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 Sultan, thanks to Abdul. He’s on his back there now, eyes staring at the ceiling like you usually do when you’ve been shot in the head.”

“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 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 Eagle One, they sat in the saloon, got Russo’s scarf and shirt off and examined the damage. Romano got the first-aid box, but it was Greta who examined it.

“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 Sultan down the jetty.”

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 Eagle One. Ibrahim was included and looked scared.

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?”