she knows.”
“Shall I speak to Ashimov?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I like keeping him in his place.”
“Then do it.”
Volkov switched off. Levin lit a cigarette, smiled, then phoned Ashimov.
On board
“Let me look. I did a field nursing course years ago for Afghanistan.” She shook her head. “I can do a patch-up job, but it needs more than stitching. The bullet’s cut across the shoulder. He’ll need treatment at hospital level.”
“Well, that can wait until I’m back in Ibiza,” Russo said. “Just get on with it.”
Which she did. Romano said, “So this whole thing was a mess?”
“You could say that,” Dillon said.
“Well, we could have told you. After you left, Cameci and I caught sight of that Fitzgerald guy on the deck of the
Dillon glanced at Billy and stood up. “Watch her.”
Greta said, “Where would I go, for God’s sake?”
They went up the gangway and paused at the top. It was very quiet. Dillon drew his Walther and Billy fanned out to one side and they finally came to the saloon and discovered Fitzgerald’s body.
“That’s it, then,” Billy said.
They went out on deck and the Falcon roared overhead at five or six hundred feet and climbing.
“And there goes Levin,” Dillon said.
“You could say he did you a favor,” Billy observed.
As they went down the gangway, Dillon called Roper on his Codex Four at Holland Park. “We’ve got Novikova, believe it or not. Still in the land of the living. Fitzgerald’s dead, Levin just left in his Falcon, so draw your own conclusions. Try and find out where he’s going.”
“Will do.” Roper laughed. “It’s better than the midnight movie on TV.”
They returned to find the others assembled in the stern of
Romano said, “He’s been up at the Trocadero to see his cousin Ali. They’ve sent for the police. It would seem Dr. Tomac’s turned up shot dead in his apartment.”
Greta said, “My goodness, Igor has been busy.”
Russo said, “Don’t be stupid, lady. You want us to stay here and explain things to Algerian police? You’d have sex every time you went to the shower whether you liked it or not.” He turned to Romano. “Did you refuel?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then let’s get out of here, back to Ibiza. You’ll have to fly the whole trip, Sean.”
They took off ten minutes later, Dillon and Russo in the front, Billy and Greta in the rear. As they turned to climb, Dillon glanced down and saw two Land Rovers racing along to the jetty.
“Police,” Russo said. “Arriving too late as usual.”
“I know,” Dillon said. “Just can’t help it,” and he set course for Ibiza.
Things going smoothly, he went on autopilot and called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said.
Ferguson, at his Cavendish Place apartment, was testy. “I was expecting you. Roper’s spoken to me.”
“We’ve gotten out of Khufra by the skin of our teeth. My friend Aldo Russo is slightly damaged. Greta Novikova, returned from the grave, is in our hands. I presume you’d like to see her?”
“I certainly would.”
“Especially as she tells me Yuri Ashimov also survived Drumore. Do we get the Citation?”
“Of course you do. You only have to get off the bloody phone.”
“Everything okay?” Billy asked.
“So it would appear. You know Ferguson.”
Dillon was lighting a cigarette one-handed when the engine suddenly missed a beat and spluttered. It was Russo who checked.
“Oil pressure.”
Dillon said, “Life jackets under the seats, get them on.” He pulled on his own and turned to Russo. “What do you think?”
“That we’ve been well and truly done. Maybe it was Levin, more likely one of Tomac’s boys. Look at the oil gauge.” It was fluctuating alarmingly. “I’d say somebody’s put water in the oil. Over a period of time, as the engine heats up, the water builds up into a head of steam: usually blows the filler cap off. That’s why the oil gauge is going wild. I’d say the engine will stop any moment now.”
They were coming into the Ibizan coast, descending, nosing toward the bay and Tijola, and the engine did indeed splutter and die. They started to glide with a strong crosswind bouncing them.
“If we’re lucky, I can land, but notice the waves. If they tip us over, we’ll go straight down. How deep, Aldo?”
“Six or seven fathoms.”
“Right, this is the way it goes,” Dillon said. “If we land and tip over, get out fast and swim. We’re close to the shore. If we tip over and go straight down, don’t do a thing until we settle on the bottom. Wait while we’re there and don’t try to open the door until enough water’s got in to equalize the pressure.”
Even Billy was alarmed. “For Christ’s sake, get this right, Dillon.”
Dillon dropped the Eagle in, but the waves were swirling sideways and the plane dipped and went straight down.
“You know what you’re doing?” Russo cried.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been here before,” Dillon said.
The water was dark and clear, the instrument lights still glowing, and the plane lifted a little, coasted forward and landed on the bottom of the bay. Clear sand, a rock here and there, and the water was over their heads and Dillon pushed the door open, turned and grabbed Greta and pushed her out.
He floated up holding Greta’s hand, Billy to the left of him, Russo to the right. You had to be careful about coming up from depth when diving, but they didn’t have much choice. They broke through to the surface, Greta gasping.
“You all right?” Dillon demanded.
“Well, I wouldn’t say you know how to please a lady,” Greta said, “but I’m sure it beats the showers at Khufra Prison.”
“Good. Let’s get going,” and they turned and swam the few yards to the shore.
Later, at the airport in the VIP lounge, they sat waiting, Billy, Dillon and Greta, for the arrival of the Citation X.
“We certainly see a little bit of everything,” Billy said. “I mean, what was that all about?”
The automatic door opened and Russo came in, his arm in a sling. “So here you are.”
“How did you get on?” Greta asked.
“Fifteen stitches. I can’t feel my arm.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Thanks for what you did. Listen,
“It’s a good offer, but I’ll get by.”
“With Ferguson in the safe house?”
“You don’t understand, Aldo. He can’t do anything to me, can’t accuse me of anything. It’s not that I’m not
