THE PERFECT KILL (29 page)

Then she had bustled off to the kitchen.

Maxie came over with an unmarked bottle of wine and a large plate of biltong.

“I get the wine from Lamont,” he said. He grinned at Creasy. “The biltong comes from my nephew’s ranch outside Bulawayo.”

Leonie had been out to dinner with Creasy and Michael many times in Gozo and twice over the last few days in London, but tonight was the first time she felt that they were a family unit.

“I have some questions,” she said.

“So have I,” Michael said.

“Go ahead.” Creasy munched contentedly on a piece of biltong. “By the way, this is not made from beef, it’s the real thing. Probably wildebeest.”

“Who are Maxie and Nicole?” Leonie asked.

“Maxie’s an old friend,” he answered. “And a very good one. I fought with him in Rhodesia. If either of you ever has a problem and I’m not around, you call him.”

“And Nicole?” Michael asked.

“She’s a newer friend. They’ve only been together a few weeks…but believe me, it’s a match made in heaven.”

Michael gestured at the bottle of wine and asked, “And Lamont?”

“Another old friend…an ex-Legionnaire. He has a small vineyard in the Rhone valley. One day when all this is over, we’ll go and stay with him.”

“One last question,” Leonie said. “Why am I elegantly dressed and looking ten years younger?”

Creasy poured the wine, tasted it and nodded in approval. “It was an exercise,” he said to her. “Do you remember what you said to me in your apartment in London, after Michael had gone back to the hotel?”

“I told you several things,” she answered.

“You told me that you wanted to be part of what we were doing. After you’d gone to sleep I thought about it and I decided that the only way this thing could work is if you were part of it. That’s why I called the lawyer the next morning to cancel the divorce. That’s why I agreed that you should come to Brussels with us. That’s why I wanted you to meet my friends.”

There was a silence and then she reached out and covered his hand with hers.

“But why am I looking like this?”

“Because of a man called Khaled Jibril.” As he said the name, she saw his face harden. She glanced at Michael and from his expression, realised that he knew all about Khaled Jibril.

“Tell me.”

“He is the son of Ahmed Jibril, who is the man who arranged to have the bomb planted on Pan Am 103.”

He gave her a thumbnail sketch of Jibril’s organisation and structure. When he finished she asked again, “But, why am I looking like this?”

“Because Khaled Jibril has a fascination, even an obsession, with beautiful, blonde Scandinavian women. He spent more than two years operating a PFLP-GC cell in Sweden. That’s where the fascination began. He lived with a Swedish woman, who was blonde and beautiful but she left him when she discovered that he was a terrorist. It’s just possible that I may get to Ahmed Jibril through his son’s obsession.”

She digested that and then remarked, “But I am not beautiful and blonde.”

Creasy looked at Michael, who immediately said, “You are beautiful, even without Blondie’s makeup.”

She smiled at him and then touched her long, straight black hair.

“But I am certainly not blonde.”

“By tomorrow afternoon, you will be,” Creasy answered. “As blonde as the blondest Scandinavian ever born. After lunch, Nicole will take you to the hairdresser. Incidentally, do not ask what she did before she met Maxie.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Can you tell me?”

He thought for a moment and then said, “She did similar sort of work to what I used to do.”

“She was a mercenary?” Michael asked in surprise.

“Something like that.”

A young waitress, Nicole’s sister, came out of the kitchen carrying a huge black metal pot. She placed it in the centre of their table and took off the lid.

“What is it?” Michael asked inhaling the aroma. Proudly the girl said, “Pot-au-feu provenqal. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. It’s been cooking very slowly all afternoon.”

They demolished the food in almost total silence. The pot-aufeu was followed by salad, cheese and then sabayon nigois. “Homemade,” the waitress said sternly, as she served.

Creasy smiled and said to Leonie, “Before they opened this place, I once asked Nicole if she could really cook.”

“She’s a genius,” Leonie stated. “Do you think she’d give me the recipe for the pot-aufeu?”

“If she doesn’t, I won’t pay the bill.”

“She’s also very beautiful,” Michael said. “And so is her sister,” he muttered reverently.

Later, when all the other customers had left, Maxie and Nicole joined them at the table. The two men talked about old friends and current politics, while Nicole wrote out the recipe for pot-aufeu and for the sabayon. Michael kept silent but his eyes never left the young waitress as she cleared the tables. Finally, she joined them, poured herself a brandy and then asked her sister something in French. Nicole shook her head. The girl started to argue and then Creasy intervened. Turning to Michael he said, “There’s a disco nearby. Lucette wants to go but after midnight sometimes rough types get in there and there’s trouble. I told Nicole that you would take her and keep an eye on her. Just make sure she’s home before two and since you’re looking after her, make sure you don’t have more than a couple of drinks.”

Michael grinned and then Creasy spoke a few rapid sentences to him in Arabic. The young man nodded solemnly, took Lucette’s arm and they left the restaurant.

“What did you say to him?” Nicole asked curiously.

“I told him not to show off.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Any tough kids in the disco would be no match for Michael. Not even two or three of them together. He’s well aware of that. He’s also with a beautiful girl. The temptation is obvious.”

It was spring when Senator James S. Grainger was summoned to the White House late one afternoon.

He was shown into the Oval Office. The President greeted him warmly and personally poured him a whisky and soda.

Curtis Bennett was also there, nursing a drink and looking serious but expectant.

When they were all seated, the President said, “Jim, we have a final conclusive report that the PFLP-GC were responsible for the Loccurbie bombing. Sure they used others: Libyans, Syrians and probably a few freelance. But they were behind it.” The President leaned forward and continued sternly, “Now, Jim, you know the difficulties executing arrest warrants. You will also remember your promise to me some months ago, when you phoned me and asked that I instruct the Director to pull all security off you. I went along with it. You promised that when I asked you to cooperate with the FBI, then you would do so.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Grainger replied.

“I’m asking you now, Jim.”

Grainger said, “Of course I will keep my promise.”

“Good.” The President turned to look at Bennett and said,

“Curtis, I don’t want to know anything, I don’t want to know that the Senator here is involved in any way whatsoever. I don’t even want to know that this conversation ever took place. I don’t want any Watergates, Irangates, or any fucking gates at all. Are you clear about that?”

Bennett nodded firmly. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I don’t want any internal memos circulating in the CIA which mention myself or the Senator. All I want to get one day is a report telling me that those men have either been arrested or eliminated by third parties unknown.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The President nodded, turned to Grainger with a grim smile and said softly, “Now tell me, Jim. How are you going to vote tomorrow on the tax bill?”

Grainger grinned.

“Naturally, in favour, Mr. President.”

An hour later, Grainger and Curtis were closeted in an office in the White House basement. For half an hour Grainger studied the final CIA report on the Loccurbie bombing. He made notes on the pad beside him.

When he finished he looked up and asked, “Are you sure that you’re getting a total input from Mossad?”

Bennett shrugged and said, “I’m sure that we’re getting everything that they give to the FBI. But that’s all I’m sure about.”

“What about the BND and MI6?”

“The same thing applies, but I’m more confident with MI6. Since the plane came down over Britain and killed some of their citizens, they have a stronger motive. We’re working together on it. Now, Senator, tell me about Creasy and what you’re up to.”

Grainger closed the report and studied his notes. He said, “Curtis, over the past months, Creasy has been preparing his team. I don’t know what that team is or who it consists of but if it’s anything like the team he sent over to look after me, I’d say he has a good chance of exacting justice.”

“I go along with that,” Bennett said. “Do you know how he’s going to go about it?”

“I do not,” Grainger answered. “Or when. I have two functions. One to supply half of the money and the other to pass on any information which comes my way.” He tapped his notes. “I’m going on that Congressional junket to Europe on Thursday. I’ll set up a meeting with Creasy and pass this on. When he makes his play is anyone’s guess. According to the report, Ahmed Jibril has moved into his training camp outside Damascus. His son Jihad is also there. The last sighting of Khaled was three weeks ago in Tripoli, Libya. Curtis, I need constant updates as they come in. I don’t want Creasy to think he’s alone out there.”

“He won’t be alone out there,” Curtis answered firmly, collecting up his papers.

Ahmed Jibril was by nature a patient man. It is a necessary trait for a terrorist. But after two months in the camp at Ein Tazur, his patience was wearing thin. He missed the cosmopolitan life of Damascus and the occasional company of his two mistresses.

None of his soldiers were allowed to have women in the camp and it would have set a bad example for him to do so. He decided that he was over-reacting to the threat and drove back to his headquarters in Damascus with an armed escort. He took his son Jihad with him. His other son, Khaled, had returned from Libya a few days earlier. On arriving at his headquarters, Jibril’s first action was to call a meeting. It comprised himself, his two sons and Dalkamouni, his Chief of Staff. For the first time, he outlined the full situation to them and showed them the file supplied by Colonel Jomah.

Khaled was dismissive.

“One man,” he said derisively. “Mossad and half the Western intelligence agencies have been trying to kill you for years without success. What is one man going to do?”

Jihad had nodded in agreement, but Dalkamouni was more concerned. He leafed through the file and studied the photograph.

“He effectively stopped us from getting hold of Senator Grainger,” he said. “And he was not alone. Obviously the people with him are well trained.”

But Jihad was unconvinced. He waved a hand at the file and said, “They were up against a bunch of common criminals. You cannot compare a Mafia gang to the PFLP-GC.” He turned to his father and said, half apologetically, “We should have mounted an operation ourselves, with our own people.”

Jibril shook his head and replied firmly, “It would have taken too long. Besides our strength lies here in the Middle East and in Europe.” He turned to look at his Chief of Staff. “I agree with Hafez. The threat has to be taken seriously. We all know that sometimes, one man can do what an army cannot. We have sent our fighters as individuals against the army of the Israelis. They have succeeded and usually die because they have the motive of hatred and patriotism.” He gestured at the file, now back on the desk in front of him. “This man Creasy has a similar motive and if we are to be honest, he has more experience and training than any of our soldiers. I think that he does not care for his own life, even though he is an Infidel and has no thoughts of eternal paradise.”

He looked at the three men in turn and then asked, “Does anyone have any suggestions?”

Khaled immediately answered. “Yes. We have to find him first and kill him.”

“And how do we do that?” Jibril asked softly. “We do not know where his base is, not even on which continent he is. For all we know, he could be in Damascus right now.”

There was a silence then Dalkamouni said thoughtfully, “But he has to have a base. I doubt if he will work completely alone. We have to look at his background for clues, to find out who his friends and associates were and are. We know something of his past and so we must delve into it to find clues to the present.”

“How do we do that?” Jihad asked.

“With patience and thoroughness,” Dalkamouni replied. To Jibril he said, “Ahmed, will you leave this with me for a day or two? Let me think on it. I may wish to send someone to Europe. Probably Paris. If so I will send Dajani. He is experienced, intelligent and patient. If we send him, we would need to ask for the cooperation of Colonel Jomah.”

“We will get it,” Jibril stated. To Khaled he said, “I’m going to do something else…I’m going to sacrifice those two Libyans who helped us plant the bomb.”

His son looked startled. “But why?”

Jibril smiled thinly. “To lay a false trail. We will leak their names and some evidence to our contacts in the French SDECE. They will pass it straight on to the British police and the FBI. Grainger, with his connections, will get it from the FBI and pass it on to that bastard Creasy, and maybe he will change direction and target Gaddafi instead of me…I’ve never liked that jumped up peacock anyway.”

“But he knew nothing about it,” Khaled protested. “We bribed his men in Malta directly.”

Jibril shrugged. “Tough luck.”

Khaled was about to protest but he saw something in his father’s eyes that he had never seen before…fear.

He stilled his protest and muttered, “I will arrange it immediately.”

Jibril nodded firmly. To Jihad, he said, “Return to the camp. I want to bring forward Operation Kumeer, try to launch it before the end of the month. I do not want people to think that we are inactive.” He turned to Khaled. “I want you to remain here and take personal charge of my bodyguards.” To Dalkamouni he said, “That will be your task, my friend. To find this man Creasy…and to kill him.”