THE PERFECT KILL (32 page)

He smiled and asked, “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

“Oscar de la Renta,” she answered. “Michael bought it for me, duty free, on his trip to Tunisia. Do you like it?”

“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to rip those clothes off you and drag you back to bed.”

She laughed, kissed him on the cheek and walked to the front door. He stood up.

“I deserve a better goodbye kiss than that” She turned and smiled and walked back, put her arms around him and kissed him deep and fiercely.

“I’ll cancel Geraldine if you like,” she said. “I’ll cancel shopping if you like. Nothing’s important any more except being with you.”

He gave her another kiss and then gestured at the papers on the table. His voice was gruff.

“You go ahead. Have a good lunch. And buy a new dress for yourself. Something slinky for tonight.”

She kissed him again. He watched the door close behind her and then moved to the window and pulled aside the white lace curtains. He watched her cross the road, watched her climb into the battered blue Fiesta. It was a clear, bright day. The Fiesta pulled out of its parking space and began to accelerate down the road. He was turning away when he saw the yellow-white flame erupt beneath the car, saw it bulge and lift onto its front end.

Instinctively, he ducked below the window, heard the glass shatter above him, felt the pressure in his ears and heard the dull, rolling roar of the explosion.

It took him less than two minutes to pack his canvas bag and leave the apartment. He pushed his way through the crowd, past people, some dazed, some crying, some screaming. He walked quickly for ten minutes hearing the sirens behind him, then he went into an underground station and caught the tube train to Heathrow.

Ahmed Jibril read the report and studied the newspaper critically. Yet again he felt a twist of fear deep inside him.

“He was lucky,” he muttered.

“No,” Dalkamouni answered. “The IRA were at fault. They should have risked using a line-of-sight radio controlled bomb. Sooner or later, they would have got him.”

“Who was the woman?” Jibril asked.

“As yet, we don’t know,” Dalkamouni answered. “British security have clamped a silence on the whole matter.”

“British security? You think they are involved?”

Dalkamouni shrugged.

“Who knows. We know that this man is coming at you. It’s likely that the Americans know, and the British. I guess that they’re sitting back and waiting for it to happen. I guess that they’ll give him any passive help they can. After all, why not? The woman might well be a lead to him but they’ll keep a lid on it for as long as possible.”

Jibril was looking down at the press photographs of the wrecked car.

“A pity,” he muttered. “A great pity.”

“There’s more,” his aide said. “The Frenchman Laconte has cancelled his contract. Wants nothing more to do with it. You can be sure he’s informed the French SDECE, who’ll inform the British.”

“What else can we be sure of?” Jibril asked sarcastically. Dalkamouni grimaced.

“We can be sure the man Creasy is on his way here.”

“Then he will die here,” Jibril answered harshly.

The folded white handkerchief landed on Michael’s lap. The harsh voice said, “That’s enough. Dry your tears.” The young man looked up. His wet face was a picture of pain.

They were sitting in a room in the Pensione Splendide on the hills above Naples. Michael had followed the brief instructions contained in a phone call from Blondie forty-eight hours earlier.

He had packed his bag, locked up the house, taken the overnight ferry to Naples and then a taxi to the Pensione Splendide. He had enjoyed the ferry trip, having met a young female American back-packer, who was going to sleep on deck. Instead she had slept in his cabin. At the pensione he had been met by a taciturn, middle-aged man called Guido who had shown him his room and said, “Creasy will arrive soon. He said to wait in here until then.”

In fact it had been three hours before Creasy turned up. He had walked stone-faced into the room, tossed his bag onto the bed and said tersely, “Your mother’s dead. Car bomb in London meant for me. Probably the IRA fronting for Jibril.”

He had briefly sketched in the details and then Michael’s tears had started.

Now Michael wiped his face with the handkerchief and asked, “You didn’t go back to check?…to make sure she was dead?”

“I did not. I saw the explosion. There was no chance.” His voice softened slightly. “Michael, it was instantaneous. She would have known nothing.”

Michael stared down at the floor, then drew a deep breath, looked up and said, “The night before she left, we had dinner together at Sammy’s. We had lobster.”

“I know.”

“She talked about you. Did you know how much she loved you?”

“I think so.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes…and she knew it before she died.”

Creasy stood up.

“Dry your tears, Michael. Think of who did it…think of Jibril.”

They had dinner on the open terrace of the pensione together with Guido at a table set apart from the others. The lights of Naples dropped away beneath them, the bay beyond. An old waiter served them. Obviously he knew Creasy long and well.

As they sat down Creasy gestured at Guido and said to Michael, “This man is your friend and the friend of your friends. You can tell him anything you wish. You can talk to him as you talk to me. If you need anything…and I mean anything…come to Guido.”

The young man was composed now with his confidence fully restored. He glanced at the Italian and then asked Creasy, “What makes him so special?”

Creasy smiled, as did Guido.

“He’s my closest friend,” Creasy answered. “He was married to Nadia’s sister which also makes him my brother-in-law…Over the years he has saved my life more times than I can remember.”

Michael glanced at the Italian. He was short and square, the black hair greying at the temples. He had a Roman nose above a wide mouth and eyes that saw everything.

“You were also a mercenary?” Michael asked.

Guido nodded soberly.

“Yes, for most of my life, but after I married I gave it up. Before Julia died I promised her I would never kill or fight again. I’ve kept that promise.” He smiled and waved a hand at the other tables and guests. “So now I run a pensione and watch football on television.”

Michael studied the Italian, then turned to Creasy and asked, “Was he as good as you?”

Creasy nodded. “Yes. And with a machine-gun he was the best ever.”

“And as a sniper?” Michael asked with a smile. Creasy shrugged and answered, “First class.”

“As good as me?”

Slowly Creasy shook his head. “No, but then he was not trained by Rambahadur Rai.”

Guido’s face showed surprise.

“You had this kid trained by Rambahadur Rai?”

The American nodded. “He was with him for a month and at the end pronounced himself very satisfied.”

Guido looked at the young man with more respect. Michael said tetchily, “And I’m not a kid.”

Guido smiled and nodded in acceptance of the rebuke.

The old waiter brought three huge plates of baby calamari with rice, salad and red wine in an unlabelled bottle.

“Eat everything,” he said to Creasy, “or the cook will kill you. She knows it’s your favourite and sent out especially for the calamari.”

For the next ten minutes there was silence as the three men ate.

Michael finally broke the silence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, glanced at Guido and then asked Creasy, “So what’s the next step?”

“On a certain day next week there’s a ninety-five per cent chance that Ahmed Jibril will attend a ceremony in Damascus on the anniversary of the establishment of the State of Palestine. It’s an open-air ceremony. He’ll be heavily guarded but from a distance it will be possible to get a single shot at him.”

“What is the distance?”

Creasy sighed. “About five hundred metres.”

“What time of day?” Michael asked urgently.

“Evening, just before sunset.”

Michael said simply, “Rambahadur Rai.”

Creasy looked up sharply. “I would never use him.”

Michael shook his head and said tersely, “I don’t expect you to use him. It is personal. And don’t forget it’s personal for me too. You don’t have a monopoly of vengeance. I mentioned Rambahadur because of his opinion. He said I’m a better sniper than you are.”

Defensively Creasy answered, “That’s debatable. On a firing range maybe. But you have no experience in the field. I’ve had plenty, as Guido will tell you.”

The Italian nodded and said, “It makes a difference. A human being is not like a cardboard target. Shooting at flesh and blood can affect the mind and the eye.”

“Jibril is not flesh and blood,” Michael retorted. “My mind and my eye will be cold and sharp. I will not miss.” He asked Creasy, “How many rifles do you have in Damascus?”

“Two.”

“Heckler and Kochs?”

“Yes.”

Michael leaned forward and said with great intensity, “Then I make the hit. You act as backup. Have you got that, Creasy?”

Michael stood up, dropping his napkin on the table. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Creasy, she was my mother.” He turned to Guido and said, “Thank you for a fine meal. It was a pleasure meeting you. I will obey Creasy. I will look on you as a friend. I hope it will be a two-way street.”

He turned and walked through the tables to the door.

“Where did you find him?” Guido asked with a wry look.

“In an orphanage,” Creasy answered gruffly.

“Is he as good as he thinks he is? Is he really a better sniper than you…? I’ve seen you take a man between the eyes at six hundred metres.”

Creasy shrugged and said, “Rambahadur Rai is the greatest sniper I’ve ever known. He rates Michael his equal. He’s got an affinity for it. It’s something that you’re born with and then trained for. He was born with it and he had the best trainer on earth.”

“What about other weapons?” Guido asked curiously.

“Very, very good,” Creasy answered. “I turned that kid into a killing machine. And in a way he’s right. I don’t have a monopoly of vengeance. He loved Leonie and in a way he loved Nadia and Julia. And maybe I’m taking him to his death,” he said. His voice turned very sombre. “I seem to have the curse of death on me.”

Quietly Guido answered, “We always had that on us. We were born with it.”

The two dinners took place about a thousand miles apart, but the conversations covered the same topic.

In Damascus, Ahmed Jibril dined at his headquarters with his two sons, Dalkamouni and Colonel Jomah.

On the overnight Rome to Paris train, Creasy dined in the restaurant car with his son, Michael.

“I will not change my routine,” Jibril insisted. “Tomorrow I will go to the camp and bid farewell to our fighters who go on Operation Kumeer. They go to almost certain death. I will not send men to their deaths and hide away myself.”

“His headquarters are impregnable,” Creasy observed as the train slowed to greet the foothills of the Alps. “He’s only vulnerable when he leaves them.”

“You’re sure he will leave?” Michael asked.

The dining car was only half full and the tables behind and in front of them were empty. They had both ordered steak aupoivre as a main course and after the steward had served it, Creasy answered, “I’m ninety-five per cent sure he’ll attend the ceremony marking the anniversary of the establishment of the State of Palestine at the end of next week.” He looked at the young man and asked, “What does Saahat el Chouhaada mean?”

Michael swallowed a piece of steak and took a gulp of wine.

“It means Martyrs’ Square. Is that where the ceremony will take place?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a nest about five hundred metres away?”

“Yes. And it has line-of-sight on the square. Michael, drink the wine slowly. It’s a good wine, savour it, don’t just glug it down.”

Khaled Jibril remained totally sceptical. He reached forward to the steaming bowl, picked up a piece of mutton and put it in his mouth.

“There is nothing to fear,” he mumbled. “We are on our own territory. Not even Mossad can infiltrate here.” He looked at his father. “You have not lived this long to be killed by one man.”

Colonel Jomah drank whisky and water with his meal, the only one of the five to touch alcohol.

He swirled it around in his glass and remarked, “There is a theory about Mossad. A theory that they never intended to assassinate any of the top Palestinian leaders.”

“It’s a crazy theory,” Jihad said angrily. “They are experts at assassination.”

“That’s true,” the Colonel conceded. “And they have killed many people. German scientists who worked for Nasser in Egypt, when they tried to develop missiles. French and Swiss scientists who worked with Saddam Hussein in Iraq on his nuclear programme. More recently, they killed a Canadian ballistics expert in Brussels. He had convinced Saddam Hussein that he could build him an artillery piece powerful enough to drop chemical shells on any part of Israel. But Mossad has never in the past fifteen years assassinated a Palestinian leader.”

They all thought about that and then Khaled asked, “Why not?”

The Colonel spread his hands and said, “The theory is that terrorist activity against innocent third parties creates sympathy for their cause in the West. In essence, they believe that people like your father and Abu Nidal work in a strange way towards the interests of Israel.”

Jibril said, “Really, Colonel, what you are saying is that our security has never been truly tested.”

“Exactly,” Jomah answered.

Michael looked up at the towering, snow-covered peaks of the Alps. It was the first time he had ever seen snow. Several minutes had passed, then he refocused his attention.

“The nest. Is it in a building?”

“On top,” Creasy answered.

“Then we will be exposed.”

“Only briefly. The point is that within a radius of three hundred metres of Martyrs’ Square every building will be totally secured. Every roof-top will have its quota of troops and police.”

The steward brought dessert of profiteroles and fresh cream. Michael tucked in heartily, then remarked, “So, that’s why we have to make the hit from five hundred metres…outside the security perimeter?”