Without Mercy

by Jack Higgins

  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?”

  “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 posture
d 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.”

  THE KHUFRA

  9

  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.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Well, I’m not sure – because there’s another strange thing. I’ve had a second call from my friend, the receptionist at the Sanders Hotel. He’s had a query about your whereabouts from a man he couldn’t afford to offend. A business acquaintance of mine.”

  “Who?”

  Tomac told him.

  Fitzgerald was totally thrown. “I don’t know this person. Mafia? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, well, he obviously knows you. He flies floatplanes here, runs a dive center. Maybe he’s acting for certain people in London who’d like to lay hands on you. You seem to be in demand, Dermot.”

  “Help me, for God’s sake.”

  “It will cost you.”

  “How much? I can pay well.”

  “Get out of sight. You can use my apartment. If necessary, I’ll send you to the house at Zarza in the marshes, or one of the diving boats might be better. We’ll see.”

  Fitzgerald cleared off, and a few moments later, Levin and Greta appeared, followed by a waiter with their bags. They paused at the top of the stairs, Greta causing quite a stir, then came down and crossed to the bar. Tomac stood up.

  “Miss Hall.” He put her hand to his lips. “No
more delightful visitor has graced my poor establishment.”

  “Dr. Tomac.”

  “At your service.” It was like a game they were playing.

  “I dislike subterfuge. For good reasons I have been traveling incognita. I am, in fact, Major Greta Novikova. This is Captain Igor Levin of the Russian GRU. We’re here on State business, serious business.”

  Tomac managed to look grave. “Please join me. Have the bags sent to the rooms, Abdul. Have some champagne served. This is obviously a matter of the highest importance. Have you spoken of this to Captain Omar, our chief of police?”

  As the champagne arrived, Greta said, “In Ibiza we were told that in Khufra there was only one person worth talking to, and that is you, Doctor.”

  “You flatter me, Major.” He toasted them. “Your very good health. Now, in what way may I assist you?”

  “We seek a young man named Dermot Fitzgerald.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To save him from those who mean him more than ill will,” she said. “His life could be in danger.”

  “Two men, we suspect,” Levin said. “One called Dillon – Irish. The other, Salter.”

  “Good heavens.” Tomac managed to look shocked, and at that moment a plane roared quite low overhead.

  “What would that be?” Greta asked.

  Tomac glanced out. “Oh, a floatplane from Ibiza, Eagle Air. They come in all the time and tie up by the dive center. Look, this is all very disturbing. Why don’t you settle into your rooms and we’ll talk again?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Greta walked toward the bottom of the stairs, followed by Levin, who paused and turned. “By the way, you didn’t say whether you know Fitzgerald.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I.”

  Tomac adjusted his Panama, picked up his stick and walked out.

  Dillon made an excellent landing outside the harbor, and Russo took over and taxied round to the other side of the pier. There were a couple of sizable dive boats tied up to a small jetty, a flat-roofed white building with a canopy of deep blue, and a notice that said “Eagle Deep Dive Center.” There was a concrete ramp, as on Ibiza, and Russo dropped his wheels to taxi up.