Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "Okay, but what about anti-surveillance? What's the harm in teaching me how to shake a tail?"

  Hathaway grinned.

  "You've been reading too many cheap spy novels, Jamie."

  Fullerton felt his cheeks flush red and he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively.

  "If anyone follows you, it's best you deal with them in whatever way you come up with yourself," continued Hathaway.

  "Use your instincts."

  Fullerton nodded. What Hathaway was saying made sense, but there was an obvious flaw to his argument.

  "What if I'm on my way to see you? If I can't shake them, that puts you at risk."

  Hathaway tapped the laptop screen.

  "Like I said, that's what this is for," he said.

  "We won't be meeting face to face. All contact will be online."

  "But my cover," said Fullerton.

  "You'll be giving me my cover, right?"

  "I'm going to help you with that, of course, but basically we'll be sticking to your true background."

  Fullerton grinned.

  "And that includes the drugs, yeah?"

  "Sure," said Hathaway.

  "One of the things that trips up a lot of undercover agents is that they can't touch drugs. No court is going to convict if one of the investigating officers turns out to have smoked a joint or snorted a line. You're in a different league. You do whatever comes naturally, and if that involves getting high, then that's up to you."

  "Okay if I do a line now?" Fullerton asked.

  Hathaway flashed him a humourless smile.

  "I'd rather you didn't."

  "I was joking," said Fullerton. He could see from the look on Hathaway's face that they didn't share the same sense of humour.

  "But won't my drug-taking affect the cases I'll be working on?"

  "In what way?"

  "Won't my evidence be tainted?"

  "No, for a very simple reason. You won't ever be required to give evidence in court. You'll be supplying us with information and leads which will be passed on to the appropriate investigating teams, but it will be up to them to supply the evidence to convict."

  Fullerton picked up his mug of coffee and sipped it slowly.

  "So I'm getting official permission to snort coke? Funny old world, isn't it?"

  "There's nothing official about this briefing, Jamie," said Hathaway.

  "From the moment you agreed to Assistant Commissioner Latham's proposal, everything has been off the record."

  Fullerton's lips tightened and he put the mug back on the coffee table.

  "That's what I figured," he said.

  "Nothing in writing, nothing on file."

  "It's for your own protection, Jamie," said Hathaway.

  "The Met still has more than its fair share of bad apples."

  "Is that going to be part of my brief, too? Corrupt cops?"

  "Absolutely," said Hathaway.

  "And will you be giving me specific targets?"

  Hathaway smiled.

  "You're getting ahead of me, Jamie, but yes, we will be asking for you to look at specific targets. Tangos, as we call them." There was a document pouch on the side of the laptop case, sealed with Velcro. It made a ripping sound as Hathaway opened it. He took out a large glossy colour photograph and slid it across the coffee table to Fullerton.

  "Meet Dennis Donovan. Tango One."

  Cliff Warren picked up the photograph and studied it. It was a man in his mid to late thirties. He had a square face with a strong chin, pale green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across a broken nose. The man's chestnut-brown hair was windswept, brushed carelessly across his forehead.

  "Tango?" he said.

  "Tango is how we designate our targets," explained Hathaway.

  "Dennis Donovan is Tango One. Our most wanted target."

  "Drugs?" said Warren.

  "One of the country's biggest importers of marijuana and cocaine. Virtually untouchable by conventional methods. He's so big that we can't get near him. Den Donovan never goes near a shipment and never handles the money. He never deals with anyone he doesn't know."

  "And you expect me to get close to him?" said Warren, bemused. He passed the photograph back to Hathaway.

  "Unless you haven't noticed, I'm black. Donovan's white. It's not like we went to the same school, is it? Why's he gonna let me get close to him?"

  "We don't expect it to happen overnight," said Hathaway.

  "Donovan is a longterm project. He's not even in the country at the moment. Most of the time he's in the Caribbean. I'll supply you with details of his known associates, and as you go deeper all you have to do is keep an eye out for them. It's going to take time, Cliff. Years. You build up contacts with his associates, and use them to put you next to Donovan."

  "You make it sound easy," said Warren.

  A police car sped down the road outside the house, siren wailing.

  "Not easy, but possible. Donovan is a major supplier, you'll be a dealer."

  "You said he didn't go near the gear."

  "He doesn't, but if you can get into his inner circle we can get him on conspiracy. He's also been shipping drugs into the States. If we can tie up to a US delivery, the Americans will put him away for life."

  Warren raised his eyebrows.

  "I'm working for the Met, right? How does that involve Yanks?"

  "There's no national barriers when it comes to drugs, Cliff. It's way too big a business for that. They reckon that every year some three hundred billion dollars of illegal money gets laundered through the world banking system, and almost all of it is from drugs. Three hundred billion dollars, Warren. Think about that. No one agency can fight that sort of money. In the States the market for illegal drugs is worth sixty billion dollars a year. In the UK about five billion pounds is spent on heroin, cocaine, marijuana, amphetamines and ecstasy. The drug suppliers are working together, so the anti-drug agencies are having to share their resources."

  "So I might end up working for the DEA?"

  "With rather than for," said Hathaway.

  "It'll be more a question of sharing intelligence."

  "So they won't know who I am?"

  "No one will know you're undercover, except me. And Latham."

  Warren frowned.

  "But what if I come across other undercover agents? Won't they report back on me?"

  "Sure, but all they'll report on is your criminal activity. That's just going to add to your cover."

  "Do I report on them?"

  "You report on everything." He patted the laptop computer in front of him.

  "That's what this is for. Everyone you meet, everything you hear, everything you do, you e-mail to me. You supply the intelligence, I process it and, if necessary, act on it."

  Warren gestured at the photograph.

  "This Donovan, why's he so important?"

  "Because he's big. Responsible for maybe a third of all the cocaine that comes into this country. If we take him out, we reduce the amount on the streets."

  "You reckon?" said Warren.

  "All you'll do is push up the street price for a while. Take out Donovan and someone else will move in to fill the gap. That's how it works. Supply and demand."

  "So we take out Donovan, then there'll be a new Tango One and we'll take him out, too. And we keep on going."

  Warren sighed.

  "It's not a war we can win."

  "Putting murderers in prison doesn't mean that murders won't continue to happen," said Hathaway, 'but murderers still belong behind bars. Same goes for men like Donovan. Not having second thoughts, are you?"

  Warren shook his head fiercely.

  "I only have to look out of the window to see the damage drugs do. But I know how it works in the real world, Gregg. You put a dealer behind bars, there's half a dozen want to take over his customers. Clamp down on the supply and the price goes up, so there's more crime as the addicts raise the extra cash they need. More break-ins, more muggings."
/>
  "We're not interested in the guys on the street," said Hathaway.

  "We're after the big fish. Guys like Dennis Donovan. Put Donovan behind bars and it will make a difference, I can promise you that."

  Warren reached over and picked up the photograph of Donovan again. He looked more like a foot baller reaching the end of his career than a hardened criminal.

  "He's thirty-four years old, married with a six-year-old son. Wife is Vicky. She's twenty-seven. They've got a house in Kensington, but Donovan spends most of his time in the Caribbean."

  "Are they separated?" asked Warren.

  "No, it's just easier for him to operate out there. He was under round-the-clock surveillance here Customs, police, the taxman. Couldn't take a leak without someone recording the fact. His kid's settled in school and his wife likes shopping, so they've resisted moving out there. Donovan's over here every month or so and they spend all their holidays in the sun, so it seems to be working out okay."

  "Is he still under the microscope?"

  "Sure, but it's more to keep the pressure on him than it is to catch him in the act."

  Warren wrinkled his nose.

  "Why do you think I'm going to do any better than the teams who've already been targeting him?"

  "Because you won't be watching him, Cliff. You'll be working for him, ideally."

  "And just how do I get to him?"

  "You start dealing." Hathaway nodded at the window.

  "Most of the crack cocaine sold in the streets out there can be traced to Donovan if you go back for enough."

  "If you know that, why don't you arrest him?"

  "Knowing and proving are two very different things, Cliff."

  "So the idea is for me to work my way up the supply chain until I get to Donovan?"

  "That's the plan."

  "That's not a plan," said Warren.

  "That's a wish. A hope. It's what you do when you get the biggest piece of turkey wishbone, that's what that is."

  Hathaway leaned forward.

  "It's what'll happen in an ideal world. But even if you don't get close to Donovan, you'll still be supplying us with useful intelligence. Whatever you do, wherever you end up, you keep your eyes and ears open for news about this man. Tango One."

  Tina Leigh ran both hands through her hair, brushing the strands behind her ears.

  "I'm not a criminal. Why's Donovan going to be interested in me?"

  Hathaway looked away, awkwardly.

  "I'm his type, is that it?"

  "You're a very sexy girl, Tina."

  Tina glared at him, "Go screw yourself "Give me a chance to explain, Tina. Please."

  "You don't need to explain. I used to be a hooker, so now I'll just lie back and spread my legs for a gangster. Well, fuck you, Hathaway. I worked my balls off to put that behind me. I ain't going back for you or anyone."

  She stood up and Hathaway put his hands up in front of his face as if he feared she might attack him.

  "That's not what I said. And that's not what I meant."

  "I know exactly what you meant. I can't join the Met because I worked the streets, but I'm being given official approval to sleep with a gangster. How fucking hypocritical is that?"

  "I didn't say you had to sleep with him, Tina." He waved at her chair.

  "Please sit down and hear me out."

  Tina raised her right hand to her mouth and bit down on the knuckle of her first finger, hard enough to feel the bone beneath the skin. She wanted to throw Hathaway out of her flat, she wanted to yell and scream and call him every name under the sun, but she brought her anger under control.

  "Okay," she said. She sat down and crossed her legs, lit a cigarette, the third since Hathaway had arrived, and waited for him to continue.

  "Donovan's out of the country most of the time, but he comes back regularly on flying visits. When he does come back, we know of several clubs that he frequents. We'd like you to apply for a job, whatever job you think you'd be suitable for. Once you're employed, we'd want you to keep your ears open. You pass on anything you hear. And if you can get near Donovan, that'll be the icing on the cake."

  "These clubs? What sort of clubs are they?"

  Hathaway pulled a pained face again.

  "They're sort of executive entertainment bars .. ." He tailed off as Tina's face hardened.

  "Lap-dancing clubs?" she hissed.

  "You want me to be a fucking lap-dancer?"

  "Lap-dancing isn't prostitution," said Hathaway.

  "Students do it to work their way through college, single mothers do it, it's totally legal and above board."

  Tina took a long pull on her cigarette and blew smoke at Hathaway. He looked uncomfortable but didn't say anything.

  "I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this."

  Still Hathaway said nothing.

  "It's not much of a plan, is it? Putting me undercover in a lap-dancing bar in the hope that Donovan wanders in and spills his guts."

  "Give us some credit, Tina."

  "Why should I give you any credit at all? You say you know who this guy is and what he's doing. Why can't you put him away yourself?"

  "Knowing and proving are two different things, Tina."

  "I thought with new technology and stuff there was no way anyone could hide any more."

  Hathaway nodded.

  "You're right. We can tap his phones, we can watch him from CCTV, from satellites even. We have his DNA and fingerprints on file, we know almost everything there is to know about Dennis Donovan, but we can't catch him in the act. And if we stick to using traditional methods, we probably won't."

  "See, that doesn't make sense to me. How can he operate if you've got him under surveillance?" She flicked ash into an ashtray shaped like a four-leafed clover.

  "Because at the level Donovan operates, it's all about contacts. It's not as if he hands over a briefcase of cash and picks up a bag of drugs. He has a conversation with a Colombian. Face to face. On a beach maybe. Or walking down a street. Somewhere he can't be overheard. Then he talks to a shipping guy. Probably a guy he's used a dozen times before. Then money gets transferred from a bank in the Cayman Islands to a bank in Switzerland and the Colombian puts the drugs on a ship and the ship sets sail. Donovan flies to Amsterdam and has another meeting with a couple of guys from Dublin and money is transferred between two other bank accounts and the drugs are unloaded on the south coast of Ireland and driven up to Belfast and on to a ferry to the UK. We put him under the microscope and what do we have? Donovan chatting to his friends, that's what we have. And even if we could hear what he was saying, he'd be talking in code. It wouldn't mean a thing to a court."

  "So the plan is he's going to open his heart to me when he sees me dancing around a silver pole? Just as a matter of interest, Gregg, is there a Plan B?"

  Hathaway chuckled and leaned back, putting his hands behind his neck and stretching out.

  "You're right to be suspicious, Tina, but we have thought this through. This is long term. Years rather than months. If we put you undercover now, you might not get to meet Donovan for two years. Three. But the pool he swims in isn't that big and I have no doubt at all that you'll come across his associates if not the man himself. And they're going to open up to you because you're a pretty girl." He held up a hand heading off her attempt to interrupt him.

  "I'm stating that as a fact, Tina, I'm not trying to soft soap you. Put guys together with booze and pretty girls and tongues start to loosen. These guys work under such secrecy that often they're bursting to tell someone. To boast. To show what big men they are."

  Tina had smoked the cigarette down to the filter and she stubbed it out in the ashtray. She took another and lit it. She offered the pack to Hathaway but he shook his head.

  "Let's suppose I agree to do this," she said.

  "What happens to the money?"

  Hathaway looked confused.

  "What money?"

  "I'll be a police officer, right? On standard p
ay and conditions?"

  Hathaway nodded.

  "But if I'm working in a what was it you called it an executive entertainment bar? If I'm working there, I'll get wages. And tips."

  "Yours to keep."

  Tina blew smoke up at the ceiling, a slight smile on her lips.

  "Do you how much those girls earn?" she asked.

  "Sixty, seventy grand. Sometimes more."

  "Yeah," said Tina.

  "That sounds about right. And I get to keep it, yeah?"

  "Every penny."

  Jamie Fullerton's jaw dropped.

  "Let me get this straight," he said.

  "Any money I make from illegal activities is mine to keep?"

  "It has to be that way," said Hathaway.

  "Believe me, the powers that be aren't happy with the idea, but we don't have any choice."

  "And I won't ever be asked to pay the money back?"

  "I don't see how that could ever happen."

  Fullerton stood up and paced around the sitting room.

  "And you're going to set me up in this new life? Make me look like a criminal?"

  "Initially. Hopefully you'll become self-funding quite quickly." Hathaway waved at the section of bookshelves devoted to art.

  "You studied art history at university. Got a First, right?"

  Fullerton nodded.

  "So we'll build on that. Set you up in a gallery. Give you some works of art to get you started. And we'll put some stolen works your way. To add authenticity."

  Fullerton's eyes widened in astonishment.

  "You're going to give me stolen paintings? To sell? And I get to keep the money?"

  Hathaway wiped his forehead with his hand. He looked uncomfortable and when he spoke he chose his words carefully.

  "What we will be doing is establishing your cover, Jamie. This isn't a game. If Donovan, or anyone else for that matter, discovers who you are or what you're doing, your life will be on the line."