Ive been thinking things over and I still dont approve. Its the Murder Squads business. Let them get on with it.
Well, they have and havent got very far. Okay, we know Fitzgeralds got here, Roper has information on that, except that we know hes already moved. By the time Scotland Yard and the Home Office apply to the Spanish Police and obtain the necessary warrants, God knows where hell be.
At least Im confining you to the island, Ferguson said. Im recalling the Citation.
Well manage. Im going to get him, Charles, I promise you.
When they got out of the Citation at the airport, Lacey said, Whats going on, Sean? Ferguson himself is recalling us at once.
Oh, Ive been a naughty boy again. Dont worry about it. Just do as the great man says and well 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.
Ill call Roper and let him know whats happened, he told Billy.
Roper said, Hes not pleased, although hes not been the same since Hannah. On the other hand, its inconvenient hes 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.
Id say so.
Wed 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. Hed 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 theyd 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 wheres Aldo?
Theyre running a few young bulls up at the Playa this morning. Hes gone to watch. Its just for youngsters. You know how it is.
Well catch up with him there. Well 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 Plazas 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 didnt 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 hes been around the houses, this one, I think hes made his bones. He shook Billys hand. Maybe your friend has told you Im 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 wouldnt listen. Attacked my car one night when theyd promised safe conduct.
What happened?
My face was slashed. I was on my knees when a famous London gangster, whod heard of the plot and didnt 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, Id get up to the kind of nonsense were 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 couldnt 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 thats what I was looking for all this time. Who knows? Now can we go and get a drink? Theres something I need to discuss.
The café close to the Playa wasnt 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 theyre on your side. Russo called to the barman. Whiskey all round, Barbera.
Not me, Billy said.
Russo turned to Dillon. He doesnt 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. Whats 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 couldnt make it easy, could you? But I see where youre coming from. The woman, the police superintendent. That was dirty. They shouldnt 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, Ill 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 hes 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 shes the mysterious Mary Hall, Dillon said.
So whats your connection with this Dr. Tomac?
Cigarette smuggling mainly. Theres more money in that than hard drugs these days, and the court sentences are infinitely smaller. I have a diving concession there. Eagle Deep. Its exceptional diving. Special clients book me to fly them over in one of my floatplanes.
Would we be special clients? Dillon asked.
Well, lets say I owe you, my friend, and anyway, as were not into the tourist season, there isnt much trade and Im bored and this sounds interesting.
Then lets do it, Dillon said. I couldnt be happier.
At Tijola, Russo gave Pedro his orders when they loaded the plane, then said to Dillon, Youre still flying?
I keep my hand in.
Then its 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.
Hows it feel? Russo asked.
Couldnt 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 were 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.