"So explain it to him. Anyway, that's your problem, not mine."
"We've lost a lot of money, Den. A shed load
"Nothing compared to what I'm down," said Donovan.
"What do you mean?" asked Macfadyen.
Donovan closed his eyes.
"Forget it," he said.
"It doesn't matter."
Jordan jabbed the gun into Donovan's ribs.
"It matters," he said.
Donovan opened his eyes.
"My accountant ripped me off for sixty million dollars. A big chunk of that was on its way to Rodriguez."
Macfadyen pounced.
"Including our money, yeah?"
Donovan nodded.
"So that's why Rodriguez wanted to deal with us direct?"
Donovan nodded again.
"So our money never got to Rodriguez? You've still got it."
Donovan sighed.
"I can see where you're going. Charlie, but you're wasting your time. I haven't got your money."
"No, but neither has Rodriguez. So that wasn't our consignment." He grinned.
"We haven't lost shit."
"Your deal was with the Colombians. Not me."
"You never gave them our money, so the buck stops with you."
"You're not listening to me, Charlie. I haven't got a penny to my name."
"You've got this house."
"It's in a trust. For my boy. Can't be touched. I've fuck all, Charlie, until I can get my hands on Sharkey."
"Sharkey?"
"My accountant. I've got people looking for him. You know Rodriguez is going to be asking the same question you are. He's going to want to know who grassed the deal."
"I bet he is," said Macfadyen.
"Yeah, well, bear in mind he might think it was you two."
"What do you mean?"
"You're the new factors in the equation. If he's going to suspect anyone, he's going to suspect you. And that would explain why they went in while the ship was still at sea. To distance it from you."
"That doesn't make sense," said Macfadyen.
"Why would we bust our own deal?"
"I'm not saying you did," said Donovan.
"I'm just saying that Rodriguez is going to want to talk to you."
Macfadyen sat back in his chair.
"This is a fucking nightmare," he sighed.
"Yeah, well, bursting in here and waving a gun around doesn't help," said Donovan.
"What do we do?" asked Macfadyen. He gestured at Jordan's gun, which was still levelled at Donovan's midriff.
"Put it away, Ricky."
Jordan looked as if he might argue, then he nodded and slipped the automatic inside his jacket.
"First, you two have got to keep a low profile. They'll trace the coke back to Rodriguez, and if they link you to him they're gonna be on your case. I'll talk to Rodriguez. Second, I can offer you a way of making your money back. If you're interested."
"What?" asked Macfadyen.
"Heroin. From Afghanistan."
"I'm not dealing with the fucking Turks, Den," said Macfadyen.
"I've been burned before with them."
"Yeah, they're mad bastards," said Jordan.
"You can't trust them."
"I'm not doing this through the Turks," said Donovan.
"I might get them to come in as investors, but the deal's mine."
"How much?"
"For you guys, ten grand a key."
Macfadyen looked at Jordan and raised an eyebrow. Jordan nodded. Then Macfadyen's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah, but delivery where? It's no fucking good to me over in Amsterdam, even at that price."
"In the UK, mate. South of London, but if you want I'll get someone to drive it up north to you."
"You can get Afghan heroin into the UK for ten grand a key?" said Jordan in disbelief.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, Den, David bloody Copperfield?"
"It's not magic, Ricky. I've just got a way of getting it in direct, bypassing all the middle-men."
"What, like Star Trek, you're gonna get Scottie to beam it down?" said Macfadyen.
"Actually, not far off that."
Macfadyen and Jordan shared another look and Donovan could practically hear the wheels turning in their heads. Ten grand a kilo was a great price. On the street in Edinburgh prices were as high as a hundred and twenty grand a kilo once it had been cut, and Macfadyen and Jordan had their own chains of dealers. They'd be able to keep the bulk of the profits themselves.
"How do we know we won't be throwing good money after bad?" asked Macfadyen.
"Because this is my deal, Charlie. Me and a couple of guys who've come up with a sure fire way of getting the gear in under the noses of Customs. As much gear as you can buy. I've got everything riding on this one, so I'm gonna make damn sure it works out okay."
"What do you think?" Macfadyen asked Jordan.
Jordan nodded slowly.
"It's easier to shift than coke. Give us a chance to put two fingers up to the Dutchmen, wouldn't it? They keep jacking their prices up. If we show them we've got an alternative supply it's gonna put pressure on them." He nodded more enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I say go for it. Let's go in for five hundred keys."
Macfadyen nodded.
"Yeah, okay. How about I bring O'Brien in on this? Dublin prices are up, he'd be in for five hundred keys."
"Okay," agreed Donovan, 'but get him to pay twelve a key. And tell him we don't want Euros. It's pounds or dollars. No one wants Euros."
"Is this going to be a regular, Den, or a one-off?" asked Jordan.
"Ricky, it's going to run and run," said Donovan, smiling broadly.
"What about the Yardies?" asked Macfadyen.
"Fuck the Yardies. They're big boys."
"The guy's a vicious bastard. He's going to want answers."
"A minute ago you said he was cool."
"Yeah, well, that was before we lost three million quid of his. You're going to have to talk to him."
"Me? Why me?"
"Because he's not going to believe a word I tell him from now on. But you're Den Donovan. He knows about you."
"Because you told him, right? For fuck's sake, Charlie, can't you ever keep your big mouth shut?"
Jordan winced.
"He already knew who you were," said Macfadyen quickly.
"That was one of the reasons he was so keen to do the deal."
"Charlie, you had no business telling anyone I was involved. How the hell have you managed to stay out of prison? Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe these Yardies are the ones who gave the deal away?"
"Give me some credit, will you, Den? All I said was that I was doing a coke deal and that you were involved. I didn't say from where, I didn't say how, I didn't say when. Hell, Den, you hardly told me anything. It was only when we met that Jesus guy that we heard about the Beetles. The Yardies don't even know about that." He pointed at the Evening Standard.
"They won't even know that that's their coke. Though I guess they'll put two and two together pretty sharpish."
"So you want me to tell him his three million's gone? And how do you think he'll react to that?"
"I dunno, Den. How do you think he'll react if I tell him that his three million never got to the Colombians?"
Macfadyen stared at Donovan, who met his gaze with unblinking eyes. The threat hung in the air between them like a storm cloud about to break. Jordan looked from one to the other, waiting to see who would speak first.
Eventually Donovan nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said.
"What's his name?"
"PM," said Macfadyen.
"His sidekick's the brains of the outfit, though. Doesn't say much but you can see the wheels are always turning. Watch out for him. His name's Bunny."
Juan Rojas walked into the warehouse, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"Everything go to plan?" he asked.
A man was stripping off
the uniform of a DHL courier.
"Like a lamb to the slaughter," he said. All trace of a French accent had vanished.
Rojas slapped the man on the back.
"You ditched the van?"
"The guys are doing it now."
"Excellent," said Rojas.
He walked to the middle of the warehouse where a man sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. Thick strips of bright blue insulation tape bound his arms and legs to the chair and another strip had been plastered across his mouth.
Rojas cursed.
"This isn't Sharkey," he said. Rojas ripped off the strip of insulation tape. The man gasped.
"I've a message from him," said the man.
"He said Donovan can go fuck himself." The man smiled.
Rojas's lips tightened.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He's not here in Paris, that's for sure. I only spoke to him on the phone."
Rojas cursed.
"There's more."
"Go on."
"He said you're to phone him. You have his mobile number, right?"
Rojas nodded.
"Right. Did he tell you what I'd do to you, when I found out that you'd set me up?" He took a small automatic from his coat pocket.
The man smiled.
"He said you'd be a professional. He said you'd appreciate the irony. And he said he'd transfer a quarter of a million dollars to any account you nominate. I'm to give him the account number in person."
Rojas looked at the man. A smile slowly spread across his face and he put the gun away.
"He is a good judge of character," he said.
"Luckily for you."
"Yeah, that's him," said Shuker, peering through his binoculars.
"Charlie Macfadyen. Big wheel in Edinburgh. Brings in most of the city's coke and heroin. Don't know the other guy, though."
"Wonder what it was all about?" said Jenner, as the motor-drive on his SLR clicked and whirred. Down in the street, the two men walked away from Donovan's house towards a gleaming red Ferrari.
"Dunno. They went in looking like they were going to kill him, and half an hour later they're best of friends."
The bedroom door opened and two men walked in Shuker and Jenner's replacements. One of them was carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.
"You seen this?" he said, tossing the paper to Shuker.
Shuker looked at the headline, then held it up for Jenner to read.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Shuker.
Jenner nodded.
Donovan switched off the noise generator and put it back on the sideboard. His ears ached from the constant static sound. He paced up and down as he went through his options. Carlos Rodriguez had lost his cocaine and his money and would be looking for revenge. Donovan had managed to talk around Macfadyen and Jordan, but Rodriguez wouldn't be so easy. And if Rodriguez sent his nephew, Donovan doubted that he'd even be given a chance to explain.
Donovan could run, but wherever he went the Colombians would find him eventually. And running would mean leaving Robbie behind. The only way to mollify Rodriguez would be to reimburse him for the lost cocaine or to find out who had given up the deal to the authorities, and he wasn't in a position to pursue either option. Donovan cursed. He had no room to manoeuvre. None at all. He was virtually out of funds, stuck in the UK, and top of the most wanted list. Donovan couldn't see how it could get any worse.
He put on a brown leather jacket, picked up three fully charged mobile phones and slotted them into various pockets. He rolled up the Evening Standard, got the keys to the Range Rover, secured the house, and drove off. He didn't bother sweeping the car or looking for a tail. He drove to Marble Arch and parked in an underground car park, then walked to Marble Arch Tube station. He bought a one-day Travelcard allowing him unlimited use of the underground system, then caught a Central Line train to Oxford Circus station.
After twenty minutes of swapping trains and lines, he finally got off at Charing Cross. He spent ten minutes walking aimlessly around the station, checking reflections, doubling back, walking into dead ends. He was clean. He was sure he was clean.
He went over to a bank of public phones and shoved in his BT phone card. He called Directory Enquiries for the number of the Intercontinental and then called the hotel and asked for Rodriguez's room. The receptionist said he'd checked out two days earlier. Donovan replaced the receiver. With any luck, Rodriguez had gone back to Colombia. That at least gave Donovan some breathing space. Maybe.
He dialled the Spaniard's number, but the answer machine kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, just asked Rojas to call him on the mobile.
Next he called the Yardie whom Macfadyen had brought in on the Colombian coke deal. The man answered.
"Yo?"
"PM?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I'm a friend of Macfadyen's."
"So?"
"So he wanted me to talk to you."
"I'm listening."
"Face to face."
"Fuck that."
"He thought I should explain why the deal he cut you in on has gone belly up."
"Say what?"
"Can you read, PM?"
"What the fuck you mean?"
"Buy the Standard. Front-page story. When you've read it, call me back on this number." Donovan gave him the number of one of the mobiles he was carrying, then hung up.
He used another of his mobiles to phone Underwood. The detective wasn't pleased to hear from Donovan, but Donovan cut his protests short and told him to call him back as soon as possible.
Donovan's next call was to Jamie Fullerton. He arranged to meet him at his gallery later that afternoon. Finally he called Louise.
Donovan sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square, rereading the article on the cocaine bust. One of the mobiles rang. Donovan pressed the green button. It was PM.
"What the fuck's going on, man?" asked PM.
"Your phone clean?"
"Only had it two days, and after this the Sim card goes in the trash."
"You don't know me, PM, but you know of me. I put Macfadyen on to the deal. He cut you in. He wants me to talk through what happened."
"Where and when?"
"This evening. Say seven."
"Where?"
"You choose. I don't want you jumpy."
"You being funny?" bristled the Yardie.
"I was actually being considerate. Letting you choose the turf."
PM gave him the address of a house in Harlesden, then cut the connection.
Donovan waited, then walked around the square, watching tourists photographing themselves next to the huge lions that stood guard around Nelson's Column.
Louise arrived at two o'clock, walking up the steps of the National Gallery and standing at its porticoed entrance. She was wearing sunglasses and a long dark blue woollen coat with the collar turned up. Donovan watched her from the square until he was sure that she hadn't been followed.
She waved as she saw him walking towards her. He hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"It's all very mysterious," she said.
"Yeah, sorry. Had to be. Come on in."
"In here?"
"Sure. You never been inside an art gallery before?"
"Never."
"You'll love it."
Donovan ushered her inside and to the right, into the East Wing.
"God, it's huge," whispered Louise.
Donovan grinned.
"You don't have to whisper, it's not a funeral."
Louise stopped in front of a painting of sunflowers, the colours so vibrant that they seemed to jump off the canvas. Half a dozen Japanese tourists were clustered around the painting listening to a commentary on headphones, nodding enthusiastically. Louise was a head taller than all of them so she had an unobstructed view. She took off her sunglasses.
"It's beautiful," she said. She read the details on the plaque to the left of
the picture, then looked at Donovan, clearly surprised.
"It's a Van Gogh," she said.
"That's right."
"But they're worth millions."
"Sure. And some."
They were standing less than five feet away from the canvas and there was nothing between them and it. No bars, no protective glass.
"We could grab it and run," she said.
"We could," said Donovan, 'but there are security staff all around and every square inch is covered by CCTV."
Louise craned her neck but couldn't see any cameras.
"Don't worry, they're there," said Donovan.
"So what is it with you and art galleries?" she asked.
Donovan shrugged.
"Ran into one to hide from the cops. I was fourteen and should have been at school. Two beat bobbies were heading my way so I nipped into the Whitworth gallery."
"Where's that?"
"Manchester. Huge building, awesome art, but I didn't know that when I went in. I walked through a couple of the galleries, just to get away from the entrance, and then I got to a gallery where a volunteer guide was giving a talk about one of the paintings.
"She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them." Donovan smiled at her.
"You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't." He shook his head.
"No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open."
A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.
"I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.
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