Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  "Nothing."

  "He'll come back," he said.

  "Don't worry."

  Tina nodded and wiped her eyes again.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "It's not your fault," said Robbie.

  "That's just the way he is."

  "I know," she said.

  She held out her arms and Robbie rushed towards her and hugged her.

  "It'll be okay," he said soothingly.

  Tina patted Robbie's head. She knew that it wasn't going to be okay. It was going to be far from okay.

  Donovan waited on the bridge, whistling softly to himself. He adjusted the Velcro band under his watch strap and then put a hand on the detector unit on his belt. Everything was going according to plan. Jordan and Macfadyen had already left for the airfield. Donovan had called PM and told him where the plane was landing and what time to get there. And he'd arranged to meet Fullerton at Hyde Park Corner so that they could drive to the airfield together. The only fly in the ointment was Gregg Hathaway.

  A narrow boat chugged underneath the bridge. A grey-haired woman in her seventies had her hand on the tiller and she gave Donovan a cheery wave as the boat went by. Donovan waved back.

  He straightened up and saw Hathaway walking down Formosa Street, a laptop computer case hanging from one shoulder.

  Hathaway was grinning as he walked to the middle of the bridge.

  "Lovely day for it," he said cheerily.

  "What is it you want?" asked Donovan.

  "I want to be rich, happy, to be with somebody who loves me. Children would be nice. Pretty much what every man wants."

  The detector on Donovan's belt remained still. Hathaway wasn't wearing a recording device or transmitter.

  "You know what I mean," said Donovan.

  Further down the canal a middle-aged angler threw a handful of ground bait into the water.

  "I want to talk," said Hathaway.

  "Try the Samaritans," said Donovan.

  "I'll miss your sense of humour, Donovan." He looked at his wristwatch.

  "Got somewhere to go?" asked Donovan.

  "No, but you have, haven't you?"

  "I'm tired of playing games, Hathaway. What do you want?"

  Hathaway smiled without warmth.

  "You didn't think twice before putting that bullet in my leg, did you?"

  "I thought about killing you."

  "I bet you did. Have you any idea how that bullet changed my life?"

  "Got you a better job, didn't it?"

  "I loved being in Customs, Den. Loved working undercover. I was bloody good at it."

  Donovan flashed Hathaway a sarcastic smile.

  "Clearly you weren't. If you'd been any good, I wouldn't have made you."

  "Someone grassed me. One of your informers."

  Donovan shook his head.

  "You gave yourself away. I forget now what it was, but it was down to you. Some story you told. Some anecdote. You told it wrong. Told it like you'd memorised it. Like it was a script."

  "Bullshit!"

  "Why would I lie? To hurt you?" Donovan chuckled.

  "We're beyond that, aren't we?"

  "It was the job I'd always wanted. I was one of the good guys, fast track. Then you shot me and I'm in hospital for three months. And three months after that I'm sitting at a desk in human resources being told that there is no place for me in the leaner, meaner Customs and Excise. Thank you for your loyal service and good night."

  "You got a pension, right? Disability?"

  "Peanuts. Wife didn't like the idea of my being thrown on the scrap heap at twenty-four, so she went off in search of pastures new."

  "Women, huh?" said Donovan sarcastically.

  "What can you do with them?"

  "You changed my life, Den. You didn't give me a choice, didn't consider the ramifications, you just went ahead and did it. Now I'm going to do the same to you."

  "You're going to try to put me behind bars, is that it? You want me in prison?"

  "I want your money."

  Donovan's jaw dropped.

  "All of it," added Hathaway.

  "What do you mean, all of it?"

  "All the money that you got back from Sharkey. I want it. And I want it now."

  "You're out of your mind."

  "I know everything, Donovan. I know about the plane, I know about the heroin. I know about Macfadyen and Jordan. I know about the airfield. To use the vernacular, you are fucked. You have one way out. Only one. You give me the money. Do that and I'll let you go ahead with the Turkish deal."

  Donovan shook his head in confusion.

  "I know, bit of a shock to the system." Hathaway looked at his watch again.

  "I reckon they'll still be loading the plane, don't you? Another hour before it gets into the air. There's probably no way you could reach them now. Even if you wanted to."

  Donovan cursed. He turned to walk away, then stopped. He opened his mouth to speak but he was too confused to say anything. He closed his mouth and stared at Hathaway. He wanted to lash out, to kick the man to the ground and to keep kicking until he was unconscious. Or worse.

  Hathaway smiled as if he could read Donovan's mind.

  "Face it, Donovan, I've got you by the short and cur lies But look on the bright side: whatever you make from the Turkish deal you get to keep, so it's not as if I'm leaving you penniless."

  Donovan shook his head.

  "Why would I give you the money?"

  "Because if you don't, you're going to prison. Possibly for the rest of your life. Eight thousand kilos of heroin, Donovan. Conspiracy to import. They'll throw away the key. Plus there's the Mexican deal. The Beetles. Mexico is next door to the States, and Rodriguez has been shoving cocaine over the border like there's no tomorrow. I link you to Rodriguez and the DEA will want a piece of you."

  "You've got fuck all. You've got fuck all and you know it."

  "Excuse me, but I know where the plane is going to land. I know what's on the plane. I know where the plane is coming from. And I know who's paying for the consignment. Does it seem like I'm missing anything there?"

  "Knowing is one thing, proving is another."

  "I have proof," said Hathaway confidently.

  Donovan paced up and down the bridge, shaking his head.

  "Fine, you've got proof, but you've overplayed your hand. All I have to do is to walk away. I walk away from the deal and you've got nothing."

  Hathaway smiled.

  "Conspiracy doesn't depend on you taking delivery, Donovan. You put the deal together. That I can prove."

  "Bollocks."

  "I have people undercover. Close to you."

  "Now I know you're lying."

  "Your infallible sense of smell? You can always spot an undercover cop or Cussie? You always took pride in that particular skill, didn't you? Well, I got people in under your radar, Donovan. Up close and personal."

  Donovan stopped pacing and stared at Hathaway. Could he be telling the truth? Is that how he knew about the plane? But who? Who was the traitor? Who had betrayed him? Jordan and Macfadyen? Had they been turned when the Mexican deal went belly up? It had always struck Donovan as suspicious that Customs hadn't let the consignment run. Now he knew why. Jordan and Macfadyen had done a deal. Their freedom in exchange for Donovan's. They'd helped set him up.

  "I know who it is," he said confidently.

  Hathaway shook his head.

  "No you don't," he said.

  "I guarantee you don't."

  "We'll see."

  "The thing is, Donovan, you can't afford to be wrong, can you? You're wrong on this and you lose everything. You lose your money and you lose your freedom."

  "I'll risk it." He turned to go.

  "It isn't Ricky Jordan. And it isn't Charlie Macfadyen," said Hathaway quietly.

  Donovan stopped.

  "If it was them, you'd hardly tell me, would you?"

  "Agreed, but I'm telling you it's not them. You have my word."

&
nbsp; Donovan laughed out loud.

  "Your word? Your fucking word? Now it's coming down to you crossing your heart like a bloody Cub Scout. Why should I believe a word you tell me?"

  Hathaway patted the laptop computer case.

  "Because I have proof."

  Donovan stared at the computer case.

  "What sort of proof?"

  Hathaway looked at his watch again.

  "We're going to have to start the ball rolling, Donovan. That plane is getting closer."

  "What do you want?"

  "I told you what I wanted. You got sixty million dollars from Sharkey. I want it."

  "I don't have sixty million. I owed ten million."

  "To Rodriguez?"

  Donovan nodded.

  "Fifty million, then."

  "I had to pay for the recovery of the money, plus there was the cash that Sharkey spent."

  "Why don't you just tell me how much is left? And don't bother lying, because I can find out."

  "Forty-five mill," said Donovan.

  "That's what I want, then. Forty-five million dollars. That's the price of your freedom. The price of your life."

  "So I give you forty-five million and you tell me who the undercover agent is?"

  "Agents. Plural."

  "And how do I give you the money? Used notes?"

  "Sarcasm doesn't become you, Donovan." Hathaway tapped the case again.

  "We do it online. Same way Sharkey took the money off you. Same way you got it back off Sharkey."

  Donovan shook his head.

  "Do I look like I was born yesterday? I transfer forty-five million to you, then you show me sheets of blank paper. Where does that leave me?"

  "That's not how we'll do it. You transfer five million. I show you proof. You transfer more money. I show you more proof. At any point you can stop. But believe me, Donovan, you won't want to stop. The proof I'm offering is unequivocal."

  "And what then? You give me the names, you give me the proof. What then?"

  "I walk away."

  "And the agents?"

  Hathaway took a deep breath as if steadying himself for what he was to say next.

  "You do what you have to do, Donovan."

  "You know what that will be," said Donovan coldly. It wasn't a question.

  "It's a game, Donovan. That's what you taught me. It's a game and there are winners and there are losers. I'm doing what I have to do to be a winner."

  "You're a callous bastard, Hathaway."

  "Well, gosh, Donovan. Sticks and stones. Are we going to do this or are you going to prison for twenty years?"

  Donovan stared at Hathaway for several seconds, then he nodded slowly.

  "Okay," he said quietly.

  "Let's see what you have."

  Gregov took his hands off the controls as the autopilot kicked in. He opened his flight case.

  "What do you feel like?" he asked Peter.

  Peter shrugged.

  "Aerosmith?"

  Gregov nodded appreciatively.

  "Good choice." He took out a cassette and slotted it into the player and turned the volume all the way up. The cockpit was soon filled with pounding rock music. The two Russians jerked their heads in time with the beat.

  Behind them, in the massive cargo bay, eight thousand kilos of heroin were loaded on to five wooden pallets. The heroin had begun life as opium harvested in the poppy fields of the eastern Afghanistan province of Nangarhar. The opium had been carried by camel over the border into Turkey where it had been processed into morphine and then into heroin by Russian chemists. Gregov had paid a thousand dollars a kilo for the heroin, a total of eight million dollars for the load, which meant that the one flight alone was going to generate a profit of sixteen million dollars.

  "What are you going to do with your share?" shouted Gregov.

  Peter shrugged.

  "I don't know. What are you going to do?"

  Gregov laughed sharply.

  "I don't know. I'll think of something. One thing's for sure, I'm going to get laid a lot!"

  Peter picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and took a swig.

  "You get laid a lot anyway," he said, tossing the bottle over to Gregov.

  Gregov drank from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Yeah, but at least I won't have to screw the ugly ones any more."

  The laptop screen flickered into life. Hathaway nodded at the bench.

  "Take a pew, Donovan." Hathaway had set the computer up on one of the trestle tables on the terrace outside the Paddington Stop.

  "I tell you what, get us a couple of beers, yeah? We should celebrate."

  "I've nothing to celebrate yet," said Donovan. He went into the pub, bought two pints of lager and carried them back outside. Hathaway had placed his mobile phone next to the laptop and was connecting to the internet through the computer's infrared link. Donovan put the glasses on the table and sat down next to Hathaway.

  "You haven't got a cigarette, have you?" asked Hathaway.

  "I don't smoke," said Donovan.

  "I gave up, but I could do with a smoke right now." He turned the laptop towards Donovan, then handed him a piece of paper on which was written the details of a numbered Swiss account.

  "Five million," said Hathaway.

  Donovan put his hands on the keyboard, then he paused. What if he was being conned? What if Hathaway was setting him up for something? He closed his eyes, his mind spinning. He was being rushed, pushed and shoved into doing something he wasn't comfortable with, but what choice did he have? If Hathaway did have undercover agents in play, then he was facing life behind bars.

  "Five million," repeated Hathaway.

  "We don't have all day."

  Donovan made the transfer. Hathaway watched the screen intently. When he was satisfied that the money had been transferred, he opened a Velcroed document pocket on the side of the laptop case and took out an envelope. He handed it to Donovan.

  "Cheap at half the price," he said.

  Donovan opened the envelope. Inside was an application form to join the Metropolitan Police. It had been filled out in neat capital letters. Clifford Warren. Twenty-nine years old. An address in Harlesden. Donovan frowned. Clifford Warren? He didn't know anyone called Clifford Warren. There was something else in the envelope. A photograph and another sheet of paper, folded in half. Donovan slid them out. The photograph was a six-by-four head and shoulders shot of an unsmiling black man. Short hair. A square chin. A slightly flattened nose. Bunny. Donovan cursed.

  He unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a print-out of an e-mail message. An e-mail to Hathaway detailing the flight from Turkey and when and where the plane was due to arrive in the UK.

  "Like I said," murmured Hathaway, as if he were speaking in church, 'unequivocal proof He patted the computer case.

  "For the next one, I'm going to need another fifteen million."

  Donovan hesitated, but his fingers stayed on the keyboard.

  "Getting rid of one is no good," whispered Hathaway.

  "It's all or nothing, Donovan."

  Donovan bit down on his lower lip, knowing that Hathaway was right and hating himself for it. He input the instructions to transfer the fifteen million dollars as Hathaway watched. Hathaway rubbed his chin. He was breathing heavily and Donovan could feel the man's warm breath on his cheek with each exhalation.

  When Donovan had finished, Hathaway handed him a second envelope. It contained another Metropolitan Police application form and a photograph. James Robert Fullerton.

  "No fucking way," said Donovan under his breath.

  "I'm afraid so," said Hathaway.

  "I've seen him take drugs. He handles stolen gear."

  "Deep cover," said Hathaway.

  "Deep, deep cover."

  There was another sheet of paper inside the envelope. Donovan opened it out. It was a print-out of an e-mail that Fullerton had sent to Hathaway, packed with details about the shipment of VW
Beetles from Mexico.

  "Funnily enough, I didn't hear a peep from him about the Turkish flight," said Hathaway.

  "He's either playing his cards very close to his chest or he's going over to your side."

  "Bastard," said Donovan. Donovan stared at the head and shoulders photograph of Jamie Fullerton.

  "I trusted him," he said quietly.

  "Of course you did," said Hathaway.

  "Wouldn't be much point in him being undercover and you not trusting him, would there?"

  Donovan tore up the photograph and threw the pieces on the floor.

  "And last but not least .. . twenty-five million dollars," said Hathaway.

  "Twenty-five million dollars and you get the third and final name."

  "How do I know you're not bluffing? How I do know there aren't just two?"

  "You have my word," said Hathaway.

  "Have I told you anything yet that isn't true?"

  Donovan glared at the man.

  "You bastard," he hissed.

  Hathaway grinned.

  "Maybe, but I'm the bastard who's got the key to you staying out of prison. I've already got twenty million, Donovan. I could walk away now a happy man. Do you want me to do that?" Hathaway started to get up.

  "No," said Donovan, quickly. He knew that Hathaway was right. He needed all three names. Two out of three wouldn't keep him out of prison.

  Donovan made the transfer and Hathaway slid a third envelope across the table.

  "And with that, I'll say goodbye," said Hathaway. He held out his hand.

  "Thanks for everything," he said.

  Donovan ignored Hathaway's outstretched hand.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "I'm going to retire. Do all those things I've always wanted to do. I already have several identities fixed up and ready to go. That's the beauty of working for the good guys. I've got real passports. Real paperwork. All I have to do is to slot myself into a new life. A life where I have forty-five million dollars." He nodded at the envelope.

  "Aren't you going to open it?"

  Donovan shook his head. He didn't want Hathaway to see his reaction to the contents of the envelope. He had a horrible feeling that Hathaway had saved the best until last.

  Hathaway stood up.

  "In that case, I'll bid you adieu," he said. He closed up the laptop and put it back in its case.

  "I hope you get cancer," said Donovan quietly.