Tango One (45 page)

So far as Hathaway was concerned, there was only one potential threat Den Donovan. Hathaway had no illusions: at some point Donovan would be looking to get his money back. Donovan was still Tango One, however, and the powers that he would be doing everything they could to put him behind bars. It was just a matter of time.

The fact that the drugs hadn't been on the plane when it had landed had meant that Donovan had escaped prison that time, but his luck couldn't hold out for ever. The abortive drugs bust had actually helped Hathaway, in that it gave him a good reason for resigning. His direct superior had spent an hour trying to convince him to stay, and the head of Human Resources had offered to find him a non-operational role within the organisation, but Hathaway had continued to insist that he should take the blame for the debacle and had walked out. He hadn't even bothered to fill in his pension forms or empty his desk.

Of course, Hathaway would much have preferred for the drugs to have been on the plane and for Donovan to have been put away for twenty years, but sometimes not everything went to plan. Sometimes you had to go with the flow. Tango One would get sent down eventually, and if he didn't, Hathaway had more than enough money to have Donovan taken out of the equation by other methods. More permanent methods.

In the pit, the winning bird lashed out again and the weaker bird went down, blood streaming from its neck. Grim-faced men in straw hats were screaming for the stricken bird to get up and fight, but Hathaway knew that they were wasting their breath. It had been a mortal blow.

Hathaway didn't want to have to take out a contract on Donovan unless it was absolutely necessary. It wasn't that he had moral reservations about ordering the death of another man, especially a man like Donovan, but paying for an assassination left a trail that could be followed. There were plenty of professionals around who could do the job, but if anything went wrong even the most professional of killers would give up the name of his employer in exchange for a reduced sentence. It wasn't a risk that Hathaway was prepared to take, not yet.

The owner of the winning bird stepped forward and picked it up, holding it high above his head to a series of rousing cheers from the men who'd won money on the fight, and boos and catcalls from those who'd lost.

A small boy ran out with a bucket and threw fresh sawdust down over the bloodstained parts of the ring, while one of the winning owner's assistants picked up the dead bird and carried it away. It was traditional for the winning owner to eat the losing bird.

Hathaway looked over his shoulder. There were more than five hundred men crammed into the warehouse around the ring. No women. Almost all the spectators were locals: Western sensibilities were often offended by the sight of two cocks doing what came naturally.

Hathaway stiffened as he noticed that one of the few Westerners around the arena was looking in his direction. He was a man in his thirties wearing a beige safari suit. There was something familiar about the man a vague tickle somewhere in Hathaway's memory suggested that they'd met some time in the past. Hathaway frowned. As a rule he had an almost infallible memory for faces. The man raised an eyebrow and nodded at Hathaway. Hathaway smiled instinctively, and nodded at the man. Was it a greeting from someone who recognised Hathaway, or just a nod of recognition between two outsiders?

Hathaway racked his memory. Male, mid-thirties, good looking, well built, two-day growth of beard. Ray-Ban sunglasses. Good teeth. Hathaway's mental filing system drew a blank. Then Hathaway realised why the man seemed familiar and he smiled slowly. He was the spitting image of the French crooner. What was his name? Distel, that was it. Sacha Distel. He was looking at a much younger version of Sacha Distel. Hathaway relaxed. The guy was probably mistakenly recognised all the time. Hathaway gave him a small wave, then turned to watch the next cocks being prepared for battle. The man in charge of Hathaway's security had seen the unspoken exchange and he looked across at Hathaway for guidance. Hathaway nodded at him and mouthed, “It's okay.”

In the pit, a pot-bellied man with a battered straw hat was attaching shiny metal spurs to a bird with jet-black feathers. Hathaway looked over at the black bird's opponent. It was a totally white bird with a scarlet crop. Hathaway smiled. He liked white birds. It always made the bl