Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "I'm sorry," gasped Doyle.

  Rodriguez dabbed at the blood spots with a white handkerchief.

  "He flew to Jamaica and then he disappeared. I'm assuming he's not lying on the beach smoking ganja, so where the fuck is he?"

  Doyle heard a scraping noise behind him and he twisted his head around. A fourth man in his twenties, thickset with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and weightlifter's forearms, had pulled the large umbrella from its concrete base. He grinned at Doyle and tossed the umbrella on to the tiled floor. He knelt down next to the umbrella base and took a length of chain from the pocket of his chinos.

  Rodriguez grabbed Doyle by the hair.

  "Don't look at him, look at me. He's not your problem, I am."

  Doyle's eyes watered from the pain and he glared at the Colombian.

  "Good," said Rodriguez soothingly.

  "Anger is good. So much more productive than fear. Anger makes the body and the mind work more efficiently, but fear shuts everything down. So how is your mind working now? Your memory returning, is it? Where is he?"

  Doyle felt hands running around his waist but when he tried to look down Rodriguez jerked his head up.

  "How deep do you think the pool is at this end?" asked Rodriguez.

  "What?"

  "The pool? Twelve feet, do you think?"

  Doyle swallowed nervously.

  "This is stupid."

  Rodriguez let go of Doyle's hair and slapped him twice, forehand and backhand. He had a chunky diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand and on the second blow it sliced through Doyle's cheek. Doyle felt the flesh part and the blood flow but he wasn't aware of any pain. It was as if his whole body had gone numb. Rodriguez was right. Fear was totally unproductive. His body was shutting down. Preparing for death.

  "Are you calling me stupid?" hissed Rodriguez.

  "No." Doyle tried to touch his injured cheek but the man on his right twisted his arm up behind his back.

  "There must be something wrong with my ears, then, because I thought I heard you say I was stupid."

  "I said it was stupid. The situation."

  Rodriguez smiled without warmth.

  "The situation? That's what this is, a situation?"

  The man with the weightlifter's forearms knelt down in front of Doyle, his face level with Doyle's crotch. He had the chain in his hands and he passed it around Doyle's waist and fastened it with a small padlock. The man leered at Doyle as he stood up.

  "I meant that it's pointless getting heavy with me. Den's the one you want."

  "Which is why I'm asking you for the last time. Where is he?"

  "London."

  Rodriguez frowned.

  "London? He said he was wanted in England. He said he couldn't go back."

  "His wife's been screwing around. He's gone back to sort it out."

  Rodriguez started to chuckle. So did the man with the weightlifter's forearms.

  "Sauce for the goose, that's what you English say, right? Donovan's dick is hardly ever inside his pants."

  Doyle said nothing. The man with weightlifter's forearms walked behind him and Doyle heard the umbrella base being pushed along the floor towards the pool. The chain tightened around Doyle's waist, and his heart began to pound.

  "Carlos, don't do this," Doyle said, his voice a dry croak.

  "Where is my money?"

  "What money?"

  "The ten million dollars that Donovan was supposed to pay into my account yesterday."

  "He didn't say anything to me about money. I swear."

  The umbrella base received another push and it grated across the tiles. It was only a foot away from the edge of the swimming pool, and the chain was now taut. The two men either side of Doyle shoved him closer to the pool.

  "I swear!" Doyle screamed.

  "Help me! Somebody help me!" His voice echoed around the pool area.

  "Scream all you want," said Rodriguez.

  "The hired help want to live as much as you do, my friend. They won't interfere. And they will have a sudden lapse of memory when the police arrive." He sniggered.

  "They might even say you were acting suicidal." Rodriguez dangled the padlock key in front of Doyle's face, then tossed it into the far end of the pool. The shallow end.

  "How do I get in touch with him?" Rodriguez asked.

  "He said he'd call."

  "He has no cell phone in London?"

  "He doesn't trust them."

  "His house in London. You have the number?"

  Doyle nodded at his mobile phone, next to his beer on the white cast-iron table by the sun-lounger.

  "It's in my phone. Look, if he calls I'll tell him you want to talk to him. I'll tell him how pissed off you are."

  "You will?" said Rodriguez, smiling affably.

  "That's so good of you."

  "Oh Jesus, please don't do this to me."

  Rodriguez grinned at the man with the weightlifter's arms.

  "Now he's asking for your help, Jesus." He pronounced it the Spanish way. Hey-zeus.

  "Maybe he thinks you've a softer heart than me."

  Jesus grinned and said something to Rodriguez in rapid Spanish. All four men laughed.

  "Please don't .. ." begged Doyle.

  Rodriguez nodded at Jesus, and Jesus put his foot on the umbrella base and shoved it into the pool. At the same time, the two men holding Doyle pitched him into the water. There was a loud splash and all four men scattered to avoid the water as the concrete block and Doyle disappeared under the surface.

  Chlorinated water lapped over the edge of the pool a few times, then the surface went still. The four Colombians peered into the water, shading their eyes against the burning afternoon sun. Doyle was waving his arms and legs around like a crab stranded on its back and a stream of bubbles burst from his mouth and rippled to the surface. Jesus looked at his watch.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "Ninety seconds?"

  "Nah," said Rodriguez.

  "Less. He didn't catch his breath when he went in."

  The Colombians laughed and watched as Doyle died.

  The dyed-blonde receptionist looked up as Donovan walked down the stairs. She smiled.

  "You go out?" she asked.

  "Just for a couple of hours."

  "You leave key?"

  Donovan shook his head.

  "Nah, I'll keep it with me." He walked up to the counter. She was holding a book.

  "What are you reading?"

  "I learn English." She held up the book and showed it to him.

  "I go school every morning."

  Donovan took the book, flicked through it and handed it back.

  "Your English is great," he said.

  "Where are you from?" He looked into her eyes as he talked. They were a deep blue with flecks of grey.

  "Poland. Warsaw."

  "Great country. Beautiful city. Amazing art galleries."

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  "You have been to Warsaw?"

  "I've been pretty much everywhere." He winked at her and put on his baseball cap.

  "Catch you later."

  Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens towards Edgware Road, confident that the hotel was still a safe area. The receptionist had shown no signs of tension, no fear, no look in the eyes that suggested that someone had told her that she was to report his movements, that he was anything other than a tourist passing through. Now he knew what her regular reactions were, he'd easily spot any changes.

  Donovan walked along Edgware Road, stopping to look in several shop windows. Each time he stopped he checked reflections to see if anyone was following him. That was the beauty of Edgware Road: white faces stuck out.

  At the corner of Edgware Road and Harrow Road was a pedestrian underpass. Most people used the pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights above ground, but Donovan walked slowly down the sloping walkway whistling softly to himself.

  Underground there were public toilets,
a news agent and a shoe repair shop, but more importantly there were half a dozen exits. Donovan loitered for a while until he was satisfied that no one had followed him down, and then he walked quickly up the stairs that led to the Harrow Road exit, close to Paddington Green police station. Donovan kept his head down Paddington Green was where the Metropolitan Police's Anti-Terrorist Squad was based, and the area was saturated with CCTV cameras.

  Donovan knew that there were more than a million CCTV cameras scattered across the United Kingdom, giving it the dubious distinction of having more of the prying electronic eyes per head of population than anywhere in the world. More than two hundred thousand new cameras were added every year. On average, aUK citizen going about his lawful business in the capital would be captured on three hundred cameras on at least thirty different systems every day. They were in shops, office buildings, in ATMs, on buses, there was almost nowhere that wasn't covered. The police already had access to all the networks, but their ultimate aim was to have them all linked and tied to the Mandrake face recognition system. While the ordinary citizen probably wasn't over-concerned about the lack of privacy, believing the police line that no one but criminals had anything to fear from saturation CCTV coverage, Donovan was far from being an ordinary citizen.

  He headed towards Maida Vale, and stopped at the Church of St. Mary, a red brick building long-ago blackened by exhaust fumes from the stream of traffic that pelted along the nearby A4O. Just along from the tumbledown churchyard was a small park with two old-fashioned red phone boxes at its entrance. Donovan sat on a bench in the graveyard and took out a mobile phone. He'd only been able to charge it for half an hour, but that would be long enough for what he wanted. He tapped out the number of Richard Underwood's direct line, dialing 141 first so that his number wouldn't show up on Underwood's phone.

  The chief superintendent answered with a long groan before saying, "Yes?"

  "What's up, Dicko? Piles giving you jip?"

  "The perfect end to the perfect day. Where are you?"

  Donovan smiled to himself.

  "A shithole, that's where I am," he said.

  "You know the churchyard on the Harrow Road?"

  "Yes," said Underwood, suspiciously.

  "Fifteen minutes. I'll call the one on the right."

  "Why don't I call you?"

  "Because I don't want this phone ringing, that's why. Fifteen minutes, yeah?"

  Donovan cut the connection before the policeman could argue. He walked around the churchyard a couple of times, then went and stood behind a clump of trees. A few minutes later, Underwood came walking briskly from the direction of the police station, his raincoat flapping behind him, a look of intense discomfort on his jowly face. He was a large man, overweight rather than big boned, with a large gut that strained over the top of his trouser belt. He reached the two red phone boxes and stamped his feet impatiently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat.

  Donovan took out his mobile phone and dialled the number of the phone box. A second or two later and the phone in the box on the left started to ring. Donovan grinned as he watched Underwood jump, then stand and stare at the phone box. He put his head on one side, then looked at the phone box on the right, as if to reassure himself that it wasn't the one that was ringing. He looked around, then pulled open the door to the box on the left and picked up the phone.

  "You said the one on the right," the policeman said.

  Donovan chuckled.

  "Right, left, what's the odds? You're breathing heavily, Dicko, you out of condition?"

  "It's a long bloody walk and you know it. With cameras all the way."

  "Not by the church. Besides, who'd be watching you? You're a watcher, not a watchee." He started walking towards the phone boxes.

  "Whereabouts are you?"

  "Not far, Dicko. Not far."

  "Don't piss me around, Den. This isn't a sodding game."

  "Behind you."

  Underwood turned around and his jaw dropped as he saw Donovan striding across the grass towards him.

  "What the fuck are you doing here?" he exploded.

  Donovan laughed and put his mobile phone away. Underwood stood in the call box the phone still pressed against his ear, his mouth open in surprise. Donovan pulled the door open for him.

  "Breathe, Dicko. Breathe!"

  Underwood's cheeks had flared red and his eyes were wide and staring.

  "Bloody hell, I'm not going to have to give you the kiss of life, am I?" said Donovan.

  "What the fuck's going on?"

  "Put the phone down and let's have a chat, yeah?"

  Underwood stood staring at Donovan for several seconds, then he slowly replaced the receiver.

  "You said you were somewhere in Europe."

  "Well, strictly speaking, I am. Last I looked, Britain was still in the EC and you reported to Europol."

  "It's an information- and resource-sharing organisation. We don't report to them," said Underwood stiffly.

  "But that's not the point."

  "I know it's not the point, I was just making conversation. Come on, you soft bugger."

  Underwood squeezed out of the phone box and the two men walked down the Harrow Road, towards the canal that meandered through Little Venice before winding its way to Regents Park and Camden.

  "You shouldn't be here, Den."

  "You can say that again. But that bitch'll get my boy if I don't do something." Donovan had already decided not to mention the missing sixty million dollars. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.

  "You think you'll get custody?"

  "I'm his bloody father."

  "Yeah, but .. ."

  "There's no buts, Dicko. I'm his dad, and his mum was caught stark bollock naked doing the dirty with my accountant. No judge in the land is going to give him to a woman like that."

  "You and judges aren't on the best of terms, truth be told."

  "Fuck you."

  "You know what I mean."

  They walked down Warwick Avenue and turned left on Blomfield Road, parallel to the canal. On one side, the side along which the two men were walking, stood beautiful stucco houses with carefully tended gardens costing millions of pounds.

  The other side of the water was lined with utilitarian council flats with featureless walls and blank windows. A narrow boat packed with tourists put-putted towards Camden. A group of Japanese tourists were photographing as if their lives depended on it, and both Donovan and Underwood automatically turned their faces away.

  "How did you get into the country?" asked Underwood.

  "Need to know," said Donovan.

  "What's my situation?"

  "Same as it's always been."

  "Shit."

  "They've got long memories, Den. You can't just run off and expect to come back to a clean slate. Life's not like that."

  "So I'm still Tango One?"

  "Strictly speaking you've dropped down the ranks a bit, but as soon as it's known you're back, you'll be up there in pole position."

  "Hopefully I'll get Robbie and be out of here before anyone knows where I am."

  "Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed."

  "What have they got on me that's current?"

  "That's the good news," said Underwood.

  "So far, nothing."

  "That's something."

  "Yeah, but you haven't heard the bad news yet."

  Donovan said nothing. Ahead of them was a pub. The Paddington Stop. It sounded as if it belonged to an age when passing bar gees would stop off for a refreshing pint, but it was as ugly as the council flats opposite and had been built decades after the last working barge had travelled the canal. The two men looked at each other. They both nodded at the same time and headed towards the pub.

  Underwood waited until he had a pint of lager in front of him and there was no one within earshot before continuing.

  "Marty Clare," he said, and sipped his lager.

  Donovan toyed with his Jack Danie
ls and soda, a slight frown on his face.

  "He's in Amsterdam, right?"

  "He's in Noordsingel Detention Centre in Rotterdam is where he is," said Underwood.

  "And he's preparing to sing like the proverbial."

  Donovan shook his head.

  "No way. Not Marty."

  "His lawyer is dotting the "t's and crossing the "i's as we speak."

  "You know this for a fact?"

  Underwood gave him a disdainful look but didn't say anything. Donovan cursed.

  "What've they got on him? He could do Dutch porridge standing on his head."

  "The Yanks want him. One of the consignments was earmarked for New Jersey. That's all the DEA need. Assets, money, the works. And if they can get him extradited, they'll throw away the key."

  "Stupid bastard. How'd they get him in the first place?"

  Donovan shrugged.

  "Come on, Dicko, don't give me that Gallic shoulder thing. Someone grassed?"

  "More than that, I think."

  "You think, or you know?"

  "Bloody hell, Den, you don't give up, do you?"

  Donovan leaned across the table so that his mouth was just inches away from the policeman's ear.

  "My fucking life's on the line here, Dicko, now stop pissing around. I need to know where I stand."

  Underwood nodded slowly and put his glass down.

  "Undercover Cussie."

  "Dutch or Brit customs?"

  "Dutch."

  "Do you have a name?"

  "No, Den, I don't have a name. Why the hell would the cloggies tell me who their secret weapons are?"

  "Information and resource sharing, you said."

  "Superficial at best. We've linked databases but we all protect our assets. What are you going to do, Den?"

  Donovan looked at Underwood, his eyes cold and hard.

  "Do you really want to know, Dicko?"

  Dicko sucked air in through clenched jaws, then took a long drink of lager.

  "How close did they get to me?" asked Donovan.

  "Strictly surveillance."

  "No one up close and personal?"

  An elderly man in paint-spattered overalls and a shapeless hat walked over to the jukebox, slotted in a coin and jabbed at the selection buttons. Underwood waited until the man had walked back to his space at the bar before speaking again.

  "Give me a break, Den. What do you think, I can just wander along to SO10 and ask them what undercover agents they've got in play?"