Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "How much?"

  "Give me a minute. Let me think. Let me bloody think!"

  Rodriguez clicked the top down on the lighter.

  "One minute. Then it's barbecue time." He took a step back and watched as Donovan slowly twisted in the air.

  "I've got two Sparbuch passbooks. That's a million and half bucks."

  Rodriguez frowned.

  "What's a Sparbuch?"

  Donovan cleared his throat and coughed up more bloody phlegm.

  "Jesus, I'm choking here. Cut me down, yeah?"

  "What is a Sparbuch?" repeated Rodriguez. He clicked the lighter open.

  "It's a bank account," said Donovan hurriedly.

  "They're for accounts in Czechoslovakia. The ones I've got are in US dollars."

  "Fine. So give me the money."

  "I don't have the money, I have the passbooks. The money is in Czechoslovakia."

  "So transfer the money."

  "It's not as easy as that. They're bearer passbooks. Whoever has the passbooks and the passwords has the account. You have to show the passbook to get the money. They won't do electronic transfers."

  "That sounds like bullshit," said Rodriguez. He flicked the lighter again.

  "Me cargo en tus muertos." I shit on your dead. As bad a curse as there was in Spanish.

  "Look, talk to your uncle!" said Donovan hurriedly.

  "I'm offering you money here. Kill me and you get nothing. He's going to be really pissed at you if he finds out afterwards that I was going to pay him, right?"

  "My uncle has left this up to me, capullo."

  "Right. Fine. So make an executive decision here. Call him and tell him I've got a million and half dollars for him. Use your cell phone, come on."

  Rodriguez studied Donovan with emotionless brown eyes, then nodded slowly. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number. He kept staring at Donovan, then said something in Spanish. Donovan kept hearing the word 'capullo'. Prick. Rodriguez listened, then nodded, then spoke some more. Donovan's Spanish was good but not fluent, and a lot of what Jesus was saying was slang. Gutter Spanish. However, he mentioned the word "Sparbuch' several times.

  Rodriguez walked over to Donovan.

  "He wants to talk to you."

  Rodriguez thrust the phone against the side of Donovan's head.

  "What's this about Sparbuch accounts?" asked Carlos Rodriguez.

  "Everyone uses them in Europe, Carlos. They're better than cash. It's clean money, it's in the fucking bank, for God's sake."

  "But if I want the cash, I have to go to Czechoslovakia?"

  "It's a three-hour flight. It's no big deal. But they're better than cash. You owe someone, you give them the passbook and the password."

  There was a long silence and for a moment Donovan thought the connection had been cut.

  "Carlos? Are you there?"

  "Where are these passbooks?"

  "In my hotel."

  "That still leaves you eight and a half million dollars short."

  "Paintings," said Donovan.

  "I have paintings in the house. Three million dollars' worth."

  "What good are paintings to me?"

  "You can sell them. Three million, easy."

  "I'm not an art dealer, amigo."

  "Bloody hell, Carlos, work with me on this, will you? With the paintings and the passbooks, I've got almost five million dollars."

  "Which is only half what you owe me. The man who ripped you off. Who is he?"

  "My accountant. Sharkey, his name is."

  "And you gave this man access to your accounts." Rodriguez chuckled.

  "I didn't think you were that stupid, amigo."

  "He had help," said Donovan. He was starting to relax a little. At least the Colombian was talking, and so long as he was talking Donovan had a chance.

  "Ah yes. Your wife," said Rodriguez.

  "So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?"

  The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering. Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.

  "Yeah, I feel like a right twat, Carlos. Does that make you happy?"

  "The only thing that will make me happy is when I have my ten million dollars."

  "Killing me isn't going to get your money back."

  "So you said. Where is your wife now?"

  "Sitting at home waiting for me. Where the fuck do you think she is, Carlos?" spat Donovan.

  "She's on the fucking run, that's where she is."

  "You have people looking for her?"

  "The Spaniard."

  "Rojas is good. Expensive, but good. Does he know your money's gone?" Donovan didn't reply and Rodriguez chuckled.

  "Your situation just gets worse and worse, doesn't it, amigoT Jesus Rodriguez was glaring at Donovan, annoyed at having to hold the phone to his mouth.

  "What about when the consignment arrives?" said Rodriguez.

  "How were you expecting to pay the second tranche?"

  "What can I say, Carlos? I haven't got the first ten mill, let alone the second."

  "So even if I take what you're offering me now, you're not going to be able to pay for the consignment when it arrives?"

  "If I find that bastard Sharkey, you'll get your money."

  "That's a big "if, amigo. The people who are taking on the cocaine, they have paid you half, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "Fifteen million?"

  "Eighteen."

  "I presume they are not yet aware of your financial situation," said Rodriguez.

  "God willing."

  Rodriguez chuckled "Amiga, you are in so much shit. How can I let you go? If I don't kill you, they will. And if they kill you, I lose everything."

  "If I can deliver the gear, they'll pay me another eighteen mill," said Donovan.

  "You can have all that. The eighteen plus the passbooks plus the paintings is more than twenty mill. You get your money, they get their gear. Everyone wins."

  "But why do I need you in this equation, amigo?" asked Rodriguez.

  "Why don't I just tell my nephew to kill you now?"

  "It's my deal."

  "It was your deal," he said.

  "Who is taking delivery of the cars?" he asked.

  Donovan closed his eyes. He could see where Rodriguez was going.

  "You can't do this to me, Carlos."

  "Amigo, I can tell my nephew to turn you into a flaming kebab and do what the hell I want with the cars, so don't tell me what I can and cannot do."

  Donovan opened his eyes.

  "It's being split between Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen," he said.

  "Fifty fifty."

  "Jordan I have heard of," said Rodriguez, 'but who is this Macfadyen?"

  "He's a big fish in Edinburgh. They both are. Got the backing of some property guys who were looking to diversify.

  This is their first big deal but I know them from way back. Solid as they come. Look, let me run with this, Carlos. You'll get your money. All of it."

  "I don't think so, amigo. When word gets out how you've been screwed, no one's going to be doing business with you. It'll be open season. I will deal with Jordan and Macfadyen myself "You bastard!"

  Jesus Rodriguez took the phone away from Donovan's ear and slapped him across the face. Talk to my uncle with respect, capullo. With respect." He slapped Donovan again and then put the phone back to his ear.

  "Sorry about that, Carlos," said Donovan. He spat out more bloody phlegm.

  "Your nephew wanted a word."

  "He's a good boy. Very enthusiastic. Now what were you saying? Questioning the marital status of my parents, I seem to remember."

  Jesus started to click his lighter again.

  "Okay, okay!" shouted Donovan.

  "It's yours! The deal's yours!"

  "Good call," said Carlos Rodriguez.

  "Let me talk to my nephew
."

  Donovan tried to smile up at Jesus Rodriguez.

  "He wants to talk to you."

  Jesus walked up and down as he listened to his uncle, his shoes crunching on the bare concrete. Eventually he put the phone away and walked back to where Donovan was gently swinging.

  "You are one lucky capullo' he said.

  "I'm staying at the Intercontinental. Tell Jordan and Macfadyen to contact me there. I will explain the new arrangement to them."

  "Okay," said Donovan wearily.

  "How long will it take you to sell your paintings?" asked Rodriguez.

  Donovan glared at the Colombian.

  "Oh, come on. You'll get your money for the gear, Jesus."

  "My uncle says you owe interest, capullo. I will take the passbooks and the money from the paintings." He held out the lighter.

  "Or we end this now."

  The fight went out of Donovan. Suspended from the ceiling and doused with petrol didn't put him in any position to argue with the Colombian. Besides, Carlos Rodriguez did occupy the moral high ground, in as much as there was a moral high ground in the world of drug trafficking. Donovan had promised to pay ten million dollars when the drugs left Mexico. He had failed to come up with the money, and in the circles that Donovan moved in, that was equivalent to signing his own death warrant. Donovan had hoped that he would have been able to find Sharkey before Rodriguez had found him, but his gamble had failed and now he had to pay the price.

  "You can have the passbooks tonight," said Donovan.

  "I should be able to sell the pictures within a few days."

  "I will be in London for three days. Bring the money and the passbooks to me at the hotel." He started to walk away, then hesitated.

  "Don't make a fool of me again, capullo."

  I won't.

  "Next time I won't phone my uncle. I don't have to say that I know how to find you, and that I know where your son is, do I?"

  "No, you don't," said Donovan coldly.

  Rodriguez nodded.

  "Three days," he repeated, then walked away.

  "Jesus!"

  Rodriguez turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  "Cut me down, yeah?"

  Rodriguez nodded at his men. One of them took a penknife from his coat pocket and walked behind Donovan. Donovan felt the rope being cut from around his wrists. His fingers began to tingle as the circulation returned. Rodriguez walked away as the man cut the rope around Donovan's ankles. Donovan hit the ground hard, jarring his shoulder, but he was so numb that he felt hardly any pain. He lay on the concrete floor, gasping for breath.

  He heard the doors of the car open and slam shut, then the engine revving. A metal gate rattled up and the car drove out and then he was alone. He sat up, massaging his legs, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Carlos Rodriguez wasn't the most vicious of the Colombian drug lords, but he was far from being a pushover, and Donovan knew for a fact that he'd killed several times. One simple command from him and Jesus would have happily ended Donovan's life.

  Donovan had always got on well with Carlos Rodriguez, which might have explained the Colombian's apparent change of heart. Or maybe Rodriguez had never intended to kill Donovan; maybe it had all been a mind game from the start and Jesus Rodriguez and his two henchmen were pissing themselves laughing as they drove away.

  Donovan stood up slowly. He was still drenched in petrol so he took off most of his clothes and draped them on a workbench to dry. He paced up and down as he considered his options, which now appeared to be few and far between.

  Marty Clare started his third set of sit-ups. He did three hundred during each early-morning workout, six sets of fifty. His torso glistened and he grunted each time he sat upright, his hands clenched behind his neck, his knees slightly bent.

  The man watching Clare was also sweating, but not from exertion. He was a tall, almost gangly, black man in his late twenties with a shaved head and wicked scar on his left forearm. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his right hand was in his pocket, clenched around an eight-inch-long metal spike that had been carefully sharpened.

  The gym was covered by two closed-circuit television cameras that were constantly monitored by prison guards in the control centre. The CCTV cameras were in fixed positions and the man knew that he was standing in a blind spot. The man's hand was sweating but he didn't want to take it out and wipe it because that would mean letting go of the spike. Two men were working with weights, but they had been in the gym for almost an hour and were getting towards the end of their workout.

  Clare finished his third set and stood up, wiping his face with his towel. He went over to a press bench and picked up two small free weights, then lay on his back on the bench. The man watched. And waited. He went and sat on an exercise bike and pedalled slowly. The exercise bike was also out of view of the two CCTV cameras.

  Clare worked on his arms and pectorals for ten minutes then went back to his sit-ups. The man carried on cycling slowly, his hand still on the spike.

  The two men at the weights bench laughed and headed for the door, wiping their faces with their towels.

  Clare got to his feet, stretched and groaned, and picked up his towel. He walked past the exercise bikes, humming to himself. The man kept his head down until Clare had gone by, then slid off his saddle and walked up behind Clare, pulling out the spike. Clare turned to look at the man, but before he could react the man sprang forward, grasping for the collar of Clare's T-shirt with his left hand as he thrust the spike forward. Clare twisted and the spike ripped through his shirt. Clare swore and tried to push the man away but the man was too quick and slashed with the spike, cutting Clare's upper arm. Blood spurted across Clare's chest and the man lashed out again, this time with a stabbing movement. Clare fell back, but the man followed through and the spike stabbed into Clare's stomach. He carried on falling back and crashed into an exercise bike, then rolled on to his side. The man raised the spike above his head but then hesitated. Clare was lying in an area covered by the CCTV camera by the door.

  The man turned, kept his head down and hurried out of the gym, thrusting the spike into his pocket as he jogged down the corridor.

  Clare put his hands over the wound in his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers and he screamed up at the CCTV camera.

  "You bastards! Get down here!"

  The single lens stared down at him dispassionately. Clare groaned and closed his eyes.

  Den Donovan woke up with a splitting headache. He wasn't sure if it was the petrol fumes or the clip on the side of the head that had done the damage, but either way his head throbbed every time he moved it. He found a small plastic kettle and sachets of coffee, creamer and sugar on a table next to the wardrobe and made himself a cup of strong coffee. He sat on the bed and sipped it as he considered his options. He didn't appear to have many. He had to give the two Sparbuchs to Rodriguez. He had to sell his paintings and give the proceeds to the Colombian. Then he had to put Jordan and Macfadyen in touch with him and step out of the deal. Which left him with what? Not much, Donovan decided. There was the Russian deal on the back burner but the Russians would want cash in advance and cash was something that Donovan was fast running out of.

  First things first. He picked up one of the unused mobile phones and dialled Macfadyen's mobile number from memory. The answering service kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, but just gave the number of the mobile and asked Macfadyen to call him. Charlie Macfadyen was a religious screener of calls, so Donovan wasn't surprised when he called back two minutes later.

  "How's it going, you old bastard?" asked Macfadyen.

  "I've had better weeks," said Donovan.

  "Where are you?"

  "London. There isn't a problem, is there?" asked Macfadyen.

  "Not for you, mate," said Donovan.

  "Everything's sweet. But from now on you're dealing with the man direct."

  "Since when?"

  "Since today."

  "You
okay, mate?" Macfadyen sounded concerned and Donovan was touched.

  "Not really. Your man'll explain the situation."

  "I'd rather be dealing with you better the devil and all that shit."

  "It's not an either or," said Donovan.

  "He wants to deal direct."

  "And you're walking away? Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I don't know him. I do know you."

  Donovan closed his eyes and cursed silently. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have over the phone.

  "We're gonna have to meet," said Macfadyen.

  "Where are you?"

  "Can't you just do as you're told?" said Donovan angrily.

  "Look, mate, you've got a stack of my bread. How do I know your guy's gonna honour that? Caveat fucking emptor, right?

  How do I know it's not gonna be guns blazing when I go to see him?"

  "Because he wants to meet at the Intercontinental."

  "Oh, it's in the book of rules now that no one gets shot in a five-star hotel, is it?"

  "Your imagination's in overdrive," said Donovan.

  "Take a Prozac, will you?"

  "I'm serious, Den," said Macfadyen.

  "I need more than this or you can give me back my bread and we'll call it quits."

  Donovan's head felt like it was splitting in half. He transferred the phone to his other ear. Giving Macfadyen his money back was an impossibility. And if he refused to go through with the deal, the Colombian would be back with another can of petrol and the lighter, and this time there'd be nothing Donovan could say or do that would stop him going up like a roman candle.

  "You know the Paddington Stop, yeah?"

  "Little Venice?"

  "See you on the terrace in one, yeah?"

  "I'm bringing Ricky with me." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Be nice, yeah?" said Donovan.

  "We're on the same side here."

  "I bloody hope so, Den. See you in one hour."

  The phone went dead. Donovan pulled the battery off the back of the phone and removed the Sim card. He dropped it into the toilet bowl in the bathroom and flushed, then put a replacement Sim card into the phone. He put on his jacket and headed out. As he was closing the door he hesitated, then went back into the room and got the two Sparbuchs out of his suitcase. The Paddington Stop was less than half an hour's walk if he went the direct route, but that meant walking past Paddington Green police station, and he'd prefer to give it a wide berth. Besides, a long walk might help clear his head.