“Then let’s do it,” Dillon said. “I couldn’t be happier.”

At Tijola, Russo gave Pedro his orders when they loaded the plane, then said to Dillon, “You’re still flying?”

“I keep my hand in.”

“Then it’s all yours.”

He sat beside Dillon, Billy behind. Dillon strapped himself in, fired the engine, allowed the Eagle to slip down the runway into the harbor, let the wheels up and called the tower at Ibiza airport. He indicated his destination; there was a pause and then he got the good word. He taxied out to sea past the end of the pier, turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over an azure sea and lifted.

“How’s it feel?” Russo asked.

“Couldn’t be better.”

Russo opened the map compartment, reached in and produced a Browning. “I presume you two are tooled up?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, because this is the Khufra we’re going to, where anything goes.”

THE KHUFRA

9

Dr. Henry Tomac was very large, sixteen or seventeen stone, wore a creased fawn linen suit and a Panama hat, even though he was sitting at a booth at his pride and joy, the Trocadero. Awnings at the front kept it cool and dark, the great fans in the ceiling rotating relentlessly.

The barmen were Algerians, dressed in white shirts and trousers, scarlet bands at the waist, the headwaiter wearing a scarlet tarbush. You could eat at the Trocadero as well as drink, and the company was mixed and very rough, but Tomac had a number of villainous-looking men who kept things in order, because Tomac demanded order and what Tomac said went in Khufra town.

He sat at his private booth, waving the odd fly out of the way when Dermot Fitzgerald entered, worked his way through the tables, put down his bag and stood there.

“May I join you?”

“Dear boy. Of course you may. Champagne, Abdul,” he called to the headwaiter.

“You may not want to.”

“Oh, dear, have you been a bad boy again?” He savored the champagne Abdul poured. “All right, tell me.”

“So this Russian agent Levin and the Novikova woman, you got word that they were coming, that’s it? And you’ve come over because you’re worried they might intend to do away with you?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, they are. The receptionist at Sanders Hotel gave me a phone call earlier. Told me about a couple, a good-looking man and woman, most interested in your whereabouts. It fits in neatly with a call I’ve had from Captain Omar at the airstrip, about a Russian executive jet, and a good-looking man and woman, on their way here. Their pilot brought them in on behalf of Belov International. I’m impressed, Dermot.”

“What can I do?”

“Well, I’m not sure – because there’s another strange thing. I’ve had a second call from my friend, the receptionist at the Sanders Hotel. He’s had a query about your whereabouts from a man he couldn’t afford to offend. A business acquaintance of mine.”

“Who?”

Tomac told him.

Fitzgerald was totally thrown. “I don’t know this person. Mafia? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, well, he obviously knows you. He flies floatplanes here, runs a dive center. Maybe he’s acting for certain people in London who’d like to lay hands on you. You seem to be in demand, Dermot.”

“Help me, for God’s sake.”

“It will cost you.”

“How much? I can pay well.”

“Get out of sight. You can use my apartment. If necessary, I’ll send you to the house at Zarza in the marshes, or one of the diving boats might be better. We’ll see.”

Fitzgerald cleared off, and a few moments later, Levin and Greta appeared, followed by a waiter with their bags. They paused at the top of the stairs, Greta causing quite a stir, then came down and crossed to the bar. Tomac stood up.

“Miss Hall.” He put her hand to his lips. “No more delightful visitor has graced my poor establishment.”

“Dr. Tomac.”

“At your service.” It was like a game they were playing.

“I dislike subterfuge. For good reasons I have been traveling incognita. I am, in fact, Major Greta Novikova. This is Captain Igor Levin of the Russian GRU. We’re here on State business, serious business.”

Tomac managed to look grave. “Please join me. Have the bags sent to the rooms, Abdul. Have some champagne served. This is obviously a matter of the highest importance. Have you spoken of this to Captain Omar, our chief of police?”

As the champagne arrived, Greta said, “In Ibiza we were told that in Khufra there was only one person worth talking to, and that is you, Doctor.”

“You flatter me, Major.” He toasted them. “Your very good health. Now, in what way may I assist you?”

“We seek a young man named Dermot Fitzgerald.”

“For what reason?”

“To save him from those who mean him more than ill will,” she said. “His life could be in danger.”

“Two men, we suspect,” Levin said. “One called Dillon – Irish. The other, Salter.”

“Good heavens.” Tomac managed to look shocked, and at that moment a plane roared quite low overhead.

“What would that be?” Greta asked.

Tomac glanced out. “Oh, a floatplane from Ibiza, Eagle Air. They come in all the time and tie up by the dive center. Look, this is all very disturbing. Why don’t you settle into your rooms and we’ll talk again?”

“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.