THE PERFECT KILL (8 page)

Creasy thought for a while and then said, “That old ruined farmhouse down the edge of your land, the one your uncle used to have, tell Joey to start fixing it up…He’s good with stone and like me, he enjoys working with his hands. Tell him you’re thinking of selling it. Prices for old farmhouses are shooting up, with foreigners buying them. Once it’s fixed up, you’ll get thirty thousand or more for it. I’ll come and help him. It’ll be like the old days when he and I used to work together, rebuilding the rubble walls on this farm.”

The farmer smiled back.

“And then he thinks about a family.”

The American nodded and said quietly, “Paul, it’s time that you and Laura had grandchildren again.”

After Creasy had left with Joey, to have a drink at Gleneagles, Laura walked out onto the patio, sat down with her husband and had her first glass of wine.

“She’s a good cook, Paul.”

The farmer glanced at her with an enquiring look.

Laura said, “Normally, he’d have eaten twice as much. She’s been feeding him well”

“I suppose that’s something,” the farmer said.

“Yes,” Laura said firmly. “That is something.”

He did not look like a ruthless leader of a highly successful terrorist unit. He looked more like a successful salesman or an upmarket con man.

Ahmed Jibril sat in his well furnished, massively defended office in the heart of Damascus. He was small, plump and sleek, and dressed in neat grey trousers, a double-breasted blue blazer with silver buttons, a cream shirt and a maroon tie. He had been born in 1937 in the village of Yazur, near Jaffa, in the then state of Palestine. His whole life had been devoted to returning to that village in the new state of Israel. At nineteen, he joined the Syrian Army and, with his driving ambition and determination, rapidly rose through the ranks to become Captain in the Engineering Corps. Perhaps not coincidentally, he was obsessed with explosives, and became a demolition expert.

During the mid-nineteen sixties, when Syria began to mount incursions into Israel, they sponsored the formation of several terrorist organisations. Many Palestinian officers in the Syrian Army were assigned to them, including Ahmed Jibril. For a while, he spent time with George Habash in the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, but later he broke away to form his own group, which he called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine General Command. By now he had a wife called Samira, who became head of the group’s women’s committee. They had two sons, Jihab and Khaled, who held senior positions in the organisation.

With strong financial backing from Syria and others, Jibril quickly built up a reputation for spectacular action. PFLP-GC became the best trained terrorist group in the Middle East and the most highly motivated.

It was responsible for the bombing of Swissair Flight 330, en route from Zurich to Tel-Aviv. They were also able to plant a bomb on an Austrian Airline flight from Frankfurt to Vienna, but the pilot made an emergency landing. The bombing of civilian aircraft in flight became Ahmed Jibril’s trademark. In 1986, he proudly informed a press conference that there would be no safety for any traveller on US or Israeli airlines.

During the mid-eighties, Jibril established several cells in European cities, including Rome, Frankfurt and in Malta. He also recruited a Jordanian national called Merwan Kreashat, who happened to be one of the world’s great bomb makers.

He was leafing through various magazine and newspaper articles when the red scrambled telephone on his desk rang. He reached for it and heard the voice of Colonel Jomah, his direct contact with President Assad. Jomah was brief.

“Our embassy in Paris has had a contact which claims to have information of benefit to you.”

“What information?”

“He didn’t say, but he mentioned the word “Loccurbie”. Then he said, if you were interested, you should insert a message in the personal column of the International Herald Tribune within seven days. The message should read, “Helen Woods call home soonest”.”

Jibril thought for a moment and then said, “What do you think?”

The voice at the other end of the phone sounded slightly sarcastic.

“I think, Ahmed, that such a message would only cost a few dollars…do you want me to have it placed?”

“I would be grateful,” Jibril replied in silky tones.

“Very well. I’ll get back to you if anything develops.”

The line went dead. Jibril cradled the phone and for several minutes sat gazing at the small crystal jar on his desk. It contained a reddish brown grainy substance. It was soil, taken from a field in the village of Yazur, near Jaffa, brought reverently to him two years earlier by one of his own fighters.

Leonie played her part perfectly.

The panel comprised the bishop, Father Manuel Zerafa, another elderly priest and a Maltese woman from the social services department. They sat behind a long table in an office in the Curia. Creasy and Leonie sat in front of them. The panel had already examined all the relevant documents including proof of Creasy’s financial means.

During the questioning the bishop had gently referred to Leonie’s dead son and asked whether Michael Said would be an emotional substitute. She had thought for a moment and then opened her handbag and taken out a tissue and wiped the tears from her eyes. At that moment, Creasy knew that the adoption would go through but he did not know whether the tears were genuine. Later, as they left the Curia, he decided not to ask her.

They had settled into a routine. The boy would come up every morning at seven and swim and exercise with Creasy while she cooked them breakfast. It was always the same. Lightly scrambled eggs, grilled bacon, grilled tomato and a rack of almost burnt toast, together with freshly squeezed orange juice, percolated coffee for the man and lemon tea for the boy. She would eat her own breakfast an hour later and then drive into Rabat and do the shopping. For the rest of the morning, Creasy would be in his study working. She would lie by the pool reading and sometimes swimming. In Creasy’s study there were thousands of books, covering a wide range of topics both fact and fiction.

She would make him a light lunch of salad and cold meat at twelve o’clock. After lunch, he would go off for two or three hours wearing old jeans and a denim shirt. He had told her that he was helping a friend build a house. On his return, he would strip off the clothes and go under the shower set into the wall by the pool and then swim a few lengths.

The boy would arrive at about five o’clock and he and Creasy would talk for an hour or two. Sometimes sitting under the trellis drinking lager, but more often making endless circuits of the pool. The man did most of the talking. During this time she would sit apart, out of earshot, or work in the kitchen, or watch a film on the video. Often she would tune the television in to broadcasts from Italy. To help pass the time, she had decided to learn Italian. She had spent holidays in Italy and already knew a little. She had also bought a Linguaphone course. She was determined that by the time the six months were up, she would speak the language well.

Two or three times a week, Creasy took her out to dinner. The restaurants were varied. A small bistro in Xaghra one night, with simple local food, the restaurant under Gleneagles, where Salvu cooked in the open kitchen, and at the ludicrously named “Pink Panther”, which was a simulation of an English pub, but which had a lovely alfresco dining-room at the back.

At night they slept in the huge bed, but they did not sleep together. The bed was seven feet wide and as the weeks passed, during all the nights, he had not once touched her, not even involuntarily.

After seven weeks, the adoption papers came through and the routine changed. She had driven with Creasy in the jeep to the orphanage to pick him up. There had been no ceremony.

Michael had been waiting at the entrance, with Father Zerafa. At his feet was a small sports bag containing his possessions. She acted her part kissing him on both cheeks and giving him a hug.

She had also kissed the priest on both cheeks and murmured, “Father, thank you for looking after him so well. Now I will look after him.”

The priest’s face had held no expression. Then the boy had tossed his bag into the back of the jeep and climbed in after it. She had watched him walk into his bedroom, the one with the portraits of Nadia and Julia, watched through the open door, watched as he tossed the bag onto the bed, watched as he surveyed the room, watched as he moved slowly to the portraits and watched as he gazed at them.

Creasy had immediately taken the boy out of school and had begun to educate him personally.

After the exercises and swimming in the morning, and after the usual breakfast, they would disappear into Creasy’s study and not emerge until lunchtime. After lunch they would both leave the house and go to work on the house his friend was building, except two afternoons a week, when Creasy would go alone and when an elderly courteous Arab would arrive and give the boy lessons in Arabic. They were not written lessons, only verbal. The Arab had given his name as Yussuf Oader. All Leonie had learnt about the man was that he was retired in Malta but had originally come from a mountain village in the Lebanon.

She noted that the boy respected the old man and was attentive to his lessons.

She also noted something else, that an edge of competitiveness had developed between Creasy and the boy. It had started the day after she had arrived. The boy had come up in the afternoon and said to Creasy, “What about that race then?”

“How many lengths?” Creasy asked.

The boy had thought, then answered.

“Let’s make it ten.”

She had sat at the table under the trellis and watched. By the end of the first length the boy was ahead by two feet. By the end of the second, by five feet. By the end of the fifth length, by ten feet. She had decided that Creasy was going to take a hiding and wondered how his pride would accept that, but on the sixth length the boy began to slow. Creasy had been swimming with a steady rhythmic crawl, never changing his pace. He passed the boy on the eighth length. He had finished the ten lengths about eight feet ahead of the boy. He pulled himself up and out of the pool and sat with his legs in the water. He reached down and pulled the boy out next to him. They had sat there for several minutes, talking. Mostly Creasy talked. He spoke in a low voice but Leonie could hear it.

“What was your mistake?”

The boy’s chest was heaving.

“I started too fast,” he answered.

Creasy had shaken his head.

“That was your second mistake. Your first was in making a challenge that you were not sure of winning. Don’t ever do that, not in a race, not in life. Don’t ever strike a man if you’re not positive you can win the fight. Don’t ever battle, unless you know damn well you’re going to win the war. Don’t ever chase a woman unless you know you’ll get her.”

There had been a silence while the boy had digested that, then Creasy asked, “Have you ever been with a woman?”

The boy had answered with a trace of bitterness in his voice. “No. The local girls here are practical and orphans have few prospects.”

“But there are plenty of tourists in the summer.”

“Yes, and I see the girls down at Ramla beach and in the streets at Rabat but my pocket money is fifty cents a week. I’m told that the price of one drink at La Grotta Disco is fifty cents, and the entrance price is seventy-five cents.”

There had been a silence, then Creasy said, “The day the adoption papers go through…the day you move into this house, your pocket money will cease. Your allowance will be twenty-seven pounds a week, which is the minimum wage in Gozo…but you will earn it, Michael, because you will be working like you’ve never worked before.”

She had watched the boy turn his head and look up at the man and nod his head.

“I will earn it, Uomo!

“You know my brother-in-law, Joey Schembri?”

“I’ve seen him around. He brought me and some other boys at the orphanage drinks at the last feast…I spoke a few words with him. He used to play football for Ghainselum, but injured his knee a couple of years ago. He was a good striker.”

“OK, the Saturday after you move into this house Joey will take you down to La Grotta. Don’t be ashamed of being led by him, both in that or anything else, but don’t ever get smart with him. Don’t ever try and pull one of his girls. He’s got a wicked right hand. I’ve seen him in action.”

The Saturday after the boy had moved into the house, Creasy drove him into Rabat to meet Joey. He had then taken Leonie out to dinner at Ta Frenc. They had returned at one o’clock in the morning and the boy was not home.

She had heard him come back at four o’clock. Heard him smash into his bedroom door. Heard the thump, as he hit the floor. She had started to get out of bed, but Creasy’s hand had stopped her, gripping her by the arm. It had been the first time he had ever touched her in that bed.

“Leave him,” he had said.

In the morning she had found him sprawled across his bed, fully clothed, snoring against the pillow.

In spite of a monumental hangover, Creasy had made him do a hundred lengths of the pool before breakfast.

It was now July, glorious long summer days and evenings. She spent most of her waking hours outside. All meals were now eaten outside. Many evenings Creasy would barbecue. He was an expert, always marinating the meat overnight in his own special marinade. She would make her salads. He taught the boy the art of how to do a good barbecue, of the way to cook different kinds of meat and the fish he would bring back from his fishermen friends at Gleneagles. He asked her to teach the boy how to make salads and prepare vegetables. The boy was quick to learn and she noticed that he enjoyed cooking.

Once she had asked him how the orphanage was and he had grimaced and said, “They filled us up like putting petrol into a car and it tasted the same.”

With the sun and the setting, the days and nights should have been idyllic for Leonie but as each day passed she slipped into an ever deepening depression. It was not just that the people of the island continued to treat her as though she had a communicable disease, nor because, as the man and the boy drew mentally closer day by day, she felt increasingly isolated.