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

  Rawlings was about to move, but the voice came again, as soft as silk, ‘On the other hand, Joe, if you want to hold it by the butt you do just that.’

  The snake moved into the bathroom. The mongoose dropped the black bag on the floor, spread his legs and slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket.

  A minute later the snake came out of the bathroom, in his right hand he held a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. In his left, a small black gun. He held it by the end of the barrel, between his thumb and forefinger.

  Creasy said, ‘Toss them both onto the bed, Joe.’

  The money and the gun thumped onto the bed.

  Creasy reached down, picked up the black bag and gestured at the door to the lounge.

  The left index finger came off easily, but then the instrument was a surgeon’s saw, and Creasy was a powerful man. He had used only a heavy local anaesthetic, the rest of Joe Rawlings’s hand and left arm would be numb and senseless for twenty-four hours. They sat side by side. On the table in front of them were the twelve inch square wooden block, the small silvery surgeon’s saw, the syringe, the electric cauterising iron, the gauze and the bandages. Creasy worked swiftly and with great expertise. He laid the severed finger on the block, cauterised the bleeding stump, applied some ointment and gauze, and then bandaged the whole hand.

  From the black bag he took out a small heavy metal box and opened it. A white vapour erupted. He placed the finger into the box pushing it down into the dry ice and closed it tight. As he packed everything away he continued in the same low silky voice.

  ‘You ever use my name again, Joe, I know where to find you . . . every hole, every pit, every sleazy little swamp, even if you are paying a thousand bucks a night for it.’

  The snake sat totally immobile, looking down at his bandaged hand. He said, ‘I thought you were dead . . . everyone thought you were dead.’

  ‘I am, Joe, and if anyone ever finds out differently you will be also.’

  He walked into the bedroom and came back out carrying the wad of money. The snake had not moved a millimetre. Creasy counted off a hundred of the bills and laid them in front of Rawlings.

  Ten thousand bucks, Joe . . . Tap City Money, Joe . . . next time play in a different poker game.’

  Creasy picked up the bag and let himself out into the corridor.

  Chapter 6

  MICHAEL SAID EXPLORED the house. He roamed around it as though he owned it. It was a very special feeling. He knew that it had been designed by Creasy’s wife Nadia and that for two years she had overseen the construction of the new wing and the reconstruction of the old part. All the rooms were large with high, arched ceilings. Creasy was a man who liked space.

  Although the construction was in the old manner using huge limestone slabs cut from the local quarry, the windows were not usual. They were rectangular and very large and from every room a different vista opened up over the island.

  He walked across a small patio into a bedroom. It had its own bathroom and from its windows he could see the lighthouse at Ghasri and out across the open sea. He knew that in about eight weeks it would be the place where he would sleep.

  On the wall hung two portraits painted in oil. One was of Nadia, the other of Julia aged about two. Creasy had shown him the two paintings and had said, ‘The woman who’s coming only represents a practicality and a convenience. Nadia and Julia will be your family.’

  He stood looking at the paintings for a long time, then he walked into the bathroom. It was also overly large; in one corner was a shower with a huge old copper showerhead. In another corner was a high wooden bathtub. The toilet was in a separate cubicle.

  He remembered during one of his conversations with Creasy how the man had told him of his first visit to Japan. He had been with a Japanese woman in a typical country inn. She had filled the wooden bathtub white he undressed. He had walked into the bathroom and climbed into the tub. The girl had been horrified. ‘How come you wash in your own dirt?’ she asked him. ‘A tub is only for soaking afterwards,’ and she had made him climb out and sit on a small wooden stool. She had emptied and refilled the tub, and while it filled she had poured small buckets of water over him and washed him as he sat on the stool and shampooed his hair. Then they had both climbed into the steaming tub and soaked for half an hour.

  Creasy had explained that since this was the first house he had ever owned, all the three bathrooms would be Japanese style. First a shower, then a soak.

  ‘Did Nadia used to wash you?’ the boy had asked. Creasy had nodded sombrely, ‘Yes, always, it was a ritual. And she used to shampoo my hair.’

  The boy walked out to the front of the house and dived into the pool. Very steadily he swam for sixty lengths. At the end his muscles ached. But by the time the man came back, he would be swimming more than a hundred lengths. By then, he would beat him over two lengths or four lengths or over any distance.

  Leonie Meckler spent some of her expense money. It had been many years since she had been on a shopping spree. She had checked out the climatic conditions of Gozo over the next six months. She knew that it would be mostly hot and bought a selection of brightly-coloured sarongs and swimsuits, and loose shorts and T-shirts for the day. For the night she chose long and flowing cotton dresses, mainly backless, but fitting only at the waist. She then went to her favourite French cosmetics counter, Lancôme, and bought face creams and make-up, choosing only natural colours, peaches and beiges.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN IN WASHINGTON Senator James S. Grainger was always at his desk by eight a.m., and always worked steadily through the morning until one p.m. On this morning his direct private telephone rang at precisely nine a.m. He heard the crackle hum of an overseas call. The voice said, ‘Lockerbie, May 15th.’

  The Senator glanced at his Rolex. The date window showed May 25th.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘At ten o’clock a package will be delivered to your office by a DHL courier whose name is Harry White; he will insist on delivering it to you personally. The package is from me. Do not let that package go through the normal security checks. Open it when you’re on your own. It contains the proof you asked for, and something else. I’ll be in touch within a couple of weeks.’

  The telephone went dead. The Senator called the head of security.

  At four minutes past ten, his secretary rang through that a DHL courier was in the outer office with a package for him, accompanied by a security guard. He told her to show them through.

  The courier was big and burly, the security guard small and puny. The Senator asked the smaller man, ‘Did you check his identity?’

  ‘Yes, Senator, he is Harry White - no middle initial.’

  The courier held a heavy metal briefcase. He laid it on the broad desk in front of the Senator, and then placed a piece of paper on top of it. Both men left, and the Senator picked up the piece of paper. On it were written six numbers. The Senator glanced at the briefcase. It had two, three-digit combination locks. He pulled the briefcase towards him, set the numbers and opened it.

  Inside were two very thick wads of hundred dollar bills held together with elastic bands, a small heavy metal box, and an open typewritten sheet of paper.

  He picked up the piece of paper and read the words.

  ‘I met up with Joe Rawlings and recovered one hundred and sixty thousand bucks of your money. I left him ten thousand dollars Tap City Money - if you don’t know the expression, ask a serious poker player. I should have smeared the SOB, but that would have started an investigation which neither of us needs. I also enclose proof of his real identity. Have your pals at the FBI verify it and also verify my print on the glass in your safe. And the print on this note.’

  There was no signature.

  Apart from the money and the letter there was nothing else in the briefcase except the small heavy metal box. Set into the lock was a small key. The Senator picked the box up and then instantly dropped it. It was freezing cold. For a moment he contemp
lated calling Security, then he reached out and turned the lock and flipped up the lid. A white mist engulfed the briefcase and the Senator jerked back into his heavy chair. Slowly the mist cleared, only a few traces rising from the box itself. The Senator peered into the box. He saw a white piece of cloth, and on it a finger. There was blood on the cloth. He stared, mesmerised, for a few seconds, then flicked the lid closed and reached for the telephone.

  The Senator’s Washington apartment also reflected Harriet’s taste for grandeur. Heavy European furniture, Persian carpets, and paintings by failed old great masters. He had decided a few days before that he would sell that particular abode, and buy something smaller.

  Curtis Bennett, a Deputy Director of the FBI, arrived at exactly six p.m. He was an old friend and a precise one, tall and angular, and with a wry humorous look in his eyes. He carried a briefcase.

  Without being asked the Senator poured him a dry Martini.

  They sat down in front of the mock Tudor fireplace, with its mock coal flames.

  ‘So tell, Curtis,’ the Senator said.

  Bennett took a sip of his drink and sucked his lips in appreciation, then picked up his briefcase and took out a folder.

  ‘The prints from the glass were those of Creasy, the mercenary. The dead mercenary, Senator.’

  He tapped the file.

  ‘In here I have a faxed copy of the Death Certificate, issued by a very eminent professor named Giovanni Satta. I spoke to Professor Satta by phone this afternoon at the Cardarelli Hospital in Naples, Italy. He confirms the Death Certificate unreservedly. He personally attended the patient who died from terrible wounds received during a shoot-out in Palermo, Sicily, with a Mafia family several years ago.’ He slid a glance at the Senator and said, ‘Jim, eminent doctors are not given to telling lies.’

  The Senator shrugged. Bennett looked down at the paper in front of him and said, ‘So if this guy died five years ago, how come his prints are all over a glass which comes from a set that I gave you and Harriet for Christmas two years ago . . . and our guys at the lab tell me that they are recent prints . . . like within two weeks. What’s going on, Jim?’

  The Senator held up a hand.

  ‘Hold your water, Curtis. What about the finger?’

  Bennett’s smile was brief. He tapped the file.

  ‘First of all, the guys at the lab tell me that it was cut off a living man . . . ’

  ‘Whose finger is it?’

  The FBI man lifted a page from a file.

  ‘A guy called Joseph J. Rawlings, American citizen, born in Idaho, aged fifty-one. Been messing around mercenary circles for years, in Europe and Africa. Basically a con man, wanted in this country on three serious charges of felony by deception. Whereabouts unknown.’

  He closed the file, dropped it back into the briefcase.

  He picked up his Martini and took a large gulp, then gazed steadily at the Senator and asked again, ‘So what’s going on, Jim?’

  The Senator stood up, his back to the mock flames. He looked down at his friend.

  ‘Don’t ask, Curtis. Not yet. In time I’ll tell you whatever I know.’

  The FBI man sighed, reached down and tapped the briefcase.

  ‘Jim, I gave you all this stuff because of who you are, and because we’re friends. I even approved it with the Director, which was a bit of a gamble, but he went along with it . . . but Jim, he’s asking questions - what do I tell him?’

  The Senator smiled.

  ‘Tell the SOB that I appreciate it. Tell him again when the FBI budget vote comes up in committee.’

  Now Bennett smiled.

  ‘OK, but can’t you tell me anything on a persona! basis?’

  The Senator shook his head.

  ‘Be patient with me, Curtis, I’ll tell you when I can.’

  Bennett also stood and handed him the empty glass.

  ‘Then at least give me another Martini. The two things you do best in life, Jim, are make Martinis and keep your mouth shut.’

  The Senator grinned. As he mixed the Martini and a Chivas and water for himself, Bennett asked him, ‘It’s to do with Harriet, isn’t it?’

  The Senator looked at him but said nothing.

  Bennett sighed.

  ‘Jim, I know how much you loved her, Love is a word that cannot even express what you felt. I know George Bush made a public statement that when we know for sure who did it, the United States of America will bring them to justice. We also know that that is rhetoric. Whoever planted that bomb, and we’re getting close to finding out, will almost certainly be holding American hostages in the Lebanon. So bringing them to justice is gonna be near impossible.’

  The Senator handed the glass to Bennett and he said nothing, just sipped at his whisky.

  Bennett sighed again.

  ‘Jim, I have to guess. I have to make an assumption that you are doing something on your own. I just hope you’re not doing something stupid.’

  ‘Am I a stupid man, Curtis?’

  The FBI man shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, Jim, you are not, but great grief can do strange things to a man.’

  The Senator nodded gravely.

  ‘That’s true, and I did something stupid a few weeks back.’

  Then he touched his friend on the shoulder.

  ‘But Curtis, I’m not doing anything stupid now . . . tell me, how’s the investigation going?’

  The FBI man said, ‘I think it will work out. I had a chat with Buck Revell, who’s handling liaison with the Scottish police. The guy in charge over there is a Peter Fleming. Apparently he’s doing a hell of a job. He’s dogged, determined and simply a damn good detective. We already know that the bomb was placed on the plane in Frankfurt or routed through that city, we know the possibilities, even the probabilities. I think in a matter of months this guy will come up with the name of the terrorist group and have the proof to back it up.’

  ‘And then our President will send in the Marines.’

  The FBI man’s shrug was eloquent. He finished his drink, picked up the briefcase and said, ‘I gotta be going.’

  Grainger said, ‘Wait a minute, Curtis. You’re a keen poker player. Have you ever heard the expression ‘Tap City Money’?’

  Bennett looked surprised.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But it’s only used by pro poker players. They go into a game with a fixed stake, all they have except the clothes on their back. They all have the same stake. It could be hundreds or many thousands. If they lose their stake they’re out of the game. They call it being ‘tapped out’. Means they’re flat broke. Then, the players left in the game will contribute some cash so the guy can eat. That’s ‘Tap City Money’ . . . You taking up poker, Jim?’

  Grainger smiled and answered, ‘Maybe I am. Thanks for everything, Curtis. It’s appreciated.’

  Bennett said, ‘You’re damn welcome and you know it.’

  He looked the Senator up and down and said, ‘You’re losing weight, Jim. You’re not eating enough. We’ll fix a date for next week, come by the house and Mary will make all your favourite things.’

  ‘I’ll do that . . . wait a second, Curtis.’

  Bennett turned. The Senator was deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘This man Creasy . . . if he is alive, how would you quantify him?’

  Bennett’s response was also thoughtful.

  ‘Since you first asked for an input on the guy I’ve taken a very personal interest. I’ve got reports in from the French Sûreté on his time in the Legion. I’ve got reports from the Belgians and the British on his time in Africa. I’ve got a report from the CIA on his time in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. I’ll be getting a report from Italian security shortly on what he was doing in Italy, when according to the good Professor Satta he ended up dead . . . Jim, I’ll send you the reports, and maybe soon you’ll send me something back, like a little info . . . like so I don’t have to feel like a messenger boy . . . See you next week. I’ll phone.’

  He had his hand on the doork
nob when the Senator’s voice stopped him again.

  ‘Curtis, if he is alive . . . sum him up for me in a sentence.’

  Bennett was looking at the doorknob. He remained looking at it for half a minute, then he opened the door, turned and said, ‘I told you I studied the man’s files and all reports. He doesn’t exactly fit the mould. Sure he’s been a mercenary most of his life. Sure he’s the perfect killing machine. But I have a gut feeling that although he was a mercenary, money was never his only motive.’

  The Senator said again, ‘Curtis, sum him up for me in a sentence.’

  The FBI man shrugged.

  ‘If he’s alive . . . and if he has a motive . . . that man is death on a cold night.’

  He went through the door and closed it behind him.

  Chapter 8

  PETER FLEMING TOOK two days away from Lockerbie. It was not to be a holiday, although he needed one. First he drove down to London, leaving early in the morning. After a quick lunch he was at New Scotland Yard, conferring with half a dozen very senior policemen and two civilians. One from MI5, the other from MI6. The meeting lasted for two hours. He then drove to Fort Halstead in Kent, which housed perhaps the finest criminal laboratory in the world. The two forensic experts from the FBI were waiting for him. He asked whether they were getting full co-operation and they assured him that they were.

  The briefing lasted for an hour and he noted with satisfaction that the British scientists and their American counterparts got on well together. It had not always been so, but somehow, the scale of the Lockerbie tragedy had blotted out national rivalry. He was shown the tiny fragments of plastic, metal and cloth and how they had narrowed it down, over weeks of meticulous work, to a single suitcase stored in a particular cargo bay.

  They asked him to stay on and have dinner at a nearby restaurant but being tired, and wishing to be alone, he declined.