Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  There was really little else Levin could do. He waited by the front door, giving Dillon time, then moved out and went along the street to his Mercedes. Once behind the wheel, he phoned Luhzkov at the Embassy, and asked him to do a trace on Dermot Fitzgerald and flights to Ibiza.

  In Dublin, Flynn sat in his favorite bar and had a large whiskey. He had a problem. A fine officer, Hannah Bernstein, had gone down and he felt that. On the other hand, there was a question of family loyalty and his brother, not ex-IRA at all, but still active. So he did the good thing, or the bad thing, and gave him a ring. Billy Salter had come calling, maybe Liam Bell needed to know. Afterward, he felt even worse and consoled himself with another whiskey.

  Levin phoned Drumore Place and got Ashimov. He told him what Dillon had learned at the Green Tinker. “The important thing is we’ve checked through the GRU computer and Dermot Fitzgerald left London Gatwick for Ibiza the day before yesterday.”

  “So what are you saying to me?”

  “That if I was Dillon and fired up like he is, I’d be on the next plane over on Fitzgerald’s case. If he can find him and squeeze him, he’ll know it was Liam Bell behind the execution of Mary Killane, and that’s a direct lead to Drumore Place and what goes with that.”

  “Do you think I don’t know?”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Get after Fitzgerald. Get rid of him.”

  “Are you going to come?”

  “I’ve other things to do.”

  “Can I say something?”

  “Anything you like as long as it’s relevant.”

  “Getting on Fitzgerald’s tail is one thing, but there’s another side to it. Why waste him? If Dillon comes after him, which he will, we’d get two for the price of one.”

  Ashimov said, “That’s good. I like that.” He thought about it. “I tell you what. I’ll send a company Falcon from Ballykelly. It can bring Greta. She could be useful to you. It’ll collect you at Archbury, then onwards to Ibiza.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  At Holland Park, Dillon found Roper and gave him the information he’d obtained from Docherty about Fitzgerald. He had no known criminal connections, but was on the books at London University. A BA in English literature. His thesis for his master’s degree was on the pending list.

  Roper trawled through the passenger lists for Ibiza and confirmed that Fitzgerald had left. “Anything else?”

  “This diving business. Check that out if you can.”

  “I can do anything, old lad.” Roper went through the PADI list, the world association of professional divers, and nodded. “There you are. A master diver. So what do you want to do?”

  “I think I should go after him. I know Ibiza well. I used to go there a lot in the old days. A good friend of mine ran an outfit flying floatplanes between the islands. I flew for him. I wonder if he’s still at it? Aldo Russo, Eagle Air. He’s Italian. Has strong Mafia connections, or did have.”

  Roper went back to his computer, which came up trumps again. “There you go. Still up and running, but would you be? How much flying have you done lately?”

  “I’ve kept my hand in. Mostly weekend stuff these days. I can fly anything short of a jumbo, but who says I’m going to fly?”

  “I think Ferguson will say no to you going. He wants the Hannah investigation to stay in the hands of Scotland Yard.”

  “Look, Mary Killane eased Hannah’s going with those pills, but the IRA contact between her and Fitzgerald is more than a coincidence, and I’d take a large bet with you he killed her. It makes sense. She’s the nurse with access. Afterwards she’s got to be got rid of. On top of that, he clears off to Ibiza.”

  “You could persuade me,” Roper said, but at that moment, Ferguson came in, immaculate in black tie.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  Dillon told him, not that it did any good. “I told you, I don’t want you to intervene. The Yard will handle it. All right, you’ve done well, Sean, and so has young Salter in Dublin. It’s a step forward knowing that Liam Bell is at Drumore Place, but I’m not having you running off to Ibiza. I’m at Saint James’s Palace for a luncheon with the Prime Minister. He’ll want to know how things are, so leave it alone.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He went out. Roper said, “But you’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”

  “Not a chance. I’m going to presume on friendship. I’m going to phone Lacey at Farley Field and tell him a priority job’s come up and I need a Citation flight to Ibiza tonight. I’ll say Ferguson has ordered it. That clears you.”

  Roper sat back, frowning, then said, “Give me a Marlboro and we’ll call it quits.”

  “My pleasure.” Dillon took one himself.

  “Only one thing,” Roper said. “I make the call. Lacey trusts me.”

  “So where does that leave you with Ferguson?”

  “What can he do?” Roper smiled. “I’m handicapped. He’d end up in front of a tribunal. I’ll tell Lacey you’ll be there in two hours. Go on, get out of here.”

  He phoned Lacey and stated his requirements, the usual schedule, the Quartermaster for weaponry, and then he phoned Billy Salter.

  “Something’s come up,” he said, and told him. “What do you think?”

  “That he’s not been the same since she died, not his old self at all. What’s more, to go off on a hunt like this, on his own, in the state he’s in, is barmy.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Pack a suitcase.”

  “I thought you’d say that. They’re expecting you at Farley, too. Stay in touch.”

  IBIZA

  8

  The Falcon, with Greta on board, dropped in at Archbury and picked up Levin. “You’ve been busy,” she said as they took off again.

  “What’s happening?”

  “The net’s closing in.” She told him about Billy Salter in Dublin.

  “So now they know definitely,” Levin said. “Thanks to a family-minded Dublin detective.”

  “They know Liam Bell is in charge of Drumore, they’re aware that Max Zubin is playing Belov at Station Gorky. They don’t know about Ashimov or me.”

  He smiled. “Or me.”

  “So let’s keep it that way.”

  “You’ve got Fitzgerald’s address, details of what he’s up to? He knows we’re coming?”

  “Oh, yes. Bell’s been in touch with him.”

  “That was a mistake.” Levin opened the bar cabinet and got out the vodka.

  “Why?” she asked as he poured.

  “He could wonder why. He could wonder whether the only present we’re bringing is a bullet in the head.”

  “Not with me along.”

  “A good-looking woman to make him feel comfortable?”

  “Why not? Tell me one thing. You really think Dillon will turn up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It should be an interesting trip, then,” and they toasted each other. “Here’s to Mary Hall.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Me, Igor. That’s what it says on my passport.”

  When Billy arrived at Farley Field, he was delivered by Harry, grumbling as usual. “I mean, what’s he got you into now?”

  “I’m a member of the Security Services, Harry. They yell, I jump. It’s called doing your duty.”

  “Only Ferguson doesn’t know.”

  “He will when he’s finished dinner. Roper will see to that.”

  They parked outside the terminal building, went in and there was Lacey in flight overalls talking to Dillon. “The Quartermaster’s left you the usual bag, Sean, said you’ll find everything you want inside.”

  Billy and Harry looked on. “There you are, you little Irish bastard,” Harry said.

  Lacey said, “I’ll go and get us started.”

  Dillon frowned. “Does Ferguson know about this?”

  “He soon will. Roper’s in charg
e.” Billy picked up the Quartermaster’s bag and took his own from Harry. “Come on, Dillon, let’s get moving,” and he led the way out and walked to the Citation X.

  Flying through the night at thirty thousand feet, Dillon indulged himself on half a bottle of Krug champagne.

  “So what’s the first move?” asked Billy.

  “To find Fitzgerald. Roper’s going to check diving sites and the kind of hotels divers use. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try my old friend Aldo Russo.”

  “Italian, not Spanish? How come you were involved with him?”

  “Way back in the old days when I was the pride of the IRA, I was sent to Sicily to buy arms, only the Mafia knew British intelligence was onto them, so they moved Russo, his wife and son to Ibiza, and used that as a base. There were Spanish elements who didn’t like it, thought the Mafia were encroaching on their territory.”

  “What happened?”

  “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.”

  “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.