Without Mercy

“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. “Senor 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 postured 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 cafe 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.