Tango One (22 page)

“Shouldn't be a problem.”

“I showed Jamie your inventory,” said Goldman.

“He's spoken to several potential buyers already.”

“I hope you don't mind, Mr. Donovan,” said Fullerton.

“Den,” he said, correcting himself with an embarrassed smile.

“I thought that with the time pressure, you'd want me to hit the ground running.”

“No sweat,” said Donovan.

“Have you had any feedback?”

“Some of them I can sell for you today, but the others I'm going to have to show. Can I bring people around here to see them?”

“I'd rather not,” said Donovan.

“With respect to your clients, I don't want strangers traipsing around my house. Plus, I'd rather not have people know where they've come from.”

Fullerton smiled easily.

“I understand that, but the alternative is to let me walk out of here with two million quid's worth of fine art. If you're okay with that .. .”

Donovan looked at Fullerton, trying to get the measure of the man. He had an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance and he looked at Donovan with his chin slightly raised, almost as if he were spoiling for a fight. There was also an amused look in his eyes, though, as if he were taking a secret pleasure in suggesting that he bring strangers into Donovan's home. There was something about his smile that reminded Donovan of a shark. He was a good-looking guy and Donovan was sure that Jamie Fullerton had broken his fair share of hearts.

“I'm not sure I'd be keen on that, either,” said Donovan.

“How about we move them to my gallery?” asked Goldman.

“My insurance'll cover them. Anyone interested can come and see them there.”

Donovan nodded.

“That sounds good, Maury. Thanks.” He raised his coffee mug in salute.

“I don't want to talk out of turn, but have you considered the insurance option?” asked Fullerton quietly.

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

“In what way?”

Fullerton grimaced, as if he were having second thoughts about what he was about to suggest.

“Come on, Jamie,” said Donovan.

“Spit it out.”

“It's obvious, isn't it?” said Fullerton.

“They're insured, right? Why put them on the market? You must know people.”

“Must I?” said Donovan coldly.

Fullerton looked uncomfortable. Goldman was pointedly avoiding looking at either of them and was concentrating on a spot somewhere above the wine rack.

“If you don't, I do,” Fullerton said.

“They break in, take the paintings, you claim on the insurance and a few years down the line you get them back, ten pence in the pound.”

Goldman winced but carried on staring at the wall as if his life depended on it.

“You do know who I am, Jamie?”

“Sure.”

“Are you sure you're sure? Because if you know who I am, how do you think the filth would react if they heard that I'd been robbed? First of all, they'd love to get inside my house without a warrant. Second of all, don't you think they'd move heaven and earth to prove that it was an insurance job?”

Fullerton shifted in his seat.

“Stupid idea. Sorry.”

Donovan smiled.

“Nah, at least you're thinking creatively. Under other circumstances it might have been a goer, but the way things are at the moment, I've got to keep the lowest of low profiles. I want them sold legit, and I want cash.”

Goldman tore his attention away from the wall.

“Cash cash?” he asked.

“As good as,” said Donovan.

“Banker's draft. Tomorrow.”

“That's tight,” said Fullerton.

“That's the way it's got to be,” said Donovan.

“Made out to you?”

“Made out to cash.”

“Banks aren't over happy about making drafts out to cash,” said Fullerton.

“Fuck the banks,” said Donovan.

“It's a fair point, Den,” said Goldman.

“It might slow things up.”

Donovan pursed his lips and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get a headache again.

“Okay,” he said eventually.

“Get the drafts made out to Carlos Rodriguez.” He spelled out the surname.

“And you want the drafts?” asked Fullerton.

“Yeah. Maybe. Talk to me once you've got them, right?”

“Individual drafts from each sale would be the quickest way,” said Fullerton.

“Is that okay?”

“So long as the total's more than two million quid, Jamie, I'll be a happy bunny.”

Goldman took out a leather cigar case and held it up.

“Okay if I smoke?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Donovan.

“They're your lungs.”

Goldman offered the case to Fullerton, but he shook his head and drank his coffee. Goldman took out a cigar and sniffed it appreciatively.

“One other thing,” said Fullerton, 'and please don't take this the wrong way, Den. Provenance is okay, yeah?"

Donovan smiled tightly.

“Goldman said you weren't over concerned about provenance.”

Fullerton flashed Goldman an annoyed look and Goldman focused all his attention on cutting the end off his cigar and lighting it with a match.

“Well, thanks for the character reference, Maury.”

Goldman pretended not to hear. Fullerton looked back at Donovan and shrugged carelessly.

“Frankly, some of the people I sell to couldn't care less where the paintings come from, so long as the provenance is reflected in the price, that's all. But they might be a bit miffed if they pay top whack for a painting then find out it's got to stay in a locked basement.”

Donovan nodded.

“They're all kosher, Jamie. Maury here can vouch for that.”

Goldman nodded enthusiastically but kept looking at his cigar.

“All the money was well clean by the time it went through Maury's books.” He grinned.

“I had a team of Smurfs working flat out for a month for the Rembrandt in the master bedroom.”

“Smurfs?”

Donovan grinned.

“Another time, Jamie. Just take my word for it, the paintings are clean. Bought and paid for.”

“That's all I need to know, Den. I'm on the case.” He stood up.

“Okay if I start loading the smaller paintings into Maury's car?”

“Sure, I'll give you a hand.”

“We'll send a van for the larger works,” said Goldman. He waved his cigar at Fullerton.

“Take extra care with the Van Dycks, they're spoken for.”

“Can you get the van here this morning?” asked Donovan.

“I'm up to my eyes this afternoon.”

Goldman winked and pulled a tiny Nokia mobile from his jacket pocket. It looked minuscule as he held it against his jowly face.

“Office,” he shouted. He smiled at Donovan.

“Voice-activated dialling. New technology, huh?” He frowned and said "Office' again, louder this time. His frown deepened and then he cursed and tapped in the number.

Donovan jerked his thumb towards the stairs.

“Come and look at the Rembrandt,” he said to Fullerton.

“It's not my favourite piece, but it should fetch the most. Maury talked me into it, said it'd be a great investment. He's a Philistine, but you can't fault his business sense.”

Fullerton followed Donovan upstairs. The Rembrandt drawing was in an ornate gilt frame to the left of the door, positioned so that Donovan could see it while he was lying in bed. Fullerton whistled softly.

“Nice,” he said. He stood back from the picture and stared at it in silence for almost a full minute. It was of a small child reaching for an apple. A boy, but with long hair and an angelic, almost feminine face. The boy was looking around as if he feared being caught taking the fruit, but he was too well dressed to be a beggar or a thief. He was the son of nobility, so maybe the theft was greed. Or a lark.

“Just look at the hand,” said Fullerton.

“You can see the corrections, he must have worked on it for hours.” He moved to the side to get a slightly different view.

“Quill and reed pen with a brown ink,” he said.

“A very similar drawing went for almost three hundred grand at Sotheby's in New York a couple of years ago. That was an old man kids always fetch higher prices.”

“You're as much a Philistine as Maury,” laughed Donovan.

“I'm not saying it's not a great work, I'm just saying it's a very saleable piece. Which is why you bought it, yeah?”

“Can't argue with that, Jamie.”

“I don't think I'll have a problem placing it,” said Fullerton.

“I know a couple of guys with cash that want to put it into art.”

“Clean money?”

Fullerton flashed his shark-like smile again.

“It will be by the time you get it, Den.”

Donovan took the Rembrandt drawing down off the wall and placed it on the bed. He went into the bathroom and pulled a pale blue hand towel off the heated rail and tossed it to Fullerton.

Fullerton carefully wrapped the drawing in the towel.

“Can I ask you something, Den?”

“Anything so long as it's not geography,” said Donovan.

“I hate geography.”

“You've got a decent security system, but weren't you taking a risk, having them on show?”

“It's not like I advertised them,” said Donovan.

“And most opportunistic break-ins are druggies looking for a video or a CD player. They wouldn't recognise a Rembrandt if it bit them on the arse.” He nodded at the drawing that Fullerton was wrapping.

“Even my wife didn't know what that was worth. A scribble, she called it.”

“You didn't tell her what it was?”

Donovan shrugged.

“Vicky had a stack of interests, but art was never one of them. I tried to take her to galleries and stuff but it bored her rigid. More interested in Gucci than Goya.”

Fullerton picked up the Rembrandt.

“Can I see the Butters-worths?”

“Sure.” Donovan took Fullerton down to the study.

Fullerton put the Rembrandt on the desk and studied the painting that covered the wall safe.

“Brilliant,” he said.

“You know about Buttersworth?” said Donovan.

“Did a thesis on nineteenth-century American painters, believe it or not, and I always had a penchant for maritime artists. Look at that sunset, would you? More than a hundred and thirty years ago he painted that. We're getting the same view today that he had then. It's like we're seeing something through his eyes, isn't it, something that's been gone for more than a century. Awesome. Look at the skyline there, New York as it was back then. And just look at the detail in the clouds.” He turned to look at Donovan.

“And you use it to hide a safe. Who's the Philistine now?”

Donovan's jaw dropped.

“How the hell did you know that?”

Fullerton grinned and walked over to the frame. He pointed to the wall to the left of the gilded frame.

“See the indentations there?”

Donovan moved closer and peered at where Fullerton was pointing. He was right, there was a line of small marks where the frame had been pressing against the wall when it was swung away from the safe.

“You've got a good eye,” said Donovan.

“A thiefs eye,” laughed Fullerton.

“But don't worry, Den, your secret's safe with me.”

“Bloody thing's empty anyway,” said Donovan.

Fullerton went over to look at the second Buttersworth.

“I think I know just the man to buy these,” he said.

“A corporate finance chap over at Citibank. He's got a bonus cheque eating a hole in his pocket and he's mad about boats. I'm sure he'll jump at them.” He turned and grinned confidently.

“This is going to be a piece of cake, Den. Take my word for it.”

Jamie Fullerton opened the metal gates with his remote control and drove his black Porsche into the underground car park. He was grinning as he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse. Three years he'd been waiting to meet Den Donovan, and he'd finally been handed the man on a plate. He couldn't believe his luck. He shook his head. No, it hadn't been luck. He'd been in the right place at the right time, and that had been down to planning, not chance. He'd put a lot of time and effort into cultivating Maury Goldman, once he'd found out that Goldman had been Donovan's art dealer of choice. There'd been other dealers, too. And other contacts. All friends and acquaintances of Donovan, all possible leads to the man himself. And it had worked. He'd been in the man's house. Shaken hands with him. Hell, Den Donovan had actually made him coffee.

Fullerton unlocked his front door and walked through to the kitchen, all polished stainless steel and gleaming white tiles. He opened the fridge and took out a chilled bottle of Bollinger champagne. He picked up a fluted glass and went out on to his terrace which overlooked the fast-flowing Thames. He popped the cork, filled the glass, then toasted himself. His grin widened.

“Onwards and upwards, Fullerton,” he said, then drank deeply. He felt elated, almost light headed. He was in. He was part of Den Donovan's circle. He'd met the man, talked to the man, joked with him. He was in close, and already Donovan was trusting him.

Fullerton went back inside his apartment. He walked along a white-painted corridor to his study with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sat down in front of his computer. He switched on the machine and flexed his fingers like a concert pianist preparing to perform. While the machine booted up he sipped at his champagne.

He logged on to the Safe Web site and then switched through to the website that Hathaway had assigned to him three years earlier. Hathaway had warned Fullerton about using his own computer, but Fullerton had grown tired of using internet cafes to file his reports. He'd made the decision to use his own machine, though he religiously deleted all incriminating files after each session. Fullerton grinned and started typing.

Gregg Hathaway's office was just five miles away from Jamie Fullerton's penthouse apartment, in the hi-tech cream and green headquarters of Mi 6, the Secret Intelligence Service, at Vauxhall Bridge on the south bank of the Thames. Unlike Fullerton, Hathaway didn't have a river view his office was four floors underground. Hathaway preferred to be underground. A view was a distraction that he could do without.

Hathaway sat back in his chair as he scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing feeling of excitement. Over the years Fullerton had supplied him with increasingly useful intelligence which had helped put more than a dozen top London criminals behind bars, and Hathaway had recommended that Fullerton be promoted to sergeant. What Hathaway read on his screen now was pure gold, though, and it made his pulse race. Dennis Donovan was back in the UK. And was involved with Carlos Rodriguez. Rodriguez was a name that Hathaway was familiar with, a major Colombian player who was high up on the DEA's most wanted list. If they could tie Donovan and Rodriguez together, Donovan could be sent down for a long, long time.

Donovan had to wait almost two hours in the Passport Office before his number flashed up on the overhead digital read-out. He went to the booth indicated, where a bored Asian woman in her late forties flashed him a cold smile.

“I need a replacement passport for my son,” said Donovan. He slipped a completed application form through the metal slot under the armoured glass window.

The woman picked up the application form and flicked through it.

“You say replacement? What happened to the original?”

“He lost it,” said Donovan.

“Did you report the loss?”

“I thought that's what I was doing now.”

The woman gave him another cold smile, then went back to reading the form.

“Was it stolen?”

“I really don't know.”

“Because if it was stolen, you have to report the loss to the police.”

“I'm pretty sure it wasn't stolen,” said Donovan.

The woman looked at the two photographs that Donovan had clipped to the application form.

“We have to be sure,” said the woman.

“I'm sure it's missing,” said Donovan, struggling to stay calm.

He was beginning to understand why they needed the armoured glass.

“If it's missing, you'll have to supply your son's birth certificate. And have the photographs signed by his doctor. Or your minister.”

“I just want a replacement,” said Donovan.

“You have his details on file already, don't you?”

The woman pushed the form back through the metal slot.

“Those are the rules,” she said.

“If you're not able to supply the passport, we'll need a birth certificate and signed photographs.”

Donovan glared at the woman. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw the CCTV camera staring down at him. The silent witness. He smiled at the woman and picked up the form.

“You have a nice day,” he said, and walked away. Over his head, the digital read-out clicked over to a new number.

Gregg Hathaway walked slowly along Victoria Embankment. His right knee was hurting, had been since he woke up. On the far side of the Thames, the Millennium Eye slowly turned, every capsule on the giant Ferris wheel packed with tourists. Hathaway stood and watched the wheel for a while and wondered what it must be like to see London as a tourist. The buildings, the history, the exhibitions. The Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, Madame Tussaud's.

Hathaway's London was different. Darker. More threatening. Hathaway's London was a city of criminals, of terrorists and drug dealers, of subversives, of men and women who scorned society's laws and instead played by their own rules. Den Donovan was such a man, and the only way he was ever going to be brought down was if Hathaway played Donovan at his own game. Hathaway knew that he was taking a huge risk. Even MI6 had its own rules and regulations, and what Hathaway was doing went well beyond his remit. In Hathaway's mind the end most definitely justified the means, but he doubted that his masters would see it that way.

He turned away from the wheel and sat down on a wooden bench. The river flowed by, grey and forbidding. A sightseeing boat chugged eastwards. More tourists. Cameras clicking, children eating ice cream, pensioners in floppy hats and shorts.

“Nice day for it,” said a voice behind Hathaway.

Hathaway didn't turn around. He'd been expecting the man. A detective inspector working out of Bow Street Police Station whom Hathaway used from time to time. It was a symbiotic relationship that served both men well. Hathaway had an undetectable conduit into the Met; the inspector received information that made him look good. Plus occasional cash payments from the MI6 informers' fund.

The detective sat down next to Hathaway and crossed his legs at the ankles. He wore a charcoal-grey suit and scuffed Hush Puppies. His tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was in his late thirties but looked older, with frown lines etched in his forehead and deep crow's feet around his eyes.

“So how's life?” he asked Hathaway jovially.

“Same old,” said Hathaway.

The detective took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Hathaway. Hathaway shook his head. The detective knew that Hathaway had given up smoking, but every time they met, he'd offer him a cigarette none the less.

The detective lit one with a disposable lighter and blew smoke towards the river, waiting for Hathaway to speak.

“Den Donovan is back,” he said.

The detective raised one eyebrow.

“Bloody hell.”

“He's in London. I've checked with Immigration and there's no record of him coming in, but he's got more identities than Rory Bremner.”

“Your source?”

Hathaway tutted in disgust.

“Worth a try,” grinned the detective.

“Where is he?”

“Not sure, lying low at the moment. He's going to have to pop his head above the parapet fairly soon, though. Money problems.”

“Den Donovan? He's worth millions.”

“Take it from me, he's got cash flow problems. He's selling his art collection. He's already cleared his paintings out of his Kensington house.”

“I know it,” said the detective.

“Is Six going to be looking at him?”

“Not yet.”

“Customs?”

“You've got this to yourself, but I wouldn't expect the Cussies or Six to stand by once they know he's back.”

“And it's because of his money problems that he's here?”

“So far as I know. He was in to see Maury Goldman, the dodgy art dealer in Mayfair. If I get more, I'll give you a call.” Hathaway stood up and winced as he put his weight on his painful leg. The detective didn't notice: he was too preoccupied with how he was going to break the news to his boss.

Hathaway walked away, back towards Vauxhall Bridge. He had no qualms about setting the police on Donovan. He must have known that the moment he set foot back on UK territory he'd be a marked man, and if there'd been no surveillance he'd have been suspicious. This way at least Hathaway would be able to exert some control on the operation.

Donovan lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd tried to get a new birth certificate for Robbie but had been told that it would be at least seventy-two hours. Donovan had phoned the German in Anguilla but the German had said that passports for children weren't something he had in stock and that it would take at least a week to get the necessary documentation together. He could make up a counterfeit within a day but warned that even though his counterfeits were good, he couldn't be held responsible if something went wrong. It wasn't a risk that Donovan was prepared to take. Donovan's plan had been to get a replacement passport for Robbie and take him to Anguilla while he worked out what he was going to do next. There was no way he was going to leave without his son, so he had no choice other than to wait it out in London. With Marty Clare out of the picture, Donovan was in the clear investigation-wise, so there was nothing to stop him moving back into the house with Robbie. The police and Customs would put him under the microscope as soon as they discovered he was back, but Donovan wasn't planning on doing anything in the least bit criminal. He could check out of the hotel, get Robbie back from Laura, and start playing the father.

One of his mobiles rang and Donovan rolled over on to his stomach. It was the mobile that Fullerton and Goldman were to use once they had news of the paintings. Donovan pressed the phone to his ear and lay on his back. It was Fullerton.

“Good news, Den,” said Fullerton.

“I could do with some,” said Donovan.

“That Citibank guy creamed himself over the Buttersworths. I got him to go to seven hundred and fifty. He practically forced the banker's draft on me.”

Donovan sat up. That's good going, Jamie." Donovan had only been expecting half a million dollars for the two paintings.

“That's just the start,” said Fullerton excitedly.

“The Rembrandt. Guess what I got for the Rembrandt?”

“Jamie, I don't want to start playing games here. Just tell me.”

“Eight hundred grand.”

“Dollars?”

“Pounds, Den. Fucking pounds.”

“Bloody hell.” That was well above what Donovan had been hoping for.

“Yeah, tell me about it. The guy's a bit shady, I have to say, but his money's good.”

“You're sure?”

“Sure I'm sure. Besides, he's going to make his draft out to me and I'll get a draft drawn off my account. We'll have it sorted by tomorrow.”

Donovan ran through the numbers. Eight hundred thousand for the Rembrandt drawing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was about half a million quid. Plus Goldman had promised two hundred thousand pounds for the Van Dycks. So far he had one and a half million pounds. He sighed with relief. At least he was close to getting the Colombian off his back.

“That's brilliant work, Jamie. Thanks.”

“I'm pretty close to selling a couple of others, too. I'm seeing a guy this evening who's looking to invest in stuff and doesn't care over much what he buys so long as it goes up in price.”

“An art-lover, huh?” said Donovan.

“Don't knock it. It's the investors who keep the market rising. If we had to depend on people who actually liked art, you'd still be able to pick up a Picasso for five grand.”

Donovan sighed. He knew that Fullerton was right, but even so, his heart sank at the thought of his lovingly acquired collection being split up and stored away in vaults as an investment.

“Shall I bring you the drafts tomorrow?”

Donovan hesitated. He didn't want to see Rodriguez again, not in the UK, but the drafts had to be hand delivered.

“Den? You there?”

Donovan reached a decision. Fullerton had done a great job in selling the paintings so quickly, and Goldman had said that he had known Fullerton for three years and that he could be trusted.

“Can you do me a favour, Jamie?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Fullerton.

“Anything.”

He sounded eager to please and Donovan wondered how much Goldman had told Fullerton.

“This guy the drafts are made out to. Carlos Rodriguez. I need them delivered. Can you handle that for me?”

“No problem, Den.”

“There's a guy called Jesus Rodriguez staying at the Intercontinental near Hyde Park. He's the nephew of the guy the money's to go to. Can you give them to him in person? Don't just leave them at Reception, yeah? In his hand.”

Fullerton laughed.

“Shall I ask him for a receipt?”

“Yeah, and count your fingers after you shake hands with him,” said Donovan.

“Seriously, Jamie. Jesus Rodriguez is a tough son of a bitch. Don't take any liberties with him.”

“Understood.”

“Second thing. He's expecting two million quid. There's the two hundred grand that Goldman's paying me for the sketches, so I need one point eight mill from you. Anything above that, keep for me, okay? Minus your usual fee, of course.”

“No problem. Pleasure doing business with you, Den. I mean that. If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate, okay?”

Donovan thanked him and cut the connection. He tossed the phone on to the bed and went into the bathroom to splash water on to his face. Jamie Fullerton was proving to be a godsend. At least something was starting to go right.

Gregg Hathaway leaned back in his seat and stared at the message on his VDU. It was from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway would have preferred Donovan to have taken the money to the hotel, but the fact that Donovan had trusted Fullerton with it was a major breakthrough. It was a direct link between Donovan and one of South America's biggest drug dealers. There was a second terminal to Hathaway's left and he twisted around and tapped on the keyboard. The terminal gave Hathaway direct access to the DEA's database.