Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“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.”

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.”