Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4) Read online

  It was ten minutes later when the window shattered . . . ten minutes after midnight. The light was still on and her eyes still open. She saw the oblong black object arching across the room and, although she had never seen one before, she recognised it as a grenade. It hit the far wall, bounced off the white Tientsin carpet and rolled under the bed.

  She felt Colin’s body jerk beside her, and then the massive bed lifted and tilted with the explosion. She lay stunned on the carpet, but within seconds he was on his feet, grabbing at the gun and pulling her down behind the bed which had lost one leg. Two more grenades followed. The first one shattered into shrapnel. She felt a sharp pain in her arm and heard a grunt from him. The second grenade exploded into white flame and for several seconds she was blinded. She heard several explosions in other parts of the house and then voices shouting in Cantonese.

  Chapman was at the broken window, standing naked, the gun raised and firing rapidly . . . Then, in a blurred sequence, she saw Colin hurl his now empty weapon at the door. She felt his arms around her and heard his voice screaming, ‘Run!’ And then he had lifted her off her feet and flung her through the window that was no longer there.

  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

  BLACK HORN

  A. J. Quinnell

  First published in Great Britain by Chapman Publishers (Orion) in 1994

  Copyright © 1994 A. J. Quinnell

  Published by CLLA

  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, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-1-908426-11-6

  To Elsebeth

  Author’s Note

  My thanks to Claire Potter and Maxie MacDonald for their invaluable help with this book.

  I would like to wish a long and well deserved retirement to Marjory Chapman. Her advice and encouragement will be missed by this writer; and many others.

  Contents

  Prologue

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  EPILOGUE

  Prologue

  The hunter had no interest in the animals. He rested on his haunches within a small outcrop of rocks about five hundred metres from the Zambezi River. To his left, a herd of impala moved down to drink before sunset, the young bounding and leaping in circles around their elders. To his right, a pair of zebra moved in the same direction and, beyond them, a single male kudu, statuesque beneath his spiralling horns.

  The hunter’s eyes were fixed on the large khaki tent nestling in the shade of a giant baobab tree. The hunter glanced again to his right at the red sinking sun, and offered up a hope that he would not have to wait another night. The hunter was not a man to pray. He acknowledged no God.

  The rifle was propped against the rock beside him. It was an old Enfield Envoy L4A1, much loved by World War Two snipers. It had the original number 31 telescopic sight. The hunter had grown up with it.

  He stiffened as he saw a movement at the entrance of the tent. A big white man emerged. He had a shock of red hair. He wore only green shorts. He moved to the curling smoke of the fire and kicked more logs on to it.

  The hunter reached for his rifle. Through the scope he could clearly identify the man’s face from the photograph in his back pocket. Identification was positive, even though the red hair had been covered by a hat.

  The hunter positioned himself. He sat back against a rock and rested his elbows on his knees, forming a natural tripod. Abruptly he stiffened again to the faint sound of a voice. He took his eye away from the scope. A woman had emerged from the tent. She was also wearing green shorts and nothing else. The hunter put his eye against the scope and studied her. She had long blonde hair, accented by a deeply tanned face, a narrow waist below high young breasts. She was smiling at the man.

  The hunter cursed quietly. He had been told that the man would be alone. He glanced again at the lowering sun. There was no time to trek to his hidden Land Rover and radio for instructions.

  The hunter took his decision.

  The man was squatting by the fire, prodding life into it with a stick. The woman stood beside him, watching the herd of impala with a gentle smile on her face. The hunter shot her first, between the breasts. The second shot followed immediately. The man had half-risen. The bullet took him in the pit of his stomach. The woman lay still. The man was rolling around, clutching his belly. The hunter shot him again through the back. He did not shoot the woman again. The hunter was not a man to waste a bullet.

  She drove fast, her black hair blowing in the wind. It was as black as the MG roadster which she loved as much as anything else in her life, even though it was almost as old as she was. Like her, it had been well maintained. At twenty-eight years old, her body was kept svelte by a good diet and plenty of aerobics. Kwok Ling Fong, known to her friends as Lucy, was eager to get home. The flight from Tokyo had been delayed and she did not want to be too late for her father’s birthday party. Not a big party, just her parents and brother. Like most Chinese families, they were close and preferred to celebrate privately.

  She spe
d through the Kowloon-Hong Kong tunnel, only slightly over the speed limit, and then wound up the steep roads of the Peak. She was looking forward to having a few days off. After three years, she still enjoyed being an air hostess and liked to travel, but lately the days off had seemed more welcome.

  She parked next to her father’s Honda, grabbed her overnight bag and ran into the house.

  She could smell smoke, and as she ran past her father’s study, she saw it; curling out from under the door. She ran on, shouting her father’s name.

  They were in the sitting room. They were hanging in a row by their necks from a ceiling beam. They were naked, their faces contorted in death. Blood dripped from her father’s chest. Before she passed out, Lucy Kwok Ling Fong subconsciously noted that a symbol had been carved on it: 14K.

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  She was old. Her once beautiful face radiated pain and grief.

  Her talon-like fingers gripped the arms of the wheelchair as she gazed up across the desk at Senator James S. Grainger. They were in the study of his Denver home.

  He gazed back at her and said quietly, ‘I know how you feel, Gloria. It’s been five years since Harriet’s death, but I know what you’re feeling,’

  She nodded her grey, bird-like face vigorously.

  ‘Sure you do Jim. And you damned well did something about it . . . if the rumours are true.’

  He inclined his head to acknowledge a point, and then tapped the file in front of him and said softly and persuasively, ‘Yes, I had my revenge . . . but I knew where to look.’ He tapped the file again. ‘But Carole’s case is a dead-end. I used all my influence with State. I even spoke personally to our Ambassador in Harare. He’s a good guy . . . a career officer. We give a lot of aid to Zimbabwe and he was able to get co-operation from the very top, including Mugabe himself. As you know, their police drew a complete blank. There was no apparent motive. No robbery or rape. Carole and her friend had been camped at that site by the Zambezi for three days, so they didn’t just stumble across a bunch of poachers. Unfortunately, there was a rain storm that night and all tracks were washed away. As you know, Gloria, since the War of Independence tens of thousands of guns have landed up in that country . . . I’m afraid it really is a dead-end. I can’t express how bad I feel. I watched Carole grow up. She was a fine girl . . . a credit to you.’ Jim Grainger was a hard man, successful in both business and politics. His grey eyes softened as he looked at the old woman, ‘You’ve had some hard knocks, Gloria. Harry, just a couple of years ago, and now your only child.’

  Her fingers gripped the wheelchair more tightly. She spoke harshly. ‘I don’t give up, Jim. I’m sixty years old and I never give up on anything. If I wasn’t stuck in this goddamned chair with this useless body I’d be down there myself, looking for the bastard or bastards that did it.’

  The Senator shrugged sympathetically but said nothing.

  The woman drew a breath and said, ‘As you know, Harry left me more than well-off . . . Not that all those millions do me any good, while I’m stuck in this goddamned wheelchair.’

  Grainger shrugged and said, ‘Gloria, I’m helping you for two reasons. First, because it’s my duty to do so, as the senior Senator for Colorado . . . and you are one of my constituents. Second, because although Harry and I often head-butted each other over some business deals, I respected him and counted him as a friend . . . I count my friends on the fingers of one hand.’

  She gave him a thin smile.

  ‘I guess I’m not one of those fingers, Jim.’

  He nodded and said, ‘You’ve always been a straight talker, Gloria, and so have I. I’d be less than honest if I said that we’ve got on over the years. You can be damned abrasive — and don’t pretend that you ever voted for me at any election in these past twenty years.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I sure didn’t, and I won’t in future. I think you’re too far to the left for a republican, and always have been.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I am what I am, Gloria, and thank God there are enough voters out there who do believe in me.’ He waved a hand as though to dismiss the subject. ‘Anyway, if Harry were alive, I know that he would leave no stone unturned or no dollar unspent to find Carole’s killer or killers, and I guess you will do the same.’

  ‘You’re right, Jim. When our Ambassador in Harare came up with a dead-end, I decided to hire some people to go out there and find out who killed my girl.’

  Grainger leaned forward and asked, ‘What kind of people?’

  She lifted her right hand and coughed into it. It was a sound like thick paper being torn. She looked up at him and said, almost defiantly, ‘Tough people, Jim. Harry’s brother-in-law was a Green Beret in Vietnam. He knows some guys.’

  The Senator sighed. ‘Mercenaries, I guess?’

  She shrugged, ‘I guess so . . . For sure they don’t come cheap.’

  He sighed again and his voice took on an edge of authority. ‘Listen to me, Gloria — and listen good because I know about these things. It cost me a lot of money to learn the hard way. First of all, American mercenaries know very little about Africa, especially that part of Africa. You’ll be wasting your money.’

  Very coldly, the old woman answered, ‘So I do nothing? Is that your advice?’

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched his face. He was slowly shaking his head. He was deep in thought. She waited impatiently. Then she saw him nodding and, as though to himself, he said, ‘There is a man. He is American. He is a mercenary.’

  ‘He knows Africa?’ she asked.

  He continued nodding. ‘Oh, yes. He knows Africa like you know your backyard.’

  ‘His name?’

  A single word rolled pleasantly from the Senator’s lips: ‘Creasy.’

  They went out to the garden and moved slowly around the large, oval pool, the Senator pushing the wheelchair. A black Doberman bitch ambled alongside.

  Grainger quietly explained. ‘I first met Creasy in this house. It was a couple of months after Harriet had been killed in Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie. I came home late one night from a government dinner. I was a bit drunk. I found this big guy dressed in black sitting at the bar, drinking my best vodka.’

  The old woman twisted her head to look up at him. She asked, ‘How did he get past the dog and the alarms and your man-servant?’

  Grainger chuckled quietly. ‘He put a tranquillising dart into Jess here and then another one into my man-servant. Before he left, he advised me on how to make my alarm system more efficient.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  The Senator took some paces in silence and then answered. ‘His wife and daughter had also been on Pan Am 103. He wanted vengeance. He came to me for half the money necessary and for my contacts with the FBI and the government departments. Like you, I had already decided to hire some mercenaries . . . I had already paid a lot of seed money to one guy in particular. Creasy fingered him for a con man and got most of my money back . . . and later on killed the guy.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ she said with an urgency in her voice.

  Grainger said, ‘Well, the first thing I did was check with the FBI. As you know, I sit on the relevant House Committee, and the Director tends to kiss my ass. They had a file on Creasy. He joined the Marines at seventeen and was kicked out two years later for striking a senior officer. He then went to Europe and joined the French Foreign Legion and became a paratrooper. He fought and was captured in Vietnam and had a damn bad time. He survived to go and fight in the Algerian War of Independence. After that, his unit was disbanded and he was kicked out. Together with a close friend, he became a mercenary, first in Africa, then the Middle East, then Asia. He ended his mercenary career in what was then Rhodesia and is now Zimbabwe. Like I said, he knows that country well.’

  He stopped abruptly as she flicked on the hand-brake to the wheelchair. Opposite them was a wooden bench. The Doberman flopped down alongside it. She gestured at the bench and said, ‘Plea
se, Jim . . . I want to look at you while you talk.’

  He moved around the chair and sat down a few feet away from her.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked. ‘Something cool . . . or a Scotch?’

  Her smile was more of a grimace,

  ‘I save the Scotch until late evening . . . then I drink at least half a bottle. It helps the pain and it helps me to sleep. What did Creasy do after Rhodesia became Zimbabwe?’

  ‘I don’t know the whole story, but apparently he drank a lot, and kind of wandered around aimlessly. Then he got a job in Italy as a bodyguard to the daughter of an industrialist. Something went badly wrong and he ended up having a full-scale war with a Mafia family. After that he married, settled down with his wife and had a daughter . . . until they were both killed over Lockerbie.’ The Senator’s face had turned very sombre. He was looking down at the grass between his knees. Slowly he raised his head and looked at the old woman and went on, ‘Gloria, I understand you and how you feel even though Harriet and I had no children. Because when Harriet died, I had nothing left at all. But Creasy came along and satisfied my vengeance and somehow after that I felt better.’

  She was abruptly all business. ‘He works alone?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Creasy is now in his early fifties and as fit as any man could be at that age. But with the Lockerbie thing, he adopted a young orphan boy called Michael and trained him in his own image. They act as a team. Creasy can also call on any number of weird and wonderful guys from his past . . . I’ve met some of them . . . They saved my life. Believe me, they’re the best.’

  Gloria was a tough and shrewd old woman who would never buy even an orange without examining it very carefully. ‘What has he done since?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know the details,’ Grainger answered. ‘But some years ago, he and Michael wiped out a white slave ring in Europe. As a result, Creasy ended up with a sort of adopted daughter. She’s seventeen now.’