Tango One (23 page)

He tapped in Rodriguez's name and after a few seconds the Colombian's face appeared. Rodriguez was forty-seven. He'd been born to a wealthy farming family, one of six brothers. Well educated, he spoke five languages and was close to many politicians and businessmen in Colombia, many of whom the DEA suspected of being involved in the drugs trade. Rodriguez had started out working for the Mendoza syndicate but had soon struck out on his own. According to the DEA, Rodriguez was responsible for smuggling cocaine worth more than four hundred million dollars a year into the United States, primarily via Mexico, and was also a major cannabis exporter.

Jesus Rodriguez was the son of Carlos Rodriguez's younger brother and was one of the organisation's hard men, responsible for at least a dozen brutal murders in the Caribbean. According to the DEA report, Jesus Rodriguez was borderline psychopathic and an habitual cocaine user. Hathaway scrolled down through the report. There was no mention of Rodriguez sending drugs to Europe. He smiled to himself. It would do him no harm at all to bring the DEA up to speed. But not just yet. More than a dozen DEA agents worked out of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and he didn't want them getting all hot and bothered about the Colombian before Fullerton had delivered the money.

Hathaway picked up a plastic cup of strong black coffee and sipped it. It was all starting to come together. It had been a year in the planning and three years in the execution, but there were just a few more pieces that had to be put into position before he was ready for the end game.

Jamie Fullerton pounded down the pavement towards his apartment block. He'd run a seven-mile circuit, much of it alongside the Thames, but he had barely worked up a sweat. He was so pumped up with adrenalin he felt as if he could run another circuit, but he had work to do.

He jogged into the reception area of the block and winked at the uniformed security guard who sat in front of a bank of CCTV screens.

“Hiya, George.”

“Morning, Mr. Fullerton. Great day.”

“And getting better by the minute,” said Fullerton. He jogged into the lift and ran on the spot as it climbed up to the top floor.

The message light on his answering machine was winking and he hit the 'play' button. He dropped down and did fast-paced press-ups as he listened to the message. It was a property developer in Hampstead who had seen four of Donovan's paintings the previous evening and had wanted to sleep on it. Fullerton had sold the man more than a dozen works of art in the past, so had been happy to leave the paintings with him while he made up his mind. It had been a wise decision the property developer had decided to go ahead and buy them and wanted Fullerton to call around to his home to pick up a bank draft for half a million pounds. Fullerton punched the air in triumph.

He went over to his dining table, a glass and chrome oval that could seat a dozen people. Three bank drafts were lined up next to a modern silver candelabra. The top draft was drawn on Fullerton's own bank. Eight hundred thousand pounds. The buyer of Donovan's Rembrandt had given Fullerton a cheque for the full amount and Fullerton had had it express cleared. Fullerton hadn't told Donovan the identity of the buyer of the Rembrandt, because it might have made him nervous. Like Donovan, the buyer was a major drug dealer, bringing in tens of thousands of ecstasy tablets from Holland every month. He had stacks of cash that he needed laundering, and art was an easy way of cleaning dirty money. Fullerton picked up the draft and held it to his nose, wondering what eight hundred thousand pounds smelt like. It smelt like paper.

The two other drafts were from Goldman and the buyer of the Buttersworth yacht paintings. In the space of eighteen hours Donovan had raised two million pounds, a reflection of the quality of the collection.

Donovan was clearly attached to his art and Fullerton couldn't work out why he was so desperate to sell. According to Goldman, Donovan was worth tens of millions of dollars. Then there was the fact that the drafts had to be made out to the mysterious Mr. Rodriguez. Fullerton had asked Hathaway for information on Carlos Rodriguez and his nephew, but so far none had been forthcoming.

Fullerton called the Intercontinental and asked to be put through to Jesus Rodriguez's room. A man with a rough South American accent answered. He said that Mr. Rodriguez was busy, but when Fullerton explained why he was calling, a hand was put over the mouthpiece and Fullerton heard muffled Spanish. Then Rodriguez was on the line, oily smooth and saying that he'd see Fullerton in his suite at one o'clock.

He went through to his bathroom and showered, then dressed in a Lanvin suit and Gucci shoes, figuring that if he was hand delivering two million, he might as well look the part. He drove his Porsche to Hampstead and picked up the fourth draft. The drive from Hampstead to the Intercontinental took almost an hour, but he was still ten minutes early, so he sat in Reception until exactly one o'clock before phoning up to Rodriguez's suite.

Two large men in black suits were waiting for him on the seventh floor. They patted him down professionally without speaking, then one of them motioned for him to follow him.

Rodriguez was standing in front of a window offering a panoramic view of Hyde Park. He turned and smiled as Fullerton walked into the room. He was a short man but very muscular as if he spent a lot of time in the gym, dressed in a cream suit and a chocolate-brown shirt. His hair was gelled back and his goatee beard was carefully trimmed. As he held out his hand to shake, Fullerton saw that the nails were carefully manicured and glistened as if they'd been polished. A thick-ridged scar ran along the back of his right hand.

“So you are Donovan's money man?” he asked, gripping Fullerton's hand and squeezing hard.

Fullerton got a whiff of a sickly-sweet cologne.

“He apologises for not coming in person,” he said. He took his hand away and resisted the urge to massage his aching fingers.

Rodriguez laughed harshly.

“I quite understand why he wouldn't want to be seen with me again,” he said.

Fullerton took the drafts from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed them to Rodriguez.

Rodriguez looked through them, nodding his approval.

“Good,” he said.

“At least on this occasion he has kept his word.”

“Was there a problem before?” asked Fullerton. Rodriguez stiffened and Fullerton realised that he'd made a mistake.

“I know Den was very keen that this transaction went ahead smoothly, he was very insistent that you get those today.”

Rodriguez stared at Fullerton. He was still smiling but his eyes were as cold and hard as pebbles.

“How long have you worked for him?” he asked.

Fullerton shrugged and tried to smile confidently.

“I'm not really an employee, as such,” he said quickly.

“I'm an art dealer. Paintings. He needed some works of art placing and I was able to help.”

Rodriguez visibly relaxed. He put the drafts on a coffee table.

“So you know about paintings?”

“Some.”

“You should come and see me some time in Bogota,” said Rodriguez.

“I too have an interest in art. I would value your opinion.”

“Do you have a card?”

Rodriguez chuckled.

“A card?” He looked across at his two bodyguards and said something to them in Spanish. They started laughing and Rodriguez slapped Fullerton on the back.

“Just ask anyone in Bogota. They'll tell you where to find me.”

“I will do, Mr. Rodriguez.”

Rodriguez nodded at his bodyguards and they steered Fullerton out of the door and into the corridor. Fullerton could hear Rodriguez still chuckling as the door was closed in his face.

Fullerton rubbed his forehead and his hand came away wet. He hadn't realised how much he'd been sweating.

Gregg Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report. Jesus Rodriguez had given nothing away, but Hathaway hadn't expected that he would. The Rodriguez cartel were big players, and even the two million pounds Fullerton had delivered was small change to them, so there had to be something else going on.

Donovan had been in a rush to sell his paintings, and he could have got a better price if he'd put them off for auction. That meant he was under pressure. He was paying off Rodriguez, but why? According to Donovan's file, he had access to tens of millions of pounds, much of it in overseas banks. So why bank drafts? Something had clearly gone wrong with Donovan's finances. And if Donovan was short of money, he might be pressurised into making mistakes.

Hathaway sent Fullerton a congratulatory e-mail, and suggested that he try to get closer to Donovan. Not that Fullerton would need much encouragement: it was clear from the reports he was filing that he was champing at the bit.

Hathaway picked up his telephone and called his contact at Bow Street police station. The detective inspector answered on the first ring as if he'd had his hand poised over the receiver.

“Can you talk?” asked Hathaway.

“No problem,” said the detective.

“Have you heard of a Colombian called Carlos Rodriguez?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“A big fish,” said Hathaway.

“A very big fish. Run it by NCS and put in a request for MI6 intelligence. He's Government and judiciary connected, high up on the DEA's most wanted list and has been for a decade or more. He uses his nephew as an enforcer. Jesus Rodriguez. He's got a suite at the Intercontinental.” ' “Right .. .” said the detective hesitantly.

“He's getting busy with Den Donovan,” said Hathaway.

“Bloody hell,” said the detective more enthusiastically.

“How long's this being going on?”

“I've only just found out,” said Hathaway.

“Carlos Rodriguez is big in cocaine, mainly through Mexico into the States, but the DEA reckon he's behind several heroin and cannabis cartels too. We haven't had him marked down as bringing stuff into Europe, but if he's linked up with Donovan, that could be about to change.”

“Are Six involved?”

“Not yet. Officially, we'll probably wait until we get an approach from the Americans, and so far that's not been forthcoming.”

“This is big.”

“Huge,” agreed Hathaway.

“God forbid I should try to teach anyone how to suck eggs, but a phone tap would be a good idea, and if I were you I'd be trying to get someone in the hotel.”

“Has Rodriguez met Donovan?”

“I'm not sure if they've met here in London, but I've seen a report from the Customs Drugs Liaison Officer in Miami who says they've been seen together in the Caribbean a couple of times, latterly in St. Kitts.”

“What's your take on it?” asked the detective.

“There's something in the wind, I don't think the nephew's here shopping, but they're both old hands at this. I doubt they'll do anything stupid. Whatever they're up to, it must be major to get one of the Rodriguez family out of South America. Stay in touch, yeah?”

“Will do. And thanks for the tip. This is going to do me no harm at all.”

Hathaway replaced the receiver. He began to bite his nails as he reread Fullerton's report.

Donovan was in a black cab on the way to his sister's house when one of his phones rang. It was Underwood, whispering as if he feared he might be overheard.

“They're on to you,” said the chief superintendent.

Donovan gritted his teeth. He knew that it was always going to be a matter of time before the authorities knew that he was back in the UK, but he had hoped he could have remained incognito for a few more days, at least until he'd got things sorted with Robbie.

“Who's they?” he asked.

“Drugs. National Crime Squad. Customs. Uncle Tom Cob-bly and all. Congratulations, you're Tango One again.”

“No need for you to sound so bloody pleased about it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I've got to get a passport for Robbie. I'm not leaving him here on his own.”

“Has your missus been in touch?”

“No,” said Donovan.

“Any joy finding them?”

“I wouldn't hold your breath. They're going to be well hidden if they know what's good for them. I've got them flagged at points of entry, but you know as well as I do how porous our borders are. That's if they even decide to come back.”

“Keep looking, yeah? Any idea who fingered me?”

“Came through Drugs, that's all I know. Anyone on your case?”

“I've not seen anyone.”

“Yeah, well, keep your eyes peeled because it's all hands to the pumps. They're going to be crawling over you.”

“I'm clean, though, right? Nothing current?”

“Not now you-know-who's no longer in the picture. You don't fuck about, do you?”

“He knew what he was getting into. No use crying over spilt milk.”

“Just hope you don't ever get pissed off at me,” said the detective.

“Yeah,” said Donovan.

“Me too.”

Donovan cut the connection. If he was once again Tango One, there was no point in hiding any more. Everything he did would have to be in plain sight.

The taxi pulled up in front of Laura's house. Donovan paid the driver and walked up to the front door. He rang the doorbell and heard Robbie shouting excitedly from inside.

Robbie flung the door open.

“Dad!”

Donovan picked him up and hugged him.

“Hiya, Robbie, been good, have you?”

“Of course. Where were you last night?”

“I got tied up. Business.”

“Can we go home?”

Donovan put his son down and took him inside. Laura was at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

“You eaten, Den?” she asked.

“Starving, Sis,” said Donovan.

“It's only spag bol and salad.”

“Bring it on,” said Donovan and followed her through to the kitchen. Laura's daughters Jenny and Julie were sitting at a long table with glasses of orange juice in front of them.

“Mark not back?”

“No,” said Laura, busying herself over the oven.

“Working late.”

Donovan sat down at the table and Robbie rushed to sit next to him.

“How was your day?” asked Donovan.

Robbie pulled a face.

“Boring. Aunty Laura said I have to go to school soon.”