Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "Den Donovan is back," he said.

  The detective raised one eyebrow.

  "Bloody hell."

  "He's in London. I've checked with Immigration and there's no record of him coming in, but he's got more identities than Rory Bremner."

  "Your source?"

  Hathaway tutted in disgust.

  "Worth a try," grinned the detective.

  "Where is he?"

  "Not sure, lying low at the moment. He's going to have to pop his head above the parapet fairly soon, though. Money problems."

  "Den Donovan? He's worth millions."

  "Take it from me, he's got cash flow problems. He's selling his art collection. He's already cleared his paintings out of his Kensington house."

  "I know it," said the detective.

  "Is Six going to be looking at him?"

  "Not yet."

  "Customs?"

  "You've got this to yourself, but I wouldn't expect the Cussies or Six to stand by once they know he's back."

  "And it's because of his money problems that he's here?"

  "So far as I know. He was in to see Maury Goldman, the dodgy art dealer in Mayfair. If I get more, I'll give you a call." Hathaway stood up and winced as he put his weight on his painful leg. The detective didn't notice: he was too preoccupied with how he was going to break the news to his boss.

  Hathaway walked away, back towards Vauxhall Bridge. He had no qualms about setting the police on Donovan. He must have known that the moment he set foot back on UK territory he'd be a marked man, and if there'd been no surveillance he'd have been suspicious. This way at least Hathaway would be able to exert some control on the operation.

  Donovan lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd tried to get a new birth certificate for Robbie but had been told that it would be at least seventy-two hours. Donovan had phoned the German in Anguilla but the German had said that passports for children weren't something he had in stock and that it would take at least a week to get the necessary documentation together. He could make up a counterfeit within a day but warned that even though his counterfeits were good, he couldn't be held responsible if something went wrong. It wasn't a risk that Donovan was prepared to take. Donovan's plan had been to get a replacement passport for Robbie and take him to Anguilla while he worked out what he was going to do next. There was no way he was going to leave without his son, so he had no choice other than to wait it out in London. With Marty Clare out of the picture, Donovan was in the clear investigation-wise, so there was nothing to stop him moving back into the house with Robbie. The police and Customs would put him under the microscope as soon as they discovered he was back, but Donovan wasn't planning on doing anything in the least bit criminal. He could check out of the hotel, get Robbie back from Laura, and start playing the father.

  One of his mobiles rang and Donovan rolled over on to his stomach. It was the mobile that Fullerton and Goldman were to use once they had news of the paintings. Donovan pressed the phone to his ear and lay on his back. It was Fullerton.

  "Good news, Den," said Fullerton.

  "I could do with some," said Donovan.

  "That Citibank guy creamed himself over the Buttersworths. I got him to go to seven hundred and fifty. He practically forced the banker's draft on me."

  Donovan sat up. That's good going, Jamie." Donovan had only been expecting half a million dollars for the two paintings.

  "That's just the start," said Fullerton excitedly.

  "The Rembrandt. Guess what I got for the Rembrandt?"

  "Jamie, I don't want to start playing games here. Just tell me."

  "Eight hundred grand."

  "Dollars?"

  "Pounds, Den. Fucking pounds."

  "Bloody hell." That was well above what Donovan had been hoping for.

  "Yeah, tell me about it. The guy's a bit shady, I have to say, but his money's good."

  "You're sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure. Besides, he's going to make his draft out to me and I'll get a draft drawn off my account. We'll have it sorted by tomorrow."

  Donovan ran through the numbers. Eight hundred thousand for the Rembrandt drawing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was about half a million quid. Plus Goldman had promised two hundred thousand pounds for the Van Dycks. So far he had one and a half million pounds. He sighed with relief. At least he was close to getting the Colombian off his back.

  "That's brilliant work, Jamie. Thanks."

  "I'm pretty close to selling a couple of others, too. I'm seeing a guy this evening who's looking to invest in stuff and doesn't care over much what he buys so long as it goes up in price."

  "An art-lover, huh?" said Donovan.

  "Don't knock it. It's the investors who keep the market rising. If we had to depend on people who actually liked art, you'd still be able to pick up a Picasso for five grand."

  Donovan sighed. He knew that Fullerton was right, but even so, his heart sank at the thought of his lovingly acquired collection being split up and stored away in vaults as an investment.

  "Shall I bring you the drafts tomorrow?"

  Donovan hesitated. He didn't want to see Rodriguez again, not in the UK, but the drafts had to be hand delivered.

  "Den? You there?"

  Donovan reached a decision. Fullerton had done a great job in selling the paintings so quickly, and Goldman had said that he had known Fullerton for three years and that he could be trusted.

  "Can you do me a favour, Jamie?" he asked.

  "Sure," said Fullerton.

  "Anything."

  He sounded eager to please and Donovan wondered how much Goldman had told Fullerton.

  "This guy the drafts are made out to. Carlos Rodriguez. I need them delivered. Can you handle that for me?"

  "No problem, Den."

  "There's a guy called Jesus Rodriguez staying at the Intercontinental near Hyde Park. He's the nephew of the guy the money's to go to. Can you give them to him in person? Don't just leave them at Reception, yeah? In his hand."

  Fullerton laughed.

  "Shall I ask him for a receipt?"

  "Yeah, and count your fingers after you shake hands with him," said Donovan.

  "Seriously, Jamie. Jesus Rodriguez is a tough son of a bitch. Don't take any liberties with him."

  "Understood."

  "Second thing. He's expecting two million quid. There's the two hundred grand that Goldman's paying me for the sketches, so I need one point eight mill from you. Anything above that, keep for me, okay? Minus your usual fee, of course."

  "No problem. Pleasure doing business with you, Den. I mean that. If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate, okay?"

  Donovan thanked him and cut the connection. He tossed the phone on to the bed and went into the bathroom to splash water on to his face. Jamie Fullerton was proving to be a godsend. At least something was starting to go right.

  Gregg Hathaway leaned back in his seat and stared at the message on his VDU. It was from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway would have preferred Donovan to have taken the money to the hotel, but the fact that Donovan had trusted Fullerton with it was a major breakthrough. It was a direct link between Donovan and one of South America's biggest drug dealers. There was a second terminal to Hathaway's left and he twisted around and tapped on the keyboard. The terminal gave Hathaway direct access to the DEA's database.

  He tapped in Rodriguez's name and after a few seconds the Colombian's face appeared. Rodriguez was forty-seven. He'd been born to a wealthy farming family, one of six brothers. Well educated, he spoke five languages and was close to many politicians and businessmen in Colombia, many of whom the DEA suspected of being involved in the drugs trade. Rodriguez had started out working for the Mendoza syndicate but had soon struck out on his own. According to the DEA, Rodriguez was responsible for smuggling cocaine worth more than four hundred million dollars a year into the United States, primarily via Mexico, and was also a major cannabis exporter.

  Jesus Rodriguez was the son of Carlos Rod
riguez's younger brother and was one of the organisation's hard men, responsible for at least a dozen brutal murders in the Caribbean. According to the DEA report, Jesus Rodriguez was borderline psychopathic and an habitual cocaine user. Hathaway scrolled down through the report. There was no mention of Rodriguez sending drugs to Europe. He smiled to himself. It would do him no harm at all to bring the DEA up to speed. But not just yet. More than a dozen DEA agents worked out of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and he didn't want them getting all hot and bothered about the Colombian before Fullerton had delivered the money.

  Hathaway picked up a plastic cup of strong black coffee and sipped it. It was all starting to come together. It had been a year in the planning and three years in the execution, but there were just a few more pieces that had to be put into position before he was ready for the end game.

  Jamie Fullerton pounded down the pavement towards his apartment block. He'd run a seven-mile circuit, much of it alongside the Thames, but he had barely worked up a sweat. He was so pumped up with adrenalin he felt as if he could run another circuit, but he had work to do.

  He jogged into the reception area of the block and winked at the uniformed security guard who sat in front of a bank of CCTV screens.

  "Hiya, George."

  "Morning, Mr. Fullerton. Great day."

  "And getting better by the minute," said Fullerton. He jogged into the lift and ran on the spot as it climbed up to the top floor.

  The message light on his answering machine was winking and he hit the 'play' button. He dropped down and did fast-paced press-ups as he listened to the message. It was a property developer in Hampstead who had seen four of Donovan's paintings the previous evening and had wanted to sleep on it. Fullerton had sold the man more than a dozen works of art in the past, so had been happy to leave the paintings with him while he made up his mind. It had been a wise decision the property developer had decided to go ahead and buy them and wanted Fullerton to call around to his home to pick up a bank draft for half a million pounds. Fullerton punched the air in triumph.

  He went over to his dining table, a glass and chrome oval that could seat a dozen people. Three bank drafts were lined up next to a modern silver candelabra. The top draft was drawn on Fullerton's own bank. Eight hundred thousand pounds. The buyer of Donovan's Rembrandt had given Fullerton a cheque for the full amount and Fullerton had had it express cleared. Fullerton hadn't told Donovan the identity of the buyer of the Rembrandt, because it might have made him nervous. Like Donovan, the buyer was a major drug dealer, bringing in tens of thousands of ecstasy tablets from Holland every month. He had stacks of cash that he needed laundering, and art was an easy way of cleaning dirty money. Fullerton picked up the draft and held it to his nose, wondering what eight hundred thousand pounds smelt like. It smelt like paper.

  The two other drafts were from Goldman and the buyer of the Buttersworth yacht paintings. In the space of eighteen hours Donovan had raised two million pounds, a reflection of the quality of the collection.

  Donovan was clearly attached to his art and Fullerton couldn't work out why he was so desperate to sell. According to Goldman, Donovan was worth tens of millions of dollars. Then there was the fact that the drafts had to be made out to the mysterious Mr. Rodriguez. Fullerton had asked Hathaway for information on Carlos Rodriguez and his nephew, but so far none had been forthcoming.

  Fullerton called the Intercontinental and asked to be put through to Jesus Rodriguez's room. A man with a rough South American accent answered. He said that Mr. Rodriguez was busy, but when Fullerton explained why he was calling, a hand was put over the mouthpiece and Fullerton heard muffled Spanish. Then Rodriguez was on the line, oily smooth and saying that he'd see Fullerton in his suite at one o'clock.

  He went through to his bathroom and showered, then dressed in a Lanvin suit and Gucci shoes, figuring that if he was hand delivering two million, he might as well look the part. He drove his Porsche to Hampstead and picked up the fourth draft. The drive from Hampstead to the Intercontinental took almost an hour, but he was still ten minutes early, so he sat in Reception until exactly one o'clock before phoning up to Rodriguez's suite.

  Two large men in black suits were waiting for him on the seventh floor. They patted him down professionally without speaking, then one of them motioned for him to follow him.

  Rodriguez was standing in front of a window offering a panoramic view of Hyde Park. He turned and smiled as Fullerton walked into the room. He was a short man but very muscular as if he spent a lot of time in the gym, dressed in a cream suit and a chocolate-brown shirt. His hair was gelled back and his goatee beard was carefully trimmed. As he held out his hand to shake, Fullerton saw that the nails were carefully manicured and glistened as if they'd been polished. A thick-ridged scar ran along the back of his right hand.

  "So you are Donovan's money man?" he asked, gripping Fullerton's hand and squeezing hard.

  Fullerton got a whiff of a sickly-sweet cologne.

  "He apologises for not coming in person," he said. He took his hand away and resisted the urge to massage his aching fingers.

  Rodriguez laughed harshly.

  "I quite understand why he wouldn't want to be seen with me again," he said.

  Fullerton took the drafts from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed them to Rodriguez.

  Rodriguez looked through them, nodding his approval.

  "Good," he said.

  "At least on this occasion he has kept his word."

  "Was there a problem before?" asked Fullerton. Rodriguez stiffened and Fullerton realised that he'd made a mistake.

  "I know Den was very keen that this transaction went ahead smoothly, he was very insistent that you get those today."

  Rodriguez stared at Fullerton. He was still smiling but his eyes were as cold and hard as pebbles.

  "How long have you worked for him?" he asked.

  Fullerton shrugged and tried to smile confidently.

  "I'm not really an employee, as such," he said quickly.

  "I'm an art dealer. Paintings. He needed some works of art placing and I was able to help."

  Rodriguez visibly relaxed. He put the drafts on a coffee table.

  "So you know about paintings?"

  "Some."

  "You should come and see me some time in Bogota," said Rodriguez.

  "I too have an interest in art. I would value your opinion."

  "Do you have a card?"

  Rodriguez chuckled.

  "A card?" He looked across at his two bodyguards and said something to them in Spanish. They started laughing and Rodriguez slapped Fullerton on the back.

  "Just ask anyone in Bogota. They'll tell you where to find me."

  "I will do, Mr. Rodriguez."

  Rodriguez nodded at his bodyguards and they steered Fullerton out of the door and into the corridor. Fullerton could hear Rodriguez still chuckling as the door was closed in his face.

  Fullerton rubbed his forehead and his hand came away wet. He hadn't realised how much he'd been sweating.

  Gregg Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report. Jesus Rodriguez had given nothing away, but Hathaway hadn't expected that he would. The Rodriguez cartel were big players, and even the two million pounds Fullerton had delivered was small change to them, so there had to be something else going on.

  Donovan had been in a rush to sell his paintings, and he could have got a better price if he'd put them off for auction. That meant he was under pressure. He was paying off Rodriguez, but why? According to Donovan's file, he had access to tens of millions of pounds, much of it in overseas banks. So why bank drafts? Something had clearly gone wrong with Donovan's finances. And if Donovan was short of money, he might be pressurised into making mistakes.

  Hathaway sent Fullerton a congratulatory e-mail, and suggested that he try to get closer to Donovan. Not that Fullerton would need much encouragement: it was clear from the reports he was filing that he was champing at the bit.

  Hathaway p
icked up his telephone and called his contact at Bow Street police station. The detective inspector answered on the first ring as if he'd had his hand poised over the receiver.

  "Can you talk?" asked Hathaway.

  "No problem," said the detective.

  "Have you heard of a Colombian called Carlos Rodriguez?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "A big fish," said Hathaway.

  "A very big fish. Run it by NCS and put in a request for MI6 intelligence. He's Government and judiciary connected, high up on the DEA's most wanted list and has been for a decade or more. He uses his nephew as an enforcer. Jesus Rodriguez. He's got a suite at the Intercontinental." ' "Right .. ." said the detective hesitantly.

  "He's getting busy with Den Donovan," said Hathaway.

  "Bloody hell," said the detective more enthusiastically.

  "How long's this being going on?"

  "I've only just found out," said Hathaway.

  "Carlos Rodriguez is big in cocaine, mainly through Mexico into the States, but the DEA reckon he's behind several heroin and cannabis cartels too. We haven't had him marked down as bringing stuff into Europe, but if he's linked up with Donovan, that could be about to change."

  "Are Six involved?"

  "Not yet. Officially, we'll probably wait until we get an approach from the Americans, and so far that's not been forthcoming."

  "This is big."

  "Huge," agreed Hathaway.

  "God forbid I should try to teach anyone how to suck eggs, but a phone tap would be a good idea, and if I were you I'd be trying to get someone in the hotel."

  "Has Rodriguez met Donovan?"

  "I'm not sure if they've met here in London, but I've seen a report from the Customs Drugs Liaison Officer in Miami who says they've been seen together in the Caribbean a couple of times, latterly in St. Kitts."

  "What's your take on it?" asked the detective.

  "There's something in the wind, I don't think the nephew's here shopping, but they're both old hands at this. I doubt they'll do anything stupid. Whatever they're up to, it must be major to get one of the Rodriguez family out of South America. Stay in touch, yeah?"