The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Read online

  Then she started talking to him in a hoarse, grating whisper. An imploring voice, begging him to give her the injection. He went to his canvas chair and sat down and tried to avoid her eyes. It was impossible. His eyes were constantly drawn to the small, white, shaking figure on the filthy mattress. She had offered him everything she had, which was only her naked body. She cupped her breasts and offered them to him. She opened her legs and stroked her crotch and tried to look coquettish. He tried to fix his eyes on the mark on the rock wall above her. Then she had begun to curse him and scream at him. Vile words from a child of thirteen. Finally her legs had begun to twitch and then kick out violently. It went on and on, as she thrashed about on the mattress. He began to wonder how any human being could produce such a sustained and violent action. He began to wonder how even a strong man could live through it, let alone a weak and ravaged child.

  Michael was very frightened. And then the phone rang. She was oblivious to the noise and continued thrashing around, her legs kicking convulsively. Michael picked up the phone. He heard the click and a hum of an overseas call and then Creasy’s voice.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s our situation?’

  Michael took a deep breath and answered as calmly as he could. ‘I’m in the cave . . . I think she’s dying.’

  ‘Describe it.’

  Michael took another deep breath. ‘She’s convulsing. Kicking like hell. Begging for a shot.’

  Creasy’s voice was controlled. ‘Has she been shitting and vomiting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen the snakes in her belly?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she have a long sleep?’

  ‘Yes, she woke up a few hours ago . . . Creasy, she’s only a child . . . her body can’t take much more.’

  There was a brief silence, and then Creasy asked, ‘When did you give her the last shot?’

  Michael looked at his watch and answered, ‘Thirty-eight and a half hours ago.’

  Another silence. Creasy said, ‘If she gets through the next twenty-four hours she might make it. Have you had any sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then listen to me carefully. What she’s going through now is what addicts call “kicking the habit”. Michael, whatever happens . . . no matter how bad you feel . . . don’t give her another shot. No matter what she does or says,’ The voice turned hard. ‘And Michael, no matter what she does or says, don’t even think about calling a doctor or anybody else. A doctor would give her a shot and send her to a detox centre. With some addicts that might be the best thing to do, but with Juliet my gut feeling is that her only chance is over the next few days in that cave with you. Now I want you to lock her in and go and get at least four hours’ sleep. Set your alarm. If you fall asleep in that cave anything could happen,’

  Brusquely Michael said, ‘I can’t just leave her!’

  ‘You have to! Get out of that place for four hours and take away anything she might damage herself with.’

  Michael looked at the thrashing girl and then at the door. Exhaustion swept over him. His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. His whole body ached. Juliet was pulling at the pile of blankets, shaking them loose and covering herself with them, Michael relayed this to Creasy.

  ‘It’s the next stage,’ Creasy told him. ‘She’s being wracked by chills. It will go on for many hours. She will not sleep. Cramps in her stomach will keep her awake. They may kill her, but there is nothing you can do. If she lives she will need you later. Go and get that sleep!’

  Michael made his decision. ‘I will. What’s your situation?”

  ‘I’ve got a lead on the name I was given in Marseille. I’m tracking it down. I’ll call you again in two or three days . . . Be strong, Michael.’

  The phone went dead.

  Chapter 26

  Creasy threw a double four. Satta rolled his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something about luck and the devil. Creasy took his last two counters off the board, glanced at the doubling dice, made a quick calculation and said, ‘It adds up to four hundred and twenty thousand lire.’

  Satta swore under his breath, stood up, stretched his limbs and walked over to the drinks cabinet.

  They were in his elegant apartment. It was Saturday afternoon, and they were both dressed casually in slacks and open-necked shirts. For two hours they had been waiting for a phone call, and had passed the time playing backgammon. Creasy also walked to the cabinet, which was high enough to double as an elbows-on bar. He glanced at his watch.

  Satta handed him a vodka soda in a tall, frosted glass and said, ‘He’ll phone soon. He’s reliable, and if anyone can get a line on this man Donati, he can.’

  Creasy smiled.

  ‘I’m not impatient, Mario. On the contrary, I don’t mind sitting here playing backgammon all day.’

  The Italian grimaced and said, ‘I don’t know who is the most gloating winner, you or Guido . . . By the way, who usually wins when you play each other?’

  ‘It’s about even,’ Creasy answered, ‘but we never play for money.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We just play for practice, so we can fatten our wallets from overpaid carabinieri colonels.’

  Satta was about to retort when the phone rang beside him. He listened for about two minutes, then he said, ‘Thank you’, hung up and turned to Creasy. ‘Maybe . . . it’s just a maybe. There is in this city a man called Jean Lucca Donati. He is a respected businessman, age sixty-one. He is a native of Naples but has been living and working in Milan for the past thirty years. He has no criminal record. In fact he is well-respected in the business and banking community. Over the past fifteen years he has been quite successful. He owns a large trading company which deals in the Middle and Far East, both importing and exporting textiles and garments of a high quality. He travels extensively. He is a widower with three grown sons who are all in the business. He has a penthouse apartment here in Milan and also keeps a small villa on Lake Como.’

  Creasy had been listening intently. Now he took a sip of his drink and asked, ‘So?’

  Satta shrugged. ‘My colleague is suspicious of him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Satta gave a slight smile.

  ‘He pays his taxes.’

  ‘So that makes him a crook?’

  ‘This is Italy,’ Satta said seriously. ‘Very often the only way we can get to a criminal is on a tax evasion charge. The Americans finally got Al Capone for that reason. The last few years I’ve been specialising in corruption between industry and our beloved politicians. In those years I have not come across a single businessman or industrialist who honestly pays his taxes. So why does Jean Lucca Donati make like an angel when it comes to paying taxes? There are so many ways to evade it. It throws up the possibility that he is keeping a clean image in a relatively small business to cover the profits of a much larger and perhaps illegal business.’

  Creasy was not impressed. ‘So all you have is suspicion.’

  They had been talking in Italian. Creasy had learned the language during the years he had spent with Guido, both in the Legion and later as mercenaries. In turn, he had taught Guido English. The result was that Guido spoke English with a slight southern American accent and Creasy spoke Italian with a definite Neapolitan accent. He spoke it so well that an Italian would only guess he was not native-born because he did not use his hands to emphasise his words. By contrast, Satta was so eloquent with his hands that if they were tied behind his back he would be struck dumb.

  ‘Call it more intuition than suspicion,’ he said. ‘Also bear in mind that we have not been able to locate any other Donati who could possibly be involved in the white slave trade . . . not on the international scale you are suggesting.’

  He picked up the phone and within a few seconds was talking to his assistant, Bellu. Creasy listened as he gave precise instructions, which included an in-depth check of Donati’s finances, his recent movements and his busines
s associates overseas.

  He cradled the phone, turned to Creasy and said, ‘If nothing turns up during the next forty-eight hours, I’ll tap all his phones and put a twenty-four hour watch on him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you doing this? You have a million other things to do. This is just a tangent. You’re busy from dawn till dusk. Why?’

  Satta had no immediate answer. He had to think, but then his thoughts crystallised into eloquence.

  ‘Creasy. You are such a stupid asshole. Don’t you know you have friends? Don’t you understand that you don’t live in isolation? Don’t you know that Guido would die for you? That there are other people scattered around the world who would do the same? You have a brain that is stuck in mud. You look at everybody in the same light as you see yourself.’ The Italian became agitated, even angry. He saw that the glasses were empty and poured more drinks. He was a man who rarely showed his emotions. On this night he let himself go. ‘I have known you for six or seven years, and I know the loyalties that you create. But you do not understand them yourself. This “Blue Ring” you talk about - maybe it exists and maybe it doesn’t. If it does you will destroy it. But as an old friend I have to tell you - that you are no longer in your youth. All your life you have acted independently and turned yourself into your own guts and needed no one. But now you need those that you have created . . . Of course I am always in touch with Guido. I know him as a brother . . . and my brother knows him as a brother. Occasionally, after a long night, good food and good wine, he talks about you. No secrets, just memories of the days in the Legion, the days in Africa, the days in the Far East and the days in Vietnam. You came into my life, intent on destroying the Mafia family who had abused a child that you loved. I should have arrested you but I let you go. You put those Mafia bastards back ten years. I do not know about this “Blue Ring” you talk about, but I will find out about it. You can call so many people to your cause. Do not go alone. Use your history. These people you look for are more dangerous than you understand. I think that, because of what you tell me, they have existed for very many years; and we know nothing about them, and so they must be organised and clever in the extreme.’ His voice was now filled with emotion. He took another gulp of his drink, nodded firmly and said, ‘It is as though we go back six years. I see you as a smoking bomb. I have no doubt that in the weeks ahead I will come under pressure to find you and arrest you. I will avoid that pressure.

  ‘My life now is involved in catching corruption. What is the result? I catch them and they pull the strings of politics and get off with a slap on the wrist. Creasy, indulge me . . . Lately, life has been boring. I think the Donati we have identified is your first major link . . . OK . . . intuition, but go for him. You know my assistant . . . I have to correct myself, my associate . . . Bellu . . . you know him well. He has the kind of mind to help you. He needs a long holiday. I will suggest that he helps you. I will give you the umbrella of legal sanction. But I urge you to call on those people you know and trust to help you break these animals. There is no legally constituted body in this country - or in any country in Europe - that could attempt it.’

  A long silence. Then Creasy half smiled.

  ‘At the end of it, will the carabinieri give me a pension?’

  Satta also smiled, a smile of emotion.

  ‘I talk tonight in a way that you will never hear me talk again. The evil that you look for will never be tried in a court of law. The only retribution will be death, I will cover you for that . . . In the meantime, Creasy, you must be careful when you’re in this city or in any other city in Italy. Don’t forget, your face is well-known and, for sure, any Mafia family would love to get their hands on you.’

  Creasy shrugged. ‘That is why I stay in a lousy little hotel and keep to myself.’

  The Italian nodded thoughtfully, then pointed at the telephone. ‘Make your dispositions.’

  Creasy looked at him. ‘Is this phone secure?’

  ‘Believe it.’

  Creasy dialled a number. It was Blondie in Brussels. He spoke in euphemisms but she understood every word.

  ‘A base,’ he said.

  ‘You have it,’

  He told her about the people with whom she could be frank and open. ‘Michael, of course, and in time maybe a child called Juliet. A policeman in Copenhagen whom you once met. A Frenchman from Marseille who will identify himself only as The Owl. His boss is another Frenchman whom you knew in Algiers. He was a legionnaire. Now he lives in Marseille.’

  He heard her rich chuckle and she said, ‘Yes, I know him . . . not entirely ugly.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You knew every good-looking legionnaire in North Africa.’

  She laughed again and then said, ‘A good man, and he respects you. Who else?’

  ‘Maxie, of course. Also contact the Australian and the Frenchman who helped me on the last job in the States and put them on standby . . . The usual rates . . . plus job satisfaction. I’ll be with you in a couple of days.’ He cradled the phone and looked at Satta, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘So the war starts,’ Satta said with satisfaction.

  ‘It starts as soon as you give me a definite lead,’ Creasy answered, then picked up the phone and dialled another number. The phone rang and, on a sudden impulse, Creasy hung up.

  Satta’s face showed surprise.

  ‘What is it?’

  Thoughtfully Creasy said, ‘Is there any chance that Guido’s phone might be bugged?’

  Satta smiled and shook his head. ‘I stay at his pensione quite often, and I have his phone and the pensione swept regularly. His phone is not bugged.’

  Creasy punched the number and in a few seconds was talking to Pietro, the semi-adopted son of Guido, who did most of the work at the pensione. He had been dispatched to Gozo during those traumatic weeks when Creasy had been destroying the Cantarella Mafia family all those years ago. The conversation was brief but affectionate.

  ‘How are you, you miserable little prick?’

  ‘I recognise your asshole voice. What do you need?’

  ‘Is the man around?’

  ‘No he’s with his mother . . . she has a headache.’

  Creasy laughed softly and said, ‘Listen carefully and pass it on. There may be calls from the following: myself, Michael, Satta, Bellu, Corkscrew Two, Blondie, a girl called Juliet, Pavlova, The Owl, Laura, Maxie, Nicole, Miller, Callard . . . only those. Tell the man and, understand yourself, take messages. Listen to nobody else,”

  There was a pause as Pietro took notes. Then he said, ‘Will we see you?’

  ‘In a few days.’ Creasy put down the phone, looked at Satta and said, ‘Two or three more phone calls and I’ll be ready.’

  Satta nodded and refilled the glasses. Creasy dialled Leclerc in Marseille. They chatted about inconsequential things and people such as a cousin in Milan and an old aunt in Naples. Creasy dropped a few nicknames which would be incomprehensible to any covert listener. They were certainly incomprehensible to Satta, who was listening with interest. But he knew who Leclerc was, and he surmised that Creasy was ordering weapons to be delivered to both Milan and Naples.

  Finally Creasy said into the phone, ‘I hear that The Owl did a good job. Perhaps I could use him on this one too?’ He listened for a moment, nodded in satisfaction, said, ‘Good’ and hung up the phone. He then phoned Michael in Gozo, heard the anguish in his voice and gave his advice. He put the phone down and Satta noted the pain on his face.

  “What is it?’ the Italian asked.

  Creasy explained about Juliet. Satta was one of the very few men that understood Creasy, understood the thick shell that surrounded him, and the small centre that held emotion.

  He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said quietly, ‘You tilt at windmills. You slay the dragon. If that evil exists, you will obliterate it... and then where will you go . . . back to your island?’

  Creasy drained his gla
ss, nodded and said, ‘Back to my island . . . and to my son . . .’ He paused and thought, and his voice became sombre. ‘And in the next forty-eight hours it’s possible that I will go back to a daughter.’ He lifted his head, stretched his tired body and then said in a soft voice, ‘Mario, can you imagine me of all people, after what has happened, with a son and a daughter? I had a wife and a child, and life ended, and now just maybe I have a son and a daughter.’ Seconds ticked by within a silence, then Creasy added something else. Very softly he said, ‘Mario . . . I know you have religion. When you can find time tonight . . . please find time to pray for my daughter.’

  Chapter 27

  God created the world in six days. On the seventh day he rested. But a millennium later he took time off from his rest to bring through one of his creations.

  In the early morning she started to have violent physical orgasms. She clutched at her crotch and her child’s body arched from one spasm to another. Michael sat in his canvas chair and watched, but could not stay. He knew it was the last phase. He also knew that her young heart had been greatly weakened from the excesses the drug had imposed on it. He knew that this phase would last an hour or more, and that she might well attack him physically, either out of inflamed sexual desire, or inflamed hatred. He took his chair and the ladle and the telephone and left the cave, locking it behind him. He set his alarm and slept for an hour by the pool and then, with massive trepidation, went back into the cave. She would be dead or asleep.

  At first he thought she was dead. She lay so still; her body was wet, on the wet mattress. He moved forward slowly. He had been taught how to check for a dead body. She was curled up in a foetal position. He touched her shoulder. It was cold. He pulled her head away from her chest and put the back of his hand under her chin against her artery. The rhythm was slow and so faint that he could hardly feel it . . . but it was there. He stood up and looked down at her exhausted, soiled body. He was looking at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen or would ever see.