettore,
"particularly my father's."

Vico shrugged. For him it was the same thing. He
moved onto the next finger.

"Number two--your house on Lake Como, which
you bought eight years ago for eighty million lire, is
today worth two hundred fifty million and still appreciating."

"And mortgaged to the bank for two hundred million,"
said Ettore.

Again the shrug; the finger moved on.

"Number three, you have a daughter whose charm and beauty is only matched"--the finger moved again-- "by number four--your wife, Rika. Yet you sit there
looking as though your pupick dropped off."

He signaled the waiter, ordered coffee, and turned back to Ettore.

"You must get things into perspective. You have this
little problem because you indulge Rika too much.
That's entirely natural. Any man on earth, married to
Rika, would do the same--I would."

He paused to drink some wine and then continued.

"The mistake you made, if I may say so, was allowing Rika to take Pinta out of school after the Carmelita
kidnapping."

"Now wait!" Ettore protested. "I knew nothing about
it. I was in New York. When I got back she had already
hired the governess. It was a fait accompli."

Vico smiled. "Yes, well, of course Rika is impulsive,
but at the time she made quite a drama of it. Now to
send Pinta back to school under the same conditions
would be to admit she was wrong." He raised an eyebrow.
"When was the last time Rika admitted that she
was wrong?"

Ettore smiled ruefully at the rhetorical question.

"So," continued Vico, "you must, as the Chinese say,
allow Rika to save face."

"And how," asked Ettore, "do I accomplish that?"

Vico shrugged. "Hire a bodyguard."

Ettore became irritated.

"Vico. You are supposed to have a trained logical
mind. We've just spent half an hour discussing my financial
position--or lack of it. One of the reasons for
this lunch was to ask you, as my friend and lawyer,
and as Rika's friend, to explain to her the realities of
the situation."

Vico reached forward and patted Ettore's hand.

"My talking to Rika will not save her face and that's

the immediate problem. Besides when I suggested you
hire a bodyguard, I didn't specify what type of bodyguard."

They were interrupted by the waiter with the coffee.

"What do you mean?" Ettore asked when they were
alone again. Vico leaned forward, speaking more quietly
now.

"Ettore, there are many sides and angles to this kidnap
business. You know that it's highly organized and
nearly always carried out under the auspices of organized
crime. It has become a huge business--eighteen
billion lire last year. The big boys control it."

Ettore nodded. "The Mafia."

Vico winced. "Such a melodramatic word. It conjures
up a bunch of Sicilian peasants stealing olive oil."

He caught the waiter's eye again, and ordered two
cognacs, then took a leather case from an inside pocket
and extracted two cigars. A small gold guillotine appeared
from his fob pocket and the cigars were meticulously
beheaded. He passed one over to Ettore, and
the waiter returned with the cognacs and a light. Vico
favored him with a smile, puffed contentedly, and resumed
his lecture.

"Most families who feel threatened either send their
children abroad, usually to Switzerland, or arrange
very elaborate protection--specially guarded schools,
bullet-proof cars--and, of course, highly competent
bodyguards."

"Expensive bodyguards," Ettore said.

Vico agreed. "About thirty million lire a year. All
told."

Ettore raised his eyes expressively, but the lawyer
went on unperturbed.

"Such bodyguards are supplied through specialized
agencies. The best are even international, with branches
in several cities, including Milan and Rome. There is,
however, a shortage brought about by all the terrorism
going on in Europe--Red Brigades, Red Army, Basque
Nationalists, and so on. So really good bodyguards are
hard to find, and the price is rising accordingly."

"I understand," interrupted Ettore, "and it doesn't
solve my problem. Just the opposite."

. Vico held up a hand. "Be patient, my friend. There
is another aspect to this business. As an additional and
purely financial consideration, many wealthy families
take out insurance against having to pay ransoms. The
government does not allow Italian insurance companies
to write that kind of policy. The believe, quite
reasonably, that it might encourage kidnapping. However,
insurance companies abroad are not so restricted.
In fact, Lloyd's of London leads the world in this type
of coverage. Last year they collected over one hundred
million pounds in premiums. Two of their underwriting
partnerships specialize. One even has a subsidiary that
will negotiate with the kidnappers. It's all very civilized
and British. There are two conditions. One, that
the premiums must be paid outside of Italy, and the
other, that the insured must never disclose that he is
insured. The reason is obvious."

Ettore was slightly bored. "It's very interesting,
Vico, but what's it got to do with my problem?"

Vico pointed his cigar at him. "Is your factory insured?"

"Of course it is, and the beneficiary is the bank."

"Right," said Vico, "but when you negotiated the
premium, the rate depended on the amount of security
you provided--correct?" Ettore nodded, and Vico continued.

"Of course they insist on burglar alarms and so on,
but if you provide a security service--watchmen, even
guard dogs, the premium rate is much reduced. Well,
the same thing applies to kidnap premiums, and because
the rate is so high, and the amounts very large,
any saving is a major factor."

He warmed to his subject.

"Consider a typical case. An industrialist takes out
kidnap insurance for one billion lire. The rate could be
as high as five percent, or fifty million. If, on the other
hand, he hires a full-time bodyguard, the premium

could be reduced to three percent or thirty million lire.
So he saves twenty million."

Ettore shook his head. "But you just told me that a
bodyguard costs thirty million lire a year. Where's the
saving?"

Vico smiled. "There are such people as 'premium
bodyguards.' They wouldn't do much to foil a kidnapping,
but they do allow a lower premium rate, and they
are cheap. About seven million lire a year."

"But Vico," said Ettore, "I don't want to insure
against a kidnapping that isn't going to happen."

But he suddenly got the drift, and Vico laughed at
his change of expression.

"Now you understand! You hire one of these cheap
premium bodyguards for a few months and then fire
him for incompetence or something. In the meantime,
Pinta is back at school and Rika's face is saved."

Ettore sat quietly thinking a few minutes and then
asked, "Where can I locate such a man?"

Vico smiled contentedly. "First you pay for this excellent
lunch and then we go around to my office where
I have the name of an agency right here in Milan."

Ettore had known that somehow he would end up
paying the bill.


Guido turned off the Naples coast road and drove up
a narrow dirt track. It led to an olive grove on the lower
slopes of Mount Vesuvius. Just below the grove the hill
crowned off, and the track ended on a grassy slope
overlooking Naples and the sweep of the great bay. He
turned off the ignition and the silence was complete.
It was late evening and the sun, blood red, was edging
onto the horizon.

He had been again to see his mother, and the presence
of her two sons had healed her. It would be at least
another month before the symptoms reappeared. Guido
had talked to Elio about Creasy's arrival three days
before, and Elio had offered a possible temporary solution.
Guido needed to think it out.

The truth was that Creasy couldn't find the reason

anymore to go on living. He had reached the point where he was unable to generate even slight enthusiasm
for a new morning.

The night after his arrival, he had talked to Guido in his usual reticent and disjointed way. Sentences related
only by the silences in between. Long pauses to think out and frame the next words. Guido had said nothing. Just sat and nursed a drink and let his friend drag out his thoughts. The whole convoluted monologue was summed up at the end when Creasy said:

"I just get the feeling that I've lived enough or too
much--a lot happened--I'm a soldier, nothing else ever--never wanted anything else--known anything else--but I'm sick of it. Have been for the last five
years or so."

He had become embarrassed then. Expressing such
feelings, even to his only friend, had been painful and
out of character. Guido had stretched out a hand and
touched his shoulder in a gesture of understanding.

For Guido did understand, completely. He had gone
through the same thing after Julia's death. It had been
two years before he could adjust to a life without her.
But the difference between them was fundamental. He
had known a love and a happiness which had sharply
defined his outlook on life. Its clarity was partly a result
of its unexpectedness. He had fought and killed, drunk
and whored his way around the world with hardly a
passing thought about the effect he had on others. He
had long assumed that the deep feelings of love, or
compassion, or jealousy, or possession, were not inside
him. His only feeling for any human being was for
Creasy and, vaguely, his mother and brother.

His conversion had been dramatic. After a week with
his mother, the two mercenaries had gone to Malta to
look up a contact from their Congo days. The contact
had been recruiting for a sheikdom in the Persian Gulf,
but they hadn't liked the terms or the prospects. They
decided to stay on a few days and look around. They
ended up on the sister island of Gozo in a small hotel

in a fishing village. It had been warm and relaxing and
the people friendly.

Julia had worked at the hotel as receptionist. Guido
had a way with girls, even shy, very religious, and
highly protected girls, and within a few days she had
agreed to meet him for a drink after work. She was
slight and beautiful, and very direct in speech and
manner. She repulsed his early advances, telling him
she was a good girl and a virgin. Guido was intrigued.
He had never known a virgin. Creasy looked on at the
pursuit with benign amusement and agreed readily to
stay on in Gozo while Guido talked and charmed and
persuaded.

The conquest took three weeks, and it was not how
Guido had imagined. They had gone, late at night, to
swim at Ramla Bay and afterward sat on the dull red
sands and talked for a long time. She had told him of
her life, simple and unexceptional, her family farmers
for generations. He found himself talking also about
his life and it was difficult to convey because she kept
asking "why" and he couldn't answer. The sun was
coming up before they stopped talking and he had forgotten
his original purpose. Then she told him that her
parents would be very upset. In Gozo for a girl to stay
out all night was the paramount crime.

"But we haven't done anything," protested Guido
and saw her enigmatic look and realized that perhaps
he was not the pursuer.

They had made love, and she had truly been a virgin
and Guido had hesitated but she pulled him into her,
cried out, and pulled him against her still harder. Guido
would never forget those moments and all the women
he had known were suddenly not women.

In the growing light he saw the blood on her thighs,
the only blood he had ever seen caused by love. He
watched her wipe it from her and look up at him and
smile, shy but proud, and he knew that his life had
changed.

They had walked together up over the hill, through
Nadur to her parents' farm. Her father, already in the

fields, watched them, still and silent, as they approached.

"This is Guido," she had said. "We are going to be
married."

Her father had nodded and gone back to work. He
knew his daughter. A night away from home meant a
son-in-law.

They were married in the Church of St. Peter and
St. Paul in Nadur. A young priest officiated. He was
big and strong and reminded Guido a little of Creasy.
He didn't look like a priest and his manner was abrupt
and gruff, but the people of Nadur liked him. He worked
hard and was practical. Farmers appreciate that. Gozitans
give everyone nicknames and this priest they
called "the Cowboy."

Guido had been concerned over how Creasy would
react to this marriage. They had been friends for over
fifteen years and had hardly ever been separated. But
Creasy had been pleased and not really surprised. He
had realized the girl loved Guido and had seen the
strength in her and was happy for his friend.

He was best man at the wedding, silent and as gruff
as "the Cowboy," and afterward at the wedding feast
had drunk a lot of the strong Gozo wine and felt in
himself a great deal of Guido's joy. It was happiness by
proxy, but for all that a good emotion.

Julia had instinctively understood the friendship and didn't resent it. She looked upon Creasy as an integral
part of Guido. When they left to go to Naples,
Creasy had taken them to the airport, and when he
bent down to kiss her cheek she had put her arms
around him and held onto him for a long moment, and
when she drew away he saw the tears in her eyes.

"Our home is your home," she said simply.

He nodded, his face strangely set, and said, "If he
snores at night, just whistle--it shuts him up."

She had smiled and turned away unable to say any
more. In the plane she had asked Guido what Creasy
would do and he had answered that he would go and
find a war somewhere.

So Guido returned to Naples with a wife and bought
back the lease on his property and turned it into the
Pensione Splendide. His mother's cup had run over and
the church in Positano was bright with candles.


Creasy had visited them in Naples several times,
coming or going to a war. He never wrote or phoned,
just arrived. He always brought a present for Julia.
Something distinctive. Once it had been a batik painting
from Indonesia, rich and detailed, another time a
string of natural aquamarine pearls from Japan. They
were presents not bought on the spur of the moment,
but thought about and distinct. She knew this and it
gave her more pleasure than their beauty or obvious
value.

He usually stayed only a few days, relaxed and comfortable,
and then one evening would announce he was
leaving and in the morning would be gone. But on the
last occasion he had stayed more than a month. He was
never idle, busying himself with small repairs around
the building. He liked working with his hands.

When the last customers had left after dinner, the
three of them would sit around the big kitchen table,
watch television or read or just talk. Julia used to smile
at the conversation of the two men, their mental rapport
so acute that whole sentences would be reduced
to one or two words. Guido might start it off with a
question about a past acquaintance.

"Miller?"

"Angola."

"Still bitching?"

"As ever."

"But sharp?"

"A needle."

"The Uzi?'"

"Wedded to it."

Much of the conversation would be incomprehensible
to her, especially when they talked of weapons. After
the first couple of visits, Guido would be restless for a
few days following Creasy's departure, but she said

nothing. And by the last visit he was settled and adjusted
and happy. On that last visit when Creasy announced
he was leaving in the morning she had told him flatly that he was welcome to stay with them and
make his home. Guido had said nothing; he didn't need
to. Creasy had smiled at her, one of his rare smiles,
and said, "One day I might do that and fix all your
wiring and paint the place once a month." They knew
he meant it. He would come and just never announce
that he was leaving, and it would be good and right.

But Julia had gone shopping one day and the local
football team had won and the supporters were driving
in convoy through the city, horns blowing and flags
flying, and one of the cars with eight drunks aboard
had lost control and smeared her against a wall.

Creasy had arrived a week later, tired from a long
journey. Guido had forgotten to ask how he knew. He
stayed a couple of weeks and his presence brought
Guido through.


Now Guido sat in his car and watched the twilight
over the bay. The sun had gone, leaving only refracted
light. He tried to imagine his life if he had never known
Julia and he could picture it and so could understand
Creasy now.

He needed to do something different, if only for a
while. Something to occupy his time and his mind.
Something to halt the slide.


Creasy had gone to Rhodesia and tried to fit in. He
had trained young white recruits and led them in the
bush. But it was a different world, and he couldn't
identify. He didn't try to differentiate between right
and wrong on the war. He sympathized with the whites.
They were not bad people. Time had just caught up.
They lived in the wrong century. They had come as
pioneers, opening up a new country, and they looked
on themselves as akin to the early American settlers.
But times had changed. They couldn't wipe out the
blacks as the American Indians had been wiped out,


or the Australian aboriginals. Most of the whites
wouldn't have wanted to and the few that did found
that some of the blacks had land mines, grenades,
rocket launchers, and Kalashnikovs. It was a different
world. The terrible thing was the futility. It stared
Creasy in the face. The others couldn't see it, but he
had a lifetime to recognize it. Dien Bien Phu to Algeria
to Katanga, back to Vietnam and into endless circles
of futility. The war in Rhodesia brought his whole past
into focus. Futile battles fighting for people who talked
of patriotism, final stands, and never say diebut
death to the last man. He looked into his future and
saw the exact same sequence. If not in Rhodesia, then
somewhere else. Futile: it was an epitaph on his past
and an adjective for his tomorrow.

He had lost interest. He started drinking heavily
and let his body slacken and become lethargic. Finally
they took him off operations and made him just an
adviser. They would have kicked him out, but they
remembered his earlier days and were grateful. It
wasn't long before he realized the charity, and his pride
picked him up and took him away. He went to Brussels,
where he had known a woman, but she had moved on
and so he took the train to Marseilles and on an impulse
caught the ferry to Corsica. The main contingent of the
Legion was based in Corsica and an instinct led him
there. Many years had passed since the 1st R.E.P. had
mutinied. The Legion itself had forgiven. There was a
home there. Maybe the orphan could return to the orphanage.

He had arrived in Calvi in the afternoon and sat in
the square and had a drink. The barracks lay up the
hill and as he tried to decide whether to go up or not
he heard the sound of singing. It was the Legion marching
hymn, "Le Boudin," and then they came around the
corner with the distinctive slow marcheighty-five
paces a minute. It was a unit of recruits, smart in their
new uniforms, showing off their drill for the first time.
He looked at the faces, young and scrubbed, and he felt
a thousand years old.


When they had passed and the last sounds had died
away, he finished his drink and walked to the station.
The next day he was in Bastia, sitting by the docks
drinking again and waiting for the ferry to Livorno.
He would go and see Guido. Maybe they would get
together again. Maybe it wouldn't be futile.
He had watched the few passengers go aboard and
crossed the road to join them, passing the boy. As the
ferry pulled out, he stood at the stern and saw the boy
wave at him. He waved back. Good-bye, Corsica. Goodbye,
boy.

"A bodyguard," said Guido.
Creasy looked at him blankly.
They sat in the kitchen and Guido explained about
Elio's suggestion.
His brother had prospered. After a good education
he had qualified as an accountant, all paid for by Guido.
He had joined a firm of auditors in Milan and had done
well. He had explained to Guido that one of his clients
was a security agency that supplied bodyguards to industrialists.
There was a great demand and a shortage
of trained men. The pay was excellent. Guido had demurred.
Creasy was totally unfit and virtually an alcoholic.
It would be taking a job under false pretenses,
and Creasy wouldn't do it. Then Elio had explained
about "premium bodyguards" and Guido had become
interested. "But the pay is lousy," Elio had remarked.
That didn't matter, thought Guido. He knew that
Creasy had plenty of money. He had earned a great
deal over the years and spent little.
So he made the suggestion to Creasy and Creasy
looked blank.
"A bodyguard," repeated Guido.
"You're crazy," replied Creasy, "hi my state I couldn't
guard a corpse."
Guido told him about "premium" bodyguards, but
Creasy was unconvinced.
"People would hire a complete has-been--a drunk?"
Guido shrugged.
"It's just a device to keep premium costs down."

"But a drunk?"

Guido sighed.

"Obviously you would have to keep the drinking
under control. Drink at night. You do here, and you
don't look so bad during the day."

"And what happens if there's a kidnap attempt?"

"You do your best. You're not paid to perform miracles."

Creasy thought about it but remained skeptical. He
had always worked with military people of one kind or
another. He raised a further objection.

"A bodyguard has to be close to someone all the time.
I'm not good at that--you know it."

Guido smiled.

"So you'll be a silent-type bodyguard. Some people
might appreciate that."

Creasy thought up other problems, but Guido pressured
him gently. Elio had invited him to stay in Milan
for a few days.

"Why not go up anyway, and look around?"

Finally Creasy agreed to see what kind of job was
available. Then he went to bed, shaking his head and
muttering incredulously, "Goddamn bodyguard!"

Guido fetched paper and a pen and wrote a letter to
Elio. He knew that the agency would require information
on Creasy's qualifications and that Creasy
would be reluctant to provide anything but the barest
details. He wrote for a long time, first sketching
Creasy's career in the Legion and later in the various
wars in Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Then he
listed familiarity with different weapons. It was a long
list. Finally he mentioned Creasy's decorations. Italians
are impressed by medals.

He sealed the letter and left it on the table with a
note asking Pietro to post it first thing in the morning.
He went to bed feeling more encouraged than at any
time since his friend's arrival.

Chapter 4


"Did they provide you with the gun?"

"Yes."

"Show me, please."

Creasy took his right hand off the steering wheel,
reached under his jacket, and passed it over.

Ettore held it gingerly. He had never before held a
pistol, and he was fascinated.

"What is it?"

"Beretta 84."

"Have you used this type before?"

"Yes, it's a good pistol."

"Is it loaded?"

Creasy took his eyes off the road and glanced at the
Italian.

"It's loaded," he said dryly.

Ettore handed the weapon back and they drove on
towards Como.

He had asked the American to drive the Lancia so
that he could judge his capability. He was relieved that
Creasy drove easily and smoothly.


It had been less simple finding a bodyguard than
Vico had suggested. At least, a bodyguard to suit Rika's
requirements.

She had been delighted with the result of his lunch

with Vico and had immediately started making plans.
She decided that the bodyguard would have a large
room at the top of the house. She and Pinta busied
themselves putting in extra furniture; a small table
and a large easy chair, and several casual rugs. The
room already had a big brass bedstead, a chest of drawers,
and a wardrobe. He would eat with Maria, the
housekeeper, and Bruno, the gardener, in the kitchen.

She drew up a list of his duties. Driving Pinta to
school and picking her up in the afternoon were the
most important. In between, he could chauffeur Rika
herself to shopping and lunch engagements.

Naturally he would have to be presentable and of a
polite and respectful disposition. She had also urged
Ettore to hurry as the new school term started soon,
and she wanted to join Ettore on his coming trip to
Paris.

All this created problems. The first two applicants
had been patently unacceptable, little more than street
toughs whom Rika wouldn't have let through the door.
The third had been an obvious homosexual, and Ettore
had a thing against homosexuals. He had phoned the
agency and complained about the quality of the applicants,
but they had answered that bodyguards were
scarce. They also implied, politely, that you got what
you paid for. Nevertheless, they rang up the next day
to arrange for an appointment for a fourth applicant
an American.

Ettore had not been encouraged. A foreigner was
something unexpected, especially an American. He anticipated
a gum-chewing, crew-cut gangster.

So he was pleasantly surprised when Creasy had
been shown into his office. He looked hard enough, with
the scars on his square face and the menacing eyes, but
he was dressed smartly in a dark-blue suit and beige
shirt. He stood at the door holding a large Manila envelope
sealed with red wax, looking at Ettore without
expression.

Ettore gestured and Creasy moved forward and took

a seat in front of the desk. Then he handed over the
envelope.

"The agency told me to give you this."

His Italian was almost perfect, with a slight Neapolitan
accent.

Ettore took the envelope and asked, "Would you like
coffee?" He was encouraged. He had not offered coffee
to the others.

Creasy shook his head and Ettore broke the seal,
pulled out the file, and began to read. It was a report
on Creasy's qualifications and history provided by the agency from Guido's information.

Ettore read in silence and when he had finished he
looked at the man in front of him for a long time. Creasy
gazed back impassively.

"What's the catch?"

"I drink," came the flat reply.

Ettore digested this for a moment and glanced again
at the file, then asked, "In what way does it affect you?"

Creasy's eyes narrowed in thought and Ettore sensed
that he would get the absolute truth.
"As it relates to this kind of job, it affects my coordination
and reaction time. My ability to shoot fast and
accurately is impaired. If I was a rich man, convinced
that I or my family were going to be attacked, I wouldn't
employ a man in my condition."

Ettore asked, "Do you get so drunk that you are
incapable or a nuisance?"

Creasy shook his head.

"You wouldn't notice anything. I only drink at night.
In the morning I might feel bad but I look alright."

Ettore studied the papers again. As long as Rika
didn't know about the drinking, there should be no
problem.

"The pay is not good."

Creasy shrugged. "If top professionals try to kidnap
your daughter, the service will be on a par with the
pay."

"And what if amateurs try it?" "If they're truly amateurs, I'd probably frighten
them off, or even kill them--Is it likely?"

Ettore shook his head.

"I doubt it. Frankly, it's my wife who is mostly concerned.
She's overreacting about all the recent kidnappings.
Incidentally, part of your duties will involve
transporting her about. She has her own car." He
glanced down at the file again--at the lists of wars and
battles and weapons.

"You would have to become a little domesticated."

"That's alright," said Creasy, "but I'm not good at
social chitchat. I'll do my job, best I can, that's all."

Ettore smiled for the first time.

"That's fine. Can you start immediately?" A thought
struck him. "Do you have a gun?"

Creasy nodded. "The agency provides one. You will
have to give them a letter. They will arrange the police
permit. It will be on your bill." He stood up. "I can start
anytime."

They had walked to the door, Ettore saying, "I go up
to Como tomorrow evening for the weekend. Please be
here at six with your things. No one is to know about
your drinking problem, and that includes my wife."

The two men had shaken hands. Ettore said, "I can't
be sure how long the job will last. It depends on circumstances,
but my contract with the agency will be
for a three-month trial period. After that we can both
review the situation. After all, you might not like the
job."


When they entered the lounge, Rika was by the
French windows. She wore a plain black dress. Her face
was a white oval in a framework of ebony hair.

Ettore made the introductions and she asked, "Would
you like a drink?"

"Thank you--Scotch and a little water."

She crossed to the bar and the two men moved to the
French windows and looked out over the lake. Creasy
could sense Ettore's unease and wondered at it. Rika
brought over the whisky and a martini for her husband.

"I didn't catch the name exactly," she said.
"Creasy."
"You are not Italian?"
"American."
She looked at Ettore with a slight frown.
"But his Italian is excellent," he said hastily.
She was disconcerted.
"You have done much of this work before?"
Creasy shook his head. "Never."
Her frown deepened and again Ettore quickly interjected,
"Mr. Creasy has a lot of experience in related
work. A great deal of experience."
Creasy studied the woman with interest. He had
needed time to get over the first impact of her beauty.
He was indifferent to her reaction on hearing he was
an American, but he was curious about her relationship
with her husband.
Ettore had appeared positive and self-assured, but
his weakness was now apparent. The woman, either
through her beauty or personality or both, dominated
him. Her confusion showed. Naturally she'd had a preconceived
idea of the kind of man Ettore would hire.
He would obviously be Italian, polite and deferential,
young and athletic, and experienced in the work.
The man in front of her was first of all an American
and, like many Italian socialites, she tended to look
down on Americans. Also, although he was big, he
wasn't young, and he didn't look very athletic.
She noted his clothes, casual and expensive: beige
slacks, a fawn, knitted, polo-neck shirt, and a dark-brown
jacket. She saw that the hand holding the glass
had mottled scars on the back and that the tip of the
little finger was missing. Then she looked up at his
face and realized how tall he was. She took in the scars
on his forehead and jaw, and the heavy-lidded eyes,
indifferent as they gazed back at her. And she realized
the effect he had--he frightened her. It was a shock.
Men just didn't frighten her. She had never before felt
fright at the sight of a man.
Ettore broke the silence.
"Where is Pinta, darling?"
Her mind snapped back. "Upstairs. She'll be down
in a moment."
Ettore could see that her irritation had gone, but it
was replaced by a look of confusion.
She smiled slightly and said to Creasy, "She's excited
about having a bodyguard."
"I'm the first?" asked Creasy.
"Yes. You speak Italian like a Neapolitan."
"I was taught by a Neapolitan."
"Have you lived there?"
"No, only visited."
Creasy heard the door open and turned.
The girl was dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans.
She stood at the door and looked at Creasy with interest.
Her mother said, "Cam, this is Mr. Creasy."
She walked across the room and very formally held
out her hand. As he shook it, she smiled tentatively.
The top of her head came level with his chest. Her
small hand was lost in his.
"Why don't you show Mr. Creasy to his room?" Rika
said. "Perhaps he'd like to unpack."
Creasy finished his drink and the girl led him out
solemnly.

As the door closed Ettore waited for the explosion.
But Rika sipped her drink reflectively.
"He's very well-qualified," said Ettore, "and really,
it's hard to find good people in this line."
She didn't say anything and he went on persuasively.
"Of course it's a pity he's American. But as you
heard, his Italian is excellent."
"Has he worked in Italy before?" she asked.
"No." He opened his briefcase and gave her the
agency report. "That's his background."
She sat down and opened the file, and Ettore went
to the bar and made himself another martini.
She read the report in silence, then closed it and put
it on the' coffee table.
Ettore nursed his drink and kept quiet. She was deep
in thought. Then she said, "He frightens me."
"Frightens you?" He was astonished.
She smiled.
"I think it's nice he's American. It's different."
"But why does he frighten you?"
She thought about it and shook her head. "I don't
know." She looked down at the file. "Perhaps the answer
is in there. You realize that you've brought a killer
into the house. God knows how many people he's killed.
All over the world."
Ettore started to protest, but she smiled again and
said:
"He dresses well--like a European."
Ettore was relieved but puzzled. Evidently Creasy
was acceptable.
She got up and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you, darling. I feel better now."
She said it as if she were thanking him for a present
--a piece of jewelry or even a bunch of roses.

After dinner, Creasy cleaned the gun. He worked
automatically, his fingers moving from long practice,
while his mind ranged over the events of the evening
and the people. In the past, whenever he had started
a new job, he had always catalogued the people around
him and their possible effect on him and on the job
itself. Now, even though the work was totally different,
habit made him follow the same procedure.
Ettore, he decided, was preoccupied. Probably with
business matters. When he told Elio who his new employer
was to be, Elio had recognized the name. Balletto
Mills was one of the largest producers of knitted silk
fabric in Italy and therefore in the world. Ettore had
inherited the business from his father, who had been
very respected in Milan's business community. Ettore
himself was considered a good businessman but, like
many other Italian textile producers, was facing fierce
competition from the Far East. He was also known for
the beauty of his wife.

Creasy's thoughts moved to Rika. Quite dispassionately,
he considered her effect on him. She had qualities
in her looks that he particularly admired in women: a
lack of obvious decoration, an uncluttered look, very
little makeup. Her hair hung naturally; her fingernails
were long and unpainted. She needed no aids, but he
had also noted the lack of perfume. She was, he decided,
completely female in herself. Her personality was
linked to her looks, an extension of them.

Physically, she had attracted him with a jolt. It was
a factor that had a bearing on the situation. He had
watched her reaction to him carefully. The initial hostility
and irritation, fading into curiosity. In his experience
she was the type of woman who would respond
to his past, be intrigued by its violence. She liked to
dominate and find out the limits domination could take,
first mentally and then perhaps physically. He would
treat her with great caution.

He finished cleaning the gun and took a small can
of oil and lubricated the trigger mechanism and the
magazine release catch. He thought about Maria and
Bruno. During dinner in the big, comfortable kitchen
they had not been talkative and he had not encouraged
them to be. His natural reticence had been obvious and
he expected that after a while, once they got used to
his presence, they would fall back to whatever their
pattern of conversation had been before his arrival.

Maria, he guessed, was in her middle thirties, stout
and cheerful and obviously curious about him. Bruno
would be in his sixties, a small man with a brown,
pointed face and a placid disposition.

The food had been good, and homey. Gnocchi Verdi
followed by chicken marinated in oil and lemon juice.
Although of late his appetite had not been good, Creasy
was very fond of Italian food and knew a lot about it.
He recognized the Florentine style of cooking and had
asked Maria if she was from Tuscany.

She had been pleased at the question, recognizing

its source. Yes, she had originally been from Tuscany
but had come to Milan five years before to seek work.
He had asked Bruno to show him around the grounds
in the morning so he could fix the layout in his mind,
and then had excused himself and come up to his room.

He emptied the gun's magazine of the short, 9 mm
bullets and tested the spring and those of the two
spares. Then he opened a box of shells and filled all
three. That done he picked up the new shoulder holster,
and, with a cloth, started working oil into the leather,
softening it still further.

Pinta--she would be the main problem. He was not
good with children in general and he guessed this one
would be no exception. He had no practice at it. Children
had been no part of his life, except as an object of
pity. In. all the wars he had ever fought, children had
suffered the most. Confused, often separated from their
parents, nearly always hungry. He remembered them
in the Congo, swollen-bellied, eyes uncomprehending.
And in Vietnam, looking like dolls, and all too often
caught in the middle. Bombed and mined and shot. He
had been told that there were over a million orphans
in South Vietnam and, at times, he felt he had seen
them all. He had grown a shell so he could ignore their
suffering. Either you did that or you lost your mind.
He had done it early. He saw them, but the message
from the eyes to the brain got diverted.

Of all the brutalizing effects of war, the numbing of
compassion was the most acute. But now he was to be
put into close proximity with a child for the first time.
Certainly not a child hungry, or hurt, or homeless, but
for all that a problem to him.

When Pinta had shown him up to his room, she had
stayed behind and chatted while he unpacked. Obviously
his arrival was a big event in her life. An only
child, she was too often bored. It was natural that she
should look on Creasy as more than a mere protective
presence.

Her first questions had been about America. He explained
that he hadn't lived there for years, but that

hadn't diminished her enthusiasm. She asked him what
part he had come from and he answered, the South--
Tennessee.
He finished oiling the holster and slipped in the Beretta.
Then he walked over to the bed and hung the
harness over the knob on the brass bedstead. The butt
rested close to the pillow. Back at the table he opened
a road map of the area between Milan and Como, his
mind now occupied with the technicalities of the job.
Although he had never worked as a bodyguard, he
viewed it in simple, military terms. He was to protect an "asset." A potential enemy might attempt to capture
it. He considered the tactics, and a lifetime of experience
made him view the situation from the opposition's
point of view. They could attempt to capture his "asset"
at its base, i.e., the house; or outside the base, either
at another often-used location or on route to it, i.e., the
school or on the road.
In the morning he would check the grounds from a
security standpoint and later, it had been decided,
Pinta would show him where the school was, and he
would have a chance to examine their security arrangements.
He decided that if an attempt was made it would
most likely occur on the road, therefore it was important
to vary the daily route on a random basis. He
traced the road network on the map and made notes
in the margin.
This done, he went to the wardrobe and lifted down
his suitcase. Inside were several bottles of Scotch
wrapped in newspaper. He opened one of them and
fetched a glass and poured his first drink. Then he
thought about his main problem again--the girl. The
important thing, he decided, was to get the relationship
established on the right basis at the beginning. The
right basis would be functional and nothing more. He
was not a paid companion but a protector, and she must
be made to understand that, even if he had to be blunt
and unkind to do it. Her parents would also have to
understand it. He would make it very plain and if they
couldn't accept it, they would have to find someone else.
He hadn't thought about this aspect before taking
the job, but meeting the child had brought it very much
to mind. He could feel her enthusiasm and expectation, and it made him uneasy. She would have to be stopped
short.
He drank steadily until the bottle was empty and
then went to bed; a big, battered, introspective man,
unsure about his new job.
But Guido had been right. His mind was occupied.

Below, in the main bedroom, Rika and Ettore made
love. She was very demanding, her breath coming in
short gasps, her fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
She always paced herself with him, raising the tempo
in tiers until she brought him to the top, knowingly
and surely.
But tonight she was concerned only for herself, taking
her pleasure in mental isolation. He tried to match
her but felt her building to a climax, shuddering into
her orgasm. He had not matched her and was left behind
and felt her subside beneath him. He wasn't concerned.
He knew that later she would rouse him again
and play him like an instrument, using her magnificent
body and mouth until all his passion was sated. She
prided herself on her skill with him, enjoyed the control
over his body. She never teased him sexually, but was
imaginative and varied, and reveled in her skill.
Her breathing evened out and she ran a hand from
his neck down his back and sighed contentedly. He
could expect endearments and soft kisses, and later she
would roll him onto his back and repay him slowly and
artfully, smiling down at him, as in a conspiracy.
"She likes him."
He came out of his reverie.
"Who?"
"Creasy--Pinta likes him."
He shook his head.
"She likes the idea of no more governess. She'd like
him if he was Count Dracula."
"No," she said. "When I put her to bed she told me
he was like a bear. 'Creasy Bear,' she calls him."
Ettore laughed.
"She thinks all bears are like the toy one she cuddles
at night. But bears can be dangerous."
"Why would he want to be a bodyguard?" she mused.
"It's a tame job after the kind of life he's been used to."
They were getting onto dangerous ground.
"He's probably tired of it," he said. "Besides, he's no
spring chicken."
"Forty-nine," she commented, remembering the file.
"And no family, no children. Does he have a home anywhere?"
"I don't know, I doubt it. That kind of man doesn't
put down roots."
He wondered at the cause of Creasy's drinking. Perhaps
that was part of it. A lifetime of fighting and
adventure and then getting too old for it, and not knowing
what to do.
Rika's thoughts were paralleling his.
'There's a flaw somewhere there," she said.
"A flaw?"
"Yes. There's something about him. As though he's
been very ill recently. He's very self-assured, but
there's something not quite right. Maybe it was a
woman."
He smiled. "That's a typical woman's guess."
But then she shook her head.
"No, I don't think it's a woman. Something else.
Something missing. A part of his personality is missing.
He interests me, this Creasy--at least he's not
boring."
Ettore was content. It would never occur to him that
she would be interested in Creasy in any sexual way.
He had long ago closed his mind to such thoughts. But
he knew how she liked to analyze people. Slot them
into neat categories. She would try to do this with
Creasy. She wanted him numbered, tagged, and tidy,
within her view of the world. He thought that might
prove difficult with the man upstairs. He was outside
her world. Right outside it. The influences and emotions
that guided her were alien to the American. Still,
Ettore was content. She had accepted the man, Pinta
was going back to school on Monday, and he could concentrate
on sorting out his business problems. Then he
remembered something curious.
"You said he frightens you."
"Yes. But perhaps 'frightens' is the wrong word. In
a way, he's menacing. A bit like an animal that's been
domesticated, but you're never quite sure. Do you remember
that Alsatian the Arredos had? After five
years, it suddenly turned on him and bit him."
"He's not a dog, Rika!"
"It's just an example. He seems to be brooding. Smoldering.
It's only an attitude, I'm not worried. It's interesting,
really. I'd like to know more about him--his
past--I mean how he feels about things."
She yawned and slipped lower in the bed. Her words
had reminded Ettore how little he did know about
Creasy. Perhaps he should have dug deeper. Still, he
presumed the agency would have been satisfied. They
must have checked for a criminal record, at least. Anyway,
it was done now.
Rika moved against him slightly, and her breathing
deepened. She was asleep.
It wasn't until the morning that he remembered she
had left him unsatisfied.

Chapter 5

Pinta sat quietly in the front seat beside Creasy. He
told her that he needed to concentrate on the route. She
was a little mystified because they were on the main
Como-Milan road and that was easy enough to follow.
But Creasy wanted to look out for potential danger
spots. Places where he would have to slow for a sharp
bend and which were away from buildings. He simply
transposed a military ambush situation for a kidnap
attempt and his trained eye picked out and noted the
likely places.
After half an hour Pinta pointed out the turnoff, and
a few minutes later they pulled up in front of the school
gates. She jumped out and pulled a metal handle set
in the wall. Creasy remained in the car, taking note
of the high, spike-topped walls and the lack of cover in
front of the heavy gates.
A shutter opened at eye level and Pinta held a conversation
into it and the gates were opened slowly by
an old watchman. She beckoned and walked through
and Creasy followed in the car. Inside was a big, rambling,
ivy-clad building set in spacious grounds. Creasy
parked in the courtyard and followed Pinta as she
pointed out the features, a playing field and running
track to the left of the building and a small copse on
the right, well back from the circling wall. They walked
around to the front, with Creasy concluding that the
school itself was reasonably secure.

An elderly gray-haired woman appeared from the
entrance and Pinta ran over and kissed her on both
cheeks and brought her over to Creasy.

"This is Signora Deluca, the headmistress."

She turned to the woman and said with a note of
pride, 'This is Creasy, my bodyguard."

"Mr. Creasy," admonished the woman.

"No, Signora, he told me just to call him Creasy."

Theyhook hands and she invited them in for coffee.

She had a small apartment on the top floor, comfortably
overfurnished, every flat surface supporting
framed photographs. She noticed Creasy looking at
them.

"My children," she laughed. "Hundreds of them,
grown up now. But for an old schoolteacher, they are
always children."

It was all very strange to Creasy. He had never
thought of schools as being warm, happy places. His
own brief experience had been the opposite. He had an
inkling now of why Pinta was so anxious to return.

A maid brought in a silver tray with the coffee and,
as she poured, the headmistress chatted to Pinta about
the school. Then, feeling perhaps that she was neglecting
Creasy, she turned to him.

"Have you been long in this kind of work, Mr.
Creasy?"

"No," he answered. "I've only just started, but I've
done similar things."

The woman sighed. "It's a terrible business. I have
had two of my children kidnapped. Not from here, of
course, and neither of them was hurt, but it's an awful
experience, and they take a long time to get over it."

She put her hand on the girl's knee.

"You must look after our Pinta. We are so pleased
she is coming back to school."

"Not as pleased as I am," laughed the girl, and went
on to relate the terrors of her governess.

After a few more minutes, Creasy caught Pinta's eye
and they rose to go.

"You are not Italian?" the woman asked as she
walked them back to the car.

"He's American," piped up Pinta, "from Tennessee."

The woman smiled at Pinta's enthusiasm.

"Then I compliment you on your Italian, Mr. Creasy.
Did you learn it in Naples?"

"From a Neapolitan."

She nodded in satisfaction.

"I can detect the accent." She pointed to a door at
the back of the building. "That's the kitchen. We try
to get the girls away on time but if you have to wait,
the maid will give you coffee." She smiled ruefully.
"Quite a lot of the girls have bodyguards."

Creasy thanked her and Pinta kissed her cheek and
they left.

He decided to take a different route home. The girl
was curious, but he told her that he wanted to try another
way and drove on, concentrating again on the road and its surroundings.

Pinta kept quiet for a while, but the visit to the
school and seeing Signora Deluca had excited her. She
kept glancing at the big silent man next to her and
finally asked:

"Did you like school, Creasy?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

His short answers should have discouraged her but
didn't.

"But why not?"

"It wasn't a school like yours and there was no one
like Signora Deluca."

They drove on in silence while she thought about
that, and then she asked, "So you were unhappy?"

He sighed in irritation and said, "Being happy is a
state of mind. I never thought about it."

The girl sensed his mood but was not old enough or
aware enough to respond to it. Since his arrival had

WT

coincided with and had even been the cause of her
happy feelings, she wanted to share them. But his mood
confused her. She didn't know that he was always taciturn
and withdrawn. But she did want to get to know
him. She looked at his hands on the steering wheel
with their disfiguring scars, and she reached out and
touched one of them.
"What happened to your hands?"
He jerked away and said sharply, "Don't touch me
when I'm driving!"
Then he seemed to reach a decision. "And don't ask
questions all the time. I'm not here to make small talk.
You don't want to know about me. I'm here to protect
you--that's all."
His voice was hard, cracking at her, and she withdrew,
hurt, to her side of the car.
Creasy glanced at her. She sat staring ahead at the
road, her mouth in a straight line. Her chin quivered.
"And don't start crying," he said in exasperation. He
took a hand off the wheel and gestured. For some reason
he was genuinely angry.
"It's all kinds of a world out there. All kinds. Not
just the simple kind of being happy or not so happy.
Bad things can happen. You'll find out when you're no
longer a child."
"I'm not a child!" she flared back. "I know bad things
can happen. I had a friend who was kidnapped and his
finger was cut off. I had to stay at home for months,
never-going
out, and now I have you with me all the
time with your silences and sour looks--and I'm not
crying."
But there were tears in her eyes, even though they
glared at him angrily.
He pulled the car onto the side of the road and
stopped. Only the sound of her sniffling disturbed the
silence while he thought.
"Listen," he said finally. "It's just the way I am. I
don't get on with kids. I don't like lots of questions. You
have to understand that or ask your, father to find someone
else. OK?"
Her sobbing ceased and she sat still, staring straight
ahead. Abruptly she opened the door and got out and then into the back seat.
"You can take me home now--Mr. Creasy."
She emphasized the "Mr."
He glanced back at her. She wouldn't look at him.
Just sat, straight-backed and angry.
He drove on, his feelings ambivalent. He didn't want
to hurt her, but he wasn't hired to be a nursemaid. It
had to be done. Anyway, it could well be over. Her
parents ought to realize she needed a friend--a companion.
He was the last person fitted for that role.

On Sunday, after dinner, Creasy was reading when
the tap came on the door. He wasn't feeling good. The
night before he had drunk more than usual. Apart from
his meals, he had stayed in his room. He had been
expecting Rika or Ettore to come up.
It was Rika.
"I wanted to make sure you have everything you
need," she said, standing at the door.
He put the book down.
"I have everything."
Her eyes swept the room.
"Is the food alright? Maria tells me you have hardly
eaten all day."
"The food is good. Very good. I've just been off color.
I'm alright now."
She came farther into the room.
"Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?"
He indicated the chair and moved over and sat on
the bed.
He admired the way she moved as she crossed the
room and sat down. Like a dancer--controlled and
smooth and flowing. She crossed one leg over the other. He noted with surprise that she wore stockings with
seams. He hadn't seen that for years. They looked right
on her.
"How are you getting along with Pinta?" she asked.
He replied bluntly.
"We'll get along fine when she understands that I'm
not a new toy."
She smiled.
"It's only natural that she's excited--having a bodyguard
and going back to school. She's been bored--you
must be patient with her, Creasy."
"I'm paid to protect her, not amuse her."
She inclined her head in acknowledgment and asked,
"Did you argue? She wouldn't tell me, but last night
she was very quiet and seemed disappointed."
He got up and walked to the window and looked out
with his back to her.
"Look," he said. "Maybe this isn't going to work. I
didn't think much about it before, but I'm not the type
to be a social companion. Maybe you'd better ask your
husband to find someone else--someone younger."
He turned to look at her. She was shaking her head.
"No, you're right. You were hired to protect her.
Nothing more. I'm confident you'll do that."
She was looking at the bed. The gun had attracted
her attention. It hung in its holster from the bedstead.
"I didn't realize you had a gun." She smiled. "I
know--that's a silly thing to say, but it makes the
whole thing so serious."
He said nothing and she went on.
"I suppose I thought you would be a karate expert
or something." Then she remembered the report. "Unarmed
combat, is that right? Weren't you an instructor?"
"Tes," he said. "But armed combat is more effective.
Anyway, the gun is a deterrent. I don't expect to use
it."
She considered that.
"But you will if you have to, if Pinta is in danger?"
"Naturally."
Now he could sense her interest and guessed what
was coming.
"You must have killed a lot of people."
He shrugged, and she looked at him speculatively.
"I can't imagine it. I mean in a war and from a
distance, yes. But close up, face to face, it must be
horrible."

"You get used to it. And getting used to it is not
great preparation for being a nursemaid for a child."

She laughed. "I suppose not. But we didn't hire a
nanny." She abruptly changed the subject. "We have
a spare radio downstairs. I'll give it to Maria for you.
Do you like music?"

He nodded slowly, wondering at her change of direction.

"Some."

"What kind?"

"Country and Western, that kind of thing."

She stood up and said, "Ah yes, Tennessee--Pinta
told me. Well, it plays cassettes, but we don't have any
Country and Western."

She walked to the door, turned, and said, "But I'm
sure you can find some in Milan. We are going there
tomorrow. I'm having lunch with friends."

She looked at him reflectively, then said, "It would
have been better if we had had more children. She's
quite lonely, but..."

She shrugged and opened the door and left.

He went back to the chair and took up the book, but
she had distracted him. He couldn't pick up the thread.
So he went to the wardrobe and pulled down his suitcase
and took out a bottle.

It would be good to have some music. The Country
and Western was about the only trace left of his youth.
Tomorrow he would look around in Milan and see what
the record shops had. Probably only new stuff, but he
knew Johnny Cash was popular in Italy, and he had
heard Dr. Hook on the radio and liked him, and Linda
Ronstadt. He had heard her "Blue Bayou." It had become
a favorite. He poured a drink and picked up the
book again, but it was no good. The woman was on his
mind.

* * *

"I'll be finished at about two-thirty." She pointed to
a side street next to the restaurant. "You can park up
there."

Creasy nodded and said, "If the police move me on
I'll circle the block. Just wait on the corner."

She got out of the car and walked across the street.
Creasy's eyes followed. She wore a slim, straight skirt,
something that few Italian women over thirty can do
or should do. Her figure was just the right side of voluptuous
and her height made it perfect. She disappeared
inside and he pulled out into the traffic and
glanced at his watch. Two hours to kill.

He considered it his first real day on the job. They had
left the house just before eight, mother and daughter sitting
in the back. Rika told him she had left the cassette
radio with Maria. Pinta studiously ignored him.

A uniformed security guard stood outside the school
gates. He had peered into the car and Rika introduced
Creasy. The guard had studied his face, memorizing it.
The gates were slightly ajar and Pinta was about to get
out when Creasy's voice stopped her. "Stay where you
are."

He got out and walked past the guard and looked
inside the gates. Satisfied, he went and opened the back
door of the car and nodded at the girl. She kissed her
mother and then jumped out and walked past Creasy
without a glance. The security guard gave Creasy a
hard look and stood and watched as they drove off.

"You're careful," Rika had commented.

"Habit," came the reply.

"I talked to Pinta. Explained that she wasn't to
bother you, just let you get on with your job."

"She seems to have got the message," he said.

"Yes, but I didn't mention our talk last night. I just
told her that you weren't used to children. I don't want
her to end up hating you."

He drove to the railway station and browsed through
the bookstall there, picking up several paperbacks. Then he walked over to the telephone office and put a
call through to Guido.

Yes, he'd started, he told him, and no, he wasn't sure
how he'd like it, but he'd give it a chance. Anyway, the
food was good. Then he called Elio and thanked him
for his hospitality. In a couple of weeks, he would like
Elio and Felicia to have dinner with him on his day off.

He had felt welcome during the few days he had
spent in their house. Felicia was a tall, attractive
woman from Rome. She had met Elio at the university.
They were happy and their house was relaxed. She had
treated Creasy like a prodigal uncle and teased him
gentlyhe liked her.

He wandered around the station. He liked stations
the movement and noise and people going places. He
also liked trains. It was a good way to travel. You saw
things go by and felt you were going somewhere. Long
journeys on good trains gave him pleasure. You could
get up and look around and have a meal.

He saw a shop selling cassettes and browsed through
it and found a couple of Johnny Cash and one by Dr.
Hook. He couldn't find anything by Linda Ronstadt,
but when he was paying the girl he inquired and she
dug around in the back and found one. It had "Blue
Bayou" on it and so far the day was moving along alright.

At 2:30 he was waiting in the street by the restaurant.
At 2:45 a policeman came by and motioned him
on. He beckoned the policeman over and showed him
his bodyguard's license.

"Does it pay well?" asked the policeman.

"Not bad. But a lot of sitting around on your ass."

"Better than flattening your feet on the streets."

A rapport was established and the policeman moved
on to harass less fortunate citizens.

Just after three o'clock Rika appeared with a man
and a woman. They were in a relaxed mood. Creasy got
out of the car and was introduced.

"This is Vico and Gina MansuttiCreasy."

They were a handsome couple. He might have
thought her beautiful but she was shaded in Rika's
light. The man was tanned, impeccably dressed and

neat. Fastidious, thought Creasy. The kind of man who
would only masturbate into a clean handkerchief.

They studied him with interest and the man said,
"I understand you were in the Foreign Legion at one
time."

Creasy nodded.

"And captured in Vietnam."

He nodded again.

"It must have been unpleasant."

Another nod, and Gina giggled and whispered to
Rika, "Does he talk?"

"Of course," said Rika sharply. She turned to the
man and kissed his cheek.

"Vico, thank you for a lovely lunch. I promise not to
let Gina spend too much." The two women got into the
car. Creasy nodded at Vico again and drove off. Vico
remained standing at the curb watching as the car negotiated
the traffic. Creasy saw him in the rearview
mirror. He seemed preoccupied.

For the next hour and a half Creasy drove from shop
to shop, opening and closing the trunk for a variety of
parcels. Then he reminded Rika that he had to pick
Pinta up at five. She looked at her watch in surprise.
"It's so late?Never mind, you go on. I'll phone Ettore
to pick us up."

At the school there were several cars in the courtyard
and girls were already coming out to them. Creasy sat
and waited.

Finally Pinta came around the side of the building
with two other girls. They stood and talked for a while,
glancing frequently in his direction. Then they split
up, the two girls going over to a blue Mercedes and
Pinta going back around the aide of the building. The
Mercedes left. Twenty minutes later Pinta reappeared,
carrying some books held together with a strap. Creasy
got out and opened the back door. As she passed him,
she held out the books. He took them, holding them by
the strap.

"Your mother's returning with your father," he said.

She inclined her head, and he closed the door.
81

They drove home in silence.

That night Maria made stracciatella from the broth
of Friday's chicken, followed by saltimbocca. They ate
in silence. The food was delicious. Then, with the coffee,
Creasy picked up a paperback and started to read. He
remembered something.

"You have a talent, Mariathe food was excellent."

Maria beamed with pleasure and Creasy went back
to his book. Maria and Bruno started discussing the
Pope. They accepted Creasy and his silence. The
kitchen was relaxed.

Later, up in his room, Creasy put a cassette into the
player and listened to Dr. Hook sing about love and
yesterdays. He took down a bottle and poured a drink.
He didn't really hear the words, but the tone and the
music crept in under the shell.

He reviewed the day. Day one as a bodyguard. Not
too bad. At least he had established a working attitude.
Everyone knew what he was, and what he was not. It
was a start.

One floor below Pinta lay in bed awake. Next to her,
with its head on the pillow, lay a very old brown teddy
bear with button eyes and a lot of patches holding in
the stuffing. Her window was open and she could hear
the faint music. After a while it stopped and a different
tape started. A woman sang. Pinta didn't know the
song, but when it finished there was a pause and the
same song came again. She started to drift into sleep.
The music was plaintive, haunting. It was "Blue
Bayou."

Chapter 6


With Creasy installed, Rika felt free to travel with
Ettore again. One of the unforeseen results of her hastily
withdrawing Pinta from school was that she too had
been confined to the house. It wouldn't have done to
keep her daughter home for safety and then leave her
with only the servants.

Most of Ettore's trips lasted a week or ten days and involved visits to the major European cities and occasionally
to New York and Toronto. She enjoyed these
excursions and was a help to Ettore. He was usually
selling and with her looks and charm she was an asset.

He had forgotten to discuss with Creasy the question
of time off. Obviously, while he and Rika were away,
Creasy would have to stay with the girl. He left Rika
to break the news and she was relieved at Creasy's easy
acceptance. Time off was not something he had really
thought about. Occasionally, he told her, he might want
to go out to dinner, but he could do that while they
were at home. She realized that having a bodyguard
without roots or family had distinct advantages, and
she left for Paris with her mind at rest.

Ettore was going to negotiate the purchase of new
Leboc6 knitting machines. The total cost would be over
four hundred million lire, and unless the French could
be persuaded to give very generous credit terms, it

would be a nonstarter. Still, he was a persuasive negotiator
and, with Rika along to add charm to the social
occasions, he was optimistic.

The absence of her parents meant that Pinta took
her meals in the kitchen. Creasy was relieved that they
had developed what to him was a sensible and satisfactory
relationshipshe ignored him. She wasn't rude
and had dropped her attitude of hurt indignationshe
simply treated him as a necessary but uninteresting
fixture.

So at meals she would talk only to Bruno and Maria,
being serious and respectful to the old man and lightly
teasing the woman, especially about some supposed
suitor in Como. Creasy could see that they were very
fond of the girl and enjoyed having her eat with them.

But it was a pose. Like her mother, she was a natural
actress. Her attitude to Creasy was assumed.

Children are tenacious. She wanted to be friends.
The obstacles made her even more determined. She had
nodded dutifully when her mother instructed her not
to bother Creasy, and then she had considered long and
carefully and finally arrived at her strategy. She was
an intelligent girl and warmhearted and her character,
unlike her mother's, was composed of two main elements.
On the one hand, her parents' life-style and her
lack of brothers or sisters had matured her beyond her
eleven years. She was used to the company of adults
and was an accurate observer of their behavior. On the
other hand, she had a keen and stimulating curiosity
and was constantly delighted with new discoveries. She
was moving into life expectantly and with a wonderfully
open mind. Disappointments and setbacks would
not cloud her optimism. She was like a small puppy,
all energetic curiosity, jumping back a pace when confronted
with something strange, but then inching forward
again, nose twitching.

So, she had jumped back when Creasy had rounded
on her in the car, and now she was edging forward, but
cleverly, and from an angle slightly outside his vision.

She judged him right. Any frontal attack would be
instantly recognized and repulsed.
She would just wait and watch for any weakness in
his defense. She was sure it was there. Nobody could
be as disinterested in life and the world as he appeared.
So she waited, and chatted lightly to Maria and Bruno,
and seemingly ignored him.
Over the days, Creasy's state of mind solidified into
tolerance of his current position. Without consciously
thinking about it, he was holding himself in abeyance,
his brain slipping into neutral. No decisions were necessary,
no plans, no emotional issues. The job itself was
undemanding, and the conditions comfortable. He
didn't consider how long he could go on. For the moment
he was reasonably content and felt that he had stopped,
or at least slowed on a path that had confused and upset
him. He had no external responsibilities, no ties, and
no demands on him. He could take each day as it came,
not expectantly, but not with total resignation.
His drinking had eased slightly. It was still a malign
factor, dulling him and sapping the strength in his
body; but occasionally now, in the mornings, there
would be some Scotch left in the bottle. It was no longer
desperate drinking but more an overdone habit. Still,
he knew that if he wanted to arrest his physical decline
before it was too late he would have to cut back sharply.
It was something to think about--but not strenuously.

The routine settled in. Creasy would drive Pinta to
school in the mornings and pick her up at five o'clock.
In between he had free time. Occasionally he would go
into Milan and buy a few books or cassettes, but usually
he went back to the house. There he would help Bruno
on the large grounds. He liked using his hands, building
things. Guido had once joked that it was a guilt
complex from spending most of his life blowing things
up or knocking them down.
In the Legion there had been opportunity for both
destruction and construction, for the Legion had a history
of civil engineering, particularly road-building. In
the early days in Algeria they had, like the Romans,
built roads to help pacify the country. They had carried
on this tradition in other parts of Africa and in Vietnam.
Legionnaires were trained for this work, and
Creasy enjoyed it.

Bruno was hard put to keep the large grounds tidy.
He had concentrated on the front garden and lawn,
which extended down to the roadway. At the back of
the house the ground rose steeply up a pine-covered,
rock-strewn hill. This part was largely overgrown. A
wooden fence surrounded the property but was in a
state of bad disrepair. Bruno had asked for funds and
a casual laborer to help fix it, and Ettore had promised
to do something about it but never had. Creasy worked
on this fence. He went into Como and bought some
timber, spending his own money. He would tell Ettore
that it was a security need, although even the repaired
fence wouldn't keep out a determined intruder.

He spent several hours a day on this job, but it was
going to take a good few weeks to finish it. Meanwhile
it occupied his spare time, and he managed to sweat
out some of the whisky even though it was barely spring
and still cold.

In the evenings they would have an early dinner and
afterward Creasy would stay on in the kitchen for an
hour or two, either reading or watching television, listening
with half an ear to the conversation of the others.

It was at such a time, a couple of days before her
parents returned, that Pinta first spotted her opening.
If there was nothing good on television, she would read
the day's newspaper and magazines.

Her lively curiosity meant that Maria and Bruno
were often asked questions.

Neither of them was well-read or had traveled and
their answers were limited. Creasy heard these conversations
only as a background murmur but on this
particular evening the name "Vietnam" caught his attention.

Pinta had been reading about the mass exodus of

refugees from the south--the boat people. She asked
Bruno why so many were fleeing their own country.
He shrugged and talked vaguely of Communism.
Creasy's interest was stirred and for the first time
he found himself drawn into the conversation. The girl
listened with interest as he explained that the majority
of the boat people were ethnic Chinese and had always
lived as a separate community. They were not liked by
the Vietnamese, who traditionally distrusted them.
With the ending of the war, a united Vietnam decided
to get rid of them. As a community the Chinese were
wealthy and could afford to pay the middlemen, usually
Hong Kong Chinese, to smuggle them out by boat. It didn't take much smuggling since the authorities
turned a blind eye and even actively encouraged the
departures. So it wasn't so much the effects of Communism
that caused the problem but deep-seated racial
differences.
Pinta astutely drew a comparison with the migration
of labor in Europe from poor countries to rich. She had
read recently about the bad feelings Italian workers
were facing in Switzerland and Germany.
It was deftly done, and a follow-up question had
Creasy explaining about the effects of minority Chinese
communities in Malaysia and Indonesia, where they
controlled most of the economy and again created resentment.
He told her that over one hundred thousand
Chinese had been slaughtered in Indonesia after the
failure of a Communist coup.
She wanted to know how the Chinese got there in
the first place, and he told her of the great labor importing
by the early colonial powers. The Chinese made
good workers for the plantations, clearing jungle and
building roads. The local populations were less inclined
to work as hard. There were many examples, he told
her: the Asians in East Africa who had been imported
to build the railroads and who had stayed on to take
over almost all the retailing and distributing networks,
and the Tamils in Sri Lanka, imported from southern
India to work the tea plantations. There were examples
ILL
all over the world, and usually they created a rift that
led to hatred and bloodshed in later years.
Abruptly he stopped talking and picked up his book.
It had been an uncharacteristic monologue. She didn't
press him or say another word to him. Instead she
started to talk to Maria. A few minutes later Creasy
stood up, said a gruff good night, and went up to his
room.
As the door closed behind him, Pinta smiled inwardly.
"The first step, Creasy bear," she said to herself.
The next day on the way to school, and on the way
back, Pinta didn't say a word, and after dinner that
night she watched television. Creasy didn't exist. He
was relieved. The night before, up in his room, he'd felt
disturbed, a feeling he always got when he'd done something
out of character. But if he had realized the girl's
strategy, he would have been even more disturbed, although
forced to admire it from a military point of view:
Reconnoiter the target carefully. Note points of weakness.
Make a diversionary attack to draw fire and then
quietly slip in the back way and effect a capture. Pinta
would have made an excellent guerrilla leader.

Creasy took Elio and Felicia to dinner at Zagone's
in Milan. Maria had recommended it. She had worked
there as a waitress when she had first come north; the
owner was from Florence and she vouched for the food,
although--she explained apologetically--it was expensive.
For Felicia it was an occasion. Having two
young children kept her at home in the evenings, but
tonight a trusted neighbor was baby-sitting and she
was determined to enjoy herself.
Maria had phoned for a reservation, and she had
obviously been a good waitress and popular, because
the owner gave them personal attention and a good
table. He told Creasy that Maria was being modest in
telling him that she had been a mere waitress. She had
helped in the kitchen as well, and was a fine cook. The
Ballettos often ate there and that was how they came

to hire her. He joked with Creasy that, after Maria's
cooking, the meal would be an anticlimax.
It wasn't. First they had a light pasta--penne alia
carrettiera, followed by lamb braised with wine, peas
and rosemary. They were a relaxed trio. It was Creasy's
first night out since starting the job, and Felicia's obvious
enjoyment was infectious.
Elio was surprised at Creasy's mood. It was a distinct
change from that of a month before. He wasn't loquacious
or smiling from ear to ear, that wouldn't have
been Creasy, but he took Felicia's good-natured teasing
easily and even cracked a couple of dry jokes. Felicia
wanted to know all about the Balletto household and
particularly Rika, who was well known as a socialite
and hostess. Was she really as beautiful as her reputation
had it? Creasy affirmed it. By any standards,
she was beautiful, and naturally so.
"Are you attracted by her?" Felicia asked with a
disarming smile.
Creasy nodded without hesitation. Any man would
be. It was just a fact of life. He pointed to her plate
where the lamb was fast disappearing. "Just as the
taste buds are attracted to fine food, or a special wine."
"What about the girl? Is she like her mother?"
Creasy considered carefully, and the other two could
see that the question interested him.
He decided that, as to her looks, she would turn out
equally beautiful. It was already beginning to show.
He thought her character might be different. She was
more of an extrovert. She's curious, he told them, curious
about everything. But who knew? With her full
blossoming she might change. Great beauty often
brought inhibitions.
Creasy found himself thinking about the girl. Since
the night he had explained about the boat people, she
had asked him one or two other questions in a direct
and open way, obviously keen to widen her knowledge.
Just the day before, driving to school, she had asked
from the back seat about "human rights." It had become
a big issue in the papers, with President Carter ex
pounding on the subject and other statesmen jumping
into the act.
He had answered that it meant freedom of the individual
and the right of all to the basics of life within
a community.
Again she had probed with well-put questions until
he had amplified that oversimplification, and they had
arrived at the school with him talking about left-and right-wing regimes and the meaning of democracy.
He had expected her to take up the subject on the
way home, but she had remained silent.
His thoughts were interrupted by a man approaching
their table. It was Vico Mansutti, who had come in
with two other men.
"It's Mr. Creasy, is it not?"
Creasy introduced him to Elio and Felicia and
watched him turn on the charm, white teeth gleaming
beneath the wide black mustache.
"You have excellent taste," he said to Creasy. "This
is one of the best restaurants in Milan. How was your
meal?"
They all agreed that it had been excellent, and with
a final flash of teeth at Felicia he rejoined his companions.
A few mintues later Zagone came over to offer them
a liqueur, compliments of Mr. Mansutti.
"He's charming," said Felicia, after ordering a cognac.
Creasy looked at Elio and a gesture of the shoulders,
very Italian and expressive, told him that they
agreed about Mansutti.
"A shark," said Elio. "But a clever one. He's building
a big reputation. His contacts with government and
business are solid. It's also rumored he has connections
with the Mafia." He made a wry face. "But that's not
unusual. These days it's hard to find the dividing lines
between crime and government and business. Incidentally,
there's talk that he's having an affair with your
boss's wife."
Creasy was surprised. Not that Rika might be have
ing an affair, but that she would have picked a man
like Mansutti. Elio's next words offered an explanation.
"He's apparently helping Balletto arrange bank
guarantees to re-equip his plant. There's talk of Man-sutti's
personal guarantee being involved. He's very
rich and it seems that Balletto Mills have a cash flow
problem."
It could be the reason, Creasy thought. He couldn't
see much standing in Rika's way if her life-style was
threatened. Elio's words raised another question.
"If Balletto's tight for cash, it's unlikely that his
daughter is a potential kidnap victim," Creasy said.
Elio agreed and thought it might be a social thing.
"A lot of Rika's friends would have bodyguards."
"You mean I'm a social asset?" asked Creasy dryly,
and Felicia laughed at the idea. But Creasy remembered
his short interview with Ettore and the whole
thing made sense. Ettore was keeping his wife's image
burnished at a cheap price. It also explained why he
was reluctant to spend money improving the security
of the house. He had been pleased to find on his return
from Paris that Creasy was repairing the fence and had
cheerfully reimbursed him the small amount that had
been spent for timber. However, when Creasy had suggested
a modern chainlink fence and other measures,
he had been decidedly unenthusiastic.
"Does your firm audit his books?" Creasy asked.
Elio shook his head. "No, but we hear things."
Felicia snorted. "Hear things! Accountants are the
biggest gossips in the world. Worse than a bunch of
housewives." She smiled at her husband. "It's a little
Mafia all its own, but they use pocket calculators instead
of pistols."
Elio nodded benignly in agreement and said to
Creasy, "Perhaps she's right. I suppose we do exchange
information more freely than we should, but it's for our
own protection. Italian businessmen are very secretive,
especially with the tax laws we have. An accountant's
ammunition is information--so we tend to scratch each
other's backs. Besides, it makes up for the boredom of
looking at columns of figures all day."

Zagone appeared and offered them more liqueurs,
this time with his compliments, and by the time they
left Felicia was slightly drunk and walked between the
two men, an arm linked with each.

They paused at Mansutti's table, and the three men
stood up and exchanged introductions and pleasantries.
One of Vico's guests was an Englishman--dressed like
a banker, very British in pinstripes and waistcoat. Vico
made a point of telling him that Creasy was the bodyguard
of the Balletto girl. "Very experienced," he said,
smiling.

Creasy felt irritation. He was a private man and
didn't like to be discussed by strangers.

Outside the restaurant Felicia kissed him on both
cheeks and thanked him and made him promise that
he would come to the house for a Sunday lunch in the
near future.


"Yes, he's much more relaxed," Elio said on the
phone. "I was surprised. He seems to be settling in. He
even told a joke or two."

Guido also was surprised. He hadn't expected it to
go quite that well. It was a relief. Creasy had been
much on his mind.

"Does he get on with the girl?"

"He says she's got an inquisitive nature," Elio answered.
"I suppose he tolerates her--otherwise it
wouldn't work."

Guido said, "I can't see him tolerating her if she
pesters him with questions all the time."

"Well, obviously she doesn't," Elio said thoughtfully,
"but he did say she was curious about everything."

Guido thanked him for calling and for helping with
Creasy, and was assured it was no problem. Elio hero-worshipped
his elder brother and would do anything
for him.

Guido hung up, a little mystified. An inquisitive se

child with a relaxed Creasy was a definite contradiction.
Perhaps Creasy was getting old. Mellowing, even.
Or maybe the whisky was addling his brain. Anyway,
so far, so good.

Pinta had reached an impasse. She was conscious
that to move on to the next step in obtaining Creasy's
friendship she needed a device. It was not enough to
keep drawing him out with questions on subjects that
interested him. It was not really a dialogue. She wanted
to learn more about him personally--about his own
life. They had reached the point when almost every day
she could get him to talk--about politics or places or
people. But he always remained remote himself, and
she was wary of asking him personal questions.
She had quizzed her mother about his past and had
learned the simple facts of his career. Rika had been
reluctant at first because of the association with violence,
but Pinta was adept at handling either of her
parents and she extracted the information easily. Besides,
Rika was proud of their bodyguard. She would
tell Ettore that none of their friends had anyone who
could compare. After all, Creasy had the Croix de
Guerre, and many campaign medals and lots of scars
and was an ex-paratrooper. Undoubtedly, Creasy was
a feather in her social cap, and she was not shy .about
telling her friends of his past.
As a result of this, Vico brought up the subject when
he next lunched with Ettore.
"How did you get him so cheap?"
"He drinks. He's an alcoholic."
Vico nodded in understanding.
"He hides it well."
"That's true, he drinks only at night, but he told me
himself it affects him badly. Meanwhile, he can drive
a car alright, and from outside appearances he looks
competent enough." He smiled complacently and said,
"It was a good investment. He's also a handyman. He
likes fixing things."
He told Vico about the fence repairing and other odd
jobs Creasy did about the grounds and house.
Vico grinned.
"You would have to pay a carpenter more than you
pay him. And Rika is happy. I saw her in Granelli's the
other day and she joined me for a cocktail afterward.
She's much happier now."
"Yes," agreed Ettore, "and it shows in other ways.
She spends less. With her, being unhappy leads to a lot
of extravagance--I suppose to compensate. She still
comes into Milan to shop quite a lot but she doesn't buy
too much."
Vico nodded wisely.
"Probably spends more time window-shopping."
The two men went on to discuss business matters,
Vico doing most of the talking.

So Pinta knew about Creasy's past and tried to get
him to talk about it.
She had taken to dropping into the kitchen after
dinner even when her parents were home, and one evening
she asked about the Foreign Legion. There had
been an article in the newspaper about the Legion
being sent to Shaba Province in Zaire.
He told her about the Legion, how it was formed and
some of its history. She decided to press a little.
"Weren't you in the Legion once?"
He looked at her sharply.
"How did you know?"
She answered innocently. "I heard my mother telling
a friend on the phone, just after you arrived."
Bruno looked up from the television.
"I was in the Army once--in the war. I was captured
by Montgomery in North Africa."
It was said with a touch of pride, as if Montgomery
had effected the capture personally. Creasy nodded
briefly and went back to his newspaper.
Bruno said, "If you were in the Legion, that makes
us both old soldiers."
Creasy looked up at him and a trace of a smile
touched his lips.

"Yesboth old soldiers." Then he stood up and went
to his room.

Later, lying in bed, Pinta decided that a direct approach
to resurrect old memories was not going to work.
She could hear the music coming faintly from his room
and she knew that before long she would recognize the
song he always played. She knew what it was now. One
afternoon while he was working on the fence she had
slipped into his room and looked at the tape in the
cassette player. It was always the last one he played
at night. Linda Ronstadt's "Blue Bayou."

The breakthrough, when it came, was an accident,
literally. Her parents were in London for a week and
she was in the kitchen when Bruno came in and announced
that a nightingale had nested in a bush behind
the house. There were two chicks in the nest. It was
barely light but she begged him to show her. The nest
was high up the steep slope and, as she scrambled eagerly
up, she stepped on a stone, turned her ankle and
fell heavily against an outcrop of rock. Creasy was off
to the left, just packing up his tools, when he heard her
cry out.

She lay on her back, holding on to her side, her face
twisted in pain. Bruno had scrambled down and was
cushioning her head.

Creasy felt her ankle, his thick fingers surprisingly
gentle. It was swelling, but he judged it was just a
sprain. Then he took her hand from her side and pulled
up her T-shirt. There was an abrasion just below the
ribs. He carefully put his fingers on the ribs and probed
very gently. She winced.

"Does it hurt badly?" he asked.

"Not so bad. It hurts more lower down."

She pointed with her chin. "I hit the rocks there."
Her voice quivered as she tried not to cry.

"I think you've just bruised yourself," he said. "At
least you haven't damaged your ribs."

Maria arrived, puffing up the hill in a state of high

anxiety. Creasy stopped her fussing and calmed her
down. He decided to take Pinta into Como for an X ray just to be sure. Maria was to stay in the house in case
her parents called. He told Bruno to stay with her, as
the old man's agitation would not help calm the girl.
Then, being careful not to put pressure on her side, he
picked her up and carried her down to the car.
Later Maria was to remember how gentle he had
been, how reassuring. He could not be such a man, she
thought, not as uncaring as he seemed. But in fact
Creasy's attitude had been an automatic one. In his life
he had frequently dealt with wounded people, often
terribly wounded. The first criterion was to calm them
and reassure them.
The X rays confirmed that nothing was broken, and
the doctor bound up the ankle and gave her some pills
for the pain. He agreed with Creasy that she probably
had some internal bruising under her ribs, but nothing
serious.
Back at the house he reassured Maria and Bruno,
carried the girl up to her bedroom, and left while Maria
put her to bed. Then he put a call through to the Savoy
Hotel in London just in case Rika or Ettore phoned
while he was out of the house. Maria would certainly
overdramatize.
Rika answered and he told her of Pinta's fall. No,
she needn't rush back. It was only a sprain and a bruise.
The child could probably go to school in the morning
as usual. Yes, he could give her their love. He hung up,
and then went upstairs to see that the girl was comfortable.
She was sitting propped up against two pillows. Beside
her was a stuffed brown bear, very battered. He
sat at the foot of the bed.
"You feel alright?"
She nodded shyly.
He looked at the bear.
"Do you always sleep with that?"
She nodded again.
"What do you call him?"
"He has no name," she replied.

Her hair was jet black against the pillow, her face
very pale. The huge eyes looked at him solemnly. There
was a long silence, and then he abruptly stood up. "The
pills will make you sleepy. If you wake up with any
pain in the night, take two more."

He reached the door and turned.

"I spoke to your mother on the phone. They send
their love."

"Thank you. Good night, Creasy."

"Good night, Pinta," he said gruffly.

The pills made her feel drowsy. She switched off the
light and hugged the bear and was soon asleep. She had lied to him. It did have a name.


In London, when Ettore returned to the hotel Rika
told him of the phone call. He was in a rush to get ready
for dinner with his agent and she stood at the bathroom
door while he showered.

"You don't want to go back?" he asked. "There's a
night flight to Milan."

She shook her head. "Creasy said she's alright."

His hand groped for the shampoo and she moved to
give him the bottle.

"It's nice, isn't it," she said.

"What's nice?" he asked, lathering his hair.

"Having a man like that in the house while we're
away. Maria would have panicked and I would have
felt obliged to hurry back. And tonight's dinner is important,
no?"

He turned up his face to the wide stream of water
pouring down from the huge, old-fashioned shower
head. It was one of the reasons he liked the Savoy.
Their bathrooms were bigger than most hotels' bedrooms,
and the fittings matched the size.

"Yes," he agreed, stepping out and enveloping himself
in a huge white heated towel. "Very important.
Roy Haynes is excited about the new range, and if he
decides to promote it we could have a very good season
here." He moved to the basin and started to shave,

draped in the towel like a Roman senator. She moved
behind him and rubbed the towel against his back and
shoulders.

"Promote it how?"

"In the press and at shows. They do it very well. But
it costs a lot and he has to have confidence. I will press
at dinner tonight." He looked at her face in the mirror
and she smiled at him.

"Leave the pressing to me. I'll be very subtle."

He smiled back and continued shaving. Yes, Creasy
was a good investment.

They ate in Parkes, in Beauchamp Place. Ettore refused
to eat Italian food in London. Not that there was
a lack of good Italian restaurants, but, when he traveled,
he liked to vary his diet.

Also, Parkes with its fresh flowers on the huge plates
was a favorite of Rika's.

Roy Haynes was another favorite, the kind of Englishman
she liked. Big and bluff and well-traveled. It
was no hardship turning her full powers of persuasion
on him. He sat, eating and smiling, fully aware of her
motives. He had already decided to give Balletto's line
a big promotion and tomorrow he would give Ettore a
large order, almost twice the value of last season's. In
the meantime he kept his counsel and let the lovely
woman opposite flatter and charm him. After dinner
he would take them to one of London's elegant gambling
clubs, and before they left for their hotel he would
be won over and give them the good news.

For Rika, such evenings were what life was all about.
She felt useful and appreciated.

In the early hours of the next morning, lying in bed
between the crisp, starched, linen sheets, she looked
back on a well-spent day, shopping at Harrod's in the
morning and on Bond Street in the afternoon. Her hair
done at Sassoon's, followed by tea and ridiculously thin
cucumber sandwiches at the hotel. Then Creasy's phone
call of reassurance, the delicious dinner and good company,
and the gambling afterward. Even that had gone
well, her favorite roulette numbers, 17 and 20, favoring

her in turn. Finally Roy Haynes saying good night and,
as an afterthought, mentioning to Ettore that at tomorrow
afternoon's meeting he would be greatly increasing
his order and would fully promote the new
line.

She stretched languorously. Yes, a day and a night
well spent, the only slight cloud being that Ettore had
drunk a little too much, and had not been up to the
lovemaking that had just ended. Never mind. Before
he got up in the morning, that would be remedied. At
the thought of the morning, her mind clicked awake.
With Creasy's phone call and everything else, she had
forgotten. She turned and shook Ettore, who was almost
asleep.

"Caro--I forgot. A man called you about an appointment
tomorrow. He said eleven a.m. in his office." She
snuggled up against him. "What's it about?"

"Just a financial matter," he answered sleepily.
"He's a friend of Vico's."

"Is it important?'

He mumbled something inaudible and moments
later was asleep.


Pinta hobbled down the front steps to the car and
Creasy opened the back door. She hesitated and said,
"I think I'll sit in the front. There's more room for my
foot."

As they drove out the gates, he asked, "Did you sleep
alright?"

"Yes. Those pills did make me sleepy. I only woke
up once, when I turned over."

"Does the ankle hurt? Can you put your weight on
it?"

"It's not bad," she answered. "Will it take long before
it's better?--School sports day is in five weeks and I
want to run in the hundred meters."

"There should be time," he said. "Don't favor it too
much. Put as much weight on it as you can. In a week
or two, you won't notice it."

When they reached the main Milan road he asked,
"Are you fast?"

She nodded. "But I'm no good at starts. By the time
I catch up, it's too late."

"You should practice more."

She nodded. "I will."

Creasy didn't know much about the technique of
sprint starts, but he knew all about coordination and
reaction time. He knew that he could teach her, but
then he caught himself. Enough was enough.

"Well, just walk on that foot as much as you can.
Even if it hurts a bit."

They lapsed into silence.

The girl's attitude had changed. It was no longer just
a gametrying to get Creasy's friendship. She desperately
wanted it. There was an accumulated effect.
With her natural curiosity and awareness, she had
caught tiny glimpses of the man inside. She wanted to
see more and to give something. She had never seen
him smile. Always sternalways remote. She believed
that, if he opened up, something wonderful would appear.
It was no longer just curiosity. She felt a link
with him, tenuous but definite. She desperately wanted
to build on that link.

In fact, the impetus had already shifted. It was
Creasy now who would let it happen. Not consciously,
but not fighting it. He too felt the link. It disturbed
him, because he couldn't understand it. The idea of him
with an eleven-year-old girl as a friend was about as
likely as a rabbit getting on with a fox. He couldn't
accept it, so tried not to think about it. But he couldn't
banish her from his mind and found himself not wanting
to.

That afternoon, driving home, she asked him about
the discovery of America. They had been learning about
it in school and she was fascinated that an Italian had
discovered it first.

"Not necessarily," he told her. "Some people believe
that the Vikings came first, or even an Irish monk."

This started a discussion about explorers and he told
100

her of Marco Polo and his journeys to China. She knew
a little but was avidly interested to learn more, and
this prompted Creasy to do something totally out of
character. A couple of days later he brought a package
down to dinner and passed it to her across the kitchen
table. It was a book describing Marco Polo's journeys.
"I noticed it in a shop in Milan," he said.
In fact he had searched an hour before finding it.
"For me? It's a present?" Her eyes were shining in
excitement.
"Well, it's for you." He was uncomfortable, and it
showed. "You seemed interested. He's Italy's most famous
explorer--you should know about him."
'Thank you, Creasy," she said softly. She guessed
she had broken through.
But it was not until the following Sunday that she
knew for certain.

"He brought her to lunch."
"He did what?"
"Brought her to lunch. At the house--today. They
just left."
Guido held the phone away from his ear and looked
at Pietro across the kitchen and slowly shook his head.
"What is it?" asked the boy, smiling at his boss's
startled expression.
Guido ignored him and said into the phone, "Just
like that--just turned up."
Elio laughed at the other end.
"No, he was supposed to come anyway, but he rang
up this morning and said that her parents had been
delayed getting back from London, so he had to cancel.
Felicia suggested he bring her along and he said OK.
Felicia almost passed out!"
"What's she like?" asked Guido.
There was a long pause while Elio considered.
"She's full of life," he said. "A beautiful child, polite
and intelligent, and she worships that big, ugly friend
of yours."
"And him--how does he react?" 101
There was another pause, and then Elio said, "It's
very strange. He's sort of stern and gruff with her. He
doesn't show much--you know what he's like--but it's
more than just toleration. Of course, Felicia, being a
woman, thinks that he sees her as the child he never
had."
"He talks to her?" Guido asked, full of curiosity.
Elio laughed. "Certainly, he explains things, she's
full of questions about everything. She sees him as a
sort of oracle. Wait a minute, here's Felicia, she's been
putting the kids to bed."
Felicia talked to Guido for a long time.
Creasy had changed, she told him. He was definitely
fond of the child. Bemused, perhaps, and not really
understanding, but she thought he liked it. Anyway,
the girl was adorable. With anyone else it would be
natural. They were surprised only because it was
Creasy.
Guido agreed. It was totally unexpected. After all
the years they had been together, he found it hard to
believe that a child could break through that crust.
There had never been an indication. But later, after
ringing off, Guido thought about it some more. Perhaps
Creasy had finally lowered his guard.
Guido was happy for his friend. He wondered where
it would lead. Whether the mellowing would continue.

Chapter 7

"Creasy--what's a concubine?"
He took his eyes off the road and glanced at her, no
longer surprised by the content of her questions.
"A sort of wife."
She was astonished. "A sort of wife! But the Emperor
of China had over one thousand. How can that be?"
He found that it was not a delicate subject. In spite
of her youth, she was mentally mature. The book he
had given her on Marco Polo had prompted several
similar questions. She did not giggle and act girlish
when he explained that many cultures were not monogamous.
He told her of the religions of Islam and the
Mormons, and was quietly amused that her sympathies
lay with the man.
"It must be difficult, having a lot of wives," she said
thoughtfully. Perhaps she was thinking of her mother. One of Rika was as much as any man could comfortably
handle. The thought of her multiplied a thousandfold
staggered the mind.
Creasy always answered her questions fully and
spoke as he would to an adult. He didn't have the artifice
to talk down to her. He often found her responses
provocative. It was his first exposure to a fresh and
unconditioned mind. He found himself viewing controversial
issues through her eyes, and it was stimulating.
She didn't like to watch political broadcasts on television
because the politicians talked too much and
didn't smile naturally. Religion was good, but the
priests were always right and enjoyed it too much. She
loved school, but was only good at the subjects when
she liked the teachers. She was fond of Maria and
Bruno, but they exasperated her because they weren't
interested in things.

In short, the whole world was a vast, unexplored,
and fascinating territory. She had the perception to
understand that she was placing her foot on the first
step of discovery. Creasy became her guide. Her mother
lived in her own limited world and her father treated
her very much as a child, and this was reflected in his
manner and conversation.

So Creasy was a revelation and she quickly realized
the importance of not just listening to him but of commenting
on what he had to say. So she always responded,
and after a while a dialogue developed that
scanned two opposite backgrounds and several generations.

The watershed had been the Sunday lunch with Elio
and Felicia. She knew that Creasy had opened the door,
and she passed gratefully through.

It was acceptance, and she had been happy but careful,
responding slowly at first to Elio and Felicia and
constantly looking to Creasy for a lead. But he had
been relaxed and unconcerned, not like a parent, but
like someone who had brought a friend to meet friends.
So she too had relaxed and played with the children
and helped Felicia in the kitchen and joined her in
teasing the men. It had been a wonderful day, and since
then she had been easy with Creasy, understanding
him and opening him up with a delicate mental crowbar.
He even started answering questions about himself.
She first asked about Guido. The two men had
talked of him over lunch. She learned of their friendship
and the years they had been together. She noticed
that when Creasy talked of Guido, the hard lines of his
face softened. She decided she would like to know him.

For Creasy, it was a catharsis. He found talking to
Pinta easy. Maybe it was her lack of knowledge and
experience. Maybe her uncluttered mind. But he talked
and felt better for it. Even the bad things, the pain of
war, the brutalizing. She had led the way, consciously,
as if it were a test. Driving home from that lunch, she
had reached out and touched one of his hands.

"Creasy, what happened to your hands?"

He hadn't jerked away as before but glanced down
at the mottled scars, and his mind went back to 1954
and the end at Dien Bien Phu. Surrender, humiliation,
and then three weeks of forced marching to a P.O.W.
camp. Every day dragging one foot after the other. Little
food and much death. When a man fell and couldn't
get up, the guards shot him. Many fell, but Creasy
stayed up and survived and carried a young wounded
officer on his back. After survival, interrogation. The
suave, Sorbonne-educated, Viet Minn captain sitting
small and immaculate across the wooden table from
the huge, gaunt Legionnaire. The questions, the many
questions, and the shake of his head to denote refusal
to answer. The Vietnamese captain chain-smoking and
always the Gauloise cigarettes being stubbed out on
the backs of Creasy's strapped-down hands.

"A man once asked me questions. He smoked a lot.
There was no ashtray."

She understood immediately and was long silent.
Tears filled her eyes.

He glanced at her.

"Bad things happen in the world. I told you that,
once."

She smiled through the tears.

"Good things happen, too."

After that she was free with personal questions, but
she learned only sparsely of his youth. His parents,
poor and crushed by the Depression. A small holding
in Tennesseebarely enough to eat. Joining the Marines
at the earliest possible age. Koreathe recognizing
of a talent for fighting. Striking an officer who
had been stupid and let good men diedisgrace, and

nowhere to go back to. So then the Legion and all that
followed.
Apart from Guido, this eleven-year-old child learned
more about Creasy than anyone on earth.

Rika was radiant. Spring had arrived and lightened
her life. Creasy was definitely a factor. She talked to
her friends about her "gem." Told them how fond he
was of Pinta. The big shambling bear with the puppy
gamboling along behind. She didn't recognize the profound
change in him. To her, he was still silent and
remote and mysterious. Pinta had tamed him, she said
to Ettore, and he had nodded in acquiescence. He didn't
see Creasy as more than an adjunct to his life. Useful
in that Pinta and, more importantly, Rika were happy;
but still just an employee--poorly paid, and with a
secret drinking problem.
But the drink had ceased to be a big problem. Now,
most nights, Creasy would consume less than half a
bottle. The need to blot out the mind was eased. He had
never been an alcoholic in the clinical sense. It was not
an addiction, and although its accumulated effect still
conditioned him and slowed him, his mind had sharpened
again. Also, he was mentally preparing to get his
body back into shape. It had started with Pinta and the
forthcoming sports meeting. As soon as her ankle
healed, Creasy knocked up a pair of starting blocks and
set them into the front lawn. Then, with Pinta in a
blue-and-white track suit, they worked on her starts.
Creasy told her about reaction time. "Your ears hear
the bang of the starting gun and pass the message to
your brain; then your brain sends out a message to the
nerves in your legs and arms. This message says GO.
The secret is to cut down the time needed for sending
those messages."
He taught her how to concentrate on the sound itself.
Not to consciously listen for it or anticipate it. When
the bang came, her reaction must be automatic.
He simulated the starting gun by clapping his hands,
and after an afternoon's practice she was coming up
out of the blocks like a startled deer. Every day, he told
her--every day we practice for an hour, and on the big
day, you will win.
That night he lay in bed listening to Johnny Cash
and thinking about the girl. She was so alive, so quick,
her body tuned and fit. It made him think of himself.
He decided that after the three months, when he was
confirmed in the job, he would locate a gym in Como
or Milan and spend a couple of evenings a week getting
fit. If he left it too much longer, it would be too late.
He recognized what the girl had done to him. A vacuum
was filled. In a way he had changed his course. She had
a life in front of her. He would watch her develop. Play
a part in her moving mind. There were no deaths, no
destruction, no mutilation--it was not futile.
Johnny Cash finished and he reached out and
changed the tape.
Linda Ronstadt sang "Blue Bayou"; and downstairs
Pinta smiled as she heard the music.

Rika came out of the hairdresser's and looked around
for the car. It was a dull, overcast day and the Milan
traffic was heavy. She spotted the car parked about
thirty meters away, Creasy standing beside it. As she
walked toward him, a flurry of movement across the
street caught her eye: two men jumping from the side
door of a Volkswagen van. They ran toward a man
unlocking the door of a white Fiat. She saw the guns
in their hands and as the first shots rang out, she came
to a stunned halt. The man had turned, reaching under
his jacket, and then Creasy reached her, an arm coming
around her waist, sweeping her off her feet into a shop
doorway. She found herself on the pavement under his
heavy body. More shots, and she screamed as glass
shattered above them. She saw the gun in Creasy's
hand, held low down by his side. Sounds--the slamming
of the van door and the squeal of tires and a
racing engine and finally silence.
"Wait here, don't move." His voice was calm, flat,
and positive. The weight eased off her as he stood up,
carefully backing away so that glass didn't fall on her.
She lay still, watching, as he walked back to the car.
His gun had disappeared. He stood by the car looking
across the street. Her eyes followed. A man lay across
the bonnet of the Fiat--red blood on the white metal.
Instinctively she knew he was dead. He lay that way.
Creasy opened the back door of the car and walked back
to her. He put down a hand and helped her up. She was
unsteady, but he put an arm round her and walked her
slowly to the car. People were moving again. A woman
was sobbing in shock. A siren sounded, wailing closer.
He put her into the back seat.

"Stay in there. It will take some time. The police will
put up roadblocks and ask questions all around."

She was shivering slightly, her face very white
against her black hair. He reached forward and put the
back of his hand against her cheek. It was cold. He
cupped her chin and raised her face, looking into her
eyes. They were dull--glazed.

"Are you alright? Rika, look at me!"

Her eyes focused, and she nodded slowly. A police
car had arrived, its rhythmic light flashing, its siren
dying. Excited voices, and more sirens homing in. She
nodded again, her mind functioning.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll talk to the police. We'll
leave as soon as possible." He looked at her closely,
then, satisfied, closed the door and walked across the
street.

It had been a Red Brigade killing, the victim a prosecuting
attorney. Not an unusual event in Milan.
Creasy showed the police his bodyguard's license and
told them what he had seen, which was not much. He
gave them a description of the two gunmen that could
have fitted a hundred thousand youths in the city. Also
the number plate of the Volkswagen, which was certainly
stolen.

Half an hour later he drove out of the suburbs toward
Como with a silent Rika in the back seat. They were
halfway home when she suddenly burst out:

"Animals! Shooting people down in the street--Animals!"
The shoulders in front of her shrugged.
"You had the gun in your hand," she said. "I saw it.
Why didn't you shoot them?"
"Nothing to do with me--or you," he answered
shortly. "Besides, apart from the driver, there was another
one in the front of the van. He had a sawed-off
shotgun. If I'd started shooting at his friends, he would
have blasted us. As it was, we were lucky. The victim
got off one shot. It passed only a couple of feet over us."
That silenced her for ten minutes. He watched her
in the rearview mirror. Her private world had been
invaded. Violence had leapt off the television screen
and slapped her in the face. He saw her visibly compose
herself, relate again to her own world. She leaned forward
and picked a tiny shard of glass from his hair.
"You were so fast, Creasy. I never saw you coming--
thank God you were there."
He pulled in through the gates and up to the front
door.
"I need a brandy," she said, stepping out. "A big one.
Come on in."
"Pinta," he said, staying at the wheel.
"Pinta?"

"It's quarter to five."
"Oh, of course. That thing made me forget. Go ahead.
I'll see you later."
She stood at the foot of the steps and watched as he
reversed the car and drove off. Then she went in and
poured the large brandy. Shock wore off, and she reenacted
the scene in her mind. The sudden sharp movement
--the sounds--breaking glass and the weight of
Creasy lying over her. His stillness. The copper taste
of fear in her mouth. Creasy so sure--so calm. Later
she would phone Ettore in Rome and tell him about it.
And then some of her friends. It was an event-- The
bodyguard justified. He had been so unaffected--looking
at the dead man without expression or emotion. He
had seen it all so often. She remembered his hand
against her face, cupping her chin. The scarred hand--
Pinta had told her how. The heavy eyes studying her--
steadying her. She poured another brandy and sipped
it slowly. She would not call Ettore tonight. The morning
would be soon enough.

He had not been fast--far from it. At least not by
his standards. He lay in bed thinking about it. He didn't
play a cassette and he wasn't drinking. Part of his mind
was waiting, part analyzing. He decided that if Rika
had been the target, she would now be dead. A time
ago he could have picked off the man with the shotgun
and the two on foot before they had gone five paces.
They were novices. Determined amateurs. The victim
had got off a shot; a wild one, but the terrorists had
been lucky. They should have done the job with the
shotgun and never left the van. Both barrels from ten
meters would have been totally positive--amateurs.
But still he had been slow. His reactions dull.
Rika would have been dead.
It decided him. All his life he had considered his
body as a weapon. Cared for it as he cared for his other
weapons. Nursed it back from injury. Exercised all the
parts and kept it responsive to his brain. Now it would
be difficult. Unlike a gun, he couldn't take a cleaning
rag to it, burnish it up, lubricate the moving parts. The
whole thing had to be rebuilt, and slowly. It would be
a long and painful process. He didn't look unfit--was
barely overweight. Only Guido, who had known him
in earlier days, could discern it--the slackness and the
lack of muscle tone. A fine machine rusted and neglected.
It would take months. Carefully at first, ten
minutes of circuit training in his room every morning,
stepping up the tempo. Then sessions in a gym, using
weights and bars. It would come back. It was not too
late. He had caught it just in time.

It was after midnight when the soft tap came on the
door. The waiting had ended. She wore a nightdress,
white and long, and she carried, cradled in her hand,
a large goblet of cognac. Silk rustled as she crossed the
room. The cognac was proffered and he took it with
a touch of fingers. She sat on the bed and watched as
he sipped. The sheet came to his waist and she studied
his face and upper body, then reached out and traced
a finger down the scar on his shoulder. She picked up
his free hand and placed it against her cheek, pressing
against it, moving her head gently, ebony hair swaying.
He put the glass on the bedside table and moved his
hand behind her neck pulling her towards him. The
kiss was long--searching.

She stood and the white silk slipped to the floor. She
showed herself to him, standing just out of reach. Not
evocative, not posing, just showing. This is my body,
look at it; I'm going to give it to you. A gift--a gift that
only I can give.

The single, shaded light fell on her softly. Long and
full and curved. Perfect proportion from the bell of hair
to points of color at eyes and wide, full mouth. Soft
shadow in the cleft chin, curved strong neck. His eyes
passed down, unhurried, appreciating. More shadows
under high breasts, nipples erect, a young girl's waist,
and then the sweep out. Shadowed triangle above long
symmetry of leg.

She stood absolutely still, her eyes never leaving his
face as he took her in.

He understood at that moment. Understood how any
man could be captured and drugged by such beauty. It
saturated the mind.

He looked up again into her eyes and she moved
back to him. Still standing--but close. He ran a hand
slowly down from her waist to the soft flesh behind her
knee. Her skin trembled slightly at the contact.

She moved again, sitting on the bed, pulling away
the sheet. Her turn to look. Again she traced a scar
with her finger--from his knee almost to the groin;
and then the black hair swung down and her mouth
and tongue followed the finger and moved higher. It
was sudden. His breath forced out as moist warmth
took him in.

A hand came up over his chest to his face and mouth.
Long fingers felt his lips and probed between them.

He felt the cool air as she lifted her head and slid
up beside him. Her mouth joined her fingers, her tongue
moved alongside them. She raised her head now and
looked into his eyes, hair falling to the pillow, darkening
her face, and his. She positioned herself and lowered,
never shifting her gaze. Moist warmth again, like
her mouth: but different. So slowly--first contact; just
joining, pausing; and then the warmth moving down
and clamping tight, and the soft belly against his and her release of breath, and pleasure, and breasts moving
on his chest, and rippling tremors.

For a while he was passive--receptive. Then his
arms came around her, one over her shoulders, holding
her tight, the other lower, to her undulating bottom,
resting lightly--shaping the curve, steadying the
rhythm. Then he twisted, holding her close and pulling
her under him.

Now she closed her eyes. Senses lost. She had wanted
to control. To lead. But that had gone. She felt his
mouth on her face, on her closed eyes and then her lips.
A quickening of movement and breathing. His grip
tightened. Instinct told her he was near. She wanted
it to be together and thrust up to him. She would be
late. She felt the spasms in him. Her back arched, and
she opened her eyes and above her, inches away, saw
the dull blue grip of the pistol jutting from its oiled
holster and she came to the top suddenly, shuddering
against him and together.

They lay for a long time--no words. Just feeling.
Mostly his hands over her. Feeling and molding like
a blind man seeing with his fingers. Occasionally he
kissed her face, tracing its contours with his lips.

She rose at first light, picking the silk nightdress up
from the floor. She looked down at his sleeping face and
shivered slightly and slipped on the nightdress. She
would not come again. In the night she had felt like a
child, giving away her will, all her emotions. It frightened
her.

And she knew he wouldn't call her. Would not need
to. Since she had entered the room, they had not spoken
a word.

"Why don't we use your gun?"
"Because it's not that kind of gun."
They were driving to Como. Creasy had decided that
more realism was needed in her training. Clapping his
hands was no substitute for the real thing. They would
try to find a sports shop that stocked starting pistols
or, failing that, a toy shop that had cap guns.
"But it makes a bang, doesn't it," she persisted.
"Yes," he said. "And it also fires a bullet."
"But you could aim into the air."
"Pinta, what goes up must come down, and a bullet
dropping from over a mile could be dangerous."
She saw the logic in that and turned her attention
to the local newspaper. She was looking for an advertisement
for a sports shop. Instead she came across the
horoscopes.
"What's your sign, Creasy?"
He looked puzzled.
"Your stars. When is your birthday?"
"April fifteenth."
"April fifteenth! But that's in a few days!" She calculated.
"On Sunday!"
He shrugged, uninterested, but she was at an age
when birthdays were exciting.
"It's the day after the sports meeting. Ill ask Maria
to make a cake. How old will you be?"
He turned to her sternly.
"You will tell Maria nothing. No fuss. I'm past the
age when birthdays are a cause for celebration."
"But we must do something. Mummy and Daddy will
be away." An idea came to her. "What about a picnic?
We could drive up into the Alps."
"Alright. But only if you win on Saturday."
"Creasy, that's not fair."
"It will give you an extra incentive. No win, no
picnic."
She smiled. "OK. I'll win anyway."

"After all this effort," he growled, "you better!"


Her parents were in New York and Pinta was greatly
disappointed. To be fair, Rika felt guilty, but she knew
that Ettore needed her on this important trip. And
there would be other sports days.

So when Creasy parked in the school courtyard,
Pinta asked: "Will you come and watch, Creasy?
Please."

He hesitated. There would be a lot of parents around,
and he would be out of place, perhaps unwelcome.

"It will be alright," she pleaded. "Nobody will mind."

He looked at her anxious face and nodded and got
out of the car.

It obviously was a social occasion. A big, striped
marquee had been set up and parents were standing
around, richly dressed and with drinks in their hands.

Pinta ran off to change and Creasy stood off to one
side, feeling uncomfortable. He spotted Signora Deluca
approaching and his discomfort increased.

"It's Mr. Creasy, isn't it?" she asked with a smile.

He nodded and explained about Pinta's parents
being away. She was sympathetic.

"It's only natural that a child should want her parents
along on a day like this."

She took his arm. "Never mind. Today you are a
surrogate father. Come and have a drink. The hundred-meter
doesn't start for half an hour."

She took Creasy into the marquee and gave him a
cold beer and introduced him to one or two parents. He
still felt uncomfortable and was relieved when everyone
moved off to watch the first events.

It was a warm spring day, and the girls, many of
them maturing, were an attractive sight in their tiny
running shorts. Creasy looked on approvingly. But
when Pinta appeared for the start of the hundred-meter,
he didn't see her in the same light.

Many others did. She was the most beautiful and 114

vivacious girl on the field, but to Creasy she was simply
a child and a friend.
He watched critically as they prepared for the start,
and felt a twinge of anxiety. He willed the girl to do
well.
He need not have worried. The training had paid off.
She left the blocks well ahead of the others and broke
the tape five yards clear.
She continued running to where he stood and threw
her arms around his neck.
"I won, Creasy! I won!"
He smiled down at her proudly.
"You did well. No one else was in it."
For Pinta, it rounded off a perfect day--it was the
first time she had seen him smile.

"Happy birthday, Creasy."
He was laying the tartan blanket out on the grass
and looked up in surprise.
She held out the small package.
"What's this?"
"A birthday present."
"I told you no fuss."
She plumped down on the blanket.
"It's just to say thank you for helping me win the
race."
He put the package down and went to the car to get
the picnic hamper. He was confused--not used to saying
thank you. He remembered now that Pinta had
gone shopping with her mother in Milan earlier in the
week. She must have bought it then. He hoped it wasn't
something expensive or silly. He didn't know how to
pretend and say the right things.
The package lay untouched as Pinta opened the hamper.
She was in tune and recognized his mood. Maria
had taken trouble over the picnic lunch, and Pinta exclaimed
in delight as she unwrapped it all. There was
a cold roast chicken, eggs wrapped in veal and ham in
the Florentine style, and small flat pizza called gar-denera; crusty bread with pepper cheese, a selection of
fruit, and finally two bottles of dry white wine, heavily
wrapped in newspaper and still chilled.

They had picked a spot above Lake Maggiore. It was
high summer grazing land studded with clumps of
pines. Away to the north and west, snowcapped mountains
rose ever higher toward Switzerland. In front of
them, to the south, the Po Valley swept away to the
horizon.

Soon the blanket was scattered with plastic plates
and tinfoil. Creasy poured wine into two beakers.

"A votre sante."

"What does it mean?"

"It's French. It means 'Cheers.'"

"Yamsing," she replied, and laughed at his look of
surprise. "It's Chinese."

"I know, but how... ?" and then he remembered the
book on Marco Polo. She absorbed everything.

They talked about different languages and he told
her a joke.

A Texan went to Europe for the first time, traveling
by sea on the steamship France. The first night out,
the chief steward put him at a dinner table with a
Frenchman who spoke no English. When the food arrived,
the Frenchman said: "Bon appetit," and the
Texan, assuming he was introducing himself, replied,
"Harvey Granger."

The next morning at breakfast the Frenchman again
said, "Bon appetit." The surprised Texan again replied,
"Harvey Granger." This went on at every meal for the
next five days.

On the last night out the Texan was having a drink
in the bar before dinner and struck up a conversation
with another American.

"Strange people, these French," remarked the Texan.

"How so?"

The Texan told how he'd met the Frenchman at least
a dozen times and that he always introduced himself.

"What's his name?"

"Bon appetit."

The American laughed and explained that that
118

wasn't the Frenchman's name. He was merely wishing
him a good appetite.
The Texan was very embarrassed and, when he-sat
down for dinner that night, he smiled at the Frenchman
and said, "Bon appetit."
The Frenchman beamed back and replied, "Harvey
Granger."
The girl laughed and clapped her hands, and Creasy
reached out, picked up the package, and unwrapped it.
Inside was a small box, and as he opened it, Pinta's
laughter stilled as she waited for his reaction.
It was a solid-gold crucifix on a thin, finely wrought
gold chain, and he knew why she had given it to him.
They had talked once about religion. For him, it was
a subject of massive contradiction. His parents had
been Catholics, and he had been raised in that faith.
His mother, like Guido's, had been fatalistic. God would
provide--God hadn't. The grinding poverty had finally
condemned his mother.
Ill with pneumonia, with no money to pay for adequate
attention, she had died. A year later his father
followed, in his case the passing eased by alcohol.
Creasy, aged fourteen, had been taken in by neighbors
and used in the fields as the cheapest form of labor. At
sixteen he ran away and a year later had joined the
Marines.
That early experience, followed by a lifetime of war,
had not brought him to God. He could not fathom a
Supreme Being so disinterested as to allow millions of
innocents to die in all the wars he had seen.
A baby roasted in napalm could not have been punished
for a sin. A young girl, endlessly raped, could call
upon God and hear nothing. A sadist could torture a
priest to death and live to a ripe age. Then to be consigned
to hell? After spending a lifetime creating hell
for others--for innocents? Creasy could not see the
logic of it.
But he had seen the hierarchy of it, the panoply and
wealth. He had been in the Philippines when the Pope
visited. The biggest Catholic country in Asia and per
haps the poorest. Beautiful churches set in a sea of
poverty. The bishops of the area had convened in Manila
to meet the Pope. Creasy had flown to Hong Kong
a few days later, and a half a dozen bishops had traveled
homewards on the same plane. They sat in first class
and drank champagne. There was no logic to it.
But also there was no logic to the other side of the
coin. He had seen missionaries, in the Congo and Vietnam,
who had worked a lifetime for no material reward,
who had never tasted champagne. He remembered
driving with Guido to a mission hospital outside Leo-poldville.
They informed the four Belgian nuns that
they must leave. The simbas were coming within
twenty-four hours. They could not be protected. The
nuns had refused. Their duty was to stay with their
patients. Creasy pressed them hard, finally describing
graphically what they could expect. They stayed. One
of them had been young and attractive. As he sat in
the Land Rover, reluctant to drive away, he beckoned
her over. You will suffer the worst, he had told her.
You will suffer long and then you will die. He had seen
fear deep in her eyes, and also resolve. "Go with God,"
she had said, and smiled at him serenely.
Their unit had been forced to retreat, and it was a
week before they had regrouped and fought their way
back. He and Guido had been the first to reach the
hospital. A generation of viewing barbarity had not
prepared them for what they saw that day.
They had taken spades and dug a grave and tipped
what was left into it. Later that day they caught up
with the simbas and Creasy had killed more than his
share, many more--long into the night. Guido had
driven the Land Rover while Creasy manned the
mounted machine gun. Perhaps he killed more than
had raped and mutilated the young nun. Who knows?
God's will? God's revenge?
Logic? Where was it? He had heard the argument
that faith must be tested. But who was doing the testing?
The bishops with champagne? Officials at the Vatican?
But some met the test. So could they all be fools? He
had met enough to know that intellect and faith could
go together, but he didn't understand how.
He had tried to tell Pinta some of this, how he saw
the contradictions. She had surprised him.
You can never know, she had said. If you know for
sure, you don't need faith.
Yes--the ultimate contradiction. The faith to be ignorant.
She had a very simple and uncomplicated view herself.
She would believe until someone proved, beyond
doubt, that it was all a load of rubbish. "And how will
you know if it's proved?" he had asked. She had smiled
at him impishly and answered: "It will be announced
on television!"

"I bought it myself, with my own money," she said.
"I saved it."
He didn't say anything, just looked at her.
"It can't hurt, can it?" she asked with a smile. "At
least keep it until the announcement."
Now he smiled back, and lifted the chain and dropped
it over his neck.
"Thank you." He reached out a hand to her shoulder
and squeezed it and said, "I suddenly feel very holy."
She laughed and jumped up.
"If you ever meet the devil, Creasy, you must hold
it up in front of you."
He smiled wryly. It would make a change from holding
a machine gun.
A tinkling of bells intruded and a herd of cows came
over the rise, being driven to the upper pastures. They
moved toward the picnic spot and a dog bounded ahead
to investigate.
Pinta offered a piece of ham in friendship, and it was
gratefully accepted. She ran off with the dog to play
while Creasy poured the header a beaker of wine.
It was an afternoon to be remembered. The two men
sat, talking casually, with the cows grazing around
them and the girl and dog chasing each other among
the herd.

"You have a fine girl," the herder remarked, and
was puzzled at the look that crossed Creasy's face.

At sunset they packed the hamper and walked back
to the car in the twilight.

The fresh air and exercise had made Pinta drowsy,
and as the car wound down the hills toward Como she
yawned and slipped lower in her seat. Finally she
tucked up her legs and rested her head on Creasy's lap.

He drove home very slowly, occasionally glancing
down at the girl's sleeping face. In the fading light his
scarred features and brooding eyes were relaxed in rare
contentment. He was at peace.


Chapter 8


The day of the piano lesson.

It had become fashionable in Milanese society for
parents to develop their children's musical talents--if
they had any. Rika couldn't picture Pinta playing a
trumpet or a flute. It had to be the piano.

An appointment was made with an eminent teacher
and Creasy drove her to the all-important lesson. If the
eminent teacher declared that Pinta had even a glimmer
of talent, a piano would be purchased and regular
lessons would start.

Pinta was not enthusiastic. Neither was Creasy. The

thought of listening to the girl fumbling through her
exercises was not pleasant.

Still, it was only a small cloud on the horizon. He
had cut down his drinking to virtually nothing, merely
taking a glass or two of wine at meals. He had started
the morning exercises and had located a small gym in
Como that stayed open late into the evening. The fence
around the property was now repaired, and he would
concentrate on getting fit.

His mood would have been less sanguine had he
overheard a conversation between Rika and Ettore soon
after their return from New York.

"He must go, Ettore, and quickly. I insist!"

"But why, cam, after you were so pleased with him?"

There were two reasons, both genuine, but she could
explain only one.

"She is getting too fond of him--to the exclusion of
everything else."

"You don't think there's anything sinister to it?"

She shook her head. "Not in that way. It's mental--
he looks on her as a friend." She paused for effect. "And
she looks on him as a father."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's not. It's been developing, I just haven't noticed
it before. Oh, I've known she's been fond of him, but
since we got back this time it's become so obvious."

Ettore thought about it and said, "You exaggerate.
Certainly she's fond of him. She's with him a lot, and
perhaps we have been away too much--but as a
father?"

Rika sighed. "Ettore, you have always been distant
with her. Too distant. You never really talk to her. I
wouldn't have believed it, but Creasy does, and she
responds. She looks up to him, respects him. She begrudges
every minute that she's not with him. God!
She can't wait for dinner to end so she can run into the
kitchen."

He had to admit the truth of it. He was made uncomfortable
by the realization--found wanting

"I've just been so busy, Rika, and when I get home
I like to relax, not listen to a lot of childish chatter."

She sighed again. He really didn't know his daughter.

"I understand, darling, but you're going to have to
make ah effort, and if you listen to her you will find
she's not so childish. She's very intelligent. Beyond her
years."

Rika had started thinking about the problem when
Pinta had bought the crucifix for Creasy's birthday.
She had dragged her mother from shop to shop until
she found just the one she wanted. It had seemed a
strange present for such a man, and Rika had said so.
Pinta had laughed.

"I know, Mama, it's exactly the opposite of what he
might expect, but Creasy bear is a strange man. He
will understand."

Rika had suddenly seen Creasy as a threat to Ettore.
A double threat. One through Pinta and the other
through herself. For that night with Creasy had lit a
fuse. It had been several days before she caught herself
remembering how she had felt, standing in the dawn
light, looking down at him asleep. It hadn't only been
the physical love, the deep satisfying. She had known
that before, known it with Ettore and others. It had
been the other effect, the losing herself. Losing the fine
control. With Ettore and others, she had given and
accepted pleasure. Measured it, even. With Creasy on
that night she had given up more. Every day the memory
had become more vivid. His body, his hands on her,
the absorption of her will. The moment when she
opened her eyes and the only thing in her vision had
been the gun hanging over her and the only feeling his
hardness spurting into her. Vision and feeling had been
blended and confused. And more--the aftermath, when
she lay in his arms and for so long a time her mind had
been lost, while his hands moved on her, possessed her.

It had been on her mind in New York, and when
they returned and she saw Creasy again, she knew that
the danger was real. As she made love to Ettore that

night she couldn't wrench her mind away from the man
upstairs. The blunt fingers, the scars, and the blue-black
gun hanging by his head.
But she couldn't talk of that. Only of Pinta. She had
never thought about her daughter's feelings for Ettore.
There had been no one else before with whom to make
a comparison. But seeing the girl with Creasy, she
could recognize the depth of feeling in the child. If it
wasn't channeled from Creasy to Ettore soon, it would
be too late.
"So, caro, he must go--immediately."
"Well," Ettore said reflectively, "the three-month trial ends in another week. I just won't confirm the
position. That possibility was understood when I hired
him."
She was strangely agitated.
"No, Ettore. Don't wait. Tell him tomorrow. Of
course you must pay for the full time and also give him
a good bonus. It's not his fault."
"Another week won't make any difference," he said
reasonably. "And I don't want to create a bad feeling."
She started to insist, bringing her will to bear, even
suggesting that, as an excuse, they could take Pinta to
Rome for a few days, and then he could reasonably
leave before the three months were fully up.
But Ettore had been firm. Another disruption at
school would be bad for her.
They argued heatedly, Ettore reminding her that it
was her original paranoia that had created the whole
problem. Finally, for once, she had to give way. He
would tell Creasy at the end of the week.
"It will be a hard break," he had commented.
Rika shrugged. "She's young--she'll get over it."
His reply was, for once, perceptive and also in character.
"I wasn't thinking of Pinta."

Sublimely unaware, Creasy drove Pinta to her piano
lesson. They talked of the coming Sunday. Creasy was
going to Elio's again for lunch, and Pinta wanted to
come along.
"Your parents are home. You should be with them."

"But I want to see Elio and Felicia again and the
children."

He gently argued her out of it. There would be plenty
of other opportunities. Her parents were away a lot.

He had difficulty locating the teacher's apartment,
and she got out the map and guided him to the Corso
Buenos Aires. It was a wide, tree-lined avenue with the
block of flats set well back beyond a lawn. He parked
on the avenue and they walked across the grass to the
entrance. The door had a security lock and intercom
and Creasy announced her and the door buzzed open.

"I won't be long Creasy, just an hour."

"Play badly."

She grinned up at him. "I will."
He went back and sat in the car and picked up a
newspaper. Faint tinklings reached him from an open
upper window.

The hour passed and he looked up as the apartment
door slammed shut on its spring. She waved at him and
started toward the car. She was still forty meters away
when the black car came round the corner behind him
and mounted the curb onto the grass. He saw the four
men and instantly realized what was happening. He
came out of the car fast, reaching for his gun. Pinta
had stopped in surprise.

"Run, Pinta, run!" he shouted.

The car skidded to a stop in front of her, blocking
her path to Creasy. The back door opened and two men
jumped out. But Pinta was quick. She ducked under a
reaching arm and scampered round the back of the car
toward her running bodyguard. The two men were fast
behind her. They both held revolvers. Creasy tried to
draw a line on them but the girl was between and he
hesitated. Then one of them caught up and scooped an
arm round her, lifting her off her feet and turning back
to the car. The other faced Creasy and fired a shot--
high. Creasy shot him in the chest twice.

The one holding Pinta was trying to force her into
the back seat but she struggled wildly, screaming and

kicking. Creasy was very close by the time he had finally
flung her in and turned with his gun coming up.
Creasy fired high aiming for the head, for fear of a
bullet ricocheting into the car. The bullet hit the gunman
below the nose, angling upward into the brain and
slamming the body against the door--closing it. Then
three shots rang out from the front seat and Creasy
went down. Wheels spun and gripped and the car accelerated
away. As it bounced back onto the road, the
girl screamed out his name.
He could barely move, his nervous system stunned
by the bullets. It was very quiet. He lay waiting for
help. Through the pain and shock his one hope was not
to die. He had heard Pinta scream his name. Not a cry
for help--she had seen him fall--a cry of anguish.

Chapter 9

A nurse sat by the bed, reading a book. Creasy was
barely awake and heavily drugged. Above him two bottles
were suspended upside down on a metal frame.
Colorless liquid dripped rhythmically into transparent
tubes. One snaked down to his left nostril. The other
disappeared under a bandage around his right wrist.
The door opened and a uniformed policeman spoke
to the nurse.
"A visitor. The doctor said just one minute."

Guido entered the room, crossed to the bed, and
looked down.
"Can you hear me, Creasy?"
The nod was almost imperceptible.
"The worst is over. You're going to make it."
Again the faint nod.
'"I'll stay in Milan. Come to see you later when you
can talk." Guido turned to the nurse. "You will stay
with him?"
"Somebody will always be with him," she said.
Guido thanked her and left the room.
Elio and Felicia waited in the corridor.
"He's awake, but it will be a day or two before he
can talk. Let's go home, I'll come back tomorrow."
The doctor had told them that Creasy had been almost
dead when they brought him in. They had operated
immediately, patching and sewing rapidly. It was,
the doctor explained, interim emergency surgery. If
Creasy lived through the postoperative shock, they
would build up his strength and operate again--more
thoroughly. In the meantime-- The doctor had shrugged
eloquently. It was touch and go.

For two days Creasy had been on the edge, and then
he had come through. He must have a will, the doctor
had remarked to Guido. A great will to live.
The next day Creasy could talk.
His first question to Guido was, "Pinta?"
"They are negotiating," Guido replied. "Such matters
can take time."
"My condition?"
Guido explained carefully and clinically. They were
both experienced in such things.
"You were hit twice. In the stomach and the right
lung. Fortunately the bullets were thirty-two caliber.
Anything heavier and you would have had it. They've
patched the lung, and it should be alright. The stomach
wound is the problem. It needs more surgery, but the
doctor is hopeful, and he's experienced. There have
been many gunshot wounds in this hospital."
Creasy listened intently and asked:
"The two I shot are dead?"
Guido nodded. "You got one in the heart. Both bullets.
The other through the brain. It was good shooting."
Creasy shook his head.
"I was slow--too damned slow!"
They were professionals," said Guido flatly.
"I know, and they weren't expecting much opposition.
They fired high at first, to frighten me off. If I'd
been quicker I'd have gotten them all. They were too
casual."
He was getting tired now, and Guido rose to go. "I'll
go to Como and see Balletto. See if there's anything I
can do."
Something caught his eye and he stood looking down,
curiously. It was the crucifix. Creasy noted his gaze
and said, "I'll tell you about it later."
The visit to Como was not a success. Guido took Elio
with him. Vico Mansutti and his wife were at the house.
He seemed to be taking charge of matters. Ettore was
subdued, dazed by events. But Rika, when she entered
the room, was in a fury. The facts had come out. She
had learned that Creasy was hired for a pittance, just
to appease her. Now she was aware of the flaw.
"A drunk!" she screamed at Guido. "A lousy drunk
to protect my daughter." She looked at her husband
scornfully. "A boy scout could have done better!"
Elio started to protest but Guido silenced him, and
they picked up Creasy's things and left.
"She'll calm down when she gets her daughter back,"
Guido commented.
He didn't mention the meeting to Creasy, and a week
later the doctors operated again--successfully.

Guido came into the room and pulled a chair up close
to the bed. Creasy looked better, with more color in his
face. He noted Guido's troubled expression and his eyes
asked the question.
"She's dead, Creasy."
The wounded man turned his head away and looked
up at the ceiling, his face expressionless, the eyes
empty.
Guido hesitated and then went on.
"It was unintentional. The ransom was paid two days
ago. She was supposed to have been released that night.
She didn't turn up, and in the morning the police found
her in the trunk of a stolen car. There had been a big
sweep for a Red Brigade gang. It's thought that the
kidnappers got nervous and went to ground for several
hours. Her hands and mouth were taped and she had
vomited--probably from petrol fumes. You know what
can happen under those circumstances. There has been
an autopsy. She choked to death."
His voice petered out and there was a long silence,
then Creasy asked:
"Anything else?"
Guido stood up and walked to the window. He stood
looking at the garden below. The voice cracked behind
him.
"Well?"
He turned around and said softly, "She had been
raped. Frequently. There were bruises on her shoulders
and arms."
Another long silence. In the distance the bell of a
church rang faintly.
Guido moved to the foot of the bed and looked down
at Creasy.
The face was still set and expressionless. The eyes
still looked up at the ceiling, but they were not empty--
They glittered with hatred.

The overnight train from Milan to Naples clattered
over the points outside Latina. It was the middle of
June and the train was long, with many carriages carrying
holidaymakers south to the sun. The last carriage,
dark blue, was lettered with the insignia of the
International Sleeping Car Company. In Compartment
3 Creasy sat on the lower bunk, reading from a notebook.
He had wakened at Rome after four hours' sleep.
In a while he would go down the corridor and have a
shower, and if the steward was awake, get a coffee. He had slept well. He always did on trains.
The early light showed the face, thinner and pale.
It had not seen much sun. He wore a pair of faded jeans and was bare from the waist up. The two recent scars
were puckered, red weals.
He finished reading and picked up a ball-point pen
from the small corner table and made notes on the last
blank page. At one point he smiled briefly. A memory
triggered.
It was fully light when he finished. He tore out the
page and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, hanging
behind the door.
He took a towel and his shaving gear and walked
down the corridor. The steward was up and in the galley
preparing breakfast trays. A small neat man, with a
small neat mustache and, despite the early hour, a
cheerful smile.
"Good morning--Naples in an hour."
Creasy smiled back.
"The coffee smells good. Are the showers vacant?"
The steward nodded.
"No one else up yet."
Creasy went through and took his shower and
shaved leisurely. It beat traveling by car, or even by
plane.

His recovery had been steady. He was a good patient, listening carefully to the doctor and following all instructions.
A week after the second operation, he was
able to get out of bed and into a wheelchair. A few days
later he was walking.
He didn't push himself. He was experienced and
knew that his body needed time. To move too fast would
be counterproductive.
They let him into the garden and he walked a little
each day, with his shirt off, and the sun warming his
back between the bandages.
He was popular with the nurses and staff. Not bothering
them unnecessarily and undergoing all the in-dignities of being an invalid quietly and without fuss.
Also they had nursed him back from the very edge of
death, and that made him special.

He had given one of the nurses some money and she
brought him all the newspapers covering the period
since the kidnapping. Later she was able to borrow
copies of newspapers going back many months. He
asked her for a notebook and this gradually filled with
his jottings.

He had had only one visitor and that was a surprise.
Late one evening Signora Deluca was shown in, carrying
a bag of fruit. She had stayed half an hour and
talked of Pinta and had cried a little. He found himself
comforting her. Of all her children, she had said, it had
to be Pinta. She had dried her tears and looked at him
with kindly eyes. She had heard the talk, that he was
not a real bodyguard, had just been for show. But she
knew of his affection for the girl. She asked him what
he would do, and he had shrugged and told her he had
no plans. But she had been puzzled. He seemed assured
and at ease. Not what she had expected. Finally she
had kissed his cheek and left.

He began to go to the physiotherapy room, gently
exercising and swimming in the heated pool. They gave
him small spring exercisers for his hands and, as he
walked around the garden farther each day, he squeezed
them constantly, feeling the strength returning to his
fingers.

After a month the doctor told him his recovery was
excellent--beyond expectation. He thought another
week would be enough.

He spent most of that week in the physiotherapy
department, using the full range of equipment.

When he left the hospital he was still weak and a
long way from fit, but his body functioned in all aspects.

The doctor and matron and several nurses wished
him good-bye and good luck and received his thanks.
They stood at the steps and watched him walk down
the drive, suitcase in hand.

"A strange man," the matron had commented.

The doctor agreed.
"He has much experience of hospitals."

The train pulled into the Naples central station and
Creasy tipped the steward and followed the crowd out
into the Piazza Garibaldi. He quickly found a taxi.
"Pensione Splendide," he told the driver, reaching
forward to turn on the meter.
The driver cursed under his breath. He hadn't had
a real tourist yet and it was June already.
The taxi arrived as Pietro pulled up in the van after
his morning's visit to the market. He looked Creasy up
and down, and they shook hands.
"How do you feel?"
"OK. Let me give you a hand with those baskets."
Guido was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee,
when they walked in.
"Qa va, Guido." He put a basket on the table.
"Qa va, Creasy." Guido studied him carefully and
then stood up and they embraced.
"You don't look half bad. They patched you up well."
"Good mechanics up there," Creasy answered, and
they both smiled at words often used before.
It was after dinner when the two men talked at
length, sitting out on the terrace in the warm night.
To Creasy it seemed a long age since he had last sat
there.
He quietly explained to Guido what he intended to
do. He did not invoke moral issues. It was not a question
of justice--a crime to be punished.
Anyway, Guido knew him too well for that.
It was simply revenge. They had killed someone precious
to him. He would kill in turn.
"An eye for an eye?" asked Guido quietly.
Creasy shook his head slowly and said with great
emphasis, "More than that. More than an eye. Every
bloody piece of them."
"You were really fond of the girl!" It was half-question,
half-statement.
Creasy thought carefully before answering. He was
searching for the words. It was so important that Guido
understood. Really understood.

"Guido, you know what I am. Five months ago I sat
here and saw nothing in front of me. I took the job only
to keep myself from blowing my brains out."

He smiled wryly at Guido's look.

"It's true. I really thought about it. I felt things were
over--pointless to go on. The girl changed that. I don't
know how. She sort of crept up on me. Day by day she
slipped into my life."

He shook himself at the memory. Guido remained
silent, intrigued by the revelation.

"You know what I am." He repeated the phrase,
trying to clarify exactly what had happened to him.

"Never had any truck with kids. Just a nuisance.
Then this one comes along. She was so fresh. My life
was over--all behind. Then I kept seeing things
through her eyes. For her, nothing had existed before,
as though the whole world suddenly appeared one
morning, just for her."

The monologue stopped and he sat looking down over
the lights and the dark sea. Then he said softly, "She
loved me, Guido--me!" He looked up. "Not like that,
you understand. Not physical. Better than that."

Guido said nothing, and Creasy went on.

"I cut right back on the drinking--didn't need it. In
the mornings I'd bring the car around to the front and
she'd run down the steps. Christ, man, she seemed to
carry the sun on her shoulder. She had nothing bad in
her. No malice, no greed, no hate."

His face showed the struggle of trying to explain.
Using words alien to him. He suddenly asked, "You
ever hear music by Dr. Hook?"

Guido shook his head.

"Well, he's Country and Western. He sings about a
woman that's older. Tells her he can't touch the sun for
her, can't reach the clouds, can't make her young again.
But Guido, that's just what she did for me--touched
the sun."

The words should have sounded incongruous, even ridiculous, coming from such a man. But to Guido they
were real. Painful but real. And he understood. In a
different way, the same thing had happened to him
when Julia had entered his life.

He remembered something.

"The crucifix?"

"Yes, she gave it to me. A presentmy birthday."

He smiled. "Told me if I met the devil to hold it up
in front of me."

The smile faded, and his voice hardened.

"Then those bastards took her, and abused her and
left her to choke to death in her own vomit! I keep
seeing it. They would have kept her eyes taped. Tied
to some dirty bed somewhere. Using her whenever they
got bored Filth!"

Anger and hatred radiated from him.

"Do you understand, Guido, why I'm going after
them?"

Guido stood up and walked to the railing. He was
very moved. He had seen the depth of Creasy's feelings.
At last someone had turned the key, no matter that the
lock had been rusty.

"Yes, Creasy, I understand. It happened to me. I
loved Julia. Different, but the same. In a way I envy
you. When she died I wanted to take revenge, but
against who? The driver of the car was a kid. The accident
unbalanced him." He shrugged. "It would have
been empty. And she wouldn't have wanted itbut I
know what you feel."

Creasy joined him at the railing.

"I need help, Guido."

Guido nodded and put his hand on Creasy's shoulder.

"You have it, Creasy. Anything I can do. But I won't
kill again. I gave that up. Promised her. But anything
else."

"I wouldn't ask you to, or want you to. I'll do the
killing. But helping me could put you in some danger."

Guido smiled.

"It's possible, but that's no stranger."

He looked at Creasy quizzically.
133

"You know who did it?"
Creasy nodded.
"I'm certain. I got a good look at them and I've been
doing some research. The man who shot me is called
Sandri. The driver of the car is one Rabbia. They work
for a man called Fossella."
He smiled grimly.
"They are so sure of themselves. They claimed they
were in Turin at the time. Had a dozen witnesses."
"How do you know their names?"
"The police showed me a whole book of mug shots
and I picked them out easily."
"You didn't tell the police?"
Creasy shook his head. "What would have happened
to them? Tell me, Guido."
It was a rhetorical question, but Guido gave the answer.
"A few years in jail at the most. Comfortable years.
Lots of perks. An early parole. You know the way it is."
"Exactly. Well, it won't be that way. Not this time."
Guido considered the project and said, "Shouldn't be
difficult. They won't be expecting it. You'll be able to
pick them off and get clear. They're probably not top-level
men."
"It won't be like that, Guido." Creasy said it quietly
but with emphasis, and Guido looked puzzled.
"How then?"
"Not just those two. I'm going after anyone who had
a hand in it, or profited from it. Right to the top. The
whole stinking, filthy nest."
Guido looked astonished and then laughed out loud.
As the implication sank in, he laughed harder, not in
disbelief, but at the sheer scope. Creasy smiled.
"So you see why I need your help."
"And how! You know what it means? You understand
their setup?"
Creasy nodded. "Reasonably well. Not everything,
but I know the basics. There are two main bosses in
Milan. Fossella and Abrata. Fossella pulled this kidnap,
so he's in line after Rabbia and Sandri. Conti in
Rome would get a cut, so he gets it too, and finally the
fat cat in Palermo--Cantarella. He gets a piece of
everything. Now he gets a piece of the killing."

Guido laughed again, but quietly.

"Conti I know. I won't be at all sorry about him. Ill
tell you why later. How did you get all this?"

Creasy shrugged.

"A lot of it's in the old newspapers. I had plenty of
time to go through them. They are so damned arrogant
that they practically advertise. I also read a book by
a journalist called Andato--The Other Country. He
really dug deep. It's a wonder he's still alive."

Guido shook his head.

"Not after the book was published. They only kill
outside their own circle to protect a secret, and once
the book was out there was no more secret."

He considered awhile.

"Anyway, I can help you. I still have a few old connections.
I'll check the setup."

"Connections?"

Guido smiled.

"Yes. I never told you how I came to join the Legion.
Now it's very ironical. But I'll tell you later. Meanwhile,
how else can I help?"

The two of them went into the kitchen to get coffee,
and they sat at the table and went into details.

Creasy had worked out a careful strategy. He
mapped it out, and Guido was impressed. He made
notes on a pad about requirements for transport and
accommodations. Finally he sat back and took a sip of
coffee and surveyed his friend over the cup.

"It's good, Creasy--very good. I can understand that
you have to improvise after Milan, but by then you
should have good information. But do you really know
what you're up against?"

"Tell me."

Guido arranged his thoughts.

"They are even more powerful than most people believe,
or want to believe. They defy the police and sometimes
control them. They even subvert the courts. They

bribe politicians at all levels, from village councillors
to Cabinet ministers. In some areas, particularly the
south and Sicily, they are literally the law, punishing
and rewarding as they see fit. They practically run the
prisons from within. Several times, over the years, the
authorities have made an effort. They are making one
now, in Calabria. There's a big trial in Reggio about
corruption and forced purchase of land for the new steel
complex, but..."

He waved his cup in an eloquent gesture and continued.

"The weapons the authorities have--the police, the Carabinieri, the courts and prisons--are often corrupt
and infiltrated. There are a few good policemen and
brave prosecutors and judges, but the system is too
weak. Only Mussolini in the thirties had any success
and only because he used Fascist methods. A lot of
innocent people suffered along with the Mafia. After
Mussolini, they came back stronger than ever. They
can call on thousands of informers. Even contacts inside
the police forces. They have their own groups in every
city and town of any size and, as you get south, in every
village. A whole army of strong-arm men."

He poured more coffee and told Creasy of his early
associations in Naples and particularly of Conti. Finally
he sat back and waited for Creasy's reaction.

"It won't be easy," Creasy agreed. "But I have several
points in my favor. First, like Mussolini, I can use tactics
the police cannot use. Terror, for example. These
people use it as a weapon but are not used to facing it
themselves. Second, I'll get information as I move
along--one to the next. Information the police can't
get because they can't use my methods."

Guido took the point. Creasy would get them talking.

"Third," Creasy went on, "unlike the police, my aim
is not to collect evidence and bring them to court. My
aim is to kill them."

His voice went quieter.

"Fourth, I have more motivation than the police.
Motivation that a policeman or a judge couldn't have.

They're doing a job. They have wives, families, careers
to think about. I don't, and I'll come at them in a way
they've never experienced."

Guido thought about it. They were distinct advantages,
perhaps crucial.

"Weapons?" he asked.

Creasy reached into his jacket pocket.

"Is Leclerc still operating out of Marseilles?"

"I think so," Guido answered. "I can check with a
phone call." He took the sheet of paper and read the
list that Creasy had drawn up on the train. He whistled
softly.

"Hell, Creasy, you really are going to war! Do you
think Leclerc will have all this?"

"He can get it," said Creasy. "He was offering most
of it to the Rhodesians a couple of years back. I was
called in for advice. He did good business. Do you think
he'll play it straight? It's just peanuts to him."

"He should," answered Guido. "You pulled him out
of that mess outside Bukavu. He should be suitably
grateful."

"Maybe, but he's a sharp bastard, and he's made a
lot of money since he's been selling arms instead of
using them himself. Being rich can change people. You
may have to lean on him."

"Any suggestions?"

"Tell him about a technicolor funeral."

Guido smiled at the memory. "That should do it." He
waved the paper. "When will you need the stuff?"

"Not for two months. It will take me at least that
long to get fully fit. I'll pick it up in Marseilles myself.
I've worked out a way to get it in."

The question of fitness raised another point.

"I need to go somewhere quiet," he said. "Any suggestions?"

Guido thought for only a moment.

"Why not Malta? To Julia's family, on Gozo. They
still have the farm and it's very quiet. You would be
welcome. I know that. I go every year myself for a
couple of weeks. I can phone them."

Creasy thought about it and then nodded. "Sounds
good. Sure I won't be in the way?"

Guido smiled. "You can help Paul on the farm. It's
hard work and will harden you up. You always liked
working with your hands. You'll make a good farmer."

So that was settled. They went on to talk of money.
Guido suggested he finance the weapons and various
purchases in Italy. He still had an account in Brussels
and it would be easier than for Creasy to transfer
money around. He could pay Guido back when it was
over.

"What if I don't make it?" asked Creasy seriously.

Guido grinned. "Remember me in your will!"

Creasy smiled back but didn't say anything, didn't
need to.

They talked on into the night. It was decided that
Creasy would leave in two days on the ferry to Palermo.
He wanted a quiet look at Cantarella's base. From there
he would take the train to Reggio di Calabria and pick
up the ferry to Malta.

It was almost dawn when the two friends finished,
but they hadn't noticed. It was the tonic of old times.
When they finally rose from the table, Guido picked up
his pad and flicked through the pages, checking that
nothing had been forgotten. Then he looked up and
said, "The main thing now is for you to get fit."

Creasy stretched and yawned and smiled grimly.

"Yesfighting fit."

Book Two

Chapter 10

The Melitaland was not a beautiful example of marine
architecture. It sat in the water squat and belligerent--
disdainful of sleek lines or raked funnels. Its job was
to transport cars, trucks, and people the two miles between
Malta and Gozo.
Creasy stood on the top deck, suitcase at his feet.
The Italian ferry from Reggio had been delayed twelve
hours by a strike and so had arrived in Malta's Grand
Harbour in the early morning. It had saved him from
spending a night on the big island, and this had pleased
him--he was eager to settle in and get started on his
program.
The ship passed the small island of Comino, with its
old watchtower set high above the cliffs. The water
below was a vivid blue above a sandy bottom--the Blue
Lagoon. Creasy remembered swimming there, eight
years before, with Guido and Julia.
Pollution had been minimized here by the tides and
currents--the water was still clear and the shoreline
uncluttered.
He looked ahead toward Gozo--steeper and greener than Malta, with villages crowning the hills. It was an
island of intensive agriculture, and the fields were terraced
right down to the water's edge.

He had liked Gozo on his previous visit. It was
unique, in his experience, for having no class in its
society. The poorest fisherman knew he was as good as
the richest landowner. A man who thought himself
better than others should avoid Gozo. He remembered
the people as being noisy and cheerful and, once they
knew you, friendly. The noise started now as they
turned into the small harbor of Mgarr and the passengers
bustled forward to be the first off.

He walked up the hill to a bar with the unlikely
name of "Gleneagles." It was an old, oblong building
and had a narrow balcony facing the water. Guido had
told him to phone Julia's parents from there and they
would pick him up. The interior was high-ceilinged and
cool--a barn of a place, with paintings of local landscapes
on the walls and an assortment of locals propping
up the bar.

Creasy left his suitcase by the door. The sight of pint
mugs of beer reminded him that he was thirsty, and
he gestured at the draft pump. The bartender, a short,
balding, round-faced man, asked, "Pint or half?"

"Pint, thanks." Creasy eased himself onto a stool and
put a pound in front of him. The beer was cool and
amber, and he drank deep. When the bartender brought
back his change, Creasy asked, "Would you have the
phone number of Paul Schembri?"

He received a blank look.

"Paul Schembri," he repeated. "He has a farm near
Nadur, you must know him."

The bartender shrugged and said, "Schembri is a
common name, and there are lots of farmers on Gozo."
He went down the bar to serve someone else.

Creasy was not annoyed. In fact, he approved. The
man had to know Paul Schembri. It was a very small
island. But it was an island that protected its privacy.
Even a mild invasion of tourists couldn't change that.
They were friendly to strangers but didn't tell them


anything until they knew who they were and what they
wanted. A Gozitan would deny knowing his own
brother until he knew who was doing the asking.
So Creasy drank his beer and bided his time. Then
he called for another one, and when it arrived said,
"Guido Arrellio sent me. I'm to stay with Paul Schembri."
Light dawned.
"Oh you mean that Paul Schembri? The farmer-- near Nadur?"
Creasy nodded. "That's the one."
The bartender studied him and then smiled. He had
one of those rare smiles that light a room. He held out
a hand.
"I'm Tony. I remember you now. You were here when
Guido married Julia." He gestured down the bar to a younger man. "My brother Sam," and then to a grease-covered
drinker, "That's 'Shreik,'" and to the two others,
"Michele and Victor--when they're not drinking
in here, they run the ferry."
Creasy remembered them supervising the loading of the cars and trucks and collecting the fares. He was
no longer a stranger. Tony picked up the phone and
dialed a number and spoke a few words in Maltese.
Then the smile came again. "Joey will be down in a few
minutes to pick you up."
Sam put another pint in front of Creasy and gestured
towards the grease-covered "Shreik." Creasy remembered
the drinking prowess of the Gozitans, and how,
once they started to buy each other rounds, a day and
a half could go by. He felt good and relaxed. He could
relate to these people. He wouldn't get a bunch of questions.
No one would pry or try to slot him into a category
or throw a spurious friendship at him. Everything
would be face value. Be what you want to be. Do what
you want to do. Just don't step on toes, and don't be
mean when it's your round and, above all, don't be
"proud." Being "proud" was the greatest possible sin
in Gozo. It could be equated with being stuck-up. A
man could be an arsonist or a sodomist and still be
accepted, but if he was "proud"--forget it.

Creasy finished his beer and caught Tony's eye. Tony
was one of those bartenders, the rare breed, that see
everything, no matter how busy they are. He moved
down the bar, filling drinks, and took more money from
in front of Creasy.

"Yourself?" Creasy asked.

Tony shook his head. "Too early for me."

Ten minutes went by before the smile came again
and he picked up another ten cents and said, "Why
not," and pulled himself a beer.

Creasy was to learn that this was Tony's habit. He
always turned down a drink and then spent anything
from ten minutes to half an hour asking himself why.
The cogitation always ended in a smile and the inevitable
"Why not!"

Every Gozitan has a nickname, and it was no surprise
to learn that this bartender was called "Why Not."

A battered Land Rover pulled up outside and a young
man loped in--long-legged and open-faced, with black
curly hair. He stuck out a work-calloused hand.

"Hi, I'm Joey. Welcome to Gozo."

Creasy could vaguely remember Julia's young brother,
but he would have been only ten at the time. Joey
looked at Tony and panted exaggeratedly and was presented
with a beer.

"You're not in a great rush, are you?" he asked with
a smile. Creasy returned the smile and shook his head.

Joey downed half his beer. "That's good. I've been
sacking onions all day and it's thirsty work."

A mild drinking session got under way with a lot of
good humor. English is the second language of the
Maltese Islands, and only occasionally the drinkers
would lapse into Maltese to emphasize a point. The
language contains a lot of Arabic and Italian, and has
a curious singsong lilt to it. With his knowledge of both
those languages, Creasy could pick up many words.
Fishermen started to drift in, thirsty after a day in



open boats under a hot sun, and then Victor and Michele
went off to make the last ferry run.
Most of the drinkers had switched from beer to hard
liquor when Joey looked at his watch.
"Ghal Madonnal Six o'clock--let's go, Creasy. Mother
will be building up a head of steam."
They drove up the steep hill through the tiny village
of Qala and then dipped down again before turning off
the Nadur road.
The farmhouse was built around an inner courtyard
in the old style--a sprawling stone building. One corner
wing looked newer than the rest, and was reached
by an outside staircase.
A tall, plump woman came out from the kitchen. She
had a round, pleasant face, rich in character, and she
smiled as Creasy climbed down, embraced him, and
kissed his cheek.
"Welcome, Creasy. Long time." She glared at her
son.
"Creasy was thirsty, Ma." This was said with a wink
at Creasy and an impish smile.
She scolded him gently, told him to take the suitcase
upstairs and led Creasy into the kitchen.
He remembered the huge, arched room. It was the
center of family activity--the dining room and lounge
were used only on formal occasions.
It made him realize that he was within a family unit,
and that could have made him uneasy, but Laura bustled
around making a large pot of coffee and asking
how Guido was and tending a trio of simmering pots
on the big stove. He couldn't feel uneasy. His presence
was quietly accepted, and this feeling was reinforced
when Paul Schembri came in from the fields. He was
smaller than his wife and at first appeared thin; but
his arms were sinewy and corded, and Creasy got the
impression of strength and compactness. He nodded at
Creasy and asked, "Alright?"
It was the most commonly used word in Malta, in
any language, and covered the spectrum of meaning

from a question to a statement to a greeting or even
a farewell. It equated the French "Qa va" and more.
"Alright," Creasy replied, and Paul sat down and
accepted a cup of coffee from Laura.
His greeting was such that Creasy might have been
gone just overnight instead of eight years, and it made
the American relax even more.

Creasy had bought a small cassette player in Naples,
and he slipped in one of the cassettes Guido had retrieved
from the house at Como. Then he lay back on
the bed, and as Dr. Hook sang a lament of love, he
considered his situation and the people around him.
Guido's suggestion that he use Gozo as a base had been
a good one; he had known that Creasy would get a
warm but undemonstrative welcome from the Schembris.
He also knew that they had recently rented a
series of fallow fields from the church, and that reterracing
and preparing this land would be hard work.
Creasy would enjoy and benefit from helping. Guido
had spoken at length to Paul on the phone and explained
Creasy's condition and recent events. He had
not spoken of the future.
Creasy had been given a small suite of rooms to
himself. It was the newer wing he had noticed, with its
own entrance by the outside staircase. Over dinner,
Paul had explained that it used to be storage rooms
and a hay loft. Guido had sent money every year since
his marriage to Julia, and this had continued after her
death. At first, Paul had been angry--after all they
were not poor people--and he had threatened to send
it back. But Guido had been disarming, had told him
that it was for tax reasons. "You know what he's like,"
Paul had commented to Creasy.
They had used part of the money to convert the old
storerooms, so that Guido would have a comfortable
place and some privacy when he came to stay each year.
There were two big rooms and a small bathroom, all
arched and vaulted in the usual manner. The thick
stones had been oiled, rather than painted, and they re-tained a soft ocher color. The rooms were furnished simply.
A big old bed and chest of drawers in the bedroom,
with wooden pegs on the wall on which to hang clothes.
In the other room, a grouping of low, comfortable chairs
and a coffee table, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. It
would be home for at least two months and already, on
his first night, Creasy felt comfortable and settled.
He thought about the Schembris. They were, to all
appearances, simple farmers, but in Gozo the level of
education is high, and while the people are conservative
and close-knit, they take an interest in the outside
world and are often well-read. Because of overpopulation,
many Gozitans have settled overseas, particularly
in North America and Australia, and some of them,
coming home to retire, buy houses in their original
villages. So there is a rejuvenation of ideas, and a movement
of people within the community.
Paul Schembri was atypical
farmer, his values
rooted in a life of hard work and the productive cycle.
He kept his counsel and didn't parade his views for all
to see. He had money in the bank and could look any
man in the eye. He was a bit like the stone walls that
surrounded his fields--dry and a bit dusty, but well
made, each stone fitting against the other without cement
or plaster and able to stand up to the Gregale winds that, in winter, come across the sea from Europe
and scour the low hills.
Laura was more outgoing. A casual observer might
have thought she dominated the marriage, but that
was a surface impression. She was a big woman and
confident of her intellect, and even if Paul had allowed
it, she was wise enough not to take advantage of his
seeming mildness. But her character had more facets
than Paul's, she sparkled brighter, and her interests
and curiosity ranged wider.
Joey mostly took after his mother, his inquiring
guileless mind allied to overt goodwill. He would be
attractive to women, Creasy decided. They would be
drawn to his dark good looks, which would undoubtedly
arouse maternal instincts.

He wondered about the girl, Nadia. She was working
as a receptionist in a hotel on Malta but would be returning
at the weekend, and staying to help her family
on the farm.
Guido had told him that she had married an English
naval officer and gone to England, but the marriage
had failed a year before. Creasy remembered her
vaguely at Guido's wedding. A teenager, with the same
quiet good looks as Julia. He hoped she wouldn't present
any complications. So far, the situation was good.
In the morning he would start training. He didn't want
complications.
He turned over the tape, and Dr. Hook sang of an
old drunk in Brooklyn and a plea to be carried a little
farther. Just a little farther.

He reached the long ridge overlooking the bay at
Marsalforn and stopped for a breather. Sweat had darkened
his track suit. The sun was still low--only an
hour old, and the bay, sheltered by the surrounding
hills, was shaded. He sat on a low stone wall and drew
in air deeply. His body ached--all of it, muscles protesting
in hurt astonishment at the sudden activity. He
reminded himself not to overdo it. A pulled muscle now
would set his program back days or weeks.
He had risen just before dawn and worked through
a set of exercises, following the old Legion routine, but
he had curtailed them, starting gently.
Then he had taken a cold shower and gone downstairs.
He had been surprised to find Laura already in
the kitchen, and said so.
"I go to early Mass at five o'clock," she had answered,
smiling. "Someone has to pray for all the sinners in
this family."
Creasy had smiled. "Pray for me too, Laura," he said
lightly. "I've done my share of sinning."
She had nodded, suddenly serious, and looking at
the small gold crucifix hanging from his neck.
"You are a Catholic?" she had asked, and Creasy had
shrugged.

"I'm nothing very much."

She made him a big mug of black coffee and, as he
sipped, Paul and Joey had come in, dressed for the
fields.

"I'm going for a run," Creasy had said, "and then for
a swim. Can I help you on the terracing later?"

The farmer had smiled and nodded and led the way
outside, pointing down the hill to the sea.

"When you want to swim, follow that path. There's
a small cove there and you can swim off the rocks. The
water is deep, and it's private. It can only be reached
through my land or by boat."

Laura had told him to come in for breakfast after his
swim, and the thought of both the cool water and the
food brought him back to his feet, and he retraced his
steps at a slow trot.

The small cove was secluded and the water deep and
clear. The limestone of the shore had been eroded from
beneath, and a flat ledge jutted out over the sea. Creasy
stripped off and plunged in. He swam about a hundred
meters out into the north Comino channel. The small
island looked beckoningly close, but he knew that it
was almost a mile to its nearest point. Later, when he
became fitter, he would swim over there; and later still,
and fitter still, he would swim there and back.

At the farmhouse Laura cooked him a huge breakfast
of ham and eggs, and fresh warm bread spread
with the island's clear honey. She sat and drank coffee
and watched with satisfaction as he silently cleared his
plate.

She remembered him eight years before, when he
had come with Guido--just as silent then. He looked
older now and infinitely weary. Guido had told them
on the phone how close he had been to death.

She had grown to love her son-in-law as a natural
son, and when Julia had been killed, she had grieved
for her daughter, and for Guido.

She remembered the night before the wedding.
Guido had come alone to talk to her and Paul. He told
them a little of his past and how the future would be

different. How he loved their daughter and of their
plans for the pensione in Naples. Finally he had told
them that if anything happened to him, and if Julia
needed any help, Creasy would provide it.
The next day she had watched the big, silent American
as he tried to enter into the spirit and gaiety of
a typical Gozitan wedding. She could sense his pleasure
at his friend's happiness and had known instinctively
that what Guido had told them the night before was
true. Guido had given her Creasy's forwarding address
in Brussels, and it had been Laura who sent the cable
there when Julia had been killed, the cable that had
brought Creasy from Africa to Naples to be with his
friend. Now she was quietly determined to help this
man build up his strength again. Exercise and hard
work would play a big part, and she would fill him with
plenty of fresh, good food.
After breakfast Creasy went out into the fields and
located Paul and took off his shirt and worked alongside
him. There is a skill to building a dry loose wall. The
rocks have to be carefully selected and placed just right,
one against the other. The old man was surprised at
how quickly Creasy picked up the knack, but Creasy
had a natural eye for that kind of construction.
Even so, after an hour, his back ached from the constant
bending and his hands, long softened, were
scratched and blistered from the stones. At noon Paul
called a halt, and Creasy went down to the cove to bathe
his hands in the seawater.
Lunch was a simple meal of cold meats and salad,
and afterward everyone took a siesta during the hottest
part of the day. The thick, stone walls and the high,
arched ceilings kept the rooms very cool, and Creasy
slept well even though his body ached. He rose at three
o'clock, stiff and with his bruised hands painful. It
would have been good to laze about and he was half-tempted,
but he switched his mind back to his purpose
and went down to the terraces again with Paul. As his
skill improved, the two men made good progress work


ing silently side by side. After a couple of hours Laura
came down with cold beers in a bucket of ice.

She scolded Creasy about his sunburned back and
she looked with frank curiosity at the scars--old and
new.

"You really got chopped up, Creasy," she commented.
"You should take up farming full time."

Then she saw the state of his hands and turned to
Paul, genuinely angry.

"How can you let him work with hands like that?
Look at them!"

Paul shrugged. "You try telling him."

She took Creasy's hands in hers and examined them.

"It's alright," he told her. "I'll go for a swim later--
the salt water is good treatment. In a few days, they'll
harden." She turned the hands over and looked at the
mottled scars and shook her head.

"Farming," she said firmly. "It's much safer."

The next three days were the hardest. Each night
Creasy would fall into bed totally exhausted.

But he had established a routine and a pattern: an
early morning run, followed by a swim, longer each
day, then working in the fields, shirtless in the hot sun.
Another swim in the evening, and early to bed after
dinner. He exercised when he first got up and just before
bed at night. Those first days were an agony, especially
in the mornings, when he loosened stiff and
unresponsive muscles. It would take about two weeks,
he guessed, before he could get into full stride. But the
pain acted as a stimulus. It reminded him constantly
of his purpose, and it reminded him of the girl and what
they had done to her, and his hatred more than matched
the pain.

Paul and Joey saw it one evening as they sat on the
outside patio after dinner, drinking coffee and brandy
and looking out over the dark sea to the bulk of Comino
and the lights of Malta beyond.

The lights reminded Creasy of his arrival in Naples,
so many months before, and of the changes that had


affected him. The growing friendship with Pinta, and
those few last weeks, when he had been truly happy.
His mind went to the last day and then to Guido
telling him in the hospital about her death.
Paul turned to say something, but when he saw
Creasy's face, the words dried in his throat. He saw
hatred rising from the man like mist from a cold sea.
Abruptly Creasy stood up and bade them good night and went to bed.
Joey looked at his father, his normally cheerful face
troubled and somber.
"He's burning up inside. There's a fire in there. I've
never seen anyone look so sad and so angry at the same
time."
Paul nodded in agreement. "He's got it under control,
but it's there. Someone will be burned by it."
Joey shook off the mood and grinned and stood up.
"I've got a fire in me too, but for something else. I'm
going to Barbarella's. Friday night, and the tourist
girls will be lonely and grateful."
His father shook his head good-naturedly.
"Don't be too late or you'll be useless tomorrow, and
there's still three fields of onions to pick."
The boy walked through the inner courtyard, avoiding
his mother, who would lecture him about the morals
of foreign girls. From the open window of Creasy's bedroom
he could hear soft music and he stopped and listened.
He recognized the song, it had been popular a
couple of years before--"Blue Bayou." He was a little
surprised. It added another dimension to the strange
American. He climbed onto his Suzuki and kicked the
starter and the music was drowned briefly as he gunned
the motorbike up the track towards Xaghra.

On Saturday Nadia came home. She was sitting at
the kitchen table when the three men came in for lunch.
"Creasy, you remember Nadia," Laura said, with a
gesture at the girl.
"Only just," he replied, and to the girl, "You were
in pigtails then."
She smiled, softening the severe lines of her attractive
face, and then she got up and kissed him on the
cheek.

She was tall and slim and she moved with a curious
walk. Long legs, almost stiff--not unattractive, but
different--her hips turning more than normal.

Over lunch he studied her covertly. She brought
more conversation to the group, teasing Joey about his
hangover and then supporting him when his mother
scolded him for coming home at two a.m. and having
to be dragged out of bed to go to work at dawn.

She had an intelligent face. Too severe for great
beauty, but high cheekbones and a full mouth gave it
interest. She had also a distinct eroticism--an aura.
She looked up at Creasy and caught his eyes on her.

"How's Guido?" she asked. Her voice was deep,
matching her looks. It had a resonance--a vibration.

"He's fine, and sends his love."

"Did he say when he's coming?"

Creasy shook his head and wondered if there was
anything between Guido and this girl. She was very
like Julia, a bit taller and slimmer, but the same grave
eyes contradicted by a quick smile. It would have been
natural for Guido to be attracted and it was five years
since Julia's death. But then he remembered--she had
been back in Malta less than a year, and anyway Guido
would have told him. It was that kind of a situation.

After lunch, when the men had all gone to their
rooms for a siesta, she stayed in the kitchen helping
her mother wash the dishes.

They worked silently for a while and then she said
suddenly. Td forgotten...I mean the way he is--sort
of intimidating."

Laura said, "Yes. He's a hard case. Doesn't say much,
but he's settled in and he's a big help to your father."
She thought for a moment, then added: "I like him. I
know what he is, and your father thinks he's getting
fit for a special reason and will go off and commit a lot
of violence. He's a violent man--but we all like him."






Nadia dried the dishes in silence, then asked, "How
old is he?"
Laura thought about it. "He must be near fifty. He's
a few years older than Guido. He's lucky to be alive.
The scars on him are terrible."
Nadia stacked the dishes and put them into a cupboard.
"But he's a man," she mused, almost to herself, and
then smiled at her mother's look of curiosity--curiosity
tinged with sadness. "At least he's a man," she repeated.
"There can't be any doubt about that."
It was not a strange comment for Nadia to make.
She looked at all men in a special way--an instant
first appraisal, informed by hard experience.
Her husband had been handsome, with a fine wit
and intelligence. She had entered into marriage with
joy and expectation. A fairy-tale, romantic courtship.
Dances and parties and the excitement of going overseas
and wide horizons, and then, slowly, the realization
that something was wrong and having to face a
crushed dream.
He had homosexual tendencies--long-suppressed.
The marriage, for him, had been part of that suppression.
He knew his inclinations and fought against
them--had done so since puberty. But it had to be a
losing war, and the last battle was his marriage to
Nadia. That battle was lost in a series of delaying actions,
self-accusations, and miserable and degrading
lurches into a world that finally he couldn't deny.
They had talked it over--tried to fight it together.
It was hard for her. She couldn't understand, felt her
womanhood insulted. She might have been able to rationalize
a threat from another woman; at least she
would have the weapons of her own sex. But against
such an enemy she felt helpless.
The end had come suddenly and sickeningly. A party
at the naval base in Portsmouth. Everyone drinking
too much. Not seeing him, and looking, and then finding
him drunk and naked with a young midshipman,
not caring anymore--accepting what he was.

She had left the next day and flown back to Malta.

It had been a terrible homecoming, but she had told
Paul and Laura everything, and they had been mercifully
strong and understanding. Sad both for her and
for themselves--one daughter dead, the other with an
emotional scar burned deep into her.

She had applied for an annulment, but such matters
took forever. "The Cowboy" had married them, and he
forwarded the papers to the Vatican and in his rough,
blunt way tried to comfort her and explain why it all
took so long, the many difficulties. Witnesses would be
needed, depositions taken, and then anonymous, faceless
judges would decide, and perhaps take years doing
it. Why? Marriage is sacred. Do they not see the pain,
and the people? "The Cowboy" saw and had a great
sadness when she came to the confessional and asked
forgiveness for the sins she had committed, the men
she had slept with. First the young fisherman from
Mgarr. "He is a man, Father, and I needed to know a
man." And later, occasionally, the tourists whom she
would meet at the hotel where she worked. In their
way also faceless, like her judges. Staying for two
weeks, acquiring a suntan and the rarity of a local girl.

She had not come to terms with it. She knew people
talked, pitied her even, and she hated that. She wanted
a normal life. She had been brought up in that way-- a family, children, respect. Even if the judges in the
Vatican gave her an annulment, decided that in the
eyes of God her marriage had never taken place--what
then? She was twenty-six years old. Would a local man
marry her? After all the talk, in such a small community?
So, to go abroad? The prospect didn't appeal.
She needed her family--their steadiness and support.
The house in which she had been born and grown up.
The land itself. It didn't lie, or change, or dress itself
in false clothing. That was the reason she had come
home, even from Malta. Whatever she did, it would be
done in this house where she felt secure.

In the late afternoon she took her swimsuit and
walked down the path to the cove. She saw clothes lying




on
the flat, overhanging rock, and out in the channel
Creasy swimming. She sat and watched as he swam
out about two hundred meters and then turned and
came back.
"I thought you were crossing to Comino," she said
as he pulled himself out of the water.
"I will, next week when I'm fitter," he answered,
sitting down beside her, and panting from the exertion.
She looked at the recent scars on his stomach and
side, pink and lighter than the rest of his angry sunburn.
"Are you going to swim?" he asked.
"Yes, turn your back while I change."
A minute later, clad in a black, one-piece swimsuit,
she plunged into the water in a neat dive.
She was a good swimmer and churned out of the
little cove into the channel. She wondered if he really
would swim over to Comino. The current could be
strong. She could feel it even now, close to shore. She
had been going to mention it, but stopped herself. He
was the kind of man who might resent advice from a
woman.
Later, back on the flat rock, they lay side by side in
the late sun. She asked him about Guido and the pensione.
She didn't mention the kidnapping and the shooting.
She had read about it in the Italian newspapers.
She would like to know more--but she would wait.


Chapter 11

Creasy drove the battered Land Rover fast down the
winding road to Cirkewwa. He could see the Melitaland loading the last cars. If he missed it, he would have to
spend the night in Malta. As he reached the approach
road, the warps were being cast off and the ramp raised.
He palmed the horn rapidly and was relieved to see
Victor peer over the ramp and wave. The ramp was
lowered and he drove gratefully on.
"You made it by one pubic hair," Victor said with
a wide grin.
Creasy smiled back. "They told me you were always
late." He looked at his watch. "In fact, you're two minutes
early."
"Today's special," Victor answered. "There's a party
tonight, and I want to get a few drinks in first. Sort of
get in the mood."
Creasy knew that "a few drinks" meant a two-hour
session in Gleneagles. Well, today he would join them.
He felt he'd earned it. He was into his third week and
the hardest part was over. His muscles had finally decided
that the long holiday had ended, and they had
begun to respond. He was still far from fit but it was
only a matter of time; his toughness was returning. His
coordination was good and would improve further.
He had also spent a satisfying afternoon at St. Elmo, the huge old fort guarding the entrance to Grand Harbour.
This had come about because of a newspaper article
Joey had been reading a couple of evenings before.
It told of an aircraft hijack attempt in West Germany
and described how a special antiterrorist squad had
intervened. Paul had remarked that Malta had such
a squad. His nephew, George Zammit, an inspector of
police, was its commander.

This set Creasy thinking, and the next day he asked
Paul if his nephew might allow him to train with the
squad. Paul had made a phone call and it had been
easily arranged.

It had been a useful afternoon. The squad used weapons
donated by the departed British Army: Sterling
submachine guns and a variety of handguns. They had
a good animated range in the bowels of the fort, and
Creasy had enjoyed getting the feel of weapons again.
He was rusty and, by his own standards, clumsy; but
that would improve over the coming weeks. After the
firing range, the squad of fifteen plus Creasy had gone
to the gym and worked out and practiced unarmed combat.
They were a good squad, recently formed; as yet
inexperienced, but enthusiastic and hardworking.
George Zammit, a big, friendly policeman, had been
cordial, and then very thoughtful as he watched Creasy
handle the weapons.

Now, as the Melitaland chugged across the channel
to Gozo, George called his uncle on the phone.

"Paul, do you know what kind of man you have as
a houseguest?"

"He's a friend of Guido's," Paul answered. "He didn't
cause any trouble, did he?"

"Not at all. But Paul, he's a professional--an expert.
Exactly what is he doing in Malta?"

Paul explained about the kidnapping and wounding,
and how Creasy had come merely to get fit.

"He's not planning to work here, is he?" George
asked.

"Definitely not. Of course, I know he's a mercenary. So was Guido. What kind of work would a man like
that do here?"

George laughed.

"You're not planning a coup d'etat, then."

The laugh was returned. "Seems I have the man to
do it. Is he that good?"

There was a pause and then George said, "The best
I've seen, and I've been on training courses in England
and Italy. He handled our weapons as though he'd carried
them from his mother's womb--very, very practiced."

There was another pause, and then George asked:
"Invite me to dinner, will you, Paul? I didn't like to ask
him any questions at this first meeting, it would have
seemed rude. But I'd like to learn more about him.
We're short of instructors, and maybe I could use him--
very unofficially, of course."

Paul invited him to dinner for the coming Saturday
and hung up, well-pleased.

Creasy was the last off the ferry, and Victor climbed
into the passenger seat for the short ride to Gleneagles.
The bar was busy and noisy and the crowd opened to
let them through. "Shreik" was getting a round in and
passed a pint of beer to Creasy. It was the heavy drinking
hour, work done for the day. Joey waved from across
the room, and Creasy spotted Nadia sitting at one of
the few tables with Victor's wife. She smiled at him
and raised her glass, and he felt uncomfortable. There
was a fatalistic ambience growing between them.

They swam together almost every day. She didn't
intrude, was usually quiet--absorbed with her thoughts.
But she was a presence, always on the periphery of his
mind.

He had come to accept the fact that he was changed.
Had been made more aware of people and their individuality
--and she attracted him physically, with her
stiff-legged walk and long waist and serious face.

He glanced at her again and saw her watching him
with a speculative look. He had grown used to that
look. She seemed to be weighing him.

He turned away and signaled Tony to fill the glasses
at the bar. "And have one yourself."
"Thanks, Creasy, but it's too early."
Creasy put money on the bar and waited patiently.
Conversation swirled around him, and he had almost
given up when Tony's big smile came.
"Why not!"

Just after dawn on Saturday morning Creasy set off
to swim to Comino. He paced himself carefully, aiming
for a point in front of the blue and white hotel. There
was a slight breeze, barely ruffling the water, but it
blew from the west down the channel and gave an added
impetus to the current. Creasy had not checked the tide
table, didn't think it necessary; but as he neared the
midpoint between the islands, he could see more of the
hotel and realized he was drifting to the east. He adjusted
his angle of attack and quickened his stroke, but
it soon became obvious that the current was winning.
He thought he might make the second bay to the east
of the hotel, but again that started to drift by and he
silently cursed his stupidity. Beyond that bay, the
shoreline rose in high, inhospitable cliffs, and so he
turned back toward Gozo. He had begun to tire now
and it was clear that he was going to be swept beyond
both islands.
He stopped fighting the current, trying to conserve
his strength for what would be a critical effort after he
was in deep water and out of the grip of the tidal race.
The southeast shore of Gozo opened up, and he could
see the red sand of Ramla Beach. But it was a long way
off; well over a mile. He started swimming again, slowly and tiring fast.
He was exhausted and treading water when he heard
the chugging of the diesel engine and looked up to see
the brightly colored Luzzu fishing boat. He could make
out two figures in the bows, scanning the water--Nadia
and Joey. He tried to shout, and he waved an arm and
sank under the water, sputtering for breath. Then they
saw him and turned and came quickly alongside. He

was too weak to pull himself up, and Joey dived in and
put a shoulder under him and the two fishermen took
an arm each and hauled him in.

He lay in the scuppers, gasping for breath, and then
vomited out pints of seawater.

As they motored back to Mgarr, he sat silently in
the stern, breathing deeply. Nadia covertly watched
his angry face. She had stood at her bedroom window
and seen him swim out into the channel in the early
light, and guessed that he was trying for Comino. She
had seen the current take him and his failed effort to
get back to Gozo and had screamed for Joey. They had
raced down to Mgarr in the Land Rover. Most of the
fishermen were already far out to sea, but one boat was
just getting ready. Fortunately the fishermen, two
brothers called Mizzi, had drunk late the night before
in Gleneagles, and hangovers had slowed them down.
Nadia and Joey had leapt into the boat with urgent
explanations.

"You were lucky, Creasy," she said. "We could have
easily missed you."

"I know," he granted. "Damned stupid. I should have
checked the tides."

She saw him look at Comino and then across to
Gozo--his face malevolent. He hated that strip of
water. She guessed he would try again, and soon.

Back in the harbor, Creasy asked Joey for five
pounds and tried to press it on the fishermen. It was
too late for them to go out now. They shook their heads,
laughing.

"You're the biggest thing we've caught all summer,"
one brother said.

The other agreed. "I'm trying to decide whether to
have you grilled or fried."

They all went in to Gleneagles and Creasy bought
the drinks, standing at the bar in his swimsuit.

It was an occasion, adding spice to routine. Tony
prepared his patent remedy for near-drownings--a
huge mug of hot, sweet tea laced with a great slug of
brandy and a tot of rum for good measure. He was so

proud of it he made one for himself. Then Victor and
Michele came in from the first ferry run and, hearing
the story, decided they would try it too.
"But you have to be either a bartender or half-drowned,"
Tony explained.
"We qualify," Victor retorted. "We were half-drowned
in here last night--from the inside."
"Shreik" arrived for his prebreakfast stiffener, and
a celebration started.
"They are grateful to you, Creasy," Nadia said with
mock disdain. "Anything for an excuse to get drunk
before lunch."
"Shreik" nodded solemnly. "Pity you didn't get properly
drowned, Uomo. We could have had a real party."
He smiled. "In commiseration, you understand."
On the drive back to the house, Creasy asked,
"What's this Uomo business?"
"Your nickname," Joey explained. "Everyone in
Gozo has to have a nickname."
Creasy digested that in silence. Uomo meant "man"
in Italian. It was a complimentary nickname. After the
morning's effort, he mused, they ought to call him
jackass."
But it meant that he had been accepted. Outsiders
don't merit nicknames.

Creasy and George sat on the outside patio alone.
They had enjoyed a good dinner. Laura and Nadia had
worked most of the afternoon preparing it: a minestra, and then timpano, Maltese style, followed by rabbit stufato, and rounded off with fruit and the local pepper-cheese
made from goat's milk. Creasy had spent a quiet
day after his near mishap. In the afternoon he had
driven into Rabat to the police station and picked up
a set of tide tables.
He noted that Paul and Joey had deliberately gone
off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. Nadia
brought out a tray with coffee and cognac and then
went back into the kitchen.
George thoughtfully filled and tamped a large pipe,

I

struck a match, and sucked flame down into the bowl.
Creasy poured the coffee and cognac. He knew what
was coming. Paul had felt it right to brief him.

Satisfied with the small furnace he had created,
George leaned back and said, "You know I'm in charge
of security for the islands?"

Creasy nodded and passed him a cup. "You want to
know whether I'm a security risk?"

George waved his pipe deprecatingly. "No, Paul explained
why you're here. In any event, I've already
learned quite a lot about you." He was a little embarrassed.
"I sent a telex this morning to Paris."

Creasy was puzzled. "Paris?"

"Yes--Interpol." His smile took away any potential
offense. "Not what you think. It's just that for the past
few years many countries have been keeping tabs on
all known mercenaries--even since the fiasco in Angola.
It's just convenient to have it centralized at Interpol.
There is no criminal implication, you understand."

Creasy remained silent, and after a pause George
continued.

"The fact is, I let you come and join our squad on
Thursday because you're my uncle's friend; but if it's
going to be a regular thing, it's my duty to check that
there are no wrinkles."

"I understand that," Creasy said. "Are there any
wrinkles?" George shook his head and reached into his
jacket pocket and passed over a folded piece of paper.

"That's the telex reply I received this afternoon." He
shrugged. "I really shouldn't show it to you."

Creasy read while George puffed at his pipe. There
was a very long silence, then Creasy asked, "What does
the bit at the end mean?"

George leaned over and translated the coded suffix:
"Not politically motivated. No known criminal affiliations.
No group affiliations. More details available on
request."

Creasy folded the paper and handed it back and there
was another pregnant silence.

"Is it basically correct?"

Creasy nodded and, for the first time, smiled. "Except
that I'm no longer a bodyguard. What are the other
details they refer to?"

"I sent a Grade Two inquiry," George explained. "It's
cheaper, and we are not a rich department. So they
sent brief details. A Grade One inquiry would have
elicited every single thing they know about you."

Creasy was impressed. "How do they get their information?"

"Intelligence services, mainly," George answered.
"We pool certain information. It's a sensitive world,
and mercenaries can be a nuisance. For example,
they've taken over the Comoro Islands in the Indian
Ocean as a personal fief--there are some bums in your
profession, Creasy."

"You're right," Creasy agreed, "and those bums
sometimes make it tough for us bums." He looked at
George appraisingly. "You're worried that it might
happen here?"

George shook his head. "Not at all. But we're a neutral
country. No more foreign bases. We can look after
ourselves, although not everyone would agree. The fact
is, Malta is in the middle of things. We don't want
people basing themselves here who may be planning
action elsewhere in the region."

It was deftly done. A question without form.

"I'm one man," Creasy said, with a faint smile. "As
the report said, I've no group affiliations, and I've no
plans which would embarrass you. I'm just here to get
fit."

"That's fine," George said. "You're welcome to use
our facilities--strictly unofficial, of course."

"I'm grateful."

George smiled. "There's one condition--nothing
onerous." He tapped his pocket. "You are very experienced.
I want to use that experience."

"How?"

George's pipe had gone out and he busied himself



relighting it while he gathered his thoughts. Then he
spoke at length.
"My squad was formed for brushfire incidents. Terrorist
attacks--hijack attempts, and so forth. These
days, almost every country has such a squad. But we
lack actual experience. In the past, Malta has always
been occupied by foreign powers who have provided
security. We have a small military establishment, the
AFM--Armed Forces of Malta. We are not a rich country,
and we can't afford the luxury of a one-purpose
army, so the AFM is also involved in civil projects--
road building and such. It's cost-effective, and I agree
with it. The fact is, we can't afford to import skilled
instructors for all facets of combat. The British helped
before they left, and the Libyans have donated equipment
--helicopters, naval patrol boats, and so on, and
they help train our people to use them. But for specialist
work we lack both actual experience or instructors. My
squad, for example. I've been overseas for training and
I'm passing on what I've learned, but I've never seen
combat. We have to work with theory, based on set
situations. In the world today--the world of terrorism
--a lot of unforeseen things can happen."
He sat back in his chair, the pipe clenched between
his teeth, and looked quizzically at Creasy. "You've
been there, in all manner of situations--on both sides."
"Alright," Creasy agreed. "I'll do what I can. Apart
from the stuff I saw on Thursday, what other equipment
do you have?"
The two men went on to discuss technicalities, and
it was after midnight when they finished. They had
established a comfortable rapport. Both practical, undemonstrative
men who had weighed each other and
liked what they found.

This time he plunged off the flat rock fifteen minutes
before the turn of the tide. Again there was a slight
breeze blowing from the west, but the current was
slack, and Creasy swam steadily towards his target.
Nadia stood at the bedroom window and watched



through
her father's binoculars. She saw him reach the
point of the small bay and continue swimming around
to the hotel jetty. Then she went downstairs and phoned
Joey. She had sent him down to Gleneagles every morning
for the last three days to stand by--Creasy hadn't
said anything about, trying the swim again, but she
knew him by now. Then she phoned her friend, the
receptionist at the Comino Hotel.
Creasy was walking barefoot and wet past the front
of the hotel when he heard his name called. The girl
came down the steps carrying a plastic bag and a tall,
frosted glass of beer.
"Compliments of Nadia," she said with a smile.
Creasy had to laugh. He turned and looked across
the channel. He could pick out the farmhouse high on
the hill and at an upper window a flash of light as the
sun caught the binocular's lenses. He waved and held
up the glass in a silent toast.
Inside the bag were a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt,
and rubber sandals--all new; and a towel and a note.
"This is a very Catholic country," he read. "You can't
walk around half-naked!"
The girl pointed.
"There's a changing room around the side there, and
that path leads to the Blue Lagoon." She glanced at
her watch. "The ferry goes in forty minutes."
He thanked her and handed back the empty glass.
The jeans and the T-shirt fitted perfectly. An observant
girl, he thought, as he pulled them on. The path
rose to the brow of a low hill and then down again to
the transparent water of the lagoon. The sun was well
up now, and heat rose off the dry, barren ground. Up
to his left, Creasy saw a man dressed in baggy trousers
held up by a wide leather belt. The top of a bulging
sack was tucked into the belt on one side, a plastic bag
on the other. He wore a gray, longsleeved shirt, buttoned
at the wrists, and a flat cap on his head--the
normal dress of a Gozitan farmer; but his actions were
far from normal. He held a long, bushy branch in both
hands and moved along the slope of the hill beating the

ground with it, occasionally bending down to pick something
up and put it in the plastic bag. Mystified, Creasy
walked on down to the jetty. He could see the small,
yellow ferry in the distance, just coming out of Mgarr
harbor. He sat on a rock and watched the old man work
his way steadily down the hill toward him.
He reached the jetty as the ferry pulled in and nodded
to Creasy, who looked closely at the transparent
bag at his waist. Grasshoppers! Live grasshoppers. He
was still mystified as they climbed aboard, but as they
chugged out of the bay, the old man reached into his
voluminous sack and pulled out a fishing line. Bait--
the grasshoppers must be for bait. But the line was
attached to an old and battered rubber squid, which
was quickly paid out into the boat's wake.
Curiosity won.
"What are the grasshoppers for?"
The old man took his eyes off the line. "I have a
nightingale. They are to feed it."
Creasy was still puzzled.
"But there are plenty of grasshoppers on Gozo. I've
seen them."
The old man smiled. "But the Comino grasshoppers
are tastier."
That silenced Creasy for a while, and the two of them
sat looking back toward the submerged rubber squid.
"You catch many fish?"
The old man shook his head. "Very infrequently."
Creasy thought that it might have something to do
with the age and state of the bait, but then the infrequent
happened. The water was so clear that he saw
the flash of silver as the fish darted in from the side.
Pandemonium erupted. Amid shouts and scrambling,
the ferry was stopped and the three young crew members
crowded to the stern, all offering unnecessary advice.
The old man pulled in the line--evenly and unhurried.
It was a big fish, and as it neared the stern the
excitement increased. The old man leaned forward to
give it a final, boarding jerk and the fish was already
'

in the air when it parted company with the hook. There
came a slap as it hit the water and a final flash of
silver, and it was gone.
There was a great wailing from the crew and numerous
invocations to Gkal Madonna, but the old man
remained calm and unruffled.
"We are all very sad," Creasy commiserated.
The old man shook his head. "Not all," he said. "The
fish is not entirely unhappy."

"Why do grasshoppers on Comino taste better than
grasshoppers on Gozo?" Creasy asked Paul at dinner.
He got a blank look and told him about the philosophical
fisherman.
"That's old Salvu." Paul laughed. "He has a small
farm near Ramla. He only says that as an excuse to
take the ferry every day and do some fishing."
"He's a character, that Salvu," Laura commented.
"His wife died five years ago. Every Sunday he goes to
the church in Nadur and confesses his sins to "The Cowboy'
--confesses to the worst imaginable things, just to
get a rise out of him."
"I thought the confessional was secret," Creasy said.
"It is," said Laura. '"The Cowboy' wouldn't say anything,
but Salvu brags about it--says it's just to help
'The Cowboy' understand a bit more about life: know
what he's missing."
"Well," said Creasy, "he's invited me for dinner next
time he catches a fish."
Paul was impressed. "That's unusual. He keeps to
himself, old Salvu; but go. He makes the strongest wine
on Gozo, and you'll get a good meal."
The conversation was interrupted by the phone. It
was Guido calling from Naples. He and Creasy had a
very oblique conversation. From it Creasy understood
that contact had been made in Marseilles with Leclerc,
who was being cooperative. All other preparations were
going ahead smoothly. Creasy indicated that he would
be ready to move in four to six weeks, and asked Guido
to send him a letter when everything was complete.

That night Creasy lay in bed listening to Johnny
Cash and reviewing his situation--physical and mental.
He was satisfied with his progress. His body was responding
well, 'the slackness going. In another month
or so, it would be well-tuned and responsive. He had
been fortunate in finding George Zammit and in being
allowed to train with his squad. By the time he left
Malta, he would be fully prepared for the task ahead.
Mentally also. He recognized the fundamental change
in himself. He looked on life with greater clarity. With
compassion, even. Before, in his life, the people around
him had seemed incidental. He did not consider them
on a personal or emotional basis. His interest had always
been remote and clinical. Pinta had changed that.
Everything she saw had affected her. He imagined her
in Gozo--how delighted she would have been with old
Salvu. How she would have reacted to the people he
had met, seeing in them the angles and facets of life.
He saw now through her eyes. A year ago Salvu would
have been an uninteresting old man who kept a bird
and chased grasshoppers for it and therefore was a bit
simple in the head. But now Creasy looked forward to
having dinner with him and talking to him and learning
more about him. Pinta had done that, had made it
possible that he could come to Gozo and be accepted by
the introverted community. And also enjoy being accepted.
He reflected on the unjust twist of fate that had
ended her short life. No, not fate. Nothing was fated.
Every incident, every event involving people, was the
result of actions by themselves or others. Luck was not
a random phenomenon. Destiny was predetermined by
the destined.
His thoughts turned to Nadia. He knew what was
happening, could feel the magnetic force. He would
fight it. There were just too many complications--too
little time--too much planned.
But then, surely, that was fate. A meeting at a different
time and place could have resulted in a different
ending. How often had that happened, he wondered.
How many people had come together on the wrong oc-
casion? But that too wasn't fate. That was a melding
of separate experiences, the contact and recognition of
similar hopes and expectations.
Well. His own expectations were clear and simple,
his future, or lack of it, projected.

In another part of the house, in her own room, Nadia's
thoughts ran parallel. Experience had made her
cynical. Her future was also limited. Within her community,
a woman, once married, was just that, no matter
what the circumstances. Even if the Vatican eventually
annulled her marriage, she could not expect to
start again with fresh hopes. Mothers would not want
their sons to marry a woman so scarred, and those sons
would look at her only as a woman. Desirable, certainly,
but not a potential wife.
This did not add to her cynicism. It left no extra
bitterness. She would seek her own corner and put her
back to it and face outward.
But there was something she wanted. She would not
be denied everything. Others could have their husbands
and their positions and their reputations and
their communal security, but she at least would have
something. People could talk and even criticize. She
didn't care. Her own family would understand. That
was important--vital. With that understanding, she
would face out confidently from her corner.
There was little time. Four to six weeks, she had
heard him say on the phone. It would have to be soon.

In the morning Paul and Joey were in the fields, and
Creasy was swimming. Nadia could see the small dot
of his head approaching Comino. Her mother was in
Nadur at the market. She went downstairs and phoned
Guido. She had always been close to her brother-in-law.
She asked him about Creasy, about the future.
What it held for Creasy. Where he was going and why.
Guido realized immediately what had happened. He
felt a great sadness for her. Tried to explain that it was

useless--had no future. But he would not answer her
questions. She must ask Creasy.

By his tone and his sympathy and his refusal, he
had, in effect, answered the question. But his conclusions
had not been entirely accurate. She needed to
know that Creasy's future was marginal. That confirmed
the futile dimension, but it didn't alter her
plans--only increased her determination.

In the early evening she walked down the fields to
where her father and Creasy were finishing the last
few meters of a terrace wall. She knew Creasy would
go for a quick swim before he came back up to the
house. She sat on the wall watching the two men, her
father small and wiry and dwarfed by the huge American.
She noted the change in Creasy, the deep brown
tan, solid muscles, hands calloused from weeks of hard
work.

"You have no work to do?" her father asked gruffly,
but unable to keep the affection from his voice.

"I'm finished," she answered. "I'm going for a swim.
I'll wait for Creasy."

Creasy lifted a large stone up onto the wall.

"Still worried I'll drown?" he asked mockingly.

She shook her head.

"No. I want to talk to you."

"What about?"

"I'll tell you after we swim."

"You go on, Creasy," Paul said. "Swim while it's still
light. I'll finish the last bit in a few minutes."

They swam out a little way into the channel. Comino
was bathed copper in the lowering sun. The water was
flat calm, broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish.
She turned and swam back, but he moved out farther,
conscious of the tension in her. Disturbed by it.

When he returned to the cove she was lying on a
towel, stretched out on the flat rock. He lay down wet
beside her, letting the last of the sun dry him. Several
minutes passed before she spoke.

"Creasy, I'm in love with you." She held up her hand.

"Please don't interrupt." She picked her words carefully.
"I know you also feel something, but don't want to
get involved. I know that you're at least twenty years
older than me. I know you're leaving in about a month
and probably won't come back."
She turned her head to look at him and said very
quietly, "But for sure I love you, and while you are here
I will be your woman."
He stared up at the sky, immobile, and then slowly
shook his head.
"Nadia, you're crazy. All the things you said are true,
especially that I'm not coming back. There's no future
in it. As for being in love with me--that's a word too
easily used."
"I know," she answered. "But I've only used it once
before in my life and that turned out to be a joke--a
sick joke." She told him about her marriage and her
husband. He grimaced and got to his feet and looked
down at her.
"So you should know better than to walk into hopeless
situations."
She lay with her hands behind her head, olive skin
against the black swimsuit, looking up at him impassively.
"Don't you like me?"
"You know I do. But it's not right. There's no future
in it." He bent down to pick up his clothes. "You're very
young. Compared to me, still a child. In spite of what's
happened, you have a whole life in front of you. You'll
find a good man to share it with."
He tried to sound matter-of-fact. Dismissing her declaration
as an irrational outburst. She stood and picked
up her towel.
"That's possible," she said evenly. "Who knows? But
in the meantime I'll share it with you." Now her voice
was matter-of-fact.
He became exasperated.
"Nadia, it's ridiculous. How can you just come out


with it so calmly, as though you're inviting me to the
cinema?"
A thought struck him. "Besides, what about your
parents? I'm a guest in their house. It would be a great
insult."
"They'll understand," she said. "I'll talk to them tonight."
He looked at her in astonishment.
"You will what!"
She smiled.
"Creasy, although my parents are old-fashioned Gozitan
farmers, they are still my parents, and I understand
them. I know exactly how to talk to them and
explain. As long as we are not indiscreet, it will be
alright."

She picked up her dress and slipped it on, while
Creasy stood speechless. Then she started up the path.
"Wait a minute," Creasy called. "Just wait a minute!"
She turned and looked down at him, at his expression
of puzzlement and rising consternation.
"What the hell is this? A damned cattle market?"
He waved his clothes at her, trying to find the words.
"Don't I have any say about it? You can forget the
whole thing. I want no part of it. You understand!"
She smiled. A slow, enigmatic smile.
"But you said you liked me."
"Exactly," he said, as if discovering a sudden truth.
"I said 'like you,' not 'love you.' It's not the same, you
know."
"It's good enough for the moment," she replied over
her shoulder and continued on up the path, leaving
Creasy standing on the rock, disgruntled and disconcerted.

There was no lock on his door. He had considered
wedging a chair under the knob, but that seemed silly.
But she didn't come, and he lay in bed wondering
whether she would really discuss such a thing with her
parents. He considered leaving and finding some other
place to finish his preparations, or talking to Paul himself,
man to man. Explain the position and ask him to
talk to Nadia. But how to tell a man that his daughter
was throwing herself at him? He cursed the girl for a
distracting nuisance and drifted into a troubled sleep.
In the morning, very early, he set off for a run. As
he skirted below Nadur, he saw Laura coming down
the path from early Mass. She waved at him and he
waved back, running on. Probably a good sign, he
thought. At least she didn't throw a rock at me. The
clear light of morning diffused his problem. He saw it
in perspective. Nadia had been flying a kite--testing
his reaction. His obvious lack of enthusiasm would
have turned her right off. As he jogged along he had
to admit that he had been tempted. A young, desirable
woman, offering herself like that. He was old enough
to be her father. Still, getting fit must have added something.
He slapped his flat stomach. Only one man in
a hundred his age could be as fit, maybe one in a thousand.
He preened himself gently.
He had worked his way down to Ramla Bay, and a
voice interrupted his reverie, calling his nickname-- Uomo. He looked up to see Salvu working in his fields
and he stopped for a chat.
"I don't see you on Comino the last couple of days,"
said the old man.
"Tomorrow," Creasy answered. "I'll swim over tomorrow.
No fish yet?"
Salvu shook his head.
"But soon, Uomo. I'm due for one--I'll leave word."
Creasy went back to his running.
By the time he reached the cove, sweat glistened on
his face. He pulled off his track suit and dived gratefully
into the cool water.
Afterward, lying on the flat rock, he thought again
about Nadia. She would probably be embarrassed when
she saw him. He hoped the easy atmosphere in the
house would not be changed. It would be a damned
nuisance if he had to move at this stage. He would try
to be relaxed with her. Treat the whole thing as a bit

of a joke. That would make it easier. He knew she was
sensitive. Who wouldn't be; after that mess of a marriage?
Perhaps that's what made her irrational. If she
tried it again he would be gentle, but firm. There was
no place in his life for such a relationship.

He stood up, dried from the sun, and pulled on his
track suit and walked up the rocky path to the house.

Nadia was nowhere to be seen, but Laura was in the
kitchen.

He looked at her closely.

"Breakfast, Creasy?" she asked brightly. "You were
up extra early this morning."

In spite of being mentally preconditioned, he felt
relief. Laura was her normal self, nothing had been
said the night before. He sat down, suddenly hungry,
and Laura cracked four eggs into a skillet and slid a
wedge of ham alongside them.

"Is it true that Americans eat pancakes for breakfast?"
she asked over her shoulder.

He nodded. "With syrup. But I haven't eaten pancakes
since I was a kid."

She put the plate in front of him and another piled
high with warm bread. Then she poured him a big mug
of black coffee and shoveled in three heaped spoonfuls
of sugar. She poured herself a coffee and sat down opposite,
watching with satisfaction as he ate hungrily.
It made cooking worthwhile when a man could really
eat. She was conscious of the change in him. Good food
and exercise had done that.

She spoke conversationally:

"Nadia talked to Paul and me last night."

Creasy choked on the food.

"Don't be embarrassed," she said. "We are a very
close family, and Nadia would not do anything behind
our backs. She is an honest girl."

"She's a silly girl!" Creasy burst out, angry in his
discomfort. "The whole thing is crazy."

Laura smiled.
"Love is always crazy. Such a drama is made of it;
but it's a natural thing, don't you think?"



"Love!" he snorted. "I'm told it's good when it's mutual.
How can she talk of love? I never gave her any
encouragement. I don't know why she talks of it."

Laura nodded solemnly.

"I know you didn't, so does Paul. That's why I
brought up the subject. I want you to know that we
don't blame you for anything."

Creasy spoke earnestly--persuasively.

"Look, Laura, I like Nadia very much. That's all.
But even if I felt more for her, it would be useless.
That's what she can't seem to understand. In a few
weeks I'll be leaving. There's something I have to do. It's extremely unlikely that I'll ever return. Her hopes
will be smashed again--it isn't logical."

Laura smiled at him again.

"Logical! Such words. When has love ever been logical?"
She held up her hand. "Wait--listen. You know
of her marriage. It affects her more than you think.
Not what has happened. Not in her mind. It affects her
status here in Gozo. She wants to stay here. She is
determined. But we are not like other places. She cannot
live here like other women. She cannot start again.
But she is a warm girl. She wants to give of herself,
not hiding it, or being ashamed. That's why she talked
to us last night."

He shook his head.

"Laura, why me? There's too much against it. First,
I'm so much older than she is, and second, I'm leaving-- definitely leaving."

He thought of something.

"Maybe she thinks she can change my mind. Persuade
me not to go." He looked hard at Laura, into her
eyes, and said with great emphasis: "That's impossible.
You must convince her. Then she may forget this nonsense."

Laura was thoughtful for a moment. This aspect did
puzzle her, for Nadia was a practical girl. She was holding
something back. Last night, when she confronted
her parents, she had been simple and direct, and they
had quickly pointed out that there was no future in it.




Her father had been blunt. "He will go away and leave
you," he had told her. "Nothing will stop him. I know
that." But she had answered that she knew it too and
accepted it. Meanwhile, she loved him. She was not a
child. She was not looking for permanence. She knew
that was impossible. But she was entitled to some happiness
--even temporary happiness.
So now Laura shook her head and said, "I doubt it.
I don't think she will try to persuade you to stay." She
noted his expression. Puzzled and embarrassed and
defiant. Her voice softened.
"Creasy, you are attractive to women. You must
know that. And you can't live in isolation. You affect
people. Everybody does, one way or another. You can't
expect to go through life without having an influence
on others. Without being influenced yourself. Take this
house; in the case of Joey, he hero-worships you. That's
natural. He's young, and you represent an exciting
world he's never seen. In Nadia's case, it's love. That
too may be natural. After the mess of her marriage
perhaps she has swung the other way. Perhaps she sees,
in you, everything her husband wasn't."
The thought amused her as she looked at Creasy:
huge forearms resting on the table. Scarred hands and
face.
"You're not exactly a delicate flower."
He didn't react. Didn't seem to hear her last words.
Something she had said earlier had triggered a response
in his mind. Had taken him back.
"You don't live in isolation." That was true. He had
for so long. But that had changed.
He came back to the present and stood up and said,
"Anyway, it takes two. Whatever's in her mind, she
can forget it."
He turned to leave, and at the door he said, "Laura,
I'm sorry this happened. I don't want to cause any problems.
Perhaps I should go away?"
She shrugged.
"As far as we're concerned, there are no problems-- and there won't be. We like having you here. And you


have been a big help to Paul. He needed help this summer. But you have to work it out yourself with Nadia.
I won't say anything more. I won't interfere with her-- or with you." She smiled. "But you don't seem like a
man who runs away--even from a woman."
He glared at her and saw the smile broaden and he
went out banging the door behind him.

She came two nights later, just after midnight.
The door opened quietly and he heard the patter of
bare feet on the stone floor. Moonlight through the
small window showed her dimly at the bedroom door,
standing still--watching him. She moved to the bed.
A rustle of cloth on skin.
"Go back to your own room," he said.
She pulled back the single sheet and slipped in beside
him.
"I don't want you here. Go back to your own room."
A soft arm crossed his waist and soft lips kissed his
shoulder and moved up toward his neck.
He lay completely still--unresponsive.
"Nadia, understand. I don't want you."
She raised herself slightly. Small, soft breasts pressed
down on his chest. Her mouth moved slowly from his
neck to his chin and then to his lips. He tried to tell
her again to leave; but it had become difficult.



Chapter 12

He was short and thickset and clad in camouflage uniform.
Grenades and a small transceiver hung from
webbing on his chest, and he held a Sterling submachine
gun. He leaned against the stone wall breathing
deeply, steadying himself after the sprint across the
open ground to the two-storied building.
Ready now, he inched toward the corner. He knew
that around it was a long windowless corridor, and at
the end, a flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. He
bunched and sprang forward in a low crouch, his finger
tightening on the trigger. The staccato rattle of the
Sterling echoed through the building.
Creasy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched
him coming, eyes taking in every detail.
The man reached the stairs with a squeal of rubber-soled
boots and again flattened himself against the
wall. An empty magazine clattered to the floor and a
full one clicked into place. He lifted a hand to the transceiver.
"Going up now," he said, and with a glance at
Creasy, hurled himself up the stairs. Creasy followed,
hearing more bursts of firing and, at the other end of
the building, the crack of grenades.

They streamed out into the rocky garden, all fifteen
of them, dressed in camouflage gear and talking excit
edly. George brought up the rear, ushering them over
to a low wall, telling them to sit.

The exercise had lasted five minutes, but the debriefing
went on for an hour. George took them through all phases of attack, criticizing here, praising there. He
stood in front of them, Creasy alongside. The squad
was in high spirits; it was their first full-scale exercise
and the noise and action had been stimulating.

George finished and turned to Creasy. "Any comments?"

Creasy stepped forward and the squad stilled expectantly.

"On the whole, good," he said, and there was a row
of smiles.

"But in a real fight, half of you would be dead or
wounded." The smiles faded.

He pointed at the short, squat one.

"Grazio, you came down that corridor hugging the
wall--a stone wall. That just brings you closer to a
ricochet. You've been told--always come down the center.
You feel more exposed, but it's safer. You came
around the corner low, but straightened up almost immediately,
and you were aiming waist-high. Always
aim low. An enemy can lie on the floor, but he can't fly
in the air. In a stone or brick building like that, use
the ricochet to your own advantage."

Grazio nodded, crestfallen, but Creasy didn't let up.

"If I'd been a terrorist, you'd be dead now. And another
thing, your magazine change was slow--very
slow. That's the critical time, when you're most vulnerable.
You must practice until your fingers ache.
Until it's reflexive." His eyes swept the line. "All of
you--practice! It's the difference between being dead
or alive. You don't have time to fumble."

He pointed to a taller man, with a heavy black mustache.

"Domi, you followed Charlie into Room Two. You
should have stayed in the corridor, covering the doors
of Rooms Three and Four. It didn't need both of you in

there. It wasn't a bedroom. There were no girls waitin
for you!"

The squad laughed. Domi was a noted Romeo.

Creasy went on to comment on the performance of
almost every man in the squad. George was quietly
astonished by the volume and scope of Creasy's observations.
He noted again the change in Creasy's manner
whenever he was instructing. Reticence gone--clear,
incisive sentences. And he noticed how the men listened,
absorbing everything. It was the voice of total
experience and authority. They had seen Creasy change
an empty Sterling magazine. A blur of motion, the
thread of fire hardly broken. They had seen him fire
handguns, SMG's, and carbines, and strip them down
and reassemble them with the same assurance that
they handled a knife and fork. And they had all practiced
unarmed combat with him and been amazed at
his speed and reflexes. They were all fit, hard, young
men in their twenties, and they knew that Creasy, so
much older, could have beaten any of them in a serious
fight. So they listened.

He ended by telling them that as a first exercise they
had all done well. He praised their speed in the initial
assault and their lack of hesitation once they were in
the building.

"But don't hang around," he stressed. "Always keep
moving. Moving and watching. You know yourselves
how easy it is to hit a stationary target. So keep low,
keep moving, and keep watching:"

He stepped back and George spoke a few more words
and dismissed the squad.

Creasy had been deliberately left out of the planning
of the exercise. George had wanted an independent
opinion. Now he took Creasy aside and asked him,
"What about the overall tactics?"

Creasy stood looking at the building and considering.
The scenario had been that four terrorists, without
hostages, had been holed up, presumably on the top
floor. Efforts to talk them out had failed, and the squad
had been ordered to storm the building.

"It was out of balance," he said finally. "You had five
men covering the outside and you sent in ten. Better
the other way round. First, because too many men in
the assault force get in each other's way, and second,
because once the assault started, the terrorists were
likely to break out, and in different directions." He
pointed to the upper-story windows. "They could have
jumped--it's not very high."

He softened his criticism: "The method and direction
of entry were good. I liked the idea of driving the truck
below the upper south windows; and the diversion from
the front was well-timed and realistic."

He put a hand on George's shoulder.

"It was imaginative planning, but I suggest less reliance
on the transceivers. They're useful in a stakeout,
but the assault force should ignore them unless they
get bogged down. Reporting every move is inhibiting.
They all know what to do, they're trained to react as
individuals--let them." He smiled. "On the whole,
George, good. Especially as a first effort."

George was pleased.

"Thanks," he said. "I have the building for a month.
We'll have two more exercises with it and AirMalta
will let us borrow one of their Boeings for a couple of
hours next week for a simulated hijack assault."

The squad was grouped around the back of a police
Land Rover, and cold bottles of beer were being passed
out. Creasy and George walked over to join them. As
they stood around drinking, George suddenly said with
mock severity,

"By the way, I thought you weren't planning to work
in Malta."

Creasy was puzzled for a moment, and then understood.
He feigned innocence. "Christ, George, I'm only
helping your uncle on the farm."

The fifteen young policemen were all listening and
smiling. So was George. "That's not what I meant,
Creasy, and you know it; but anyway, it was a good
thing. It saved us some work and stopped an injustice."



He was referring to an incident that had occurred
a few days before.

The lampuki season had started, lampuki being the
favorite fish of the Maltese. Creasy had driven Nadia
down to Mgarr one evening to buy the first of the catch
direct from the fishermen. They could see the brightly
painted boats coming up the Comino channel. He left
her at the quay and went into Gleneagles for a drink.

There was a small group at the bar. Michele and
Victor, Tony and Sam and "Shreik." The group opened
to let him in and Sam poured him a beer, and they
went back to their conversation. They were unusually
serious, and Creasy listened with interest.

The problem centered on a Gozo "character" called
Benny, nicknamed "Tattoo"his huge arms were covered
with them. Benny was very big, very strong, and
in looks resembled a reject for Frankenstein. Although
a Gozitan, he had spent many years on the big island.
Creasy had heard some of the stories about him. One
concerned the previous election. A politician had promised
that, in return for help during the election, Benny
would be given a plum job once the new government
was installed. Benny, a trusting type, worked hard, and
after the politician was duly elected turned up at his
office for the promised job. He was kept waiting a couple
of hours and then informed by a secretary that the
politician had no recollection of any job offer and was
too busy to see him. Benny, irritated, pushed past the
secretary to the door of the office. The politician had
foresight, and the door was locked. Benny became angry
and smashed down the door. The politician disappeared
through the window, blessing his luck that he
had a ground-floor office. It was a nice office, newly
furnished and decorated. Benny vented his anger on it.
When the police arrived they could still hear the sounds
of splintering wood.

None of the policemen relished the idea of making
an arrestBenny had a reputation. They had two Alsatian
dogs with them and they told Benny through a
megaphone that if he didn't come out peacefully they

would send the dogs in. There was a very brief silence,
and then the sounds of destruction started again. They
sent in the dogs. Within half a minute they came
back--thrown out the window with broken necks.
Benny was lucky. The judge was neither an animal-lover
nor a supporter of that politician. Benny got only
three months.
His latest brush with the law had occurred six
months earlier. He had a temporary job as a "keeper
of the peace" in a bar on Strait Street in Valletta. This
street, known as "the gut," had been a favorite hangout
of sailors for generations, but, with the closing of the
British naval base, it had fallen on hard times. Only
a few bars remained open, and some of these became
the favorite drinking spots of various gangs of Malta's
small but dedicated tough-guy element. Benny had his
enemies among this group and, in "keeping the peace"
one night, sent two of them to the hospital for a long
time.
The same judge had given him a year's sentence,
suspended for six months. In order to keep out of the
way of temptation, Benny had come home to Gozo to
wait out the six months in relative seclusion.
He was often in Gleneagles and several times had
drinks with Creasy. He was popular with the locals.
Friendly and always ready to lend a helping hand--
pulling up a boat or painting a house or threatening
a difficult outsider.
Creasy liked him. On one occasion Benny had come
in with a girl--a peroxide-blond tourist, a bit drunk
and fascinated by his tough-guy image. Twice she
knocked Creasy's glass over, the second time while
Benny was in the toilet. Creasy spoke to her sharply.
"It was an accident," she said indignantly. "Don't
talk to me like that."
When Benny came back, she complained that Creasy
had insulted her.
The room had gone quiet. Benny looked at Creasy
inquiringly.

"She's trying to set us up," Creasy explained, and
told him about the spilled drinks.
Benny nodded and gave Tony a look and two fresh
drinks were put on the bar.
"Are you frightened of him, then?" the girl asked
scornfully.
Benny shook his head. "No, and he's not frightened
of me. Now shut up or get out."
So Creasy liked him and had listened sympathetically
to the discussion of his problem.
It seemed that Benny's period of suspension would
end in a few days. If he broke the peace before then,
he would have to do the full year in jail. That thought
appealed to some of his enemies on Malta. On the previous
ferry run, Victor had seen two of those enemies
at the Cirkewwa jetty. They were waiting in a line of
cars to make the crossing and, by judicious spacing,
Victor had ensured that they didn't get on. But they
were first in line for the next trip. The group at the bar
discussed what could be done. It was known that Benny
was drinking that afternoon in Marsalforn but it was
no good asking him to keep out of the way. His pride
wouldn't permit that. It was also no use informing the
police of the impending clash. It was obvious that
Benny's two enemies were coming to provoke a fight,
but they could bide their time, and Benny wouldn't
need much provoking. They all cast about for a solution,
but Creasy kept silent, holding a debate with himself.
He didn't want to get involved; he never did, in other
people's fights. It wasn't his business--but still, for six
weeks he had lived in this community and been accepted
by it. These people had been good to him. To
some extent, their problems must be his problems. He
liked Benny.
So when Victor looked at his watch and announced
that he had to go, Creasy asked Tony to have someone
drive Nadia home. "I'll make the trip with Victor--get
some fresh air."
He stood with Victor in the wheelhouse as the Melitaland edged into the jetty at Cirkewwa.

"That's their car," Victor pointed. "At the front of
the queue."

It was a big old Dodge, painted white and red and
adorned with strips of chrome and a mascot of a rearing
stallion.

"They all drive cars like that," Victor said. "Be careful,
Uomo. They are not soft, those two."

Creasy nodded. "When do you leave?"

"In half an hour."

Creasy opened the wheelhouse door.

"If I'm not back I'll catch you on the next trip--don't
wait."

The cars had started to roll down the ramp, and
Victor leaned forward to watch as Creasy picked his
moment and crossed in front of them and off the ferry.
He walked casually to the line of waiting cars. As he
passed the Dodge he suddenly stopped, and in one motion
opened the rear door, got in, and closed it behind
him.

The Dodge started to rock on its soft springs. From
his position up in the wheelhouse, Victor couldn't see
into the car. He ran to the wing of the bridge, but he
still couldn't see anything. Then the rocking stopped.
Victor heard the Dodge's engine start and, very slowly,
it pulled out of the line, turned down the road away
from the jetty, and a mile away disappeared round a
bend.

Half an hour later all the cars were loaded. A crew
member looked up to the bridge for the signal to raise
the ramp. "Wait," Victor called down. He had seen the
Dodge reappear.

It pulled up broadside to the ramp, and Creasy got
out of the back seat and crossed onto the ferry. The
Dodge headed back toward Valletta.

"What happened?" Victor asked eagerly when Creasy
appeared at the wheelhouse door.

Creasy shrugged. "They decided not to visit Gozo
this summer." His tone precluded any further questions,
and they had crossed to Mgarr in silence.
* * * "Do you know every single little thing that goes on
in these islands?" Creasy asked.
George nodded. "Just about--what did you do to
them?"
"We had a conversation." Creasy tried to change the
subject. "When is the next exercise?"
George grinned. "Next week, same time. It must
have been a hell of a conversation. Those two haven't
shown a nose in three days."
"Reformed characters," Creasy grunted. He turned
to one of the grinning men. "Grazio, you're ready to
go?"
Paul's Land Rover was in for repair and Creasy had
got a lift into Valletta in the morning. Grazio had offered
to run him back to Cirkewwa.

As they drove along the winding coast road, Grazio
tried to make conversation. He soon gave up. Creasy
was obviously in a reflective mood. In fact, he was
thinking of his impending departure. Two more weeks,
he decided, and he'd be ready. The thought of leaving
brought conflicting emotions. Now that he was reaching
full fitness, he felt an impatience to get on with the
job. The preparation had been long and hard, only endured
because of the purpose. He was almost ready and
his mind ranged forward, combing through his strategy,
trying to foresee problems. His mind was ahead
of his body--waiting for it to catch up. In two weeks
they would come together.
Nadia--she was the other emotion. Nadia and his
life on Gozo. Leaving would be final. He had a premonition
of that. He loved her. Admitting that to himself
had been a physical shock, releasing adrenalin into
his blood.
After the first night, she had moved her clothes into
his rooms. He had accepted it. A month, that was all.
She had been warned--so be it. But it had taken only
a few days. He woke early one morning. The sun lit her
sleeping face. Serious and vulnerable; and he loved her.
She said she would be his woman and in those few short days had shown what it meant. Complete but not
suffocating. She had the natural wisdom to make her
presence a mere extension of himself. After that first
day, she never spoke again of love. She was never clinging,
never maudlin. She balanced passion with practicality.

She established a gentle routine.

At dawn she would slip out of bed and go down to
the kitchen and prepare a pot of coffee. He was always
up when she returned, doing his morning exercises.
She would sit on the bed watching solemnly while he
put his body on the rack. Then he would drink the
coffee, sitting next to her on the bed. The early mornings
were quiet. They didn't talk much. He would go
on his run--up to five miles now, and when he finished,
always at the cove, she would be waiting, with cold
beer and towels. He would swim to Comino and back,
and the tide didn't bother him. They would lie on the
flat rock for half an hour or so, taking in the sun, and
then walk up to the house. By an unspoken understanding,
her mother had abdicated the job of making
Creasy's breakfast. Nadia would fry the eggs and ham
and serve him in a casual, comfortable way, as if from
long habit. Later he would go to the fields and work
through the day with Paul and Joey.

The evenings for Nadia were special. She would meet
him again at the cove, and they would swim together
and talk. Nothing momentous: but the talk itself cementing
the feelings--the communicating--the lack
of stated commitment. The easy warmth of being together,
and private. She would see him smile, sometimes
joke. She discovered his dry sense of humor,
tinged with cynicism. He discovered a woman, deeply
intelligent and mysteriously erotic. A woman who
could fill his life, but leave him unconstricted. After
dinner they would often go out. At first, just to please
her. He sensed she wanted it. Wanted people to see
them together. She needed to establish, in the community,
that she was his woman and not ashamed of
it. They usually went first to Gleneagles for an early



drink. Creasy would sit on the corner stool, part of the
usual crowd, mostly just listening to the conversation
and repartee flowing back and forth. Nadia would sit
next to him, an arm round his waist--proclaiming possession
by her attitude. Nobody commented. To "Shreik"
and Benny and Tony and Sam, and all the rest, it was
somehow right--the Schembri girl and Uomo. It was
tidy.

Curiously, the only person to say anything at all had
been Joey. The day after Nadia had moved her things
into Creasy's rooms he had been helping Joey load
sacks of onions into a trailer. Joey had been silent and
preoccupied. Abruptly he said, "About Nadia." His tone
was very serious. "I'm her brother... well, I know
what's going on. I don't want you to misunderstand."

Creasy stood shirtless and huge beside him.

"Misunderstand what?" he asked softly.

Joey groped for words. "Well... normally, if a man
seduced a fellow's sister under his own roof, he'd do
something about it." He was both embarrassed and
slightly defiant.

"I didn't seduce your sister," Creasy said shortly.

"I know." Joey heaved a sack onto the trailer, and
turned and said, "It's just that I don't want you to think
I'm not up to defending my sister's honor. If you had
seduced her, or hurt her at all, I'd take you on. Tough
as you are."

Creasy smiled. "I know you would. I won't hurt
her... not intentionally. Not if I can help it."

They worked on in silence and then Joey smiled at
a thought and said, "Anyway, if I'd tried to interfere,
Nadia would have brained me with a frying pan."


After Gleneagles, they would occasionally go out for
a meal: to Il-Katell in Marsalforn or to Ta Cenc, the
small, deluxe, Italian-owned hotel. Expensive food, but
good.

Sometimes they would end the evening at Barba-rella's,
the discotheque on the hill above Marsalforn. It
was a place Creasy enjoyed. An old, converted farm-it
house--the dance floor being the central courtyard. It
had a bar on the roof, cool and open to the stars. The
bartender, Censu, was another favorite of his, shy and
smiling, unruffled and all-knowing. Creasy would
nurse a cognac and enjoy the disco music while Nadia
chatted to her friends. She had been really surprised
when, on the first visit, Creasy had said gruffly, "Let's
dance." He just didn't seem the dancing type. But he
was a natural dancer--his body gifted with coordination;
and he moved perfectly with the music, his brooding
eyes almost closed, letting the sounds wash over
him.
"He shambles out like a bear," Joey had told his
mother. "And then it's like he throws a switch and
plugs right into the sound system."
They would always be home before midnight. She
never asked him to stay out later. She knew the stress
of his physical program.
In the big bed they would end the day making love.
And that too was good. Complete and satisfying. Without
artifice or pretense. They discovered each other's
bodies and explored sensations. He was dominating,
but gentle. She was submissive, but equal. Afterward,
the brief time before she slept was the best time for
her--the perfect time. The time when she lay, always
lower than he in the bed, her head resting just under
his chest, secure in the sweep of a muscled arm, her
body against his, her feet twined in his feet. It was a
time when she lost her memory. A time made perfect
because she knew that, in the morning, the arm would
still be there; she could sleep, peaceful as a child.
Laura had been right. Nadia never talked of his impending
departure. By unspoken agreement the future
was never mentioned.

He came out of his reverie as they bounced down the
hill to Cirkewwa and onto the jetty. He got out and
turned to the driver.
"Thanks, Grazio. See you next week--and practice
that magazine change."
Grazio grinned. "I know. Until my fingers ache."

Creaay crossed over in the wheelhouse. Michele was
on duty and told him that Salvu had, at last, caught
his fisha big silver bream.

"He's been waiting for you in Gleneagles all afternoon.
If he doesn't leave there soon, he won't be able
to find it, let alone cook it."

But Salvu was holding up well. His wide leather belt
had sagged a bit and he had even unbuttoned his shirt
sleeves. But he was standing. The bar was full and
noisy, Tony and Sam working hard. Joey was in a corner
with Nadia and waved at Creasy.

"We came to pick you up. The Land Rover's fixed."

Creasy moved through the throng of people, knowing
suddenly that he would miss all this. "Shreik" was in
deep conversation with Benny. They broke off with the
standard greeting.

"Alright, Uomo?"

"Alright, Shreik?"

"Alright, Benny?"

"Alright!"

Salvu weaved over and passed him a beer. "Dinner
tonight, Uomo. I got him at last."

"The same one, Salvu?"

The old man smiled. "The very same. The bastard
that jumped off last month,"

"How do you know?" Creasy asked seriously.

The smile widened to a grin. "Because when I pulled
him in, he took one look at me and said: 'Christ! Not
you again."'

"That's a blasphemous bream," Creasy said, keeping
a straight face.

Salvu nodded. "Don't worry, I'll confess for him on
Sunday. He'll do advanced penance tonightin the
hell fire of the oven." Salvu pointed with his chin at
Nadia. "Bring your girl with you. Eight o'clock. You'll
need her to carry you home."

It was a magic evening. They sat in the arched
kitchen of old Salvu's old farmhouse, drinking his
strong wine and watching as he prepared his fish. The

ISO

farmhouse had been built in the sixteenth century and
the black iron oven looked like an original fixture. The
bream had been filleted in the early morning and marinated
all day in wine and lemon juice. Salvu added
herbs from a variety of unmarked jars, sniffing each
one and humming to himself like an old sorcerer. Then
everything went into the oven, and he joined them at
the table and poured a mug of wine. "Forty minutes,"
he said, with a wink at Nadia. "Time for a quick sip."

A bird cage hung from a hook in the ceiling. The
nightingale was somnolent and overawed by the rare
company.

"That's a fat bird," Creasy said. "You feed him too
many grasshoppers."

"You're right," Salvu agreed. "He needs exercise.
Next time you go running, take him with you."

"Or on the swim to Comino," Nadia suggested. "He
can catch his own grasshoppers."

Salvu shook his head sadly. "He'll think he's a duck,
and demand fish everyday."

The fish, when it came, was delicious. Soft and delicately
flavored and accompanied by vegetables from
Salvu's own fields and crusty bread warmed in the
oven.

Creasy and Nadia ate silently, while Salvu, mellowed
by the wine, reminisced about the old days on
Grozo. To Nadia's amusement and occasionally feigned
shock, he told them some of the old scandals.

"You'd be surprised what goes on under the surface,"
he said to Creasy with a wink. "You take Nadia's grandfather,
for exampleon her father's side. He was a
one."

"You dirty old man," Nadia said. "Don't you malign
my grandfather. He's been dead twenty years!"

"That's true," agreed Salvu, "and many a female tear
was shed on that day."

He went on to relate some of her grandfather's escapades.
"Be careful," he warned Creasy. "She's got the
same bloodshe'll need watching."

They finished the meal with strong peppery cheese.

"It helps the drinking," Salvu said, emptying the jug
of wine into Creasy's glass. He went out for a moment
and when he returned the jug was brimming again.
They left well after midnight.
"There's a Chinese-saying," Creasy told him at the
door. '"Govern a country as you would cook a small
fish.'--You ought to be prime minister, Salvu."
"True--but I'd have no time for fishing." The old
man smiled, propping himself up against the doorpost.
After the amount of wine he had drunk, it was a
miracle he was standing at all.
Creasy felt it too, and although Nadia didn't exactly
have to carry him home, she had to steady him occasionally
as he stumbled on the rock-strewn path.
In the morning he was hung over, the first time in
months. "No exercises today," she told him, putting the
coffee tray on the bed.
He looked at her, bleary-eyed, and got up and went
into the bathroom. She heard the shower running and
a few minutes later he came out with a towel round his
waist and started his exercises.
She sat on the bed, watching. Nothing is going to
slow him down, she thought. I've cooked for him, and
made love with him and last night I even put him to
bed, but nothing I do can stop him.
He confirmed it a few minutes later, sitting with her
on the bed, drinking the coffee.
"Nadia, in about ten days I'll be leaving." He spoke
softly, not looking at her. "I'll be going to Marseilles.
I'll check the sailings today."
"I'll do it," she said matter-of-factly. "I've a friend
who works in a travel agency in Valletta. I'll call her.
I think there's a ship once a week--the Toletela."

The next day Guido's letter arrived. Creasy took it
up to his room and examined the envelope carefully.
It had been opened and resealed. The flap had not been
precisely realigned with the original gum. Creasy sat
for a long time, thinking--the envelope in his hand.
Then he opened it. Four pages covered by Guido's neat
handwriting, and, clipped to the first page, a ticket stub
for the baggage room at the Marseilles railway station.
That night he wrote two letters, one to Paris to a
general in the French Army, At Dien Bien Phu the
general had been a lowly subaltern, and badly wounded.
After the surrender Creasy had carried him, on his
back, for three weeks to the P.O.W. camp: and so saved
his life.
Now Creasy needed a favor, a special piece of equipment.
He asked the general to send it to Poste Restante,
Marseilles.
The second letter was to a bar owner in Brussels, an
ex-mercenary, who had become an official post office
and repository. Again, a request for a parcel to be sent
to Marseilles.

Chapter 13

Time accelerated.
In two days he would sail for Marseilles, and tomorrow
he would have his last practice with George's
squad.
He worked late into the night. Through the open
bedroom door he could see Nadia sleeping. Long black
hair covering the white pillow.
He liked to pay his debts, and the work he did this
night was for George. They had discussed pairings in
the squad. Creasy had recommended it. He knew from

his old days with Guido how two men, familiar with
each other's thinking and actions, were more effective
in firelights than individuals, even in great numbers.
So he evaluated each member of the squad and judged
who would work well with whom.
Against each pairing, he made notes about specialized
training, again making evaluations gleaned from
the past weeks.
That done, he drew up a list of equipment that would
be useful to the squad.
Finally he made notes on tactics, trying to envisage
the type of situation George might face.
He had been working since nine o'clock, and when
he finished it was well after midnight--the table covered
with paper. He rose, stretched, flexed the cramped
fingers of his right hand, and went into the bedroom.
He looked down at Nadia as he undressed. The night
was warm, and only a sheet covered her to the waist.
He found himself comparing her with Rika. The body
slimmer but the same skin texture--velvet under
glass. The face more severe, but the hair as black, as
long, and as thick. A different kind of beauty, less conventional,
more subtle. In his eyes, conditioned by love,
Nadia's beauty was more personal and linked to her
mind. A mirror to her character.
He slipped into the bed beside her, and she murmured
in her sleep and reflexively slipped lower in the
bed; moved her head against his chest, slid an arm
across his waist, and resumed her deep, contented
breathing.
The ultimate intimacy. To lie naked with a beautiful
woman and not to make love. To draw pleasure only
from the contact--to sleep together.

The improvement in the squad was obvious. It was
their third exercise and they had learned, and they
knew it. Afterward they faced George and Creasy confidently
and received more praise than criticism.
Since it was Creasy's last session, they insisted he
have a farewell drink. Creasy protested that he would
miss the last ferry, but they had planned ahead. An
AFM patrol boat would take him from the Customhouse
steps to Mgarr.

"I'we already phoned Nadia," George told him. "She'll
meet you in Gleneagles at eight o'clock."

In the bar they presented him with a, tie. It had a
black eagle superimposed on red and white stripes-- Malta's colors. It was the squad's own tie, and its presentation
signified Creasy's unofficial membership.
George made a brief speech, thanking him for his help
and wishing him well in the future, and then the young
policemen got into the heavy drinking.

After a while Creasy took George over to a corner
table and gave him the notes he had drawn up the night
before. He took him through the list of equipment,
pointing out several items.

"These are made by Russia or its satellites--you
might be able to get them from the Libyans."

George grinned. "I'll take their military attache out
for lunch tomorrow." He looked at Creasy reflectively
and said, "You've been a great help. Is there anything
I can do for you?"

Creasy's face had turned serious and his voice went
flat as he said, "Yes, George. Tell me if you've been
opening my mail."

George was an honest man and without guile, and
the answer showed on his crestfallen face. Creasy relaxed
and sat back and took a pull at his beer.

"You know what my job is, Creasy." George's voice
was heavy with embarrassment. "I didn't want to
pry...but...well, it's my job to pry. And you're not
a regular-type tourist."

"It's OK, George. I don't blame you. I just had to
know that it wasn't done at the other end." Something
occurred to him. "How many people in your outfit saw
that letter?"

George shook his head. "Only me," he said emphatically,
"and no copies were made. I even opened the
envelope myself and resealed it."

Creasy smiled. "You need practice." George returned the smile, relieved that Creasy was
taking the matter lightly, and then he became serious
again. "Guido was very circumspect, but I could understand
enough to guess what you're up to. Obviously
you know the risks. I wish I could help, but you know
I can't."
Creasy nodded. "But you head an intelligence organization.
Will you feel obliged to report my plans to
the Central Bureau at Interpol?"
George looked blank and asked, "What plans?" He
glanced at his watch. "Drink up, the launch will be
waiting, and if you're not in Gleneagles by eight o'clock,
Nadia will be displeased with me. And that lady can
be formidable."
The two men stood up, but before they rejoined the
others, George added: "You've made friends here,
Creasy, especially on Gozo. Whatever the outcome of
your trip, don't forget that."
"I won't," said Creasy. "And thanks."
It was a night for farewells. Creasy was to take Nadia
for dinner at Ta Cenc, but as he entered Gleneagles
and saw the crowd, it was obvious he would have to
spend at least an hour there first.
He had never made friends before, and it was a curious
sensation for him to walk into the big, high-ceilinged
room and be absorbed into the noise, and the
circle of affection. They were all there: the fishermen
and the farmers, "Shreik" and Benny, the Mizzi brothers;
Paul, Laura and Joey. Victor passed him a drink
and Nadia moved to his side and gave him a cable that
had arrived in the morning. It was from the general in
Paris. His request had been honored.
The drink and the talk flowed easily, and Creasy felt
a warmth and a sense of belonging. He did not feel sad
and he did not question his decision to leave in the
morning. Although, in this place, he had found happiness,
he had lived long enough and hard enough to
understand that to forget his purpose would mean the
end of that happiness. He could not live on here with
the thoughts of what he had turned away from.

And the will for revenge had never slackened. It had
been like a closed drawer, and in the morning the
drawer would be opened and in the coming weeks the
emotion of revenge would dominate his mind--exclude
everything else.

But on this last night, the drawer was still closed.
There was no sadness. Even Nadia was vibrant and
laughing. He would talk to her later, he decided. Try
to explain to her. She was owed at least that much. Not
once over the past weeks had she tried to persuade him
to stay. Not once--no hint or gesture. It had surprised
him a little, but he knew her determination and her
composure. Once she had made up her mind, she would
not change it.

Benny brought him over a fresh drink and said to
Nadia, "I take him away for a minute."

They walked onto the quiet of the balcony, and the
big, brawny Gozitan said solemnly, "Uomo. You ever
need help, and you don't call me first--I get very mad."

Creasy smiled.

"I call you first--I promise."

Benny nodded, satisfied. "Just send a cable here to
Gleneagles, Tony will find me--anytime."

They went back inside and this time Creasy took
Paul aside. "I owe you money, Paul," he said.

The farmer looked surprised. "For what?"

"You know very well," Creasy answered, "I've lived
in your house for over two months and eaten a mountain
of food--it costs money."

Paul smiled. "OK," he said. "I'll charge you fifteen
pounds a week--that's the same as a farm laborer gets
here--that makes us even." He held up his hand to
stop further argument. "Creasy, I could never have
found a worker this summer who would have done as
much as you--I'm serious. I won't talk of it."

He turned back to the crowd, and Creasy could do
nothing but shrug and follow him.

A few minutes later he said his farewells and left
with Nadia.

They were like young lovers on an early date. There

was no sense of departure. No sadness. They had a table
on the terrace and ordered fish. They agreed that
though it was delicious, Salvu's was better. They drank
a bottle of icy Soave wine, and then another. For
Creasy, the occasion was made more poignant, because
in the morning his mind would be occupied by plans
and dispositions for death and destruction; and because
Nadia, by her manner, comforted him. He had worried
about what he would leave behind in Gozo. He didn't
want to remember sadness, and she gave him no cause.
Her attitude proclaimed her independence and her
strength. It was a balm to his unadmitted conscience.
And that was exactly what she intended.

After dinner they went to Barbarella's. Creasy
wanted to say good-bye to Censu. He found he couldn't
pay for the drinks. "It's on me," Censu said, with his
gentle smile.

He asked Nadia if she wanted to dance and she shook
her head. "It's almost a full moon--let's go for a last
swim." So they finished their drinks, drove back to the
farm, and walked down the rocky path to the cove.

They embraced in the cool water. Her skin was slippery
--like wet glass.

On the flat rock they made love. Creasy lay on his
back to take any discomfort from the rough stone; but
as Nadia eased herself over him, he felt nothing except
her warm softness. As always, they made love slowly,
their passions rising up a gentle slope. He looked up
at her small breasts, shining wetly in the moonlight,
and her oval face and dark eyes, narrowed in pleasure.
They reached the top of the slope and she moaned deep
in her throat and her knees gripped him in a gentle
vise.

Later he talked, and she sat, naked, with her arms
clasping her knees and her eyes watching his intently.

He told her what he was going to do, and why. He
described his mental and physical state when he had
arrived in Naples. How Guido and Elio had arranged
to get him the job. He told her of the first days and how

he had deliberately shut Pinta off and then how, slowly
but inexorably, they had grown together.

He had eloquence. For once in his life he was able to truly describe his feelings. It may have been the
ambience in the night, or the recent lovemaking, or
simply that he loved the woman who was listening so
intently. He found the words to describe how he had
felt and what had happened.

He told her of the day in the mountains when Pinta had given him the crucifix. Described it as the happiest,
most natural day in his life. His words brought Pinta
alive, and Nadia's head nodded in understanding as he
talked of the girl's awareness, and curiosity, and simple
joy of living.

And the final day. The kidnapping, and her shouting
out his name as he lay on the grass. How he woke in
the hospital, not sure if he would live, but willing it
with every nerve in his body and always hearing that
last shout and the anguish in her voice.

Then Guido telling him she was dead and how she
had been abused.

He stopped talking and a silence engulfed the small
cove. It was a long time before she spoke. She had
lowered her head onto her knees and her wet, black
hair fell almost to the rock. When she raised her head
he saw the tears glistening in the pale light.

"I'm not crying because you're leaving, Creasy. I
promised myself I wouldn't do that--not while you're
here." Her low voice quivered. "I'm crying for Pinta. I
knew her. You brought her alive when you talked, and
I knew her, as though she were my own child, and when
you talked of her death, I saw that too--I cry for her."

Her words comforted him. She could understand
why, even though he loved her, he had to go.

He told her, "I love you."

Her head came up higher. "I know. I didn't expect
you to tell me."

"I didn't intend to."

"Then why?"

Tm not sure. Maybe it's talking about Pinta, and

being honest, and wanting you to know before I leave
even though it's useless."

"It hasn't been useless, Creasy." She wanted to go
on. To tell him everything. But like the tears, she had
promised herself about that too. She stood up and
looked out over the moonlit sea.

"What chance do you have of living through it?" she
asked.

"A very slim chance," he answered flatly.

"But if you do, will you come back here to me?" She
turned to face him, and he rose to his feet.

"Yes, but don't wait. I'm not going off to commit
suicide. It's not suicide while there's even a one percent
chancebut Nadia, that's about what the odds are."
He moved and took her into his arms. "So don't wait."

"I just wanted to know," she said. She kissed him
hardfiercely. "Do it, Creasy!" Her voice was intense.
"Do it. Kill them. All of themthey deserve it. I hate
themas much as you hate them." She gripped him
tightly, feeling his strength, moving her hands over
the tight muscles of his back and shoulders. She spoke
against his neck. "Don't worry about me. Don't think
about me. Think only of them, and what they did." Her
voice carried the hatredhe could feel itfeed off it.

"I'll go every morning with my mother to the church.
I'll praypray that you kill themI shall not confess.
Just praywhen you are dead, or returned herethen
I'll confess."

They picked up their clothes and walked up to the
house. Her words and her mood had affected him
deeply. There was something he didn't understand, a
factor that eluded him. But her reaction and her emotion
about his coming struggle, and her identifying
with it, all combined to settle his mind and to clear it
of everything but his purpose.

She didn't want to make love again. She didn't want
to sleep. It was only a few hours to dawn. She lay with
him in the bed, her head against his chest, listening
to his steady breathing.

At first light, she quietly disengaged herself, got up

and moved about the room collecting his clothes and
packing his bag. On top she put the cassette player.
The half-dozen cassettes went into a side pocket. Then,
with a faint smile, she took them out again, selected
one and slotted it into the machine, ready to play.
Then she went down to the kitchen and cooked
breakfast and brewed coffee and carried the tray "up.

He was to catch the first ferry to Malta. Joey put his
bag into the Land Rover and climbed into the driving
seat. Laura put her arms around him, and kissed his
cheek, and wished him luck. He held onto her and
thanked her for helping him regain his strength.
Then he shook Paul's hand.
"Alright, Paul?"
"Alright, Creasy!"
Nadia decided not to go with him to the ferry. She
came forward and reached up and kissed him on the
mouth, and wished him luck, and then stood back with
her parents while the Land Rover moved up the track.
Her face was without expression.
Half an hour later, she went to the front of the house
and watched the Melitaland as it pulled out of the harbor.
She knew he would be in the wheelhouse with Victor
or Michele. As it cleared the entrance, she saw him
come out onto the wing of the bridge and look up the
hill toward her and wave. She waved back, and stood
watching as the ferry turned to pass Comino, and he
was hidden from view. She went into the kitchen to
help her mother, who was mystified, for Gozitans are
emotional, and her daughter's face showed no emotion.
In the evening she walked along the path to Ramla
and stood on the brow of a hill and in the distance saw
the white ship come out of Grand Harbour and steam
northward.
Salvu, working his fields below, saw the girl standing
looking out to sea, and was about to call to her but
then followed her gaze and saw the ship and went silently
back to his work.

It had gone over the horizon into the twilight before
she turned and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.
She went up to the rooms they had shared, and took
off her clothes and climbed into the bed. She pulled his
pillow down beside her, and hugged it to her belly.

Then she wept into the night.

Book Three

Chapter 14

The two Arabs drove a hard bargain. A package deal
or nothing. Without the rocket launchers, they didn't
want the fifty M.A.S. machine guns or the five hundred
Armalites. It put Leclerc in a quandary. Like many
arms dealers, he had semiofficial backing--an outlet
for his country's arms industry. His contact at the ministry
had told him that these particular Arabs were not
to be sold rocket launchers. Such is politics. Even
though they had an end-user certificate from a small
Persian Gulf state, the consignment was to be transhipped
in Beirut, which could mean anything--left
wing, right wing, Falangists, P.L.O. or Troop 4 of the
Lebanese Boy Scouts.
He sighed; he would have to call his contact again.
"I might be able to get you a couple," he said to the
older of the two, a smoothly dressed, hawk-faced man,
who shook his head.
"At least six, Monsieur Leclerc," he said, in excellent
French. "Or we may be forced to take our order elsewhere
--Monte Carlo, perhaps."
Leclerc sighed again and swore under his breath. That damned American in Monte Carlo was trying to
hog all the business. He'd sell them rocket launchers,
alright--enough to, start World War Three.

"I'll see what I can do." He stood up and moved
around his desk. "Call me in the morning, at eleven."

They all shook hands, and Leclerc ushered them out
of his office.

Creasy was sitting in the reception area, reading a
magazine. "Go on through to my office," Leclerc said.
"I'll be right with you."

Creasy was looking at the pictures of weapons adorning
the walls when Leclerc returned. The Frenchman
gestured at a chair and sat down behind his desk. The
two men studied each other. Leclerc spoke first.

"You look very fit. A great difference from when I
last saw you."

"I was a lush when you last saw me," Creasy said
shortly.

There was antagonism in the air. Leclerc voiced it.

"There was no need to have Guido threaten me."

Creasy remained silent, brooding eyes studying the
Frenchman--evaluating him. Leclerc was a tall, florid
man, running slightly to fat. He wore a dark-gray suit
and was well-barbered and manicured. He looked like
a successful stockbroker, but Creasy had known him
when he was a very hard and ruthless mercenary. Leclerc
sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Creasy, we've never been friends. That's not my
fault. But I owe you. I owe you on two counts--you
saved my life in Katanga, and that alone is enough."
He smiled thinly. "I also owe you for Rhodesia, you
helped me land a very good order--very profitable. So
it's natural I would help you--without Guido talking
about a technicolor funeral."

"You don't owe me for Rhodesia," Creasy said. "They
paid me to give advice. It just happened you were offering
what they needed."

"OK," Leclerc conceded, "but Katanga is different.
Try to accept the fact that, apart from Guido, there are



people who consider you a Mend, whatever your own
reaction."
There was a silence and then Leclerc received a great
shock--Creasy smiled. An open, easy smile.
"Alright. Thanks," he said. "I accept that."
Leclerc recovered slowly, realizing that the man in
front of him had truly changed. He was not just healthier
--he had known him way back, when he was as fit
as any man could be. He was changed mentally. He
still gave off an aura of menace, but the smile had been
genuine and unprecedented.
"Have you got all the stuff together?" Creasy asked.
Leclerc collected his thoughts and nodded.
"Yes. It was a diverse order, and I've got several
alternatives. You can take your pick." He glanced at
his watch. "Let's have lunch and go to the warehouse
afterward. Meanwhile, I'll have my people put everything
out."
Creasy nodded but didn't get up. He seemed to be
considering something. He made up his mind.
"Leclerc, do you have connections to get false papers?
--passport, driving license--so on?"
"It's possible," the Frenchman said. "But of what
country?"
"French, Belgian, Canadian, or American," Creasy
answered. "It really doesn't matter--it's only a question
of language. I speak French, and my English has
a blurred North American accent. The problem is, I
need them quickly--four to five days."
Leclerc steepled his fingers and thought about it.
"French would be the easiest," he said finally, "but not
if you plan to use them in this country."
"I don't--nor the weapons--you have my word on
that."
Leclerc nodded. "I already have that assurance from
Guido--photographs?"
Creasy reached into an inside pocket, drew out an
envelope, and tossed it onto the desk.
"There's a dozen. I need papers that an ordinary
Frenchman would carry on an overseas trip."
Leclerc opened a drawer and dropped in the envelope.
"OK, I'll get onto it this evening." He looked apologetic.
"It will be expensive, Creasy. Not me, you understand
--I won't charge any commission. But the time
element adds to the price."
Creasy smiled again. "It's OK. Let's get that lunch."
As they headed for the door, Leclerc was thinking
that if Creasy smiled at him once more, he'd pass out.

The Toletela had arrived in Marseilles the night before.
Creasy had taken a taxi straight to the railway
station and picked up the black-leather briefcase from
the baggage room. At the station restaurant he found
a quiet table, ordered a coffee and took out Guido's
letter. He looked up the numbers and opened the combination
lock. Inside was a large Manila envelope. It
contained a key, a street map of Marseilles, and two
sets of papers. One set was the passport and personal
papers of one Luigi Racca--a vegetable importer from
Amalfi. The other set were papers for a Toyota van. He
opened the street map and noted the small inked circle
and the instructions in the margin, then he put them
all back into the briefcase and spun the lock. As he
sipped the coffee, his eyes roamed around the restaurant
and through the glass partition to the movement
on the station concourse. But his mind was on Guido.
Without his help the whole operation would have been
infinitely harder. Creasy knew that Luigi Racca would
be a genuine vegetable importer, quite unaware that
his name was being borrowed. He knew that the passport
and other papers would be the work of the best
forger in Naples--a city justly proud of its forgers.
When he arrived in Naples he knew that everything
would be ready. Within a week the killing would begin.
He guessed that Pietro had delivered the van to
Marseilles--driving overland. He must talk to Guido
about his safety once the business started.
He finished his coffee and caught a taxi to the post
office and picked up the parcels that had arrived from
Paris and Brussels. Then he checked into a small hotel,
using the papers of Luigi Racca.


Their steps on the stone floor echoed up into the high
steel girders. Long lines of packing cases were stacked
on pallets under a maze of pipes and sprinklers. Creasy
inhaled the familiar smell of an arsenal, the coppery
odor of grease on metal. A section of the warehouse was
partitioned off with heavy steel sheeting and a padlocked
door. Leclerc unlocked it and threw a switch. A
bank of overhead neon tubes flickered on, illuminating
two long metal tables, one bare, the other covered with
a variety of weapons and equipment.

Leclerc stood by the door while Creasy walked slowly
past the laden table, examining the different groupings.
Then he moved back and stopped at the first set-- the pistols. Leclerc joined him.

"You wanted a forty-five and something smaller and
lighter." He gestured. "Take your pick."

There were a dozen pistols on the table from a variety
of countries, and several silencers. Creasy picked up a
Colt 1911 and a British Webley .32. Leclerc looked a
bit surprised at his second choice.

"I know," said Creasy. 'It's old-fashioned, but it's
reliable, and I'm used to it."

He turned and put the two guns on the table behind
him, and then picked up two silencers and put them
with the guns. "I'll take five hundred rounds for each."

Leclerc took out a small pad and a ball-point pen
and made a note. They moved to the next grouping-- submachine guns. There were four types, the Israeli
Uzi, the British Sterling, the Danish Madsen, and the
one Creasy immediately picked up--the Ingram Model
10. The metal butt was folded, and the weapon measured
only ten and a half inches. It looked more like a
large pistol than a submachine gun, and it had a firing
rate of eleven hundred rounds a minute.

"You've used one?" asked Leclerc, and Creasy nodded,
hefting the gun in his hands.

"Yes. In Vietnam. Its biggest advantage is its size.

The rate of fire is too high if anything, but for my
purposes it's perfect. Do you have a suppressor?"

"I can get one within a couple of days."

"Good." Creasy put the gun on the table behind him.
"I'll take eight magazines and two thousand rounds."

Next were two sniper rifles, a modified M14 with the
Weaver sight and the British L4A1 with the standard
32 sight. Creasy selected the M14.

"It's got twice the feed," he commented. '"I'll have
two spare magazines and a standard box of cartridges."

They moved to the rocket launchers.

"It's no contest," Creasy said. "For the size and
weight, it's got to be the R.P.G.7."

Leclerc grinned and picked up the squat tube. "I
could sell a million if I could get them." He held the
tube at each end and twisted. It unscrewed in the middle.
Creasy nodded with satisfaction. "The Stroke D,"
he said. "Better still. What's the standard packing for
the missiles?"

"Cases of eight or twelve," Leclerc answered, screwing
the launcher together and laying it next to the
Ingram.

"A case of eight, then," Creasy said, passing on to
the grenades. He picked out the British Fragmentation
36 and the Phosphorous 87.

'"I'll need less than standard packing. Can your boys
knock up a case for fifteen of each?"

"Can do," Leclerc replied.

Next Creasy picked up a double-barreled shotgun,
barrels and stock sawed off short. He flicked open the
breach, held it up to the light, and examined it, then
snapped it shut and put it down next to the grenades.
It looked incongruous alongside the other weapons.

"A couple of boxes of S.S.G.," he said, and Leclerc
made a note.

He went on to select a Trilux night sight, a commando
knife in its sheath, and a variety of webbing.

Finally, at the end of the table, a number of small
objects lay in a shallow metal tray. Creasy picked up
several and examined them closely.

"They're the very latest," Leclerc said at his shoulder.
"Perhaps you haven't seen them before?"

Creasy held a small circular tube in his hand. A
narrow needle projected half an inch from one end.

"I've used this type of detonator," he said, "but not
the timer."

Leclerc picked up another metal tube. It had two
prongs, like an electric plug. He unscrewed the tube
and showed Creasy the cadmium cell battery and the
two graduated dials. Then he plugged the timer into
the detonator. The combined mechanism was less than
two inches long and three quarters of an inch in diameter.

Leclerc smiled. "Electronics make things so much
easier. Guido specified a kilo of Plastique. I have it
ready elsewhere."

"Good," Creasy said, looking back along the table. "That's everything I need."

Leclerc surveyed the assortment, his curiosity tinged
with satisfaction. For him, fitting out Creasy was an
exercise in professional pleasure. He wasn't sure what
Creasy wanted the stuff for, and he wasn't about to ask,
but he would be reading the Italian papers in the coming
weeks. Knowing the American's background and
experience, he could imagine the potential destruction
that the weapons represented.

"Can you get me a good light shoulder-holster for
the Webley, and a belt holster for the Colt?"

Leclerc nodded. "Standard issue canvas for the Colt."

"That'll do fine." Creasy had taken out a tape measure
and a notebook. "Do you have any scales?"

"Sure." Leclerc went out into the main warehouse
and Creasy got busy with the tape measure.


"Where can I drop you?"

"Anywhere near the fishing harbor."

Creasy didn't mention the name of his hotel. He had
decided that Leclerc could be trusted--but old habits
die hard.

The Frenchman asked, "Anything else I can do for
you in Marseilles? --Female company?"

Creasy smiled and shook his head. "I thought you
were an arms dealer."

"You know what it's like," Leclerc answered. "When
you're selling, you have to hang bells on the stuff. The
Arabs are the worst--they get so little at home."

"Business must be good out that way," Creasy commented.
"They've got enough little wars going on to
keep half the arms factories in Europe on overtime."

"It's a fact," grunted Leclerc, "and it will get better-- or worse, depending how you look at it. This Islamic
resurgence means more wars--it's a violent religion."
He glanced at Creasy. "Apart from arms dealers,
there'll be a lot of work for men like you."

Creasy shrugged. "Could be."

They pulled up by the wharf, and Creasy opened the
door.

"Ten o'clock then, Thursday night," he said.

Leclerc nodded. "I'll be waiting."


Creasy consulted the street map and told the taxi
driver to leave him at the corner of Rue St. Honore. He
had changed at the hotel and now wore more simple
work clothes--denim jeans and shirt. His eyes roamed
the streets idly as they drove eastward through the
city. He liked Marseilles. A man could sink into it and
be anonymous. People minded their own business. It
was an ideal city for drug smuggling, arms dealing, or
just getting lost.

The taxi pulled up and Creasy paid the driver and
walked for ten minutes until he reached the corner of
Rue Catinat. He stood for several minutes, watching
the street.

It was a working-class suburb. Tenement buildings,
small workshops, and factories. Halfway down was a
row of lock-up garages. He located Number 11, and
without looking around took out the key and unlocked
it, then switched on the light and closed the door.

Most of the space was taken up by a Toyota Hiace

van. It was painted a deep gray, with faded black lettering
on the side: Luigi Racca--Vegetable Dealer.

The van looked old and suitably battered, but Creasy
knew that the engine and suspension would be in perfect
order. He opened the back doors. Immediately in
front of him, on the van floor, was a coil of electrical
cord attached to an electrical plug. He smiled briefly
at Guido's forethought, picked up the plug, went over
to the wall, and connected the plug to the socket. The
bulb inside the van lit up the rest of the contents. There
were lengths of timber, several sacks packed tight with
cotton waste, a long roll of thick felt, a wooden bench
with a vise attached, and a large toolbox. Creasy unloaded
all this onto the floor behind the van, then
moved to the front of the compartment and carefully
examined the paneling that backed onto the driver's
seat. He went to the toolbox, selected a screwdriver
and, being careful not to mark the paint, eased out the
dozen countersunk screws. The false panel fell gently
back, revealing a space about a foot deep and as wide
and high as the van's compartment. He grunted in satisfaction
and carried the panel out and rested it gently
against the garage wall. Next he took out a tape measure
and a notebook and jotted down the exact dimensions
of the secret compartment.

Referring to previous notes, he then drew a rough
plan and stuck it on the garage door.

For the next two hours he worked steadily, measuring
the timber and cutting it up with a small power
saw.

He enjoyed the work, but eventually had to stop because
the air in the closed garage had become stuffy.
It was dark outside, and he walked for ten minutes in
the cool night air to clear his head. Then he found a
small bistro and went in to have dinner.

At eight the next morning he was back in the garage.
He worked through till noon, then went for lunch to
the same bistro. The food was simple and good, and
with his rough clothes and colloquial French, he was
not out of place among the other customers.
By midafternoon he had finished shaping the timber,
and he fitted it into the compartment. First the heavy
frame and then the cross pieces, each slotting exactly
into its prepared joint. He stood back and surveyed his
work. The compartment now resembled a giant, half-finished
child's puzzle. On Thursday he would fit in the
missing pieces.
Back at the hotel he looked in the yellow pages and
rang a rental agency. In the name of Luigi Racca, he
arranged to hire a Fiat van the next day, for twenty-four
hours.

Leclerc waited with a watchman. There was no one
else on the street. At five past ten, a dark-blue van
turned the corner and parked a hundred meters away.
Its lights flickered twice and went out.
"Go down to the other corner and wait," Leclerc told
the watchman. "Don't come back until that van has
left." As the watchman disappeared into the dark, the
van moved forward again.
"OK?" Creasy asked, jumping down from the cab.
"OK," Leclerc replied, and unlocked the warehouse
door. Just inside were three wooden packing cases on
a fork lift. They were lettered "A," "B," and "C." Leclerc
pointed to each in turn. "Ammunition, weapons, other
equipment." Within a couple of minutes the cases were
loaded in the van and Creasy climbed back into the
cab.
Leclerc looked up at him. "Come into my office tomorrow
afternoon. Your papers will be ready."
Creasy nodded and drove away.
He drove around the city for forty minutes, varying
his speed and making unpredictable turns. Then, satisfied
that he wasn't being followed, he drove to Rue
Catinat and parked fifty meters from the garage. He
turned off the lights and engine and sat listening and
watching for half an hour. Then he started the engine
and backed up close to the garage door. He quickly
wrestled the three cases from the van and into the
garage. He locked up and drove back to his hotel--
again constantly watching his mirror.
In the early morning he returned the rented van and
by nine o'clock was back in the garage. He prized the
lids off the three cases and, one by one, fitted the weapons,
the boxes of ammunition, and the grenades into
their allotted places. He took handfuls of cotton waste
and packed it into all remaining gaps between equipment
and frame. Then a curtain of felt was tacked
across the entire framework. He fetched the false panel
and, again being careful not to scratch the paint, he
screwed it back into place. He banged the side of his
fist against it in several places. It felt and sounded
solid. Finally, he spread his legs and shifted his weight
back and forth, rocking the van on its springs.
He nodded in satisfaction. His weapons carrier was
ready and loaded.

Leclerc passed the envelope across the desk and
Creasy shook out the passport and papers and examined
them closely.
"They're good," he said. "Better than I expected--
how much?"
Leclerc shrugged ruefully. "Eleven thousand francs."
"They're worth it," Creasy said, and took out a roll
of money and counted out the notes. "You've arranged
with Guido about payment for the other stuff."
Leclerc nodded. "He'll pay into my account in Brussels."
He paused, and then said, "You're getting it for
cost--I've added nothing."
"Thanks," Creasy said, and smiled slightly. "That
evens us up."
Leclerc smiled and stood up. 'Is my life worth so
little?--I hope not."
Creasy held out his hand. "If a favor is returned, it's
the act--not the size of it. Incidentally, I know you
have to cooperate with the government in your business,
and I know our transaction is very unofficial. If
you get any pressure, tell them you thought I still acted
for the Rhodesians. But don't mention the papers to
anyone--not even Guido."

Leclerc smiled. "OK. I can look very innocent when
necessary. Good luck."

At the door Creasy hesitated, and then made up his
mind.

"You went to a lot of trouble," he said quietly. "I
appreciate it. Ever I can do something for you, contact
me through Guido."

Leclerc had been about to sit down, but as the door
closed he remained half-crouched over the chair, his
mouth open in surprise. Then he sank slowly back, and
crossed himself. Miracles do happen.


Chapter 15


Guido stood on the terrace watching through binoculars
as the blue and white ferry docked. He had confidence
in the papers, but vehicles arriving from Marseilles
were often thoroughly searched.

The ramp came down and a stream of private cars
drove out and were directed into three lines. Several
trucks and a container-trailer followed. Then the gray
van. He watched Creasy get out of the cab and lounge
against the side of the van in an attitude of bored indifference.
He was dressed in faded denim overalls and
he carried a large Manila envelope which he, slapped
idly against his leg.

It was twenty minutes before the customs inspector
reached him. In the meantime, Pietro had come out
onto the terrace.
"He's arrived?"
"Yes," Guido grunted, without moving his gaze from
the docks.
The official checked the papers carefully and then
walked to the rear of the van. Creasy opened the doors
and the customs man handed back the envelope and
pulled himself up and in. It seemed an eternity before
he reappeared, holding something. Guido stiffened and
leaned forward, adjusting the binoculars for better vision.
Finally he recognized the object and saw Creasy
nodding, and his pent-up breath hissed out.
"What is it?" asked Pietro.
"A melon!--the bastard wants a melon."
Pietro laughed. "A small price to pay."
The gray van moved to the security gates; only a
brief pause this time, and then it pulled out into the
traffic. Guido lowered the binoculars and looked at his
watch.
"He'll call within the hour. So I'll be out for lunch-can
you handle it by yourself?"
"Sure," Pietro answered. "Tell him good luck for me."
"I will," Guido said seriously. "He's going to need
it."

Guido entered the restaurant carrying a canvas bag.
He paused at the door, letting his eyes adjust to the
dim light. It was barely noon and apart from Creasy,
sitting at a corner table, and a bored waiter, the place
was deserted. Creasy rose as Guido approached and
they embraced warmly. Guido stepped back and looked
at his friend critically.
"Gozo agrees with you. You've shed ten years."
Creasy smiled. "They all send their love."
They sat down and ordered a light lunch of calzoni and salad.
"Everything OK in Marseilles?" Guido asked as soon
as the waiter left.


"Perfect," answered Creasy. "Leclerc was very helpful
but resented your threatening him."
Guido grinned. "Anyway, it didn't hurt-- How's
Nadia?"
The question threw Creasy for a moment.
"She's fine-- You know about that?"
"I guessed."
Guido told him about the phone call and how he had
tried to discourage her. "But I assume it didn't put her
off."
Creasy shook his head. "It didn't."
"How did she take your leaving?"
Creasy shrugged--it puzzled him a bit.
"Very casual. No tears, no emotion--she's a strange
girl."
The waiter approached with the food and a bottle of
wine, and then left them alone.
"I sent Pietro to Marseilles," Guido said. "He's done
most of the legwork, even in Rome and Milan."
"He's a good kid," Creasy remarked.
They ate in silence for a while. It was not necessary
for Creasy to question Pietro's reliability, but still,
something had to be said.
"He might be in danger."
Guido nodded. "I'm sending him to Gozo once it
starts. He'll stay there until the whole thing is over.
Anyway, he needs a holiday."
"He deserves it," Creasy agreed, and repeated, "He's
a good kid--will you manage without him?"
Guido smiled. "I'm closing the pensione for the duration.
I'll just do lunch and dinner for the regulars.
The work load will be much lighter."
Creasy didn't utter platitudes about losing money.
Nothing needed to be said.
Guido unzipped the canvas bag and took out five
bunches of keys, two street maps and a folder. He
passed the keys over. They all had tags attached. He
said, "The apartment in Milan, the cottage at Vigentino,
just outside the city, the Alfetta GT, the apartment
in Rome, and the Renault 20 in Rome."
Creasy held the keys and smiled. "I feel like a property
owner!"

"Renter." Guido smiled back. "They're all rented for
three months, starting ten days ago."

"There's no way they can be traced to you?"

Guido shook his head. "No way--the apartments
and cottage were rented by Remarque in Brussels, using
a false name--and there's a cut-off in between. I
rented the cars using the name of Luigi Racca. Incidentally,
he's a widower, visiting his daughter in Australia --won't be back for months."

He opened the street maps and pointed out the circled
locations of the apartment in Milan and the bungalow
outside.

"It's very secluded and has a lock-up garage--the
Alfetta is inside." He pointed out the apartment in
Rome, and the garage, two blocks away, which contained
the Renault.

"The apartment and bungalow are provisioned with
canned food and stuff." He tapped the folder. "Addresses
in here."

"Good," Creasy said, well-satisfied. "Did you remember
the chargers?"

Guido grinned and reached into the bag and passed
across two shiny cylinders. Creasy examined one of
them carefully.

It was made of anodized aluminum--about three
and a half inches long, three quarters of an inch in
diameter, and beveled at both ends. He held the ends
and twisted gently and the cylinder opened on fine
threading. He looked inside the two halves. The inner
surface was as smooth as the outside.

"I had them made in a local machine shop," Guido
said, taking the cylinders back and dropping them into
the bag. "They are a bit bigger than normal--uncomfortable, I would think."

Creasy smiled thinly. "He can complain--I'll be very sympathetic."

Guido put away the keys and maps, leaving just the

folder in front of him. "Do you remember Verrua?" he
asked. "From the Legion?"

"Yes," Creasy replied. "Second R.E.P. He did two
hitches and then left--he was getting old."

"Right," said Guido. "He lives here now, in Naples.
For ten years, after he left the Legion, he worked for
Cantarella in Sicily--strong-arm stuff. They put him
out to grass a couple of years back, and he came to live
here with his married daughter. He comes to eat at the
pensione a lot. Likes to reminisce. I hardly remembered
him--I was only in a few months before he left--but
he remembers you. Often talks about you--about the
early days in Vietnam."

Creasy nodded. "He talked too much even then. He
doesn't know anything about this operation?"

Guido shook his head. "Nothing. But the point is,
he's very disenchanted with Cantarella. Feels he wasn't
looked after properly. Frankly, he's a complainer by
nature. However, with a little nudging, he talked a lot
about the Villa Colacci and the setup there." He passed
over the folder. "It's in there, with other bits and pieces
I've picked up."

Creasy looked through the folder. There was a sketch
map of the villa and its grounds, and several pages of
notes.

He looked up and said: "Guido, this is a real help--
I appreciate it."

Guido shrugged and called out to the waiter to bring
them coffee.

"I know you plan to get information as you go along,"
he said. "But that might save you some time."

"It will," Creasy agreed, looking down at the sketch
map. "Villa Colacci is the tough one--and he rarely
moves out of it."
Guido grinned. "He won't move at all when he knows
he's a target. Any ideas on getting in?"

"Several," Creasy answered, "but I'll keep my options
open till I know more."

In fact, he already knew exactly how he was going
to get in. He had decided after his visit to Palermo

three months before. He would have discussed it with
Guido, but he had a reason for not doing so.
The coffee arrived, and Creasy took a sip and brought
the subject up: "After Conti in Rome, I'll be entirely on
my own. No contact and no fixed base. I'll have dumped
both cars and the van by then--you understand why?"
Guido smiled briefly. "Sure. By then, both the police
and Cantarella may have figured out who's doing the
killings. It won't take them long to trace you back to
me, and then they'll be asking me questions--I can't
tell them what I don't know."
Creasy nodded, his face serious.
"And if you don't know, it will become obvious. It
always does--we've both had experience in asking such
questions. If you genuinely don't know, you will be
safer."
"But you're making it difficult for yourself," Guido
commented. "And God knows it's going to be difficult
enough."
The American smiled. "I'll improvise--it won't be
the first time. Meanwhile, how do I get in touch with
you? I don't want to use the phone."
Guido pointed at the folder. "Front page. There's a
Post Restante number here in Naples--cable a phone
number and a time, and I'll call you from outside."
Creasy flicked open the folder and read the number.
"OK--if things go smoothly, I won't be in contact at
all--until it's all over."
There was a long silence.
"You are still as determined?"
"Yes--nothing's changed--I want them so bad, it's
an ache."
"I thought Nadia might have changed that--taken
away some of the hate."
Creasy was a long time answering--thinking about
Guido's words. Then he shook his head and said softly,
"I love her, Guido--and she loves me. But it hasn't
changed anything. That child made it possible. That
child allowed me--showed me how to let it happen."
His square face was somber, his voice thick with emo
tion. "I told Nadia everything and, in a strange way,
she hates them as much as I do. I don't really understand,
but it's as though she's with meurging me
on."

He leaned back in his chair and drew in a deep
breath, controlling his feelings.

"I know it's a contradictionI try not to think of
Nadia." He smiled faintly. "Would you believe it,
Guido? Me! Fifty years old, and falling in love."

Guido shook his head. He felt very sad.

"When will you start?"

Creasy leaned forward again. His voice became matter-of-fact.

"I'll drive up to Milan todayI should arrive early
tomorrow morning at the cottage. Rabbia and Sandri
are the first targets, but I only need to talk to one of
themprobably Rabbia. Apparently he's just muscle,
and slow-wittedhe'll crack faster than Sandri."

He shrugged. "A few days to watch him, then I'll
pick him up."

Guido picked up the folder, dropped it into the bag,
and zipped it up. The two men rose.

"You go first," Guido said.

"OK Tell Pietro to have a good holidayand tell
him thanks."

"I will," said Guido. "He sends you luck."

They embraced and Creasy picked up the bag and
left.

Chapter 16

Giorgio Rabbia was at work. It was not strenuous. For
the past two hours, he had moved in and out of a number
of bars in the eastern part of Milan. It was Thursday
night and, for his boss, that meant payday.
Rabbia was a huge, ponderous man with a vicious
nature. When he became angry his movement quickened,
and he liked to beat people. He was perfectly
suited to his job, and he did it efficiently, if slowly--
always following the same routine.
It was midnight, and he had finished the bars and
was about to start the clubs. He wore a loose-fitting
jacket which exaggerated further his great bulk. Beneath
the jacket, under his left arm, he carried a Beretta
pistol in a shoulder holster. Under his right arm
hung a long, soft, chamois-leather bag, closed with a
drawstring. It was half full.
He pulled his Lancia into a No Parking zone in front
of the Papagayo nightclub and eased his bulk out onto
the pavement.
He was proud of the Lancia--it was painted metallic
silver and fitted with a Braun stereo and a musical
horn. On the ledge, behind the back seat, sat a toy
dachshund; its head bobbed up and down with the car's
motion. A present from a favorite girl friend.
In spite of these expensive and sentimental attach-merits, Rabbia did not bother to lock the car or even
take the key from the ignition. Every petty thief in
Milan knew to whom it belonged, and the consequences
of touching it.

He ambled into the club with mild anticipation for,
according to his routine, he always took his first drink
of the night here.

The owner saw him enter and snapped his fingers
at the bartender. By the time Rabbia had reached the
bar, a large Scotch was waiting. He drank appreciatively
and surveyed the room.

Several couples danced to the soft music of a single
pianist. The men were middle-aged, business types, the
girls young hostesses. It was an expensive and successful
club. He watched a girl walk from the powder
room to a tabletall and blond, with large breasts
bulging out of a low-cut dress. He hadn't seen her before,
so she must be new. He made a slow, mental note
to have her sent over one afternoon.

He finished his drink and the club owner approached
and gave him a sheaf of notes. Rabbia counted them
carefully and then reached under his jacket, loosened
the drawstring, and dropped them into the bag. He
nodded at the smiling club owner and pointed with his
chin.

"The new girlthe blond. Send her over to my place,
Monday afternoon at three."

"Of course, Signore Rabbia."

Back on the street, he inhaled the fresh air and
moved to the Lancia. If there had been more light, and
if he had been an observant man, he might have noticed
that the dachshund's head was bobbing gently.

He got in, with a grunt of exertion, and was about
to reach for the ignition when he felt the cold metal
against the back of his neck and heard the cold voice:
"Don't move at all."

His first reaction was astonishment. "Do you know
who I am?"

"You are Giorgio Rabbiaif you speak again, it will
be the last time,"

A hand reached forward under his left arm and
pulled his jacket open. He felt his gun being lifted out,
and he kept very still; for now he was frightened. The
man behind knew his identity and so was not after the
chamois bag. Robbery was not the motive. Perhaps
trouble had started with the Abrata group.

The voice interrupted his nervous speculation.

"You will start the engine and follow my directions.
You will drive slowly and not attract attention. Don't
be clever, or you will die instantly."

Rabbia drove carefully, instinct telling him that the
man in the back was not making idle threats.

He was directed out of the city to the south and as
they cleared the outskirts his mind began to quicken.
If a territory war had started, he would have been dead
already, either outside the club or in the deserted warehouse
district they had just passed. The voice puzzled
him. It carried a slight Neapolitan accent, and something
else he couldn't define. He decided that the man
was not Italian and that made him think of something
else. His boss Fossella had been in dispute, some
months earlier, with a "Union Corse" group in Marseilles,
over a drug shipment. Maybe their resentment
had been stronger than anticipated; but why the Neapolitan
accent?

Just before Vigentino he was instructed to turn down
a side road and then again onto a dirt track. He would
look for a chance when they got out of the carthe
gun had to be taken away from his neck; and for all
his bulk, Rabbia could move with deceptive speed.

A low bungalow appeared in the headlights. The
kind of place rich Milanese build for weekends. The
voice told him to drive around to the back. Gravel
crunched under the tires.

"Stop here. Put on the handbrake and turn off the
ignition."

Rabbia leaned forward and the cold metal moved
with him. He sat back slowly. Suddenly the pressure
on his neck was gone. He tensed, and then his vision
exploded.

He regained senses slowly--became aware of a
throbbing pain at the back of his head. He tried to put
a hand there, but it wouldn't move. His chin was
slumped onto his chest, and as his vision cleared he
saw his left wrist taped to the wooden arm of a chair.
He painfully moved his head to the right. His right
wrist was similarly taped. Memory returned with a jolt,
and his mind sharpened. Lifting his head slowly, he
.first saw a wooden table. Spaced out on it were several
objects: a hammer and two long steel spikes; beside
them, a large heavy knife; and next to that, a metal
rod about a foot long. From one end of the rod an electrical
cord snaked over the edge of the table and out
of sight. He raised his eyes higher and saw the man
sitting across the table. The wide face--the scars, the
narrowed eyes--somewhere--he had seen him somewhere
before.

On the table beside the man lay an open notebook
and a pen and a wide roll of adhesive tape.

"Can you hear me?"

Rabbia nodded painfully. "You will suffer for this,
whoever you are."

The man ignored the words. He pointed to the items
on the table.

"Look carefully at what is in front of you, and listen.
I am going to ask you questions, many questions. If you
don't answer fully and truthfully, I will untape your
left hand, lay it on the table, and hammer a spike
through it."

Rabbia's eyes shifted to the gleaming steel spikes.
The cold, flat voice continued.

"Then I'll take that knife and cut your fingers off--
one by one."

Rabbia's eyes moved to the knife.

"You won't bleed to death." The finger pointed to the
metal rod. "That's an electric soldering-iron. I'll use it
to cauterize the stubs."

Sweat broke out on Rabbia's pallid face. The man
looked at him impassively.

"After that, unless you're talking, I'll start on the
right hand; and then your feet."

Rabbia, like many brutal men, was a coward. Looking
into those eyes across the table, he had a cold,
certain feeling that the man would do it; but why? Who
was he? Where had he seen him?

He tried to generate angerenough anger to restrain
his fear.

"Go to hell!" he snarled. A string of obscenities followed,
but died away as the man rose. He picked up the
roll of tape, unwrapped a length, tore it off, and moved
round the table.

Rabbia started to say something, but the tape came
down quickly across his mouth, sealing off the words.
He saw the blur of movement toward his stomach and
doubled up from the blow. A second later his head
rocked as he was struck behind the mastoid.

He remained barely conscious, his body paralyzed
the nerves stunned. He was vaguely aware that his left
arm had been freed and pulled forward. Moments later
his body arched in agony and he passed out.

When he came round the second time, he didn't notice
the throbbing in his head. His left arm seemed to
be on fire. His eyes opened and he found himself looking
at his handflat down on the table. The head of the
spike jutted up from its center. Blood was seeping
slowly onto the table between splayed fingers.

His brain tried to disbelieve his eyes, but a slight
movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body.
A low moan escaped from the taped mouth. His eyes
showed the terror. It was not just the abrupt act of
violence, but the unemotional way it had been carried
out, as though the man had set about knocking up a
bookshelf.

He looked again into those eyes. Not a flickerthe
whole face expressionless. Then, as the man stood up
and moved again around the table, Raffia stiffened and
cringed into the chair and shook his head and moaned
in his throat. The man grabbed a handful of hair and
held his head still while he tore off the tape. He then

walked back and sat down and watched calmly as Rabbia
retched and shuddered in fear and pain.
It took many minutes for the huge, sweating man
to bring himself under control. His eyes shifted constantly
to his pinned left hand, and the knife and soldering
iron beside it.
Slowly the spasms died away and he raised his eyes
and in a broken, barely audible voice asked: "What do
you want?"
The man pulled the notebook toward him and uncapped
the pen.
"Let's start with the Balletto kidnapping."
And Rabbia remembered the face.

The questions went on for over an hour. Only once,
when they began about Fossella, did Rabbia hesitate;
but as his questioner laid down the pen and started to
rise, the answers flowed again.
They began with the kidnap itself. Rabbia had
driven the car and quickly pointed out that it was Sandri
who had shot the bodyguard. The other men, the
dead ones, were Dorigo and Cremasco.
He didn't know anything about the ransom money.
They were simply ordered to pick the girl up at a specific
time and place, and hold her at a house in Niguada.
The whole job had been a mess from the start. Fossella
had explained that there would be a bodyguard
who wouldn't present much of a problem. He told Dorigo
to fire a couple of shots to scare him off. They had
been careless.
"Who raped the girl?"
"Sandri," came the immediate answer. "He was very
angry--Dorigo had been a good friend--and he likes
very young girls, and this one had fought and scratched
his face."
Rabbia nervously licked his dry lips.
"And you?" came the flat question. "Did you also
rape her?"
There was a long silence and then, almost imper-ceptibly, Rabbia nodded, his voice quivering as he answered:
"Yes... well, after Sandri. I thought it didn't make
any difference." He looked up across the table. The man
was perfectly still; his mind seemed to be in another
place. The questions started again.
"Anyone else?"
Rabbia shook his head. "We were alone with her. It
was very boring--we thought it would be finished in
a few days, but there was trouble with the ransom, and
we were stuck in that house over two weeks."
"So you raped her many times?"
Rabbia's chin had sunk into his chest. His forehead
glistened with sweat. His voice came out as a hoarse
whisper.
"Yes... there was not much to do, and... she was
very beautiful	"
His voice trailed off, and he raised his eyes and across
the table saw death looking back.
"Fossella? What did he think of it?"
"He was angry. The girl's death was a mistake. He
was very angry--we were supposed to get ten million
lire each, but Fossella gave us nothing."
The voice asked softly. "So for punishment he
stopped your pay--that's all?"
Rabbia nodded, sweat dripping from his chin.
"We were lucky--Sandri is Fossella's nephew--his
sister's son."
The man picked up the pen.
"Yes," he said softly. "You were lucky. Let's talk
about Sandri."
He milked Rabbia of every detail: friends, movements,
habits--everything. Then they turned to Fossella
and went through the same sequence.
At one point Rabbia complained about the pain in
his hand.
"It won't be long," the man said. 'Tell me about Conti
and Cantarella."
But Rabbia knew little of such eminences. Canta-
rella, he explained, hardly ever left the Villa Colacci.
Rabbia had never even seen him.

"But Fossella goes there a lot," he said. "And to see
Conti in Rome--at least once a month."

There were no more questions. The notebook was
closed, the pen capped.

Rabbia's panic mounted. He started talking again,
babbling about Sandri and Fossella, but the man across
the table was no longer interested. He slowly stood up
and reached under his jacket. Rabbia saw the gun and
his flow of words stopped. He no longer felt any pain.
He watched, mesmerized, as the silencer was screwed
onto the muzzle and the man walked round the table.
He kept his eyes on the gun, saw it raised--coming
ever closer; felt the metal rest against his face just
below his right eye. He heard the voice for the last
time:

"You are going to hell, Rabbia--you will not be
lonely."


Granelli's was busy, the atmosphere typical of a Friday
lunch--relaxed customers noisily anticipating the
weekend.

In the alcove table at the back, Mario Satta ate alone.
He agreed with the old adage that the perfect number,
when eating out, was two--himself and a damn good
headwaiter.
Satta was a man set apart by good looks. Even now,
as he ate the cappon magro, several elegant women at
other tables cast covert glances in his direction. In a
country which is a bastion of male fashion, he was
dressed with unusual elegance--a beautifully cut,
dark-gray suit set off by a sky-blue shirt and a wide
tie of maroon silk. Light gleamed on small, flat cuff
links and a matching Patek Philippe watch.

He had a lean, tanned face and a slightly aquiline
nose. Even men in the restaurant felt their eyes drawn
and their curiosities stimulated.

He looked like a successful actor, a macho fashion
designer, or the front flier of a very fast jet set.

In fact he was a policeman, although his mother, an
aristocratic lady, would have winced at such a description.
"A colonel in the Carabinieri," she would have
corrected frostily. That was true, and at thirty-eight he
was young to have reached such a rank. This could
have been due to his mother's legendary connections
or to his own ability, but even his enemies--and they
were numerous--would admit that the latter was more
likely.

But still he was a policeman, and his mother had
never ceased to wonder why he chose such a profession
when she could have opened, so easily, the broad doors
of politics or commerce. Her elder son had surprised
her by taking up medicine and becoming a respected
surgeon--a profession she thought worthy, but infinitely
dull. Far more acceptable, though, than being
a policeman. Satta himself often wondered what had
attracted him to the Carabinieri. It could be his cynicism --the dominant ingredient of his character. How
better to observe the foibles, follies and conceits of a
corrupt society?

In spite of this cynicism, or because of it, he was a
good policeman. Honesty or abundant private wealth
put him outside personal corruption, and a sharp analytical
mind, allied to restless energy, had brought
success.

His job was one of four passions that dominated his
life. The others were good food, beautiful women, and
backgammon. For Mario Satta, a perfect day would
begin with a satisfying piece of detective work, followed
by lunch at one of Milan's top restaurants; an afternoon
in his office, sifting and collating his extensive files;
then cooking dinner himself in his elegant apartment
for an equally elegant lady, who would have the intelligence
to later offer some resistance on the backgammon
board. Later still that resistance should melt away
in his huge double bed, where she should apply herself
to less mental pursuits.

The last four years of his career had been deeply
satisfying. He had requested and received a transfer

to that department which specialized in organized
crime. The members of that fraternity fascinated him,
and he spent long hours learning the intricacies and
secrets of their weblike organization.

For three years it had been a mostly academic exercise:
collecting information--comparing and evaluating,
putting names and faces together. Cross-referencing
between cities in the north and the south;
between a prostitution ring in Milan and a wine-adulterating
group in Calabria or a drug-smuggling syndicate
in Naples.

After three years, he knew more about the Italian
Mafia than anyone outside that secretive cabal, and
many within it. His assistant, Bellu, had joked that if
Satta ever changed sides, he could slip into his new job
without a single day's delay.

For the past year Satta had been putting that knowledge
to use. He had spearheaded the investigation into
the great steel plant scandal in Reggio and had even
seen Don Mommo himself go behind bars--albeit only
for a two-year stretch. During the past few months he
had concentrated on the two main Families in Milan,
led by Abrata and Fossella, patiently accumulating
evidence on prostitution, coercion, and drugs. He had
set up an elaborate network, comprising telephone tapping,
surveillance, and stool pigeons. He looked forward
over the coming months to getting enough evidence to
put away some of the big boys--perhaps even Abrata
and Fossella themselves.

His work had been made easier during the past year
by a ground swell of public opinion. People were finally
getting fed up with the arrogance and apparent immunity
of the organized criminal. Surprisingly, the rise
in fortune of the Communist party had been a help.
Their support of the government had brought about a
stiffening of the laws. There was still far to go. Prison
sentences were woefully inadequate and witnesses
were always hard to find and harder still to protect.
But matters were improving. Every time the Mafia

committed a particularly outrageous and flagrant act,
public opinion hardened further against them.
After lunch he was to visit a young actress. They
had met at a reception the evening before. She was
small and delicate and fragile and very beautiful--and
she played backgammon. She had invited him to her
apartment--to play backgammon. So at lunch this day
he had ordered for dessert gelato di tutti frutti.
Satta had a sweet tooth and particularly liked the
combination of candied fruit and ice cream. Conscious
of his tightly cut suit, he permitted himself a dessert
only at weekends. Strictly speaking, he was cheating,
because today was only Friday. But he was feeling expansive,
anticipating the afternoon. The headwaiter
approached, but instead of carrying the dessert, he held
a telephone.
"Your office; Colonel." He plugged the jack into a
wall socket.
It was Bellu. Satta listened for a few minutes and
said, "I'll be there in half an hour," and hung up. He
summoned the headwaiter, and with a trace of grimace
canceled the gelato di tutti frutti. Then he phoned the
young actress to cancel the rendezvous. She was desolate.
He consoled her--he would cook dinner himself
for her on Sunday night in his apartment.
As he paid his bill, he said to the headwaiter, "Tell
the chef that the cappon magro had a trace too much
rosemary."
Satta believed that a chefs skill derived from the
sum total of complaints received.

The body of Giorgio Rabbia lay face up in a drainage
ditch beside an access road to the Milan-Turin motorway.
An ambulance and several police cars were
grouped on the roadside. A large, black-plastic bag lay
folded on a stretcher. A police photographer was moving
around between flashes.
Satta stood next to his assistant, Massimo Bellu,
looking down at the body.
"So the collector was collected," he commented dryly. "Some time last night," said Bellu. The body was
found an hour ago."
"One bullet in the head?"
"That's right--very close range." He pointed to the
face. "Burn marks around the point of entry."
"What happened to his hand?"
Bellu shook his head. "Pierced right through--by
what, I don't know."
The photographer had finished, and a policeman approached.
"Can we take him away now, colonel?"
"Yes," answered Satta. "I want the pathologist's report
as soon as possible."
The ambulance attendants started easing the plastic
bag over the corpse, and Satta turned away to his car.
Bellu followed.
"You think a war has started?" he asked.
Satta leaned back against his car and his analytical
mind slipped into gear. He thought aloud for Bellu's
benefit.
"There are three alternatives: first, Abrata and Fossella have started a territory war. It's unlikely; they
have the city neatly divided and they're getting on well
together. Besides, Conti, and ultimately Cantarella,
would have to sanction it, and for sure they don't want
a war right now. Second, Rabbia was dipping his fingers
into the till and got caught." He thought silently and
then shook his head.
"It makes no sense. Rabbia has been a collector for
fifteen years and he was loyal--stupid, but loyal. -- Third, it was done from outside."
Bellu interjected, "But who--and why?"
Satta shrugged and got into his car and said through
the open window, "I want Rabbia's file and the transcripts
of all telephone intercepts for the past seventy-two
hours--all of them--understand?"
Bellu looked at his watch and sighed.
Satta said, "You can forget whatever plans you have
for this evening." A look of irritation crossed his face.
"I've already canceled an interesting meeting myself."
He thought for a moment. "And increase the surveillance
on all those on the red list."
He started the engine.
'"I'll see you back at the office."
Bellu stood watching the car drive away. He had
worked as Satta's assistant for three years. For the
whole of the first year, he had tried to think up a plausible
reason to ask for a transfer. It wasn't that he
hadn't liked Satta--he had loathed him. There had
been no single reason. Not his cynicism, or his sardonic
humor, or his extravagant good looks; not even his
aristocratic background and casual arrogance. It was
just that Satta represented everything that Bellu considered
was unsuitable for a senior Carabinieri officer --and perhaps he was jealous.
Two things had changed his mind. The first was that
after working for a year he had begun to appreciate
Satta's persevering but subtle mind--in fact, to understand
him. The second concerned Bellu's younger
sister. She had applied to enter Catanzaro University
to study medicine. She was well-qualified, but his family
had no connections, and her application had been
turned down. He may have mentioned it in the office,
he couldn't remember, but a week later she received
a letter from the university, reversing its decision. Only
after starting the course did she discover that a certain
Professor Satta, senior surgeon at Naples' Cardarelli
Hospital, had intervened.
Bellu had confronted his boss, who had looked surprised.
"You work with me," he had said. "Of course I had
to do something."
Bellu had no more thoughts of a transfer. It wasn't
so much what Satta had done, but the way he had
expressed it.
You work "with" me; not "for" me.
Over the past two years they had developed into a
good team. Satta was still cynical, sardonic, and arrogant,
and had certainly not become any uglier. But
Bellu understood him and even began to absorb some

of his characteristics: He took more interest in his food,
paid more for his suits, and treated his women with a
touch of arrogance--and they liked it. But he drew the
line at backgammon.

Satta read the pathologist's report out loud.
"Time of death, between midnight and six a.m. on
the thirteenth." He looked up at Bellu and said, "He
left the Papagayo just after midnight, right?"
Bellu nodded. "That's what they tell us. And he never
reached the Bluenote, which was next on his usual
schedule."
Satta went back to the report.
"Cause of death, massive brain damage, presumably
brought about by the passage of a projectile."
He looked up in disgust. "Presumably brought about
the passage of a projectile." He snorted. "Why can't
le idiot simply state that he had his brains blown out
by a bullet?"
Bellu smiled. "That would make him sound like
everybody else."
Satta grunted and went back to the report.
"Scorch marks below subject's right eye around pro-tile
entry point indicate that said projectile was fired
; very close range."
Satta rolled his eyes but carried on. "Large exit hole,
approximately fifteen centimeters diameter at back of cranium, indicates that said projectile was a large caliber,
soft-nosed bullet."
"Hooray!" He looked up triumphantly. "At last the projectile has become a bullet."
But now, as he continued, his voice contained an edge of interest. "Subject had incision through left
and. Shape of said incision, and skin fragments within
incision, indicate that cause was from a sharp indent
driven through the back of the hand with exit through the palm. Fine wooden splinters embedded in
I palm suggest that the hand was pinned to a wooden
ace (exhibit: splinters sent to lab, for analysis). Extent of blood-clotting indicates that incision was inflicted
within two hours before subject's death."

Satta sat back in his chair, a slight, sardonic smile
on his lips. "Seems like friend Rabbia was half-crucified."

Bellu smiled back. "But I doubt he'll be rising from
the dead in three days."

His boss shook his head.

"Not after passage of said projectile through said
brain." He went back to the report, and his voice sharpened
again with interest: "Traces of an adhesive substance
were found on subject's wrists and ankles and
around subject's mouth."

Satta closed the folder and leaned back, thinking
deeply. Bellu sat patiently, waiting for the pronouncement.

"Rabbia was picked up when he left the Papagayo,"
Satta said finally, "taken somewhere quiet, and taped
to a chair. Then they asked him some questions." He
smiled thinly. "Rabbia was probably reluctant, so they
stuck a knife through his hand to encourage him. After
learning all they wanted, they shot him through the
head and dumped him."

He leaned forward, picked a file from his desk, and
scanned it.

"Rabbia's car was found at two p.m. this afternoon
in a side street near the Central Station--nothing in
it of interest except"--the sardonic smile came again-- "a plastic dachshund with a bobbing head!"

Next Satta studied the transcripts of the phone intercepts.
He didn't expect to find much of interest because,
although phone tapping is practically a national
industry, the targets themselves are well aware of it.

As he skimmed through the pages, Bellu said, "Nothing
much except a flurry of calls early this morning-- trying to locate Rabbia."

Satta tossed the file back onto his desk.

"The 'Union Corse,'" he said firmly. "It's the only
explanation--there's been bad blood since that final
drug deal." He looked at Bellu speculatively. "If they're



behind it, we can expect trouble, and it does follow a
pattern. They pick up a small-time member of the group
and pump him about the activities of the others--then
they plan an all-out attack."
"It fits," Bellu agreed. "Surveillance shows that,
since this morning, Fossella and his boys are taking
extra precautions--more bodyguards, and not moving
around too much."
Satta reached a decision.
"Get me Montpelier on the phone in Marseilles--he
might know something."
The main strength of the "Union Corse," the French
equivalent of the Mafia, was in Marseilles and Montpelier
was Satta's opposite number in southern France.
They had a good working relationship, having met several
times at conferences.
But the Frenchman couldn't help. He had heard
nothing. He thought that if the "Union Corse" were
behind it, they might have drafted gunmen in from
Corsica itself. He promised to keep an ear to the ground
and let Satta know if anything developed.
Satta hung up and said positively, "It's got to be the
'Union Corse'--it's logical!"

In Palermo, Cantarella reached the same conclusion.
"It must be the 'Union Corse,'" he told the three men
sitting round the table in his study.
One of them was Floriano Conti, visiting from Rome.
The others were Gravelli and Dicandia--top advisers
to Cantarella. Conti was irritated and slightly embarrassed
--Milan came under his immediate control.
"Fossella has been making bad decisions lately," he
said. "I told him it was stupid to shortchange the French
on that deal. He gets too clever sometimes. Because it
was the last shipment, before he switched to Bangkok
for supplies, he decided to make a little extra."
Dicandia voiced an opinion: "He seems to be losing
his touch. That kidnapping was badly handled." He
looked around. "You remember--the Balletto girl. She
was abused and then died in the car. People don't like

that--it looks bad and there was pressure for weeks
afterward."
It was Gravelli's turn.
"That job, particularly, should have been done right.
And the men responsible should have been severely
punished. One of them was Fossella's nephew, and all
Fossella did was confiscate their share of the take." He
shook his head solemnly. "Discipline is important in
a business--I think maybe Fossella is getting soft."
Conti nodded. "Rabbia was one of those involved,
and frankly, he was a stupid man."
All having expressed an opinion, they looked to Cantarella
for his reaction. The small man sat on his cushion
and pondered awhile. Then he made his decision.
His voice, as he turned to Gravelli, was soft and polite-- it was always so when he issued orders.
"Cesare, it would please me if you would go to Marseilles
and talk to Delorie. If they have started this, I
want you to make things right with them. Explain that
it is not our policy to do business the way that it was
done by Fossella on that occasion. Tell him that Fossella
will make good on the transaction." His voice
sharpened slightly. "But do not be apologetic--make
him understand that we do this, not because of weakness,
but because we are honorable men and we deal
fairly in our business."
"I'll leave tomorrow, via Rome," Granelli said, but
his boss shook his head.
"Wait for two or three days. I don't want him to think
we come running as soon as trouble starts."
He turned to Dicandia.
"Maurizio, please go to Milan and have a talk with
Fossella. Indicate our displeasure and our wish that he
exercise better control in the future--also, that he
must make good on his deal with Delorie."
Cantarella's tone was conciliatory when he turned
to speak to Conti.
"I know Fossella is your direct responsibility, but I
think it better that this reprimand come from me."
Conti inclined his head slightly in acquiescence, and
Cantarella turned back to Dicandia: "Do this thing privately
and discreetly. I do not want Abrata to know
that Fossella is very much out of favor. It might give
him ideas and, overall, the situation in Milan is good."
He looked to Conti for agreement, and received it.
"They counterbalance each other well," said Conti.
"It is wise not to disturb that."
Cantarella was pleased with the meeting. He stood
up and walked to the cocktail cabinet--small and dapper
in his dark-blue suit.
The other followed, and he poured them all a measure
of Chivas Regal with a dash of soda.
Conti would have preferred his usual Sambuco; but
when Don Cantarella personally poured you a Scotch-- you drank Scotch.

On Saturday morning in Naples, Guido sat on his
terrace drinking coffee and relaxing before the lunchtime
rush. He heard the door open behind him and
turned to see Pietro carrying a newspaper. The boy laid
the paper on the table and pointed to a small item on
an inside page. It told of the death, by shooting, of one
Giorgio Rabbia--believed to have connections with
organized crime. It was just a few lines. Milan is a
violent city, and a single death generates little excitement.
Guido looked up.
"So it's started," he said. "Pack your things--tomorrow
you leave for Gozo."

Chapter 17

Giacomo Sandri rolled off the bed, stood up, and
stretched, flexing pleasantly tired muscles. He picked
up his watch from the bedside table and glanced at the
dial--just after ten. Naked, he padded over to the window,
pulled aside the curtain, and looked down at the
darkened street. His black Alfa Romeo was parked directly
below, and he could just make out Violente's
elbow sticking out from the driver's window. Satisfied,
he dropped the curtain and turned back. The girl was
watching him from the bed. He smiled at her.
"How are you, little one? Did I make you happy?"
The girl nodded, her eyes on his body.
"Do you have to leave now?" she asked in a sullen
voice. "You only ever stay an hour, and I get bored."
Sandri was both pleased and irritated. Pleased that
at his age he could still satisfy a fifteen-year-old girl;
and irritated that this one was becoming possessive,
and therefore a nuisance.
But as he pulled on his trousers he reflected that if
a man liked his girls young, he had to put up with a
little childish behavior. He went to the bed, sat down,
and reached to cup a breast; but she rolled away, and
his irritation increased.
"That's the way it is," he said, standing up and reach-ing for his shirt. "You have a nice place here, and plenty
of money to spend--you want to go back to Bettola?"
She didn't answer and he continued dressing, admiring
himself in the full-length mirror. He decided
that another change was due. He was uniquely placed
to satisfy his desire for girls: he controlled the prostitution
side of his uncle's business. As the young girls
flocked to the big city, looking for excitement and
money, Sandri and his assistants were on hand to channel
them into the bars, clubs, and brothels controlled
by the organization. When Sandri spotted a particularly
young and attractive girl, he diverted her for his
own use, and when he tired of her she was quickly
replaced.
They never returned to Bettola, or anywhere else,
except to a succession of brothels. Tomorrow, he decided,
he would pass this one on to Pezzutto, who would
quickly get her dependent on drugs and so dependent
on the organization.
He felt pleased with himself. It was important to
make decisions without emotion. He would look out for
another girl--perhaps even younger. As he got older
he liked them even younger. He remembered the girl
they had kidnapped--how young she had been, her
body just beginning to ripen. He felt himself stirring
at the memory and for a moment considered getting
back into bed; but he discarded the thought. Fossella
had told him to stand by from eleven o'clock. Gravelli
had arrived from Palermo, presumably to discuss Rabbia's
death, and the implications if it had been done by
the French.
He sat on the bed and thought about that, as he
pulled on his shoes. It meant being extra careful for a
while, which was a nuisance--especially having an
extra man along all the time. Still, he was lucky; Violente
was unobtrusive, and his assignment to Sandri
was proof of his rising importance. He indulged in a
little self-praise, deciding that his progress was the
result of a quick brain. He was proud of his quick
brain--so much much faster than Rabbia's, who had

been dull and stupid. He grimaced at the memory of
having been cooped up with him for over two weeks,
with only the girl to relieve boredom.
He stood up and pulled on the shoulder holster,
slipped his gun into it, and put on his jacket. The girl
had sat up in bed and was watching him.
"When will I see you again?" she asked petulantly.
He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.
"Tomorrow," he answered with a smile. "I'll take you
for lunch, as a special treat--and afterward I want you
to meet a friend of mine."
He unlocked the door of the small apartment and
stepped out onto the landing. A voice called, "Sandri,"
and he turned, reaching under his jacket.
He did have a quick brain. In an instant it registered
that he was looking, very closely, down the black barrels
of a shotgun. Then the black turned yellow-white.

Satta became impatient. The actress was unusually
lucky. Certainly she had a measure of skill and she
understood some of the finer points of the game; but to
beat him three times out of five meant she had to be
lucky. He rattled the dice and tossed them out onto the
green baize. A two and a one--damn! The actress gave
him a smile of sympathy--she was a good actress. Then
she reached for the doubling dice with an inquiring
arch of a shapely eyebrow.
Satta nodded and gritted his teeth. There was no
question of moving her into the bedroom until he had,
at least, drawn level. Pride was at stake--after all, he
was an expert. He glanced at his watch and cursed
under his breath. Almost eleven.
The evening had started so well. She had arrived,
dressed in a flame-red dress cut low and loose. She had
the fragile, delicate beauty that Satta so admired--and
high, firm breasts. It was watching those breasts each
time she leaned forward that lost him his concentration
and the first games.
The meal had been a parade of his culinary skills.
They had started with his own pate", washed down with
champagne and followed by an artichoke antipasto prepared
with parsley and marjoram in the Roman manner.
She had stayed with the champagne while he had
had a dry Colli Albani. The tour de force was his specialty, abbacchio brodettato--baby Iamb with egg-and-lemon
sauce. With this they drank a pale-red Cecuba.
They finished, naturally, with gelato di tutti frutti. The
actress had been gratifyingly impressed, and Satta had
looked forward to a brief, triumphant session at the
backgammon board and a longer session in the bedroom.
His pulse quickened. She had made a bad throw and
been forced to expose a counter on her bar point. If he
threw a six he could hit it with a back runner and swing
the game--in ten minutes they would be in bed. He
tore his gaze from her cleavage, rattled the dice, and
threw a double six--and the phone rang.

Bellu stood beside the Alfa Romeo. A police van with
a generator was parked in front and floodlighted the
scene. Satta climbed out of his car. He looked very
irritated. In fact, he looked as he had sounded on the
phone fifteen minutes before.
He greeted Bellu with a grunt and looked into the
car.
"Violente," said Bellu. "Sandri's upstairs."
"He was found like that?" Satta asked.
"No," said Bellu. "He was propped up behind the
wheel, with his elbow sticking out the window. The
first policeman on the scene told him to get out and
when he didn't, he opened the door. The body fell
against him and he pushed it away--he got a shock, and blood all over him."
Satta looked again into the car. The body lay across the front seats with the head resting against the far
door. There was blood everywhere--on the dashboard,
on the seats, and in a pool on the floor. It still dripped
rhythmically from the huge gash under Violente's chin.
Satta turned away with a sniff.
"Violent in name and in death," he commented.
"Let's go upstairs."

Bellu gestured to the waiting fingerprint men to
carry on and followed his boss.

Sandri lay on his back on the second-floor landing.
A once-white towel covered his head and shoulders.
The police photographer was packing away his camera.

The apartment door was open and Satta could see
into the bedroom. A girl sat on the bed, loosely wrapped
in a sheet. A young policeman sat next to her, writing
in a notebook and trying not to look too obviously under
the sheet.

Bellu pointed with his chin. "He was just leaving
after a session with his girl friend."

Satta looked down at the body and muttered, "He
was luckier than me, then." He reached down and lifted
a corner of the towel. "Perhaps not," he said quietly,
and dropped the towel back into place. He looked distinctly
pale under his tan.

"Shotgun," Bellu said. "At very close range."

Satta nodded, looking down at the bloodstained
towel. His lips twitched in a slight smile.

"Yes, I can see the pathologist's report now: 'Massive
brain damage, presumably brought about by passage
of vast multitude of projectiles.'"

He looked through again into the apartment. "Give
me what you know."

"This is Sandri's love nest," Bellu answered. "He
keeps the place and changes the girls--regularly. He
comes here almost every night. Lately, since Rabbia
was hit, Violente has always waited for him outside.
The killer cut Violente's throat from ear to ear and left
him propped up in the seat. It's dark down there, and
a casual passerby wouldn't notice anything. Meanwhile,
the killer comes up here and waits. He probably
wore a loose coat with the shotgun under it. When
Sandri came out, he got both barrels full in the face."

"Did the girl see anything?" Satta asked.

"Nothing," Bellu replied. "She's very young but not
entirely stupid. When she heard the blast, she stuck

her head under the pillow and kept it there until the
police arrived." He pointed up with his thumb. "The
woman in the apartment upstairs heard the bang and
came down the stairs a bit and took a peek. When she
saw Sandri lying there with only half a head, she
started screaming. She only stopped a few minutes ago.
Someone's with her, trying to calm her down and get
a statement."
"It's interesting," Satta commented.
"What is?"
"Earlier, you referred to the 'killer' in the singular-- why only one?"
Bellu shrugged. "I don't know--it's just a feeling I
have--Rabbia and these two were killed by a single
man."
"Very logical," Satta sniffed, and walked through
into the apartment. The young policeman saw him coming
and walked over and read from his notebook:
"Amelia Zanbon, aged fifteen, from Bettola--probably a runaway. There's likely to be a missing person's
call out for her, dated six weeks ago--that's how long
she's been with Sandri."
Satta looked past him at the girl, sitting small and
frightened on the bed.
'Tell her to get dressed and pack her things, and
then take her down to headquarters. Find out all you
can about her association with Sandri and then pass
her on to Missing Persons. She's to have round-the-clock
protection until she's out of Milan."
He turned and left the bedroom and the door closed
behind him. He walked a few paces and then stopped,
went back, and opened the door. "You can wait for her
out here," he said dryly, and the disappointed policeman
followed him out.
Bellu came over.
"It looks like a full-scale war is starting," he said.
"That's three in three days."
Satta nodded, deep in thought. "It's the 'Union
Corse,'" he said firmly. "They like to use knives and
shotguns." His face showed his irritation.
"I don't like it--they're over reacting. Soon innocent
people will get caught in the cross fire." He looked down
at the body of Sandri. "Rabbia told them where he
would be--I wonder what else he told them."
"Anything they asked, I suppose," Bellu said.
"Yes," agreed Satta. "But what did they ask?"
They stood watching as Sandri's body was eased into
a plastic bag. Then Satta turned away, saying over his
shoulder, "Follow me to the office--we've got a busy
night--and a busy week."

Now the newspapers became interested. Three killings
in three days was going some, even by Milan's
standards. Crime reporters were hauled out of bars and
beds and told to come up with plausible stories. Inevitably
they reached the same conclusion as Satta and
Cantarella. Headlines the next morning proclaimed a
war with the "Union Corse." Editorials pontificated
about international crime and naturally called for more
law and order.
Satta began to feel the pressure from above. Something
must be done, his boss, the general, told him. It's
bad enough for Italian criminals to kill each other, but
totally disgraceful that Frenchmen should be doing it.
In Grozo, "Shreik" walked into Gleneagles and tossed
a copy of II Tempo onto the bar. The regulars gathered
around and discussed the story. Was it over? Had
Creasy completed his mission?
Guido in Naples and Leclerc in Marseilles also read
the story; they knew it had just begun.

Dino Fossella was worried and angry. Worried because
his men were being killed and angry because of
Cantarella's reprimand. He resented it--deeply. He
had never liked Cantarella. For years the smug little
"arbitrator" had sat in his villa outside Palermo, hardly
ever going out, never getting his hands dirty, but getting
a nice slice of all the action. Just like a sonofa-bitch
politician.
Fossella sat in his car and gritted his teeth as he
recalled the message carried by Dicandia: "We are displeased
with you."
Pompous little bastard! If it wasn't for Cantarella's
alliance with Conti, he would tell him what to do with
his displeasure. Still, the little weasel had alliances
with every boss in Italy--a real politician.
It was Wednesday evening, and Fossella was on his
way to the village of Bianco to have dinner with his
mother. He was a good son and always had dinner with
his mother on Wednesdays. If he failed to do so, he felt
guilty and his mother became angry, and even Cantarella
couldn't match his mother when she became
angry.
He traveled with caution, his own car sandwiched
between two others full of bodyguards.
Filthy "Union Corse"! Such a fuss over twenty million
lire. Anyway, his own envoy would shortly arrive
in Marseilles with the money, and he would be able to
relax.
The convoy swept into Bianco and up the terraced
street to his mother's house. Bodyguards leapt out,
hands hovering near open jackets. Melodrama, thought
Fossella; not even the animals of the "Union Corse"
would involve family in business matters.
"Wait here," he instructed irritably. "I'll be two
hours, no more."
He was short, balding, and running to fat, and he
panted slightly as he climbed the stone stairway and
walked into the small house.
His mother glared at him angrily. She didn't say
anything because there was a strip of white tape across
her mouth. Tape also bound her wrists and ankles to
a chair. A very large man stood beside her, holding a
shotgun. Its short barrels rested on the old woman's
shoulders. The muzzles were against her left ear.
"One little sound," said the man quietly, "and you
become an instant orphan."
Fossella was instructed to face the wall, place his
hands against it and spread his feet. He didn't hear the

man approaching and was trying to work out who he
could be when the blow put an end to speculation.

The blow had been nicely calculated. As he regained
senses, his knees and ankles were being pressed together
and taped tight; his wrists were already bound
and his mouth sealed. Then he was picked up and carried
through to the back of the house. He cursed his
stupidity and felt anger and humiliation. One man,
picking him up like a child and carrying him off.

A gray van was parked on the cobbled street behind
the house, its side door open. Fossella was quickly
dumped inside and the door quietly eased shut. He felt
the van move as it freewheeled down the gentle slope
and he thought of his melodramatic bodyguards, no
more than thirty meters away on the road below. He
cursed again but his anger was being replaced by fear.
He had not been blindfolded. He had seen the faded
lettering on the side of the van: Luigi RA.CCA--VEGETABLE
Dealer. It didn't mean anything to him, but the
fact that he had been allowed to see it indicated a oneway
journey.

During the next two hours his limbs became stiff
and sore and then numb. His mind remained active,
but he had come up with no answers when the van
finally pulled to a halt and the engine was switched
off. The side door was opened and once again he was
picked up with casual ease. It was dark, but he could
see the outline of tall trees and a small whitewashed
cottage. His abductor carried him to the door and
pushed it open with a foot. Fossella was laid none too
gently onto a stone floor and a light switched on. He
kept still and heard the man moving around the room.
After a few minutes the footsteps approached and he
was rolled onto his back. From his position and foreshortened
view, the man seemed to tower to the ceiling.
Abruptly he knelt down and took off Fossella's shoes.
Then he unwound the tape from his ankles and knees.
Fossella flexed cramped muscles but didn't try anything
violent. He knew that physically he had no
chance at all. He lay back, his body arched over his

bound hands, very frightened and then very puzzled as
he felt his belt being loosened and his trousers unzippered.
A hand moved under his back and he was lifted
slightly as first his trousers and then his underpants
were pulled off. Only when he was rolled over onto his
belly and his legs pulled roughly open did puzzlement
change to consternation and rising panic. He felt the
hands on his buttocks, prizing them apart, and he
screamed in his throat and struggled wildly. He was
being sodomized!
The struggle was brief. The hands left his buttocks
and a blow behind the ear put him into oblivion.

As he came to he felt no sharp pain, only discomfort,
and his whole body ached.
In front of him was a rough wooden table. Slightly
off center, to the left, was a dark stain surrounding a
small hole. He raised his eyes to the man sitting opposite.
There was an open notebook in front of him and
several other items, including an old-fashioned alarm
clock. Its dial faced him. It showed 9:02.
"Can you hear me?"
Fossella nodded painfully. Although his wrists and
ankles were bound to the chair, the tape had been removed
from his mouth. But he didn't say anything--
he was older and wiser than Rabbia.
The man reached forward and picked up one of the
items--a metal cylinder, rounded at both ends. He unscrewed
it in the middle and showed Fossella the two
hollow halves.
"This is a 'charger.' It's used by convicts and others
to conceal valuables--money--even drugs. It is hidden
inside the body--in the rectum."
Fossella squirmed in the chair--remembering--
feeling the discomfort. Opposite him the man picked
up a lump of what looked like gray plasticine. The voice
continued:
"This is Plastique--high explosive."
He molded the lump into one end of the cylinder,
tamping it tight with his thumb.
"This is a detonator."

He held up a small, round, metal object with a single
prong jutting from one end. The prong was slipped into
the Plastique.

"This is a timer."

Another round metal object, with two prongs. The
two prongs were plugged into two sockets in the exposed
end of the detonator, and the two halves of the
cylinder were screwed together. The cylinder was held
up between thumb and forefinger.

"So the charger becomes a bomb. Very small, but
very powerful." The voice became slightly conversational.

"It's modern science. Ten years ago a bomb of similar
power would have weighed over a kilo."

The cold eyes bored into Fossella. The voice went
very flat.

"You have an identical bomb up your ass. It's timed
to explode at ten o'clock."

Fossella's eyes flicked to the alarm clock9:07.

The situation was explained. Fossella would answer
some questions. If he did so, fully and honestly, and
before ten o'clock, he would be allowed to remove the
bomb.

Fossella demurredhe would be killed anyway.

It was explained that, unlike the others, Fossella
was needed alive. Fossella didn't believe it. The man
shrugged and remained silent, his face expressionless.

Minutes went by, the only sounds in the room the
loud ticking of the clock and Fossella's short nervous
breathing. Every feeling in his body was sublimated
to the pressure in his bowels. It was 9:22 when he
cracked. He had nothing to lose anyway.

"What do you want to know?"

The man picked up the pen and uncapped it.

"I want to know about Conti and Cantarella; but
first I want to know why a man of your intelligence
kidnapped a girl whose father had no money."

At 9:53, the questions ended. The man capped the
pen, picked up the notebook and stood up. He looked

at Fossella for a few moments and then walked to the
door and went out. Fossella heard the sound of the van's
engine. It faded away, leaving only the rhythmic ticking
of the clock. He didn't shout or struggle. He just sat
rigid, his eyes fixed on the dial. At 9:58, the alarm rang
stridently, and Fossella's mind disintegrated. Two minutes
later his body did the same--upward.

Satta looked down at the actress. Her curved, naked
body was glossy with a sheen of sweat; her red, smudged
mouth slack with desire.
He was waiting for her to say it.
For half an hour he had labored with great skill to
bring her to this peak of expectation. Every inch of her
body had felt his lips and teasing fingers. He was only
waiting for her to say it.
The evening had been a total success. Once again he
had cooked a delicious meal and then gone on to win
three quick, decisive games of backgammon. True, he
had a suspicion she played deliberately badly; but no
matter--it only remained for his tactile skills to be
acknowledged.
She said it.
"Please, carol--please!"
His heart sang. He slid a leg over slippery thighs,
raised himself slightly, looked down into her imploring
eyes and said masterfully: "Put it in."
A slim hand slithered between them, urgent fingers
seeking and finding, drawing him against moist, silky
hair. He groaned with the sensation and sank in an
inch. God, she was tight! He leaned down, kissed the
tip of her nose, flexed for the first consummating
stroke--and the phone rang.

Chapter 18


'It's not the 'Union Corse.'"

Satta said it emphatically, looking down at the pathologist's
report. Bellu sat opposite him, across the
desk.

"What makes you so sure?"

Satta tapped the report. "They don't have that kind
of imagination." He smiled. "Knives, yes, shotguns, yes,
revolvers, yes. Bombs, yes; but not up the rectum."

He shook his head. "This is a different kind of mind."

It was two days after Fossella's death and Satta was
under increasing pressure to come up with answers.
The newspapers were full of the story and all its gory
details.

Consultation with Montpelier in Marseilles had only
convinced Satta that his deduction was correct. The
"Union Corse" in that city had convinced both the Marseilles
police and Gravelli that they were blameless, if
not grief-stricken.

Among the bosses, suspicion was spreading like a
brush fire. Cantarella was seething and worried. Someone
was upsetting three decades of statesmanlike planning.
But who?

It was to be expected that Satta, with his analytical
mind, should be the first to work it out. For two days

he hardly left his office. Anyway, his affair with the actress was over.
"There are limits," she had told him. Such interruptions
could cause a girl to break out in a rash. Her
career would never stand it.
So Satta was able to concentrate. He went endlessly
through the different permutations: Rabbia, Violente,
Sandri, and Fossella. It was only when he extracted
Violente from the equation that he made the connection.
He cursed himself for his stupidity--Violente's
killing was incidental. He was protecting Sandri.
"The Balletto kidnapping!"
Bellu raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
His boss's face showed increasing comprehension.
"That's the connection! Rabbia and Sandri worked
together on it. Fossella organized it."
For the next hour the two policemen were very busy.
They quickly decided that Balletto himself would not
be directly involved, although he might be financing
an act of revenge. They turned their attention to the
bodyguard, although at first they were highly skeptical.
They knew he had been only a "premium" bodyguard,
and an alcoholic; but a phone call to the hospital
quickened Satta's interest. He talked to the senior surgeon,
who happened to be a friend of his brother, and
he learned that the bodyguard had made an excellent
recovery and had great determination to get fit. The
next phone call was to the agency, and this supplied
the information that the bodyguard had once been a
mercenary. An urgent Grade One inquiry was telexed
to Paris, and while they waited for the reply they traced
the connection to one Guido Arrellio, owner of the Pensione
Splendide in Naples.
In all these inquiries, Satta's rank, reputation, and
connections brought rapid answers. He personally
called the director of immigration in Rome and that
department's computer quickly advised that the bodyguard
had left Reggio di Calabria on the ferry for Malta
six days after leaving the hospital. It had no information
on his returning to Italy.
Next, Satta made an overseas call to his opposite
number in Malta. He had met George Zammit at a
training course the year before in Rome, and had liked
him. When he hung up after the brief conversation, he
looked at Bellu thoughtfully and said, "Interesting and
curious."

"In what way?" asked Bellu.

"He confirmed the arrival time in Malta and told me
that the subject had departed by sea for Marseilles
three weeks ago."

"That's all?"

Satta nodded. "Yes, that's all."

"So what makes it curious and interesting?"

Satta smiled. "The Maltese police are efficient--it's
a legacy from the British. But they're not that efficient,
and their data is not computerized. Zammit had the
information at his fingertips, which means he's taken
a personal interest. Yet when I asked if he knew anything
more about the man, he told me they have half
a million visitors a year, and he's understaffed and
overworked. He's holding something back--why?"

They were interrupted by the arrival of the telex
reply from Paris. The machine clattered for a long time
and the roll of paper that Satta eventually read was
over three feet long. He read silently, and Bellu waited
expectantly. Finally Satta rolled the paper into a tube,
held it between his palms, and leaned back in his chair.

"The premium bodyguard," he said softly, "was, and
maybe is again, a very lethal human being."

He stood up abruptly.

"Let's drive to Como and have a chat with Balletto
and his exquisite wife."


In the house by the lake the Ballettos were at dinner
sitting across from each other at the polished table. She
was thinner but had retained her beauty. He appeared
unchanged. She had lost something precious. He still
had what was all-important.

The door opened and they turned expecting to see
Maria with the dessert. The doorway was filled with

the bulk of Creasy. He stood still, his eyes moving from
one to the other. They stared back, mesmerized.
Ettore recovered first. "What do you want?" he asked
sharply.
Creasy moved forward, picked up a chair, reversed
it and sat down, his arms resting on the back. He looked
at Ettore. "I'm going to talk to your wife. If you move
or say one word, I'm going to kill you."
He reached under his jacket and put a heavy pistol
on the table before him.
"It's loaded," he said, with a trace of sarcasm.
Ettore looked at the gun and his body went slack
and he sank down into his chair. Creasy turned to Rika.
The hard lines of his face softened; his voice became
gentle.
"I'm going to tell you a story."
He told her what he had learned from Fossella: that
Pinta's kidnapping had been a setup--an insurance
job. Ettore had taken out a policy with Lloyd's of London
for two billion lire. The deal had been that Fossella
would kick back half the ransom to Ettore. Vico Mansutti
had been the go-between. He had connections with
organized crime; he got a commission. As she listened,
Rika's eyes never left Creasy's face. Only when he finished
did she turn and look at her husband. The hatred
that flowed across the table was incarnate--physical.
Ettore slumped lower into his chair, his mouth opened
and then closed, and his eyes slid away.
"The others? The ones that did it? You killed them?"
Creasy nodded. "I'm going to kill every one that profited.
That includes the boss in Rome and the big one
in Palermo."
Silence again in the large, elegant room, then Rika's
voice, half-talking to herself, musing.
"He comforted me. Told me we still had each other-- life goes on."
She looked up at Creasy, her eyes no longer reflecting
memories--hardening.
"You said all of them?"
He picked up the pistol from the table and nodded. "I came here to kill him."

Ettore looked up, not at Creasy but at his wife. His
handsome face had lost all its character; his eyes were
windows into nothing.

Creasy put the pistol away and stood up.

"Perhaps I should leave him to you."

"Yes!" The word hissed out. "Leave him to me-- please."

Creasy moved to the door, but Rika's voice stopped
him.

"What about Mansutti?"

He turned and shook his head.

"Don't worry about Mansutti."

The door closed behind him.


As Satta and Bellu drove along the lakeshore road,
a blue Alfetta passed them, going the other way.


In his penthouse apartment, Vico Mansutti received
a phone call. Ettore was hysterical, almost incoherent.
Vico could barely understand a word.

"Just wait," he said sharply. "I'll be there within an
hour. Get a grip on yourself."

He quickly slipped on a jacket and told his inquiring
wife that there was a slight crisis. He would be back
late.

In the basement garage he climbed into his Mercedes,
switched on the ignition--and half a kilo of Plastique.


Satta was profoundly impressed. He sat back in his
chair and said, with great reverence:

"Never, I repeat never, have I tasted a better fritto
misto."
Guido shrugged indifferently. "We are not all peasants
in Naples."

"Obviously not," Satta agreed, wiping his mouth
with a napkin. "But for an ex-criminal, ex-convict, ex-Legionnaire,
ex-mercenary, you have some exotic talents.
You don't play backgammon, by any chance?"

Guido looked puzzled. "I do, but what's that got to
do with anything?"
Satta smiled. "It's prophetic. My stay here is going
to be most enjoyable."
"I told you," Guido scowled. "The pensione is closed--
go to a hotel."
Satta poured the last of the chilled Lacrima Christi
and sipped appreciatively. When he spoke, his voice
had lost its bantering edge.
"You, of all people, understand the reality of the
situation. It's certain that, by now, Cantarella knows
who is running amok among his organization. His facilities
are as good as mine--perhaps better. It won't
be long before they trace him back to you, and then
some of the boys will be around to ask you questions.
They will be much less polite than me."
Guido shrugged again. "I can take care of myself."
But he took Satta's point. Only an hour ago Elio had
phoned from Milan to advise that two well-dressed but
covertly threatening men had called at his office to
inquire about his recommendation of Creasy to the
agency. Acting on Guido's instructions, he had told
them simply that he had been doing his brother a favor.
Very soon some of the locals would be knocking on the
door of the pensione. It was true that, with the Carabinieri colonel in attendance, they would keep their
distance.
"I'll make you up a room," he said shortly. "But don't
expect breakfast in bed."
Satta waved a hand deprecatingly. "I'll be no trouble.
And believe me, it's better--we have a lot to talk
about."
Satta had arrived that evening, after driving all day
from Milan. He preferred to drive; it gave him time to
think, to review the events of the past week. To come
to grips with the reality that one man had taken on the
most powerful men in the country.
His mind had gone back to the interview with the
Ballettos in the house by the lake. The extraordinary
scene that had greeted them.
The normally urbane Balletto had been ashen and
literally quivering, his wife all icy disdain, and beautiful.
Satta remembered that beauty; fined down now
and perhaps even enhanced by the emotional shocks
of the past months.

At first Ettore had refused to talk, pending the arrival
of his lawyer; but with the news of Mansutti's
sudden death, he had broken completely and turned to
Satta in desperationa priesta father figurea
protector. The story had poured from him; disjointed,
rambling at times, and to Satta pathetic in its plea for
understanding. He had hardly interrupted the flow,
only occasionally breaking in to clarify a point, keeping
his face and his voice sympathetic.

Bellu had taken notes frenetically while Rika had
sat silent and cold, her eyes never leaving her husband's
face, her attitude showing nothing more than
disgust.

It was the revelation that Creasy was going on, going
after Conti and Cantarella, that had astonished Satta.
He had assumed that with the killing of Fossella revenge
was satisfied; assumed that the bodyguard would
now be running hard for the borderfor a distant country.

He had left it to Bellu to start criminal proceedings
against Balletto and gone to his apartment to think.

The situation created a deep division within him. On
the one hand, Creasy's actions had struck right to the
heart of the Mafiato its pride. One man! If he should
go on and get to Conti, the wound could be disastrous;
and if the unthinkable happened, and he killed Cantarella,
then the wound could he fatal.

The alliance between Cantarella and Conti was the
linchpin of the organization. There would be chaos, and
within that chaos he, Satta, would move against every
boss left alive, and the organization would be set back
by a decade or more. He had no illusions. His job as a
policeman could only be one of containment. He couldn't
destroy the monster forever, only stunt its growth. But
what an opportunity!

On the other hand, his job was to apprehend killers,
no matter whom they were killing, or why. It was not
a crisis of conscience. Satta prided himself on having
his conscience tidily locked away in a little steel-lined
box. One day, when he got bored with cynicism, he
would open it and surprise himself.

It was a crisis of propriety. In his philosophy, laws
could and should be bent; but there had to be laws, and
only the enforcers should have the unspoken right to
bend them. So Creasy presented a dilemma. He created
a unique opportunity, but he affronted Satta's sense of
propriety. He wrestled with his propriety late into the
night and finally reached a dignified compromise.
Early the next morning he reported to his boss, the
general, and told him the whole story and explained
the compromise. The general was sympathetic. He
trusted Satta. Agreement was reached that Satta would
be in full control of the case. The press would be told
nothing, although inevitably they would sniff out the
story within a few days.

So Bellu was left to tidy up in Milan and then proceed
to Rome to be close to Conti, while Satta drove south
to Naples. He saw Guido as the key, knew him to be
Creasy's closest friend, and suspected his role in the
preparations. Instructions were given to bug the telephone
of the Pensione Splendide and intercept its mail.
Meanwhile, Satta wanted to know everything about
Creasy: his capability, his character, his philosophy.
Reports could give him facts. Only Guido could give
him substance.

On the same day that Satta drove to Naples, an
officer in the records department of the Milan Carabinieri
filed a copy of a confidential memo; filed it after
reading it very carefully. That evening he took dinner
with a friend and substantially increased his financial
position. As Satta was enjoying his fritto misto, Conti
in Rome was listening incredulously on the phone to
Abrata, now the undisputed boss of Milan.

Abrata's information was complete, right down to
the details of Creasy's past history. His voice on the

phone was slightly solicitous. He, after all, was not on
the death list.

Conti issued precise instructions and hung up and
for several minutes sat deep in thought. Then he rang
the special number in Palermo and spoke to Cantarella.
The nub of this conversation dealt not so much with
the identity of the killer but with the astonishing fact
that the police and Carabinieri were taking little or no
action. As far as Abrata knew, no general alert had
been issued.

All inquiries were in the hands of Colonel Satta, who
had left Milan that morning, destination unknown.
Politics was obviously involved. Black deeds were being
hatched!

After this conversation, Conti was even more
thoughtful, for in Cantarella's voice he had detected a
shred of fear. Instead of being forceful and deliberate
with his instructions, the "arbitrator" had sounded uncertain,
even asking for suggestions. Conti had reassured
him. Even without the police, Creasy would soon
be eliminated. Now that his identity was known, he
would be found within hours. Instructions had already
gone out through every tier of the organization.

But Conti wondered about Cantarella's reaction.
Certainly the killer, with his background and motivation,
was a dangerous threat, but so far he had operated
with the benefit of secrecy and anonymity. Now
he had lost that advantage. He would pay for his temerity.

But why Cantarella's unease? Conti concluded that
it was the reaction of a politician. He himself had
reached his present position due to the ruthless application
of violence. He had seen death often.

Cantarella, on the other hand, had progressed through
diplomacy. He had frequently ordered violence, but
never taken part himself; never had to. Conti had been
a soldier and a general. Cantarella always had been
the statesman. Conversely, thinking back over the
years, Conti decided that the "arbitrator" had never

been directly threatened. At least, not physically. Perhaps
that lack of experience now created the concern.
It interested Conti. It was something to think about.
Finally, before going to bed, he issued instructions for
his personal safety. He owned the ten-story apartment
building that housed the penthouse in which he lived.
From its basement garage upward, security was to be
tightened to such an extent that a mouse couldn't get
in or out. The same applied to the building that housed
his office, which he also owned.
He was not concerned about his movements between
the two buildings. Some years earlier he had done a
favor for a compatriot in New York. In return he had
received, as a gift, a Cadillac. A very special Cadillac,
with three-inch armor-plating and bulletproof windows.
Conti was very proud of the car. Twice over the
years it had been fired on, once with heavy-caliber pistols
and once with submachine guns. On both occasions
he had come through unscathed and unruffled. Even
so, he ordered that until further notice a carload of
bodyguards would follow the Cadillac at all times. He
also decided that in the interim he would take all his
meals at home. He was well aware that more bosses
had died in restaurants than anywhere else, and not
from food poisoning.

Cantarella was indeed frightened. It was a new sensation.
The thought of a highly qualified killer making
him a target sickened him. He went through stages of
anger and indignation, but fear was the constant emotion.
Conti had been confident on the phone--only a matter
of hours. But as Cantarella sat behind his desk in
his paneled study, he had a very cold feeling. He crossed
himself and pulled forward a pad of paper and turned
his mind to the security of the Villa Colacci. It could
and would be made impregnable.
Before he finished his notes, the phone rang. It was
the boss in Naples to inform him that it was impossible
to question the owner of the Pensione Splendide. It

__

appeared that he and the forever-damned Colonel Satta
of the Carabinieri were as thick as thieves. Cantarella's
unease deepened.


Guido rolled a double four, took off his last three
counters, and glanced at the doubling dice. Then he
picked up a pen, made a quick calculation, and announced,
"Eighty-five thousand lire."

Satta smiled. It was an effort.

"I should have taken your advice and stayed in a
hotel."

It was the third day and he had eaten several excellent
meals, even helping out in the kitchen on occasion,
the regular customers having no idea that the
salad had been tossed by a full colonel.

Apart from having lost over three hundred thousand
lire at backgammon, he had enjoyed his stay. Even that
loss had its compensations, for if a man could play with
such skill and panache, he earned Satta's grudging respect.

But it was more than just respect. A positive friendship
had developed. It may have been partly the attraction of opposites, for no two men could have been
more different, at least on the outside: Guido, taciturn,
stocky and broken-nosed; Satta, tall, elegant, talkative,
and urbane. But Satta found much to admire in the
Neapolitan. Once he began to relax and talk, he showed
a deep vein of knowledge of his own society and the
world. He also had a dry and perceptive sense of humor,
which Satta much appreciated. Of course Satta knew
a great deal about Guido's past. During one conversation
he had asked whether Guido did not sometimes
get bored with his present occupation. Wasn't it slightly
mundane?

Guido had smiled and shaken his head and remarked
that if he wanted excitement he could go back through
the paths of his memory. No, he found the small, prosaic
things in life made up a satisfying mosaic. He enjoyed
running the pensione, the various quirks and foibles
of the regulars who came to eat in the restaurant. He

liked watching football on television on Sunday nights,
and occasionally going out on the town, and perhaps
finding a girl. He was content, especially when he had
overeducated policemen to beat at backgammon.

On his part, Satta provided Guido with a puzzle. At
first he had viewed the colonel as a misplaced social
butterfly who had progressed through family connections.
It was not long, however, before he saw through
the sardonic exterior and recognized the dedicated and
honest man beneath. On the second night, Satta's elder
brother came for dinner and afterward the three of
them sat late into the night on the terrace, talking and
drinking.

There was a very deep affection between the two
brothers, and they included Guido in their family conversation
so naturally and easily that he felt a warmth
of companionship, a warmth that before had come only
in the presence of Creasy.

And they talked of Creasy at great length. Although
Satta was convinced that Guido must have contact with
him, he never pressed the matter. Several times a day
he spoke to Bellu in Rome, and each time was told that
there was nothing to report on the telephone or in mail
intercepts.

"Only conversations between you and me," Bellu
commented once. "And they are fascinating!"

But Satta was content to wait. Although the newspapers
were, by now, very close to unraveling the full
story, no mention had yet been made of Creasy. They
were full of the scandal of the industrialist who had
been charged with engineering his own daughter's kidnap,
and of the prominent lawyer who had been blown
to pieces, and the connection between the two; and with
the Mafia killings of the past days. It wouldn't be long
before they pieced it all together, and Satta tried to
imagine the reaction of the public when the whole story
came out--the ongoing story.

He often thought about Creasy. He was able to build
a picture in his mind as Guido talked of his friend. He
understood clearly the motivation and felt a tangible


sympathy and a bond for this man who moved alone
to satiate a craving for revenge.

Guido would talk of the past, but never the present.
He was emphatic. The last time he had seen Creasy
was when he left the hospital. Satta didn't press, just
shrugged and waited. He held all the aces. Let Conti
and Cantarella worry.

But he wasn't playing cards, but backgammonand
he was losing.

"Enough," he said, as Guido laid out the counters
again. "I'm a public servant and can't go on losing a
week's salary every day."

They sat out on the terrace as the late afternoon sun
edged toward the horizon. Soon Guido would start preparing
dinner; but now was the quiet time, and they
fell silent as they watched the changing colors around
the bay. It was dusk when the phone rang. Milan calling
Colonel Satta.

Guido had gone to the kitchen and was chopping
vegetables when Satta came in after the long conversation.

"Balletto," he said. "He committed suicide."

"You're sure it was suicide?" Guido asked.

Satta nodded. "No question. He sat on the window
ledge of his eighth-floor office for half an hour before
he made up his mind."

His hands moved in an expressive gesture.

"He was always a vacillating man."

Guido went back to the vegetables and Satta started
to help around the kitchen. Then he stopped and asked,
"You met his wife?"

"Once," answered Guido. "It was not a pleasant
meeting."

He explained the circumstances and Satta nodded
sympathetically.

"You picked a bad time. No doubt her opinion has
changed. No doubt she herself has changed."

They worked in silence and then Satta said, "While
Balletto was trying to make up his mind, the police

phoned and asked her to come down and try to talk
him out of it. You know what she said?"

"What?"

Satta shook his head.

"Nothing, nothing at all--she just laughed."

They worked on again, and then Satta said musingly,
"A strange woman--and very beautiful."

Guido looked up at him quizzically, started to say
something, but then shrugged and went back to work.


Chapter 19


In each of the capitals of Europe, there is an Australian
Embassy, and on a side street close to each embassy,
house trailers and mobile homes can be found, parked,
during the daylight hours of summer. They are for sale,
although why near the Australian Embassy, no one
knows.

Rome was no exception, but because it was late summer,
there was only one vehicle--a Mobex on a Bedford
chassis.

"Wally" Wightman and his girlfriend, "Paddy" Collins,
sat on the high curb, waiting unexpectantly for
a customer.

He was in his late twenties and short, his appearance
made notable by hair. Hair flowed from his head to his
shoulders and from his face and chin to his chest. Intelligent
eyes peered through it all. He was dressed in

denim overalls that could have qualified for a certificate
of antiquity. She was in her early thirties and
large all over. Not fat, simply oversized, from her toes
to her nose. She was not unattractive, but her size contradicted
femininity. She wore a peasant dress that
looked incongruous.
They were Australians, and their story was at once
typical and different. Typical in that they had both
traveled to Europe to broaden their minds, and different
in that they had met each other. Wally was a perennial
student who had long ago found a temporary job
teaching English to Italians in a night school in Turin.
There he had met Paddy, who for twelve years had been-- an executive secretary in Brisbane. One day she had
thrown it all up and taken off to "do" Europe. She also
ended up teaching English in Turin. The result was
that a whole generation of Italians spoke English with
a strong Australian accent; and instead of "doing" Europe,
she "did" Wally. In fact, she loved him. A love
brought on by his total indifference to accepted standards
of female beauty. Her size did not bother him. He loved her mind and her sense of humor, which was
rough, and her ability to be dominating by day and
totally submissive and quiescent by night. In bed he
was the boss; outside it, she organized everything, including
his creature comforts. It was an un-Australian
arrangement, but it worked.
They'd had a good winter and early summer and had
pooled their resources to buy the Mobex, the idea being
to drive it as far east as possible, at least to Bombay,
and then ship it down to Perth and drive across to
Northern Queensland. There the government was giving
land and grants to people who would develop remote
areas and grow trees. The government needed trees,
and Wally reasoned that they took a long time to grow,
and they could live in the Mobex, and maybe grow
children as well, and contribute to Australia's balance-of-payments
problem and get paid for it. But things
had not worked out. The changes in Iran meant that
driving very far east was a nonstarter, and then Paddy
had got sick with jaundice and the hospital bills had
piled up and at the end they had no choice but to sell
the Mobex and travel home the cheapest way. So they
sat on the curb and waited.

But they had been there three days, and the only
inquiry had been from a Turk who had no money but
an ingenious scheme for smuggling Pakistani immigrants
into Britain. So they were not hopeful, and they
hardly looked up when the big, scar-faced man approached
and did a circuit of the Mobex.

"It's for sale?" he asked, speaking in Italian.

Wally shook his head and answered in the same
language.

"No, we just park here for the view."

The man didn't smile but went back to inspecting
the vehicle. Paddy stood up, brushing dust from her
ample backside.

"Are you really interested?"

The man turned and looked at her appraisingly and
then nodded. Wally was ignored.

"Can I look at the motor?"

Wally followed them as she pointed out the advantages
and then suggested that they go inside for a cool
beer.

The Mobex was only two years old, with less than
ten thousand miles on the clock, and Paddy argued
fiercely over the price. Wally kept quiet, sipping his
beer, admiring her determination.

They finally settled at ten million lire, and the man
asked: "You have the transfer papers?"

Paddy nodded. "They have to be registered and
stamped by the police."

They filled out the papers, the buyer's section reading:
Patrice Duvalier. Nationality: French.

"I don't want delivery for three days," he said, pushing
the papers across the small fold-down table.

Paddy's face showed rank suspicion.

"You'll leave a deposit?"

Then they got a great shock. He reached into an
inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a great wad

of hundred thousand lire notes. He counted out a
hundred and pushed them across the table.

"But don't register the papers until then," he said.
There was a long silence, ended by Wally making his
first contribution to the conversation.

"You're bloody trusting, mate! What if we take the
money and drive off?"

Creasy said softly, "I'm not trusting."

Wally looked into the narrow eyes. Then, to cover
his sudden confusion, he reached behind to the refrigerator
for more beers. The air of tension eased and
Paddy asked, "You'll take delivery here?"

Creasy shook his head and pulled out a street map
of Rome. He pointed to a small, inked x just outside the
city, near the Eastern Autostrada.

"There's the Monte Antenne campsite. I'll pick it up
in the early afternoon, if that's OK."

Paddy nodded. "Meanwhile, we can leave our bags
at the railway station."

"Where are you heading?" Creasy asked.

"Brindisi," she replied. "We get the ferry from there
to Greece."

Creasy took a pull on his beer and looked thoughtfully
around the small but comfortable interior. Then
he silently studied the two Australians. Finally he said,
"I'm going south myself. I could give you a lift--it
would be a chance to point out the wrinkles, if there
are any."

They discussed the idea, and it made sense. Creasy
explained that he was in no hurry; in fact, he planned
to take three or four days on the journey. So agreement
was reached, and then Creasy suggested they wait until
reaching Brindisi before registering the transfer.

To celebrate the deal, and since it was lunchtime,
Paddy opened some cans and made a meal, and Wally
opened more beers.

When Creasy left, Paddy commented, "He's not
French, he's American."

"How do you know?" asked Wally.

"The way he eats. Only Americans eat like that."

Wally looked skeptical, but Paddy was adamant.
"It's true. They hold the knife and fork like everyone
else, but when they've cut a piece of meat they lay down
the knife and transfer the fork to the right hand. It's
very inefficient, which is strange, being Americans; but
they all do it."
"So?"
"So, nothing. But he's not French."
"You think he's alright? He didn't even leave an
address or anything. Just walked off."
Paddy shrugged. "Anyway, we have his money." She
paused thoughtfully. "He's not what he seems, but who
is these days."
"He's a tough bastard," Wally said, and grinned.
"Christ, he's even bigger than you!"
Paddy grinned back, but then was thoughtful again.
"I like him," she said. "Doesn't mince about. Doesn't
talk for the sake of it. We'll see."

"The Cowboy" eased his buttocks on the hard bench.
As a young priest, he had enjoyed the confessional-- not something to admit to the bishop, but it did relieve
the routine. Now, as he grew older, he found the whole
thing increasingly tiresome. Perhaps in big cities there
were more interesting sins, but here on Gozo, in the
village of Nadur, he could predict just about every
transgression of his parishioners. True, old Salvu, who
had just left, did have an inventive mind; but he too
was becoming predictable.
He heard the curtain rustle, and Laura Schembri's
voice came through the grill.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
"The Cowboy" leaned forward
"What do you remember?"
There followed the list of usual minor infractions,
and he duly admonished, set the minor penance's, and
leaned back to wait for the next parishioner.
But he didn't hear the rustle of her exit, only the
shallow, uncertain breathing of a woman in doubt.
"You have something more?" Doubt was resolved.

"Forgive her, Father. My daughter has sinned."

"Then it is she who must confess."

The routine had been broken.

The Schembri girl was an enigma to "the Cowboy."
Every morning she came to early Mass, something she
had not done before, but she never came into the confessional.
Yet she prayed every day.

"You cannot confess for another."

The voice came back bluntly.

"I don't want to. I want advice."

Routine had been shattered.

In all his years as parish priest, Laura Schembri had
never asked his advice, although she had quite frequently
offered her own, especially in his younger days;
she was not a woman to be overawed by the cloth. His
interest was tinged with apprehension. Advice concerning
Nadia might be difficult to formulate.

"She is with child."

Apprehension justified! "The Cowboy" sighed. That
girl's journey through life was truly strewn with boulders.

"The American?"

"Who else? She is not given to indiscriminate fornication!"

He sensed that the combative tone was defensive,
and he controlled his rising irritation. He asked gently,
"So what advice do you seek?"

He felt the tension in her subside.

"She has not informed Creasy, and she has forbidden
me or her father to do so. That is part of her sin. She
conceived the child deliberately. She used him only as
a provider of the seed."

"She does not love him?"

"I'm not sure--I don't know." Laura's voice indicated
uncertainty.

"You are her mother, and you don't know?"

"I only know that in the beginning she went with
him to get herself pregnant. I'm not sure now how she

feels. She is different. She told me of the child, but
that's all. She is not herself."
"So what advice do you seek?"
"Do I tell him or not?"
"The Cowboy" leaned back and collected his thoughts.
He knew, like others in Gozo, that Creasy was engaged
in dealing out violent death. The Schembri girl never
did anything without its being complicated.
"You know what this American is doing?"
"Yes."
"It is a sinful thing."
"He has a reason."
"Vengeance belongs to God."
"God moves in strange ways."
"The Cowboy" sighed again. This woman would have
made a good priest.
"Even if you wish to tell him, can you do so?"
"It's possible."
"Have you discussed it with your husband?"
"No--I know what his answer would be, and I don't
wish to hear it."
"The Cowboy" moved uneasily on the wooden bench.
He was getting himself right into the middle of things.
An uncomfortable position. But then he was a priest
and had forsaken comfort. He considered all the aspects,
knowing that if he gave advice it must not be
couched in platitudes. His was a farming parish, his
congregation hard-nosed pragmatists, none more so
than Laura Schembri.
He reached his decision: "A man should know."
"Thank you, Father."

Guido walked out onto the terrace and Satta sensed
the change in him. He pulled up a chair and reached
for the coffeepot. His face showed the indecision. The
phone call had come an hour earlier, and it was forty
minutes since Guido had hung up. Satta was not impatient.
Within an hour Bellu would let him know if
the call had any significance.
Guido drank his coffee and then made up his mind. "What would happen if Creasy gives himself up--to
you personally?"

Satta's pulse quickened. The call had truly been significant.
He made an expressive gesture.

"Of course he would go to prison. But in view of the
type of people he's killed, and his motive, the sentence
would probably be only around five years. Such things
can be arranged, and with remission he could be out
in three."

"Could he be kept alive in prison?"

Satta grimaced. "I know what you mean and the
answer is, yes. We've just completed a new prison outside
Rome for 'sensitive' prisoners. It's staffed and run
by the Carabinieri. I guarantee his safety. Frankly, it's
when he comes out that he will be in real danger."

Guido looked at the colonel thoughtfully, obviously
assessing, weighing his decision. Satta kept quiet. It
was not the time to ask questions.

"All right." Guido made up his mind. "We'll drive
to Rome and I'll talk to him."

"But why? Tell me why?"

Guido stood up. "Come on. I'll tell you in the car-- we may not have much time."

Satta held up a hand. "In that case, let me call Bellu.
He's a good man and I trust him. He can pick Creasy
up in ten minutes."

Guido shook his head. "If he killed your friend Bellu
and half a dozen other policemen, how many years
would he get?" Satta took the point. "You can't phone
him?"

"He has no phone there--let's go."

As they reached Satta's car, a police motorcyclist
drew up and handed him an envelope.

'Telex message for you, colonel."

Satta suggested that Guido drive and, as they
threaded their way through the city toward the Autostrada,
Guido explained: "He's going to be a father."

Satta's look of surprise was comical. For once he
didn't have a quick or clever comment. Guido glanced
at him and smiled wryly, then he told him about Gozo

and Nadia. He told him in detail, because it was important
that he understand everything.

"You think it will make a difference?" Satta asked.
Guido nodded emphatically. "I do. It's absolutely the
only thing that might stop him. It's hard to explain
exactly why."

Satta thought it over, reviewing what he knew of
the man. He was inclined to agree that it would make
a difference. Abruptly he leaned forward and picked up
the microphone of the radio transmitter. Guido looked
at him sharply, but he held up a placating hand. Within
two minutes he was patched through to Bellu in Rome,
and was instructing him to collect the tape of the last
phone intercept, and personally destroy it. The same
with any transcript. He emphasized that nobody else
was to handle them. To Bellu's puzzled query, he told
him to wait at headquarters. They would be in Rome
by lunchtime.

Guido expressed his thanks and Satta shrugged.

"You know what it's like. These people have their
informers everywhere, but Bellu I trust implicitly."
Suddenly he remembered the envelope. He ripped it
open and read the long telex in silence.

"Holy Mother of God."

Satta said it quietly.

"What is it?"

He waved the telex and explained that he had
guessed that Creasy had gone to Marseilles for equipment.
He had asked his counterpart there to apply pressure
to find out who had supplied him, and with what.
The telex contained the list.

"What's an R.P.G.7 Stroke D?" he asked.

"Antitank rocket launcher," Guido answered with
a grim smile. "Mercenaries call it the 'Jewish Bazooka.'"

"It's an Israeli weapon?"

Guido shook his head. "Russian, but with the rocket
loaded, it looks like a circumcised penis."

Satta didn't smile. "Creasy knows how to use it?" he
asked.

Guido stayed with the analogy.
"He handles it with the same familiarity as you handle
your pecker when you take a pee."
Now Satta smiled; but he was puzzled.
"The Mafia have most things, but they don't own
tanks." .
Guido explained, "It has other uses--demolishing
buildings or blowing open steel gates. It will go through
twelve inches of armor plate."
Satta digested that in silence. When he commented,
his voice was wistful.
"Slightly more penetrative power than my pecker."
Guido smiled in agreement.

At that moment the R.P.G.7 Stroke D, together with
two rockets, was being carried through the streets of
Rome in a canvas bag. It was not a large bag. The
rocket launcher was a simple tube, thirty-seven inches
long, which unscrewed into two halves for easy handling.
It weighed about fifteen pounds. The rockets
weighed less than five pounds each.

Giuseppe and Theresa Benetti had just finished
lunch when the knock came on the door. They were
both in their late sixties and she had bad legs, so it was
Giuseppe who went to answer it. The first thing he saw
was the silenced pistol, and he became very frightened.
Then he looked up at the man's face and his fright
increased, freezing him like a statue. The man spoke
softly, reassuringly.
"You are not in danger. I mean you no harm. I am
not a thief."
He moved forward through the door, easing the old
man back.
A few minutes later Giuseppe and Theresa were
taped, immobile, to two of their chairs. The man had
been very gentle, talking to them casually with his
slight Neapolitan accent. He just wanted to borrow
their home for a short time. They would not be harmed.
Their fear dissipated, and they watched with interest

as he opened his bag and took out two fat tubes. He
screwed them together and then slid an attachment
into a grooved slot. In his youth, Giuseppe had served
in the army and he guessed that the tube was a sophisticated
weapon, the attachment a sight. His guess
was confirmed when the man produced the squat, cone-shaped
missile. He depressed the fins and slipped it
backward into the tube. The bulk of the missile projected
outward, the point of the cone to the front.
The man pulled out a second missile and a pair of
goggles and moved quietly out into the back yard. Giuseppe
could see him peering cautiously over the low
wall that separated the yard from the avenue.

In the penthouse of the building opposite, Conti had
also just finished lunch.
At 2:30 precisely, the lift opened in the basement
garage and he stepped out, followed by his personal
bodyguard. The Cadillac was waiting, engine running.
A black Lancia containing four bodyguards waited directly
behind. Conti eased himself into the back seat
and his bodyguard closed the door and got in beside the
driver. The two cars moved up the ramp. At street level the bright sunlight made all three men narrow their
eyes. But they still saw, across the wide avenue, the
figure rise behind the low wall. His face was distorted
by goggles, and a fat tube rested on his right shoulder.
Before they could react, a great gout of flame erupted
from the back of the tube and a black object detached
itself, enlarging as it homed in. Conti screamed and
the driver stood on the brakes. The heavy car dipped
forward and then bounced up on reinforced springs. Its
rise continued as the missile pierced the center of the
radiator, demolished the engine, and burned everything
inside to a cinder. For a moment the Cadillac
teetered upright on its rear fender and then the second
missile arrived, striking just below the front axle and
hurling the five-ton car backward onto the Lancia behind.
Only one escaped instant death. As the Lancia crum-pled, a rear door was popped open and a bodyguard
ejected on all fours. He scrabbled away from the hissing,
twisted mass of metal, rose to his feet and instinctively
pulled out his gun. Again instinct started him
up the ramp, but then he stopped and looked back.
Instinct ended. Whatever was out there had caused this
carnage.
Shock took over and he backed away until he came
up against the garage wall. Slowly he sank to his
haunches. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered
to the concrete. He was still crouched there when
the first police car arrived.

Satta waited in the car, tense with anticipation; but,
when Guido reappeared alone, his disappointment was
tinged with slight relief.
"He's not there?"
Guido shook his head. "I guess we wait."
The wait was a short one. It was only three minutes
before the radio came alive. Captain Bellu calling Colonel
Satta--urgently.

Satta and Bellu stood at the top of the ramp looking
down. Neither said anything. What they saw was beyond
their experience. Finally Satta turned to look for
Guido. He had his back to them, facing across the avenue.
Satta followed his gaze and saw the circular,
black burn mark on the side of the whitewashed house.
"R.P.G.7 Stroke D?"
Guido turned and nodded.
"I told you--it has other uses."
Satta looked thoughtfully down the ramp. He couldn't
help the sardonic smile as he said to Bellu, "Conti lost
his no-claims bonus."

Book Four

Chapter SO

Tower grows from the barrel of a gun."
Cantarella knew the quotation and had witnessed
its truth. But a gun must have a target. He felt like a
weight lifter with nothing to lift--Michelangelo without
a ceiling.
Frustration fertilized his fear. Conti had been a right
arm, the physical instrument of diplomacy. His death struck to the core of Cantarella's fear. He tried to conceal
it, but Dicandia and Gravelli were not misled. They
sat across the desk and absorbed it from the atmosphere.
It astonished them and created deep concern.
But he was their boss. Everything they had; their
stature, their wealth, and their ambitions were linked
to the power of Cantarella. They had no other route.
They listened to their orders for the strengthening
of the security of the Villa Colacci. Two days ago they
would have been astounded and would have advised
restraint; but Conti's death and the manner of it had
made a great impact on their minds. So had the thick
dossier lying on the desk. It detailed the dimensions of
a man who could practice violence on a scale that was
alien--even to them.
So they listened in silence as Cantarella went on
about flood-lighting the outer walls and two hundred
meters beyond. About the purchase and razing of all
buildings within a radius of one kilometer. About
twenty-four-hour patrolling of the entire area and the
acquisition of guard dogs. A total of eighteen bodyguards
were to be quartered in the villa. They would
work in three shifts. A roadblock was to be set up half
a kilometer from the villa's gates. No car was to pass
that point without being searched, inside and out. No
vehicle at all was to enter the grounds of the villa. No
other boss or emissary was to enter the villa, except
alone, and after being thoroughly searched. The state
of Cantarella's mind was most clearly revealed when
he gave orders to cut down over fifteen fruit trees that
bordered the inside of the walls.

Twenty years ago, when Cantarella had first purchased
the villa, he had personally supervised the
planting of the orchard. It had become a great pride to
him. His entourage would even joke about it; but only
among themselves, and very quietly. Cantarella's wife
had died childless thirty years before, and he had never
remarried. They used to call the trees his children; and
now to hear orders for even a small number to be destroyed
illustrated vividly the depth of his fear.

Cantarella moved on to the general situation. Every
point of entry into Sicily was to be watched. Every port
down to the smallest fishing village; every airport,
every airstrip, every train or car that crossed on the
ferry from Reggio. His mouth twisted in irritation as
he asked:

"The police? The Carabinieri? They still do nothing?"

"Very little," answered Dicandia. "They put up token
roadblocks around Rome after Conti's death--several
hours after; and they've put out a general alert for the
American, and a description. But they haven't named
him, and they haven't issued a photograph."

"Bastards!" snarled Cantarella. "Above all, that
swine Satta. All this must give him such pleasure--
bastard!"

"He arrived in Palermo this morning," Gravelli said.

'Together with his assistant Bellu and the Neapolitan."
Cantarella's anger grew. "Bastards! they think



this is one grand spectacle. You're sure there's no
chance to get to this Neapolitan?" He tapped the dossier.
"He must be in contact with this maniac."

Gravelli shook his head. "They are in a two-bedroom
suite in the Grand, and they never leave him alone for
a moment. There's no chance unless we take out Satta
and Bellu."

Dicandia interjected quickly, "That would cause
more trouble than we've got now--there would be no
end." Cantarella nodded reluctantly. "And Satta knows
it. One day I'll settle the hash of that overbred vulture."

Gravelli shrugged. "Meanwhile, he causes problems.
Even while he sits in Palermo, his people are cracking
down all over. They even took Abrata in for questioning.
He's feeling exposed and very nervous."

"Satta's using the situation," said Dicandia. "There's
confusion in the north and in Rome. Satta is stirring
it up like a sorcerer."

Cantarella leaned forward and opened the dossier.
A.blown-up passport photograph of Creasy was clipped
to the inside cover. For several minutes Cantarella
studied the face. His tongue moistened dry, thick lips,
and he tapped the photograph.

"We'll have nothing but problems until he's dead."
He looked up and said with great emphasis: "The man
who kills him will want for nothing--nothing! You
understand?"

Gravelli and Dicandia nodded silently, and then received
another shock. Cantarella unclipped the photograph
and tossed it across the desk.

"I want this photograph on the front page of every
newspaper in the country tomorrow morning."

Dicandia recovered first:

"Don Cantarella! That will mean they have the
whole story--is it wise?"

'They will have it anyway," his boss answered.
"They know most of it now. It was only Satta clamping
a silence on his department that's delayed things."

He explained his reasoning: "It's a distinctive face-- look at the scars and the eyes. We have thousands of

people looking for him. It would take days to distribute
his picture. The papers will do it for us."
"You will make a hero of him," Gravelli warned.
"Then he'll be a dead hero," snapped Cantarella.
"And the dead are soon forgotten."

Paddy stepped down from the Mobex and stretched her big frame. There were disadvantages to being tall, and feeling cramped when traveling was one of them, Wally followed her onto the pavement and turned back to ask: "You want anything?"
Creasy shook his head. "Have a good lunch. Sure you don't want me to pick you up?"
"No, the walk will do us good," Paddy said. "We'll wander round a bit. Don't worry, we'll find the site."
They had driven down the eastern coast from Pes-to
Bari. Paddy thought that after three days Creasy would want a change from her admittedly basic cooking. She wanted a change herself, and also to buy a couple of sweaters--winter was chasing out autumn.
But Creasy had declined, preferring to drive on to the campsite south of the city. She noted that he hardly
left the Mobex even when they were in a campsite. It
increased her curiosity. She spoke a little French, and the first night she had tried it out on him. He had smiled and answered fluently. Then she spoke to him in English, and again he had smiled, and asked in English
if she were probing. She had noticed the slight American drawl.
"No," she had answered. "It's just that you don't look
like a Frenchman."
Wally had interrupted, telling her not to be so bloody nosy, but that hadn't dampened her curiosity.
Creasy had arrived on foot at the campsite in Rome carrying two very large leather suitcases and a canvas bag. Wally had helped him load them through the narrow
door, and later commented to Paddy, that the bloke didn't exactly travel light.
He had not been very talkative, merely pointing at the map to a spot outside Avezzano and suggesting that they camp the night there. In fact, they had stayed two
nights. The site, in a pleasantly wooded valley, had
been almost deserted. He was tired, he had explained,
and in no hurry.

"There's a boutique." Wally pointed across the busy
street.
"And there's a restaurant," Paddy said, pointing farther
ahead. "Let's eat first, I'm starving." She grinned.
"Besides, after what I eat, I might need a bigger size."
"They don't make a bigger size," Wally commented,
ducking away, knowing that a playful swing from her
huge arm could put him on the pavement.
But she didn't react. They were opposite a newsstand
and she stood mesmerized. He followed her gaze.
From the front page of a dozen different newspapers,
Creasy's face gazed back.
An hour later they were arguing fiercely. Wally was
being stubborn.
"You've got the money and passports in your bag.
We go straight to the bloody railway station and catch
a bloody train. We buy what we need in Brindisi. Tomorrow
morning we're on the bloody boat to Greece."
She shook her head. "I'm not going."
Wally sighed and pushed away his plate of half-eaten
food.
"Paddy, you're being sentimental. It doesn't suit you.
He's a killer. We owe him nothing--he's got the Mobex.
He's just been using us as cover."
Again she shook her head, and he picked up the
paper and held it in front of her face.
"They're looking for him. Hundreds, maybe thousands
--we're not going to be there when they find
him."
"Then piss off, Wally Wightman."
The restaurant was busy and she said it quietly, but
it rocked him back in his chair. She leaned forward,
her angry face close to his.
"Yes, he's been using us. Why not! He's alone. He's
doing it all alone. Hundreds, you say? Thousands? Also
the police. He needs help. I'm going to help him. You
can do what you bloody like."
"But why?" he asked desperately. "It's none of our
business. Why get involved?"
She snorted. "When did an Aussie ever need a reason
to get into a fight?" She tapped the paper. "They killed
that girl. Those people raped her and killed her. Eleven
years old! Now they're paying for it. He's making them
pay. If he needs a little help, he'll get it from Paddy
Collins. I'm not leaving him on his own."
Suddenly Wally grinned.
"Alright, you silly cow, calm down."
For a moment she was speechless, but only for a
moment.
"You agree?"
"Yes, I agree."
"Why the sudden change?"
He shrugged. "It's not sudden. My instinct is to help,
but it's dangerous. One thing for a bloke, but something
else for a girl."
Paddy smiled at him and reached over and ruffled
his hair.
"I like it when you're chivalrous--let's go."
Outside on the pavement, something occurred to
him.
"How do you think he'll react when he finds out we
know? He might get violent, might worry that we'll
turn him in or something. Paddy, that's one tough bastard."
She shook her head and linked an arm in his.
"I doubt it. With his picture in the papers, he's going
to need all the help he can get. He'll understand that.
Anyway, tough as he is, I'm not frightened."
"You're not?"
She smiled down at him.
"Not with you to protect me, Wally."

Satta put down the phone and turned to face Guido
and Bellu.
"It was almost certainly Cantarella," he said. "The
papers all got the information at about the same time."

"But why?" asked Guido.

Bellu supplied the answer. "It's just another sign of
his state of mind. It's the quickest way to generally
identify Creasy." He looked at Satta quizzically and asked:

"What now, colonel?"

Satta gazed back at him enigmatically, and Guido
felt the sudden air of tension.

Bellu spoke again. "Perhaps we should talk privately,
colonel."

Satta sighed, glanced at Guido and shook his head.

"Not necessary."

He turned to the phone and called Carabinieri headquarters
in Rome. For a long time he issued precise
instructions, then hung up and turned to face Guido.

"You cynical bastard!"

Satta spread his hands in resignation. "It wouldn't
have made any difference. If Cantarella couldn't find
him until now, neither would our people."

He looked down at the newspapers spread over the
low coffee table. "He has very little chance now. That
face is easily recognized. Let's just hope we find him
before they do."

Guido stood up and walked to the window and stood
looking down at the busy street. A light rain was falling.
Umbrellas obscured the moving people.

"Guido, believe me; there was very little chance.
We'll do everything now. You heard me on the phone."
Satta's voice was apologetic. Bellu had never heard him
talk that way before.

Without turning, Guido asked bitterly, "Has he
served his purpose now? Will they make you a general?"

Satta's voice lost its note of apology. "I didn't send
him! I didn't arm him, or equip him with safe houses
and transport and false papers; and I didn't encourage
him. Aren't you being hypocritical?"



Guido turned and looked at him, his face, for once,
showing emotion.

"Alright!" he snapped. "I helped him, and I'm not
ashamed of it. Things changed. I confided in you. I
thought you were a man with some honor. I was mistaken."

Now Bellu spoke up. "You're wrong, Guido, very
wrong. The colonel has no personal responsibility for
Creasy. But I know he has sympathy for him. He'll do
everything he can now. Everything."

Guido's anger subsided. He asked sadly, "Well--has
he been useful?"

Satta nodded. "Yes--very. I would never admit it
to anyone else. His killing of Conti was the whole key.
I never realized that Cantarella would react with such
panic. Even if Creasy doesn't get to him, his power will
be finished. Already the organization on the mainland
is in a state of flux. He will never reimpose control.
Only here, in Sicily, does he keep his power, and day
by day that too will slip away."

He gestured sympathetically. "Come, Guido, sit
down. The important thing now is to find Creasy. Only
you know his mind. You must try and read it. How will
he attack? How will he approach?"

Guido shrugged and walked over to join them.

"Let me see the plan again."

Bellu lifted the newspapers and pulled out the large-scale
plan of the Villa Colacci and its surroundings.
The three men leaned over it. Satta pointed.

"We learned this morning that Cantarella has cut
down some trees between the orchard and the wall to
form a lane. Also, the floodlighting has become operational.
The outside of the wall and a radius stretching
several hundred meters are as bright as day."

"And inside the walls?" asked Guido.

Satta shook his head. "No. Obviously Cantarella
doesn't want to light up the villa itself. At night the
grounds are dark--but not unprotected. Yesterday two
guard dogs were delivered--Doberman pinschers.
They're attack dogs--trained to kill."

Bellu interjected, "For one man, it looks impenetrable.
The guards at the gate and outside the walls are
armed with submachine guns, and there's a small army
inside the villa itself. No car or vehicle of any kind is
allowed even close to the walls."
Guido smiled grimly. "He'll be expecting all that. He
knows exactly the layout of the grounds and the villa
itself. He's a soldier, and Cantarella is a fool. He'd be
safer moving around instead of closing himself in. The
strongest fort ever built is a death trap once the walls
are breached. Cantarella's little army won't save him
if Creasy gets inside."
"But how will he get inside?" asked Satta.
"I don't know," answered Guido. "But for sure he has
a plan, and for sure it won't be conventional."
"There's been an escalation," Bellu commented. "An
escalation of method: Rabbia was killed with a pistol,
Sandri with a shotgun, Fossella with a bomb, and Conti
with an antitank missile." He spread his hands. "What's
he going to use on Cantarella?"
There was a thoughtful silence, and then Satta
smiled.
"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if about
now the boss of bosses is digging a fallout shelter!"

"There's another one!"
Paddy pointed at the Alfa Romeo that had just overtaken
them. Across its rear window was a sticker
printed with two words: "GO--CREASY!"
It was the fifth they had seen since leaving the outskirts
of Brindisi. Wally shook his head in amazement
and said: "We're transporting a bloody celebrity."
It was three days since they had stepped into the
Mobex outside Bari and tossed the newspaper onto the
table in front of Creasy. He had looked at the huge
photograph and then slowly raised his eyes.
"It's in every newspaper," Wally had said. "And the
full story--you show that ugly face anywhere in Italy
and it will be recognized instantly. It's bound to be on
TV as well."

He had spoken lightly, trying to keep the tension
out of his voice.

Creasy hadn't said a word. Only his eyes moved between
the two of them.
Paddy broke the tension.

"Bloody Frenchman! I knew you were a Yank."

"How?"

"The way you eat."

At that Creasy had smiled, and Wally's held breath
had whooshed out in relief.

They had offered their help, and Creasy had shaken
his head. It was a whole new situation. The danger was
acute. He had told them to catch the train to Brindisi
and be on their way. It wasn't their affair.

But logic had prevailed. Logic and stubbornness.
They had argued for an hour. Driving the Mobex himself,
it would be impossible not to be spotted. With them
driving and him hidden in the back, they could take
him anywhere in Italy. It made obvious sense, but he
spent a long time trying to argue them out of it. Finally
he had agreed. He needed only to get to Reggio, and
not for three days. After that, they could keep the
Mobex--he wouldn't be needing it.

Paddy had tried to force the money back on him; but
then he too had been stubborn. They could use the
money to ship the Mobex to Greece and then on to
Australia. That was his condition.

They had stayed two days in the secluded campsite
near Bari. Creasy never left the vehicle except at night
to get exercise, and only then while Paddy and Wally
kept watch. He hadn't told them how he would cross
into Sicily, but he had a plan. He would explain in
Reggio. Perhaps Wally could help him there before
leaving.

"How does he look without all the hair?" he had
asked Paddy. She had shaken her head.

"No idea--I've never seen him without it--I'd be
frightened to look!"

"I'm bloody handsome," Wally had said. "I only grew

this beard to keep hordes of lecherous females away.
What's it all about?"
But Creasy had just smiled and said he'd tell him
when they reached Reggio.
One evening Paddy had tried to talk him out of it.
The newspapers had stressed the oppositon. How little
chance he had. She was about to say, "Don Quixote,
tilting at windmills," but she had looked at his face and
into his eyes; and stopped.
She remembered it now as they joined the Autostrada
east of Taranto.
"Could you ever feel like that, Wally? Build up
enough hatred to do what he's doing?"
Wally took his eyes off the road to glance at her. She
was serious, and he thought about it.
"Many people could," he answered. "The difference
is having both the hatred and the means. You read his
story in the papers. How many men like that are walking
around?"
"Do you think he'll do it? Get there and do it?"
He pursed his lips as he considered the question.
"He might. He's come a long way, but he'll need luck-- a lot of it. But then, he's had some already--he met
us."
Paddy smiled at him, then was silent for a while.
"What are you thinking?"
She smiled again. "I was wondering how you'll look
without that hair."



Chapter 21

The walls had stood for centuries, but they had no answer
to the bulldozer. It took only half an hour to reduce
the small farmhouse to rubble.
Franco Masi stood next to the cart piled high with
his belongings. His wife already sat on the cart. She
faced away, unable to look, her eyes red from constant
weeping.
But Franco looked, and beyond, to the walls of the
Villa Colacci; hatred twisted his features. For generations
his family had lived and farmed a few rocky
acres on the hillside. The occupant of the villa had been
a benefactor* Franco had always lived under that protection.
The produce of his farm, the cheeses his wife
made, had always been given in homage.
He had not believed at first when they told him. It
could not be. The benefactor would not do such a thing.
He had begged for an audience, but they told him it
was impossible. Don Cantarella would see no one. In
twenty-four hours Franco must move. A house had been
found for him in Palermo. They gave him the papers
to sign.
The bulldozer finished its work, reversed on its
tracks, and rumbled up toward the narrow lane.
From the core of his soul Franco uttered up a silent
prayer: "Go with God, Creasy."
Wally argued fiercely. Seven thousand lire for a
shave and a haircut was absurd. But the barber was
unimpressed. He gestured eloquently at Wally's flowing
locks. It was a major job, an hour's work. Take it
or leave it.

Wally took it. He had a busy day in front of him and
couldn't waste time comparison shopping. At least he
didn't have to lose it all.

"A short, neat, conservative haircut," Creasy had
explained. "And no beard."

Wally was still mystified. They had arrived at the
campsite the night before, and over dinner Creasy had
outlined in great detail what he wanted. He had not
explained why. One step at a time, he had said; it's
safer.

First Wally was to get the haircut and shave. Then
he was to purchase a good-quality leather suitcase and
a briefcase; a sober business suit, a white shirt, a plain-colored,
muted tie, and lace-up shoes. Dressed in this
new attire, he was to check into the Excelsior Hotel;
into their best suite, registering for three nights. He
was then to go to the Avis office in the same building
and hire a car for three days. The best model available.
He was to take dinner in the hotel dining room and
make a point of ordering a very expensive wine and,
with his coffee, a very expensive cognac. Hennessy Extra,
Creasy had suggested.

"You want him to appear to be a rich businessman?"
Paddy had asked.

"Exactly," Creasy had answered.

Paddy had looked at Wally skeptically. "That would
rival the frog turning into Prince Charming."

"Piss off," Wally had said with a grin. "You'll be
surprised. I didn't always look like this."

After his expensive dinner, Wally was to go up to
his suite and put in a phone call to Australia, an old
friend--anyone--and talk for at least twenty minutes.
He was to spend the night in the suite and meet them
back at the campsite in the early morning.

While Wally ate stuffed peperoni in Beggio, Satta,
Bellu, and Guido ate grilled lampuka in the Grand in
Palermo.

"What's your opinion?" Satta asked his assistant.

"He'll come by boat," Bellu said. "Probably fishing
boat--commandeered from somewhere in Calabria."

Satta shook his head impatiently and pointed at his
plate. "I meant the fish."

Bellu smiled; on occasion he enjoyed irritating his
boss. "Slightly overdone."

Satta nodded in agreement and turned to Guido. "It's
possible, just possible, that one day the good captain
will be promoted to colonel."

"That's a prerequisite?" Guido asked. "A colonel
must have a discerning palate?"

"Essential," Satta answered. "We must have standards,
or they'll start promoting people for being clever
or dedicated. That would be a disaster."

"You mean you'd still be a corporal?"

Satta smiled and said to Bellu, "Have you noticed
that Neapolitans have a vicious sense of humor?--Why
do you think by fishing boat?"

Bellu shrugged. "How else? He can't use conventional
transport. Every plane, ferry, and train is being
watched. He's not a man that can be easily disguised."

"It's possible," Satta conceded. "What do you think,
Guido?"

"I don't know," Guido said. "It's idle speculation. I've
given it enough thought, and I don't have an answer.
One thing is sure, though; with his face so well-known,
he can't afford to show it--anywhere."

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 manit'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 Romeyou 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. "Yesa 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 pilotstwo 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 si


lently. 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.

"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 winga 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 Forceon transports.
I've dropped a lot of you people. Also amateurspar-achute 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 peoplemost peopleare
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 Reggioit'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 88


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.

In the kitchen they were watching football. Juventus
versus Naples. All eyes were on the TV screen. All eyes
turned as the window shattered and the rounded, obscenely
shaped grenade arced into the room.

Three died immediately; two were neutralized by shrapnel wounds. Two others, protected from the blast,

were only stunned; but they hadn't begun to reach for
weapons before the door was kicked in.
He stood with submachine gun gripped at chest
height. Eyes evaluating, looking for life; finding it. The
muzzle of the Ingram flickered white; and life left the
room.
He appeared to move without haste but was quickly
across to the open door leading to the passage. An
empty magazine clattered to the stone floor. The snick
of a full one, thrust home; ratchet-click of the Ingram,
being recocked; and he had his back to the wall close
to the door; listening.

Shouts of inquiry from down the passage, and fainter
from the top floor. Doors opening. Creasy slid down to
a crouch, swung into the open door, Ingram held low:
spewing bullets.
Three men in the passage. One managed to duck
back into the room, the others were smashed back as
though hit by a water cannon.
Again Creasy moved and again the Ingram was recharged
in a flowing sequence. It had become a dance:
rhythmic, stylized; movements to a perfect tempo. The
music: screams blending with the stutter of gunfire,
the tinkling of spent cartridges.
He glided past the makeshift dormitory and his right
arm flicked and a grenade lobbed through the door. He
turned at the explosion; saw the figure blown out into
the passage, moaning and scrabbling, trying to raise
the shotgun. A touch of the finger, a half-second burst
and then turning again, reaching the foot of the stairs;
back to the wall, listening.

On the landing above, Cantarella stood at the door
of his study holding a pistol in his right hand. His left
hand gripped the sleeve of his personal bodyguard.
"Stay here!" he screamed, his face radiating panic.
Dicandia, Gravelli, and Abrata stood at the top of the
stairs, pistols pointing down. Dicandia was shirtless,
his chest and back covered in a mat of black hair.
"Go down!"
They turned to look at Cantarella--hesitated. Cantarella's
face worked in fury and fear.
"Go down!" He raised the pistol.

Dicandia moved, edging onto the first step. Only the
top of his body was visible to Cantarella when the rippling
clatter came. He saw Dicandia lift jerkily and,
through the hair, the row of holes opening redly across
his chest. Then he was gone, slumping and sliding down
the steps.
Gravelli and Abrata backed away across the landing.
They weren't going down. They looked to their right
at Cantarella ten meters along the passage, shielded
by the bodyguard. When they turned back, it was too
late. The grenade exploded right between them. The
corner of the landing protected Cantarella and the
bodyguard.
Complete terror took over. Cantarella pushed the
bodyguard forward and stumbled backward into his
study. He slammed shut the door and rushed to the
window, tearing aside the curtains. He didn't try to
open it, just smashed the glass with his pistol and then
screamed out:
"Where are you? Get up here! Get up here!"

Creasy reached the top of the steps, glanced at the
smashed bodies, and eased close to the edge of the passage.
He could hear Cantarella's hysterical shouts.
He held the Ingram in his right hand, and with his
left he unclipped a grenade. He lowered it toward the
Ingram and, with the little finger of his right hand,
pulled out the pin. He released the spring; the clock in
his head ticked twice, and his fingers opened. He swung
his right boot and gently drop-kicked the grenade
round the corner.
At the blast Cantarella turned from the window. He
saw the door splinter off its hinges and his bodyguard
catapult backward into the room.
The boss of bosses stood rigid, looking at the mangled
body on the carpet. His mouth opened but no sounds
came out. His brain had stopped working.
Then, from below, he heard shouts. At last they were
coming! Never taking his eyes from the door, he
crouched down behind the heavy desk, pistol extended,
breath coming in short gasps.
Creasy came through the door in a diving roll, clearing
the dead bodyguard and rising to his knees in the
center of the room. Cantarella fired twice. Jerked
shots--but one was lucky. He saw Creasy punched
back and sideways, and he rose from behind his desk
with a strangled cry of triumph and fired again twice-- wildly. He was not experienced. Luck was not enough.
Creasy's right shoulder was shattered; the arm useless.
But the Ingram still hung from his neck, and his left
hand gripped it and sent a swath of bullets across the
room.
He stood up slowly; painfully. Keeping the Ingram
steady, he moved carefully around the desk.
Cantarella lay on his back, his hands clutching the
corpulence of his belly. Blood seeped through his fingers.
He looked up into Creasy's face. His eyes showed
a mixture of fear and hatred and pleading. Creasy stood
over him, noted the wounds, knew they were fatal. He
raised his right foot and with the shiny black toe cap
lifted Cantarella's chin and slid the heavy boot onto
his throat. He spoke very softly.
"Like her, Cantarella. Like her, you will choke to
death." He moved his weight forward.

The two guards from the gate moved very cautiously,
very reluctantly. They had passed through the kitchen
and along the passage and up the stairs. Nothing they
had seen prompted enthusiasm. The bodies of Gravelli
and Abrata slowed them still further. They stood in the
passageway looking through the doorway into the
study. Looking at the dead bodyguard. They could hear
only a low, gasping moan, and then it stopped.
Neither wanted to enter first, so they edged in together,
submachine guns gripped tightly. They saw
him behind the desk, looking down, and they fired simultaneously.
They saw the body slam back against
the wall, start to sink, and then steady. The Ingram
came up; and bullets crisscrossed the room.

The car squealed to a halt outside the gates. Satta
and Bellu leapt out. The gates were bolted from the
inside. A small door was set into the right-hand gate.
It was also locked. While Satta kicked at it impatiently,
Bellu pulled the ornate bell handle.
Suddenly the horn sounded behind them and the
engine revved. They jumped aside as the heavy police
car shot forward.
Guido aimed at the side, near the heavy hinges. The
impact was loud and effective. Although the gates remained
standing, the upper hinge was torn loose from
the wall, leaving a gap large enough to squeeze
through.
In a moment Guido was through it and running up
the gravel drive.
Satta looked in astonishment at the wrecked car, but
Bellu was already scrambling through the gap and
Satta shrugged and followed him.
They saw Guido pause at the main doors of the villa
and then run across the grass to the corner of the building.
By the time they reached the kitchen he had disappeared.
They stood at the door, looking in. Bellu was
the first to react. He turned away and vomited. Satta
waited silently for him to recover, and then they picked
their way across the blood-soaked stone floor. They
didn't speak as they skirted the bodies in the passage
and glanced into the nearby room. At the foot of the
stairs, Satta looked at the dead man spread-eagled over
the bottom steps.
"Dicandia," he said to Bellu. "Right-hand man."
At the top of the steps they paused again.
"Not much left, but I think it's Gravelli and Abrata-- that's tidy."
They moved on, stepping over more bodies and into

the study. Guido was crouched over behind the desk.
He turned at the sound of their entry.
"Quick!" he called. "Help me!"
They moved forward and Satta bent down and looked
into Creasy's face. His eyes were open. They gazed back
at Satta steadily. His teeth were clenched tight against
the pain. Satta dropped his eyes and took in the blood
and torn flesh. Guido had a hand under Creasy's armpit,
gripping the arm.
"Your right hand!" he said urgently. "Put it here,
next to mine."
Satta knelt down and reached forward. Guido positioned
his hand.
"It's the artery. Press down with your thumb."
Satta followed the instructions and looked lower at
the shattered wrist and the blood spurting out.
"Harder!" Guido demanded.
Satta pressed harder, his fingers digging deep into
the muscled arm. Now the flow of blood abated, seeping
slowly.
"What can I do?" Bellu asked behind them.
Satta turned his head, pointed with his chin at the
desk.
"Get on the phone. They'll be coming, but make sure
they're fully equipped. And I want a helicopter here--
fast!"
Bellu talked urgently into the phone and Satta
turned back and watched Guido wadding cloth against
the wounds, stemming the blood that flowed onto and
into the carpet. He looked to his left. At the body of
Cantarella. At the face--bulging eyes--protruding
tongue--purple hue. He turned back to Creasy. A flash
of gold caught his eye. Crucifix amidst the blood. He
looked up again at the face. The eyes were closed now.
Satta's fingers were getting tired, but he kept up the
pressure. The life in front of him was literally in his
hand. He was conscious of noise: wailing of sirens, and
Guido sobbing with frustration as he worked.



Chapter 53

The funeral was well-attended. It was a cold day, hard
into winter, and on the hill above Naples the wind bit
deep. But there were many reporters. Since the day, a
month before, that had been headlined "The Battle of
Palermo," they had kept their interest, following
closely the battle for life.
That battle had ebbed and flowed. At first, as Creasy
lay in intensive care in Palermo, they had been told
that he had little or no chance; but he clung to life,
surprising the doctors. After two weeks, a special Carabinieri aircraft had flown him to Naples. It was at
Satta's instigation. The Cardarelli Hospital in Naples
was better equipped than the hospital in Palermo--
and more secure.
Satta's brother had led the team of doctors in the
fight for Creasy's life.
They fought hard and long, and at first had hope.
But the damage had been too great, even for a man
strong and determined to live.
So now the reporters looked on at the last act. Looked
with curiosity at the small group around the open
grave. Some they knew, some they didn't. Guido stood
between his mother and Elio. She was old and stooped
and dressed in black, her fingers constantly moving on
her rosary. Next to them, Felicia stood with Pietro, her
eyes red. Across the grave were Satta and Bellu, and
between them, Rika. She too had been weeping. Now
her eyes were fixed on the coffin as it lay suspended on
straps over the gaping hole. An erect, elderly man stood
next to Satta. He wore the full dress-uniform of a
French general. Medals and ribbons covered his chest.
The priest finished and stood back. Guido nodded at
the attendants and slowly the coffin descended. The
priest made the sign of the cross, and Guido bent down
and picked up a lump of earth and tossed it into the
grave. The general came to attention and saluted; and
then the group broke up.
At the cars they all spoke a few words and then
drifted away. Bellu and Guido were the last to leave.
They watched as Satta handed Rika solicitously into
his car, gave them a small wave, and drove off.
"When all is said and done," Guido muttered, with
the trace of a smile, "he is still a cynical bastard."



Epilogue

It was in the new year and after midnight. A cold gre-gale wind swept down from Europe and across the sea
and scoured the bleak hills of Gozo.
The village of Mgarr was dark and very quiet, but
not asleep.
On the balcony of Gleneagles a shadow moved and
rested a heavily tattooed arm on the rail. Benny's eyes
swept the bay and the steeply rising hills. The door
opened behind him, and Tony moved out and passed
him a brandy and stayed next to him; watching and
waiting.
The Melitaland was lashed alongside the jetty,
straining gently at each gust of wind. On the wing of
the bridge, Victor and Michele were also watching, and
also sipping brandy.
High up on the hill the Mizzi brothers sat on their
patio with "Shreik." They were looking out beyond the
harbor walls and were the first to see the tossing, slim,
gray shape edging toward the entrance.
George Zammit braced himself in the small wheel-house
of the police launch as it rolled against the swell
and then steadied as they entered the calm waters of
the harbor. He issued an order, and two seamen carrying
boathooks went out onto the wet deck.
In the shadows behind Gleneagles, a handbrake was released and a Land Rover freewheeled down the short
road and out to the end of the jetty. It was dark there.
The solitary light was not working.
The launch was held fast, and George stepped out
onto the narrow deck. The Land Rover was parked ten
meters away. He could just discern the two figures. The
one nearest to him opened the door and got out and
stood waiting. It was a woman, looking, even with the
coat, bulky--heavy.
George gestured behind him and stood aside. The
man came out of the wheelhouse and moved past him
onto the jetty. He walked slowly to the woman. A big
man with a curious walk, the outsides of his feet making
first contact with the ground.
The woman moved forward and into his arms.
George signaled, and the engines throbbed and the
launch pulled away. As it headed toward the entrance,
he walked to the stern, looking back at the tableau of
the embracing couple.
Then he looked up at the dark, silent, secret hills of
Gozo.
