Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  There was little in the newspaper about what was happening back in the UK. Like the English, the French were extremely parochial about their news. He turned to the sports pages. At least the French appreciated English soccer.

  Sharkey heard chair legs scrape against the flagstones and he lowered his paper. A man in his thirties grunted and lowered himself into a chair at the table next to Sharkey's. The man ordered a coffee and lit a small cigar. Sharkey went back to reading the paper.

  "Checking the currency rates?" said a voice. Sharkey lowered his paper again. The man at the next table tapped ash into a glass ashtray and nodded at the paper.

  "Seeing how many francs you get to the pound." The man spoke English, but with an accent, and not French.

  Sharkey formed his face into a pained frown, trying to make it clear that he wasn't looking for a conversation.

  "I'm sorry, I don't speak English," he said in his perfect French.

  "The pound. Is it better to hold the pound, do you think, or dollars?"

  "I'm sorry, I have no interest in the currency markets," said Sharkey in French, raising the paper and flicking it to make a cracking sound.

  The man leaned forward and blew smoke over the top of the newspaper.

  "Are you sure about that, Mr. Sharkey? I would have thought that with sixty million stolen dollars, you'd be very interested."

  There was another scraping sound behind Sharkey and he looked over his shoulder. Two men sat down at the table behind him. Big men with dark brown skins and thick moustaches, black sunglasses and flashy gold rings on their fingers. The black lenses of their sunglasses stared back at him impassively.

  "Yes, they are with me, Mr. Sharkey."

  Sharkey put down his paper.

  "Who are you?" He glanced left _ and right, praying silently that there would be a gendarme close by. Officially, he had done nothing wrong and he had nothing to fear from the authorities.

  "You don't know me, Mr. Sharkey. And please don't bother looking around for help." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small Taser stun gun.

  "You know what this is, Mr. Sharkey?"

  Sharkey nodded. It generated a high-voltage pulse that could disable a man in seconds, producing the equivalent of a massive heart attack or epileptic fit.

  "There are two ways we can handle this," the man continued, an amiable smile on his face.

  "I can press this against your neck and give you twenty thousand volts. You go down, I announce that I am a doctor and my two friends behind you offer to transport you to hospital in their very roomy Mercedes Benz. You wake up in about ten minutes with a very bad headache."

  Sharkey sighed.

  "And the alternative?"

  "I pay your bill and mine. We smile and walk to the car together." The man caressed the stun gun with his thumb.

  "Which is it to be, Mr. Sharkey?"

  "Whatever he is paying you, I will pay you ten times as much."

  The man shook his head.

  "Please do not embarrass yourself, Mr. Sharkey. We are all professionals here."

  Sharkey closed his eyes. He could feel tears welling up and he blinked them away. He had come so close, so damn close. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He felt almost light headed and he knew that it was the endorphins kicking in, the body's protective mechanism swamping his system with chemicals. It was all over. Den Donovan had won and he had lost.

  He forced himself to smile.

  "Okay," he said.

  "Let's go."

  Vicky turned around in the shower, letting the water play over her face. She twisted the temperature control and gasped as the water turned icy cold. She ran her hands over her face, pulling back her hair. Sharkey kept telling her she'd have to dye it, but she didn't want to, she enjoyed being blonde. She'd agreed to cut her hair shorter and to wear a hat and dark glasses whenever she stepped outside, but that was as far as she was prepared to go.

  As she turned off the shower she heard the door to the apartment open and close.

  "Stewart? Is that you?" she called, then shook her head in annoyance. Of course it was him. Who else would be letting themselves in with a key? She wrapped a towel around herself and checked her reflection in the mirror. There were dark patches under her eyes and her skin was dry and flaking. She needed a morning in a spa, being worked on by experts. A massage, a long soak, then a facial and a skin-toning session. A seaweed wrap, maybe. She needed pampering, but Sharkey was practically keeping her a prisoner in the apartment. Damn him. Damn him and damn Den Donovan. They were as bad as each other. They chased, they wooed, they pursued, then when Vicky finally opened up her heart to them, they walked all over her. Treated her like a possession, something to be owned and put on show. Vicky smiled sadly at her reflection. Except that Sharkey wasn't even able to put her on show. She was like a bird in a cage, available for him and him alone. A secret possession.

  She heard him walking into the bedroom.

  "Did you forget something?" she called.

  She opened the bathroom door, then jumped as she saw the man standing there, his arm outstretched to grab hold of the handle. Her mouth fell open and she took a deep breath, ready to scream, but before a sound left her throat a second man stepped from the side of the door and clamped a cloth over her mouth. Her nostrils were filled with a sickly-sweet odour and then the room started to swim. She felt the strength drain from her legs and everything went black.

  Louise cooked lasagne and opened a bottle of red wine. Donovan sat down at the dining table as she heaped the pasta on to three plates.

  "Robbie, there's salad in the fridge. Can you get it for me?"

  "Sure," said Robbie, dashing off to the kitchen.

  "He's a good kid," said Louise.

  "He likes you," said Donovan, pouring wine into their glasses.

  "It's mutual." Louise sat down next to him. She picked up her glass and clinked it against his.

  "It's nice having you both here."

  Robbie returned with a glass bowl filled with salad and put it on the table.

  One of Donovan's phones started ringing. He pressed the green button. It was the Spaniard.

  "Hang on, Juan, let me get some privacy," said Donovan, standing up.

  "It's a madhouse here."

  "Well, thank you very much," said Louise.

  Donovan grinned.

  "I need to speak to this guy, sorry. I'll go outside."

  Donovan left the apartment and hurried downstairs and out of the front door. He spoke to the Spaniard again as he walked along the side of the house to the garden.

  "Yeah, sorry about that, Juan. How did it go?"

  "Your money is back in your account," said the Spaniard.

  Donovan pumped the air with his fist.

  "Juan, you are a fucking star!"

  "Yes, I know."

  "You took your fee out first, right?"

  "Of course I did, amigo. And my expenses."

  "Whatever it cost, you are worth it, you dago bastard."

  "I couldn't have done it without knowing where he was," said the Spaniard.

  "A little bird told me," said Donovan.

  "I can't say any more than that."

  "Your little bird is very well informed," said the Spaniard.

  "I myself could do with a little bird like that."

  "How was Sharkey?"

  "Co-operative. Eventually. It took several toes and three of his fingers, but he told us everything."

  "Still alive?"

  "Just."

  "Make sure he's never found, Juan."

  "Thy will be done. And your wife, amigo, what about your wife?"

  Donovan walked to the far end of the garden. A couple of sparrows were squabbling over a bread crust that had been placed on a wooden bird table.

  "Amigo? Your wife?"

  Donovan closed his eyes.

  "Have you hurt her?"

  "Not yet. We have her restrained, but we haven't harmed her. I wanted to talk to you first. Sh
e is very afraid, amigo. If you wanted her to learn a lesson, I feel she has learned it."

  "Did she see what you did to Sharkey?"

  "No, but she was in the other room. She heard everything."

  "Let me speak to her."

  The phone went quiet. Donovan heard rustlings and muffled voices, then Vicky was on the line.

  "Den .. ." she said.

  "Den, I'm sorry. Really."

  "I'm sure you are," said Donovan coldly.

  "I didn't know how much he'd taken. I swear to God, I didn't. He told me he was just taking some of it, so you'd have to talk to us. I swear."

  "He cleaned me out, Vicky. And a big chunk of the money didn't belong to me. It was promised to some Colombian guys. You've no idea what a spot you put me in."

  "I didn't mean, to Den. Honest." She began crying again.

  Donovan turned around. He looked up at the house.

  Robbie was at one of the windows, looking down. Robbie waved and Donovan waved back.

  "Sharkey wanted me dead, Vicky. Do you understand that? He knew that I owed that money to the Colombians, and he knew what they'd do to me when they didn't get it."

  Vicky didn't say anything, she just kept sobbing into the phone.

  "There's something else you don't know," continued Donovan.

  "Sharkey wanted Robbie to find you in bed with him."

  "No .. ." sobbed Vicky.

  "It's true, Vicky. He sent him a text message. Pretended it was from me. He wanted to be caught. He wanted you to have to run away with him. He used you, Vicky. From day one."

  "No .. ."

  Robbie was still looking out of the window at Donovan. Donovan turned so that his back was to the house.

  "From day one. He didn't love you, he didn't want you. He just wanted my money. And once he had that and I was out of the way, he was going to dump you."

  "What are you going to do, Den? What are you going to do to me?"

  "What do you think I should do, Vicky? After what you did to me, what do you think I should do?"

  "I don't know," she sobbed.

  "I'm sorry, Den. I swear to God, I'm so sorry. Please don't tell Robbie."

  "Robbie already knows, remember?"

  "About the money. I meant, about the money. And about this. Just tell him I went away."

  "Vicky .. ."

  "I'm sorry .. ." she said, then all Donovan could hear were sobs.

  "Look, Vicky, don't cry. Okay? Just stop crying."

  "I do love you. And I love Robbie."

  "Vicky, stop. Please. Nothing's going to happen to you. I promise."

  Vicky sniffed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The men there. They won't hurt you. I promise."

  "You're going to let me go?"

  Donovan hesitated, wondering if he were doing the right thing.

  "Yes," he said eventually.

  "Oh, thank you, Den. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'll never hurt you again, I promise. I'll never let you down again."

  Donovan took a deep breath.

  "You're not going to get the chance, Vicky. You're not to come near me again. Not within twenty miles. I'm not going to stop you coming back to England, because that's where your family are, but you don't come near me. Or Robbie."

  "Den .. . please."

  "I mean it, Vicky."

  "But Robbie's my son. You're my family."

  "The time for thinking about that was before you let him catch you in bed with Sharkey. We're not your family any more. Robbie and I are family. You walked out on us."

  "Den, this isn't fair."

  "Don't go there, Vicky. You're well behind in the fairness stakes. But I will let you see Robbie. On his birthday. On your birthday. Christmas. I'll even throw in Mother's Day. When he's twelve he can decide how much time he spends with you. Do you understand?"

  "Okay," she said, and sniffed again.

  "Okay. If that's how it has to be."

  "One other thing. You drop the injunction. Talk to your lawyer. I think he's going to be quite happy to lose you as a client after what he's been through. You give up all rights to Robbie. Go back on that and the men there will come looking for you again. They can bury you next to Sharkey. Are we clear on that?"

  "Yes. I'll do what you say. And Den .. ."

  "Yeah?"

  "I really am sorry."

  "Put the Spaniard back on."

  There were more muffled voices and then Rojas was on the line.

  "Are you okay, amigo?

  "I'm fine, Juan." He took a deep breath.

  "Let her go, yeah? Hold her until you've disposed of Sharkey, then let her go."

  "That's a good decision, amigo."

  "I hope so."

  Donovan cut the connection and put the phone back in his pocket and went back into the house.

  Louise and Robbie looked up as he walked back into the flat.

  "Is something wrong, Dad?" asked Robbie.

  "Nah, everything's fine," said Donovan, 'but I'm going to have to go out for a while." He nodded at Louise.

  "Can I borrow your car?"

  "Sure," said Louise. She stood up and picked up the keys from the sideboard.

  "Can I help?"

  "I've just got to do something."

  "Be careful, yeah?"

  Donovan laughed.

  "Honest, it's nothing. I have to do something online, that's all."

  Louise kissed him on the cheek. Donovan winked at Robbie over her shoulder.

  "Look after her, okay?"

  "Are you coming home tonight?" asked Robbie.

  "I hope so."

  Donovan went downstairs and climbed into Louise's Audi. He used one of the mobiles to call Fullerton.

  "Jamie? I need a favour. You've got a computer, yeah?"

  "Sure, Den. Come around. We need to talk anyway."

  Fullerton gave Donovan the address of his flat. Donovan drove to Docklands and parked the Audi on a meter.

  Fullerton met him at the lift.

  "Thought you had a computer at your place," said Fullerton.

  "I'm under surveillance, there's a chance they've tapped the phone line. Plus they've got gear these days that can read what's on a screen from outside the house."

  "Bollocks," said Fullerton.

  "Nah, it's true. My security guy was telling me about it." Fullerton led Donovan to his computer. It was already switched on and connected to the internet.

  "It's based on the technology that the TV detector vans use to see what channel your TV is watching. It's just been developed so that it can read whatever information is on screen. Customs have had it for at least three years."

  Donovan wasn't worried about using Fullerton's computer. Underwood had told him that the art dealer wasn't under surveillance and as always he was going to carry out all transactions via proxy servers that would leave no trail. Donovan tapped away on the keyboard. He logged on to the site of the Swiss bank into which Rojas had put the money he'd taken from Sharkey. Donovan grinned as he saw that there was just under fifty-five million dollars in the account.

  "Yes!" he said.

  "Good news?" asked Fullerton.

  "I'm back in the black," he said.

  "Glad to hear it."

  To the tune of fifty-five million dollars. If you've got any of that shampoo around, now might be a good time to crack open a bottle."

  Fullerton went off to the kitchen.

  Donovan transferred ten million dollars to Carlos Rodriguez's account. Legally and morally he figured he didn't owe the Colombian a penny, but after the attempted hit last night, it was clear that legality and morality currently didn't form part of Rodriguez's vocabulary. When he'd finished, he defragmented the disk and then sat down on one of the sofas.

  Fullerton came back with an opened bottle of Krug champagne and two glasses. He poured champagne for the two of them and they clinked glasses.

  "To crime," said Fullerton.

  Donovan laughed and sipped his champagne.r />
  "How much have you got so far, Jamie?" he asked.

  "Five million, definite. Three from dealers, two from guys in the City who'll want the gear selling on."

  "That's not a problem. You've got the cash in your account, yeah?"

  Fullerton nodded.

  "Offshore. It's well clean."

  Donovan picked up a pen and started writing numbers down on a notepad. Five million pounds from Fullerton. O'Brien in Dublin was in for five hundred kilos at twelve grand a kilo. He'd already sent six million pounds through to Donovan's account. Five million pounds had already come from Macfadyen and Jordan, and PM had sent through the one million seven hundred thousand pounds for his two hundred kilos. That made a total of just under eighteen million pounds. Almost twenty-six million dollars. More than enough.

  "We're home and dry, Jamie," he said.

  "We're over budget. Even without what I've got in my account. It's a done deal."

  They clinked glasses again.

  "How much have we got?"

  "Twenty-six million US. Bit less maybe. Depends on the exchange rate."

  "And for that we get how much?"

  Donovan tapped his nose.

  "That's for me to know."

  "Oh come on, Den. If you can't trust me by now .. ."

  "It's a lot, Jamie."

  Fullerton dropped down on to a sofa and put his feet up on a coffee table.

  "Bastard!" he said, only half joking.

  Donovan took a long drink of champagne, then put his glass down by the keyboard.

  "Okay, don't fucking sulk," he said.

  "My guys are bringing in eight thousand kilos. For the money we've taken in, we've got to hand over about two thousand. That means profit for me is .. ."

  "Six thousand kilos of high-grade Afghan heroin. Street value six hundred million pounds!"

  "Nah, it's not as simple as that, Jamie. I'm not gonna be standing on street corners selling wraps. That's the only way you get a hundred grand a kilo. I'll have to sell it wholesale, and even if I could get top whack I wouldn't get more than twenty grand a kilo."

  That's still a hundred and twenty million pounds, Den. Fuck me."

  Donovan smiled at Fullerton's enthusiasm.

  "If I were bringing in a few hundred kilos I could get twenty, but this consignment is just too big. I can hardly keep it in my loft and sell it bit by bit. I'm gonna have to sell it off to someone with a distribution network, and in the UK that means the Turks. The Turks buy their raw material at about the price I'm paying. Their expenses are that much higher than mine because they bring it overland, but that still works out at about eight thousand pounds a kilo by the time they get it into the UK. They're not going to pay me more than that. Probably a fair bit less. If I'm lucky I'll get six grand a kilo."