Free THE PERFECT KILL by A. J. Quinnell Page A

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.

Chapter 11
    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