THE PERFECT KILL (27 page)

Rambahadur undid the leather straps, gestured to Michael and said, “Meet your lover.”

Creasy’s eyes ached from the strain of the search. He lowered the binoculars, turned to Rambahadur beside him and said, “You’re sure he’s within four hundred yards, to the southeast?”

“Yes,” the Gurkha answered.

“Can you see him?”

“Yes. But I know where to look.”

It was late afternoon and the two men were sitting cross-legged on the roof of the house. Michael and Rambahadur had left an hour before dawn. Rambahadur had returned just after dawn and spent the entire day on the roof, watching. Creasy had been in Malta to see George Zammit and had only returned half an hour earlier. He lifted the binoculars again and studied the terrain in front of him. Dry stones, low rubbled walls and limestone rocks. After ten minutes he lowered the glasses.

“You have done well, my friend,” he said. “When will he make the shot?”

“Five seconds after I show him the target,” Rambahadur answered. He tapped the empty beer bottle on his lap. Creasy looked away to his right at two farmers about five hundred yards away, who were using a small rotavator to plough their field.

“The rifle is silenced?” he said.

“Yes,” the Gurkha answered. “And as you know, at that distance it makes the shot more difficult.”

“You think he will make it?”

Rambahadur nodded.

“I think he will” Then he turned to look at Creasy. He said, “He is good, my friend. Very good.” He smiled to take away any offence. “He is better than you, Creasy…and you are very good.”

“I’m grateful to you,” Creasy muttered, searching again with the binoculars.

“I only repay a kindness,” Rambahadur answered. “And I only repaid a small part of that kindness. Now I’m going to repay some more.”

Noting the tone of his voice, Creasy lowered the binoculars and turned to look at him. The Gurkha lifted his head and pointed with his chin. He said, “I’m going to tell you something about that young man out there. Something perhaps you know or do not know. It is important that you know.”

Creasy remained silent and the Gurkha continued in a low monotone.

“There is a flaw in him. You selected him well and he has been trained by the best, but there is a flaw.”

Creasy started to say something but the Gurkha held up his hand.

“Hear me, Creasy. Yes, he has lain there all day, Dunga Justo Basne. Yes, I believe he will make the shot. I have seen him on the range in Malta with handguns and SMGs. He is as good as I have ever seen. Except for you with an SMG.” He smiled slightly at a memory. “Except for you and Guido, but I tell you honestly, my friend, I would not wish to take Michael on a mission with me, if it was just the two of us.”

Again Creasy started to speak and again the Gurkha held up a hand.

“Be silent, my friend. Listen to a man who is older than you. Listen to a man who has seen as much war as you. Listen to a man who loves you as only a man can love another. The flaw is in his mind. It was created by you, just as you created everything else in his mental and physical state.” He leaned over and touched Creasy lightly on the shoulder. “My friend, only you can take away the flaw. If you can and if you do, he will be as near perfect a soldier as is humanly possible. He will also be a man I would trust with my life.”

Quietly, Creasy asked, “What is the flaw?”

Equally quietly, Rambahadur Rai answered, “You created him. He should worship you. But he hates you.”

“He told you this?”

Sadly the Gurkha shook his head. “He told me nothing.” He reached for the beer bottle, leaned far over to his right and placed it on the very edge of the roof.

Five seconds later, it shattered into shards behind them.

That night Rambahadur got drunk. Michael took them to dinner at Ta Cenc. In the bar before dinner the Gurkha drank six gin and tonics. At the table Michael ordered a bottle of dry, Italian white wine. The day before, he had rung a friend who worked as a waiter in the restaurant. In turn the friend had gone to the kitchen and given the Italian chef a bottle of Chivas Regal whisky.

The chef had produced a superb chicken curry, hotter than he had ever made it in his life. Rambahadur was both impressed and grateful. They finished the bottle of wine and Michael ordered another. The Gurkha drank most of it and happily answered Michael’s questions about his days in the army. Creasy remained almost silent throughout the meal, listening only with half an ear, eating and drinking sparingly, his mind elsewhere.

Rambahadur drank two large Cognacs with his coffee. After Michael had proudly paid the hefty bill from his roll of ten-pound notes, they stood up to leave. The Gurkha had to hold onto the table. Before Creasy could move, Michael was next to the small man, supporting him with an arm. They staggered out to the car and Michael lifted him, like a baby, into the back seat of the jeep. When they were back at the house, he was fast asleep.

Michael climbed out and stood looking at him. He smiled and said, “Dunga Justo Basne.”

Creasy stood at the other side of the jeep, unsmiling. He asked, “What do you think of him, Michael?”

The young man’s answer was immediate. “He is a man,” he said, and reached down to pick him up.

When Michael came out of Rambahadur’s bedroom, Creasy was standing by the pool, looking down at the dark water.

Michael moved to the wall and flicked a switch. The water lit up, pale blue. The young man walked over and stood next to Creasy and said very quietly, “Now is the time.”

“The time for what?”

“The time for the race.”

Creasy turned to look at him. He could feel the radiating antagonism and the challenge.

“How many lengths?”

“Fifty.”

“What is the bet? The same bottle of wine?”

Michael shook his head.

“If you win,” he said, “I will do any single thing you ask…anything.”

“I will beat you,” Creasy said flatly. His voice was hard and as cold as an arctic wind. “You think too much of yourself.” His voice became angry. “You may be a marginally better sniper than me,” he gestured upwards at the roof behind him, “but the only thing you’ve ever hit is a target or a beer bottle.” He stabbed a finger at the pale blue water. “But in there, I’ll beat you.”

“And if you don’t?” Michael asked.

Creasy started to unbutton his shirt.

“I will return your bet,” he said. “Any single fucking thing you want.”

For forty-nine lengths they swam shoulder to shoulder. Twice, Creasy tried to break away. Both times Michael quickened his stroke and stayed on his shoulder. At the end of the forty-ninth lap, Michael made the perfect racing turn that Creasy had taught him over the months. Creasy’s turn was slower. They started the last length with the younger man three feet ahead. That’s how it ended.

They stood in the shallow end with the water up to their waists, both chests heaving. Michael gasped out, “What was your mistake?”

Creasy drew in a deep breath, exhaled and snarled, “You tell me!”

“I have a greater motive than you,” Michael answered.

“What was it? Hatred?”

Michael pulled himself out of the pool and sat on the edge. He was still drawing in great gulps of air.

“No, the opposite,” he said. “It was to do with the bet.”

“What do you want of me?” Creasy asked.

Michael lifted his head, drew a breath and said, “I want you to go and fetch my mother.”

“Your mother is dead.”

Michael shook his head. “My mother is a whore in Malta. My mother is a painting on the wall. My mother is in London.” He reached out a hand and pointed. “For twelve hours today I lay out there like a stone, lizards crawled over me, insects bit me, twice I had cramp in my fingers. I did not move. For twelve hours, I lay there and thought about my mother. In Malta. Hanging on the wall. In London. I thought of the one question I ever asked Rambahadur Rai about you. I asked him if you were a man who kept your word. He answered, “Yes.” I beat you, Creasy.”

A long silence and then Creasy muttered, “You beat me…and I honour my bets.”

“How did you get to be so wise?” Creasy asked.

They were bumping along the road in the jeep towards the ferry. Rambahadur’s suitcase was on the back seat. The Gurkha massaged his aching forehead.

“What do you mean?”

Creasy grinned. “About Michael and the flaw that I created. You saw something that I did not see.”

Rambahadur grimaced and said, “The only flaws I know about this morning are in my stomach and in my head.”

Creasy laughed. “It’s traditional, my friend. You always got drunk after a successful mission.”

“What are you going to do about that flaw?” Rambahadur asked.

“I’ve already done it.”

“Done what?”

“Managed to marginally lose a swimming race.”

“When?”

“Around midnight, when you were snoring in a drunken stupor.”

“So?”

“So I lost a bet.”

Light dawned in the Gurkha’s eyes. “So! That’s why Michael asked me that question when I left him on that outcrop of rock at dawn yesterday.”

At the ferry the small man and the big man embraced and the small man carried his suitcase across the ramp and started his long journey back to the village in the eastern mountains of Nepal. Creasy went to Gleneagles, drank two ice-cold lagers and phoned his travel agent.

They were halfway through dinner when the doorbell rang. Leonie looked at her watch and said, “Who can that be? I hope it’s not the creep from next door wanting to borrow some sugar or some other excuse to get his foot in the door.”

Geraldine pushed back her seat and stood up.

“I’ll go. If it is, I’ll remind him that the corner shop stays open till midnight.”

She went down the corridor, out of Leonie’s sight. Leonie poured more wine into the two glasses. She heard muttered voices and then Geraldine’s cheerful voice calling, “It’s not the creep from next door.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s the gorilla from Gozo.”

Leonie spilled wine onto the white table cloth and looked up startled as Creasy came into the room, followed by Michael, who was followed by Geraldine, her eyes aglitter with curiosity.

Leonie stood up in confusion. Michael brushed past Creasy and in a moment was holding her in a tight hug. She found herself crying.

Lightly, Geraldine said to Creasy, “Can I get you a drink?”

It took a few minutes for the situation to settle down.

Geraldine poured a whisky and soda for Creasy and a lager for Michael and then deftly took her leave.

“But you haven’t finished your meal,” Leonie said, once more composed.

“No matter,” Geraldine answered, putting on her coat. She gave Leonie a look that said, “Call me later or I’ll kill you,” and then she was gone.

Michael lifted the lid off the casserole dish and inhaled the aroma of coq au vin.

“The food on the plane was awful,” he said with a grin.

“Sit down and eat,” she said and pulled up another chair for Creasy. She ladled out the food, saying, “Fortunately I made plenty. I always make enough to reheat a day or so later. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

“We’ve come to take you home,” Michael said simply.

She looked at Creasy and he nodded. He was looking uncomfortable.

“But why?” she asked.

Creasy had decided not to rehearse anything with Michael. He shrugged and said quietly, “We miss your cooking.”

She smiled without humour.

“Then go to an agency and hire a cook. They can even send her over here and I’ll teach her how to make Yorkshire pudding.”

Creasy smiled, but said nothing. Michael glanced at him and then said to Leonie, “I beat him last night over fifty lengths of the swimming pool.”

“So?”

Creasy supplied the answer. “The bet was that the winner could ask the other to do anything he wanted to.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Michael injected. “It was close, but I won.”

She looked from one to the other then said to Creasy, “So you lost a bet and came to fetch me like a sack of potatoes?”

Michael’s face had fallen. “It’s not like that,” he said. “We both want you to come back.”

She was still looking at Creasy. He was looking at his plate. He raised his head and said, “Yes, we both want you back.”

“Why?”

Michael said, “Because we miss you…it’s not the same.”

She was still looking at Creasy. She said, “I know Michael misses me. I’ve missed him too but there’s no way you can convince me you miss me. No way I’ll believe you want me to come back.”

He looked up at her again and said, “I would not be here if I didn’t want you back.”

“I believe you,” she answered. “But the reason is for Michael, not for me.” She turned to look at Michael and said, “When I saw you come into the room, I knew I loved you like a son, but I cannot live in Gozo like I lived before. I loved Gozo but not the way I lived.” She spoke as though Creasy was not in the room. “It’s been five weeks, now, since I returned here and I know I cannot live with this man. He makes me feel like a piece of furniture or a robot in the kitchen. Yes, he was kind to me in the last weeks, but it was an artificial kindness, perhaps knocked into him by Laura.”

A silence, then Creasy muttered, “I have an affection for you.”

She laughed derisively. “If you do, it’s like the affection you might have for a pet dog.”

He was looking down at his plate again. His food was untouched. Almost inaudibly, he muttered, “I have never had a pet dog…I never had any pets at all.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. She gazed back at him. She looked into his eyes and somehow they became a cage around him. Slowly, she put her knife and fork on the plate.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Gore Hotel in Queensgate.”

She stood up and walked into the kitchen. They heard the tinkle of a telephone being lifted, then a few low, inaudible words. She came back, and said to Michael, “I’ve called you a taxi. It will be outside the front door in about three minutes. Go to the hotel, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Michael looked at her and then glanced at Creasy who said nothing. Michael stood up.