The Perfect Kill (A Creasy novel Book 2) Read online

  The Senator had reached the bar. He put an elbow on it. It was exactly the right height. He had designed it so. He was facing the man.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I use the name Taylor.’

  The Senator slowly nodded his head.

  ‘I think I recall seeing the message, but I’m a busy man, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘So am I.’

  The Senator’s voice went flat. ‘State your business.’

  ‘Pan Am 103.’

  The two men stared at each other. The Senator was older by ten years, smaller and thinner, grey-haired but fit. He swam seventy lengths in his pool every morning. His pool was fifty feet long. Slowly, he went behind the bar. As he poured himself a large Scotch, he asked, ‘How did you get in here?’

  The man said, ‘Senator, you have a highly sophisticated security system. Before I leave, I will tell you how to improve it.’

  ‘What about the Dobermann?’

  ‘She’s out, by the pool.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry. She’s just sleeping.’

  The Senator was looking at the man’s glass. It was almost empty.

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  Taylor pointed with his chin at the shelves behind, ‘Some of your excellent Stolichnaya.’

  The Senator reached behind him for the bottle, poured a generous slug, took the top off the ice-bucket and filled the glass with ice. There was a half soda bottle on the bar. The man topped up the glass and lifted it. The Senator also raised his glass and said, ‘What about Pan Am 103?’

  ‘Your wife was on it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So was mine, and my daughter.’

  There was a silence, then the Senator said, ‘How old was your wife?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  ‘Four.’

  For reasons he could not later understand, the Senator asked, ‘What were their names?’

  ‘Nadia and Julia.’

  Another silence, then in a quiet voice, the Senator said, ‘My wife was called Harriet. She was sixty-three. We never had children . . . couldn’t have children . . . just the two of us.’

  The man topped up the drinks and brought them over.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ he said. ‘For some reason I think better near water.’

  The Senator took his glass and slid open the French doors. They walked around the pool to the dog. The man bent down and put a hand under its chin. He held it there for half a minute, then straightened.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘She’ll wake up about dawn and be in quite a bad temper.’

  ‘And how did you take Miguel out?’

  ‘The same way, Senator . . . after all, we are all animals.’

  They walked around the pool together. The man asked, ‘What are you going to do about Harriet?’

  They had made two circuits of the pool before the Senator replied.

  ‘What are you going to do about Nadia and Julia?’

  ‘I’m going to kill the bastards that did it.’

  They did two more circuits in total silence, then the Senator said, ‘Let’s go inside.’

  He gave a wry smile, ‘I have exactly the same intention. I’ve already started the ball rolling.’

  ‘How?’

  The Senator was a very precise man. He glanced at the calendar window of his Rolex and said, 'Three weeks ago I hired a man . . . an expert.’

  ‘An expert what?’

  ‘An expert killer.’

  ‘American?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I know his name?’

  Slowly the Senator shook his head. ‘Regretfully not, that was part of the conditions of contract.’

  The man sighed. ‘His background then, even part of it.’

  ‘He was a mercenary.’

  ‘Where?’

  The Congo, Biafra, and elsewhere.’

  Tell me, Senator, who is this killer going to kill?’

  The Senator shrugged. ‘Obviously the target is not yet fully identified, but with my connections I have access to the interim reports of the FBI and CIA. They are already sure that it’s a Palestinian group, either the PFLP or the PFLP-General Command, or Abu Nidal’s group, or even the Hezbollah. They expect to have identification in a matter of months.’

  ‘So what’s your killer doing right now?’

  ‘Preparing an operation to infiltrate into either Lebanon or Syria, depending on who the final target is.’

  ‘Has he had experience in the Middle East?’

  ‘Yes, extensive.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘He found me.’

  ‘You checked him out of course.’

  The Senator smiled. ‘I had the FBI pull his file from Interpol. They keep a central data bank on all known mercenaries. As a matter of fact, it’s an interesting story. He told me the story before I called the FBI. He faked his own death about five years ago. The FBI confirmed that he had been killed. The guy was some character, one of the few Americans who had done time in the French Foreign Legion.’

  Very softly the man asked, ‘When was that?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but he fought for them during the Algerian War of Liberation.’

  ‘Do you know what battalion?’

  ‘Not precisely, but it was a parachute battalion.’

  ‘How much did you pay him . . . how much up front?’

  Again the Senator hesitated, then said, The full contract was for a million bucks, twenty-five percent up front, twenty-five percent when the target is positively identified, and the balance when he makes the kill.’

  There was a silence. Then gently the Senator asked, ‘Were you going to make a similar proposition?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Not similar. I need you for help with your connections, and access to information. I checked the background and connections of every passenger on that plane. You fitted what I needed . . . money and power which gives you access to information via the CIA and FBI. I have money of my own, but not enough. Such an operation would cost out at around five hundred thousand bucks. I would put up half and want you to put up half.’

  ‘I guess you’re too late.’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, Senator. I’m not too late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The man shrugged. He said, ‘The person you describe did serve in a parachute battalion in the Foreign Legion. He was kicked out after the Generals’ revolt and became a mercenary. He did fight in the wars you have described and others. He did fake his own death about five years ago.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he is not the man you talked to. He is not the man you gave a quarter of a million bucks to three weeks ago. You’ve been conned, Senator.’

  The Senator felt his anger rising.

  ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Senator, the man you described is sitting across this bar from you right now, drinking your fine vodka. I was the only American serving with the French Foreign Legion in a Para battalion during the Algerian War of Liberation.’

  The Senator’s jaw dropped. The man could see the gold fillings at the back of his mouth,

  ‘What is your real name?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Creasy.’

  The jaw snapped shut. ‘You can prove that of course?’

  'This man came to see you. Presumably he was able to get past your secretary more easily than I was. Describe him to me.’

  ‘He was about your age, hair moderately long but neat, greying at the temples; he had a moustache and a scar on his forehead, a thinnish face, very tanned. He would be close to six feet and he was dressed in a business suit, I would say from a good tailor.’

  ‘His accent?’

  ‘Mid-west, but not very pronounced, blurred . . . a bit like yours, like he had been out of America for a long time.’

  The man’s smile was wry. He said, ‘The guy who came to see you, Senator, was Joe Rawlings .
. . a con man. After you gave him the money in cash or negotiable securities, where did he say he was going?’

  The Senator’s face was bleak. ‘He said Brussels. He was gonna meet up with some guys and recruit a couple. He said that was the place to do it.’

  ‘Has he been in contact?’

  ‘No, he said he would phone in a month.’ He looked at his watch again. 'That will be in one week.’

  ‘Did he leave an address?’

  The Senator grimaced, ‘He left a poste restante number in Brussels, and another in Cannes in the South of France.’

  The man said, ‘You have indeed been conned, Senator. The con would have gone as follows. In a week Rawlings would have phoned you and told you that he was forwarding an interim report. That report would arrive listing his expenses . . . which would be heavy, plus the names of various mercenaries he had recruited and various expensive equipment he had so far purchased, together with receipts. Once the bombers of Pan Am 103 have been identified, you would notify him to both the poste restante numbers. He would then ask for the second instalment. You will receive proof of all this in a matter of days.’

  He pointed at the empty glass in front of him. ‘My finger prints are on that glass. Put it in your safe. In a matter of days you will receive another finger print; it will be of Joe Rawlings. Ask your friends at the FBI to verify them both. Sometime later you will receive a letter from me. Tear off the blank piece at the bottom right-hand corner of the page. Send it to your friends at the FBI. It will have my thumb print on it. Do the same with any communication you receive from me. If you ever receive a phone call from me, I will start with the word ‘Lockerbie’ and the date ten days previous.’

  He stretched his shoulders again, his face was tired. So was the Senator’s.

  Then the Senator straightened and said grimly, ‘We’re going after the bastards that caused the pain.’ A thought struck him. ‘Will you go alone, or recruit some of your old buddies?’

  Creasy shook his head.

  ‘No. This is personal. But I will add a new element, something I may need. I will add youth. A kind of youth that I will mould myself. In a way I’ll try to clone something of my past onto someone young . . . and in doing so bind him to me. It will be a kind of insurance. We don’t know how long it will take to identify the target . . . it might take months or years.’

  Grainger smiled and shrugged. ‘I wish I had your years and skills. I’d come with you. I wish to God I could come with you.’

  ‘From this night you are with me. From this night you are not so lonely as you were . . . and that goes for me too. From this night I have a friend . . . we will live with our grief together.’

  He held Grainger by the shoulders at arms’ length for a brief moment, then said, ‘Senator, I’ll try to get some of your money back for you . . . if there’s any left. Now I have to get moving. Let’s have a quick look at your security system, and reconnect your phone.’

  Chapter 2

  THE FOOTBALL PITCH was small and dusty. No grass grew on the Maltese island of Gozo, at least not the type for football pitches. The ages of the boys ranged from fourteen to seventeen. Five months had passed since Pan Am 103 came down on and around Lockerbie, and it was almost the end of the football season.

  The man sat beside Father Manuel Zerafa on the church steps, watching the game. The priest was in charge of the local orphanage. They had known each other and had been friends for many years.

  The ball was kicked wildly up field. There was a mêlée around it, from which emerged a dark-skinned youth, with the ball at his feet. With startling acceleration, he rounded two defenders, and coolly flicked the ball past the goalkeeper into the net.

  The priest leapt up, shouting wildly and clapping his hands. He was short and round and his wild enthusiasm seemed somehow out of place.

  ‘It’s the cushion we needed,’ he said, sitting down. The orphanage hasn’t beaten Sannat for the past seven seasons.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Only ten minutes more. They won’t get two goals in ten minutes.’ The priest pointed with his chin at a man sitting the other side of the pitch and grinned wickedly.

  ‘Father Joseph will be mad as hell.’

  ‘Who’s the boy?’ Creasy asked. The one who scored the goal.’

  ‘Michael Said,’ the priest answered warmly. The best player we’ve had in the twenty years that I’ve run the orphanage. One day he’ll play for Malta. Hamrun Spartans want him for their youth team next season. They’ve agreed to pay the orphanage three hundred pounds. Can you believe that, Uomo?’

  'Because there are so many common surnames on Gozo, everyone is given a nickname. Creasy’s nickname was Uomo. It was Italian and meant simply ‘Man’.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Just seventeen last week.’

  ‘How long has he been at the orphanage?’

  ‘From birth.’

  Creasy was watching the boy as he moved around the pitch, dominating the game. He was not tall, nor heavily built, but he covered the dusty ground with a combination of grace and determination and he tackled even the bigger boys with fierce concentration. Creasy had been watching the boy for the past half hour, ignoring the others.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ he said.

  The priest glanced up at the big man beside him.

  ‘Haven’t you seen him before?’

  ‘Yes, around the village but I never noticed him much . . . Father, tell me about him.’

  His voice was quiet and intense and the priest glanced up at his face again, then shrugged.

  ‘It’s a common enough story. His mother was a prostitute in Gzira, in Malta. From his dark skin I guess his father was an Arab. There were and are a lot of them in Gzira. She didn’t want the child, so he ended up with us.’

  ‘Does he speak Arabic?’

  The priest nodded somewhat bitterly.

  ‘Yes, very well, or so I’m told by the Kuwaiti teacher we had seconded to us for two years. He was a good man that, for an Arab. A good footballer even. He trained the juniors at Qala. He took a special interest in Michael. When the new government came in they made Arabic optional in schools. But that’s a joke because they sent all the Arabic teachers home.’

  At that moment the boy split the defence with a perfect through-ball. Another orphan sped onto it and hammered it past the goalkeeper. The priest erupted with joy.

  'Three-nil!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve never ever beaten Sannat by three goals.’ Laughing out loud, he made a rude gesture at the other, younger priest across the pitch and got a glare in return. He sat down chuckling.

  Creasy asked, ‘Is he intelligent?’ Father Zerafa smiled and said, ‘Between you and me, that priest is an idiot. I don’t know how he got through the seminary, except that his second cousin is the bishop.’

  Creasy smiled, ‘I meant the boy.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ the priest answered. ‘Anyone who can make a pass like that has to be intelligent. I tell you, he’ll play for Malta.’

  ‘What about other subjects, apart from Arabic and football?’

  ‘Yes, consistently good.’

  ‘In other sports?’

  ‘He’s the best table tennis player in the orphanage, and there are some good ones. Apart from football, that’s about the only recreation they get.’

  Creasy’s eyes had never left the moving boy.

  ‘And his character,’ he asked. ‘What about his character?’

  The priest spread his hands. ‘Difficult to fathom, he’s a loner. We have sixty-eight boys in the orphanage, and most of them seem to form groups within their ages. But Michael never joined a group. He’s got a couple of friends, but I couldn’t say they were very close.’

  There was a silence between them and the priest could sense Creasy’s continuing curiosity.

  He went on: ‘Like all young boys he’s sometimes naughty, but less than most, and now hardly ever at all.’

  ‘Did he ask about his parents?’

  ‘Yes, on his thir
teenth birthday he came to see me, and he asked.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said nothing. He thanked me for telling him and left the room. He has never mentioned the subject since.’

  Another silence, and then Creasy asked quietly: ‘Is he religious?’

  Sadly the priest shook his head. ‘I fear not.’

  ‘But he attends Mass?’

  ‘He has to. They all have to, but not with great enthusiasm.’

  The referee blew the final whistle and the orphan players all hugged each other. Creasy and the priest stood up, the priest brushing the dust from his cassocked backside.

  ‘Could you send him to see me?’ Creasy asked.

  Father Zerafa looked surprised. To see you? Up at the house?’

  Creasy was looking across the pitch over the low village houses towards a long ridge. On its left, nestling below the highest point, was an old stone farmhouse, blending into the hill.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘at the house, at around six o’clock this evening.’

  He turned to look at the priest.

  ‘It was a good win, Father. Well done.’ He punched the priest lightly on the shoulder and walked down the steps of the church to his jeep.

  The priest watched him drive off and was then engulfed by his players.

  The sun was dipping to the west as the boy walked up the dusty path to the house on the hill. The priest had been brief as usual. Back at the orphanage, he had simply taken him aside and said:

  ‘Go up and see Uomo at his house at six o’clock.’

  ‘What for?’ the boy had asked.

  The priest had shrugged, ‘I don’t know. Just be there.’

  The boy knew all about Uomo, or at least what everyone else on the small island knew. Apart from his nickname, he was also known in Maltese as Il Mejjet: The Dead One. He knew that some years ago, Uomo had spent several months on the island and then disappeared. Knew that he had returned in the night some months later, and remembered that he and all the other boys had been told by Father Zerafa never to talk about him. He knew something else. Gozo was the most religious community on earth in that more than ninety-five percent of the population attended church. He knew, on that same Sunday, every priest in every church on the island had included in their homilies a message to their congregation.