THE PERFECT KILL (30 page)

As an author of fiction Georges Laconte was a failure, something he could never bring himself to acknowledge. He constantly waged a war with himself and concurrently with his bank manager, who happened to be an old friend.

“Forget the great novel,” the bank manager would say with stern patience. “You are one of the best investigative journalists in France. Every serious newspaper and magazine in the country begs to give you assignments, lucrative assignments. And yet you sit out there in the wilds of Brittany for weeks on end, trying to do something which is not going to work.”

But Georges Laconte was fifty-five, and he felt a novel was to him like a cancer which had to be cut out. And so he sat in his tiny farmhouse, pounding away at a battered old Royal typewriter, which had been his constant companion for thirty years.

But writers have to eat and eating costs money, so when his agent rang from Paris summoning him to an urgent meeting, he had no choice but to climb into his battered old Citroen.

“I smell a rat,” was his first reaction. “They are compiling a book on elite forces around the world, past and present. Why don’t they simply stick with military historians and experts and why do they want me?”

“They want you because they are going to include a section on mercenaries,” his agent replied with studied patience. “You happen to be an expert on mercenaries…Your book Wolves of War is recognised as being definitive on the subject…apart from that, it pays extremely well.”

He sighed and spread his hands and said, “Fifty thousand francs plus expenses is very good money for what should be no more than a month’s work.”

“True enough,” Laconte conceded. “But it’s very fishy, an obscure Jordanian company producing such a book in the first place. Secondly the section on mercenaries is confined to three men: Mad Mike Hoare, John Peters and Creasy. Why not a couple of Frenchmen like Denard or the Rhodesian, Max MacDonald? They’re both still alive. It’s only rumoured that Creasy is alive and yet they want me to concentrate on him. Furthermore, they want all the information sent on a weekly basis. Why?”

“Who knows?” the agent replied. “And who cares? You get twenty-five thousand francs up front plus twenty thousand for expenses and the balance on completion. You already have all you need on Peters and Hoare so all you have to do is nail down the rumour about Creasy being alive. If he is, you try to find and interview him. If not, bury the rumour once and for all. Can you afford to turn it down?”

Ruefully, Laconte shook his head. “You know very well I cannot. I need to make at least a dent in my overdraft.” He looked at his watch and stood up saying, “I’ll send you ten thousand words on Mad Mike Hoare and John Peters by the weekend and then I’ll head for Brussels. If Creasy is alive, that’s where the trail will start.” He turned towards the door, but his agent’s voice stopped him.

“You don’t believe the rumour?”

Laconte shrugged. “I don’t disbelieve it, for the simple reason that I never believed anyone could kill that man, outside of an act of God.”

Rambahadur Rai had been exactly right in his assessment of Michael. With the flaw removed, his mind and concentration blended into perfect harmony with his born skills and his training.

On his eighteenth birthday Creasy bought him a Suzuki jeep. Leonie bought him a steel Rolex Oyster watch. The Schembri family all came to lunch and bought him an old but very usable shotgun, to use in early summer when the turtle doves migrated across Malta from Africa back to Europe. They also brought a few litres of their homemade wine. It was a good and relaxed afternoon. Creasy barbecued great chunks of steak, lamb chops and a whole Denci fish. Michael cooked the jacket potatoes and made a huge bowl of salad. Leonie was not allowed to do anything except pour the wine. She chatted with Laura and Maria under the trellis, while the men stood around the barbecue telling each other what to do.

After lunch, Creasy set up a clay pigeon trap and the four men took turns. Paul and Joey were very good and hit about seventy per cent of the clays. Creasy and Michael hit one hundred per cent.

“That’s unbelievable,” Maria commented in awe. “My brothers shoot all year. Even out of season. But they could never shoot like that.”

With each resounding echo of the gun Leonie’s mood headed downwards to depression. In bed that morning she and Creasy had made love. It had grown better every time and for her the affection had turned to a deepening love. But afterwards Creasy had told her that in a few days he and Michael would be leaving Gozo.

Michael would be going to Tunisia with his Arab teacher for two or three weeks to learn how to live like an Arab. To eat Arabic food, learn how to pray like an Arab and to absorb their customs. Creasy would be going to Europe to have a meeting with Senator Grainger, and then to start the operation rolling. As they lay on the vast bed entwined in each other’s limbs she had asked, “When will you be back?”

He had stroked her shoulder.

“When it’s over. It could be many weeks.”

“What can I do?” she had asked.

“You have the hardest part. You have to wait here in case there’s any messages. If so, they will always come via Blondie. Later, I may need you.” He had stroked her long newly blonde hair.

“I will be trying to find a way to aim you at Khaled Jibril. It may be very dangerous and physically unpleasant.”

“You mean I may have to go to bed with him?” she asked.

He had looked into her eyes and said softly, “I hope not, but it may be necessary.”

She had kissed him and answered, “I will do what is necessary.”

“The sole is overcooked,” Creasy remarked, “which is a pity because the Montrachet is perfect.” He picked up his glass and drank half of the amber liquid.

“Send it back,” Senator Grainger suggested.

They were sitting at a window table in the Riverside Restaurant of the Savoy Hotel.

Creasy shook his head and grinned. “I’ll save my appetite for the cheese tray and a couple of glasses of their own port. It’s been ten years since I drank it here and by now it should be even better.”

Over the months the two men had drawn close. The Senator had given Creasy the latest update from the FBI. He told him that a few hours before, he had received a phone call from Curtis Bennett. Apparently the French SDECE was getting information from a Middle East source that two Libyans were involved in the actual planting of the bomb, both Intelligence agents. One, named Fhimah, had been the Libyan Airways station manager in Malta at the time of Loccurbie. He had since returned to Libya. A strong theory was that the bomb had started its journey from Malta.

“It’s possible,” Creasy conceded. “Those bastards will cooperate, but Jibril is the mastermind. He would never have paid Rawlings all that money if Gaddafi or anyone else was behind it. No, Jibril remains my target.”

“I agree,” Grainger said. “So what are your plans?”

Creasy told him that the operation was now active and that he would make the “kill” within four to six weeks.

Over the cheese and port the Senator had asked how he was going to do it.

Creasy answered, “He will die by a bullet. That’s all I can tell you, Jim, except that it will be in Damascus.”

“How big is your team?”

“We are three. Myself, an actress and a young man. She is my wife and he is my son.”

The Senator’s head jerked up in surprise. Creasy nodded.

“Yes, my wife. I married her to get the son…he is adopted.” Grainger was puzzled.

“But why use them?” he asked. “Why not Frank and Maxie or Rene? Christ, those men are the best, even the FBI admit that.”

“There are two reasons,” Creasy answered. “First because this is a very personal matter and my wife and son are very personal to me now. I did not expect that to happen but it did. Secondly this matter is not going to end in a shoot-out. It’s going to be a single bullet and it only takes one finger to pull the trigger.” He reached out and tapped the red folder on the table between them.

“According to this Jibril left the camp at Ein Tazur four days ago with an armed convoy and returned to Damascus. He probably got bored out there in the desert. His son Khaled also returned to Damascus from Libya. Over the next three or four weeks, I will be travelling in and out of Syria, confirming my cover. You know the phone number to call as each update comes in to your intelligence services.”

Grainger said, “You will be kept fully informed. The President has made sure of that. He wants Jibril dead and he doesn’t care how. He’s been told on good authority that you’re the most likely man to succeed. He doesn’t want to know any more than that.”

Creasy took a sip of his port and said, “I can only tell you one more thing, Jim. Ahmed Jibril will die from a single bullet. Harriot, Nadia and Julia died almost instantly when that bomb went off. Some might say a quick death is an easy death. A death without time to dwell on it.” He drained his glass and looked at the Senator and his voice went very cold. “Ahmed Jibril will not die an easy death. He will die knowing why. His journey to hell will be lit by arc lamps. He will see the flames from far away.”

The moules marinieres were delicious and so was the coq au vin that followed. Later, at the bar, Georges Laconte complimented Maxie MacDonald warmly. In return he got a complimentary Cognac.

“Are you really out of the business, Maxie?” the Frenchman asked.

Maxie nodded firmly. “Damn right. And glad to be out.”

Laconte glanced around the small, busy bistro, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I’ve been in town a few days and dropped in on a few of the old places. It’s a bit sad to see all those ageing meres hanging about, waiting for a job that’s never going to come. It’s the end of an era, Maxie…you did well to get out when you did.” He gestured at the room behind him. “You have a nice place here. The food is good…very good, and you have a good woman. Do you ever get any of your old comrades in here?”

Maxie was polishing a glass. He turned and put it on a shelf behind him, shook his head and said, “No. I discourage them. I leave all that behind me.”

“So, you’re completely out of touch?”

“Yes, completely, and as a favour I’d like you not to broadcast it around, where I am and what I’m doing.” He poured more Cognac into the Frenchman’s glass.

Laconte nodded in appreciation, took a sip and said, “It’s a promise, Maxie, and perhaps you can do me a favour in return?”

“What’s that?”

The Frenchman leaned forward again.

“While I’ve been in Brussels I’ve heard a rumour, repeated several times.”

Maxie was polishing another glass. “What rumour?” he asked.

“That Creasy is alive.”

Maxie stopped polishing. He lifted his head and looked the Frenchman in the eye, then shrugged and said, offhandedly,

“You know how rumours get around. Creasy died five years ago in Italy. You should know that, you’re the expert.” He started polishing again.

Laconte smiled.

“I was the expert, but I’ve been out of touch for a few years.” He drained his glass, slid off his stool and said, “Well, if anyone would know, it would be you, Maxie. I guess it is just rumours.”

He reached for his wallet to pay the bill but Maxie affably waved it away.

“It’s on the house, Georges. It’s been good to see you again.”

Outside in the street Georges Laconte walked slowly back to the hotel, deep in thought. He had noticed that at the mention of Creasy’s name, Maxie MacDonald had briefly stopped polishing the glass. It was a sort of confirmation. During the previous two nights he had hung around three bars frequented by mercenaries and ex-mercenaries. The rumour of Creasy being alive had been a talking point. There was a further rumour that Maxie MacDonald had just completed a job with Callard and Miller, the Australian. A very lucrative job. Was it a coincidence that all three men had worked closely with Creasy in the past?

Consequently, the Frenchman had offered a substantial reward to various people in the three bars he had visited, to anyone who could substantiate the rumour. In particular, he had offered it to a South African and an Italian who, if Creasy were alive, would dearly like to see him dead.

Back in the kitchen of the bistro, Maxie was on the telephone to Blondie. He gave her the gist of his conversation with Laconte, listened to her reply and then said, “No, just pass it on when he comes in. I doubt there’s much to it but Laconte could be fronting for somebody.”

He hung up, gave Nicole a kiss and went back to the bar.

Over a ten day period, Creasy and Corkscrew Two were in and out of Damascus twice. They had checked the holes and the machinery in both Damascus and Lattakia. Creasy had been well satisfied. They also had several meetings with small Syrian import-export companies and instigated some business. Heavily disguised, Creasy had made two recces of Ahmed Jibril’s headquarters and several buildings in the city.

During this period he had made Blondie’s his European base but on returning from Syria the second time and getting Maxie’s message, he decided to relocate to London. He would use Leonie’s flat. Being the kind of man he was, he first called Gozo to ask her permission. She laughingly agreed and suggested he also use her battered Ford Fiesta and save money on taxis. They chatted on easily for ten minutes and after he had cradled the phone, he stood looking down at it for a long time, picturing her in the house on the hill. Then he did something on impulse. He picked up the phone and called her again.

“Why don’t you come to London for a few days?” he asked. “We could take in a couple of shows and sort of have a relaxed time before this thing happens.”

Her answer was immediate. “When?”

He chuckled and answered, “Give me four or five days to sort out some business. Try and book a flight for the weekend. I’ll be in London tomorrow afternoon. Phone me at the flat in the evening to let me know when you’re coming.”

He hung up again and then called the airport to book his own flight.

Michael washed His hands and feet, then followed his teacher through the entrance into the crowded mosque. Side by side they laid their prayer mats on the dusty floor and knelt facing Mecca. The teacher listened carefully as Michael intoned his prayers.