Without Mercy Page 14

  Abdul did. “Are you there, Mr. Fitzgerald? It’s me, Abdul.”

  “I’m in the saloon,” a voice called.

  Abdul led the way. It was large with a high ceiling, walls of mahogany, old-fashioned cane furniture and a long bar, many bottles ranged on the shelves and Fitzgerald standing behind, pouring Irish whiskey into a tall glass and then a splash of soda.

  “Dr. Tomac has sent me.”

  “What’s he want?”

  Fitzgerald came round the bar, and Levin pulled Abdul to one side. “It’s not what he wants, it’s what I want. Dermot Fitzgerald?”

  Fitzgerald seemed to freeze, the shock intense.

  “Igor Levin. I’ve a message from Mary Killane. Rot in hell, you bastard.”

  His arm swung up, the silenced Walther coughed, and he shot Fitzgerald between the eyes, hurling him back to bounce off the bar and fall to the floor.

  “Excellent,” Levin said. “Now you can take me to the Trocadero. You’ll wait for me a few minutes, then take me to the airstrip. Is that understood? Do as you’re told and I won’t kill you.”

  Levin went straight up to his room and collected his luggage. He’d hardly bothered to unpack, so it took only a minute or two and he was downstairs to the bar. There was no sign of Tomac, and Levin went out and dumped his bag behind Abdul.

  “Where would Tomac be?”

  “In his apartment at the top of the stairs.”

  “I’ll be back.” He reached for the keys. “A precaution.”

  He went upstairs, whistling, opened Tomac’s door and walked straight in. The doctor was sitting behind his desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, the Panama still on his head. He looked up, frowned slightly, no more than that.

  “My dear sir. You look like a man in a hurry.”

  “I am. Bound for the airstrip, where I’ll be flying away out of your life forever.”

  “And Major Novikova?”

  “Unfortunately, in the hands of the opposition. There was no Fitzgerald at Zarza. Only Dillon, Slater and Russo. They got the major, I shot Russo and did a runner.”

  Tomac tried to brazen it out. “No Fitzgerald? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I caught up with him in the saloon of the Sultan, thanks to Abdul. He’s on his back there now, eyes staring at the ceiling like you usually do when you’ve been shot in the head.”

  “This is all most unfortunate.” He took off his spectacles.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Levin reached for the door handle. “Dammit, I was forgetting something.”

  He turned, the silenced Walther coughed again and Tomac went over backward in the chair. “Yes, that was it,” Levin said, and went out.

  Abdul was still at the wheel and Levin got in the Land Rover beside him. “Right, the airstrip, and when you get back I’d check on Dr. Tomac. He didn’t look too well to me.”

  They were waiting at the airstrip, there was an instant takeoff and they climbed up to thirty thousand and headed out to sea. Levin phoned Volkov and reported in.

  Volkov listened and said calmly, “At last, a success. Fitzgerald taken care of is a blessing.”

  “A pity about Novikova. What can we do about that?”

  “Very little at the moment. I would imagine she’ll return to London with Dillon and Salter. Ferguson will put her in the safe house at Holland Park, which is hardly the Lubyanka. She poses no threat. Ferguson knows everything she knows.”

  “Shall I speak to Ashimov?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I like keeping him in his place.”

  “Then do it.”

  Volkov switched off. Levin lit a cigarette, smiled, then phoned Ashimov.

  On board Eagle One, they sat in the saloon, got Russo’s scarf and shirt off and examined the damage. Romano got the first-aid box, but it was Greta who examined it.

  “Let me look. I did a field nursing course years ago for Afghanistan.” She shook her head. “I can do a patch-up job, but it needs more than stitching. The bullet’s cut across the shoulder. He’ll need treatment at hospital level.”

  “Well, that can wait until I’m back in Ibiza,” Russo said. “Just get on with it.”

  Which she did. Romano said, “So this whole thing was a mess?”

  “You could say that,” Dillon said.

  “Well, we could have told you. After you left, Cameci and I caught sight of that Fitzgerald guy on the deck of the Sultan down the jetty.”

  Dillon glanced at Billy and stood up. “Watch her.”

  Greta said, “Where would I go, for God’s sake?”

  They went up the gangway and paused at the top. It was very quiet. Dillon drew his Walther and Billy fanned out to one side and they finally came to the saloon and discovered Fitzgerald’s body.

  “That’s it, then,” Billy said.

  They went out on deck and the Falcon roared overhead at five or six hundred feet and climbing.

  “And there goes Levin,” Dillon said.

  “You could say he did you a favor,” Billy observed.

  As they went down the gangway, Dillon called Roper on his Codex Four at Holland Park. “We’ve got Novikova, believe it or not. Still in the land of the living. Fitzgerald’s dead, Levin just left in his Falcon, so draw your own conclusions. Try and find out where he’s going.”

  “Will do.” Roper laughed. “It’s better than the midnight movie on TV.”

  They returned to find the others assembled in the stern of Eagle One. Ibrahim was included and looked scared.

  Romano said, “He’s been up at the Trocadero to see his cousin Ali. They’ve sent for the police. It would seem Dr. Tomac’s turned up shot dead in his apartment.”

  Greta said, “My goodness, Igor has been busy.”

  Russo said, “Don’t be stupid, lady. You want us to stay here and explain things to Algerian police? You’d have sex every time you went to the shower whether you liked it or not.” He turned to Romano. “Did you refuel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Then let’s get out of here, back to Ibiza. You’ll have to fly the whole trip, Sean.”

  They took off ten minutes later, Dillon and Russo in the front, Billy and Greta in the rear. As they turned to climb, Dillon glanced down and saw two Land Rovers racing along to the jetty.

  “Police,” Russo said. “Arriving too late as usual.”

  “I know,” Dillon said. “Just can’t help it,” and he set course for Ibiza.

  Things going smoothly, he went on autopilot and called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said.

  Ferguson, at his Cavendish Place apartment, was testy. “I was expecting you. Roper’s spoken to me.”

  “We’ve gotten out of Khufra by the skin of our teeth. My friend Aldo Russo is slightly damaged. Greta Novikova, returned from the grave, is in our hands. I presume you’d like to see her?”

  “I certainly would.”

  “Especially as she tells me Yuri Ashimov also survived Drumore. Do we get the Citation?”

  “Of course you do. You only have to get off the bloody phone.”

  “Everything okay?” Billy asked.

  “So it would appear. You know Ferguson.”

  Dillon was lighting a cigarette one-handed when the engine suddenly missed a beat and spluttered. It was Russo who checked.

  “Oil pressure.”

  Dillon said, “Life jackets under the seats, get them on.” He pulled on his own and turned to Russo. “What do you think?”

  “That we’ve been well and truly done. Maybe it was Levin, more likely one of Tomac’s boys. Look at the oil gauge.” It was fluctuating alarmingly. “I’d say somebody’s put water in the oil. Over a period of time, as the engine heats up, the water builds up into a head of steam: usually blows the filler cap off. That’s why the oil gauge is going wild. I’d say the engine will stop any moment now.”

  They were coming into the Ibizan coast, descending, nosing toward the bay and Tijola, and the engine did indeed splutter and die. They
started to glide with a strong crosswind bouncing them.

  “If we’re lucky, I can land, but notice the waves. If they tip us over, we’ll go straight down. How deep, Aldo?”

  “Six or seven fathoms.”

  “Right, this is the way it goes,” Dillon said. “If we land and tip over, get out fast and swim. We’re close to the shore. If we tip over and go straight down, don’t do a thing until we settle on the bottom. Wait while we’re there and don’t try to open the door until enough water’s got in to equalize the pressure.”

  Even Billy was alarmed. “For Christ’s sake, get this right, Dillon.”

  Dillon dropped the Eagle in, but the waves were swirling sideways and the plane dipped and went straight down.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Russo cried.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve been here before,” Dillon said.

  The water was dark and clear, the instrument lights still glowing, and the plane lifted a little, coasted forward and landed on the bottom of the bay. Clear sand, a rock here and there, and the water was over their heads and Dillon pushed the door open, turned and grabbed Greta and pushed her out.

  He floated up holding Greta’s hand, Billy to the left of him, Russo to the right. You had to be careful about coming up from depth when diving, but they didn’t have much choice. They broke through to the surface, Greta gasping.

  “You all right?” Dillon demanded.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say you know how to please a lady,” Greta said, “but I’m sure it beats the showers at Khufra Prison.”

  “Good. Let’s get going,” and they turned and swam the few yards to the shore.

  Later, at the airport in the VIP lounge, they sat waiting, Billy, Dillon and Greta, for the arrival of the Citation X.

  “We certainly see a little bit of everything,” Billy said. “I mean, what was that all about?”

  The automatic door opened and Russo came in, his arm in a sling. “So here you are.”

  “How did you get on?” Greta asked.

  “Fifteen stitches. I can’t feel my arm.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Thanks for what you did. Listen, cara, if you’d like an older man, I’m available. I’ve got a great villa in Sicily at Agrigento.”

  “It’s a good offer, but I’ll get by.”

  “With Ferguson in the safe house?”

  “You don’t understand, Aldo. He can’t do anything to me, can’t accuse me of anything. It’s not that I’m not guilty. It’s because Dillon and Billy are guilty, too, and Ferguson can’t admit that.”

  “Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.” He kissed her again and Lacey came in through the door.

  “Ready for takeoff.”

  Dillon said to Russo, “Sorry about the plane.”

  “No big deal. It’s not too deep and near the shore. The crew will have her up easy.”

  “If you say so.”

  They all got up and Russo put his good arm around Dillon. “Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

  “You must be mad,” Dillon said, and led the way out.

  LONDON IRELAND

  10

  When they landed at Farley Field, the Daimler was waiting, with Ferguson beside the driver. There was also a Shogun with the Military Police Sergeant Major from Holland Park, Henderson, and a black sergeant called Doyle. They stood, waiting, watchful, in navy blue blazers and neat ties, normal except for the earpieces and that special look common to security men all over the world.

  They disembarked from the Citation and walked toward the Daimler, and Ferguson got out. “Major Novikova, what a pleasure. I seldom get the opportunity to greet someone risen from the dead.” He held out his hand, which she took instinctively. “I hope they’ve been looking after you?”

  Which reduced her to helpless laughter. “Come on, General, let’s get on with it. Let’s see what you’re going to do with me and then I’ll comment. One thing is certain. I’ll need a hairdresser. Prolonged immersion in seawater is not to be recommended.”

  “I’m sure we can manage that. I’ll have one brought in.”

  “To the Holland Park safe house?”

  “Such a good address. Excellent quarters, totally secure, wonderful company. Major Roper’s there. Very special man. You’ll get on famously.”

  “While you pick my brains.”

  “Now, would I do that to you, Major?”

  “Absolutely,” and she climbed into the Daimler as he held open the door for her.

  At Holland Park, they were joined by Roper and sat round the table in the conference center, Henderson and Doyle standing against the wall keeping a watchful eye on things.

  “You must think you’ve been through the wringer, Major,” Ferguson told her.

  “You could say that. Life with Dillon and Billy is a bit of a roller coaster.”

  “Now, tell me about the Putin warrant. I can take it as definite that the President himself passed that document across?”

  “Yes, I was there with Ashimov.” She shrugged. “And Levin.”

  “And?”

  She smiled. “Ah, I see you don’t know everything.”

  “Oh, but I do know most things. Volkov, for example? What can you tell me about him?”

  “I only met him once. He appears to control Belov International for the government. The President joined us, handed over the warrant, told us he expected us to do our duty in this matter. Never mentioned Belov, just left.”

  “What’s the point of the exercise?”

  “Two, actually. Belov International is so important to the country at the moment, they don’t want the sort of movement on the world financial market that would take place if there was news of Belov’s death.”

  “And what’s your second point?”

  “Volkov thinks you and your people are a great nuisance and better put out of the way once and for all.”

  “Thanks very much,” Billy told her.

  “Would you say the President agrees?”

  “The President is clever. He hands out a warrant, but it gives not the slightest indication what it’s for.”

  “The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way necessary,” Dillon said. “That can mean everything or nothing, but not from Volkov’s point of view.”

  “And Ashimov’s been happy to assist him,” Greta said.

  There was a pause. Roper said, “So an unhappy Max Zubin still sits there in Station Gorky.”

  “Yes, I thought you’d know about him. Well, he’s shaved the beard off. It is an extraordinary resemblance, so they tell me. He posed as Belov once before. Ashimov was there.”

  “Yes, we know that.”

  “And his mother in Moscow?”

  “I’ve met her. Fantastic woman, one of our greatest actresses. She leads an open life. I mean, where would she go with him to think of?”

  “And where would he go?” Dillon said.

  “Any plans for him to be moved?” Roper asked.

  “I believe so. An appearance in Moscow or Paris. I suppose a sight of him would dispel any rumors about Belov, keep things looking normal.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  “What about Levin?” Ferguson asked. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

  “He had the plane, so he’ll have gone to Ballykelly. Ashimov is there.”

  “Really? How interesting.” Ferguson stood up. “I must take that on board. Enough for now. Your hairdresser, after all, he’s top priority. We’ll meet again later.”

  At Hangman’s Wharf, there was a magnificent warehouse development. It was Harry’s pride and joy, walking distance from the Dark Man and turned into apartments of total luxury, unique in design.

  The ultimate was the penthouse, vast, spread across a huge top floor, reached by two private elevators, one in front, the other at the back. Where the original cargo gates opened, there were now terraces of hardwood jutting twenty feet out over the river, and from the penthouse, it was
a seventy-foot drop.

  The furnishings were cedar and mahogany, a great desk for Harry Salter in the corner, sofas, sumptuous carpets everywhere, Indian, Chinese, and in the open-plan design, a fabulous kitchen area with graceful hoods taking the fumes away, and Harry’s personal chef, Selim, from the restaurant Harry’s Place. He had energetically supervised the meal, mainly Indonesian, for the Salters, Dillon, Ferguson and Roper. Even Henderson and Doyle, seated at the far end of the bar and keeping a watchful eye on things, had been well taken care of. And there was Greta, of course.

  “You’ve been very frank, Major,” Ferguson told her. “Why?”

  “Well, to be practical, I suspect you know most of what I told you. I might have done a little filling in, but that’s all. Anyway, what happens now? You can’t arrest me. That would be terribly inconvenient.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Every job you and your people do is a black operation. It never happened, never existed. Dillon and Billy would never dream of going out there under orders and killing everybody on sight, but they do, which leaves me in the clear. So what happens to me?”

  “If he sends you back, love, I think old Volkov would either shoot you or send you to the Gulag.” That was Billy.

  “Of course, you could claim asylum,” Roper said.

  “If I found myself on the pavement, the most you could do is ask Colonel Luhzkov to send me home. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “How boring,” Ferguson said.

  “And what a bleeding waste,” Harry put in.

  “What if I made you a proposition?” Ferguson said.

  “Throw in my lot with you?”

  “Oh, no, something much more subtle. What if I gave you a chance to return to the fold, your own people?”

  “What, hand me over to Luhzkov? Tell him to fly me out?”

  “Much, much better than that. Now listen to me. There’s one thing I suggest you do first, though.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “First, let me ask you where you think Levin might be.”

  She frowned. “Drumore Place, probably.”