Without Mercy

THE KHUFRA
9

Dr. Henry Tomac was very large, sixteen or seventeen stone, wore a creased fawn linen suit and a Panama hat, even though he was sitting at a booth at his pride and joy, the Trocadero. Awnings at the front kept it cool and dark, the great fans in the ceiling rotating relentlessly.

The barmen were Algerians, dressed in white shirts and trousers, scarlet bands at the waist, the headwaiter wearing a scarlet tarbush. You could eat at the Trocadero as well as drink, and the company was mixed and very rough, but Tomac had a number of villainous-looking men who kept things in order, because Tomac demanded order and what Tomac said went in Khufra town.

He sat at his private booth, waving the odd fly out of the way when Dermot Fitzgerald entered, worked his way through the tables, put down his bag and stood there.

“May I join you?”

“Dear boy. Of course you may. Champagne, Abdul,” he called to the headwaiter.

“You may not want to.”

“Oh, dear, have you been a bad boy again?” He savored the champagne Abdul poured. “All right, tell me.”

“So this Russian agent Levin and the Novikova woman, you got word that they were coming, that’s it? And you’ve come over because you’re worried they might intend to do away with you?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, they are. The receptionist at Sanders Hotel gave me a phone call earlier. Told me about a couple, a good-looking man and woman, most interested in your whereabouts. It fits in neatly with a call I’ve had from Captain Omar at the airstrip, about a Russian executive jet, and a good-looking man and woman, on their way here. Their pilot brought them in on behalf of Belov International. I’m impressed, Dermot.”

“What can I do?”

“Well, I’m not sure – because there’s another strange thing. I’ve had a second call from my friend, the receptionist at the Sanders Hotel. He’s had a query about your whereabouts from a man he couldn’t afford to offend. A business acquaintance of mine.”

“Who?”

Tomac told him.

Fitzgerald was totally thrown. “I don’t know this person. Mafia? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, well, he obviously knows you. He flies floatplanes here, runs a dive center. Maybe he’s acting for certain people in London who’d like to lay hands on you. You seem to be in demand, Dermot.”

“Help me, for God’s sake.”

“It will cost you.”

“How much? I can pay well.”

“Get out of sight. You can use my apartment. If necessary, I’ll send you to the house at Zarza in the marshes, or one of the diving boats might be better. We’ll see.”

Fitzgerald cleared off, and a few moments later, Levin and Greta appeared, followed by a waiter with their bags. They paused at the top of the stairs, Greta causing quite a stir, then came down and crossed to the bar. Tomac stood up.

“Miss Hall.” He put her hand to his lips. “No more delightful visitor has graced my poor establishment.”

“Dr. Tomac.”

“At your service.” It was like a game they were playing.

“I dislike subterfuge. For good reasons I have been traveling incognita. I am, in fact, Major Greta Novikova. This is Captain Igor Levin of the Russian GRU. We’re here on State business, serious business.”

Tomac managed to look grave. “Please join me. Have the bags sent to the rooms, Abdul. Have some champagne served. This is obviously a matter of the highest importance. Have you spoken of this to Captain Omar, our chief of police?”

As the champagne arrived, Greta said, “In Ibiza we were told that in Khufra there was only one person worth talking to, and that is you, Doctor.”

“You flatter me, Major.” He toasted them. “Your very good health. Now, in what way may I assist you?”

“We seek a young man named Dermot Fitzgerald.”

“For what reason?”

“To save him from those who mean him more than ill will,” she said. “His life could be in danger.”

“Two men, we suspect,” Levin said. “One called Dillon – Irish. The other, Salter.”

“Good heavens.” Tomac managed to look shocked, and at that moment a plane roared quite low overhead.

“What would that be?” Greta asked.

Tomac glanced out. “Oh, a floatplane from Ibiza, Eagle Air. They come in all the time and tie up by the dive center. Look, this is all very disturbing. Why don’t you settle into your rooms and we’ll talk again?”

“I look forward to it.”

Greta walked toward the bottom of the stairs, followed by Levin, who paused and turned. “By the way, you didn’t say whether you know Fitzgerald.”

“No, I didn’t, did I.”

Tomac adjusted his Panama, picked up his stick and walked out.

Dillon made an excellent landing outside the harbor, and Russo took over and taxied round to the other side of the pier. There were a couple of sizable dive boats tied up to a small jetty, a flat-roofed white building with a canopy of deep blue, and a notice that said “Eagle Deep Dive Center.” There was a concrete ramp, as on Ibiza, and Russo dropped his wheels to taxi up.

An Arab was tidying up on the deck of one of the boats and two heavily tanned men stripped to the waist and in jeans were drinking beer in the stern of the other. They both looked around forty, long hair, muscular, fit.

“Not Arab,” Dillon said.

“No, that one is on the other boat, Ibrahim. The others are mine, not only good Italians, but Mafia. The one with the scar on his cheek is Jack Romano. The other is Tino Cameci. They like it here. It’s like a holiday. I phoned before we left. We’re expected. I said you were a master diver looking for action.”

“Well, so is the boy wonder here. Did you mention Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. Romano says they know him. You see the other dive center a hundred yards along? Tomac owns that.” There were three dive boats. “Along with most things here. They tell me Fitzgerald hangs out there when he’s around.”

He took the Eagle up on the ramp and switched off. Romano and Cameci came to greet them and Ibrahim came also and got their luggage. Dillon held on to a briefcase.

“We didn’t expect you for a while, boss,” Romano said in Italian.

“Something came up. Dillon here is like a brother to me.”

Romano’s eyes widened. “The Dillon who saved your son, your wife, may she rest in peace?”

“My friend here doesn’t speak Italian,” Dillon said.

“But a gangster of the first rank in London. His uncle, his capo, saved my bacon in that great city years ago, so we are all friends. Let’s have a drink on it and we’ll discuss why we’re here.”

Sitting under a canopy in the stern of Eagle One was very pleasant. They split a bottle of Chianti, ice cold because Russo liked it that way.

Romano said, “We know this guy Fitzgerald. He’s been coming on and off for a couple of years. He’s a friend of Tomac. Dives from his joint.”

“Is he any good?” Billy asked.

“He thinks he is. You and Dillon, so you both dive?”

Billy smiled. “It’s been known.”

Dillon opened his briefcase and took a computer sheet out. “This Fitzgerald has been a student at London University. I got a friend of mine to access his file. This is his photo. You confirm it’s him?”

They both examined it. “Definitely,” Romano said. “And you tell me he’s IRA?”

“Well, I was IRA and I did many things, but to persuade a young nurse to give this woman, my sick friend, an overdose, then shoot the nurse dead when she’s done her work. I don’t think I ever did a thing like that.”

“It’s a thing no man should do.” Jack Romano bit his thumb.

Cameci said, “Infamita.”

“Well, let’s have another drink to a suitable death for him.” Russo reached for the bottle and Tomac came along the boardwalk.

“Tomac’s come visiting.”

Tomac paused, Ibrahim on Eagle Two bobbed his head to him and there was a brief exchange.

Dillon murmured, “Fruits of a misspent youth, but I speak Arabic. Tomac said, ‘I see you, Ibrahim.’ Ibrahim said, ‘I see you, Effendi.’ Tomac said, ‘Remember who your friends are.’ ”

“Is that so?” Russo said, but by that stage Tomac was at the gangway.

“Ah, my good friend Russo. Permission to come aboard.” All this was delivered with perfect bonhomie.

“Why not?”

Romano stood up and gave him a hand, and Tomac eased his great body along the gangway and made it to a chair.

“Have a glass of Chianti,” Russo told him. “Ice cold, just the way you like it.”

“The way you like it.” Tomac wiped his sweaty face with a large handkerchief and nodded. “Gentlemen.”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Dillon and Mr. Salter,” Russo said. “I’ve just flown them from Ibiza.”

“Ah, here for the diving, gentlemen?”

Dillon said, “I hear it’s spectacular. I was urged to visit by an Irish friend, one Dermot Fitzgerald.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

Dillon took the photo from the briefcase again. “Perhaps you recognize him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Of course, I can’t be expected to remember all our customers. Many people come to dive here. You will be staying long?”

“As long as it takes,” Billy said.

“Do you intend to stay at the Trocadero?”

“No, we’ll spend the night here,” Russo told him.

“How agreeable, but I’d be desolated if you failed to visit my poor establishment before you leave.” He heaved himself up. “Until later.” He negotiated the gangway and departed.

“Well, at least we know he’s lying,” Dillon said.

There was a small coffee stall just along toward the pier. Ibrahim had walked over to it, was standing there, drinking a cup, and Tomac paused as he passed, only briefly, and moved on. Ibrahim came back to Eagle Two and Russo called him to the rail.

“What did Tomac want?”

“For me to watch what your guests do and let him know.”

“And will you?”

“I am your man, but if it pleases him to think otherwise…” Ibrahim shrugged.

“Good. Have you anything to say to me?”

“My cousin was down from the airport, the one who works for the police. He says the plane which landed earlier is Russian and owned by a company called Belov International.”

“Who was on it?”

“A man and a woman. They’ve moved to the Trocadero.”

“And the plane?”

“Still at the airport. Two pilots. They are staying at the crew’s emergency quarters behind the bar.”

“That’s interesting. Go along to the Trocadero and ask your cousin Ali, the porter. See what’s going on. This man Fitzgerald, you will recognize. I understand he’s dived here many times. I want any information on him and the man and the woman from the airport.”

Ibrahim went obediently. Russo said, “We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, let’s have a swim.”

At the Trocadero, Fitzgerald listened intently while Tomac filled him in.

“So, we have these Russians from the GRU who claim their mission is to protect you from these two men, Dillon and Salter.”

“What shall I do?”

“I’ll tell Abdul to take you in the Land Rover to the house at Zarza, only he won’t. He’ll take you to the dive center. I’ll phone Hussein and tell him to expect you. You can stay in one of the dive boats or the old dhow, the Sultan. Keep your head down till we sort something out. This is going to cost you ten thousand pounds, I trust you realize that.”

“No trouble, I’m good for it.” Fitzgerald picked up his bag. “Let’s get moving. I don’t trust either side in this.”

Tomac’s next move was partly a result of his devious nature. He was smiling to himself as he went downstairs and found Greta and Levin in the bar by the window. He eased himself down beside them.

“This man you seek, Fitzgerald, is at a house in Zarza six miles up the coast from here in the marsh. He’s waiting to be picked up in a couple of hours to be taken to Algiers. Something to do with smuggling. Nothing to do with me, but the information is sound.”

“How do we get there?” Greta asked.

“I’ll have Abdul take you in the Land Rover.” He puffed out his cheeks. “Why, I don’t know as it can’t possibly profit me. You’ll be armed?”

“Naturally,” Levin told him.

“A wise precaution in these parts.” He heaved himself up. “I can only wish you luck.” He went and spoke to Abdul and shuffled away.

“What do you think?” Greta asked Levin.

“I don’t see a better offer on the table.” Levin shrugged. “Why would he double-cross us? What would be the purpose? Come on, let’s go and get ready.”

Tomac phoned the Eagle Deep Dive Center and asked for Russo.

“You know the old house at Zarza?” Tomac said.

“Yes.”

“This Fitzgerald man. I have it on good authority that he’ll be there in about two hours waiting for a lift to Algiers.”

“A long drive,” Russo said.

“Well, maybe he wants to go as far away as possible. If the information is useful, use it. Pay me back another time.”

He switched off the phone and started to laugh. It was really very funny. It would have been nice to have seen it.

“So that’s it,” Russo said. “I don’t know what he’s playing at, but it’s up to you.”

It was Billy who spoke. “We’ll go for it. What else is there to do here? Come on, Dillon, let’s get tooled up and go and take the sod on.”

“If he’s there, Billy.”

“I’ll take you myself in the Ford,” Russo said. “Even on these roads and a run into the marsh, it’s forty-five minutes at the most. What have you got to lose?” He turned to Romano and Cameci. “You two mind the store.”

The coast road was at least surfaced, occasional small farms, lots of date palms, almond trees, thin cows, ribs showing, sheep, even the odd camel.

“It’s like something out of the Bible,” Greta said.

Levin smiled. “Darling, they’d probably cut my throat. You, of course, they’d sell in the slave market.”

“Thanks very much.”

Abdul, enigmatic as he drove, turned the Land Rover into the beginnings of the harsh and pungent smell of the marsh. As they started along the dike roads, wild fowl and seabirds stirred under protest.

The sky had darkened, and Greta said, “What’s wrong?”

“Summer storm,” Abdul told her. “A cold front from the sea. Soon we get rain.”

The sun had vanished, the reeds, ten feet high at least, seemed to stretch to eternity. It was as wild and desolate as anything Greta had ever known, mile upon mile of the great reeds stretching into the distance, an eerie whispering as the wind moved amongst them and a strange mist fell. And then it started to rain.

“There are ponchos in the back locker,” Abdul said.

Levin pulled them out. They were obviously ex-military with hoods. He passed one to Greta and pulled the other one on himself. As they progressed, there were birds everywhere, wild duck, geese. The one good thing was the flattening of the clouds of mosquitoes in the deluge.

And then, at the end of one of the dike roads, they turned onto a kind of island. An overgrown garden, all sorts of foliage, date palms, a gloomy, weather-beaten clapboard house with a terrace, a large portico entrance, French windows.

“I’d say this was once a plantation,” Levin said to Greta.

Abdul nodded. “There was a French family here for many years, a century or more. They drained part of the marsh, made it prosperous, then the war came and General de Gaulle took the hard line. The French people left, local farmers took over, and they were no good. Nature returned.” He shrugged. “The door is always open. I leave you here. I’ll park under the trees down the track and wait. We’re too early, I think.”

They got out, hoods up in the pouring rain, and went forward, both of them with a Walther ready. Greta paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the wide terrace. The front door opened and Sean Dillon stepped out, Billy on one side, Russo on the other.

“Hold it right there,” Dillon said, and then she pulled her hood back. “Why, Dillon, it’s you, Baghdad all over again.”

The look on his face was astonishing, absolute total shock, and he dropped his hand that held the Browning with a twenty-round magazine up the butt.

“My God, Greta.”

Taking advantage, Levin pushed her away, flung himself to one side and fired, but at his angle, it was Russo he caught, chipping his left shoulder. He kept on rolling as he hit the ground, went into the reeds and disappeared, and Billy fired after him to no avail. Russo got up, clutching his shoulder.

“It’s okay. Could be worse.”

Dillon held out his hand. “Mine’s bigger than yours,” he told Greta.

She smiled. “Of course,” and gave him her Walther.

In the reeds, Levin watched them move in out of the rain. A lucky shot might have got one of them, but with a handgun at that range not all three, and there was always the chance of hitting Greta. There was only one place to go, really. He eased his way back through the reeds and found Abdul standing by the Land Rover in the rain, holding an umbrella and peering through the trees. Levin slipped up behind him and tapped the back of his skull lightly with his Walther.

“No sign of Fitzgerald at all. I bet you enjoyed watching.”

“It’s not my fault, Effendi. I was following Dr. Tomac’s orders.”

“Who was the man I shot? Do I know the other two?”

“Aldo Russo. He owns Eagle Air and the dive center. He’s a dangerous man. Mafia.”

“What’s his connection with Tomac?”

“Cigarette smuggling to Europe. It’s big business.”

“Now we come to Fitzgerald. He’s here, so where is he?” Abdul hesitated, and Levin rammed the muzzle of the Walther against his ear. “I’ll blow it off.”

Abdul came to heel quickly. “Next to the Tomac Dive Center, an old dhow is moored, the Sultan. He’s there. The boss told him to stay out of the way.”

“Excellent. I like cooperation, so you can drive me back to town and we’ll see what Tomac has to say about this almighty cock-up.”

Dillon, Billy and Russo had arrived only twenty minutes before Abdul and Levin and Greta. There were old stables at the rear and Russo had suggested hiding the Ford in there and waiting in the house. That the absence of Fitzgerald and the arrival of Levin and Greta had been more than a surprise went without saying. Billy was stunned by Greta.

“It’s like Lazarus out of his coffin and walking again, only he was a fella.”

“My goodness, Billy, you actually read the Bible,” Greta said.

“Never mind the repartee. Levin hasn’t hung around long, has he?” Dillon told her.

“Don’t be silly,” Billy said. “He did the smart thing.” He’d taken off Russo’s flying jacket and his white flying scarf and was binding it round the wounded shoulder.

“So what happened to you back there at Drumore?” Dillon took out his cigarettes and offered her one.

She decided to let it all hang out. “Somebody blew up the Kathleen. I suppose that was you, Dillon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I got blown over the stern by the blast. Belov and Murphy weren’t so lucky.” She turned to Billy. “Not that you did much better. A bullet in the shoulder and back for Ashimov didn’t do much to a bulletproof vest.”

Dillon was cold with fury. “So it’s been Ashimov behind everything?”

“Revenge, Dillon. You killed Belov, his greatest friend, the man who was like a father to him.”

“So Max Zubin hangs around in Station Gorky blackmailed by his mother’s presence in Moscow. Liam Bell runs things for the IRA at Drumore, and you and Ashimov set about a murder campaign?”

“Revenge, Dillon, like I told you.”

“This guy Levin, he’s good, only he hires bum people. Harry Salter’s Bentley, Roper in his wheelchair. Even the business with Hannah was a botch-up.”

“He’d nothing to do with that.” She was surprised how defensive she felt. “It was hardly Igor’s fault if the material he was supplied with was rubbish.”

“IRA rubbish, as Blake found when he took them on at Drumore.”

“Yes, he was good, but Bernstein was Ashimov. He arranged it with Bell. It was Bell who recruited the young nurse and Fitzgerald. Once she’d done her job, Fitzgerald shot her, then left for Ibiza with his loot.”

“A good payday.”

She felt even more defensive. “I wasn’t involved. It was Ashimov and Bell. I’ve told you.”

“Sounds good, only here you are with your new associate, trying to knock off Fitzgerald.”

She was almost pleading. “It was Mary Killane who murdered Bernstein, not me.”

“Mary Killane didn’t murder anybody. She was a tool.” Dillon shook his head. “I’m tired of this. Let’s get back to Khufra and sort Tomac out. At least he’s got one use. He can give you some medical treatment, Aldo.”

On the way to town, Levin gave the whole thing serious consideration. That Greta was in the hands of the opposition was beyond dispute, as was the fact that to get her back from Dillon, Slater and Russo would hardly be likely. In fact, the obvious thing would be to cut his losses and run. He phoned Captain Scott at the airstrip.

“Something’s come up. Can you be on standby for a swift departure?”

“Of course.”

“No trouble with air traffic control?”

Scott laughed. “What air traffic control?”

“Can you refuel here?”

“Very cheaply. Where for?”

“I’d say Ballykelly direct.”

“And Major Novikova?”

“It looks like she may have to make other arrangements. Get on with it.”

Levin sat there thinking about it, the entire situation. It was droll in a way, yet he was beginning to tire of failure, particularly when it was hardly his fault.

He said to Abdul, “I’m going to the Trocadero to say good-bye to Dr. Tomac, then I’m leaving.”

“Without the lady, Effendi?”

“The other side has got her. Too bad. There is one thing you can do for me, though. Take me to the Sultan and introduce me to Fitzgerald.”

“Effendi, please.” Abdul was pleading.

“You’ll do exactly as I say, otherwise I’ll kill you,” Levin said calmly. “Now get on with it.”

They parked outside the Tomac Dive Center and Levin said, “Go on, lead the way.”

“As you say, Effendi.”

Abdul seemed resigned now and headed up the gangway, along the deck on the starboard side, and entered a corridor with reverse cabin doors.

“Go on, call him,” Levin said.

Abdul did. “Are you there, Mr. Fitzgerald? It’s me, Abdul.”

“I’m in the saloon,” a voice called.

Abdul led the way. It was large with a high ceiling, walls of mahogany, old-fashioned cane furniture and a long bar, many bottles ranged on the shelves and Fitzgerald standing behind, pouring Irish whiskey into a tall glass and then a splash of soda.

“Dr. Tomac has sent me.”

“What’s he want?”

Fitzgerald came round the bar, and Levin pulled Abdul to one side. “It’s not what he wants, it’s what I want. Dermot Fitzgerald?”

Fitzgerald seemed to freeze, the shock intense.

“Igor Levin. I’ve a message from Mary Killane. Rot in hell, you bastard.”

His arm swung up, the silenced Walther coughed, and he shot Fitzgerald between the eyes, hurling him back to bounce off the bar and fall to the floor.

“Excellent,” Levin said. “Now you can take me to the Trocadero. You’ll wait for me a few minutes, then take me to the airstrip. Is that understood? Do as you’re told and I won’t kill you.”

Levin went straight up to his room and collected his luggage. He’d hardly bothered to unpack, so it took only a minute or two and he was downstairs to the bar. There was no sign of Tomac, and Levin went out and dumped his bag behind Abdul.

“Where would Tomac be?”

“In his apartment at the top of the stairs.”

“I’ll be back.” He reached for the keys. “A precaution.”

He went upstairs, whistling, opened Tomac’s door and walked straight in. The doctor was sitting behind his desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, the Panama still on his head. He looked up, frowned slightly, no more than that.

“My dear sir. You look like a man in a hurry.”

“I am. Bound for the airstrip, where I’ll be flying away out of your life forever.”

“And Major Novikova?”

“Unfortunately, in the hands of the opposition. There was no Fitzgerald at Zarza. Only Dillon, Slater and Russo. They got the major, I shot Russo and did a runner.”

Tomac tried to brazen it out. “No Fitzgerald? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I caught up with him in the saloon of the Sultan, thanks to Abdul. He’s on his back there now, eyes staring at the ceiling like you usually do when you’ve been shot in the head.”

“This is all most unfortunate.” He took off his spectacles.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Levin reached for the door handle. “Dammit, I was forgetting something.”

He turned, the silenced Walther coughed again and Tomac went over backward in the chair. “Yes, that was it,” Levin said, and went out.

Abdul was still at the wheel and Levin got in the Land Rover beside him. “Right, the airstrip, and when you get back I’d check on Dr. Tomac. He didn’t look too well to me.”

They were waiting at the airstrip, there was an instant takeoff and they climbed up to thirty thousand and headed out to sea. Levin phoned Volkov and reported in.

Volkov listened and said calmly, “At last, a success. Fitzgerald taken care of is a blessing.”

“A pity about Novikova. What can we do about that?”

“Very little at the moment. I would imagine she’ll return to London with Dillon and Salter. Ferguson will put her in the safe house at Holland Park, which is hardly the Lubyanka. She poses no threat. Ferguson knows everything she knows.”

“Shall I speak to Ashimov?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I like keeping him in his place.”

“Then do it.”

Volkov switched off. Levin lit a cigarette, smiled, then phoned Ashimov.

On board Eagle One, they sat in the saloon, got Russo’s scarf and shirt off and examined the damage. Romano got the first-aid box, but it was Greta who examined it.

“Let me look. I did a field nursing course years ago for Afghanistan.” She shook her head. “I can do a patch-up job, but it needs more than stitching. The bullet’s cut across the shoulder. He’ll need treatment at hospital level.”

“Well, that can wait until I’m back in Ibiza,” Russo said. “Just get on with it.”

Which she did. Romano said, “So this whole thing was a mess?”

“You could say that,” Dillon said.

“Well, we could have told you. After you left, Cameci and I caught sight of that Fitzgerald guy on the deck of the Sultan down the jetty.”

Dillon glanced at Billy and stood up. “Watch her.”

Greta said, “Where would I go, for God’s sake?”

They went up the gangway and paused at the top. It was very quiet. Dillon drew his Walther and Billy fanned out to one side and they finally came to the saloon and discovered Fitzgerald’s body.

“That’s it, then,” Billy said.

They went out on deck and the Falcon roared overhead at five or six hundred feet and climbing.

“And there goes Levin,” Dillon said.

“You could say he did you a favor,” Billy observed.

As they went down the gangway, Dillon called Roper on his Codex Four at Holland Park. “We’ve got Novikova, believe it or not. Still in the land of the living. Fitzgerald’s dead, Levin just left in his Falcon, so draw your own conclusions. Try and find out where he’s going.”

“Will do.” Roper laughed. “It’s better than the midnight movie on TV.”

They returned to find the others assembled in the stern of Eagle One. Ibrahim was included and looked scared.

Romano said, “He’s been up at the Trocadero to see his cousin Ali. They’ve sent for the police. It would seem Dr. Tomac’s turned up shot dead in his apartment.”

Greta said, “My goodness, Igor has been busy.”

Russo said, “Don’t be stupid, lady. You want us to stay here and explain things to Algerian police? You’d have sex every time you went to the shower whether you liked it or not.” He turned to Romano. “Did you refuel?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then let’s get out of here, back to Ibiza. You’ll have to fly the whole trip, Sean.”

They took off ten minutes later, Dillon and Russo in the front, Billy and Greta in the rear. As they turned to climb, Dillon glanced down and saw two Land Rovers racing along to the jetty.

“Police,” Russo said. “Arriving too late as usual.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “Just can’t help it,” and he set course for Ibiza.

Things going smoothly, he went on autopilot and called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said.

Ferguson, at his Cavendish Place apartment, was testy. “I was expecting you. Roper’s spoken to me.”

“We’ve gotten out of Khufra by the skin of our teeth. My friend Aldo Russo is slightly damaged. Greta Novikova, returned from the grave, is in our hands. I presume you’d like to see her?”

“I certainly would.”

“Especially as she tells me Yuri Ashimov also survived Drumore. Do we get the Citation?”

“Of course you do. You only have to get off the bloody phone.”

“Everything okay?” Billy asked.

“So it would appear. You know Ferguson.”

Dillon was lighting a cigarette one-handed when the engine suddenly missed a beat and spluttered. It was Russo who checked.

“Oil pressure.”

Dillon said, “Life jackets under the seats, get them on.” He pulled on his own and turned to Russo. “What do you think?”

“That we’ve been well and truly done. Maybe it was Levin, more likely one of Tomac’s boys. Look at the oil gauge.” It was fluctuating alarmingly. “I’d say somebody’s put water in the oil. Over a period of time, as the engine heats up, the water builds up into a head of steam: usually blows the filler cap off. That’s why the oil gauge is going wild. I’d say the engine will stop any moment now.”

They were coming into the Ibizan coast, descending, nosing toward the bay and Tijola, and the engine did indeed splutter and die. They started to glide with a strong crosswind bouncing them.

“If we’re lucky, I can land, but notice the waves. If they tip us over, we’ll go straight down. How deep, Aldo?”

“Six or seven fathoms.”

“Right, this is the way it goes,” Dillon said. “If we land and tip over, get out fast and swim. We’re close to the shore. If we tip over and go straight down, don’t do a thing until we settle on the bottom. Wait while we’re there and don’t try to open the door until enough water’s got in to equalize the pressure.”

Even Billy was alarmed. “For Christ’s sake, get this right, Dillon.”

Dillon dropped the Eagle in, but the waves were swirling sideways and the plane dipped and went straight down.

“You know what you’re doing?” Russo cried.

“Believe it or not, I’ve been here before,” Dillon said.

The water was dark and clear, the instrument lights still glowing, and the plane lifted a little, coasted forward and landed on the bottom of the bay. Clear sand, a rock here and there, and the water was over their heads and Dillon pushed the door open, turned and grabbed Greta and pushed her out.

He floated up holding Greta’s hand, Billy to the left of him, Russo to the right. You had to be careful about coming up from depth when diving, but they didn’t have much choice. They broke through to the surface, Greta gasping.

“You all right?” Dillon demanded.

“Well, I wouldn’t say you know how to please a lady,” Greta said, “but I’m sure it beats the showers at Khufra Prison.”

“Good. Let’s get going,” and they turned and swam the few yards to the shore.

Later, at the airport in the VIP lounge, they sat waiting, Billy, Dillon and Greta, for the arrival of the Citation X.

“We certainly see a little bit of everything,” Billy said. “I mean, what was that all about?”

The automatic door opened and Russo came in, his arm in a sling. “So here you are.”

“How did you get on?” Greta asked.

“Fifteen stitches. I can’t feel my arm.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Thanks for what you did. Listen, cara, if you’d like an older man, I’m available. I’ve got a great villa in Sicily at Agrigento.”

“It’s a good offer, but I’ll get by.”

“With Ferguson in the safe house?”

“You don’t understand, Aldo. He can’t do anything to me, can’t accuse me of anything. It’s not that I’m not guilty. It’s because Dillon and Billy are guilty, too, and Ferguson can’t admit that.”

“Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.” He kissed her again and Lacey came in through the door.

“Ready for takeoff.”

Dillon said to Russo, “Sorry about the plane.”

“No big deal. It’s not too deep and near the shore. The crew will have her up easy.”

“If you say so.”

They all got up and Russo put his good arm around Dillon. “Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

“You must be mad,” Dillon said, and led the way out.