Man on Fire by A.J. Quinnell

Author:A.J. Quinnell [Quinnell, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

Creasy and George sat on the outside patio alone. They had enjoyed a good dinner. Laura and Nadia had worked most of the afternoon preparing it: a minestra, and then timpana, Maltese style, followed by rabbit stufato, and rounded off with fruit and the local pepper-cheese made from goat’s milk. Creasy had spent a quiet day after his near mishap. In the afternoon he had driven into Rabat to the police station and picked up a set of tide tables.

He noted that Paul and Joey had deliberately gone off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. Nadia brought out a tray with coffee and cognac and then went back into the kitchen.

George thoughtfully filled and tamped a large pipe, I struck a match, and sucked flame down into the bowl. Creasy poured the coffee and cognac. He knew what was coming. Paul had felt it right to brief him.

Satisfied with the small furnace he had created, George leaned back and said, “You know I’m in charge of security for the islands?”

Creasy nodded and passed him a cup. “You want to know whether I’m a security risk?”

George waved his pipe deprecatingly. “No, Paul explained why you’re here. In any event, I’ve already learned quite a lot about you.” He was a little embarrassed. “I sent a telex this morning to Paris.”

Creasy was puzzled. “Paris?”

“Yes—Interpol.” His smile took away any potential offense. “Not what you think. It’s just that for the past few years many countries have been keeping tabs on all known mercenaries—ever since the fiasco in Angola. It’s just convenient to have it centralized at Interpol. There is no criminal implication, you understand.”

Creasy remained silent, and after a pause George continued.

“The fact is, I let you come and join our squad on Thursday because you’re my uncle’s friend; but if it’s going to be a regular thing, it’s my duty to check that there are no wrinkles.”

“I understand that,” Creasy said. “Are there any wrinkles?” George shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket and passed over a folded piece of paper.

“That’s the telex reply I received this afternoon.” He shrugged. “I really shouldn’t show it to you.”

Creasy read while George puffed at his pipe. There was a very long silence, then Creasy asked, “What does the bit at the end mean?”

George leaned over and translated the coded suffix: “Not politically motivated. No known criminal affiliations. No group affiliations. More details available on request.”

Creasy folded the paper and handed it back and there was another pregnant silence.

“Is it basically correct?”

Creasy nodded and, for the first time, smiled. “Except that I’m no longer a bodyguard. What are the other details they refer to?”

“I sent a Grade Two inquiry,” George explained. “It’s cheaper, and we are not a rich department. So they sent brief details. A Grade One inquiry would have elicited every single thing they know about you.”

Creasy was impressed. “How do they get their information?”

“Intelligence services, mainly,” George answered. “We pool certain information. It’s a sensitive world, and mercenaries can be a nuisance.

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