THE PERFECT KILL (35 page)

“The keys!” he hissed in Arabic. Terrified, the old man gestured at the dashboard. Creasy pulled him out of the car and snarled,

“Run, or you’re dead.”

The old man scuttled away.

Creasy turned, Michael was on his feet. His left arm was clutching his right shoulder. One of the policemen was on his knees. Creasy shot him in the chest. He rolled back and lay still.

Sirens were wailing like tom-cats. Michael was hobbling towards the car. Creasy opened the passenger door, then ran forward, literally picked him up and bundled him onto the seat. Five seconds later the Fiat was accelerating down the street.

“Where?” Creasy asked, narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck.

“My right shoulder,…Or just under it.”

Creasy turned left, then right. He slowed down. It seemed that all the traffic was going in the opposite direction.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I drop you about a hundred metres from the hole. You have to get yourself back there. I’ve got to dump this vehicle at least a mile away. It will be some time before I get back, if at all. If you make it, keep a wad of cloth against the wound. If I don’t make it in an hour…shoot yourself. It’s better than a hell’s death in a Syrian torture chamber.”

It was dark now. Creasy stopped the car on a corner. There were only a few pedestrians. The street lighting was dim. He pointed through the windscreen.

“Down there on the left.” He reached across and opened the door. “Go for it,” he muttered.

With a grunt of pain, Michael lurched out of the car. Creasy pulled the door shut and accelerated away.

It took Creasy forty-five minutes to get back to the hole. He let himself into the entrance of the building and noticed the dark stains of blood on the wooden floor, and on the steps. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them up as best he could.

There were more drops of blood inside the apartment, leading to the bedroom. The bedroom door was open. A weak voice called, “Creasy?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Creasy walked to the bedroom door and looked in. Michael was lying on the bed. His pistol was in his left hand. Slowly he lowered it to the bed, then moved the hand to the wadded-up towel on his right shoulder. Creasy could see the pain in his eyes.

Harshly he asked, “Did anyone see you come in?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Wait.”

Creasy went into the kitchen. He filled a saucepan with water, lit the gas ring, then he opened a drawer and took out a pair of kitchen scissors.

Back in the bedroom he sat on the bed next to Michael and cut away the top of the robe and the inner shirt. Carefully he examined the wound, which was small; blood seeped from it. It was just below the collar-bone. Creasy pressed his thumb against the bone. Michael drew in a sharp breath but made no other sound. Creasy grunted in thought and then said, “I’m going to pull you up a little. It’s gonna hurt.” He put his left hand under Michael’s neck and pulled him forward.

Another hissing of breath. With his right hand Creasy probed beneath Michael’s right shoulder-blade, then he muttered something to himself and eased the young man’s head back onto the pillow.

“It’s good and bad,” he said. “The bullet didn’t hit an artery and it didn’t hit a main bone…But it didn’t exit. It’s lodged in the muscle of the shoulder…And it’s got to come out…Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He stood up and went back to the kitchen. The water in the saucepan was boiling. He left it there. From a cupboard he took out the medicine box, opened it and examined the contents.

Then he opened a drawer and examined the various knives. He selected one with a point, felt the blade with his thumb, and grimaced.

He dropped it into the saucepan of boiling water, then carried the medicine box into the bedroom.

Michael looked at him with pain and apprehension.

“It could be worse,” Creasy said, putting the box on the bed.

“We’ve got novocaine and morphine and God knows what else kind of drugs and dressings. But we ain’t got no scalpel.”

“Which means?” Michael asked.

“Which means I’ve got to cut you open with a kitchen knife… The novocaine will help, but it’s still going to hurt like hell.”

“Can’t it wait until we get out of here?” Michael asked. “Can’t you bandage it up until we get to a doctor?”

Creasy sat on the bed and shook his head.

“We have to stay here at least a week until the dust settles…It can’t wait that long. It has to come out.”

“Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Sure, several times,” Creasy answered cheerfully. “And I’ve watched good doctors do it. I had medic training in the Legion…It’s not difficult but it’s going to be painful…even with the novocaine.”

It was pure agony. Creasy administered novocaine and morphine injections and after waiting for them to take effect he used the kitchen knife to widen the wound, cutting horizontally to do minimal damage to the muscles. Michael lay there with part of the sheet rolled up and clenched between his teeth, his body jerking spasmodically as Creasy’s fingers probed into his flesh, seeking the bullet. Blood covered the bed; and both of them.

After fifteen minutes Creasy found it. He held it between thumb and forefinger saying, “Lucky it was only 7mm. Anything bigger and you’d have had no shoulder left.”

More pain when he stitched the wound and bound on a dressing.

Then he fetched a bowl of warm water, washed Michael, lifted him to the adjacent bed, gave him another mild dose of morphine and sat beside him until he drifted into sleep.

He watched over him all night, wiping his face with a damp cloth and praying to a God he did not know and did not understand.

The question came two days later. Michael was sitting up in bed drinking a mug of vegetable soup.

“So I shot Jibril in the shoulder and then got shot in the same shoulder. What’s the difference?”

“I’ll tell you later. But there is a difference.”

“How long is later?”

“When we get the hell out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“First Lattakia and then by ferry to Cyprus where a good doctor will check you out…Then to the States to see Jim Grainger…another friend to add to your fingers.”

The dobermann lay at Creasy’s feet, contentedly asleep in the warm sunshine. They were sitting by the pool, drinking mint juleps.

“A damn fine effort,” Grainger said. “At least the bastard got the fright of his life. At least he knows he’s not immune from threat.”

He was sitting opposite Creasy. Michael was sitting between them.

“It was more than a fine effort,” Creasy said, reaching down to scratch the Doberman’s ear. “It succeeded one hundred per cent.”

The Senator looked puzzled.

“But I’ve seen the CIA report. Sure he was hit, but he’s alive, even though he’ll never use his right arm again.”

Creasy glanced at Michael whose own right arm was strapped tightly to his chest.

“It’s not just Jibril’s arm,” he said in a low voice. “It’s his brain.”

“His brain?”

Creasy leaned forward. “His brain,” he repeated. “It was no ordinary bullet that Michael put into Jibril. I told you before that the bastard would not die easy.”

“What was it?” Grainger asked.

“First it was a dumdum,” Creasy answered. “That means it explodes on impact, which is why his arm is ruined. Second, inside it was a poison with a name too complicated to remember. It’s known by its initials TTK. Right now that poison is in Jibril’s bloodstream.”

There was a silence while Creasy continued to scratch the Doberman’s ear. Then Grainger asked quietly, “What does it do?”

“It’s a bit like getting a very severe case of cerebral malaria,” Creasy answered. “The blood carries it to the brain. It turns the victim into a vegetable. Later it causes death but that could be months or even years. But the brain damage is rapid. Within a couple of weeks from now Jibril will be incapable of planning any more terrorist attacks.”

A woman brought out a fresh jug of iced mint julep. She was short, blonde, plump and cheerful.

“That’s the last one,” she admonished the Senator. “And lunch will be on the table in half an hour.”

He smiled at her absently and as she walked away he asked, “Creasy, “Does Jibril know?”

Michael answered. “Yes, just in case his doctors missed it we sent him a postcard from Cyprus telling him to have a very thorough blood test.”

Grainger studied the young man’s face. His gaze was steadily returned. Grainger turned his head to look at Creasy. He looked into his eyes. They held the same chill as that contained in the young man’s eyes. He remembered Curtis Bennett’s comment, made so many months ago.

“Death on a cold night.”

The Doberman had rolled over onto her back. Creasy scratched her stomach.

He said, “We signed the postcard: “Pan Am 103”.”

Grainger looked silently across the pool.

Quietly Creasy asked, “Does vengeance give you a conscience, Jim?”

The Senator shook his head. “No. I was thinking of Harriot…Maybe it would have given her a conscience.”

He shrugged and shook his head again.

“No. He had it coming…So what are you guys gonna do now?”

“Head back to Europe,” Creasy answered. “Michael’s going straight home to Gozo. I have to stay on in England for a couple of days.”

“And then?”

Creasy thought for a moment and then answered, “We’ve decided to kind of go into business.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing what we know best.”

A silence while the Senator studied them. Obviously they looked different but they had the same stillness. The same indefinable aura. The same unstated menace.

“You’re going to be a mercenary again?” he asked Creasy.

“Not exactly. But if somebody needs something done, or put right, then we’re available…for a fee.”

“A big fee, I guess.”

Creasy shrugged.

“It depends on who they are…And what their means are. We won’t work for crooks; or governments.”

Grainger smiled. “Much the same thing, I guess…Well, if I know anyone who needs a Panzer Division I’ll tell them I can get one at cut price.”

They all laughed as the Senator poured more mint julep.

Then Creasy said, “Jim, I have a favour to ask.”

“Ask:”

“In a couple of months I’d like to send Michael here to the States for some time maybe months. Gozo”s a small place and he needs to widen his mind and learn how to behave socially.”

“I know how to behave,” Michael said indignantly.

Creasy turned to him. “Do you know how to behave at a formal dinner for a hundred people? Which knife and fork to use? When to talk and when to be silent?”

Now Michael was silent. Grainger smiled.

“No problem,” he said. “Michael can stay here with me. I’ll take him under my wing. Introduce him around both here and in Washington. He’ll travel with me as a kind of aide. Even overseas. He’ll meet important people. Go to good concerts and good theatre.”

“Girls?” Michael asked.

“Girls?”

“Yes…do I get to meet any girls?”

The Senator grinned.

“Sure. The day after you arrive I’ll throw a party here in the house.” Wistfully he muttered, “It’s been a long time since this house saw a party.” His face brightened. “I’ll hire a jazz band…and don’t worry, there’ll be scores of our beautiful Colorado girls.” He turned to Creasy. “I’ll enjoy having him with me. What did you say here all those months ago? Grief is loneliness.”

Creasy nodded and then smiled. He said, “Jim, after hearing about parties, jazz bands and scores of beautiful girls…I might leave Michael at home and come myself.”

He scratched the Doberman again on her belly.

It was the lambing season. Foster Dodd lay asleep in the warmth of his bed, next to his wife. He was bone tired.

It was just before dawn when the sheepdogs started barking outside. Foster Dodd woke up, as did his wife. He moved his cramped limbs and cursed softly.

“Don’t worry,” his wife murmured sleepily. “It’s probably just a fox. The dogs will chase it away.”

The noise of the barking dogs was receding into the distance. The farmer rolled over, pounded his pillow and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep eluded him. It was always so during the lambing season. Finally he got up, pulled on his clothes and boots and went out.

The dogs had stopped barking but he walked across the fields in the direction from where he had last heard them. The sun was just rising red, over the low hill. There was a fine, white mist in the undulations and crevasses. Several sheep were already grazing on the dew-covered grass, lambs nudging up under their mothers’ bellies seeking milk. His three dogs ran towards him, tails wagging. One of them, a wise old bitch called Lisa, stopped about fifty yards away, crouched and watched him. He recognised the posture and walked towards her. She turned and walked on and he followed.

They came to a clump of bushes and Lisa stood beside it.

He walked up and peered over the nearest bushes and saw them.

A large bunch of white and red long-stemmed roses, lying on the grass. He recognised the place. The flowers lay exactly where he had found the little girl in the bright red jumpsuit.

He looked around. There was no one in sight. Just the sheep and the lambs and his three dogs watching him.

He remembered the little girl and he remembered the man who had come and who had told him he was sorry about the sheep he had lost.