Tango One (35 page)

“No. I'm just ... I don't know, surprised. Touched.”

“I'll pay you.” Donovan reached for his wallet.

“No!” said Louise quickly.

“I don't want your money, Den. I'm happy to do this for you.”

“I'll collect him from school and bring him straight round. It'll mean you not going to work.”

“That's okay. I was wanting to stay off until my eye healed anyway.”

Donovan hugged her.

“Thanks, Louise. I was starting to run out of people I can trust.”

Sharkey's mobile rang. He picked it up. Vicky came in from the bedroom, naked except for a towel, still wet from the shower.

“Stewart Sharkey?”

The accent was Spanish. Sharkey smiled. Den Donovan was so predictable sometimes.

“Ah, Juan Rojas. It would either be you or the Pole. And just between the two of us, I always thought you were the more professional.”

“You are making me blush, Mr. Sharkey.”

The guy you have knows nothing. Absolutely nothing."

“I realise that,” said Rojas.

“I have already released him. I trust you will adhere to your end of the agreement?”

“You gave him the account number?”

“I did.”

“The money will be in your account within forty-eight hours. You do realise that it's Donovan's money?”

“While it is in your possession, it's your money to do with as you wish,” said Rojas.

“I doubt that Den will see it that way,” said Sharkey.

Vicky was watching Sharkey with a confused look on her face. Sharkey turned around so that he didn't have to look at her.

“What about Hoyle? I assume you have him.”

“Temporarily. I will make a phone call. I am not being paid to kill lawyers. Unfortunately.”

“Donovan has paid you to kill me, hasn't he?”

“Of course.”

“And there's no point in my offering to pay you more?”

Rojas chuckled.

“I thought not,” said Sharkey.

“Much as money is my driving force, there are ethics that have to be adhered to. You do understand?”

“Of course I understand,” said Sharkey.

“I will find you,” said Rojas quietly.

“Eventually.” There was no menace in the voice. It was for the Spaniard a simple statement of fact.

“I've enough money to hide for a long, long time,” said Sharkey.

“Yes, you do, but no one can hide for ever. Not from me.”

“We'll see.” Sharkey hesitated. He knew he should keep the call short, but there was something he wanted to know.

“How did you feel, when you knew that I set you up?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Rojas.

“When you found out that the guy wasn't me. That I wasn't even in Paris.”

“You didn't fool me. Not for a second.”

“What?”

“I'm standing right behind you, Mr. Sharkey.”

Sharkey whirled around, his mouth open, throwing up his free hand as if warding off a blow. Vicky took a step back, her eyes wide, a look of horror on her face. Sharkey's head jerked left and right, his heart pounding. There was no one there.

“What's wrong?” asked Vicky.

Rojas chuckled in Sharkey's ear.

“Made you look,” he said, and cut the connection.

One of the mobiles in Donovan's leather jacket burst into a tune. It was the theme from The Simpsons. Louise grinned.

“Fan of the show, are you?” she asked. They were walking across Trafalgar Square towards the Tube station.

“Robbie's been playing with them,” said Donovan.

“I've told him I'll tan his hide if he doesn't stop.”

“It's cute,” said Louise.

Donovan pressed the green button. It was Underwood.

“Hang on, Dicko. Give me a minute.” He put his hand over the receiver.

“Louise, I'm gonna have to talk to this guy. Sorry. Do you want to go on ahead? I'll bring Robbie around at about five thirty. Okay?”

If Louise was hurt by him wanting to take the call in private, she didn't show it.

“Sure,” she said.

“I'll get some shopping done. You take care, Den.” She kissed him softly on the cheek and walked away, putting on her dark glasses and pushing her hands deep into her pockets.

Donovan wanted to call her back and ask her to wait for him, but he steeled himself: there was no way he would jeopardise Underwood's position by talking to him in front of anyone else. He turned his back on her and put the phone to his ear.

“Dicko, sorry about that. Busy day.”

"While I'm on lying on a beach with a pina co lada “Jeez, you are becoming a moaning old fart,” said Donovan.

“I'm a desk man these days, Den. It's not like it used to be when I was out and about. Then I could stop by and chew the fat. These days it's noticed if I go out. Questions get asked.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of questions, I've got one for you.”

The detective sighed mournfully but Donovan carried on talking.

“I need a check on two Yardies out Harlesden way. One's called Tony Blair, goes by the nickname PM. The other's Bunny. I don't know his real name.”

“At least I don't have to phone a friend on this one,” said the detective.

“The file's been across my desk several times. They're big players in north-west London. Crack and heroin. Some legit businesses for cleaning the cash. Drinking dens in tough neighbour hoods that we do our best to steer clear of. What's your interest?”

“Need to know, Dicko. Sorry. If you know about them, how come they're still up and running?”

“How long have you been Tango One? Just because they're targeted doesn't mean they get put away.”

“Are you sure there's not more to it than that?”

“Spit it out, Den. I'm not psychic.”

“Do they have someone on the inside?”

“Well, gosh, Den. I'll just raise it at the next meeting of Bent Detectives Anonymous, shall I?”

“Don't get all sensitive on me,” said Donovan. He was starting to get annoyed at the detective's constant whining.

“Have there been rumours? Are they getting tipped off?”

“I don't think so. They're just smarter than the average black gang-banger, that's all. In particular, this Bunny character has his head screwed on all right. PM was just a small time teenage dealer until Bunny hooked up with him. Now he's a sort of.. . what's that thing that Robert Duvall did for Marlon Brando in The Godfather?”

“Consigliore?”

“What's that mean?”

“It's an advisor.”

“Yeah. That's what Bunny does for PM. Keeps him out of the shit. Word is that Bunny's gay, but PM doesn't hold it against him. That's the talk, anyway. You got info on them might put them away? Be a feather in my cap.”

“If I do, Dicko, you'll be the first cop I'll call.”

“One other thing,” said the policeman.

“There doesn't seem to have been any money paid into my account over the past couple of weeks.”

“Don't worry,” said Donovan.

“Cheque's in the post.”

Donovan spent an hour going in and out of several department stores in Oxford Street until he was satisfied that he wasn't being tailed, then he walked to Fullerton's gallery, checking reflections in windows and doubling back three or four times to make absolutely sure that no one was following him.

Fullerton's gallery was on the third floor of a building in Wardour Street. The entrance was a glass door between a coffee bar and a photographer's store. He pressed a button and was buzzed in. He walked slowly up the stairway looking at framed reproductions of Old Masters on the walls.

The gallery itself was bright and airy with white walls and skylights and a light oak floor. The paintings on the walls were an eclectic mix of old oils and modern acrylics, but it was all good-quality work.

Fullerton came striding over from a modern beech and chrome desk, his hand outstretched. There was no one else in the gallery.

“Den, good to see you,” said Jamie.

They shook hands.

“Business quiet?” asked Donovan.

“I had a couple of viewings arranged but I put them off, figured you'd want a word in private, yeah? Do you want a drink? I've got shampoo in the fridge.”

“Nah, I've got to pick up Robbie from school, and it wouldn't be a good idea to turn up smelling of drink.”

“Coffee, then? It's the real Italian stuff.”

“Yeah, coffee's fine. Thanks.” Donovan had his portable MRF detector on and he walked slowly around the gallery, passing the left hand close to any surfaces where a listening device could have been concealed. The Weeper on his belt remained stubbornly silent. The gallery was clean.

Donovan sat down on a low-slung leather sofa and studied the paintings on the wall opposite until Fullerton returned with two china cups on delicate saucers. He sat down next to Donovan.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Donovan.

“Did you read about that big cocaine bust? The one where the SAS went in?”

“Shit, that was yours?”

“Sort of,” said Donovan.

“I set it up but then it got taken over by that guy we met in the club. Ricky. It all turned to shit, so now they're looking for the leak. If there was a leak.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Donovan sipped his coffee.

“Good coffee, mate.”

“Yeah, I've got one of those Italian jobbies. I can do the frothy stuff, too. I'm serious, Den. If you're in a jam, I'd be happy to help.”

“Maybe there is something you can do. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much you want to get involved. In what I do.”

“Den, so long as it's safe and I make a profit, I'm your man.”

Donovan nodded.

“Maury said you know people with money, guys with lots of cash, not necessarily legal.”

“Good old Maury.”

“Is he right?”

“Sure. The art business is a great place to hide cash. Moveable assets, saleable around the world. And when you sell you get an auction-house cheque.”

“Okay, here's the scoop. I have a very sweet deal that I'm setting up, and I'm looking for guys who can market heroin. Top-grade heroin from Afghanistan. I can get it way, way cheaper than any wholesaler can supply it in this country, or anywhere in Europe.”

“How cheap?” asked Fullerton.

“Delivered to the UK, ten thousand pounds a kilo. That's about one third of the regular dealer price. Almost a tenth of the street price.”

Fullerton nodded.

“A wrap's a couple of quid at the moment, works out at about seventy quid a gram. Seventy grand a kilo on the street.”

“This is good gear, though, Jamie. Right from the source. Totally uncut. I reckon street value would be nearer a hundred grand a key in London.”

“I'm sure I could get some interest, Den. How much are we talking about?”

“As much as you want,” said Donovan.

“You can't leave it as open-ended as that.”

Donovan sighed.

“I'm going to be bringing in eight thousand keys.”

“No fucking way!”

Donovan grinned.

“Like I said, it's a sweet deal. See what interest there is, but be bloody careful. I'm going to want money up front, and I'll arrange for it to be delivered anywhere they want in the UK.”

“They're going to want to know how you're getting it into the country.”

“No can do, Jamie.”

“But you can tell me, right?”

Donovan pulled a face.

“Maybe later, but at the moment, all anyone needs to know is that the gear will be in the UK. And soon. Providing we get the down payment together.”

“And how much is that?”

Donovan smiled. If Fullerton knew the cost of the consignment, he'd know how much Donovan was paying per kilo. And how much profit Donovan would be making on the deal.

“Let me worry about that, yeah?”

DC Ashleigh Vincent checked her wristwatch.

“Log him back home at sixteen hundred hours on the dot, Connor. Arrived in a black cab.”

Vincent's partner grunted and reached for a metal clipboard hanging on the wall.

Vincent gave him the registration number of the taxi, and then took a swig from her bottle of mineral water.

The two Drugs Squad detectives were in the back of a van painted in British Telecom livery parked about a hundred yards away from Donovan's front door. Vincent was sitting on a small fishing stool on top of which she'd placed an inflatable cushion and she'd stripped down to a t-shirt and jogging shorts. Sweat was trickling down her back. The front windows of the van were open a couple of inches to allow in some air but there was nothing in the way of a breeze to cool them down. The one saving grace was that Vincent's partner hadn't been eating curry the night before. Vincent envied the Customs investigators who were holed up in an apartment in the terrace facing Donovan's house. That was the proper way to do surveillance, she thought. All the comforts of home: a shower when they needed one, a bed for a quick nap and a proper toilet instead of a plastic bucket.

Vincent put her binoculars back to her eyes.

“Hang on, he's coming out again. Heading for the Range Rover. Log him out at sixteen oh-four.”

Donovan climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover and started the engine.

Vincent wiped her brow with a small towel. It was such a waste of her time, she thought. At first she'd been excited at being part of the team on the trail of Tango One, but she'd soon realised that she was nothing more than a clerk, noting when he entered and left the house. Word had come down from up high that all surveillance on Donovan had to be non-obtrusive. There was to be no covert entry of his house, no following his car, no attempt to find out where he was going or whom he was seeing. Vincent knew that meant only one thing the powers that be already knew what Donovan was up to. Which meant they had someone on the inside. Which meant that Vincent's input into the operation was close to zero.

She watched through the binoculars as Donovan drove to the end of the street and turned on to the main road.

“I hope they throw away the key,” she muttered.

Donovan beeped the horn of the Range Rover when he saw Robbie walking out of the school gates. Robbie waved and ran over.

“I wasn't sure if you'd be here,” said Robbie, climbing into the front passenger seat and throwing his backpack into the rear of the car.