Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“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?”