Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  As he picked up the phone that was ringing, he realised that it was his son's. Robbie must have put his phone on the sideboard in Louise's flat next to Donovan's and he'd picked it up by mistake. Whoever was calling had blocked their ID. Donovan pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear.

  For several seconds there was silence, then a voice.

  "Robbie?" It was Vicky.

  "Robbie?" She sounded close to tears.

  "Robbie, talk to me."

  Donovan wanted to cut the connection, but he couldn't bring himself to press the red button. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was seven o'clock in the morning.

  Vicky sobbed.

  "Oh Robbie, I'm so sorry."

  "He's asleep," said Donovan.

  "Den. Oh God."

  "What do you want, Vicky?"

  "I want to talk to Robbie."

  "Like I said, he's in bed." Donovan didn't want to tell her that Robbie wasn't sleeping at the house. And he certainly didn't want to tell her about Louise.

  There was a long silence, broken only by Vicky's sniffling.

  "I'm sorry, Den," she said eventually.

  "Not sorry enough," he said.

  "Not yet."

  "Please don't be like that, Den."

  "After what you did? I think I've earned the right to be any way I want."

  "I didn't mean it to be this way, Den. I was lonely. You left me on my own too long."

  "I was making a living. I was paying for your bloody house, your car, your holidays, your shopping trips. You never had to work a day in your life, Vicky. Not one fucking day. And I paid for that."

  "So you own me, is that it? You paid for the clothes on my back, so I have to be the quiet little wifey sitting at home, grateful for your odd appearance?"

  "We talked about it. You knew my situation. I was Tango One. Most wanted."

  "Well, at least you were number one at something, because you were a lousy husband and a lousy father."

  "Fuck you," said Donovan. He pressed the red button but instantly regretted it. He stared at the phone's readout, hoping that she'd call back, but she didn't.

  He began idly to flick through the phone's menu. He flicked through the message section. Robbie had a stack of saved messages. Donovan grinned as he read them. Probably girlfriends. Idle chit-chat. Childish jibes at teachers. Stupid jokes. Then Donovan froze.

  "I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW -DAD." The message had been sent when Donovan had been on the beach in St. Kitts, talking to Carlos Rodriguez. That was why Robbie had gone rushing home from school and found Vicky in bed with Sharkey.

  The message had been sent from aUK mobile. Donovan didn't recognise the number, but there was something familiar about it. He tapped out the number and put the receiver to his ear. The phone was switched off and there was no answering service.

  Donovan looked at the digits on the phone's readout, deep creases across his brow. Where had he seen that number before? He rolled out of bed and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He flipped it open. The Tesco receipt was sticking out of one of the credit card slots. He slowly slid it out and looked at the telephone number he'd written on it. The number that the Spaniard had given him. The numbers matched. Donovan cursed. It had been Stewart Sharkey who'd sent the text message to Robbie. He'd wanted to be caught in bed with Vicky. It had all been planned.

  Another phone rang. The landline. Donovan went over and looked at the eavesdropping detector. The green light was on. No one was listening in on the line. Maybe it was Vicky, calling back on the house phone. He picked up the receiver.

  "We have to meet," said a voice. A man. English.

  "Who is this?" asked Donovan.

  "I know what you're doing and I need to talk to you," said the voice.

  "Yeah, right. How old do you think I am? Twelve?"

  "It's about Stewart Sharkey."

  "What about him?"

  "What do you think? Do you want your money back, or not?"

  Donovan hesitated for a few seconds, then sighed.

  "Where?"

  "Camden Market. In four hours."

  "You've got to be joking." Camden Market on a Saturday morning had to be one of the most crowded places on the planet.

  "Safety in numbers," said the man.

  "You know you are being watched? A bedroom across the street. And a British Telecom van. I wouldn't want you bringing any strangers to the party."

  "I'll make sure I'm clean," said Donovan.

  "How will I find you?"

  "I'll find you," said the man. The line went dead.

  Donovan caught a black cab to Oxford Street and spent fifteen minutes in the Virgin Megastore looking for tails. The record store's clientele was mainly young and scruffy, so police and Customs agents would find it harder to blend. He spotted two definites and a possible.

  He left the store, dived into another black cab and had it drive him to Maida Vale and drop him on the south side of the Regents Canal opposite the Paddington Stop, the place where he'd watched for the arrival of Macfadyen and Jordan. He paid off the driver and dashed across the footbridge and ran along Blomfield Road to Jason's, a restaurant with a sideline running narrow boat trips along the canal. The route terminated at Camden Market. Donovan had timed it so that he arrived just as a boat was preparing to leave.

  He bought a ticket and climbed aboard. There were almost twenty passengers on the boat, mainly tourists. It was a pretty trip, cruising by the vast mansions of Little Venice and through Regents Park, but Donovan was barely aware of the passing scenery. His mind was racing, trying to work out who had called him. It wasn't the Colombians, that was certain. They wouldn't want him in a crowded place like Camden Market. Ideally they'd want him alone and tied to a chair. Why the market? Safety in numbers, the man had said. But safety for who? For Donovan? Or for the caller? He adjusted the Velcro collar under his wristwatch. The personal RF detector was already switched on.

  They arrived at Camden and the grey-haired boatman jumped out and secured the narrow boat then announced that they'd be returning in forty-five minutes and that passengers should be back by then if they intended returning to Little Venice.

  Donovan walked through the market. It was packed with tourists and teenagers in shabby clothing. There were shops and stalls everywhere selling New Age rubbish, handmade pottery, secondhand clothes, incense, posters, CDs, T-shirts with smart-arse slogans. Donovan couldn't see a single thing he'd ever want to buy, but figured that Robbie would probably have had a great time. Donovan scanned the faces around him. It would be impossible to spot a tail. There were just too many people milling around, and at times he was shoulder to shoulder with shoppers. It was crazy, thought Donovan. It was the last place in the world he'd choose for a meeting.

  Suddenly there was a man standing in front of him. A face that Donovan recognised. A short man with thinning, sandy hair and a cocksure smile on his face.

  "Long time, no see, Donovan," said the man.

  "Gregg Hathaway," said Donovan, shaking his head.

  "Can't say this is a pleasant surprise."

  The two men stood with their feet shoulder-width apart, like boxers eyeing each other up at the weigh-in. People were having to flow around them like a river parting around rocks.

  Donovan moved his left hand forward, closer to Hathaway, but the detector on his belt stayed resolutely quiet. Hathaway's own left hand also moved and Donovan glanced down. He saw a thin strip of Velcro under the man's watchband and smiled.

  "State of the art," said Hathaway, smiling too.

  "The difference is, the taxpayer paid for mine."

  "Still with Customs, then?" asked Donovan. He edged a little closer to Hathaway and moved his hand again. No reaction from the bleeper. If Hathaway hadn't come wired, then what did he want? A chat about old times? They really were old times, because it had been more than ten years since Donovan had seen him.

  Hathaway patted his right knee.

  "N
ot much of a future for me in Customs and Excise after you put a bullet in my leg."

  "Sorry to hear that," said Donovan. He looked around. Was he about to be arrested, was that it? Had Hathaway brought him to Camden Market so that he could be grabbed in the crowd? There was certainly no way that Donovan could run, there were just too many people.

  "I'm here on my own, Donovan," said Hathaway. He was wearing a dark blue duffel coat with the hood up, brown trousers and brown, scuffed Timberland boots. He looked like a train spotter thought Donovan, and he blended perfectly into the crowds around him.

  "What's this about?"

  "Let's walk."

  Hathaway turned to his right and started walking towards the canal. Donovan went with him, trying to keep close to the man's side, but it was difficult with there being so many people. Donovan's detector vibrated and he jerked. He looked around. Hathaway was also looking left and right, a frown on his face. They both saw the man at the same time. Long hair, sallow complexion, tattered jeans and a camouflage combat jacket covered in badges. Donovan smiled and so did Hathaway as the same thought went through their minds. An undercover drugs officer. As easy to spot as a nun in a brothel. As the man walked away from them, their beepers stopped vibrating.

  Hathaway led Donovan through a shop-lined courtyard to a small coffee shop with several outside tables. Two American tourists were just leaving and Donovan and Hathaway grabbed their table. Hathaway ordered two coffees from a young waitress who had half her head shaved.

  All the other tables were occupied, so when Hathaway spoke it was in little more than a whisper.

  "You've done well over the years," he said.

  Donovan shrugged. He knew Hathaway wasn't bugged, but that didn't mean he was going to say anything that was even remotely incriminating. Donovan was there to listen, to find out what Hathaway wanted. He continued to scan the crowds for familiar body shapes and clothing, but he knew that it would be impossible to spot any watchers. There were just too many people.

  "Relax, I came alone, Donovan," said Hathaway.

  "I've as much to lose being seen talking with you as you have."

  "I'm just soaking up the atmosphere, Gregg," said Donovan.

  "Who are you with, then, if it's not Customs?"

  "A different bunch," said Hathaway.

  "People who don't mind so much that I can't run the hundred metres in twelve seconds any more."

  "What do you want, an apology? You should be grateful, mate. I've done a lot worse."

  "Oh, I know you have, Donovan. In some ways I got off lightly. I mean sure, I lost my job and my wife, but at least you didn't tie me to a chair and cut me to bits while you videotaped it."

  Their coffees arrived and the two men sat in silence until the waitress moved away again.

  "You've never cared about the rights and wrongs of drugs, have you?" asked Hathaway, keeping his voice low.

  "You said you had information about Sharkey. Or was that just to get me here?"

  Hathaway sipped his coffee. He grimaced.

  "This taste like real coffee to you? Tastes instant to me."

  "Coffee's coffee," said Donovan.

  "I'm interested in your thought processes, that's all. It's not that you don't have a sense of right and wrong, is it? You know the difference. You just don't care. Am I right?"

  Donovan leaned across the table towards Hathaway.

  "Does anyone really care?" he whispered.

  "I mean, really care. And at the end of the day, does it really matter?"

  Hathaway met Donovan's stare and shrugged.

  "I don't know. I think that's the question I'm asking myself "My mum was a good person," said Donovan.

  "Really good. Do anything for anybody. My father walked out on her when I was six. Just didn't come back from work one day. He was last seen at the bus station and that was it. Did she deserve it? Did she fuck. Few years later she met up with man number two, a right piece of work. Friday night recreation for him was getting pissed in the pub and then knocking her around. She never fought back, never shouted, just suffered in silence. You'd think he'd have mellowed, but it just made him worse. So did what goes around come around? Of course it didn't. She got cancer and died a horrible death. I still remember her screaming. He pissed off, and me and my sister were put in care. Do I know what's right and what's wrong? Damn right I do. Do I care?" Donovan smiled thinly and shook his head.

  "So what do you want, Gregg?

  "The morality of selling drugs isn't a problem for you, is it? That's rhetorical. No need for you to answer."

  "I know what rhetorical means, you patronising cripple."

  Hathaway looked genuinely hurt.

  "There's no need to be offensive, Donovan," he said.

  "I didn't mean to be patronising."

  "Fine, then I didn't mean to be offensive. Can we get on with whatever it is you want?"

  "I guess my point is that the whole moral status of what we both do is a very grey area. Always has been. Tobacco and alcohol kill millions more than drugs, but they're controlled by public companies so they're okay. Legitimate. You take the cocoa plant and make chocolate. That's legal. Extract cocaine and it's illegal. You take a naturally growing plant, dry the leaves, wrap them up in paper and sell them to millions. Legal. Take another plant, extract the sap, process it into something you can smoke, heroin, and that's illegal. No morality, just the powers that be making decisions about what people can and cannot do. But you understand that better than me, don't you?"

  "About drugs?"

  "About morality. You know none of it really matters, right? It's just a game. Someone else sets the rules, we choose which side we want to be on, and we play the game. I chase you. You try to get away. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. And at the end of the day there's never going to be a winner. The game just goes on, right?"

  Donovan shrugged.

  "Maybe," he said. He couldn't see where the conversation was going. He wanted to scream at Hathaway, to grab the man by the throat and shake him until he told him what it was he wanted.

  "See, it doesn't really matter which side you're on, does it? You choose your side then you play the game. It's like when we were kids. Didn't really matter if you were a cop or a robber. A cowboy or an Indian."

  "I'm going," said Donovan. He started to get to his feet, but Hathaway held up his hand.

  "I'm almost done," he said.

  Donovan sat down again.

  "I want you to understand what it is you taught me when you put that bullet in my leg all those years ago. You taught me that it doesn't matter which side you're on, all that matters is how you play the game. And for that, I want to shake your hand."

  Hathaway reached out his right hand. Donovan looked down at it, frowning. The fingernails were bitten to the quick. He slowly put out his own hand and shook. As their hands made contact he felt something hard in Hathaway's palm. Donovan realised it was a folded piece of paper. He tried to pull his hand away but Hathaway tightened his grip like a vice.

  "You're trying to set me up," hissed Donovan. That's what this had all been about. Hathaway was planting drugs on him. Donovan looked around frantically, expecting to see police closing in on him.

  "Don't be stupid, Donovan," soothed Hathaway.

  "Why would I plant a two-quid wrap on you? You deal in thousands of kilos. It's going to be all or nothing." He slowly shook Donovan's hand, then eased his grip. Donovan felt the paper pressing against his own palm.

  "Take it," said Hathaway.

  Donovan pulled his hand away. He opened the piece of paper. There was a typewritten address on it in capital letters. An address in the South of France.

  "Sharkey's there," said Hathaway softly.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Tracked his phone. Easy peasy when you work for the good guys. I know you have your ways, but our ways are more efficient. Unlimited resources, so long as you have access. And I've got access."

  "And what do you want? A dri
nk?"

  Hathaway looked scornfully at Donovan.

  "How much would you give me? A few grand. This isn't about a few grand. Besides, you seem to have forgotten that you're pretty much broke at the moment."

  "If it's not about a bung, then what is it about?" asked Donovan.

  Hathaway grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

  "Need to know, Donovan. All in good time. At the moment, just don't look this gift horse in the mouth. You go and get your money, then we'll talk again."

  Donovan looked at the address again.

  "Is she still with him?" he asked.

  "I gather so." Hathaway stood up, grunting as he put his weight on his right leg.

  "Bitch."

  "You've got to learn to live and let live," said Hathaway, rubbing his right knee.

  Donovan slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

  "Maybe next time we should meet at the National," said Hathaway.

  Donovan stiffened. He knew about his meeting with Louise?

  Hathaway smiled at his discomfort.

  "Word to the wise," he said.

  "You might be able to shake off the cops by whizzing around the Underground, but all we do is sit and watch you via a link to the Transport Police's CCTV control room. We don't need to put people down after you. We just watch you on TV and wait for you to surface." He threw Donovan a sloppy salute.

  "Catch you later, yeah?" Hathaway turned and walked away, dragging his right leg slightly. He edged into the shopping crowds and within seconds Donovan had lost sight of him.

  Stewart Sharkey pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes and waved at the waiter. He ordered an omelette and a cafe latte and a bottle of good wine in fluent French, then settled back and scanned the front page of Le Monde. He'd have preferred to have read one of the British tabloids, but it was important to maintain his cover. So far as anyone knew, he was French, a Parisian businessman taking a well-earned break from the heat of the capital. When he and Vicky were out, she had to keep her mouth shut, because even if she tried to speak French it was glaringly obvious that she was English. Meals outside the apartment were taken in silence unless there was no one within earshot, and even then conversation was limited to snatched whisperings. Frankly, Sharkey preferred to dine alone.