“There are ponchos in the back locker,” Abdul said.

Levin pulled them out. They were obviously ex-military with hoods. He passed one to Greta and pulled the other one on himself. As they progressed, there were birds everywhere, wild duck, geese. The one good thing was the flattening of the clouds of mosquitoes in the deluge.

And then, at the end of one of the dike roads, they turned onto a kind of island. An overgrown garden, all sorts of foliage, date palms, a gloomy, weather-beaten clapboard house with a terrace, a large portico entrance, French windows.

“I’d say this was once a plantation,” Levin said to Greta.

Abdul nodded. “There was a French family here for many years, a century or more. They drained part of the marsh, made it prosperous, then the war came and General de Gaulle took the hard line. The French people left, local farmers took over, and they were no good. Nature returned.” He shrugged. “The door is always open. I leave you here. I’ll park under the trees down the track and wait. We’re too early, I think.”

They got out, hoods up in the pouring rain, and went forward, both of them with a Walther ready. Greta paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the wide terrace. The front door opened and Sean Dillon stepped out, Billy on one side, Russo on the other.

“Hold it right there,” Dillon said, and then she pulled her hood back. “Why, Dillon, it’s you, Baghdad all over again.”

The look on his face was astonishing, absolute total shock, and he dropped his hand that held the Browning with a twenty-round magazine up the butt.

“My God, Greta.”

Taking advantage, Levin pushed her away, flung himself to one side and fired, but at his angle, it was Russo he caught, chipping his left shoulder. He kept on rolling as he hit the ground, went into the reeds and disappeared, and Billy fired after him to no avail. Russo got up, clutching his shoulder.

“It’s okay. Could be worse.”

Dillon held out his hand. “Mine’s bigger than yours,” he told Greta.

She smiled. “Of course,” and gave him her Walther.

In the reeds, Levin watched them move in out of the rain. A lucky shot might have got one of them, but with a handgun at that range not all three, and there was always the chance of hitting Greta. There was only one place to go, really. He eased his way back through the reeds and found Abdul standing by the Land Rover in the rain, holding an umbrella and peering through the trees. Levin slipped up behind him and tapped the back of his skull lightly with his Walther.

“No sign of Fitzgerald at all. I bet you enjoyed watching.”

“It’s not my fault, Effendi. I was following Dr. Tomac’s orders.”

“Who was the man I shot? Do I know the other two?”

“Aldo Russo. He owns Eagle Air and the dive center. He’s a dangerous man. Mafia.”

“What’s his connection with Tomac?”

“Cigarette smuggling to Europe. It’s big business.”

“Now we come to Fitzgerald. He’s here, so where is he?” Abdul hesitated, and Levin rammed the muzzle of the Walther against his ear. “I’ll blow it off.”

Abdul came to heel quickly. “Next to the Tomac Dive Center, an old dhow is moored, the Sultan. He’s there. The boss told him to stay out of the way.”

“Excellent. I like cooperation, so you can drive me back to town and we’ll see what Tomac has to say about this almighty cock-up.”

Dillon, Billy and Russo had arrived only twenty minutes before Abdul and Levin and Greta. There were old stables at the rear and Russo had suggested hiding the Ford in there and waiting in the house. That the absence of Fitzgerald and the arrival of Levin and Greta had been more than a surprise went without saying. Billy was stunned by Greta.

“It’s like Lazarus out of his coffin and walking again, only he was a fella.”

“My goodness, Billy, you actually read the Bible,” Greta said.

“Never mind the repartee. Levin hasn’t hung around long, has he?” Dillon told her.

“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 Kathleen. I suppose that was you, Dillon?”

“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 Sultan and introduce me to Fitzgerald.”

“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.