Without Mercy (14 page)

“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?”