Man on Fire (40 page)

In the kitchen they were watching football. Juventus versus Naples. All eyes were on the TV screen. All eyes turned as the window shattered and the rounded, obscenely shaped grenade arced into the room.

Three died immediately; two were neutralized by shrapnel wounds. Two others, protected from the blast, were only stunned; but they hadn't begun to reach for weapons before the door was kicked in.

He stood with submachine gun gripped at chest height. Eyes evaluating, looking for life; finding it. The muzzle of the Ingram flickered white; and life left the room.

He appeared to move without haste but was quickly across to the open door leading to the passage. An empty magazine clattered to the stone floor. The snick of a full one, thrust home; ratchet-click of the Ingram, being recocked; and he had his back to the wall close to the door; listening.

Shouts of inquiry from down the passage, and fainter from the top floor. Doors opening. Creasy slid down to a crouch, swung into the open door, Ingram held low: spewing bullets.

Three men in the passage. One managed to duck back into the room, the others were smashed back as though hit by a water cannon.

Again Creasy moved and again the Ingram was recharged in a flowing sequence. It had become a dance: rhythmic, stylized; movements to a perfect tempo. The music: screams blending with the stutter of gunfire, the tinkling of spent cartridges.

He glided past the makeshift dormitory and his right arm flicked and a grenade lobbed through the door. He turned at the explosion; saw the figure blown out into the passage, moaning and scrabbling, trying to raise the shotgun. A touch of the finger, a half-second burst and then turning again, reaching the foot of the stairs; back to the wall, listening.

On the landing above, Cantarella stood at the door of his study holding a pistol in his right hand. His left hand gripped the sleeve of his personal bodyguard.

"Stay here!" he screamed, his face radiating panic.

Dicandia, Gravelli, and Abrata stood at the top of the stairs, pistols pointing down. Dicandia was shirtless, his chest and back covered in a mat of black hair.

"Go down!" They turned to look at Cantarella-hesitated. Cantarella's face worked in fury and fear.

"Go down!" He raised the pistol.

Dicandia moved, edging onto the first step. Only the top of his body was visible to Cantarella when the rippling clatter came. He saw Dicandia lift jerkily and, through the hair, the row of holes opening redly across his chest. Then he was gone, slumping and sliding down the steps.

Gravelli and Abrata backed away across the landing.

They weren't going down. They looked to their right at Cantarella ten meters along the passage, shielded by the bodyguard. When they turned back, it was too late. The grenade exploded right between them. The corner of the landing protected Cantarella and the bodyguard.

Complete terror took over. Cantarella pushed the bodyguard forward and stumbled backward into his study. He slammed shut the door and rushed to the window, tearing aside the curtains. He didn't try to open it, just smashed the glass with his pistol and then screamed out:

"Where are you? Get up here! Get up here!"

Creasy reached the top of the steps, glanced at the smashed bodies, and eased close to the edge of the passage.

He could hear Cantarella's hysterical shouts.

He held the Ingram in his right hand, and with his left he unclipped a grenade. He lowered it toward the Ingram and, with the little finger of his right hand, pulled out the pin. He released the spring; the clock in his head ticked twice, and his fingers opened. He swung his right boot and gently drop-kicked the grenade round the corner.

At the blast Cantarella turned from the window. He saw the door splinter off its hinges and his bodyguard catapult backward into the room.

The boss of bosses stood rigid, looking at the mangled body on the carpet. His mouth opened but no sounds came out. His brain had stopped working. Then, from below, he heard shouts. At last they were coming! Never taking his eyes from the door, he crouched down behind the heavy desk, pistol extended, breath coming in short gasps.

Creasy came through the door in a diving roll, clearing the dead bodyguard and rising to his knees in the center of the room. Cantarella fired twice. Jerked shots-but one was lucky. He saw Creasy punched back and sideways, and he rose from behind his desk with a strangled cry of triumph and fired again twice-wildly. He was not experienced. Luck was not enough. Creasy's right shoulder was shattered; the arm useless.

But the Ingram still hung from his neck, and his left hand gripped it and sent a swath of bullets across the room.

He stood up slowly; painfully. Keeping the Ingram steady, he moved carefully around the desk. Cantarella lay on his back, his hands clutching the corpulence of his belly. Blood seeped through his fingers.

He looked up into Creasy's face. His eyes showed a mixture of fear and hatred and pleading. Creasy stood over him, noted the wounds, knew they were fatal. He raised his right foot and with the shiny black toe cap lifted Cantarella's chin and slid the heavy boot onto his throat. He spoke very softly.

"Like her, Cantarella. Like her, you will choke to death." He moved his weight forward.

The two guards from the gate moved very cautiously, very reluctantly. They had passed through the kitchen and along the passage and up the stairs. Nothing they had seen prompted enthusiasm. The bodies of Gravelli and Abrata slowed them still further. They stood in the passageway looking through the doorway into the study. Looking at the dead bodyguard. They could hear only a low, gasping moan, and then it stopped.

Neither wanted to enter first, so they edged in together, submachine guns gripped tightly. They saw him behind the desk, looking down, and they fired simultaneously.

They saw the body slam back against the wall, start to sink, and then steady. The Ingram came up; and bullets crisscrossed the room.

The car squealed to a halt outside the gates. Satta and Bellu leapt out. The gates were bolted from the inside. A small door was set into the right-hand gate. It was also locked. While Satta kicked at it impatiently, Bellu pulled the ornate bell handle.

Suddenly the horn sounded behind them and the engine revved. They jumped aside as the heavy police car shot forward.

Guido aimed at the side, near the heavy hinges. The impact was loud and effective. Although the gates remained standing, the upper hinge was torn loose from the wall, leaving a gap large enough to squeeze through.

In a moment Guido was through it and running up the gravel drive.

Satta looked in astonishment at the wrecked car, but Bellu was already scrambling through the gap and Satta shrugged and followed him.

They saw Guido pause at the main doors of the villa and then run across the grass to the corner of the building. By the time they reached the kitchen he had disappeared.

They stood at the door, looking in. Bellu was the first to react. He turned away and vomited. Satta waited silently for him to recover, and then they picked their way across the blood-soaked stone floor. They didn't speak as they skirted the bodies in the passage and glanced into the nearby room. At the foot of the stairs, Satta looked at the dead man spread-eagled over the bottom steps.

"Dicandia," he said to Bellu. "Right-hand man."

At the top of the steps they paused again.

"Not much left, but I think it's Gravelli and Abrata-that's tidy."

They moved on, stepping over more bodies and into the study. Guido was crouched over behind the desk.

He turned at the sound of their entry.

"Quick!" he called. "Help me!"

They moved forward and Satta bent down and looked into Creasy's face. His eyes were open. They gazed back at Satta steadily. His teeth were clenched tight against the pain. Satta dropped his eyes and took in the blood and torn flesh. Guido had a hand under Creasy's armpit, gripping the arm.

"Your right hand!" he said urgently. "Put it here, next to mine."

Satta knelt down and reached forward. Guido positioned his hand.

"It's the artery. Press down with your thumb."

Satta followed the instructions and looked lower at the shattered wrist and the blood spurting out.

"Harder!" Guido demanded.

Satta pressed harder, his fingers digging deep into the muscled arm. Now the flow of blood abated, seeping slowly.

"What can I do?" Bellu asked behind them. Satta turned his head, pointed with his chin at the desk.

"Get on the phone. They'll be coming, but make sure they're fully equipped. And I want a helicopter here-fast!"

Bellu talked urgently into the phone and Satta turned back and watched Guido wadding cloth against the wounds, stemming the blood that flowed onto and into the carpet. He looked to his left. At the body of Cantarella. At the face-bulging eyes-protruding tongue-purple hue. He turned back to Creasy. A flash of gold caught his eye. Crucifix amidst the blood. He looked up again at the face. The eyes were closed now. Satta's fingers were getting tired, but he kept up the pressure. The life in front of him was literally in his hand. He was conscious of noise: wailing of sirens, and Guido sobbing with frustration as he worked.

Chapter 23

The funeral was well-attended. It was a cold day, hard into winter, and on the hill above Naples the wind bit deep. But there were many reporters. Since the day, a month before, that had been headlined "The Battle of Palermo," they had kept their interest, following closely the battle for life.

That battle had ebbed and flowed. At first, as Creasy lay in intensive care in Palermo, they had been told that he had little or no chance; but he clung to life, surprising the doctors. After two weeks, a special Carabinieri aircraft had flown him to Naples. It was at Satta's instigation. The Cardarelli Hospital in Naples was better equipped than the hospital in Palermo-and more secure.

Satta's brother had led the team of doctors in the fight for Creasy's life.

They fought hard and long, and at first had hope.

But the damage had been too great, even for a man strong and determined to live. So now the reporters looked on at the last act. Looked with curiosity at the small group around the open grave. Some they knew, some they didn't. Guido stood between his mother and Elio. She was old and stooped and dressed in black, her fingers constantly moving on her rosary. Next to them, Felicia stood with Pietro, her eyes red. Across the grave were Satta and Bellu, and between them, Rika. She too had been weeping. Now her eyes were fixed on the coffin as it lay suspended on straps over the gaping hole. An erect, elderly man stood next to Satta. He wore the full dress-uniform of a French general. Medals and ribbons covered his chest. The priest finished and stood back. Guido nodded at the attendants and slowly the coffin descended. The priest made the sign of the cross, and Guido bent down and picked up a lump of earth and tossed it into the grave. The general came to attention and saluted; and then the group broke up.

At the cars they all spoke a few words and then drifted away. Bellu and Guido were the last to leave.

They watched as Satta handed Rika solicitously into his car, gave them a small wave, and drove off.

"When all is said and done," Guido muttered, with the trace of a smile, "he is still a cynical bastard."

Epilogue

It was in the new year and after midnight. A cold pre-gale wind swept down from Europe and across the sea and scoured the bleak hills of Gozo.

The village of Mgarr was dark and very quiet, but not asleep.

On the balcony of Gleneagles a shadow moved and rested a heavily tattooed arm on the rail. Benny's eyes swept the bay and the steeply rising hills. The door opened behind him, and Tony moved out and passed him a brandy and stayed next to him; watching and waiting.

The Melitaland was lashed alongside the jetty, straining gently at each gust of wind. On the wing of the bridge, Victor and Michele were also watching, and also sipping brandy.

High up on the hill the Mizzi brothers sat on their patio with "Shreik." They were looking out beyond the harbor walls and were the first to see the tossing, slim, gray shape edging toward the entrance.

George Zammit braced himself in the small wheelhouse of the police launch as it rolled against the swell and then steadied as they entered the calm waters of the harbor. He issued an order, and two seamen carrying boathooks went out onto the wet deck.

In the shadows behind Gleneagles, a handbrake was released and a Land Rover freewheeled down the short road and out to the end of the jetty. It was dark there.

The solitary light was not working.

The launch was held fast, and George stepped out onto the narrow deck. The Land Rover was parked ten meters away. He could just discern the two figures. The one nearest to him opened the door and got out and stood waiting. It was a woman, looking, even with the coat, bulky-heavy.

George gestured behind him and stood aside. The man came out of the wheelhouse and moved past him onto the jetty. He walked slowly to the woman. A big man with a curious walk, the outsides of his feet making first contact with the ground.