Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

  ‘She spotted the car parked about thirty metres 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 tyres and a racing engine and finally silence.’

  A. J. Quinnell is the pseudonym of the author of ten novels including Man on Fire which was made twice into Hollywood Films — most recently directed by Tony Scott for Twentieth Century Fox in 2004, starring Denzel Washington, Christopher Walken and Dakota Fanning. The book sold more than eight million copies in paperback and was translated around the world.

  Full list of titles:

  Man on Fire

  The Mahdi

  Snap Shot

  Blood Ties

  Siege of Silence

  In the Name of the Father

  The Perfect Kill

  The Blue Ring

  Message from Hell

  Black Horn

  MAN ON FIRE

  ‘Fast, lethal . . . and highly suspenseful’

  Chicago Tribune

  ‘Imaginative . . . appealing . . . satisfying!’

  New York Times

  SIEGE OF SILENCE

  ‘Technically and psychologically A. J. Quinnell climbs a few more rungs with this breathless thriller’

  Observer

  ‘An exceptional thriller . . . Here is a writer who can make characters come alive and build tension so you cannot wait to turn the page . . . a memorable novel’

  Daily Telegraph

  THE PERFECT KILL

  ‘Intricate planning . . . imaginative, well-written’

  Weekend Telegraph

  ‘Best thriller of the year’

  Daily Mail

  Man on Fire

  A. J. Quinnell

  First published in Great Britain by Macmillan London Limited in 1980

  Copyright © 1980 A. J. Quinnell

  Published by CLLA

  The right of A. J. Quinnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted to 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, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-1-908426-04-8

  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.

  — ZIRHNHELD

  The Paras’ Prayer

  Contents

  Prologue

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Book Two

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Book Three

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Book Four

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  EPILOGUE

  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 solitary 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.

  Book One

  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 armoured 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-centred. 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, Cara, 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, wilful and self-centred 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 colours 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 th
at algebra gave me a headache,” she said pointedly. “I’m 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.