He walked past the first two phone boxes, the old-fashioned red types, the insides littered with prostitutes' calling cards. The third was about half a mile from the station, on Warwick Avenue, close to the canal. Underwood tapped in the pin number of his phone card, then the number in St. Kitts. It rang out for so long that he thought maybe he'd taken down the wrong number, but then Donovan answered.
"You'd better be quick, Den, there's only twenty quid on this card."
"Yeah, put it on the tab, you tight bastard," said Donovan.
"Look, I need to know what my position is back in the UK."
"Fucking precarious, as usual."
"I'm serious, Dicko. I'm going to have to come back." He told Underwood what had happened.
"Hell, Den, I'm sorry." Underwood had known Donovan for almost twenty years and Vicky Donovan was the last person he'd have expected to betray her husband.
"Yeah, well, I need to know where I stand."
"You're Tango One. So far as I know, that's not changed."
"It's been four bloody years since I left."
"Memories like elephants. They'll be all over you like a rash if you come back."
"Check it out, will you?"
"If that's what you want, Den, sure. I'll call you tomorrow. This number, yeah?"
"Nah. I'm getting a flight back this afternoon."
"Bloody hell, Den. Don't get manic about this. Softly, softly, yeah?"
"Don't worry, Dicko. I'll stop off in Europe. Germany maybe. I'll call you from there."
"Just remember Europol, that's all. You're Most Wanted all over Europe."
"I'll be okay. One more thing. I want you to get Vicky and that bastard Sharkey red-flagged. They leave the country, I want to know."
"You're not asking much, are you?"
"I'm serious, Dicko. If they run, I want to know where they run to."
"Don't do anything stupid, Den."
"You can do it, yeah?"
Underwood sighed.
"Yeah, I can do it."
"Cheers, mate. Let's talk again tomorrow."
The line went dead in Underwood's ear. He felt his stomach churn and he popped a Rennie indigestion tablet into his mouth.
Donovan walked over to the convertible Mercedes. Doyle had the door open for him.
"You okay, boss?" he asked.
Donovan didn't reply. He tapped on the dashboard with the palms of his hands as Doyle climbed into the driving seat.
"Where to, boss?" asked Doyle.
Donovan's hands beat even faster on the dashboard as he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd flown to St. Kitts purely to meet the Colombian, but his return flight was to Anguilla, and that didn't get him any closer to London. He needed a ticket, he needed to speak to his sister, and he needed to confirm the collection of the several hundred kilos of Colombian heroin that was on its way to Felixstowe.
Doyle watched him nervously. Donovan hadn't explained what the problem was, but he'd overheard enough of the conversation with Robbie to realise that it was personal and that he had better tread carefully. He started the car and blipped the engine.
Donovan stopped beating a tattoo and his forehead creased into a deep frown.
"Oh shit," he whispered.
"Boss?"
"Shit, shit, shit." Donovan turned to stare at Doyle, but there was a faraway look in his eyes as if he was having trouble focusing.
"I need a computer. Now."
"The resort, yeah?"
Donovan nodded. The Jack Tar Resort Hotel was supposedly for movers and shakers who wanted to escape from the trials and tribulations of the world of commerce, but it had a fully equipped business centre that was often better attended than the pool. Donovan leaned back in the cream leather seat and massaged his temples with his fingertips.
The mobile phone rang. Doyle had put it on the console by the gear stick and he grabbed at it with his free hand.
"Yeah?" He handed it to Donovan.
"It's Laura."
Donovan listened in silence as his sister told him what had happened at the house. And how the safe had been emptied. Donovan cursed.
"Everything, yeah? No passport? No envelope?"
"The cupboard was bare, Den. Sorry."
"Okay, look, Laura, I think you'd best keep Robbie away from school until I get back. If she's got his passport she might try to get him out of the country. Just tell the school he's sick or something."
"Will do, Den."
"And you know what to do if she turns up at your house?"
"She'll get a piece of my mind if she does, I can tell you."
Donovan smiled to himself. He'd seen his sister in full flow, and it wasn't an experience to be relished.
"Do me another favour, Laura. Call Banhams in Kensington. Get them to change all the locks and reset the alarm with a new code. Any of the paintings missing?"
"Bloody hell, Den, how would I know?"
"Gaps on the wall would probably be a clue, Laura. Hooks with nothing hanging from them."
"I'm so pleased that you haven't lost your sense of humour, brother-of-mine. I didn't see any missing, no."
Donovan considered asking his sister to arrange to put the paintings into storage, but figured they'd probably be safe enough once the house was secured. The last time he'd had them valued was five years ago, and they'd been worth close to a million pounds in total. The art market had been buoyant recently and Donovan figured they'd probably doubled in value since then. Vicky didn't share his love of art and he hadn't told her how much the paintings were worth.
"I'll call you later, Laura. And thanks. Tell Robbie I love him, yeah?"
Donovan cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin. Changing the locks and resetting the alarm was all well and good, but Donovan knew that he was shutting the stable door after the horses had well and truly bolted.
Doyle drove into the hotel resort, giving the uniformed security guard a cheery wave, and pulled up in front of Reception.
"Wait here," said Donovan. He walked quickly through the huge reception area, his heels clicking on the marble floor. He jogged up a sweeping set of stairs and pushed open the door to the hotel's business centre.
A pretty black girl with waist-length braided hair flashed him a beaming smile and asked him for his room number. Donovan slipped her a hundred-dollar bill without breaking his stride.
"I'll just be a couple of minutes," he said. He sat down at a computer terminal in the corner of the room and said a silent prayer before launching Internet Explorer and keying in the URL of a small bank in Switzerland. He was asked for an account number and an eight-digit personal identification number.
Donovan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst as he waited for his account to be accessed. The screen went blank for a second and then a spreadsheet appeared, listing all transactions for the account over the past quarter. Donovan sagged in the leather armchair. There was just two thousand dollars left in the account.
He left the bank's site and tapped in another URL, this one for a bank in the Cayman Islands. Ten minutes later and Donovan had visited half a dozen financial institutions in areas renowned for their secrecy and security. His total deposits amounted to a little over eighty thousand dollars. In total sixty million dollars was missing.
Mark Gardner flicked through the channels but couldn't find anything to hold his attention. Reruns of old comedy shows that he half-remembered watching, films that he'd already seen on video, and shows about cooking or decorating. He looked up as Laura came into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
"He's asleep," she said, handing him a mug and sitting down on the sofa next to him. She swung her legs on to his lap and lay back, resting the mug on her stomach.
"What do you think he's going to do?"
"Robbie?"
"Your brother."
Laura ran a finger around the lip of her mug.
"He'll look after Robbie. You know how much his son means to him."
"I thought he wasn't allowed in the UK. I thought the cops were after him."
"He was under surveillance."
"He was Britain's most wanted," said Gardner.
"Tango One, they called him."
"Tango just means target. It means they were looking at him, it doesn't mean he's done anything wrong."
"There's no smoke without fire."
"Yeah, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Are we going to swap cliches all night? Den's Den and that's the end of it."
"I know, love, and I think the world of him. And Robbie. But I don't want us to get caught up in the middle of something."
Laura took her legs off her husband's lap and sat up.
"Like what?"
"I don't know what. But Vicky's got a temper and you know what Den's like."
"What, you think they're going to come in here with guns blazing?"
"You know that's not what I mean, but there's going to be one hell of a court battle over Robbie. They'll both want custody."
"She got caught sleeping around, Mark. It'll be open and shut."
"It's never open and shut in British courts. It'll be a dirty fight, thousand-pound-an-hour lawyers at thirty paces."
"That's not our problem."
There was a scuffling at the doorway and they both jumped. Laura's hot chocolate slopped over her knees.
It was Robbie, rubbing his eyes.
"I can't sleep," he said.
Laura put her mug on the coffee table, and went over and hugged him.
"What's wrong, Robbie?" she asked.
"I had a bad dream," he said.
She led him over to the sofa. Mark shuffled over to make room for them. He put a hand around Robbie's shoulder.
"You'll be okay, Robbie."
"Where's Dad?"
"He's coming," said Laura.
"I want my dad," said Robbie, and the tears started to flow again.
"I know you do," said Laura. She looked across at Mark and he shrugged. There was nothing either of them could say or do to make things any easier for Robbie. All they could do was to wait for Den Donovan.
Laura put her cheek against the top of Robbie's head and whispered softly to him. After a while the tears stopped and a few minutes later he was snoring softly. Laura smiled at her husband.
"I'll put him in Jenny's room. I don't want him sleeping on his own tonight."
"Good idea," said Mark.
"Shall I take him up?"
Laura shook her head.
"He's not heavy." She carried him upstairs. Seven-year-old Jenny was fast asleep on top of her bunk bed. Jenny had shared a room with her sister until Julie had declared that she was too old to be sharing and had insisted on a room of her own. At the time Julie had been all of four years old and Jenny had been three. Jenny had insisted on her own list of demands including keeping the bunk bed for herself, and a change of wallpaper.
Laura eased Robbie into the lower bunk and pulled the quilt up around him. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
"Sleep well, Robbie," she whispered.
As she straightened up, the phone rang. There was an extension in the master bedroom, but Laura headed downstairs, knowing that Mark would pick it up. As she walked into the sitting room, he had the receiver to his ear.
"Is it Den?" she mouthed.
Mark shook his head.
"You'd better speak to Laura," he said into the receiver, then held it out to her.
"It's Vicky, he said.
Laura took the phone.
"You've got a damn cheek, calling here," she said coldly.
"Is Robbie there, Laura? I've been trying his mobile but it's switched off."
"He's asleep."
"For Christ's sake, Laura, I just want to talk to him."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'm his mother, for God's sake!"
"He's had a bad day. He needs to sleep. He's in a state, Victoria. I don't think you talking to him is going to help. Where are you anyway?"
There was a brief pause.
"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."
"You're in London, right? I went around to the house but you weren't there."
"What were you doing at my house?" Vicky asked quickly.
"First of all it's Den's house. Second of all, it's none of your business. Whatever rights you had you forfeited when you screwed Sharkey in Den's bed."
"Will you stop saying that!" shouted Vicky.
"You make it sound so bloody sordid."
"Victoria, it was sordid. Sordid and stupid."
"You've spoken to Den, haven't you?"
"What if I have?"
"What did he say?"
"What do you think he said?" asked Laura.
"He's coming back, isn't he?"
"No, Victoria, he's going to stay out in Anguilla for a few months. Of course he's coming back. Like a bat out of hell."
"What am I going to do? This is a nightmare."
"Why did you empty the safe?" asked Laura.
"I didn't steal anything. The money was for me, for running the house."
"And Robbie's passport? Why did you take that?"
"What the hell's going on, Laura?" shouted Vicky.
"Why were you in my house?"
"Den wanted Robbie's passport. And the money. He knows you cleared the safe, and he told me to change the locks. He doesn't want you back in the house, Victoria."
"He's planning to take Robbie back with him to Anguilla, isn't he?"
"I'm going to hang up now," said Laura. Mark stood in front of her, trying to listen in, but Laura twisted away from him. She hated her sister-in-law for what she'd done, but she didn't want Mark to hear how upset she was.
"Please, Laura, let me speak to him. I just want him to know that I love him."
"No. Not tonight. Call again tomorrow."
"Laura .. ." sobbed Vicky.
Laura replaced the receiver. Her hand was shaking and her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't realised how tightly she'd been gripping the phone. Mark put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, love," he said.
She rubbed her head against his.
"If I ever catch you in bed with your accountant, I'll disembowel you with my bare hands," she whispered.
"And that's a promise."
Donovan chartered a small twin-engined plane to fly him and Doyle back to Anguilla. Donovan went into the charter firm's offices and made arrangements for another flight later that day. He booked a private jet and left a deposit in cash and then walked over to the terminal building where he made three calls from a payphone while Doyle went to pick up the car.
The first call was to a German who had access to passports and travel documents from around the world. Not forgeries or copies, but the genuine article. He wasn't cheap but the goods he supplied were faultless. The German gave Donovan a name and Donovan repeated it to himself several times to make sure he'd memorised it. The second call was to the agent who made most of Donovan's travel arrangements. He was far from the cheapest on Anguilla, but he was the most secure. Donovan explained what he wanted and gave him the name that he'd memorised. The third call was to Spain, but it wasn't answered. An answer machine kicked in and Donovan said just ten words in Spanish and hung up.
Doyle arrived in the Mercedes, and Donovan climbed in the back and sat in silence during the drive to his villa. It wasn't just that he had a lot on his mind. The DEA and British Customs, and whatever other agencies were operating in the millionaires' paradise, weren't above planting any manner of surveillance device in the vehicle while it had been parked at the airport. Until it had been swept, the Mercedes was as insecure as a mobile phone conversation.
Doyle stayed in the car while Donovan went into the villa and packed a Samsonite suitcase and a black leather holdall. He wasn't over-concerned with what went into the luggage: it was merely part of the camouflage. A man in his thirties flying alone into the UK from the Caribbean without any
luggage would be guaranteed a pull by Customs. From the wall safe in the study of the villa, Donovan took a bundle of US dollar bills and stuffed them into the holdall. On the way out he picked up a Panama hat and shoved it into the holdall.
He threw the bags into the back of the car, then got into the front with Doyle.
"I'd better see the Russians first," he said.
"Then we'll go and see the German."
Doyle drove to a five-star hotel about a mile from Donovan's villa. They found the Russians sitting by the pool. Gregov was the bigger of the two, broad shouldered and well muscled with a tattoo of a leaping panther on one forearm and the Virgin Mary on the other. His grey hair was close cropped, thick and dry, and his weathered face was flecked with broken blood vessels. He looked in his early fifties, but Donovan knew that he was only thirty-five.
Gregov stood up and pumped Donovan's hand.
"Champagne, huh?" he asked, gesturing at a bottle of Dom Perignon in a chrome ice bucket beaded with droplets of water. The two Russians had been on the island for five days and Donovan had never seen them without an opened bottle of champagne within arm's length.
"No can do," said Donovan.
"I've got to get back to the UK."
"Who are we going to party with?" said Gregov's partner, Peter, who stayed sprawled on his lounger. Peter was the younger of the two men, a six-footer with a wiry frame. Like Gregov, his hair was cut close to his skull, but his was a fiery red and there was a sprinkle of freckles across his snub nose. His face was red-from sunburn and his legs and arms tanned, but his chest remained a pasty white. Below his left nipple two bullet wounds were visible, star-shaped rips in his chest that had healed badly leaving uneven ridges of scar tissue.
"From what I've seen, you don't need me to help you two party," laughed Donovan.
"You really have to go?" asked Gregov.
"I'm afraid so."
"But we can do business, yes?" asked Peter, swinging his legs off the lounger and putting his bare feet on to the tiles.
"Definitely," said Donovan.
"Because we can go elsewhere," said Peter.
"Not that we want to," said Gregov, flashing his partner a warning look.
Tango One Page 10
