Vincent put her binoculars back to her eyes.
"Hang on, he's coming out again. Heading for the Range Rover. Log him out at sixteen oh-four."
Donovan climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover and started the engine.
Vincent wiped her brow with a small towel. It was such a waste of her time, she thought. At first she'd been excited at being part of the team on the trail of Tango One, but she'd soon realised that she was nothing more than a clerk, noting when he entered and left the house. Word had come down from up high that all surveillance on Donovan had to be non-obtrusive. There was to be no covert entry of his house, no following his car, no attempt to find out where he was going or whom he was seeing. Vincent knew that meant only one thing the powers that be already knew what Donovan was up to. Which meant they had someone on the inside. Which meant that Vincent's input into the operation was close to zero.
She watched through the binoculars as Donovan drove to the end of the street and turned on to the main road.
"I hope they throw away the key," she muttered.
Donovan beeped the horn of the Range Rover when he saw Robbie walking out of the school gates. Robbie waved and ran over.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," said Robbie, climbing into the front passenger seat and throwing his backpack into the rear of the car.
"Said I would, didn't I? O ye of little faith."
Donovan kept checking his mirror as he drove away from the school. They reached a roundabout and he drove around it twice before shooting towards an exit without indicating.
"Dad, what are you playing at?" asked Robbie.
"What?"
"You're driving like a nutter."
"You can get out and walk if you want."
"And this isn't the way home either."
"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," said Donovan.
"There's been a change of plan."
"What do you mean?"
"I need you to take a few days off school."
Robbie sighed theatrically.
"I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.
"You just told me I had to go."
"I know, but something's happened. Until I get it sorted, I need you to stay with someone."
"What are you talking about, Dad?"
Donovan checked his rear-view mirror. There was no one on his tail.
"I've got a bit of a problem about the house. We can't stay there for a while."
"What sort of problem?"
"A gas leak. I had the gas people out and they said it's not safe."
"So I'm going to stay at Aunty Laura's?"
"Not exactly. You remember that lady who gave me the lift to school with your soccer kit?"
"I'm not staying with her," said Robbie, pouting. He folded his arms and put his chin on his chest.
"Why can't I stay with Aunty Laura?"
"Because I say you can't. You'll like Louise. She's okay."
"I'm not staying with your girlfriend."
"You'll do what I bloody well tell you to do. And she's not my girlfriend."
"You can't make me."
Donovan glared at his son.
"What do you mean, I can't make you? You're nine years old."
"That doesn't mean you're in the right."
Donovan drove in silence, fuming. Robbie sat glaring out of the window, kicking the foot well Eventually Donovan couldn't stand the sound of the kicking any longer.
"Stop that!" he yelled.
"Stop what?" asked Robbie, innocently.
"You know what. That kicking."
"I don't want to stay with that woman. If I can't stay in my own house, I want to stay with Aunty Laura."
"You can't."
"Why not? Has she got a gas leak, too?"
Donovan gritted his teeth. A car ahead of him slowed to turn right without indicating. Donovan pounded on the horn.
"Look at that moron," he said. He swerved around the stationary car, mouthing obscenities at the driver.
They came to a red light and Donovan brought the car to a halt.
"Okay, look, I'll be honest with you," he said.
"I've upset some people, Robbie. Over a business deal. These people aren't very nice and I'm a bit worried about them coming around to the house and doing something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but I'd feel safer if you stayed somewhere else. And didn't go to school. Normally I'd say stay with Aunty Laura and Uncle Mark, but these people might know where they live, too. That's all."
"So you were lying about the gas leak?"
Donovan nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Robbie looked at him scornfully.
"That was the best you could come up with? Weren't you ever a kid, Dad?"
Donovan grinned.
"It was bad, wasn't it."
"It was stupid. How long do I have to stay with her?"
"A few days. I'll be there most of the time."
"Has she got Sky?"
Donovan shrugged.
"I think so."
"Okay, then. I don't want to miss The Simpsons."
Jamie Fullerton paced up and down his gallery, a glass of champagne in his hand. His computer was switched on and Fullerton stared at the monitor as he paced. Eight thousand kilos of heroin. Den Donovan was planning to bring eight thousand kilos of heroin from Afghanistan into the UK, and Fullerton had the inside track.
Ten thousand pounds a kilo was cheap. Very cheap. Especially for delivery in London. In Amsterdam the price was close to twenty thousand pounds a kilo, and then there was the added risk of getting it into the country. If Donovan was preparing to sell it at ten thousand a kilo, he must be buying it at a fraction of that price. Which meant he was getting it close to the source. Afghanistan, probably. Or Pakistan. Or Turkey. Any closer to Europe and the price would increase dramatically. But if Donovan was getting his heroin at or close to the source, how was he going to get it in to the UK?
Fullerton knew that he should tell Hathaway what he'd found out. The whole purpose of Fullerton going undercover was to gather evidence against Tango One. By rights he should send Hathaway an e-mail immediately. Something was holding Fullerton back, through, and as he paced around his gallery, he tried to work out what it was. Was it that he liked Den Donovan? That he felt guilty about betraying a man who was close to becoming a friend? Or was it because Donovan was offering Fullerton a chance to make a lot of money? Easy money. In the three years since Hathaway had set Fullerton up with the Soho gallery, Fullerton had stashed away almost a million pounds dealing in works of art, legal and otherwise, and it was money he was pretty sure Hathaway was unaware of. Fullerton could put that cash into Donovan's deal and treble it. He'd be a player. It would mean crossing a line, but over the years that Fullerton had been undercover, that line had blurred to such an extent he was no longer sure where he stood, officially or morally. And as he paced up and down his gallery, sipping his champagne, he was becoming even less sure which side of the line he was on.
Donovan pressed the bell to Louise's flat and the front door lock clicked open. She had the door to her flat open as they got to the landing. She'd changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and clipped back her hair with two bright pink clips.
"You must be Robbie," she said, holding out her hand.
"Yeah, if he's my dad then I must be," said Robbie sourly. Then his face broke into a grin.
"You've got Sky, right?"
"Sure."
Robbie shook hands with her.
"You are his girlfriend, aren't you?"
"Not really."
"Do I have to sleep on a sofa?"
Louise shook her head.
"No, I've got a spare bedroom."
"With a TV?"
Donovan pushed the back of Robbie's head with the flat of his hand.
"When did you get so picky?" he said. He held up a small suitcase.
"I've packed some of his things, and I'll bring more around tomorrow."
"Are you going right away? I've got shepherd's pie in the oven."
"No, I can stay," said Donovan.
Louise showed Donovan and Robbie in to the sitting room. She pointed down the hallway.
"Robbie, your bedroom's on the right. There's a bathroom opposite."
Donovan handed the suitcase to his son.
"And keep it tidy, okay?"
"It's all right, I've got my own bathroom," said Louise.
"You don't know this one. He never picks up after himself."
"Oh, he's a guy, then, is he?" laughed Louise.
Robbie took his case to his room while Louise busied herself in the kitchenette.
"You really cooked?" asked Donovan.
"It's only shepherd's pie, Den. It's no biggie. Do you want coffee?"
"Sure. Thanks." He went over to a sideboard and took his mobile phones out of his jacket pocket and lined them up. There were four of them.
"Expecting a call?" asked Louise.
"Different people have different numbers," said Donovan.
"Helps me keep track of who's who."
"Paranoia?"
"Maybe."
"Which number do I have?"
Donovan picked up one of the Nokias and waggled it.
"Only you've got this number," he said.
"I'm flattered."
Robbie came back into the sitting room.
"Okay?" asked Donovan.
"Yeah, it's fine," said Robbie.
"Are you staying here as well?"
Louise looked at Donovan and raised an expectant eyebrow.
"I'll be popping in and out," he said.
"Because there's only two bedrooms, and the bed in mine is really small."
"It's a single," said Louise.
"Your dad can sleep on the sofa, if he decides to stay."
"And how long have I got to stay here?"
"It's not a prison, Robbie," said Donovan.
"Like I said, a few days."
"Are you hungry?" asked Louise.
"Yeah," said Robbie.
"Starving."
One of the mobile phones lined up on the sideboard burst into life.
Donovan picked it up. It was the Spaniard.
"It's not good news, amigo."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Donovan.
"He's not in Paris," said Rojas.
"He had someone else pick up the papers."
"Bastard!" hissed Donovan.
"Language," chided Robbie.
Donovan glared at him.
"If I were to guess, I would say that he is somewhere in France," continued Rojas.
"A big city. Nice or Marseilles perhaps. But we are not in a guessing game here, of course. He could well have moved on by now."
"But you're still on the case?"
"Of course," said Rojas.
"I have a number for him. Do you have a pen?"
Donovan clicked his fingers and waved for Robbie to get him a pen. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a Tesco receipt. Robbie gave him a pen, scowling.
"Okay, Juan, go ahead." Rojas gave him the number.
"That's aUK mobile, yeah?" asked Donovan.
"Yes. A roaming GSM."
"Can we find him through the number?"
Rojas whistled through his teeth.
"If it was a landline, I have contacts in the phone company who could help us, but mobiles are a different matter. I can certainly find out which numbers he has called, but locating the handset would require a warrant and would have to be done at a senior police level or by one of the intelligence agencies. Even in Spain I think it unlikely I would be able to do it. In France .. He left the sentence unfinished.
"Okay, Juan. Thanks anyway. Onwards and upwards, yeah?"
"There is one other thing, amigo. Just so there is no misunderstanding down the line. Sharkey is paying me a quarter of a million dollars not to hurt his accomplice. The man we picked up in Paris."
"I have no problem with that, Juan."
"It is always a pleasure doing business with you, amigo."
Donovan cut the connection.
"Who was it?" asked Robbie, flicking through the channels on the TV.
"None of your business," said Donovan.
"And get your feet off Louise's coffee table. Haven't you got homework to do?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday," said Robbie.
"I've got the whole weekend."
After dinner, Robbie gathered up their plates and took them into the kitchenette.
"You've got him well trained," said Louise.
"He's doing it to impress," said Donovan.
"I'm not," said Robbie.
"Do you want a coffee?" asked Louise.
"Or something stronger? I've got whisky. Or beer?"
Donovan looked at his watch.
"I've actually got to be somewhere. I'm sorry."
"You're not going out?" Robbie called from the kitchenette.
"Business," said Donovan.
"It's okay, Robbie, we can watch TV," said Louise.
Donovan scooped up the mobiles off the sideboard and put them in the pockets of his jacket.
"You be good, yeah?" he said to Robbie.
"Do you want to borrow the car?" asked Louise.
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, I'm going to be using taxis."
"There's that paranoia again," teased Louise.
"It's not that. It's just that where I'm going, it's likely to get broken into."
Louise tossed him a door key.
"In case you get back late," she said.
"Save you waking me up."
Donovan thanked her and went outside in search of a black cab.
The address PM had given him was in a row of terraced houses in Harlesden. Donovan could feel the pounding beat of reggae music through the seat of the cab long before they reached the house. The driver twisted around in his seat.
"Are you sure about this?" asked the driver.
"It looks a bit ethnic out there."
Donovan could see what the man meant. Haifa dozen burly men in long black coats were standing guard at the open door to the house, four with shaved heads glistening in the amber streetlights, two with shoulder-length dreadlocks. A dozen young black men and women were waiting to be admitted, moving to the sound of the pounding beat inside. Several were openly smoking joints. It was the sort of street the police never patrolled. If they turned up at all it would be mob-handed with riot shields and mace. Parked both sides of the street were expensive BMWs and four-wheel drives, most of them brand new.
"Yeah, this is it," said Donovan, handing the driver a twenty-pound note.
"Keep the change, yeah?"
"Thanks, guy," said the driver.
"Good luck."
Donovan got out of the cab and the driver drove off quickly without putting his "For Hire' sign on.
Donovan walked to the head of the line of people waiting to go in. He nodded at the biggest of the bouncers, who was wearing an earpiece and a small radio microphone that bobbed around close to his lips.
"I'm here to see PM," said Donovan.
The man nodded, his face impassive.
"He expecting you. Third floor. Door with "Fuck off' on it."
"That would be irony, would it?" asked Donovan.
"That would be the way it be," said the man.
Donovan pushed his way through the crowded first floor and found the stairs. The air was thick with the smell of marijuana and sweat, and the music was so loud his teeth vibrated. Teenagers sitting on the stairs drinking beer from the bottle looked up at him curiously as he walked up to the second floor. The wooden stairs were stained and pockmarked with cigarette burns.
One of the second-floor bedrooms had been converted into a bar. There were tin baths filled with ice and loaded with bottled beer, and a table full of spirits and mixers. Two black guys with turtle-shell abdomens and red and white checked bandanas were passing out bottles and shoving bank
notes into a metal box without handing back change. There were several white girls around, predominately thin and blonde and baring their midriffs, but no white males. Donovan was attracting a lot of attention, but there didn't seem to be any hostility, just curiosity.
One small man with waist-length dreadlocks and a vacant stare grinned at Donovan, showing a mouthful of gold teeth, and offered him a puff at his soggy-ended joint, but Donovan just shook his head.
He went up to the third floor of the building. At the top of the hallway two young blacks wearing headsets and almost identical Nike hooded tops, woollen hats, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, moved aside without speaking to Donovan. The big man must have told them he was on his way up.
The "Fuck Off sign was written with black lettering on a gold background. Donovan knocked and the door opened partially. A pair of wraparound sunglasses reflected Donovan's image back at him in stereo.
"Den Donovan," said Donovan.
The man opened the door without speaking. Donovan walked in to the room. Half a dozen West Indians were sitting around the room on sofas, most of them smoking spliffs and drinking beer. Sitting behind a desk was a young black man with close-cropped hair wearing what looked like a Versace silk shirt. Around his neck hung a gold chain the thickness of a man's finger, and on his left wrist he wore a solid gold Rolex studded with diamonds.
"PM?"
The man at the desk nodded.
"Den Donovan."
"I know who you are," said PM. Standing behind PM was a black man well over six feet tall dressed in a black suit and grey T-shirt. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a goatee beard.
Donovan smiled amiably.
"Charlie and Pvicky said I should swing by. Pay my respects."
"What happened to my money, Den?"
"Your money paid for the coke, and the coke is sitting in one of The Queen's warehouses," said Donovan. He walked over to a sofa and sat down.
"It's swings and roundabouts. A percentage of deals go wrong. You have to live with that. Build it into your price."
"That don't answer my question."
"If you want to know why the deal went wrong, you're asking the wrong person."
"Someone grassed."
"Probably."
"And it was your deal."
"I set it up, yes, but these things grow. More people get involved. The more people get involved, the greater the risk."
PM slammed his hand down on to the desk.
"Fuck the risk. I want my money back."
"We all lost on this deal, PM."
Tango One Page 35
