"How's it going, capullo? he asked, turning away from Robbie.
"The parcel has been dispatched," said Rojas.
"I'm already working on the second matter."
"De puta madre," said Donovan.
"You'll send my fee?"
"Absolutely," said Donovan, though he wished he felt half as confident as he sounded. The line went dead. The Spaniard, like Donovan, always kept calls on mobile phones as short as possible. Even the digitals weren't secure. Virtually no form of communication was these days. Phones, e-mail, letters, all could be intercepted and recorded. Donovan put the phone away and smiled down at Robbie.
"Burger King, yeah?"
Robbie grinned and nodded.
"Great." They walked together out of the shopping centre.
"Dad, you know I know what capullo means, don't you?" asked Robbie.
"I do now," said Donovan.
Robbie's grin widened.
"You should wash your mouth out with soap."
"I'll do that, soon as we get home. But burgers first, yeah?"
Stewart Sharkey carried the two glasses of champagne out on to the terrace and handed one to Vicky. She took it but didn't look at Sharkey. She stared out across the azure Mediterranean with unseeing eyes.
"Cheers," said Sharkey, and touched his glass against hers.
She looked at him slowly, then at the glass in her hand. She frowned, as if seeing it for the first time.
"What have we got to celebrate?" she asked.
"Champagne's not just for celebrating," said Sharkey. He dropped down on to the lounger next to her.
Vicky stared out over the sea again. The bay was dotted with massive white yachts, each worth millions of dollars, and around them moved smaller boats, like worker ants in attendance to the queen.
"We could get a boat," said Sharkey.
"Sail away."
"Den always talked about getting one," said Vicky, her voice flat and emotionless.
"We can do it, Vicky. Tomorrow."
"Where would we go?" she said.
"He'll find us eventually."
"Not here. He's never been to the South of France. Hates the French, you know that. He's no friends here. No contacts."
Vicky turned to look at him.
"So that's the great plan? We stay in Nice for the rest of our lives."
"For God's sake, Vicky, snap out of this, will you!"
She sneered at him and looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly.
"I didn't mean to snap." Vicky didn't react. Sharkey put down his glass and knelt down by the side of her lounger. He stroked her shoulder.
"This is temporary, Vicky. Just until we get things sorted."
Vicky shook her head.
"This isn't getting things sorted. This is hiding."
A red and white helicopter buzzed towards one of the biggest yachts in the bay. Sharkey continued to stroke her shoulder. Her skin was smooth and warm from the sun. He moved his hand up to her neck and ran his fingers through her soft, blonde hair.
"I miss Robbie," she said quietly.
"I know you do."
"I don't think you do," she said.
"You don't have children. You don't know what it's like to have them taken away from you. And that's what Den's going to do. You know that. He'll take Robbie to the Caribbean and I'll never see him again."
"You took his passport, Den can't take him anywhere."
Vicky scowled.
"That's not going to stop him. Den's got half a dozen passports. He can just as easily get one for Robbie."
Sharkey tried to kiss her cheek but she pushed him away.
"Stewart, I don't want to be touched right now. Okay?"
Sharkey put his hands up in surrender.
"Okay. I'm sorry." He sat down on the edge of her lounger.
"Look, there are things we can do. Things I can do. I'll talk to a lawyer. Get some sort of injunction stopping Den taking Robbie out of the country."
"You said we couldn't talk to anyone back in the UK?"
"I'll get it done. I'll find a way. And things are going to get hot for Den he won't be able to hang around London for long."
Vicky shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand.
"What do you mean?"
"Den's got problems, you know that. Customs and the cops will be waiting for him to put a foot wrong. He can't operate in London. He'll have to go back to the Caribbean. And if I talk to a lawyer, he won't be able to take Robbie with him. Once he's gone, we can go back to the UK."
"Den won't run away with his tail between his legs."
"No, but he won't risk twenty years in prison. He's got stuff on the go, and he's going to have to take care of business. He can't do that in London." Sharkey looked earnestly at Vicky, his eyes burning into hers.
"I know what I'm doing, Vicky. I know this is a mess but you're going to have to trust me. Den's as mad as hell just now, but he'll calm down. He'll negotiate. He'll have to."
"Because he wants his money back?"
"Exactly."
"How much did you take, Stewart?"
Sharkey looked away.
"Enough to hurt him. Enough for him to know that he can't push us around."
"How much?"
Sharkey shrugged.
"A few million. It's not important."
"How much is a few?"
"Oh, come on, Vicky. This was never about money. You know that." He took her hand and toyed with her wedding ring.
"I love you. You know I love you. The money's just a way of keeping Den in check. As soon as he's calmed down, we'll give it back. I promise. I've got more than enough to take care of you."
"You promise?"
"What? That I've got enough money?"
"That you'll pay Den back? Once we've sorted out Robbie and everything."
Sharkey nodded.
"I promise."
"I mean it, Stewart. It's one thing to walk out on him. It's another to steal from him."
"You're not stealing. You're entitled. You had signing rights to all those accounts."
Vicky shook her head.
"That was just to keep the money safe. He never gave me the money, it was just in my name."
Sharkey put his hands on her knees.
"Love, we're not stealing from Den. A bit of leverage, that's all I wanted." Vicky bit down on her lower lip. She looked as if she was about to cry again. Sharkey pinched her chin gently.
"Come on, we've got champagne, we've got the sun, we've got a million-dollar view. Let's at least try to enjoy it."
Vicky nodded and forced a smile. Sharkey stood up and kissed the top of her head. She reached up for him and her lips moved to find his. He kissed her and slipped his hand down her bikini top, cupping her breast and feeling her nipple stiffen. She moaned and lay back and Sharkey rolled over on top of her, pushing her bikini bottoms down. She opened her legs wide for him and he entered her quickly, covering her mouth with his to stifle her moans.
She scratched her nails down his shirt and clasped her ankles behind his waist as he pounded into her. Vicky's eyes were closed, but Sharkey stared down at her as he thrust back and forth, his face a tight mask even when he came inside her. His mind wasn't on what he was doing. He was thinking about what he was going to do next. Considering his options. It was starting to look as if he was going to have to choose between Den Donovan's millions and Den Donovan's wife. He'd always planned to have both, and the way things stood at the moment, he wasn't sure which he wanted most.
Vicky opened her eyes and Sharkey smiled down at her.
"I love you," he said, and sounded as if he meant it.
"I love you too," she said, and closed her eyes again.
The taxi pulled up in front of Laura's house. Robbie gave his father a black look and made no move to get out.
"Look, we can't stay in our house," said Donovan.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I told you why not."
/>
"It's our home, Dad."
The driver twisted around in his seat and slid back the glass partition.
"Are you getting out here or not?" he asked in a voice that suggested he couldn't care less either way.
"Give us a minute, yeah?" said Donovan.
"I've got a living to earn, you know."
Donovan's eyes hardened. He stared at the driver.
"The meter's running, so you just turn around and mind your own business, okay?"
The driver hesitated. He tried to meet Donovan's stare but after a few seconds he averted his eyes, mumbled something and then closed the glass partition. Donovan continued to stare at the back of the man's head.
"Dad!" hissed Robbie.
"Stop it."
Donovan turned to look at him.
"What?"
"Don't do that. He's only doing his job."
"He's a prick."
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Lose your temper. It's like you want to start a fight." Robbie nodded at the house.
"I don't want to stay here."
"Aunty Laura takes good care of you, doesn't she?"
"That's not the point."
"What is the point, Robbie?"
Robbie brushed tears from his eyes. He turned his face away so that Donovan couldn't see him cry. Donovan put his arm around his son. Robbie tried to shake him away but Donovan hugged him tightly.
"Just a few days, okay?"
Robbie sniffed.
"Then we can go home?"
"Maybe."
Robbie turned and looked at Donovan accusingly.
"What do you mean, maybe?"
"Are you sure you want to stay in the house?" asked Donovan.
"Wouldn't you prefer to go to Anguilla?"
"No!" said Robbie quickly.
"No way!"
Donovan was surprised by the vehemence in his son's voice.
"I thought you liked the Caribbean?" he said.
"For holidays, yeah. I don't want to live there."
"Come on, Robbie. It's got the sun, the beach. You can go swimming every day. You love it there."
"My friends are here. My school's here."
"Robbie "No!" Robbie shouted.
"I'm staying here! You're not taking me with you!" He fumbled for the door handle and rushed out of the taxi.
Donovan watched him run up to the front door of Laura's house. He started to go after Robbie, but then hesitated and pulled the taxi door shut. He told the driver to go to Sussex Gardens and settled back in the seat.
He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the palms of his hands. Assuming he could sell his paintings and sell them quickly, he'd be able to pay off Carlos Rodriguez, but with the Colombian dealing direct with Macfadyen and Jordan, Donovan had no imminent source of income. And until he tracked down Sharkey and Vicky, he had virtually no assets, either.
Losing the cocaine deal was a major blow, but Donovan had been planning to end his relationship with Macfadyen and Jordan for some time. The money had started to go to their heads in recent months, and the fact that they'd turned up to a meet in a brand new Ferrari and wearing designer gear suggested that they were losing their grip.
The only good news was that Juan Rojas had taken care of Marty Clare. With Clare out of the equation, the authorities had no evidence against him.
Donovan had known Clare for almost fifteen years, and for the past ten he'd considered him a close friend. They'd been drunk together, they'd partied together, and they'd done business together. Clare had concentrated on cannabis and had refused whenever Donovan had offered to cut him in on cocaine or heroin deals. He'd always protested that the risk reward ratio made hard drugs a dangerous proposition, even though the profits were that much higher. Donovan had always insisted that the risk reward ratio only mattered if you got caught, and Donovan had never come close to being caught.
The fact that Clare had agreed to co-operate with the DEA came as no surprise to Donovan. The DEA were masters at the art of turning players around. They'd spend years gathering evidence and putting together a watertight case, then they'd move in. More often than not, however, they would offer a deal, smaller fishes giving up bigger fishes until they got to the men at the top, the men like Donovan, who were untouchable by conventional means. When it came to facing a twenty-year sentence in a Federal prison, honour among thieves went out of the window pretty damn quickly. Donovan liked to think that he was made of sterner stuff, but he'd never know for certain how he'd react until it happened to him.
Donovan had had no hesitation in ordering Marty Clare's death. He knew that if their positions were reversed, Clare would have done the same. That was how the game was played. You stood by your friends until they betrayed you, then you made sure that retribution was decisive and swift. Clare knew the rules, and he would have known that the minute he started to talk his life would be on the line. He'd have taken that into consideration, factored it into the equation, risk and reward. The reward a life in a witness protection programme, but at least there'd be no bars on the windows and no tattooed men wanting to play pick-up-the-soap in the showers. The risk -retribution from Den Donovan. Donovan smiled to himself. He wondered if Sharkey had run the risk reward calculation for his own situation. He must have done, he must have known how he'd react. Perhaps he'd assumed that his Tango One status would keep him confined to the Caribbean; perhaps he'd assumed that Carlos Rodriguez would do his dirty work for him. Whatever, he'd got the calculation wrong. Retribution would be decisive and swift. And highly personal.
Donovan arrived at the house just after nine thirty the next morning. He let himself in through the back door and tapped in the burglar alarm code. He went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. The milk in the fridge was well past its sell-by date, so he poured it down the sink and sipped his coffee black.
He walked through to his study and stood looking at the painting that concealed the safe. The yachts were turning into the wind, the sky smeared redly behind them. On the left was the skyline of nineteenth-century New York. Donovan never tired of looking at the picture.
He sat down at his desk and took out one of the mobiles that he hadn't used. He dialled the UK number that Gregov had given him. It was answered by a woman with a Russian accent who said that Gregov was helping to load one of the planes, but that if Donovan didn't mind waiting she'd go and get him.
Donovan swung his feet up on to the desk and whistled softly to himself until Gregov came on the line.
"Den, good to hear from you."
"Hiya, Gregov. Wasn't sure if I'd catch you."
"We're flying out tomorrow. Loading up the last of the supplies now. Forty thousand kilos of food and medicine. I love earthquakes, Den. My bread and butter."
"When are you flying back?" asked Donovan.
"Next week. Are we in business, then?"
"Maybe. I'll try to get the finances sorted then I'll get back to you. Eight thousand kilos, right? At three thousand a key?"
"That's right. Twenty-four total, call it twenty-five with expenses."
Donovan raised his eyebrows. Twenty-five million US dollars. He wondered how enthusiastic Gregov would be if he knew the true state of Donovan's finances, but the deal Gregov was offering was so sweet that it could be the answer to all his prayers.
"That seems cheap, Gregov."
"Sure, they're friends of mine. Army buddies. I got them out of a few scrapes in Afghanistan, they sort of owe me. But that's the regular price. Their processing plant is in the middle of nowhere once it gets anywhere near a big city the price doubles. Out of Turkey it goes up tenfold. It's cheap because I get it at the source. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
"No, of course not," said Donovan, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.
"Good man," said Gregov.
"You have the bank account number?"
Donovan said he had.
"When you're ready to move, call Maya at the
number you have. She'll get through to me, even if I'm in the air. This is going to be great, Den. Capitalism rules, yeah?"
"Sure," said Donovan.
The doorbell rang as Donovan cut the connection, and he went through to the hall and opened the front door. Maury Goldman stood there with a tall, blond-haired man in his late twenties, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and grey shirt. The man looked fit, as if he worked out, and he flexed his shoulders under his jacket as Donovan looked him up and down.
"Den, this is Jamie Fullerton," said Goldman.
Fullerton stuck out his hand and Donovan shook it. It was a firm, strong grip, and Fullerton held Donovan's look as he squeezed. It wasn't quite a trial of strength, but Donovan felt that Fullerton had something to prove. Donovan continued to apply pressure on the handshake, and Fullerton matched it, then Fullerton nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Good to meet you, Mr. Donovan."
"Mr. Donovan was my dear old dad and he's well dead. I'm Den," said Donovan, waving them into the house. He patted Goldman on the back and closed the door.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee would be good," said Fullerton.
Goldman nodded. Donovan took them into the kitchen and made three mugs of coffee, apologising for the lack of milk. Goldman and Fullerton sat down at the pine kitchen table.
"Maury told you what I need?" asked Donovan.
"You want to sell your collection ASAP," said Fullerton.
"Shouldn't be a problem."
"I showed Jamie your inventory," said Goldman.
"He's spoken to several potential buyers already."
"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Donovan," said Fullerton.
"Den," he said, correcting himself with an embarrassed smile.
"I thought that with the time pressure, you'd want me to hit the ground running."
"No sweat," said Donovan.
"Have you had any feedback?"
"Some of them I can sell for you today, but the others I'm going to have to show. Can I bring people around here to see them?"
"I'd rather not," said Donovan.
"With respect to your clients, I don't want strangers traipsing around my house. Plus, I'd rather not have people know where they've come from."
Fullerton smiled easily.
"I understand that, but the alternative is to let me walk out of here with two million quid's worth of fine art. If you're okay with that .. ."
Tango One Page 20
