Without Mercy (13 page)

Dillon went to Mary Killane’s place. He really was worried that the Murder Squad didn’t appear to be making much progress. Where she had lived, Kilburn, was the most Irish area of London. There were pubs there that would make you think you were back in the old country. Republican, Protestant, take your pick.

Dillon was an expert on all of them, had lived there as a boy newly come from Belfast with his father, so if you were a nice Catholic girl who was going out for a drink, you’d never go to a Prod pub, only a Catholic one. Mary Killane didn’t have a car, so you were talking about walking unless she’d a fella who picked her up at the flat. In any case, within a reasonable walking distance to here, there were a few Catholic pubs.

Most were clean enough. He showed her photo and got nowhere. There were others that had IRA connections, especially from before the Peace Process, there being little action in London these days. One such was the Green Tinker, the landlord one Mickey Docherty. A huge IRA supporter in the old days, he’d been picked up twice although nothing had ever been proven.

Dillon found him just before noon, when the bar was empty except for two old men in cloth caps drinking ale at a corner table and playing dominoes. Docherty was reading the Standard at the bar, and the look on his face when he saw Dillon was comical.

“My God, it’s you, Sean.”

“As ever was. Get me a large Bushmills.”

Docherty did as he was told, and when he turned, Dillon had a computer photo of Mary on the bar. He took his whiskey and drank it. Docherty’s face said it all.

“I can see by your face you know her.”

“What’s she done?”

“Got herself killed.”

Docherty crossed himself. “Mother of God.”

“Don’t start getting pious with me. Who did she come in with?”

“And how would I be knowing that?”

“Because there’s an IRA connection and a possible Liam Bell connection, so tell me what you know. If you don’t, I’ll be back tonight to haunt you. I’ll cripple you, both knees. This is important to me.”

“All right, Sean, I hear you.” He turned, poured a whiskey, hands shaking. “Nice girl. A nurse. She was a sleeper.”

“How do you know?”

“I took letters from Dublin for her and the fella.”

“Which fella?”

“Well, he was a sleeper, too. Dermot Fitzgerald.”

“What did it say in the letters?”

“How would I know?”

“Because you steamed the envelopes open.”

Docherty was panicking. “I only did it a couple of times. They were just notes, no signature. Things like phone a certain number at such and such a time. Fitzgerald was a handsome rogue. A real scholar. Doing an MA at London University.”

“A scholar and a gentleman thinking it was romantic to be in the IRA?”

“There was word about him.”

“What kind of word?”

“That he’d killed three or four times.”

There was silence. “Do you have his address?”

“Only round the corner, but he’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Ibiza. He told me a couple of days ago. Said he’d made a bit of money and was going over there for a while. Likes to dive.”

Dillon thought about it, then took another computer photo out, Levin’s this time. “Anyone you know?”

Docherty shook his head. “Definitely not.”

Dillon put the photos away. “I hope I don’t have to come back.”

Igor Levin, following Dillon to the Green Tinker, had glanced through a window, seen him approach the bar to talk to Docherty. He moved on and discovered a door to a separate saloon bar. He moved in. There was no one there, but there was an access door into the other bar, and when he put his earpiece in, he could hear what passed between them from the moment Docherty recognized Mary Killane and was told she had been killed.

There was really little else Levin could do. He waited by the front door, giving Dillon time, then moved out and went along the street to his Mercedes. Once behind the wheel, he phoned Luhzkov at the Embassy, and asked him to do a trace on Dermot Fitzgerald and flights to Ibiza.

In Dublin, Flynn sat in his favorite bar and had a large whiskey. He had a problem. A fine officer, Hannah Bernstein, had gone down and he felt that. On the other hand, there was a question of family loyalty and his brother, not ex-IRA at all, but still active. So he did the good thing, or the bad thing, and gave him a ring. Billy Salter had come calling, maybe Liam Bell needed to know. Afterward, he felt even worse and consoled himself with another whiskey.

Levin phoned Drumore Place and got Ashimov. He told him what Dillon had learned at the Green Tinker. “The important thing is we’ve checked through the GRU computer and Dermot Fitzgerald left London Gatwick for Ibiza the day before yesterday.”

“So what are you saying to me?”

“That if I was Dillon and fired up like he is, I’d be on the next plane over on Fitzgerald’s case. If he can find him and squeeze him, he’ll know it was Liam Bell behind the execution of Mary Killane, and that’s a direct lead to Drumore Place and what goes with that.”

“Do you think I don’t know?”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Get after Fitzgerald. Get rid of him.”

“Are you going to come?”

“I’ve other things to do.”

“Can I say something?”

“Anything you like as long as it’s relevant.”

“Getting on Fitzgerald’s tail is one thing, but there’s another side to it. Why waste him? If Dillon comes after him, which he will, we’d get two for the price of one.”

Ashimov said, “That’s good. I like that.” He thought about it. “I tell you what. I’ll send a company Falcon from Ballykelly. It can bring Greta. She could be useful to you. It’ll collect you at Archbury, then onwards to Ibiza.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Then let’s do it.”

At Holland Park, Dillon found Roper and gave him the information he’d obtained from Docherty about Fitzgerald. He had no known criminal connections, but was on the books at London University. A BA in English literature. His thesis for his master’s degree was on the pending list.

Roper trawled through the passenger lists for Ibiza and confirmed that Fitzgerald had left. “Anything else?”

“This diving business. Check that out if you can.”

“I can do anything, old lad.” Roper went through the PADI list, the world association of professional divers, and nodded. “There you are. A master diver. So what do you want to do?”

“I think I should go after him. I know Ibiza well. I used to go there a lot in the old days. A good friend of mine ran an outfit flying floatplanes between the islands. I flew for him. I wonder if he’s still at it? Aldo Russo, Eagle Air. He’s Italian. Has strong Mafia connections, or did have.”

Roper went back to his computer, which came up trumps again. “There you go. Still up and running, but would you be? How much flying have you done lately?”

“I’ve kept my hand in. Mostly weekend stuff these days. I can fly anything short of a jumbo, but who says I’m going to fly?”

“I think Ferguson will say no to you going. He wants the Hannah investigation to stay in the hands of Scotland Yard.”

“Look, Mary Killane eased Hannah’s going with those pills, but the IRA contact between her and Fitzgerald is more than a coincidence, and I’d take a large bet with you he killed her. It makes sense. She’s the nurse with access. Afterwards she’s got to be got rid of. On top of that, he clears off to Ibiza.”

“You could persuade me,” Roper said, but at that moment, Ferguson came in, immaculate in black tie.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Dillon told him, not that it did any good. “I told you, I don’t want you to intervene. The Yard will handle it. All right, you’ve done well, Sean, and so has young Salter in Dublin. It’s a step forward knowing that Liam Bell is at Drumore Place, but I’m not having you running off to Ibiza. I’m at Saint James’s Palace for a luncheon with the Prime Minister. He’ll want to know how things are, so leave it alone.”

“Whatever you say.”

He went out. Roper said, “But you’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”

“Not a chance. I’m going to presume on friendship. I’m going to phone Lacey at Farley Field and tell him a priority job’s come up and I need a Citation flight to Ibiza tonight. I’ll say Ferguson has ordered it. That clears you.”

Roper sat back, frowning, then said, “Give me a Marlboro and we’ll call it quits.”

“My pleasure.” Dillon took one himself.

“Only one thing,” Roper said. “I make the call. Lacey trusts me.”

“So where does that leave you with Ferguson?”

“What can he do?” Roper smiled. “I’m handicapped. He’d end up in front of a tribunal. I’ll tell Lacey you’ll be there in two hours. Go on, get out of here.”

He phoned Lacey and stated his requirements, the usual schedule, the Quartermaster for weaponry, and then he phoned Billy Salter.

“Something’s come up,” he said, and told him. “What do you think?”

“That he’s not been the same since she died, not his old self at all. What’s more, to go off on a hunt like this, on his own, in the state he’s in, is barmy.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Pack a suitcase.”

“I thought you’d say that. They’re expecting you at Farley, too. Stay in touch.”

IBIZA

Chapter 8

The Falcon, with Greta on board, dropped in at Archbury and picked up Levin. “You’ve been busy,” she said as they took off again.

“What’s happening?”

“The net’s closing in.” She told him about Billy Salter in Dublin.

“So now they know definitely,” Levin said. “Thanks to a family-minded Dublin detective.”

“They know Liam Bell is in charge of Drumore, they’re aware that Max Zubin is playing Belov at Station Gorky. They don’t know about Ashimov or me.”

He smiled. “Or me.”

“So let’s keep it that way.”

“You’ve got Fitzgerald’s address, details of what he’s up to? He knows we’re coming?”

“Oh, yes. Bell’s been in touch with him.”

“That was a mistake.” Levin opened the bar cabinet and got out the vodka.

“Why?” she asked as he poured.

“He could wonder why. He could wonder whether the only present we’re bringing is a bullet in the head.”

“Not with me along.”

“A good-looking woman to make him feel comfortable?”

“Why not? Tell me one thing. You really think Dillon will turn up?”

“Absolutely.”

“It should be an interesting trip, then,” and they toasted each other. “Here’s to Mary Hall.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me, Igor. That’s what it says on my passport.”

When Billy arrived at Farley Field, he was delivered by Harry, grumbling as usual. “I mean, what’s he got you into now?”

“I’m a member of the Security Services, Harry. They yell, I jump. It’s called doing your duty.”

“Only Ferguson doesn’t know.”

“He will when he’s finished dinner. Roper will see to that.”

They parked outside the terminal building, went in and there was Lacey in flight overalls talking to Dillon. “The Quartermaster’s left you the usual bag, Sean, said you’ll find everything you want inside.”

Billy and Harry looked on. “There you are, you little Irish bastard,” Harry said.

Lacey said, “I’ll go and get us started.”

Dillon frowned. “Does Ferguson know about this?”

“He soon will. Roper’s in charge.” Billy picked up the Quartermaster’s bag and took his own from Harry. “Come on, Dillon, let’s get moving,” and he led the way out and walked to the Citation X.

Flying through the night at thirty thousand feet, Dillon indulged himself on half a bottle of Krug champagne.

“So what’s the first move?” asked Billy.

“To find Fitzgerald. Roper’s going to check diving sites and the kind of hotels divers use. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try my old friend Aldo Russo.”

“Italian, not Spanish? How come you were involved with him?”

“Way back in the old days when I was the pride of the IRA, I was sent to Sicily to buy arms, only the Mafia knew British intelligence was onto them, so they moved Russo, his wife and son to Ibiza, and used that as a base. There were Spanish elements who didn’t like it, thought the Mafia were encroaching on their territory.”

“What happened?”

“I did him a favor one night when a bit of business came up at the last minute. I offered to drive his wife and son home. Two men who’d been given the contract ambushed us, wounded the boy and his mother.”

“Don’t tell me. You took them out?”

“Something like that. God, it was thirty years ago. The son is an attorney in Palermo now.”

“Working for the Mafia?”

“Who knows?”

“And the wife?”

“Cancer, ten years ago.”

There was silence for a while. Billy said, “When it’s time, it’s time. I suppose Russo has never forgotten what you did. Italians are funny like that.”

“Honor is everything, Billy, you know that.”

“Or respect,” Billy said.

Dillon’s Codex Four went and Ferguson exploded. “What in the hell do you think you are playing at?”

“Don’t blame Roper, he was trying to make it official for Lacey. As for Billy, he’s only here because he’s a sentimentalist. Thinks he owes me.”

“Put him on—that’s an order.”

Dillon handed the phone to Billy.

“Yes, boss.”

“For God’s sake, watch him. The whole thing’s put him on a knife edge. I don’t want to lose him.”

“Do you think I do? Listen, I’ve got a good feeling about this, especially with Russo on board. I’ll hand you back.”

“Who’s Russo?” Ferguson demanded of Dillon.

“Roper will fill you in. I used to deal with him for the IRA. Ex-Mafia.”

“There’s no such thing. It’s like saying ex-IRA. Once in, never out, isn’t that the truth of it? Oh, for God’s sake, go to hell in your own way, but keep in touch.”

“An angry man,” Billy commented.

“No, really. He cares, Billy, about what we do and what happens to us.” He finished the last drop of champagne.

Billy said, “I’ve never been to Ibiza. What’s it like?”

Dillon said, “Great in the old days, more tourists now. I used to love the old city, Ibiza town, the bars, gypsies, bullfighters, the flamenco dancers.” He shook his head. “Best-looking women you’ve seen in years.”