Tango One (10 page)

Donovan nodded. FARC was the initials of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the country's biggest rebel group.

“Not these guys. But they're friends of the guys you're talking about.”

“Guns in, cocaine out. It's a dangerous game, my friend. We wouldn't want the rebels becoming too strong. We have friends in the Government, you know that.”

Donovan nodded. It was one of the reasons that the Rodriguez cartel had been so successful.

“I've no interest in their cocaine, Carlos. You have my word. I'm talking to them about some business on the other side of the world. Poppy business.”

Rodriguez smiled.

“Be careful, Den. The Russians are not to be trusted. They are vicious thugs who will kill you at the drop of a hat.”

Donovan laughed and patted the Colombian's shoulder.

“Carlos, they say exactly the same thing about the Colombians.”

The Colombian laughed along with him.

“And maybe they're right, my friend. Maybe they are right.”

Donovan heard his name being called from the road. It was Doyle, waving Donovan's mobile phone in the air. He never carried it himself, and he never discussed business on it. He was all too well aware of how easily the authorities could listen in to cell phones, which was why he'd arranged to meet Rodriguez on the beach. Anyone trying to eavesdrop would be easy to spot, and the wind and the crashing surf would make long-distance electronic surveillance difficult if not impossible.

“I think your associate is trying to attract your attention,” said Carlos dryly.

Donovan glared over at Doyle who was now walking across the sand in their direction, still waving the mobile phone like a conductor trying to energise an orchestra.

“You'd better push off, Carlos,” said Donovan.

“I'm going to have a quiet word with Mr. Doyle.”

“It's always difficult to get good people,” said the Colombian.

“I could tell you stories. Another time, though.” He walked away down the beach, the cream linen trousers of his suit cracking in the wind like the sails of a racing yacht.

Donovan strode towards Doyle.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he yelled.

“I told you to stay on the road. And if that fucking phone is switched on I'll shove it so far up your arse that your teeth'll vibrate when it rings.”

“It's Robbie,” said Doyle, so quietly that his Scottish burr was almost lost in the wind.

“He sounds hysterical. Something about Vicky.”

“Oh Christ,” said Donovan. He grabbed the phone out of Doyle's hand and slammed it to his ear.

“Robbie, what's wrong?”

As Robbie explained what had happened, the colour drained from Donovan's face. He walked to the water's edge as he listened to his son, occasionally whispering quietly into the phone, barely noticing the waves that lapped over his Bally loafers.

When Robbie had finished, Donovan told him not to worry, that everything would be all right, that he'd take care of it.

“Dad, you have to come home. Now.”

“I will, Robbie. I promise.”

“Now,” Robbie repeated.

“A day or two, Robbie. I've got to get a flight and stuff. Where are you?”

Robbie sniffed.

“I don't know,” he said.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I'm near school. I ran away. But I don't know where to go.”

“Call your Auntie Laura. Right now. She'll pick you up.”

“I don't want to go home, Dad.”

“You don't have to. You can stay with your aunt until I get there.”

Robbie said nothing and for a moment Donovan thought that he'd lost the connection.

“Robbie, are you there?”

“Yeah, I can hear you,” said Robbie. There was another long silence, with Donovan listening to nothing but the crackle of static.

“Dad?” said Robbie eventually.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to kill them?”

“Don't be silly, Robbie,” said Donovan.

“Look, hang up and call Aunty Laura. Tell her what's happened and that I'll call her.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“I love you, Robbie.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

The line went dead. Donovan threw back his head and screamed obscenities into the wind.

“Kill them?” he yelled.

“I'll rip them limb from fucking limb when I get my hands on them!”

Stewart Sharkey put his hand on Vicky's shoulders.

“It'll be okay,” he said.

Vicky shook her head fiercely.

"How the fuck's it going to be okay?

Tears trickled down her cheeks. Sharkey tried to brush them away, but Vicky threw up her hands and forced him back.

“Leave me alone!” she shouted.

“This is all your fault.”

Sharkey looked hurt by her outburst.

“That's not fair, Vicky,” he said.

“Fair! Den's not going to care what's fucking fair!” she hissed.

Sharkey reached out a hand to hold her arm but Vicky took a step back.

“Look, maybe Robbie won't say anything,” he said.

“He's got a mobile. He'll call Den.”

“We can say he's confused.”

“Oh, grow up, will you, Stewart? He saw us in bed. Where the fuck's the confusion?” She slammed her hand against the wall.

“You shouldn't have come around. I always said never here, didn't I? Your place or hotels, that's what we agreed. I said never here, didn't I? But you had to do it in the bed. Den's bed. Like a dog pissing on another's territory.”

Sharkey sat down on the stairs.

“It takes two, Vicky,” he said quietly.

She whirled around and raised her hand as if to slap him, but then she shuddered and began to cry, great heaving sobs that wracked her slim body. Sharkey stood up and held her and this time she didn't try to push him away. He stroked her hair.

“I'm sorry, love,” he said.

“He'll kill us,” she sobbed.

“Stewart, you know what he's like. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?”

“We want to be together, you know we do. He was going to have to know some time.”

“But not like this. Not with Robbie .. .” She started to cry again.

Sharkey rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. He knew that she was right. He more than anyone knew what Den Donovan was capable of.

“We've got time,” he said.

“Time?”

“To move. To make plans. For a new life.”

“What about Robbie? We have to take Robbie with us.”

“Later,” said Stewart.

“He's my son,” protested Vicky.

“Of course he is,” said Sharkey.

“But he's Den's son, too. He'll lead Den to us.”

Vicky looked up at him, her cheeks wet with tears.

“I can't leave him,” she said.

“He hurt himself when he fell down stairs.”

“He was fine, Vicky. He ran out of here like a bat out of hell.”

“But I don't even know where he is.”

“He'll go around to a friend's house,” said Sharkey.

"Or he'll call Den's sister. And he'll be on the phone to his father. Don't worry about Robbie, Vicky. Worry about yourself “I want to be sure that he's okay.”

“We don't have time, love,” said Sharkey.

“We're going to have to go now.”

“Go where?”

“I've got an idea,” said Sharkey, smoothing her hair with the flat of his hand.

“Just trust me.”

Vicky began to sob again and Sharkey held her tightly.

Donovan called his sister from a call box close to a beachfront cafe. Barry Doyle stood by the car looking uncomfortable. Laura answered on the fifth ring.

“Den, thank God. I can't believe this,” she said.

“Have you got Robbie there?”

“He's watching TV with my kids,” she said.

“He's in a right state, Den.”

“Let me talk to him, yeah?”

Laura called Robbie to the phone and handed the receiver to him.

“You okay, Robbie?”

“When are you coming home, Dad?”

“Soon, Robbie. Don't worry. You can stay with Aunty Laura until I get there, okay?”

“I guess. What about school? Do I still have to go?”

“Of course you do.”

“But it's miles away.”

“Aunty Laura'll drive you. Just be a good boy for her, yeah, until I get things sorted.”

“What are you going to do, Dad?”

“I'm gonna get a ticket and then I'll come and see you.”

“I meant about Mum. And him.”

“I'll get it sorted, Robbie, don't you worry. You can stay with me, I'll take care of you. Chin up, yeah?”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Put your aunty on, will you?”

Robbie handed the phone to Laura.

“Thanks, Laura.”

“Anything I can do, Den, you know that. Can't believe what the stupid cow's gone and done.”

“Yeah, you and me both. I need a favour, Laura.”

“Anything.”

“Can you go around to the house? Robbie's passport's in the safe in the study. You got a pen?” Donovan gave her the combination of the safe.

“Get the passport, and there's cash there, too. And a manila envelope, a biggish one. In fact, clear everything out, will you?”

“What if she's there, Den?”

“It's my house, and Robbie's my son. I don't want her doing a runner with him. I said Robbie could go to school but I'm having second thoughts.”

“You can't keep him off school Den. There's laws about that.”

Donovan rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, you're right. Can you run him there and pick him up? Make sure he gets inside. And have a word with the headmistress. Vicky's not to go near him.”

“She's his mother, Den, they won't .. .”

“Just do as you're fucking told, will you!” Donovan shouted, and immediately regretted the outburst.

“I'm sorry, Laura. I didn't mean that.”

“It's okay, Den. I'll talk to the school, explain the situation to them. But you're going to have to come back and talk to them yourself. You're his dad, I'm just his aunt.”

“I'll be back, don't worry about that. Are you okay looking after him for a while?”

“You don't have to ask, Den. You know that.”

Donovan cut the connection and dialled again. A man answered. Donovan didn't identify himself, but told the man to get to a clean phone and call him back. Donovan gave him the St. Kitts number. The man began to complain that he didn't have enough coins to make an international call from a phone box.

“Buy a fucking phone card, you cheap bastard,” said Donovan, and hung up.

Donovan paced up and down as he waited for the man to ring back.

Laura's husband, Mark, drove her over to Donovan's house. She'd asked a neighbour to sit in with the children, who were so engrossed in the Cartoon Channel that they didn't even ask where Laura and Mark were going.

“We've met this Sharkey guy, haven't we?” asked Mark, accelerating through the evening traffic.

“Yeah. That barbecue last time Den was over. He's an accountant or something.”

“And she was in bed with him?”

That's what Robbie said."

“Stupid bitch.”

“Yeah.”

“Fancy doing it in her own bed.”

Laura flashed him a withering look.

He grimaced.

“I meant she was a stupid bitch for doing it in the first place. But if you're going to have an affair, you don't shit on your own doorstep, do you?”

“Well, I'll bear that in mind, honey,” she said, frostily.

“You know what I mean. How did Den sound?”

“Angry.”

“He'll kill her.”

“I hope not.”

“You know what your brother's like. What he's capable of.”

“Yeah. And so does Vicky.”

“Christ, what a mess.”

They drove the rest of the way to Kensington in silence. Mark pulled up outside Donovan's house. Vicky's Range Rover was parked outside.

“Shit,” said Laura.

“She's still home.”

“Maybe not,” said Mark.

“She might have left in his car.”

“Leave behind a Range Rover? Come on. Vicky's not the sort to say goodbye to a thirty-thousand-pound car.”

“She can't take it overseas. And even if she could, it'd make her a sitting duck.”

Laura realised that her husband was probably right and she relaxed a little. Despite her brother's assertion that the house belonged to him, Laura wasn't sure how well she'd be able to cope with a confrontation with Vicky. She took the house keys from her bag and climbed out of the car.

Laura opened the front door. She had the combination of the burglar alarm, but there was no bleeping from the console so she figured that Vicky hadn't set it. She was about to step inside when Mark put a hand on her shoulder.

“Best let me go in first, kid,” he said.

“Just to be on the safe side.”

Laura smiled at him gratefully and moved to let him go inside.

Mark quickly walked down the hall, checked the two reception rooms and the kitchen, then came back into the hallway, shaking his head.

“No one here,” he said. He looked up the stairs.

“Vicky?” he shouted.

“She'll be well gone,” said Laura.

They went upstairs to the master bedroom. The duvet was thrown over a chair by the window and two pillows were on the floor at the foot of the bed. Laura opened the doors to the fitted wardrobes. Among the clothes still hanging there were more than two dozen empty hangers. Laura walked into the en suite bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and ran a hand over the medicines and toiletries.

“She's left him,” she said.

Mark came up behind her.

“How do you know?”

“No contraceptive pills. No razor. No toothbrush.”

“You should have been a detective,” said her husband.

“She'll have to run a long bloody way to escape from Den.”

“Can you get some clothes from Robbie's room?” asked Laura.

“There's something Den wants me to do.”

As Mark went along the hallway to Robbie's bedroom, Laura headed downstairs. She opened the door to the study and walked over to a large oil painting hanging behind an oak desk. It was of two old-fashioned yachts sailing into the wind, and a similar one hung on the wall opposite. Laura reached for the ornate gilt frame and pulled the right-hand side away from the wall. Behind was a gunmetal-grey safe with a circular numbered dial in the centre. She'd written the combination on the back of a Marks and Spencer receipt, but it took her several goes before she could get the door open. The safe was empty. Laura swore under her breath. She wasn't looking forward to giving her brother the bad news.

Chief Superintendent Richard Underwood buttoned up his coat and pushed open the door. He walked out of Paddington Green police station and nodded at two Vice Squad detectives before walking down Harrow Road. He turned up his collar against the wind that always seemed to whip around the station, no matter what the season.

He walked past the first two phone boxes, the old-fashioned red types, the insides littered with prostitutes' calling cards. The third was about half a mile from the station, on Warwick Avenue, close to the canal. Underwood tapped in the pin number of his phone card, then the number in St. Kitts. It rang out for so long that he thought maybe he'd taken down the wrong number, but then Donovan answered.

“You'd better be quick, Den, there's only twenty quid on this card.”

“Yeah, put it on the tab, you tight bastard,” said Donovan.

“Look, I need to know what my position is back in the UK.”

“Fucking precarious, as usual.”

“I'm serious, Dicko. I'm going to have to come back.” He told Underwood what had happened.

“Hell, Den, I'm sorry.” Underwood had known Donovan for almost twenty years and Vicky Donovan was the last person he'd have expected to betray her husband.

“Yeah, well, I need to know where I stand.”

“You're Tango One. So far as I know, that's not changed.”

“It's been four bloody years since I left.”

“Memories like elephants. They'll be all over you like a rash if you come back.”

“Check it out, will you?”

“If that's what you want, Den, sure. I'll call you tomorrow. This number, yeah?”

“Nah. I'm getting a flight back this afternoon.”

“Bloody hell, Den. Don't get manic about this. Softly, softly, yeah?”

“Don't worry, Dicko. I'll stop off in Europe. Germany maybe. I'll call you from there.”

“Just remember Europol, that's all. You're Most Wanted all over Europe.”

“I'll be okay. One more thing. I want you to get Vicky and that bastard Sharkey red-flagged. They leave the country, I want to know.”

“You're not asking much, are you?”

“I'm serious, Dicko. If they run, I want to know where they run to.”

“Don't do anything stupid, Den.”

“You can do it, yeah?”

Underwood sighed.

“Yeah, I can do it.”

“Cheers, mate. Let's talk again tomorrow.”

The line went dead in Underwood's ear. He felt his stomach churn and he popped a Rennie indigestion tablet into his mouth.

Donovan walked over to the convertible Mercedes. Doyle had the door open for him.

“You okay, boss?” he asked.

Donovan didn't reply. He tapped on the dashboard with the palms of his hands as Doyle climbed into the driving seat.

“Where to, boss?” asked Doyle.

Donovan's hands beat even faster on the dashboard as he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd flown to St. Kitts purely to meet the Colombian, but his return flight was to Anguilla, and that didn't get him any closer to London. He needed a ticket, he needed to speak to his sister, and he needed to confirm the collection of the several hundred kilos of Colombian heroin that was on its way to Felixstowe.

Doyle watched him nervously. Donovan hadn't explained what the problem was, but he'd overheard enough of the conversation with Robbie to realise that it was personal and that he had better tread carefully. He started the car and blipped the engine.

Donovan stopped beating a tattoo and his forehead creased into a deep frown.

“Oh shit,” he whispered.

“Boss?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Donovan turned to stare at Doyle, but there was a faraway look in his eyes as if he was having trouble focusing.

“I need a computer. Now.”

“The resort, yeah?”

Donovan nodded. The Jack Tar Resort Hotel was supposedly for movers and shakers who wanted to escape from the trials and tribulations of the world of commerce, but it had a fully equipped business centre that was often better attended than the pool. Donovan leaned back in the cream leather seat and massaged his temples with his fingertips.

The mobile phone rang. Doyle had put it on the console by the gear stick and he grabbed at it with his free hand.

“Yeah?” He handed it to Donovan.

“It's Laura.”

Donovan listened in silence as his sister told him what had happened at the house. And how the safe had been emptied. Donovan cursed.

“Everything, yeah? No passport? No envelope?”

“The cupboard was bare, Den. Sorry.”

“Okay, look, Laura, I think you'd best keep Robbie away from school until I get back. If she's got his passport she might try to get him out of the country. Just tell the school he's sick or something.”

“Will do, Den.”

“And you know what to do if she turns up at your house?”

“She'll get a piece of my mind if she does, I can tell you.”

Donovan smiled to himself. He'd seen his sister in full flow, and it wasn't an experience to be relished.

“Do me another favour, Laura. Call Banhams in Kensington. Get them to change all the locks and reset the alarm with a new code. Any of the paintings missing?”

“Bloody hell, Den, how would I know?”

“Gaps on the wall would probably be a clue, Laura. Hooks with nothing hanging from them.”

“I'm so pleased that you haven't lost your sense of humour, brother-of-mine. I didn't see any missing, no.”

Donovan considered asking his sister to arrange to put the paintings into storage, but figured they'd probably be safe enough once the house was secured. The last time he'd had them valued was five years ago, and they'd been worth close to a million pounds in total. The art market had been buoyant recently and Donovan figured they'd probably doubled in value since then. Vicky didn't share his love of art and he hadn't told her how much the paintings were worth.

“I'll call you later, Laura. And thanks. Tell Robbie I love him, yeah?”

Donovan cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin. Changing the locks and resetting the alarm was all well and good, but Donovan knew that he was shutting the stable door after the horses had well and truly bolted.

Doyle drove into the hotel resort, giving the uniformed security guard a cheery wave, and pulled up in front of Reception.

“Wait here,” said Donovan. He walked quickly through the huge reception area, his heels clicking on the marble floor. He jogged up a sweeping set of stairs and pushed open the door to the hotel's business centre.

A pretty black girl with waist-length braided hair flashed him a beaming smile and asked him for his room number. Donovan slipped her a hundred-dollar bill without breaking his stride.

“I'll just be a couple of minutes,” he said. He sat down at a computer terminal in the corner of the room and said a silent prayer before launching Internet Explorer and keying in the URL of a small bank in Switzerland. He was asked for an account number and an eight-digit personal identification number.

Donovan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst as he waited for his account to be accessed. The screen went blank for a second and then a spreadsheet appeared, listing all transactions for the account over the past quarter. Donovan sagged in the leather armchair. There was just two thousand dollars left in the account.

He left the bank's site and tapped in another URL, this one for a bank in the Cayman Islands. Ten minutes later and Donovan had visited half a dozen financial institutions in areas renowned for their secrecy and security. His total deposits amounted to a little over eighty thousand dollars. In total sixty million dollars was missing.

Mark Gardner flicked through the channels but couldn't find anything to hold his attention. Reruns of old comedy shows that he half-remembered watching, films that he'd already seen on video, and shows about cooking or decorating. He looked up as Laura came into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate.

“He's asleep,” she said, handing him a mug and sitting down on the sofa next to him. She swung her legs on to his lap and lay back, resting the mug on her stomach.

“What do you think he's going to do?”

“Robbie?”

“Your brother.”

Laura ran a finger around the lip of her mug.

“He'll look after Robbie. You know how much his son means to him.”

“I thought he wasn't allowed in the UK. I thought the cops were after him.”

“He was under surveillance.”

“He was Britain's most wanted,” said Gardner.

“Tango One, they called him.”

“Tango just means target. It means they were looking at him, it doesn't mean he's done anything wrong.”

“There's no smoke without fire.”

“Yeah, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Are we going to swap cliches all night? Den's Den and that's the end of it.”

“I know, love, and I think the world of him. And Robbie. But I don't want us to get caught up in the middle of something.”

Laura took her legs off her husband's lap and sat up.

“Like what?”

“I don't know what. But Vicky's got a temper and you know what Den's like.”

“What, you think they're going to come in here with guns blazing?”

“You know that's not what I mean, but there's going to be one hell of a court battle over Robbie. They'll both want custody.”

“She got caught sleeping around, Mark. It'll be open and shut.”

“It's never open and shut in British courts. It'll be a dirty fight, thousand-pound-an-hour lawyers at thirty paces.”

“That's not our problem.”

There was a scuffling at the doorway and they both jumped. Laura's hot chocolate slopped over her knees.

It was Robbie, rubbing his eyes.

“I can't sleep,” he said.

Laura put her mug on the coffee table, and went over and hugged him.

“What's wrong, Robbie?” she asked.

“I had a bad dream,” he said.

She led him over to the sofa. Mark shuffled over to make room for them. He put a hand around Robbie's shoulder.

“You'll be okay, Robbie.”

“Where's Dad?”

“He's coming,” said Laura.

“I want my dad,” said Robbie, and the tears started to flow again.

“I know you do,” said Laura. She looked across at Mark and he shrugged. There was nothing either of them could say or do to make things any easier for Robbie. All they could do was to wait for Den Donovan.

Laura put her cheek against the top of Robbie's head and whispered softly to him. After a while the tears stopped and a few minutes later he was snoring softly. Laura smiled at her husband.

“I'll put him in Jenny's room. I don't want him sleeping on his own tonight.”

“Good idea,” said Mark.

“Shall I take him up?”

Laura shook her head.

“He's not heavy.” She carried him upstairs. Seven-year-old Jenny was fast asleep on top of her bunk bed. Jenny had shared a room with her sister until Julie had declared that she was too old to be sharing and had insisted on a room of her own. At the time Julie had been all of four years old and Jenny had been three. Jenny had insisted on her own list of demands including keeping the bunk bed for herself, and a change of wallpaper.

Laura eased Robbie into the lower bunk and pulled the quilt up around him. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.