Tango One (17 page)

Donovan walked around the ground floor and satisfied himself that none of the works of art had been taken. They were all where they should be. Pride of his collection were three Van Dyck pen and brown ink drawings, preparatory sketches the Dutch master had made for a huge canvas that was now hanging in the Louvre. They featured a mother and daughter, and Donovan had bought them shortly after Robbie was born.

Donovan walked slowly upstairs, his hand on the banister. He imagined Robbie doing the same. Hurrying back from school, then rushing upstairs to see his mother. Catching her in the act. Donovan couldn't imagine how Robbie must have felt. Donovan had never seen his mother kiss his father, much less seen them in any sexual situation. Sex wasn't something that parents did. To find his mother in bed with someone else must have ripped the heart out of Robbie's world. Donovan's lips tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist. He'd make sure Vicky paid for what she'd done. Sharkey, too.

He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The door to Vicky's wardrobe was open. There were lots of empty hangers inside and one of her suitcases was missing. Donovan went over to the bed. He stared at the sheet, picturing the two of them, Sharkey and his wife, screwing their brains out in his bed. Vicky had been a virgin when she'd met Donovan, and clung to her virginity for a full three months before surrendering it to him on her seventeenth birthday. They'd married a year later, and so far as Donovan knew, she'd been faithful to him throughout their marriage. He'd been her first and only lover, that's what she'd said. Usually affectionately, though occasionally, when she suspected that he'd been playing around, she'd thrown it in his face like an accusation. However, he'd never doubted that she'd been true to him, that he was the only man who'd ever taken her. Until Sharkey.

Donovan picked up the quilt and threw it on to the bed. Maybe Sharkey hadn't been her first affair. Maybe there'd been others. Maybe she'd been screwing around behind his back for years. He felt his heart start to pound and he kicked the bed, hard, cursing her for her betrayal. He walked around the upper floor of the house, checking the bedrooms but not really sure what he was looking for. It was more territorial; it was his house and he wanted to pace out every inch of it. He'd sell it, of course. Soon as he could. He wanted nothing more to do with it. It was tainted. He hated the place, he didn't want to spend a minute longer there.

He went back downstairs, reset the alarm and let himself out through the back door. The security light came on, blasting the patio with stark halogen whiteness. Donovan pulled on his baseball cap and hurried off across the grass.

He unlocked the gate leading out of the garden, checked that there was no one around, then slipped through the relocked it. He put his head down and his hands in his pockets and walked briskly along the pavement.

As he walked past a dark saloon he heard a car door open. Donovan tensed. He'd been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed anyone sitting in any of the parked cars. He took a quick look over his shoulder. A large man in a heavy overcoat was walking around to the boot of his car, jingling his keys.

Donovan turned away and walked faster. Two men were walking along the pavement purposefully towards him. They were big men, too, as big as the man who was opening the car boot behind him. Donovan stepped off the pavement but they were too quick for him. One grabbed him by the arm with shovel-like hands and the other pulled out something from his coat pocket, raised his arm and brought it crashing down on the side of Donovan's head. Everything went red, then black, and Donovan was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Donovan had bitten the inside of his mouth when he was hit and he could taste blood as he slowly regained consciousness. The left-hand side of his head throbbed and he was having trouble breathing. The room was spinning around him and Donovan blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It didn't do any good, everything was still revolving. Then he realised it wasn't the room that was spinning. It was him.

He'd been suspended by his feet from a metal girder with rope, and his hands had been tied behind him. His jacket was bunched around his shoulders and he could see his socks and the bare skin of his shins. His nose felt blocked and his eyes were hurting and he had a piercing headache. He'd obviously been hanging upside down for a long time. He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm.

Two pairs of legs span into view. Dark brown shoes. Grey trousers. Black coats. Then they were gone. Machinery. A dark saloon car. Welding cylinders. A jack. A calendar with a naked blonde with impossibly large breasts. A workbench. Then the legs again. Donovan craned his neck but he couldn't see their faces.

One of the men said something in Spanish but Donovan didn't catch what it was. He knew who they were, though. Colombians. He coughed and spat out more blood.

He heard footsteps and a third pair of legs walked up.

“Hola, hombre,” said a voice.

"Que pa saT Donovan twisted around, trying to get a look at the man who'd spoken. It took his confused brain several seconds to process the visual information.

A short, thickset man in his mid twenties. Powerful arms from years of lifting weights. A neat goatee beard. It was Jesus Rodriguez, Carlos Rodriguez's nephew and a borderline psychopath. Donovan had seen him several times in Carlos Rodriguez's entourage but had never spoken to the man. He'd heard the rumours, though. Ears cut off. Prostitutes scarred for life. Bodies dumped at sea, still alive and attached to anchors.

“Oh, just hanging around,” said Donovan, trying to sound confident even though he knew that if the Colombian had just wanted a chat he wouldn't have had him picked up and suspended from the ceiling. And the fact that Doyle hadn't called him to warn him about the Colombians meant that he probably wasn't able to.

“You should have let me know you were coming.”

“Where's my uncle's money, Donovan?” said Rodriguez.

Donovan stopped turning. The rope had twisted as far as it would go. He was facing away from the Colombian and all he could see was the black saloon. Its boot was open. That was how they'd got him to the garage. And if things didn't go well, it was probably how he'd leave.

“Somebody borrowed it,” said Donovan.

“Well, amigo, I hope they're paying you a good rate of interest, because that loan is going to cost you your life.”

“I didn't steal your money, Jesus,” said Donovan. The rope began to untwist and Donovan revolved slowly.

“So where is our ten million dollars?”

“I'm not sure.”

“That's not the answer I'm looking for, capullo.”

Donovan heard metal scraping and a liquid sloshing sound. Something being unscrewed. More sloshing. A strong smell of petrol. Then the three pairs of legs swung into view. One of the men was holding a red petrol can.

Donovan's insides lurched.

“Look, Jesus, I haven't got your money.”

The man with the can started splashing it over Donovan's legs. Donovan began to shiver uncontrollably. His conscious mind, his intelligence, told him that Rodriguez wouldn't kill him while there was a chance that he'd get his money, but he'd heard enough horror stories about the man to know how irrational he could be, especially when he'd taken cocaine. Rodriguez was a user as well as a supplier, and when he was using he was a nasty piece of work.

“If you haven't got my uncle's money, then there's nothing for us to talk about, is there?”

“I've been ripped off. By my accountant.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“Wrong answer.”

More petrol was slopped over Donovan's legs. It dripped down his chest and dribbled into his nose, stinging so badly that his eyes watered. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, hoping that the Colombian wouldn't think he was crying.

“I'm looking for him. For God's sake, Jesus, he's ripped off sixty million fucking dollars.”

“Of which ten million is my uncle's.”

“If I had the money, I'd have given it to him. You think I don't know what happens to people who don't pay your uncle?”

“If you didn't, you're about to find out.”

The man with the red can poured the last of the petrol down Donovan's back. It trickled down the back of his neck and dribbled through his hair. The fumes made him gag and he felt as if he would pass out again.

"Why did you run, capullo?

“Because I knew if I didn't pay, this would happen.”

Rodriguez snorted.

“You thought you'd be safe in London, did you?”

“No, but I thought if I could get enough time, I might be able to get the bastard. Get the money back.”

Rodriguez folded his arms and studied Donovan.

“And how were you planning to do that?” he asked.

Donovan forced a smile.

“I thought I might hang him upside down and pour petrol over him. See if that works.”

Rodriguez stared at Donovan with cold eyes, then a smile slowly spread across his face. He threw back his head and laughed. His two companions stood watching Rodriguez laugh as if they didn't understand what was funny. Rodriguez wiped his eyes and shook his head.

“You English, you always keep your sense of humour, no matter what. What's the expression you have? To die laughing?”

“Killing me won't get your uncle's money back, Jesus. That's the one true thing in this situation.”

Rodriguez reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold cigarette lighter. Petrol was pooling on the floor below Donovan's head. Rodriguez crouched down and steadied Donovan with a gloved hand. He looked into his eyes.

“Don't underestimate the fear factor, amigo,” he said.

“This will be a lesson to everyone else. Fuck with the Rodriguez family and you'll burn in hell.” He patted Donovan on the face, then straightened up.

Donovan panicked.

“For God's sake, Jesus, I've got money. I can pay you some of it.”

“How much?”

“I don't know.”

“Wrong answer, capullo.” Rodriguez raised his hand and clicked the lighter.

Donovan twisted around, thrashing from side to side.

“Jesus, for fuck's sake, stop it.”

“How much?”

“Give me a minute. Let me think. Let me bloody think!”

Rodriguez clicked the top down on the lighter.

“One minute. Then it's barbecue time.” He took a step back and watched as Donovan slowly twisted in the air.

“I've got two Sparbuch passbooks. That's a million and half bucks.”

Rodriguez frowned.

“What's a Sparbuch?”

Donovan cleared his throat and coughed up more bloody phlegm.

“Jesus, I'm choking here. Cut me down, yeah?”

“What is a Sparbuch?” repeated Rodriguez. He clicked the lighter open.

“It's a bank account,” said Donovan hurriedly.

“They're for accounts in Czechoslovakia. The ones I've got are in US dollars.”

“Fine. So give me the money.”

“I don't have the money, I have the passbooks. The money is in Czechoslovakia.”

“So transfer the money.”

“It's not as easy as that. They're bearer passbooks. Whoever has the passbooks and the passwords has the account. You have to show the passbook to get the money. They won't do electronic transfers.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” said Rodriguez. He flicked the lighter again.

“Me cargo en tus muertos.” I shit on your dead. As bad a curse as there was in Spanish.

“Look, talk to your uncle!” said Donovan hurriedly.

“I'm offering you money here. Kill me and you get nothing. He's going to be really pissed at you if he finds out afterwards that I was going to pay him, right?”

“My uncle has left this up to me, capullo.”

“Right. Fine. So make an executive decision here. Call him and tell him I've got a million and half dollars for him. Use your cell phone, come on.”

Rodriguez studied Donovan with emotionless brown eyes, then nodded slowly. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number. He kept staring at Donovan, then said something in Spanish. Donovan kept hearing the word 'capullo'. Prick. Rodriguez listened, then nodded, then spoke some more. Donovan's Spanish was good but not fluent, and a lot of what Jesus was saying was slang. Gutter Spanish. However, he mentioned the word "Sparbuch' several times.

Rodriguez walked over to Donovan.

“He wants to talk to you.”

Rodriguez thrust the phone against the side of Donovan's head.

“What's this about Sparbuch accounts?” asked Carlos Rodriguez.

“Everyone uses them in Europe, Carlos. They're better than cash. It's clean money, it's in the fucking bank, for God's sake.”

“But if I want the cash, I have to go to Czechoslovakia?”

“It's a three-hour flight. It's no big deal. But they're better than cash. You owe someone, you give them the passbook and the password.”

There was a long silence and for a moment Donovan thought the connection had been cut.

“Carlos? Are you there?”

“Where are these passbooks?”

“In my hotel.”

“That still leaves you eight and a half million dollars short.”

“Paintings,” said Donovan.

“I have paintings in the house. Three million dollars' worth.”

“What good are paintings to me?”

“You can sell them. Three million, easy.”

“I'm not an art dealer, amigo.”

“Bloody hell, Carlos, work with me on this, will you? With the paintings and the passbooks, I've got almost five million dollars.”

“Which is only half what you owe me. The man who ripped you off. Who is he?”

“My accountant. Sharkey, his name is.”

“And you gave this man access to your accounts.” Rodriguez chuckled.

“I didn't think you were that stupid, amigo.”

“He had help,” said Donovan. He was starting to relax a little. At least the Colombian was talking, and so long as he was talking Donovan had a chance.

“Ah yes. Your wife,” said Rodriguez.

“So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?”

The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering. Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.