“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
“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
“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.”
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
“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
