Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "Den, we want to do business with you."

  "And I with you, Gregov. I've got a personal matter to take care of back in London, but then I'll get back to you and we'll do a deal."

  "This personal matter. Can we help? We have connections in London."

  Donovan shook his head.

  "Nah, that's okay. I'm on top of it." He clapped Gregov on the back.

  "Look, your bill's taken care of. Anything you want, it's on me. I've got your UK office number and the number of your office in Belgrade. They'll be able to get in touch with you?"

  Gregov nodded.

  "We are backwards and forwards between the UK and Turkey three times a week but we check in every day. The earthquake relief charities are paying us thirty thousand dollars a flight to take in their people and equipment. Good money, huh? Famine and earthquakes are good money makers for us, Den. Not quite as profitable as your business, but a good living, yes."

  "You've done well, you and Peter. The Russian Army's loss, yeah?"

  Gregov nodded enthusiastically.

  "Yes, their loss, our gain. Fuck Communism, yes?"

  "Definitely," said Donovan. He made a clenched fist and pumped it in the air.

  "Capitalism rules."

  The two Russians laughed then took it in turns to hug Donovan and Doyle.

  After they'd said their goodbyes to the Russians, Doyle drove Donovan to the far east of the island, where the German lived in a villa three times the size of Donovan's. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wall topped with razor-sharp anti-personnel wire first developed for the Russian gulags. The two men were checked out by closed-circuit television cameras and then the twin metal gates clunked open. Doyle edged the Mercedes slowly up the curving gravel led driveway. They passed two more cameras before pulling up in front of the German's palatial villa. Doyle waited in the car while Donovan got out and went to find the German.

  Helmut Zimmerman greeted Donovan at the front door, grasping him in a brutal bear hug and then slapping him on the back.

  "Next time I could do with more notice, Dennis," he said. He was a big man, almost six inches taller than Donovan's six feet, with broad shoulders that strained at his beach shirt and muscular thighs that were almost as wide as Donovan's waist. Everything was in proportion except for Zimmerman's hands, which were as small and delicate as a young girl's, almost as if they'd stopped developing at puberty.

  "This isn't by choice, Helmut."

  "You have time for a drink?"

  "I haven't even had time to take a piss," laughed Donovan.

  "I've got to be back at the airport by six."

  Zimmerman took Donovan along a marble-floored hallway, either side of which stood alabaster statues of Greek warriors. Above their heads electric candles flickered in a line of ornate crystal chandeliers.

  At the far end of the hallway hung a massive gilded mirror, twice the height of a man. Donovan grinned at their reflection.

  "Helmut, you live like a Roman fucking emperor," he said.

  "You like it, huh? I'll send my interior designer around to see you. Your place is so ... stark. Is that the word? Stark?"

  "Yeah, stark's how I like it."

  To the left of the mirror was a white door with a gilt handle. Zimmerman opened it with a child-like hand and led them down another corridor to a windowless room with white walls, a huge Louis XIV desk and decorative chairs. A tapestry of a goat herder playing pipes to his flock hung on one of the walls, and a collection of antique urns was displayed on glass shelves on another. Behind the desk a bank of colour monitors was linked to CCTV cameras inside and outside the villa. On one of the monitors Donovan could see Doyle sitting in the Mercedes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  "He is not going with you?" asked Zimmerman, sitting down at the desk. It was at least ten feet wide but the German's bulk dwarfed it.

  "Not this trip," said Donovan.

  Zimmerman pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out three passports. All were European Union burgundy. He handed them to Donovan one at a time.

  "One United Kingdom, one Irish and one Spanish. As requested."

  Donovan checked all three carefully, even though he knew Zimmerman never made a mistake. Donovan's picture was in all three passports, though each had a different name and date of birth. The passports were genuine and would pass any border checks. Zimmerman had a network of aides across Europe who made a living approaching homeless people and paying for them to apply for passports they'd never use. The passports were then sent to Anguilla, where Zimmerman replaced the photographs with pictures of his paying customers.

  "Excellent, Helmut, as always." Donovan took an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. Thirty-six thousand dollars.

  Zimmerman put the envelope, unopened, into the drawer and shut it. Donovan smiled at the open demonstration of trust, well aware, however, that if he ever tried to cheat the German, it would take just one phone call to Europol to render the passports useless.

  "So," said Zimmerman, placing his hands flat on the desk and pushing himself up, 'until next time, Dennis."

  Donovan put the passports into his jacket pocket, and the two men shook hands before Zimmerman showed Donovan out of the villa.

  Doyle already had the door of the Mercedes open. They drove in silence to the airport. Doyle parked in the short-term car park and they walked together to the terminal.

  "I should come with you, boss."

  "Double the chance of us being flagged, Barry. Better you take care of business here."

  They walked into the terminal building, the air conditioning hitting them like a cold shower. A brown envelope was waiting for Donovan at the information desk. Inside was the return segment of a charter flight ticket from Jamaica to Stansted Airport in the name he'd given the travel agent, the name that was in the UK passport, and a Ryanair ticket from Stansted to Dublin, Ireland. It too was in the UK passport name.

  As they walked back to the general aviation terminal, Donovan ran through a mental checklist of everything that needed to be done. He didn't appear to have forgotten anything, but he knew that the devil was always in the details.

  "Okay, boss?" asked Doyle.

  "Sure," said Donovan.

  "You know how I hate small planes." It wasn't flying that was worrying Donovan, it was what Carlos Rodriguez would do when he discovered that his money hadn't been paid into his account. Doyle would bear the brunt of Rodriguez's fury, but if Donovan told Doyle to make himself scarce it would be a sure sign of guilt. Doyle would have to stay and face the music.

  The pilot and co-pilot were already warming up the engines by the time they reached the sleek white Cessna Citation. Doyle took Donovan's luggage from the boot of the Mercedes and the owner of the charter company came out to help load it into the plane. Donovan shook hands with Doyle, then hugged the man and patted him on the back.

  "You take care, you hear," said Donovan.

  "Sure, boss," said Doyle, momentarily confused by the sudden show of affection.

  Donovan shook hands with the owner of the charter company, and then climbed into the back of the plane. The co-pilot closed the door and two minutes later they were in the air, climbing steeply over the beach and banking to the west. Donovan peered out of the window. Far below he could see the Mercedes heading back to the villa. Donovan flashed the car a thumbs-up.

  "Be lucky, Barry," he whispered. He settled back in the plush leather seat. It was a two-hour flight to Jamaica.

  Marty Clare strained to lift the bar, breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow. A large Nigerian stood behind him, spotting for him, his hands only inches from the bar: this was Clare's third set, and he was lifting his personal best plus a kilo.

  "Come on, man, one more," the Nigerian urged.

  Clare roared like an animal in pain, his face contorted into a snarl, his arms shaking, his knuckles white on the bar, then with a final explosion of air from his chest the bar was up and on
its rests.

  The Nigerian patted Clare on the back as he sat up.

  "Good job."

  Clare grinned and took a swig from his water bottle.

  A young, blond guard walked over to them. He was barely out of his teens, his pale blue uniform several sizes too big for him.

  "Mr. Clare? Visitor for you."

  Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.

  "I was going to shower," he said.

  "I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare," said the guard.

  The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language. There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.

  Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.

  He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed. The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.

  "I could come back later if it's a bad time," said the man.

  Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the . face of an informer. A grass. The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.

  "Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future."

  "And you would be?" asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.

  "I would be the bearer of bad news," said the man.

  "A harbinger of doom." He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.

  "Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?" asked Clare.

  "Indeed it would, Marty," said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.

  Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.

  "Then what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.

  The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.

  "I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into."

  Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.

  "This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it."

  "Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty."

  Clare snorted.

  "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison? There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison."

  "Got it all planned, haven't you?"

  "A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life."

  Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.

  Clare stood up.

  "So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself "The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.

  "Like fuck."

  The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.

  "So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator."

  "Bullshit."

  "Why would I make up something like that, Marty?"

  Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.

  "Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?"

  "Sit down, Marty."

  Clare stood where he was.

  "Sit the fuck down."

  Clare sat down slowly.

  "One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey."

  "Says who?"

  "Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment. One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey."

  Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.

  The man smiled.

  "Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?"

  "You should know. You had someone undercover, right?"

  "Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news."

  Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.

  "The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States."

  "Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts "jump", we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees."

  "I'm Irish," said Clare.

  "Northern Irish," said the man quietly.

  "Not quite the same."

  "I'm an Irish resident."

  "Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States. That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?"

  "That's not in my name. It's a company asset."

  "Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then."

  "This isn't fucking fair!" shouted Clare.

  The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.

  Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.

  "I want a drink," he said.

  "Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness," said the man.

  "A drink of water," said Clare.

  The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.

  "Why would you want the Americans to have me?" asked Clare.

  "Who said I did?" asked the man.

  "You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal p
rison."

  "Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty."

  "Nah, you've got an agenda," said Clare.

  "You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind."

  "If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?"

  Clare's face tightened.

  "So you have got someone on the inside?"

  "Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood."

  There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.

  "You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?"

  Clare groaned.

  "You are so transparent," he said.

  "You want me to grass, right?"

  "Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel."

  "I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass." Clare sipped his water.

  "And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do."

  "I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step."

  "That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?"

  Clare frowned.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Lawyers. Money. Sort of go together like .. . well, like drug dealers and prison."