Without Mercy

“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.

An Arab was tidying up on the deck of one of the boats and two heavily tanned men stripped to the waist and in jeans were drinking beer in the stern of the other. They both looked around forty, long hair, muscular, fit.

“Not Arab,” Dillon said.

“No, that one is on the other boat, Ibrahim. The others are mine, not only good Italians, but Mafia. The one with the scar on his cheek is Jack Romano. The other is Tino Cameci. They like it here. It’s like a holiday. I phoned before we left. We’re expected. I said you were a master diver looking for action.”

“Well, so is the boy wonder here. Did you mention Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. Romano says they know him. You see the other dive center a hundred yards along? Tomac owns that.” There were three dive boats. “Along with most things here. They tell me Fitzgerald hangs out there when he’s around.”

He took the Eagle up on the ramp and switched off. Romano and Cameci came to greet them and Ibrahim came also and got their luggage. Dillon held on to a briefcase.

“We didn’t expect you for a while, boss,” Romano said in Italian.

“Something came up. Dillon here is like a brother to me.”

Romano’s eyes widened. “The Dillon who saved your son, your wife, may she rest in peace?”

“My friend here doesn’t speak Italian,” Dillon said.

“But a gangster of the first rank in London. His uncle, his capo, saved my bacon in that great city years ago, so we are all friends. Let’s have a drink on it and we’ll discuss why we’re here.”

Sitting under a canopy in the stern of Eagle One was very pleasant. They split a bottle of Chianti, ice cold because Russo liked it that way.

Romano said, “We know this guy Fitzgerald. He’s been coming on and off for a couple of years. He’s a friend of Tomac. Dives from his joint.”

“Is he any good?” Billy asked.

“He thinks he is. You and Dillon, so you both dive?”

Billy smiled. “It’s been known.”

Dillon opened his briefcase and took a computer sheet out. “This Fitzgerald has been a student at London University. I got a friend of mine to access his file. This is his photo. You confirm it’s him?”

They both examined it. “Definitely,” Romano said. “And you tell me he’s IRA?”

“Well, I was IRA and I did many things, but to persuade a young nurse to give this woman, my sick friend, an overdose, then shoot the nurse dead when she’s done her work. I don’t think I ever did a thing like that.”

“It’s a thing no man should do.” Jack Romano bit his thumb.

Cameci said, “Infamita.”

“Well, let’s have another drink to a suitable death for him.” Russo reached for the bottle and Tomac came along the boardwalk.

“Tomac’s come visiting.”

Tomac paused, Ibrahim on Eagle Two bobbed his head to him and there was a brief exchange.

Dillon murmured, “Fruits of a misspent youth, but I speak Arabic. Tomac said, ‘I see you, Ibrahim.’ Ibrahim said, ‘I see you, Effendi.’ Tomac said, ‘Remember who your friends are.’ ”

“Is that so?” Russo said, but by that stage Tomac was at the gangway.

“Ah, my good friend Russo. Permission to come aboard.” All this was delivered with perfect bonhomie.

“Why not?”

Romano stood up and gave him a hand, and Tomac eased his great body along the gangway and made it to a chair.

“Have a glass of Chianti,” Russo told him. “Ice cold, just the way you like it.”

“The way you like it.” Tomac wiped his sweaty face with a large handkerchief and nodded. “Gentlemen.”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Dillon and Mr. Salter,” Russo said. “I’ve just flown them from Ibiza.”

“Ah, here for the diving, gentlemen?”

Dillon said, “I hear it’s spectacular. I was urged to visit by an Irish friend, one Dermot Fitzgerald.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

Dillon took the photo from the briefcase again. “Perhaps you recognize him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Of course, I can’t be expected to remember all our customers. Many people come to dive here. You will be staying long?”

“As long as it takes,” Billy said.

“Do you intend to stay at the Trocadero?”

“No, we’ll spend the night here,” Russo told him.

“How agreeable, but I’d be desolated if you failed to visit my poor establishment before you leave.” He heaved himself up. “Until later.” He negotiated the gangway and departed.

“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