Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "So, Mr. Clare, how are you feeling?" asked the prison governor. He was a small, portly man in his late thirties with a kindly face and gold-framed glasses.

  "How do you think I'm feeling?" said Clare.

  "He nearly killed me."

  "Superficial, I'm told," said the governor.

  "If someone stabbed you in the stomach, I doubt you'd think it superficial," said Clare bitterly. He was lying in the prison hospital ward. Only three of the eight beds were occupied. The other two patients were prisoners recovering from drug overdoses and were both on the far side of the ward, connected to saline drips. A guard had been standing by the door ever since Clare had been admitted.

  "Neither of your wounds were life-threatening, Mr. Clare," said the governor patiently, 'but that's not to say we're not taking the matter seriously. You say you can't identify your assailant?"

  "He was black. In his twenties, maybe. I hardly saw him."

  "Many of our inmates are black, Mr. Clare. You can appreciate how difficult it is to identify the man from your description."

  "I want out of here," said Clare.

  "Now."

  "The medical facilities here are more than sufficient for your needs, Mr. Clare," said the governor. He looked at a white-coated doctor who nodded on cue.

  "I don't give a shit about my medical treatment," said Clare.

  "We all know what this was about. It was Den Donovan. He either wanted to warn me, or he wanted me dead. Either way, I'm out of here. Get me my lawyer, and get me Hathaway. If he wants me to grass on Donovan, he can bloody well make sure I'm taken care of

  Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens and across Lancaster Gate to Hyde Park. It was a sunny morning but there was a cold breeze blowing across the park so he zipped up his bomber jacket and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had his baseball cap and sunglasses on.

  Two young women in tight tops, jodhpurs and boots were riding gleaming chestnut horses along the bridle path. Donovan wasn't the only male head to turn and watch them go by. They moved in unison, gripping their mounts with their muscular thighs.

  As Donovan watched them ride off, he scanned the park, looking for familiar figures. He'd been checking reflections in windows and car mirrors all the way down Sussex Gardens and had knelt down to tie his shoelaces before entering the park, and he was reasonably sure that he hadn't been followed. He wasn't looking at faces, or even heads, because faces were notoriously hard to recognise, and profiles of heads could easily be changed with wigs or hats or scarves. Donovan checked out bodies. Their shape, their posture, the way they moved. People who were watching or following weren't behaving normally, and no matter how good they were, there'd be signs that could be spotted a stiffness, a momentary hesitation when they were looked at, an awkwardness about disguising the hands going towards a concealed microphone, a hundred and one things that could give them away. Donovan saw nothing to worry him.

  Half an hour later, Donovan was on the towpath opposite the Paddington Stop. He leaned against the railings and waited. There was a terrace between the pub and the canal with half a dozen wooden tables and benches, most of which were occupied by midday drinkers from the nearby council estates.

  Donovan saw Jordan and Macfadyen arrive in a bright red Ferrari with the top down. They drove into the car park behind the pub and a couple of minutes later walked out on to the terrace. Donovan stayed where he was and watched with an amused smile as the two men checked out the occupants of all the tables. Jordan shook his head and Macfadyen looked at his watch. Eventually Macfadyen spotted Donovan and said something to Jordan. Both men looked at him across the canal. Donovan pointed to the footbridge and motioned for them to come over.

  He walked back along the towpath as Macfadyen and Jordan walked over the bridge.

  "What's up, Den?" teased Jordan in his nasal Liverpudlian whine.

  "Thought we'd be here mob-handed?" Jordan was average build with a beaked nose and a cleft chin and ears that stuck out like cup handles. He was dressed as usual in black Armani and had a chunky gold ring on his right hand that glinted in the sun. Macfadyen was more casually dressed, sporting a black Valentino leather jacket over a pale green polo-necked pullover, and he had a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was balding and had shaved what hair he had left close to his skull, showing off a curved scar above his left ear that looked like a Nike swoosh. Both men, like Donovan, were wearing sunglasses. Jordan's were Armani.

  Den smiled and shrugged. The bridge was an excellent way of making sure he knew exactly who he'd be meeting. If they'd turned up with reinforcements, he'd have been able to beat a hasty retreat back under the A4O and disappear into the Bayswater shopping crowds.

  "Just being careful." He hugged Jordan and patted him on the back. He felt Jordan's hands run down his back, the fingers probing under Donovan's jacket.

  "For fuck's sake, Ricky," he protested.

  "What are you looking for?"

  Macfadyen was watching, an amused look on his face.

  "Yeah, well, you've gotta expect us to be careful, too," he said. He nodded at the bridge.

  "No need for that. You think we'd have come near you if we'd had a sniff that Five-O were on our tail?"

  Donovan pushed Jordan away, then took off his jacket and undid his shirt. He pulled his shirt open and showed it to Macfadyen.

  "Satisfied?" he sneered.

  Macfadyen put his hands up and patted the air.

  "Calm down, Den." He grinned.

  "I mean, keep your shirt on, yeah? You've got to admit, this isn't the gospel according to Den, is it?"

  "You think I'm setting you up?" asked Donovan, buttoning up his shirt.

  "You haven't said what you're doing, have you?" said Jordan.

  Donovan turned and started walking across the grassy area towards a children's playground. A few swings, a climbing frame, a rusting roundabout. Every flat surface had been covered in graffiti. Nothing clever or ironic, just names. Tags proclaiming territory like dogs pissing against trees. I wrote this, therefore I exist. Empty cries in an uncaring world.

  Jordan and Macfadyen followed Donovan.

  "Who is he?" asked Macfadyen in his thick Scottish brogue.

  "Carlos Rodriguez. He's Colombian. He's big, Charlie. No way's he going to rip you off." He stopped to let the two men catch up, then they walked together to the playground.

  "He's the supplier?"

  Donovan nodded.

  "And you're giving him to us?"

  "I think Carlos sees it as the other way around," said Donovan bitterly.

  "He's cutting you out?" said Jordan.

  "Are you two just gonna keep staring this gift horse down the throat?" said Donovan.

  "If I was you I'd be biting my hand off."

  "We don't know him, Den," said Jordan.

  "We do know you."

  "Which is why they want to meet you."

  "He's here?" asked Macfadyen.

  "His nephew. Jesus."

  "We meet him, then what?" asked Jordan.

  Donovan frowned.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Future deals. Do we still do business with you?"

  Donovan grimaced. It wasn't a question he was able to answer, but he doubted that Rodriguez would ever trust him again.

  Macfadyen caught Donovan's look.

  "What's happening, Den?"

  "Just leave it be, Charlie."

  "Is this to do with Marty Clare being banged up in Holland?" Macfadyen asked.

  "No."

  "We heard he's talking."

  Donovan pulled a face.

  "He can't hurt me."

  Jordan fiddled with his gold ring.

  "This Colombian, he's got our money, right?"

  "Sort of "Sort of?" repeated Macfadyen incredulously.

  "How can he sort of have eighteen million dollars?"

  "He's happy to proceed with the deal. When the consignment arrives you pay him the balance."

  "You sure about tha
t?" asked Jordan.

  "Give me a break, Ricky."

  "You can see why we're nervous, Den," said Macfadyen.

  "What happens if we turn up and this Colombian says he never saw our money? They're mad bastards, Colombians. Shoot first and fuck the questions, right?"

  "Carlos isn't like that," said Donovan. He thought that Jesus might well be the sort to shoot before thinking, but he figured it better not to let them know that.

  "Even so .. ." said Macfadyen.

  "What do you want, Charlie? Spit it out." Donovan already knew what Macfadyen was going to suggest. It's what he would have insisted on had the roles been reversed.

  "You come with us to the meet," said Macfadyen.

  "That's not a good idea and you know it. You, me and the Colombian together in one place. Too many fucking cooks, Charlie."

  Macfadyen looked at Jordan and something unspoken passed between them. Jordan nodded.

  "You're there or we walk away here and now," said Macfadyen quietly.

  "That'd be your call, Charlie."

  "We'd be wanting our money back."

  "And I'd be wanting to shag Britney Spears but it ain't gonna happen," said Donovan.

  "Then it'd all get very heavy," said Macfadyen.

  "Britney Spears?" said Jordan.

  "You'd shag Britney Spears?"

  "I was speaking hypothetically," said Donovan.

  "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll introduce you. But once you've shaken hands, I'm outta there. Okay?"

  Macfadyen and Jordan exchanged another meaningful look. This time it was Macfadyen who nodded.

  "Okay," said Macfadyen.

  "When?"

  "Let me make a call." Donovan took out one of his mobile phones.

  Two Dutch plainclothes detectives escorted Marty Clare to the waiting Saab. Clare had insisted through his lawyer that he be taken from the detention centre in a regular car rather than a prison van, and he didn't want any uniforms anywhere near him. Clare's lawyer had spoken to Hathaway at length and had eventually persuaded him to allow Clare to be interrogated at a hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam.

  As the taller of the two detectives opened the rear door of the Saab, his jacket fell open and Clare caught a glimpse of a holstered automatic. That had been another stipulation of Clare's he wanted round-the-clock armed protection. The attack in the gym might well have been a warning, but once Donovan found out that Clare was still talking there'd be hell to pay.

  The taller detective climbed into the back seat after Clare while the other got into the front and told the driver to head on out.

  The car was checked over by two uniformed guards while a third guard examined the ID cards of the two detectives and the paperwork permitting Clare's removal from the centre. There was a photograph of Clare clipped to a letter from the governor's office and the guard carefully checked the likeness against Clare's face. Clare grinned but the guard remained impassive.

  The metal gate rattled to the side and the Saab edged forward. A second gate leading to the street didn't start opening until the first gate had closed behind the car.

  "This place had better have room service," said Clare.

  "And cable. My lawyer was supposed to have insisted on cable."

  The two detectives said nothing. Clare turned to the policeman next to him and asked if he had a cigarette. The man shook his head. The car edged into the traffic, then accelerated away.

  "What is this, the silent treatment?" joked Clare, but the detective just stared out of the window, stony faced.

  "Fuck you, then," said Clare and settled back in the seat, his handcuffed wrists in his lap. The cut on Clare's arm barely bothered him, it had only required three stitches, but the wound in his stomach hurt like hell, especially when he was in a sitting position, so he tried to stretch out his legs to make himself more comfortable. The doctor had given Clare a vial of painkillers but told him to use them sparingly. When the detectives had heard that, they'd taken the tablets off Clare. Clare had laughed in their faces. Suicidal he wasn't.

  The driver braked as they approached a set of traffic lights.

  The lights were green but a white van ahead of them had slowed. The driver muttered under his breath and was about to sound his horn when the lights changed to red. The van pulled up and the Saab stopped behind it.

  The detectives spoke to each other in Dutch. The one in the front laughed and Clare had the feeling they were laughing about him. He scowled. He never heard the crack as the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass cubes, and he died instantly as the bullet ripped through the back of his head and spattered brains and blood over the Saab's windscreen.

  The driver and the detectives started shouting. Clare's body twitched as a second bullet smacked into the back of his head but he was already dead. The lights changed from red to green and the white van pulled away. Horns began to sound behind the Saab, but they stopped when the detectives piled out of the car, guns raised above their heads.

  Juan Rojas unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his rifle and put it into his briefcase, then swiftly disassembled the weapon and put the pieces away. He closed the briefcase and then examined himself in the mirror above the dressing table. Dark blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, crimson tie. He winked at his reflection. He left the briefcase on the dressing table. It would be collected later by the man who had booked the hotel room.

  Rojas had shot Clare from the roof of the hotel. The men in the white van had been working for him, as had the man who had stabbed Clare in the gym. It was an easy shot, just over a hundred metres, but the intersection was overlooked by so many tower blocks that the police would never find out where the bullets had come from. Rojas had wrapped the rifle in a towel and then hurried back through the emergency exit door and into the hotel room.

  His mohair coat was hanging on the back of the door and he put it on, then gave his hotel room a once over to make sure that he hadn't left anything behind other than the briefcase. He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the elevator to take him down to the ground floor. Five minutes later he was in a taxi, heading for the airport.

  Den Donovan walked along the edge of the Serpentine. Two small children were throwing pieces of bread for a noisy flock of ducks. A large white swan watched disdainfully from a distance. A helicopter clattered high overhead. Donovan kept his head down, more from habit than from any realistic fear that the helicopter was on a surveillance operation.

  Macfadyen and Jordan were several hundred yards away, walking together, deep in conversation, though they kept looking across at him. Donovan had insisted on walking to the park, but Macfadyen and Jordan had wanted to drive. They'd parked the Ferrari in the underground car park in Park Lane and were keeping their distance until they'd seen Donovan with the Colombian.

  Jesus Rodriguez was standing on the bank of the Serpentine wearing a cream-coloured suit with a white silk shirt buttoned at the neck with no tie.

  Donovan hated having to meet Rodriguez out in the open, because it made it harder to spot any surveillance, but Macfadyen and Jordan hadn't wanted a meeting indoors. They hung back as Donovan walked up to Rodriguez.

  "Is that them?" asked the Colombian, nodding at Macfadyen and Jordan.

  "Yeah. They're jittery. So am I."

  "We're just having a walk in the park, my friend."

  "A Colombian drugs lord, two of the main suppliers of Class A drugs in Scotland, and Tango One. The fact that we're in one place is just about grounds for a conspiracy charge."

  "You worry too much," said the Colombian. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and slipped a cigarette between his lips. He held his gold lighter up and grinned mischievously at Donovan.

  "You changed your clothes, I hope?" Donovan flashed Rodriguez a cold smile and Rodriguez lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the cigarette and then sighed as he exhaled. He started walking alongside the Serpentine and Donovan went with him. He took the Sparbuchs from his inside p
ocket and handed them to the Colombian.

  Rodriguez flicked through them.

  "As good as cash, you say?"

  "Better than cash," said Donovan.

  "They're useless without the passwords. And you can fly around the world with them in your pocket and no one's the wiser."

  Rodriguez nodded appreciatively and put the passbooks into his jacket pocket. Donovan handed him a slip of paper with two words written on it. Rodriguez put it in his wallet.

  "If it was me, I'd have killed you. You know that?"

  "I'd guessed," said Donovan. He looked around casually. The two men who had been with Rodriguez were some distance away, standing in the shade of a spreading sycamore tree.

  "Having said that, my uncle told me to tell you that if you do get your finances sorted out, he would be prepared to resume our business relationship."

  Donovan smiled ruefully.

  "I'll bear that in mind, Jesus. Tell him thanks."

  "And you will have the money from the paintings before I leave London?"

  "I hope so," said Donovan.

  Rodriguez chuckled dryly.

  "Just remember that we have another can of petrol," he said.

  "Now, these two men in black, they know the score?"

  Donovan nodded.

  "They'll pay you on delivery. Eighteen mill. They have it offshore, so they can transfer to any account you nominate."

  "How much do they know about me?"

  "Your name. And that you're the supplier. They're worried it might be a set-up. That's why they want me here."

  Rodriguez grinned.

  "So you can protect them?"

  "So that if the shit hits the fan, I'll get hit, too."

  "Do you think they're satisfied yet?"

  "I'll ask them." Donovan beckoned at Macfadyen and Jordan. The two men looked at each other, then walked cautiously over the grass towards him. Donovan turned to the Colombian.

  "You can trust them, Jesus."

  "My uncle thought he could trust you, capullo."

  "This isn't about trust. I was ripped off."

  "The hows and whys don't concern me, all that matters is the money. That's what this business is all about: the movement and acquisition of capital. That's why you must never make it personal. When you make it personal is when you make mistakes." He patted Donovan on the back again, hard enough to rattle his teeth.