Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  Donovan switched his cassette player on. Oasis. He smiled as he remembered the coincidence that he and Louise had the same tape. They'd chatted for the best part of an hour in Starbucks. She was a smart girl and seemed to be making a good living as a dancer. Like Kris, she kept insisting that she didn't go with customers, but Donovan couldn't help wondering how else she could afford the Audi roadster. Still, he figured it wasn't any of his business. She'd given him her mobile number when she'd dropped him off at home and asked him to call her some time. She'd also made a point of telling him the address of the club where she danced. Twice.

  Robbie wasn't at the gates when Donovan arrived at the school. A young mother with four schoolgirls in the back of a Mercedes four-wheel drive pulled out in front of him and he whipped the Range Rover into the space.

  He tapped his fingers on his steering wheel as he waited. Being a single parent wasn't so bad, he thought. It was a bit of a nuisance having to drive Robbie to and from school, and the early mornings were a pain, but Robbie was clearly low maintenance. Once Donovan had his money back, maybe he'd stay in London. He had enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Very comfortably. When Vicky had been in the picture, Donovan had been driven to keep putting deals together, partly because of the desire to keep increasing his fortune, but also because he enjoyed it. He got a buzz out of outwitting the various agencies that were tasked with defeating the drugs barons. There was nothing like putting together a successful multi-million-pound drugs deal, of arranging the finance and the shipping, moving people and money around the world like pieces on some gigantic chessboard, followed by the elation of carrying it off successfully. Some of the best parties he'd been to had been in the wake of successful drug deals. Donovan smiled to himself. Could he turn his back on that? Would he be satisfied doing the school run until Robbie was old enough to drive? Years of shopping at Tesco and ferrying sports kit and helping with homework?

  Robbie ran out of the school gates, waving at Donovan. Donovan grinned and waved back. Yeah, he thought, maybe he would at that.

  "How did the match go?" Donovan asked as Robbie climbed into the passenger seat and tossed his sports bag into the back.

  "Won 3 1," said Robbie.

  "My pass gave us the second goal."

  "Good for you," said Donovan and gave his son a high-five.

  "How are you at grocery shopping?" he asked as he started the car and edged out into the line of four-wheel drives.

  "Mum always does .. ." Robbie corrected himself quickly.

  "Did the shopping. During the day. She said it was quieter."

  "Yeah, well, I didn't do too good a job when I went on my own. Thought you might have a better idea of what we need. Okay?"

  "Okay," said Robbie.

  When they got to the supermarket, Donovan pushed a trolley while Robbie ran from shelf to shelf, grabbing at tins, bottles and packets and tossing them in. He stocked up with essentials including washing-up liquid, and soap, things that Donovan would never have thought of until he'd run out.

  "Can you do spaghetti?" Robbie asked.

  "Sure," said Donovan.

  "You boil it and throw it against the wall. If it sticks, it's cooked."

  Robbie laughed and put two packs of spaghetti into the trolley, along with several jars of bolognaise sauce, then they walked together to the checkout.

  "What are you going to do, Dad?"

  "About what?" asked Donovan.

  "About work. You can't just sit around the house all day."

  "Your mother seemed to manage quite nicely."

  Donovan paid for the groceries and he and Robbie took the carrier bags out to the Range Rover.

  "What do you do, Dad? Your job?"

  "You know what I do. I'm a businessman."

  "But what do you actually do?"

  Donovan got into the front seat and opened the door for Robbie. Robbie got in and fastened his seatbelt.

  "What's brought this on?"

  "Nothing. It was my friends, that's all. We were talking about what our dads did, and I said you were back and they were asking what you did. I said you were a businessman, but they were asking what sort of business and I said you were out in the Caribbean and they were asking what you did out there. That's all. I think they thought it was strange that I didn't know. Like it was a secret."

  "It's no secret, Robbie," said Donovan, starting the engine.

  "It's boring, that's all. Import-export. I buy and sell things. Move them from country to country."

  "But what sort of things?"

  "Anything. Whatever people want to buy and sell. You buy at one price and if you can sell at a higher price, you make a profit. Sell a lot of it and you make a lot of profit. Simple. You don't need a PhD to understand that."

  "Yeah, but I still don't know what it is you sell."

  "Commodities. Could be anything. Cement, say. I might buy cheap cement and sell it to a construction company in America. Or I might buy fertiliser in Argentina and sell it in China."

  "And that's why you had to be in Anguilla a lot?"

  Donovan frowned.

  "Your friends were asking why I was in Anguilla?"

  "No, that was me. You never really said why you were away such a lot."

  "It was business, Robbie. Swear to God."

  Robbie nodded.

  "I know," he said, as Donovan started the car and drove home.

  The Increment moved in just before midnight. Major Gannon and his staff sergeant sat in one of three high-speed inflatables, bobbing in the Atlantic just a few miles from where the ocean merged into the English Channel. The major was in radio contact with a sub skimmer some ten miles away to the west.

  The sub skimmer built by Defence Boats, had been designed for covert operations. It could be used as a high-speed surface craft capable of carrying ten troopers and all their equipment at speeds of up to thirty knots, or it could operate as a submersible with twin electric motors, going down to a depth of up to fifty metres.

  "Affirmative," said Gannon into his radio. He turned to the two men sitting behind him. They were both MI6 operatives and had identified themselves only by first names. James and Simon. Gannon doubted that these were their real names. Unlike the eight troopers who were also in the inflatable, the MI6 men weren't armed, but they wore SAS black fire-retardant suits, body armour, composite helmets and communications units inside their respirators.

  "They're going into snorkel mode," Gannon told them.

  "They should be boarding within thirty minutes."

  The sub skimmer was able to travel half-submerged, with only the divers' heads, the exhaust pipes and air inlet above the surface, making it almost impossible to be spotted, either by eye or by radar. On board the sub skimmer were two four-man bricks of SBS troopers in full diving gear. They would clandestinely board the freighter prior to Major Gannon and his men making a more straightforward frontal approach.

  As well as the eight SAS troopers in the inflatable with the major, a further eight SAS troopers from Boat Troop and eight SBS troopers were positioned in two more inflatables some fifty metres away to his right. Gannon wasn't expecting trouble, but he knew it was better to be over-prepared. Even though the freighter was owned by a respectable shipping company and operating on a scheduled route, there was always a chance that an over-enthusiastic crewman might grab a weapon of some sort.

  Twenty minutes later and Gannon got word over his radio that the SBS advance party was on board and concealed. Gannon radioed that the inflatables were to move in. The engines roared and the three boats surged forward through the waves.

  The DHL courier walked into the hotel lobby and up to the reception desk.

  "I have a delivery for Monsieur Stewart Sharkey," he said in fluent French. The receptionist, a man in his forties with a spreading handlebar moustache, grunted and nodded at a man sitting at the far end of the reception area, sitting on a long low sofa and reading a copy of Le Monde.

  The courier walked acros
s the marble floor, under three huge crystal chandeliers.

  "Monsieur Sharkey?"

  The man lowered his paper.

  "Oui?"

  "I have a package for you from London. Can you sign here please?" said the courier in accented English.

  The man stood up and took the computerised clipboard. He scrawled a signature on the LCD screen and handed the clipboard back to the courier. The courier held out the package, an A4 manila envelope, then he frowned. He checked the serial number on the label stuck to the envelope against the readout on the clipboard and cursed.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Sharkey. I have the wrong envelope. I will have to get it from the van."

  "No problem," said the man.

  "Would you come with me? It would save time."

  "I'm not sure .. ." the man began, but the DHL courier had already walked away, so he followed him.

  The DHL van was parked about fifty feet from the entrance to the hotel. The courier opened the rear door of the van and poked his head inside, mumbling something in French.

  The man walked up behind him.

  "Have you got it?" he asked.

  The courier whirled around and pressed the twin prongs of a small black stun gun against the man's throat. He pressed a switch on the gun and the man jerked once and slumped forward, his mouth working soundlessly. The courier caught him and pushed him into the back of the van. Two pairs of hands grabbed the man's jacket and hauled him inside. The door slammed shut as the courier walked around to the driver's door.

  The sound of the doorbell jarred Donovan out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. It was just before midday. He'd been asleep for almost three hours. He hadn't undressed when he'd got home from the morning school run, he'd just stretched out on the bed intending to nap for half an hour or so. Downstairs, the doorbell rang again, then someone knocked on the door, hard. Donovan sat up. He went downstairs.

  "Okay, okay, I'm coming," he muttered as the doorbell rang again. He opened the door, blinking his eyes. It was Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen and they both looked as mad as hell. Jordan was reaching inside his black Armani jacket.

  Donovan knew something was wrong and he tried to close the door. He was too slow Macfadyen put his shoulder against the door and barged through, Jordan following close behind.

  "You bastard!" shouted Macfadyen, slamming Donovan against the wall.

  Jordan kicked the door closed and pulled a gun from inside his jacket. He thrust the barrel under Donovan's chin.

  "You got cut out of the deal, so you fucked it up for us," he shouted.

  Donovan glared at the gun.

  "You brought a fucking gun into my house? How stupid are you, Ricky?"

  Jordan snarled at Donovan and pushed the gun harder against Donovan's chin, forcing his head back against the wall.

  "You are fucking dead meat, mate," he spat.

  "Yeah, right," said Donovan.

  "Of course I am. You're going to pop me and then walk out of here. Earth to Planet Jordan, you wouldn't get fifty feet."

  Jordan frowned.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm Tango fucking One, that's why," said Donovan.

  "Every man and his dog are watching me."

  "No one stopped us coming in, did they?" said Jordan.

  "Well, you haven't shot me yet, have you?" said Donovan.

  "Pull the trigger and see what happens."

  Jordan looked at Macfadyen, who shrugged.

  Donovan smiled, trying to put them at ease.

  "While you're deciding what to do, how about we have a beer?" he said.

  "They're in the fridge, Charlie."

  "Beer?"

  "If you want something stronger, all the booze is in the cabinet in the sitting room."

  "We didn't come here for fucking beer, Den," said Macfadyen.

  "Well, like I said, the sky's gonna fall in if you fire that thing in here, so why don't we have a beer and then you can shoot me somewhere else."

  "Are you taking the piss, Den?" asked Macfadyen.

  "I'm just trying to be civilised," said Donovan.

  "Go on, Charlie, get the beers. Ricky and I'll carry on the conversation in the sitting room." Donovan grinned at Jordan.

  "If it makes you feel any happier, Ricky, you can keep on pointing it at me."

  Jordan looked across at Macfadyen, who nodded.

  "Yeah, why not?"

  Macfadyen went down the hall to the kitchen. Jordan slowly took the gun away from Donovan's neck.

  "No tricks, yeah?" he said.

  Donovan walked into the sitting room. He put his finger against his lips and then made a cut-throat gesture with his right hand. Jordan frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Donovan hissed and put his fingers against his lips again. He went over to the sideboard and picked up the acoustic noise generator that Alex had left. He put it on the coffee table, plugged it in and switched it on. The room was filled with static.

  "What the fuck's that?" said Macfadyen, walking in with three cans of lager. He tossed one to Donovan and put one down on the coffee table for Jordan.

  Donovan sat down on the sofa and motioned for Jordan to sit down next to him.

  "It masks the sound of our voices. In case they're using laser microphones."

  Macfadyen looked around nervously.

  "I swept the place this morning," said Donovan, 'and I've got the phones monitored." He nodded at the box of electronics.

  "This is just to be on the safe side, but keep your voices down, yeah? Now what the fuck is going on?"

  Macfadyen took a copy of the early edition of the Evening Standard from his jacket pocket and tossed it on to the coffee table. Donovan read the headline and cursed.

  "SAS SWOOP ON 100 MILLION COCAINE HAUL." The story was by lined by the paper's chief reporter, who had clearly been well briefed on the operation. The SAS had swooped on a freighter carrying VW Beetles from Mexico. Cocaine had been packed into the cars. Cocaine with a street value of a hundred million pounds. That was an over-estimate, Donovan knew.

  "That's bollocks, a hundred million," he said, and Macfadyen nodded.

  At street level the consignment would probably be worth sixty million pounds. Maybe seventy, depending on how prices held up. The authorities, be they cops, Customs or the Security Service, always over-estimated because it made them look good, and the bigger the haul, the more column inches they'd get. But whatever the value, the drugs had been intercepted and Jordan and Macfadyen were looking for someone to blame. Donovan's mind raced. If they really did believe that he had given up the deal, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him. If their roles were reversed, Donovan would do the same.

  "I don't see any mention of Customs," said Donovan.

  "The reporter only mentions the SAS."

  "That's not the point, Den," said Macfadyen.

  "The point is, someone must have grassed."

  "And you think I'm a sore loser, is that it? A dog in the manger?"

  "Dog in the manger, wind in the willows, chicken in the fucking basket, call it what you want, but you're the obvious candidate."

  "Right," agreed Jordan, nodding furiously.

  "And what exactly would I have to gain by gras sing you up?" asked Donovan.

  "Brownie points with HM Customs?" said Macfadyen.

  "Yeah, well, like I said, I'm not sure that it was a Customs bust. When they do catch anyone, they're normally rushing to take the credit. But do you seriously think I'd risk pissing off a man like Rodriguez to get Brownie points with anyone?"

  "You've got to admit, the timing does look bloody suspicious, Den," said Macfadyen.

  "It wasn't me, lads. Hand on heart."

  "Then who?" asked Jordan.

  "If not you, who?"

  "Who knows?" said Donovan.

  "Maybe someone on your team. Maybe you've been under surveillance yourself. You can't wear Armani suits and drive around in flash cars and not get noticed."

  "It wasn't us," s
aid Jordan, defensively. He still had the gun pointing at Donovan's stomach and his finger was on the trigger.

  "Fine. So it wasn't you. And it wasn't me. Which means it was either someone working for Rodriguez or someone on the outside. Someone on the ship got suspicious about the cargo. Maybe enough palms weren't greased in Mexico. Or it might even have been bad luck. We all know there's a million and one things can go wrong with every deal. Something else why didn't they follow through? Why didn't they let it run?"

  "Maybe they didn't want to lose the gear," said Macfadyen.

  "Bollocks. They'd have saturation surveillance: they'd tag the gear, the works. You've got to ask why they didn't do that."

  "Why do you think they didn't?" asked Jordan.

  "Could be they already know," said Macfadyen.

  "Could be you already told them."

  "So why are you here giving me grief and not sitting in a cell drinking tea out of a paper cup? Don't you think if I were trying to stitch you up I'd have done it properly?"

  "Maybe they screwed up," said Jordan.

  "Act your age, Ricky. The SAS boarded the ship in the middle of the night. Does that sound like a lack of planning?"

  "That still doesn't answer the question why didn't they let the consignment run?" said Macfadyen.

  "I don't know, Charlie. Answer that and maybe we'll find out who grassed the deal."

  "Shit," said Macfadyen.

  "You can say that again," said Donovan.

  "We're down millions on this deal," said Jordan.

  "We're down millions with nothing to show for it."

  "That's the rules of the game and you both know it," said Donovan.

  "You budget for losing one in four consignments. You build it into your costs. You did that, right?"

  "Sort of," said Macfadyen.

  "Sort of?"

  "Not all the money was ours. We got three mill off a Yardie gang in Harlesden."

  Donovan raised his eyebrows.

  "Smart move," he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

  "I thought you didn't do business with the Yardies."

  "This guy's cool."

  "Yeah, well, if he's cool, why are you worried?"

  "Because it was the first deal he'd done with us. He's going to think we ripped him off."