Tango One (12 page)

“Sure, boss,” said Doyle, momentarily confused by the sudden show of affection.

Donovan shook hands with the owner of the charter company, and then climbed into the back of the plane. The co-pilot closed the door and two minutes later they were in the air, climbing steeply over the beach and banking to the west. Donovan peered out of the window. Far below he could see the Mercedes heading back to the villa. Donovan flashed the car a thumbs-up.

“Be lucky, Barry,” he whispered. He settled back in the plush leather seat. It was a two-hour flight to Jamaica.

Marty Clare strained to lift the bar, breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow. A large Nigerian stood behind him, spotting for him, his hands only inches from the bar: this was Clare's third set, and he was lifting his personal best plus a kilo.

“Come on, man, one more,” the Nigerian urged.

Clare roared like an animal in pain, his face contorted into a snarl, his arms shaking, his knuckles white on the bar, then with a final explosion of air from his chest the bar was up and on its rests.

The Nigerian patted Clare on the back as he sat up.

“Good job.”

Clare grinned and took a swig from his water bottle.

A young, blond guard walked over to them. He was barely out of his teens, his pale blue uniform several sizes too big for him.

“Mr. Clare? Visitor for you.”

Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.

“I was going to shower,” he said.

“I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare,” said the guard.

The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language. There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.

Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.

He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed. The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.

“I could come back later if it's a bad time,” said the man.

Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the . face of an informer. A grass. The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.

“Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future.”

“And you would be?” asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.

“I would be the bearer of bad news,” said the man.

“A harbinger of doom.” He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.

“Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?” asked Clare.

“Indeed it would, Marty,” said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.

Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.

The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.

“I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into.”

Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.

“This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it.”

“Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty.”

Clare snorted.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison? There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison.”

“Got it all planned, haven't you?”

“A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life.”

Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.

Clare stood up.

“So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself ”The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.

“Like fuck.”

The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.

“So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator.”

“Bullshit.”

“Why would I make up something like that, Marty?”

Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.

“Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?”

“Sit down, Marty.”

Clare stood where he was.

“Sit the fuck down.”

Clare sat down slowly.

“One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey.”

“Says who?”

“Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment. One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey.”

Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.

The man smiled.

“Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?”

“You should know. You had someone undercover, right?”

“Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news.”

Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.

“The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States.”

“Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts ”jump“, we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees.”

“I'm Irish,” said Clare.

“Northern Irish,” said the man quietly.

“Not quite the same.”

“I'm an Irish resident.”

“Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States. That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?”

“That's not in my name. It's a company asset.”

“Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then.”

“This isn't fucking fair!” shouted Clare.

The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.

Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.

“I want a drink,” he said.

“Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness,” said the man.

“A drink of water,” said Clare.

The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.

“Why would you want the Americans to have me?” asked Clare.

“Who said I did?” asked the man.

“You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal prison.”

“Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty.”

“Nah, you've got an agenda,” said Clare.

“You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind.”

“If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?”

Clare's face tightened.

“So you have got someone on the inside?”

“Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood.”

There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.

“You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?”

Clare groaned.

“You are so transparent,” he said.

“You want me to grass, right?”

“Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel.”

“I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass.” Clare sipped his water.

“And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do.”

“I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step.”

“That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?”

Clare frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Lawyers. Money. Sort of go together like .. . well, like drug dealers and prison.”

Clare sniggered contemptuously at his visitor.

“What do you make in a year?” he asked.

“I get by.”

“You get by? You don't know what getting by is. Whatever you earn in a year, multiply it by a thousand and I've got more than that tucked away. Think about that, you sad fuck. You'd have to work for a thousand years to get the sort of money I've got.”

The man took a slow drink from his paper cup, then placed it carefully on the table.

“And that, Marty, brings me to my second order of business, as it were.”

Clare felt a chill in his stomach, suspecting that things were about to take a turn for the worse. He tried to keep smiling, but his mind was racing frantically, trying to work out what was coming next.

“Your money situation might not be quite as clear cut as you seem to think,” said the man.

“What the fuck do you know about my money situation?”

“More than you'd think, Marty.”

“Who the hell are you? And don't give me that bringer of bad news crap. You're a Brit, so you've no jurisdiction here. I don't have to talk to you.”

“Do you want me to go, Marty? Just say the word and I'll leave you to your weights and your porn channel until the men from the CAB pay you a visit. But by then it'll be too late.”

“What the hell would the CAB be wanting with me?”

“Take a wild guess.”

Clare took another drink from the paper cup. His hand was shaking and water slopped over his arm. He saw his visitor smirk at the show of emotion and Clare hurriedly put the cup down on the floor. The Criminal Assets Board was an Irish organisation, set up to track down the assets of criminals living in Ireland. Their initial brief had been to run drug dealers and other criminal undesirables out of the Irish Republic, and they had been so successful that their remit had been expanded to cover tax evaders and white-collar criminals. Their technique was simple they tracked down assets and put the onus on the owner of the assets to prove that they were acquired by legitimate means. Homes, land, money, bonds. And if the owner couldn't prove that the assets weren't connected to criminal activities, the CAB had the right to confiscate them.

“All my stuff in Ireland's legit,” Clare said.

“It's in your wife's name, if that's what you mean. But that's not quite the same as legit, is it? And what about the property development in Spain? And the villas in Portugal? You probably thought you were being really clever putting ownership in an Isle of Man exempt company, but CAB are wise to that.”

Clare swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again but he didn't want to pick up the paper cup. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue.

“They found your accounts in St. Vincent and they're homing in on your accounts in Luxembourg. Then there's your Sparbuch account. Do you know where the name comes from, by the way?”