Without Mercy

IBIZA
8

The Falcon, with Greta on board, dropped in at Archbury and picked up Levin. “You’ve been busy,” she said as they took off again.

“What’s happening?”

“The net’s closing in.” She told him about Billy Salter in Dublin.

“So now they know definitely,” Levin said. “Thanks to a family-minded Dublin detective.”

“They know Liam Bell is in charge of Drumore, they’re aware that Max Zubin is playing Belov at Station Gorky. They don’t know about Ashimov or me.”

He smiled. “Or me.”

“So let’s keep it that way.”

“You’ve got Fitzgerald’s address, details of what he’s up to? He knows we’re coming?”

“Oh, yes. Bell’s been in touch with him.”

“That was a mistake.” Levin opened the bar cabinet and got out the vodka.

“Why?” she asked as he poured.

“He could wonder why. He could wonder whether the only present we’re bringing is a bullet in the head.”

“Not with me along.”

“A good-looking woman to make him feel comfortable?”

“Why not? Tell me one thing. You really think Dillon will turn up?”

“Absolutely.”

“It should be an interesting trip, then,” and they toasted each other. “Here’s to Mary Hall.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me, Igor. That’s what it says on my passport.”

When Billy arrived at Farley Field, he was delivered by Harry, grumbling as usual. “I mean, what’s he got you into now?”

“I’m a member of the Security Services, Harry. They yell, I jump. It’s called doing your duty.”

“Only Ferguson doesn’t know.”

“He will when he’s finished dinner. Roper will see to that.”

They parked outside the terminal building, went in and there was Lacey in flight overalls talking to Dillon. “The Quartermaster’s left you the usual bag, Sean, said you’ll find everything you want inside.”

Billy and Harry looked on. “There you are, you little Irish bastard,” Harry said.

Lacey said, “I’ll go and get us started.”

Dillon frowned. “Does Ferguson know about this?”

“He soon will. Roper’s in charge.” Billy picked up the Quartermaster’s bag and took his own from Harry. “Come on, Dillon, let’s get moving,” and he led the way out and walked to the Citation X.

Flying through the night at thirty thousand feet, Dillon indulged himself on half a bottle of Krug champagne.

“So what’s the first move?” asked Billy.

“To find Fitzgerald. Roper’s going to check diving sites and the kind of hotels divers use. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try my old friend Aldo Russo.”

“Italian, not Spanish? How come you were involved with him?”

“Way back in the old days when I was the pride of the IRA, I was sent to Sicily to buy arms, only the Mafia knew British intelligence was onto them, so they moved Russo, his wife and son to Ibiza, and used that as a base. There were Spanish elements who didn’t like it, thought the Mafia were encroaching on their territory.”

“What happened?”

“I did him a favor one night when a bit of business came up at the last minute. I offered to drive his wife and son home. Two men who’d been given the contract ambushed us, wounded the boy and his mother.”

“Don’t tell me. You took them out?”

“Something like that. God, it was thirty years ago. The son is an attorney in Palermo now.”

“Working for the Mafia?”

“Who knows?”

“And the wife?”

“Cancer, ten years ago.”

There was silence for a while. Billy said, “When it’s time, it’s time. I suppose Russo has never forgotten what you did. Italians are funny like that.”

“Honor is everything, Billy, you know that.”

“Or respect,” Billy said.

Dillon’s Codex Four went and Ferguson exploded. “What in the hell do you think you are playing at?”

“Don’t blame Roper, he was trying to make it official for Lacey. As for Billy, he’s only here because he’s a sentimentalist. Thinks he owes me.”

“Put him on – that’s an order.”

Dillon handed the phone to Billy.

“Yes, boss.”

“For God’s sake, watch him. The whole thing’s put him on a knife edge. I don’t want to lose him.”

“Do you think I do? Listen, I’ve got a good feeling about this, especially with Russo on board. I’ll hand you back.”

“Who’s Russo?” Ferguson demanded of Dillon.

“Roper will fill you in. I used to deal with him for the IRA. Ex-Mafia.”

“There’s no such thing. It’s like saying ex-IRA. Once in, never out, isn’t that the truth of it? Oh, for God’s sake, go to hell in your own way, but keep in touch.”

“An angry man,” Billy commented.

“No, really. He cares, Billy, about what we do and what happens to us.” He finished the last drop of champagne.

Billy said, “I’ve never been to Ibiza. What’s it like?”

Dillon said, “Great in the old days, more tourists now. I used to love the old city, Ibiza town, the bars, gypsies, bullfighters, the flamenco dancers.” He shook his head. “Best-looking women you’ve seen in years.”

“Sounds good. You like the bulls, then?”

“A lot of people wouldn’t approve, but there’s something about a man putting himself straight in front of a charging bull.”

“It must be awesome.”

“It is.” Dillon pushed his seat back. “I’m going to have forty winks.”

He closed his eyes and Hannah flooded in. Why did it have to be her and how much had he been responsible? He saw Ashimov plow her down in the street, experienced again his own shots missing and Hannah sliding down the railings and there was blood falling down her face and he was afraid and horrified.

And then the vision again, the Playa de Toros, the bullring in Ibiza, the toreros in uniform, the picadors on horseback, the band, and then everything focusing on the red door on the other side, the Gate of Fear, and the bull roared out and came straight for him.

He came awake with a kind of convulsion, a cry on his lips. Billy grabbed his arm. “You okay?”

Dillon said, “Bad dream, that’s all.” He managed a smile and his phone went. It was Roper.

“I’ve tried for Fitzgerald through the Divemasters Association and the general run of hotels they use. He was at a place called Sanders, but booked out earlier today. I’ve managed to come up with one useful item. A Belov International Falcon left Ballykelly first thing this morning carrying one passenger, a woman named Mary Hall.”

“Who in the hell is she?”

“God knows. The plane streaked across to Archbury, where, guess what? It picked up Igor Levin, commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy.”

“Destination?”

“Ibiza.”

“So, it gets even more interesting. Keep pushing on Fitzgerald. See what we can come up with. Everything is happening quickly. Let’s keep it that way.”

“I’ll try.” Roper switched off.

Levin had phoned Luhzkov at the London Embassy and the GRU computer had come up with the Sanders Hotel as the place where Fitzgerald was staying.

He said to Greta, “I’m keeping the plane as a precaution, just in case. He might have moved on. Let’s go and check his hotel, this Sanders place. I’ll get a cab.”

The Sanders Hotel wasn’t exactly a dead end. The man on reception was a shifty sort of individual who made the point that Fitzgerald had left in a hurry. It was Greta who instinctively knew he was holding back.

“So he was only here for a day? You know he always stays longer.”

The man replied instinctively. “Well, yes.”

Levin took out an English fifty-pound note. “Don’t try my patience. Where is he?”

The receptionist, of course, opened up. Fitzgerald had decided to move on to Algeria two hundred miles away. He’d taken the ferry to Khufra. He’d often gone there in the past for the diving.

“And this was when?”

“Yesterday. I wouldn’t go there, senõr, it’s a rough place.”

“Where would he stay?”

“God alone knows. There are bad people there. Perhaps the Trocadero. Dr. Tomac owns that. They’re friends.”

“Is he a real doctor?”

“The only one they’ve got. He runs the hotel, the club, the smuggling. He’s into everything.”

“Is there an airport there?”

“A dump.” The man fingered through some tourist brochures and passed one across. “The Khufra. A terrible place.”

Greta took it. “Are we going?”

“Of course. Back to the airport.”

The senior pilot was called Scott, the other Smith. Levin informed them of the destination and Scott looked it up and made a face. “We’re okay for fuel, but not much else. We’ll probably have to do our own maintenance if we stay long.”

“You’ll probably need pistols if we stay long, but never mind. Let’s get on with it. How long?”

“An hour. Not much more.”

Later, as the Falcon rose to thirty thousand, Greta read the brochure and discussed it with Levin.

“The Khufra Marshes. Hundreds of square kilometers of salt marsh on the Algerian coast near Cape Djuinet. Reeds twelve meters high and more. Marsh Arabs. Villages built on wood pilings. They’ve lived that way for centuries, mainly fishing. They also have Berber tribesmen called Husa who rode horses that over the centuries have been bred to swim in the salt marshes.”

“Sounds like the last place God made.” He smiled. “But we’ll manage. I usually do. Give me a moment, I want to speak to Volkov.”

He made the connection on the aircraft phone and put it on conference, placing a finger on his lips to Greta.

“Where on earth are you, Igor?”

Levin explained about Khufra.

“It sounds disgusting.”

“I’d imagined you would have known of my mission and Major Novikova’s part in it.”

“No, actually. I’m sure Major Ashimov will get around to informing me when it suits him.” The silence was ominous. “We must return Josef Belov to the real world soon, Igor. Station Gorky is well and good, but since Ferguson and Johnson know who he really is, let’s take the wind out of their sails. Let’s flaunt him in Berlin or Paris.”

“Or London?” Levin asked.

“My goodness, what a coup. It’s so delicious because Ferguson and company wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.”

“A neat point.”

“So, take care and watch over Novikova. Such beauty must not be placed in jeopardy.”

“As you say, Comrade.”

“And wear my gift at all times. You are too valuable. I can’t afford to lose you.”

“I’ll take care, you may be certain.”

Greta said, “What does he mean, wear my gift at all times?”

“Remember what saved Ashimov’s life when Billy Salter shot him? A nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest.”

“So?”

“These things are miraculous. The other year, two Chechnyans made an attempt on Volkov’s life when we were leaving an office in Moscow. They shot his driver and a security man.”

“And Volkov?”

“I got between. Took a bullet in the left shoulder, another in my left thigh, ruining a perfectly good Brioni suit. But I shot one between the eyes and the other in the heart.”

“Christ almighty.”

“Volkov was delighted to be alive, but annoyed I hadn’t kept one alive to be squeezed. So he did the same as Ashimov – presented me with a nylon-and-titanium vest with an order to wear it at all times.”

“When I was in Iraq with Dillon on my last assignment, he was wearing one.”

“There you are, then. It’s indispensable to all the best assassins. So, let’s have a drink and decide on our next move.”

The flight to Khufra was no big deal and the approach to the coast was particularly interesting. The Khufra Marshes extended for miles, one creek after another, dangerous reefs, many Arab fishing boats battling with the coast, a few villages down there in the reeds.

There was always the desert, of course, stretching into the marsh country, and then Khufra town, the airstrip and a few old concrete buildings, the kind that looked as if they were surviving the Second World War.

The control tower was basic. Captains Scott and Smith handled the controls between them and landed, rolling to a halt beside a couple of old hangars.

They called ahead. A police captain called Omar greeted them with some enthusiasm, the magic name of Belov International weaving a spell even here on the edge of nowhere.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his eyes roving over Greta.

She tried to ignore his sweaty armpits. Levin said, “I believe my pilot booked us into the Trocadero?”

“And Dr. Tomac has sent the Land Rover for you.”

This was obviously intended as a compliment. Levin said to Scott and Smith, “I’m not sure how long this will take. I’ll leave you to come to town, but make sure the Falcon’s secure.”

“Dr. Tomac has already made arrangements. This will be taken care of.”

They walked toward the Land Rover and Levin’s phone rang. It was Luhzkov from London. “I thought you should know. GRU contacts confirm that one of Ferguson’s Citations booked out of Farley Field, destination Ibiza, passengers Dillon and his Salter friend Billy. The word is Billy’s gone up in the world. He’s now officially an operative of the Special Security Services. Apparently his criminal past has suddenly disappeared from all his records.”

“Ferguson really is one of a kind,” Levin said. “The KGB would have been proud of him. Thanks for the information.”

Levin followed Greta into the Land Rover. As they drove away, he told her what had happened.

“So they’re on their way? What’s that mean? They’ll still have to run Fitzgerald to earth. They won’t know he’s come over here.”

“But, Greta, we want them to know. It’d be much better if Dermot Fitzgerald ended up in that great IRA heaven in the sky, even better if Sean Dillon and young Salter accompanied him there.”

“That’s asking a lot where Dillon’s concerned.”

“Perhaps, but I’d say these Khufra marshes would be a perfect killing ground.” He smiled and lit a cigarette. “Yes, I know it’s all terribly unpredictable, but I like that.”

“It’s just a game to you.”

“Always has been, my love,” and he smiled.

Just before landing at Ibiza, Dillon got a call from Ferguson. “You’re just about to land, I see?”

“That’s right, and the average Spanish café does what they call a full English breakfast.”

“I’ve been thinking things over and I still don’t approve. It’s the Murder Squad’s business. Let them get on with it.”

“Well, they have and haven’t got very far. Okay, we know Fitzgerald’s got here, Roper has information on that, except that we know he’s already moved. By the time Scotland Yard and the Home Office apply to the Spanish Police and obtain the necessary warrants, God knows where he’ll be.”

“At least I’m confining you to the island,” Ferguson said. “I’m recalling the Citation.”

“We’ll manage. I’m going to get him, Charles, I promise you.”

When they got out of the Citation at the airport, Lacey said, “What’s going on, Sean? Ferguson himself is recalling us at once.”

“Oh, I’ve been a naughty boy again. Don’t worry about it. Just do as the great man says and we’ll get on.”

They hailed a cab and he told the driver to take them to Eagle Air at a small village up the coast from where Russo ran his operation.

“I’ll call Roper and let him know what’s happened,” he told Billy.

Roper said, “He’s not pleased, although he’s not been the same since Hannah. On the other hand, it’s inconvenient he’s recalled the plane.”

“Why?”

“The latest word is that the Falcon has moved on to Khufra on the Algerian coast.”

“Which means that Fitzgerald is probably one step ahead of him.”

“I’d say so.”

“We’d better get after them, then.”

The overnight ferry moved in to Khufra town, nosing into the port. There were smaller hills draped with white Moorish houses, narrow alleys in between. The port itself was small, fishing boats, two or three dhows, various motor launches and, way beyond, the marshes. The wind, blowing in from the sea, was warm and somehow perfumed with spices.

Dermot Fitzgerald loved it, stood there at the rail as they floated in. He’d been here many times, loved the women, the food, the diving. If there was trouble, there was Tomac to take care of things and, beyond, the marshes for refuge. It was like coming home, and he slung his shoulder bag and went down the gangplank, pushing his way through a forest of outstretched arms, and walked up through the cobbled streets to the Trocadero.

Dillon brought Billy up to date as they followed a winding road down to Tijola, a harbor with a small pier, no fishing boats because they’d have gone out early, a scattering of houses. The interesting thing was the two floatplanes down there, one of them floating in the harbor, the other seated on a concrete slipway below the seawall.

They were Eagle Amphibians, an old plane but sturdy and robust, originally designed for service in the Canadian far North. One useful extra was that you could drop wheels beneath the floats and taxi out of the water onto dry land.

Dillon found a mechanic working on the engine of the floatplane on the concrete ramp who greeted him warmly. “Senõr Dillon,” he said in Spanish. “How wonderful.”

Dillon answered in the same language. “Great to see you.” He gave him a quick embrace and broke into English. “So where’s Aldo?”

“They’re running a few young bulls up at the Playa this morning. He’s gone to watch. It’s just for youngsters. You know how it is.”

“We’ll catch up with him there. We’ll have our bags.”

“No trouble, amigo.”

The Playa de Toros in Ibiza was typical of most small towns in Spain, not much more than a concrete circle, but the public was interested only in what went on inside the ring anyway and this, early in the day, was different. No band, no embroidered capes and suits, no blaze of color. Just a motley crowd of youngsters hoping to try their luck and perhaps look interesting to someone important. There were a few older men scattered round the front row, including Aldo Russo, seated on what was normally the president of the Plaza’s bench.

Dillon went up behind him and clapped him on the shoulders. “Aldo.”

Russo glanced up and his face registered astonishment. “Holy Mother.” He jumped up and embraced Dillon. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“My visit came up in a hurry. This is Billy Salter,” he said in Italian. “One close to my heart. A younger brother in all but blood.”

It was a Mafia saying and meant much. Russo looked Billy over. “A younger brother?” he said in English. “I think he’s been around the houses, this one, I think he’s made his bones.” He shook Billy’s hand. “Maybe your friend has told you I’m Mafia. Fifteen years ago, we had much trouble with Maltese gangs in London.”

“What kind of trouble?” Billy asked.

“They interfered. I went as consiglieri, counselor. They wouldn’t listen. Attacked my car one night when they’d promised safe conduct.”

“What happened?”

“My face was slashed. I was on my knees when a famous London gangster, who’d heard of the plot and didn’t approve, came to my rescue with half a dozen men. You see, the Maltese had offended him, too.”

“It was my uncle Harry,” Billy said. “I grew up on that story as a kid. Black Friday. He smashed what they called the Maltese Ring.”

“He is still well, he is still with us?”

“Ask Dillon.”

Russo embraced him, kissed him on both cheeks. “What a blessing.”

Below, the Gate of Fear opened and a number of young, rather scrawny bulls ran out. Young men postured and started to flutter their capes.

“Years ago, Dillon used to come and see me, and being younger and foolish, I’d get up to the kind of nonsense we’re seeing now.”

“A bit of fun,” Billy said.

“Most of the time, but every so often, amongst the young bulls, there is a special one, and I picked it one day. I tried the cape, slipped, it tossed me over its shoulder and this one” – he nodded to Dillon – “vaulted over the barrera down into the arena, and when the bull turned to charge, he dropped on his knees, tore open his shirt.”

“Jesus,” Billy said.

“He called, ‘Hey, toro, just for me.’ The bull came to a halt and two peons pushed me away and the bull stood there snorting and Dillon walked up to it and patted it on the muzzle.”

“What happened?”

“The crowd roared, overflowed the barrera into the ring, carried him round on their shoulders. It couldn’t have been louder on the Playa in Madrid. In the bars here, they used to call him the man who seeks death, and what he did that day is known as the Pass of Death.”

Billy turned to Dillon, who said, “Maybe that’s what I was looking for all this time. Who knows? Now can we go and get a drink? There’s something I need to discuss.”

The café close to the Playa wasn’t too busy at that time in the morning. Inside, the place was light and airy, the walls whitewashed, the bar top marble, bottles crammed against the mirror behind. Bullfighting posters were all over the walls. Four fierce-looking gypsies sat at a table drinking grappa and playing cards. Two young men sat in the corner with guitars and countered each other. The bartender was old and ugly, the scar from a horn in his left cheek.

“A friendly lot,” Billy said.

“If they’re on your side.” Russo called to the barman. “Whiskey all round, Barbera.”

“Not me,” Billy said.

Russo turned to Dillon. “He doesn’t drink?”

“No, he just kills people.”

“But only when necessary,” Billy said.

Russo shook his head. “I must be getting old.”

The whiskey was brought, they toasted each other. “Salut,” Russo said. “What’s it all about, then?”

Dillon told him.

Afterward, Russo said, “Trust you, Dillon, to take on not only the IRA but the Russian Federation. You couldn’t make it easy, could you? But I see where you’re coming from. The woman, the police superintendent. That was dirty. They shouldn’t have done that, and to use the young nurse, then kill her.” He shook his head.

“So what do we do?” Billy asked.

“Oh, I still have considerable influence on this island,” Russo told him. “My name is enough. To start with, I’ll call the receptionist at the Sanders Hotel.”

He took out his mobile and made the call. “This is Russo. What can you tell me about an Irishman called Fitzgerald? Moved in, then moved out. Where did he go?”

The call lasted several minutes. He finally switched off. “Interesting. He left on the overnight ferry for Khufra on the Algerian coast, two hundred miles away. Apparently he’s a friend of Dr. Tomac, who owns the Trocadero and just about everything else in Khufra and is, on occasion, a business associate of mine.”

“Go on,” Dillon said.

Russo did, not forgetting to mention Levin and Greta.

“Well, we know who he is and she’s the mysterious Mary Hall,” Dillon said.

“So what’s your connection with this Dr. Tomac?”

“Cigarette smuggling mainly. There’s more money in that than hard drugs these days, and the court sentences are infinitely smaller. I have a diving concession there. Eagle Deep. It’s exceptional diving. Special clients book me to fly them over in one of my floatplanes.”

“Would we be special clients?” Dillon asked.

“Well, let’s say I owe you, my friend, and anyway, as we’re not into the tourist season, there isn’t much trade and I’m bored and this sounds interesting.”

“Then let’s do it,” Dillon said. “I couldn’t be happier.”

At Tijola, Russo gave Pedro his orders when they loaded the plane, then said to Dillon, “You’re still flying?”

“I keep my hand in.”

“Then it’s all yours.”

He sat beside Dillon, Billy behind. Dillon strapped himself in, fired the engine, allowed the Eagle to slip down the runway into the harbor, let the wheels up and called the tower at Ibiza airport. He indicated his destination; there was a pause and then he got the good word. He taxied out to sea past the end of the pier, turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over an azure sea and lifted.

“How’s it feel?” Russo asked.

“Couldn’t be better.”

Russo opened the map compartment, reached in and produced a Browning. “I presume you two are tooled up?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, because this is the Khufra we’re going to, where anything goes.”