Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  Maybe he'd take Robbie to a soccer match. Might be fun. In fact, taking care of Robbie wouldn't be too difficult, he decided. All he had to do was to take him to and from school, feed him and clothe him. How tough could that be? Besides, it'd be good to spend some time with him. Quality time. Father and son time.

  The cops and Customs would have him under the microscope, but so long as he didn't break the law there was nothing they could do. He took another sip of his Jack Daniels, then remembered the Spaniard and cursed. Rojas would want paying for the Marty Clare job, and soon. Plus there was the work he was doing tracking down Vicky.

  Donovan stood up, muted the television, and went through to his study. He took a notepad and pen from his desk drawer and started jotting down how much money he had. There was the cash he'd brought with him from Anguilla. The money he'd collected from the safe deposit box in Dublin. And the cash left over from the sale of the paintings. In all, about four hundred grand. Donovan nodded. Enough to pay Rojas and to keep himself going for a few months. Paying his legal fees might be a problem, but Lawrence Patterson would probably give him some breathing space. He put down his pen. So long as nothing untoward happened, everything was going to work out just fine. And as soon as Rojas tracked down Vicky and Sharkey, he'd get his sixty million dollars back. Donovan smiled. He was looking forward to seeing Sharkey again.

  Tina Leigh sat down in front of the computer and sipped her cappuccino. Her hands were trembling and coffee spilled over the lip of her cup, so she moved it away from the keyboard. She was at an internet cafe in Selfridges in Oxford Street. There were places closer to her flat that she could have used, but she liked to vary her schedule and she hadn't been to Selfridges in a long time. She'd walked from her flat: it was almost a mile but she'd wanted the time to get her thoughts in order.

  She'd met him. She'd met Den Donovan. Tango One. After three years of waiting, three years of working in seedy lap dancing bars, of being pawed and ogled and propositioned, she'd finally met him. And he liked her, she could tell that. Maybe Gregg Hathaway had been right, maybe she was Donovan's type. Her heart began to race and she fumbled for a cigarette. She lit one and inhaled deeply, then took a sip of her coffee. She smiled to herself. Nicotine and caffeine. Hardly conducive to slowing down her heart rate but just at that moment she needed both.

  She wondered how Hathaway would react when he got her e-mail. She'd given him a wealth of intelligence over the years, and at least a dozen criminals were behind bars as a direct result of information she'd picked up in the clubs. She had long ago stopped being surprised at how willing hardened criminals, who could withstand hours of police interrogation without revealing anything other than their name, address and date of birth, would open up like shucked oysters as soon as they'd had a couple of bottles of champagne and a look at her tits.

  So far Hathaway had done a good job of protecting her as a source. Any police action came long after she'd filed her reports, and cases were always backed up with official surveillance reports and forensics. She had never been so much as mentioned in a police report. The invisible woman. But Den Donovan was different. Den Donovan was Tango One. Tina wondered if Hathaway would still protect her as a source if it meant putting Donovan away. And if he did blow her cover, would that be the end of her career as an undercover agent? Or worse? Would it be the end of her police career period?

  All those years ago, when she'd sat in the high-rise office with Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham, it had been made clear to her that she could never be a regular police officer. Her past precluded that. The one question she'd never asked was what would become of her when she was no longer useful undercover. A pension? Would they find her another job where her employer wouldn't be quite so concerned about the time she spent on the streets, trawling for punters and giving blow jobs in cars? Or would she be discarded once they had no more use for her?

  Tina put her cigarette down on to an ashtray and sat with her fingers poised over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was going to write. She'd had plenty of time to get her thoughts in order during the walk to the department store. What she didn't know was how Hathaway would react. Or what he'd ask her to do next. She'd met Den Donovan. She'd spoken to him. Spent time with him. She knew that that wasn't enough, however: Hathaway would want more. He'd want her to get up close and personal. The question was how close and how personal? She began to type.

  Donovan woke up at eight with a raging thirst and a hangover. He drank from the bathroom tap, then shaved and showered. He padded downstairs in his to welling robe and went into the kitchen. He desperately wanted a glass of milk or orange juice but the fridge was empty. There was a corner shop a couple of hundred yards down the road but Donovan couldn't face the walk. He made himself a black coffee and carried it through to the sitting room.

  He unplugged the four mobiles that had been on charge overnight and connected another four. He sat down on the sofa, sipped his coffee, then called up Robbie's mobile, using the same phone he'd used last time he'd called his son. Robbie answered almost immediately.

  "Dad!"

  "Hiya, kid. You okay?"

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at home," said Donovan.

  "Which home?"

  "Our home. What are you doing?"

  "Nothing much."

  "Change of plan. As of today, it's school. Okay?"

  "Dad .. ." moaned Robbie.

  "Don't "Dad" me. School. Has your mum called?"

  "No. I don't want to speak to her anyway."

  "Okay. If she does call, give her this number. Tell her to call me. If she asks to see you, say no, okay?"

  "I don't want to see her. Ever."

  "I know, kid. Don't talk to her, don't let her near you. And be careful of strangers, yeah?"

  "Dad, I'm nine years old. I'm not a kid."

  "She might want to take you with her."

  "Sod that!"

  Donovan smiled at his son's vehement reply.

  "I'm just saying, she might send someone to the school, to take you away. Don't go with anyone other than me or Aunty Laura. Okay?"

  "Wouldn't it be better if I just stayed at home?"

  "Didn't you hear what I said? School. I have to act like a proper father and that means sending you to school every day."

  "So we're staying? In London?"

  "For a bit, yeah."

  "Yes!" cheered Robbie.

  "Happy now?"

  "Yeah. Thanks, Dad."

  "So school. Today. Let me talk to Aunty Laura, will you?"

  Robbie called out his aunt's name and a few seconds later she was on the line.

  "What have you said to him? He's grinning like the cat that got the cream."

  "I'm staying for a while. We're going to move back into the house."

  "Good decision, brother-of-mine."

  "Yeah, well, we'll see," said Donovan.

  "I don't have much choice at the moment. My lawyer says I can't take him out of the country, and if I'm going to get custody I'm going to have to play at happy families for a while."

  "Den!"

  Donovan grinned.

  "You know what I mean. I want to be with him, of course I do, but not here. Not in London. He's to go to school from now on. I've had a word with the headmistress. I'll pick him up tonight and we'll be at the house from now on. Thanks for everything. For letting him stay."

  "Not a problem, Den. You know that."

  Donovan thanked her again and cut the connection. The keys to Vicky's Range Rover were hanging on a hook in the kitchen. Donovan's first thought had been to sell the car right away as it was yet another reminder of his soon-to-be ex-wife, but common sense prevailed. He needed wheels, and if he didn't use the Range Rover he'd have to rent a car.

  He took the keys and went out to the vehicle. He emptied the glove compartment of all her personal stuff gloves, sunglasses, a half-empty pack of Tic-tacs, cigarettes, suntan lotion and threw it into the rubbish bin, then went back to the car and sat
in the driving seat. He could still smell her perfume.

  "You bitch!" he shouted, slapping the steering wheel hard.

  "Bitch, bitch, bitch!"

  He stormed back into the kitchen and pulled open cupboard doors until he found an aerosol of air freshener. He sprayed it liberally around the interior of the car. Lavender. He coughed in the sickeningly sweet perfumed mist, but at least it masked the annoying smell of her perfume.

  Donovan edged the Range Rover out into the street. He didn't bother checking for surveillance. This was one trip he was quite happy for any watchers to know about. He drove to the King's Road in Chelsea and prowled around the back streets until he found a parking space, then he walked to the offices of Alex Knight Security. Knight's entrance was a simple black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser's. Donovan pressed the bell button and a woman's voice asked who he was over the intercom.

  "Den Donovan for Alex," said Donovan. The door buzzed and Donovan pushed it open. He went up a narrow flight of stairs, at the top of which a striking brunette had a second black door already open for him.

  "Mr. Donovan, good to see you again," she said.

  "Sarah, you're looking good," said Donovan.

  "How's the boy looking after you?"

  "Boy? I'm twenty-bloody-eight," said Alex Knight, striding out of his office. He was tall and gangly with black square-framed spectacles perched high up on his nose. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and when he stuck his hand out to shake he showed several inches of bony wrist.

  The two men shook hands.

  "Yeah, well, you don't look a day over sixteen," said Donovan.

  "Whatever you're taking, I want some of it."

  "Clean living and early to bed," said Knight.

  "You should try it some time. Come on through."

  Knight's office was about twenty feet square but looked much smaller because every inch of wall space had been lined with metal shelving filled with electrical equipment and technical manuals. His desk was a huge metal table that was also piled high with technical gear.

  "Coffee?" asked Knight.

  Donovan declined and Sarah closed the door on them. On the back of the door was a blueprint of an electronic device that Donovan could make no sense of.

  "So, you old reprobate, what can I do for you?" Knight pushed back his chair and put his feet up on the table. There was a hole in one of his suede loafers.

  "I'm going to be back in the UK for a while, and I'm going to be under the microscope," said Donovan.

  "Cops, Customs, spooks. I need to be able to sweep my house and car, and to check if anyone who comes near me is wired."

  "Do you want me to do the sweeping?"

  Donovan shook his head.

  "No offence, Alex, but I want to do it myself "No sweat," said Knight, reaching for a notebook and pen, 'but I'd advise you to let me go over the house once. Show you the ropes, yeah?"

  Donovan nodded.

  Knight rested the notebook on his lap as he scribbled.

  "What about your landline? I've got a gizmo that'll tell you if it's tapped."

  "Waste of time. I can pretty much guarantee that it will be," said Donovan.

  "I won't be using it for anything other than ordering pizzas. I'm more concerned about the house."

  Knight tapped his pen against his cheek.

  "Yeah, but you're gonna need a hook switch bypass detector, especially if the spooks are on your case. They can turn any landline into a room monitor and pick up anything that's said. Even when the phone's on the hook. I can fix one to each phone. Five hundred each. Worth the money, Den. No point in sweeping for bugs if your phone is a direct line to Mi5."

  Donovan nodded.

  "Okay. You're the expert."

  Knight scribbled on his pad.

  "So far as sweeping goes, I've got a state-of-the-art scanner that'll do the job. Brand new RF detector from Taiwan. Pick up anything. Just run it around all suspect surfaces. You can use it on the car, too. I'll show you how to use it, a child can operate it."

  "Okay. And I'm going to need a personal unit."

  "Just what I was going to suggest. I've got a new model in from the States. Bit bigger than a pack of fags, you wear it on your belt like a bleeper. Vibrates when it picks up micro radio frequencies. You know they're wired, but they don't know that you know. Cool thing about this model is that it also picks up most makes of tape recorder. You wear a flat antenna under your watch band with the cable running up your sleeve. It's not one hundred per cent reliable, but close. It'll certainly pick up the shit that the Brits use. They're usually about five years behind the Yanks."

  Donovan grinned. Knight knew his stuff, which is why he'd been using him for the past four years, ever since Knight had picked up his second PhD and decided to leave academia for the commercial world. He wasn't cheap, but Knight's equipment had saved Donovan's skin on several occasions.

  Knight tapped the notepad.

  "Going back to the house. How about I fix up an acoustic noise generator for you? You're going to be able to sweep for RF bugs and I can give you a metal detector to pick up wired microphones in the walls, but it's easy to miss transmitters in AC outlets. Plus everyone's using laser or microwave reflectors these days, picking up vibrations from windows. Bloody hard to detect. But switch on the noise generator and they'll just pick up static."

  "Excellent," said Donovan.

  "Cash on delivery?"

  "As always." Donovan stood up and held out his hand. Knight swung his legs off the table and shook hands.

  "Pleasure doing business with you, Alex."

  "Pleasure's all mine, Den. How's the wife?"

  "Don't ask," said Donovan.

  "Just don't ask."

  Stewart Sharkey scrolled through the spreadsheet, a slight smile on his face. Sixty million dollars. He had sixty million dollars. He wondered how much space sixty million dollars would take up. A million was maybe two suitcases full. Sixty million would be one hundred and twenty suitcases. Sharkey tried to picture a hundred and twenty suitcases. He grinned. It was one hell of a lot of money. Invested in bog-standard shares and high-interest offshore accounts, it would earn four or five million dollars a year. More than enough to live on. To live well on. Sharkey had other plans for the money, however. Big plans. And if his plans worked out, he'd turn that sixty million into hundreds of millions. He'd do it legitimately, too. Property development. Central Europe, probably. Get in on the ground floor before they joined the EU bandwagon. There were fortunes to be made in the countries of the former Soviet Union, and Sharkey was the man to do it, now that he had the resources.

  The mobile phone on the table next to the computer bleeped and Sharkey grabbed for the receiver.

  "Stewart? It's David."

  David Hoyle. A lawyer based in Shepherd's Bush in West London. Sharkey had known him for years, but this was the first time he'd used him professionally.

  "Hiya, David. I trust you're using a call box?"

  "I am, Stewart, but is this really necessary?"

  "You don't know Vicky's husband, David." That was one of the reasons that Sharkey was using him. Hoyle had never done any work for Den Donovan, or anyone like him. He was a family lawyer who specialised in divorce work and had never been within a mile of a criminal court.

  "Even so, Stewart, I feel a bit silly walking out of my office every time I talk to you."

  "A necessary precaution, David. I'm sorry."

  "Where are you?" Hoyle asked. The number that Sharkey had given him was a GSM roaming mobile. It was aUK number but Sharkey could use it anywhere in Europe.

  "Not too far away," said Sharkey.

  "Best you don't know the specifics."

  "Oh please, Stewart. That would be covered by client confidentiality."

  Sharkey smiled. He knew that Den Donovan wouldn't be worried about a little thing like client confidentiality.

  "How can I help you, David?"

  "We've heard back from his lawyers. The husband i
s applying for sole custody. And of course he will be trying to have the injunction lifted."

  Sharkey grunted. They had expected that Donovan would want sole custody of Robbie. And that he'd want to take him out of the country. So far as Sharkey was concerned, he would be quite happy for Donovan to get what he wanted, but he had to keep Vicky happy, for a while at least, and that meant going through the motions.

  "I assume that Victoria still wishes to apply for custody?" asked Hoyle.

  "Absolutely," said Sharkey.

  "I would expect the hearing to be within the next two weeks," said Hoyle.

  "You do realise that Victoria will have to appear in person?"

  "That's definite, is it?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Then that's the way it'll have to be."

  "I'll get the papers drawn up, Stewart. I'll be in touch."

  Sharkey cut the connection and put the mobile phone back on the table. There was no way he could allow Vicky to go back to London. The moment she set foot back in the UK, Donovan would get to her. And from her he'd get to Sharkey. It would all be over. Sharkey shuddered.

  He stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

  "Was that the phone?" asked Vicky, walking in from the terrace.

  "The lawyer. He's on the case."

  "He served the injunction?"

  Sharkey nodded.

  "And Den's fighting it, like we knew he would."

  "Bastard. He showed no interest while he was away now he wants to play the father."

  "It's going to be okay, Vicky. The injunction's in force, Den can't take him out of the country. He does that and he'll go straight to prison."