Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“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.”