“Well, at least we know he’s lying,” Dillon said.
There was a small coffee stall just along toward the pier. Ibrahim had walked over to it, was standing there, drinking a cup, and Tomac paused as he passed, only briefly, and moved on. Ibrahim came back to Eagle Two and Russo called him to the rail.
“What did Tomac want?”
“For me to watch what your guests do and let him know.”
“And will you?”
“I am your man, but if it pleases him to think otherwise . . .” Ibrahim shrugged.
“Good. Have you anything to say to me?”
“My cousin was down from the airport, the one who works for the police. He says the plane which landed earlier is Russian and owned by a company called Belov International.”
“Who was on it?”
“A man and a woman. They’ve moved to the Trocadero.”
“And the plane?”
“Still at the airport. Two pilots. They are staying at the crew’s emergency quarters behind the bar.”
“That’s interesting. Go along to the Trocadero and ask your cousin Ali, the porter. See what’s going on. This man Fitzgerald, you will recognize. I understand he’s dived here many times. I want any information on him and the man and the woman from the airport.”
Ibrahim went obediently. Russo said, “We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, let’s have a swim.”
At the Trocadero, Fitzgerald listened intently while Tomac filled him in.
“So, we have these Russians from the GRU who claim their mission is to protect you from these two men, Dillon and Salter.”
“What shall I do?”
“I’ll tell Abdul to take you in the Land Rover to the house at Zarza, only he won’t. He’ll take you to the dive center. I’ll phone Hussein and tell him to expect you. You can stay in one of the dive boats or the old dhow, the Sultan. Keep your head down till we sort something out. This is going to cost you ten thousand pounds, I trust you realize that.”
“No trouble, I’m good for it.” Fitzgerald picked up his bag. “Let’s get moving. I don’t trust either side in this.”
Tomac’s next move was partly a result of his devious nature. He was smiling to himself as he went downstairs and found Greta and Levin in the bar by the window. He eased himself down beside them.
“This man you seek, Fitzgerald, is at a house in Zarza six miles up the coast from here in the marsh. He’s waiting to be picked up in a couple of hours to be taken to Algiers. Something to do with smuggling. Nothing to do with me, but the information is sound.”
“How do we get there?” Greta asked.
“I’ll have Abdul take you in the Land Rover.” He puffed out his cheeks. “Why, I don’t know as it can’t possibly profit me. You’ll be armed?”
“Naturally,” Levin told him.
“A wise precaution in these parts.” He heaved himself up. “I can only wish you luck.” He went and spoke to Abdul and shuffled away.
“What do you think?” Greta asked Levin.
“I don’t see a better offer on the table.” Levin shrugged. “Why would he double-cross us? What would be the purpose? Come on, let’s go and get ready.”
Tomac phoned the Eagle Deep Dive Center and asked for Russo.
“You know the old house at Zarza?” Tomac said.
“Yes.”
“This Fitzgerald man. I have it on good authority that he’ll be there in about two hours waiting for a lift to Algiers.”
“A long drive,” Russo said.
“Well, maybe he wants to go as far away as possible. If the information is useful, use it. Pay me back another time.”
He switched off the phone and started to laugh. It was really very funny. It would have been nice to have seen it.
So that’s it,” Russo said. “I don’t know what he’s playing at, but it’s up to you.”
It was Billy who spoke. “We’ll go for it. What else is there to do here? Come on, Dillon, let’s get tooled up and go and take the sod on.”
“If he’s there, Billy.”
“I’ll take you myself in the Ford,” Russo said. “Even on these roads and a run into the marsh, it’s forty-five minutes at the most. What have you got to lose?” He turned to Romano and Cameci. “You two mind the store.”
The coast road was at least surfaced, occasional small farms, lots of date palms, almond trees, thin cows, ribs showing, sheep, even the odd camel.
“It’s like something out of the Bible,” Greta said.
Levin smiled. “Darling, they’d probably cut my throat. You, of course, they’d sell in the slave market.”
“Thanks very much.”
Abdul, enigmatic as he drove, turned the Land Rover into the beginnings of the harsh and pungent smell of the marsh. As they started along the dike roads, wild fowl and seabirds stirred under protest.
The sky had darkened, and Greta said, “What’s wrong?”
“Summer storm,” Abdul told her. “A cold front from the sea. Soon we get rain.”
The sun had vanished, the reeds, ten feet high at least, seemed to stretch to eternity. It was as wild and desolate as anything Greta had ever known, mile upon mile of the great reeds stretching into the distance, an eerie whispering as the wind moved amongst them and a strange mist fell. And then it started to rain.
“There are ponchos in the back locker,” Abdul said.
Levin pulled them out. They were obviously ex-military with hoods. He passed one to Greta and pulled the other one on himself. As they progressed, there were birds everywhere, wild duck, geese. The one good thing was the flattening of the clouds of mosquitoes in the deluge.
And then, at the end of one of the dike roads, they turned onto a kind of island. An overgrown garden, all sorts of foliage, date palms, a gloomy, weather-beaten clapboard house with a terrace, a large portico entrance, French windows.
“I’d say this was once a plantation,” Levin said to Greta.
Abdul nodded. “There was a French family here for many years, a century or more. They drained part of the marsh, made it prosperous, then the war came and General de Gaulle took the hard line. The French people left, local farmers took over, and they were no good. Nature returned.” He shrugged. “The door is always open. I leave you here. I’ll park under the trees down the track and wait. We’re too early, I think.”
They got out, hoods up in the pouring rain, and went forward, both of them with a Walther ready. Greta paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the wide terrace. The front door opened and Sean Dillon stepped out, Billy on one side, Russo on the other.
“Hold it right there,” Dillon said, and then she pulled her hood back. “Why, Dillon, it’s you, Baghdad all over again.”
The look on his face was astonishing, absolute total shock, and he dropped his hand that held the Browning with a twenty-round magazine up the butt.
“My God, Greta.”
Taking advantage, Levin pushed her away, flung himself to one side and fired, but at his angle, it was Russo he caught, chipping his left shoulder. He kept on rolling as he hit the ground, went into the reeds and disappeared, and Billy fired after him to no avail. Russo got up, clutching his shoulder.
“It’s okay. Could be worse.”
Dillon held out his hand. “Mine’s bigger than yours,” he told Greta.
She smiled. “Of course,” and gave him her Walther.
In the reeds, Levin watched them move in out of the rain. A lucky shot might have got one of them, but with a handgun at that range not all three, and there was always the chance of hitting Greta. There was only one place to go, really. He eased his way back through the reeds and found Abdul standing by the Land Rover in the rain, holding an umbrella and peering through the trees. Levin slipped up behind him and tapped the back of his skull lightly with his Walther.
“No sign of Fitzgerald at all. I bet you enjoyed watching.”
“It’s not my fault, Effendi. I was following Dr. Tomac’s orders.”
“Who was the man I shot? Do I know the other two?”
“Aldo Russo. He owns Eagle Air and the dive center. He’s a dangerous man. Mafia.”
“What’s his connection with Tomac?”
“Cigarette smuggling to Europe. It’s big business.”
“Now we come to Fitzgerald. He’s here, so where is he?” Abdul hesitated, and Levin rammed the muzzle of the Walther against his ear. “I’ll blow it off.”
Abdul came to heel quickly. “Next to the Tomac Dive Center, an old dhow is moored, the Sultan. He’s there. The boss told him to stay out of the way.”
“Excellent. I like cooperation, so you can drive me back to town and we’ll see what Tomac has to say about this almighty cock-up.”
Dillon, Billy and Russo had arrived only twenty minutes before Abdul and Levin and Greta. There were old stables at the rear and Russo had suggested hiding the Ford in there and waiting in the house. That the absence of Fitzgerald and the arrival of Levin and Greta had been more than a surprise went without saying. Billy was stunned by Greta.
“It’s like Lazarus out of his coffin and walking again, only he was a fella.”
“My goodness, Billy, you actually read the Bible,” Greta said.
“Never mind the repartee. Levin hasn’t hung around long, has he?” Dillon told her.
“Don’t be silly,” Billy said. “He did the smart thing.” He’d taken off Russo’s flying jacket and his white flying scarf and was binding it round the wounded shoulder.
“So what happened to you back there at Drumore?” Dillon took out his cigarettes and offered her one.
She decided to let it all hang out. “Somebody blew up the Kathleen. I suppose that was you, Dillon?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I got blown over the stern by the blast. Belov and Murphy weren’t so lucky.” She turned to Billy. “Not that you did much better. A bullet in the shoulder and back for Ashimov didn’t do much to a bulletproof vest.”
Dillon was cold with fury. “So it’s been Ashimov behind everything?”
“Revenge, Dillon. You killed Belov, his greatest friend, the man who was like a father to him.”
“So Max Zubin hangs around in Station Gorky blackmailed by his mother’s presence in Moscow. Liam Bell runs things for the IRA at Drumore, and you and Ashimov set about a murder campaign?”
“Revenge, Dillon, like I told you.”
“This guy Levin, he’s good, only he hires bum people. Harry Salter’s Bentley, Roper in his wheelchair. Even the business with Hannah was a botch-up.”
“He’d nothing to do with that.” She was surprised how defensive she felt. “It was hardly Igor’s fault if the material he was supplied with was rubbish.”
“IRA rubbish, as Blake found when he took them on at Drumore.”
“Yes, he was good, but Bernstein was Ashimov. He arranged it with Bell. It was Bell who recruited the young nurse and Fitzgerald. Once she’d done her job, Fitzgerald shot her, then left for Ibiza with his loot.”
“A good payday.”
She felt even more defensive. “I wasn’t involved. It was Ashimov and Bell. I’ve told you.”
“Sounds good, only here you are with your new associate, trying to knock off Fitzgerald.”
She was almost pleading. “It was Mary Killane who murdered Bernstein, not me.”
“Mary Killane didn’t murder anybody. She was a tool.” Dillon shook his head. “I’m tired of this. Let’s get back to Khufra and sort Tomac out. At least he’s got one use. He can give you some medical treatment, Aldo.”
On the way to town, Levin gave the whole thing serious consideration. That Greta was in the hands of the opposition was beyond dispute, as was the fact that to get her back from Dillon, Slater and Russo would hardly be likely. In fact, the obvious thing would be to cut his losses and run. He phoned Captain Scott at the airstrip.
“Something’s come up. Can you be on standby for a swift departure?”
“Of course.”
“No trouble with air traffic control?”
Scott laughed. “What air traffic control?”
“Can you refuel here?”
“Very cheaply. Where for?”
“I’d say Ballykelly direct.”
“And Major Novikova?”
“It looks like she may have to make other arrangements. Get on with it.”
Levin sat there thinking about it, the entire situation. It was droll in a way, yet he was beginning to tire of failure, particularly when it was hardly his fault.
He said to Abdul, “I’m going to the Trocadero to say good-bye to Dr. Tomac, then I’m leaving.”
“Without the lady, Effendi?”
“The other side has got her. Too bad. There is one thing you can do for me, though. Take me to the Sultan and introduce me to Fitzgerald.”
“Effendi, please.” Abdul was pleading.
“You’ll do exactly as I say, otherwise I’ll kill you,” Levin said calmly. “Now get on with it.”
They parked outside the Tomac Dive Center and Levin said, “Go on, lead the way.”
“As you say, Effendi.”
Abdul seemed resigned now and headed up the gangway, along the deck on the starboard side, and entered a corridor with reverse cabin doors.
“Go on, call him,” Levin said.
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.”