Tango One (37 page)

One small man with waist-length dreadlocks and a vacant stare grinned at Donovan, showing a mouthful of gold teeth, and offered him a puff at his soggy-ended joint, but Donovan just shook his head.

He went up to the third floor of the building. At the top of the hallway two young blacks wearing headsets and almost identical Nike hooded tops, woollen hats, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, moved aside without speaking to Donovan. The big man must have told them he was on his way up.

The "Fuck Off sign was written with black lettering on a gold background. Donovan knocked and the door opened partially. A pair of wraparound sunglasses reflected Donovan's image back at him in stereo.

“Den Donovan,” said Donovan.

The man opened the door without speaking. Donovan walked in to the room. Half a dozen West Indians were sitting around the room on sofas, most of them smoking spliffs and drinking beer. Sitting behind a desk was a young black man with close-cropped hair wearing what looked like a Versace silk shirt. Around his neck hung a gold chain the thickness of a man's finger, and on his left wrist he wore a solid gold Rolex studded with diamonds.

“PM?”

The man at the desk nodded.

“Den Donovan.”

“I know who you are,” said PM. Standing behind PM was a black man well over six feet tall dressed in a black suit and grey T-shirt. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a goatee beard.

Donovan smiled amiably.

“Charlie and Pvicky said I should swing by. Pay my respects.”

“What happened to my money, Den?”

“Your money paid for the coke, and the coke is sitting in one of The Queen's warehouses,” said Donovan. He walked over to a sofa and sat down.

“It's swings and roundabouts. A percentage of deals go wrong. You have to live with that. Build it into your price.”

“That don't answer my question.”

“If you want to know why the deal went wrong, you're asking the wrong person.”

“Someone grassed.”

“Probably.”

“And it was your deal.”

“I set it up, yes, but these things grow. More people get involved. The more people get involved, the greater the risk.”

PM slammed his hand down on to the desk.

“Fuck the risk. I want my money back.”

“We all lost on this deal, PM.”

PM reached into a drawer and pulled out a massive handgun, a black metal block with an inch-long barrel and an extra-long clip. Donovan recognised the weapon. It was a Mac-io machine gun. Lethal at short range, but unpredictable. It was a spray-and-pray weapon. Spray the bullets around and pray you hit something.

“PM, you pull the trigger on that and there's gonna be bullets flying all around the room.”

“Yeah, but first one's gonna be in your gut.”

“You know they pull to the right, yeah? To the right and up.”

“So I'll aim left and low.”

The man with the dreadlocks took a step forward. He fixed Donovan with a cold stare.

“You got any suggestion as to how we can get our money back?” he asked. The fact that he was the only one other than PM to open his mouth meant he was probably the one called Bunny, PM's adviser.

“You have to write it off. You can put that thing against my head and threaten to blow my brains out all you want, but I don't have your money. We're all in the same boat: you, me, Packy, Charlie, the Colombians who supplied the stuff.”

“When things go wrong, there's always someone at fault.”

“Agreed, but I didn't fuck up. Neither did Charlie and Pvicky. The Colombians are experts. It was either bad luck or someone new to the equation.”

“You pointing the finger at us?” asked Bunny.

“There's no point in trying to apportion blame,” said Donovan.

“We have to move on.”

“And how do we do that?” asked Bunny.

PM seemed to relax a little. He put the gun back in the drawer, then leaned back and swung his feet up on the desk. He clicked his fingers at one of his men and the man fetched him a bottle of beer.

“I can cut you in on another deal. Heroin.”

“Price?”

“Ten thousand a key.”

PM drank his beer as Bunny rattled off quick fire questions.

“Source?”

“Afghan. Pure.”

“Delivered where?”

“UK. South of England.”

“Specifically.”

“An airfield.”

“You're flying it in?”

“That's the idea.”

Bunny leaned forward and whispered into PM's ear. PM nodded as he listened but kept his eyes fixed stonily on Donovan's face.

“How much?” asked PM, when Bunny had finished whispering.

“Up to you.”

“We'll go eight a key. And we'll take two hundred.”

“Eight? I said ten.”

“Yeah, but you owe us for the coke deal. And I figure if you're letting us in at ten, you're getting it for three or four, right?”

Donovan didn't say anything. He was paying the Russians three thousand dollars a kilo, about two thousand pounds. Even letting the Yardies in at eight grand he was still making a profit of three hundred per cent.

“I'd be cutting my throat at eight, PM. Nine.”

“Eight five.”

Donovan hesitated, then nodded.

“Eight five it is. You're sure you can move two hundred?”

PM's eyes hardened.

“You think we're smalltime, huh?”

“Two hundred is a lot, that's all.”

“We can move it.”

“That's great. I'll get Charlie to arrange the money with you.” Donovan stood up.

“One thing,” said PM coldly.

“This gets fucked up, so do you. Bad luck twice in a row ain't no bad luck. I'll be pointing more than my finger. Clear?”

“Clear, PM.”

The man with wraparound sunglasses opened the door and the pounding music billowed into the room.

“You drive here?” asked Bunny.

“Cab,” said Donovan.

“Was worried about losing the CD player.”

Bunny laughed throatily.

“I'll walk you down, fix you up with a ride.”

Donovan nodded his thanks, and Bunny followed him down the stairs and out on to the street.

“Thanks for taking the heat off me,” Donovan said to Bunny.

“The safety was on,” said Bunny.

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“Figured you did.”

They walked slowly down the road, talking in quiet voices.

“Couldn't ask everything I wanted to know without cutting across the man, but this Afghan gear, where's it coming from?” asked Bunny.

“The easy answer to that is Afghanistan, but that's not what you mean, right?”

“Ain't no way you're flying it out of Afghanistan. There's opium there, but the processing is done outside. Pakistan. Or Turkey maybe.”

“My contacts are in Turkey.”

“And you're flying it direct?”

Donovan nodded.

“That's a long flight,” said Bunny.

“I've got a big plane.”

“Two thousand miles and some.”

“Like I said, I've got a big plane. Let me ask you something. Has PM got the weight to move two hundred keys?”

“We wholesale some already. He's got dealers all over north London and contacts south that'll buy up any surplus. He can move it.”

Donovan nodded. Then this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Bunny smiled thinly.

“We'll see about that. It's a bit premature to start emunerating any KFC ready meals. When do you tell us where we collect?”

“Day of delivery.”

“Which will be when?” asked Bunny.

“Assuming all the money is in play, within the next twenty-four hours, probably three days.”

“That quick?”

“The Turkish end is all ready to go. Charlie'll get the details to you.”

Bunny shook his head.

“No, we deal with you on this one. No discussion.”

Donovan wanted to argue, but it was clear from Bunny's tone that there was nothing he could say that would get him to change his mind.

“Okay,” said Donovan.

“You call me direct when you've got the money. It's going to be electronic transfer through SWIFT. No used notes in suitcases.”

“Not a problem. We have money in the system.”

Donovan gave him the number of one of his mobiles.

“Call this from a landline. Don't identify yourself, just give me the number but transpose the last two digits. I'll call you back from a call box.”

There was a squeal of brakes from a car in the street. Donovan whirled around. A large Mercedes had pulled up opposite them. The front passenger window was open and something was thrust through the opening. Donovan cursed. It was a gun. A big gun. He'd been so involved in the conversation with Bunny that he hadn't been aware of the car driving down the street. The gun jerked and there was a loud series of muffled bangs. Bullets thwacked into the wall of the house behind Donovan. He felt an arm across the back of his neck, pulling him down. It was Bunny.

“Down, man, get down!” Bunny yelled.

Bullets were hitting the concrete pavement all around Donovan. Now there were two guns spewing out bullets. Bunny grabbed Donovan's jacket collar and hauled him behind a black Wrangler Jeep just as its windows shattered into a thousand glass cubes.

Donovan looked up at Bunny. The West Indian was crouched over him.

“Stay down, man!” Bunny yelled.

The Jeep crashed to one side as its tyres were ripped apart by the gunfire. Puffs of dust exploded on the brick walls of the terraced houses, and glass was shattering everywhere. Bullets whizzed all around them.

Donovan looked back at the house they'd just left. Two West Indians had pulled handguns from inside their coats and were blasting away at the Mercedes. The Mercedes leaped forward and then braked again. Now the gunmen had a clear shot at Bunny and Donovan around the side of the Jeep.

“Bunny, watch out!” Donovan yelled.

Bunny whirled around just as one of the machine guns burst into life. Bullets thwacked into the front of the Jeep, shattering its headlights. Two bullets slammed into Bunny's chest and he fell back on to Donovan.

More West Indians ran out of the house brandishing guns. One of the men had a Mac-io like PM's and he fired a burst at the Mercedes, thudding holes into its boot. The Mercedes sped off.

Donovan crawled out from under Bunny, expecting to see his chest a bloody pulp. Instead Bunny was rubbing his chest and scowling.

“Bastards,” he said.

He sat up.

“You okay?” he asked Donovan.

“Am I okay? What the fuck do you mean, am I okay?”

Donovan got to his feet and helped Bunny up. Haifa dozen of Bunny's crew came running up.

Why aren't you .. ." asked Donovan, his whole body shaking.

“Dead?” asked Bunny. He lifted up his shirt and showed Donovan a white Kevlar bullet-proof vest.

“Pretty much compulsory in Harlesden these days,” he said.

“You should get one.”

“I don't think you'll catch me around here again,” said Donovan. He clapped Bunny on the shoulder.

“I owe you, mate. I'm like a fucking elephant, I won't forget this.”

“We're not home free yet,” said Bunny, looking around. In the distance they could hear sirens and there were shouts from the house. Doors were opening all along the street.

“The Operation Trident boys'll be on their way. They move fast on black-on-black shootings before any witnesses disappear into the woodwork. We've got to move. Come on.”

Bunny headed down the street, away from the house. Donovan followed him. Donovan knew that Bunny was wrong about it being a black-on-black attack. As the car had been driven away, Donovan had seen a face he recognised in the back seat. Jesus Rodriguez.

Louise shuffled the playing cards and laid them out on the coffee table. She'd been playing patience for more than two hours, half concentrating on the cards, half watching the television with the sound muted.

The door to the spare bedroom opened and Robbie appeared, rubbing his eyes.

“I can't sleep,” he said.

“Do you want a drink? Cocoa or something?”

Robbie nodded and sat down on the sofa. Louise went through to the kitchenette and put a pan of milk on to boil.

“That's patience,” said Robbie, pointing at the cards.

That's right."

“You know you can play it on computer. It comes with Windows.”

“I know. But I haven't got a computer here.”

“Everyone's got a home computer these days,” said Robbie.

“Not me. Besides, I like the feel of the cards. It's relaxing. That's why people play patience.”

“It's boring.”

“Yeah, you're right. But it gives you something to do with your hands.”

Louise stirred cocoa powder into the hot milk, then poured the cocoa into a mug.

She gave the mug to Robbie and sat down next to him.

“Thanks,” he said. He took a sip.

“How do you know my dad?” he asked.

Louise shrugged.

“He helped me when I needed help.”

“You didn't know him when my mum was around, did you?”

Louise shook her head.

“I only met him a few days ago. When he came back from the Caribbean.” She reached over and stroked his hair.

“Why, are you worried that I might have taken him away from your mum?”

“No way!” said Robbie vehemently.

“She was the one having the affair.”

“Because I didn't meet your dad until after your mum left. Cross my heart.”

“She didn't leave,” said Robbie.

“She ran away.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter.” He took another sip of cocoa.

“You know your dad loves you, don't you? That's why he brought you here. So that you'd be safe.”

“He said some people were after him. Do you know who they are?”

“No. He didn't tell me. He just said he needed somewhere for you to stay.”

“He never says anything about what he does. It's like it's all some big secret.”

Louise gathered up the cards and shuffled them slowly.

“You're lucky to have a dad,” she said.

“It's not luck. It's biology.”

“I mean to have a father who's around. My dad died when I was a kid. Younger than you.”

Robbie put his mug on to the coffee table and wiped his mouth.

“So your mum took care of you, did she?”

“Sort of. For a while. Then she married again.” Louise shuddered at the memory of her stepfather.

“That's why I left home.”

“Your stepfather didn't like you?”

“Oh, he liked me all right. He liked me too much. Couldn't keep his bloody hands off me.”

Robbie looked away, embarrassed.

Louise reached over and put a hand on his leg.

“I'm sorry, Robbie. Bad memories.” She forced a smile.

“Do you want to play cards? Until you feel sleepy?”

“Okay. What do you want to play?”

“Guest's choice.”

“Blackjack.”

Louise frowned.

“You're sure?”

“Yeah,” said Robbie eagerly.

“Can we play for money?”

Louise looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Am I being hustled here?”

“Do you want a beer?” asked Bunny, opening the door to a small fridge.

“Yeah, cheers,” said Donovan.

The two men were in a room five minutes walk away from the shooting, above a minicab office. They'd hurried through the office with Bunny nodding a greeting to two big jamaicans who'd been sitting on a plastic sofa and a West Indian in a Rasta hat who was talking nineteen-to-the-dozen into a microphone. Bunny had taken Donovan up a flight of stairs and through a door on which had been tacked a sign saying “Management Only.”

Bunny tossed Donovan a can of lager and sat down behind a cheap teak veneer desk.

“We'll hang out here for a while, till things quieten down. Just in case someone gives your description to Five-O.”

“I thought we all looked the same.”

Bunny flashed Donovan a tight smile and popped the tab on his can of beer.

Donovan looked around the room. There was worn lino on the floor and a bare minimum of furniture. The desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. Sheets of hardboard had been nailed over the window and the only light came from a single naked bulb in the centre of the ceiling.

“Nice place you've got here,” he said.

“It serves its purpose.”

“The taxi firm is yours?”

“None of it's mine, PM's the top man.”

“Yeah, right,” said Donovan. He took a long gulp of beer.

“You use the taxi business to clean your cash?”

“Some. But it makes money, too. Try getting a black cab in London anytime after nine. Especially if you want to come out this way. We can pretty much charge what we want. We even pay tax.”

Bunny leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his shirt. He examined his Kevlar vest.

“You were lucky,” said Donovan.

“The way they were spraying bullets, you could have got hit in the head.”

“Firing from a car, they'd be lucky to hit anything. They've been watching too many movies.”

Donovan took another drink from his can.

“How long have you been with PM?” he asked.

“Three years, thereabouts.”

“Not thought about setting up on your own? Or joining a bigger operation?”

“Why? You recruiting?”

“You've got your head screwed on, seems you'd make more working for yourself than helping PM up the slippery pole.”

Bunny shrugged.

“I do okay.”

“You're holding his hand,” said Donovan.

“Don't let him hear you say that, he's young but he's hard.”

Donovan raised his can in salute.

“No offence, Bunny,” he said.

“I was just making an observation.”

“I'm happy with the way things are, Den. But if you were to make me an offer .. .” Bunny left the sentence hanging.

“You'd be an asset, that's for sure. I've not met many who throw themselves in front of a bullet for me.”

“That's not the way it went down, and you know it,” laughed Bunny.

“I practically fell on top of you.”

“Whatever,” said Donovan.

“The simple fact is that if it wasn't for you and that vest, I'd be lying on the street in a pool of blood. Seriously, Bunny, if I was going to be in this for the long haul I'd make you an offer, but after this Turkish deal, I'm out of the game.”

“For good?”

Donovan grinned.

“For as long as the money holds out. And that'll be for a long, long time. I've got a boy needs looking after. Robbie. Nine years old.”

“Your son?”

Donovan nodded.

“His mum's done a runner so I'm going to be a single parent. For a while at least. You got kids, Bunny?”

Bunny shook his head.

“Married?”

Another shake of the head. Donovan kicked himself mentally. Underwood had said that Bunny was gay. He'd clean forgotten but Bunny was a big man, well-muscled and hard-faced, and there wasn't the slightest thing about him that was in the least bit effeminate.

“Yeah, well considering how unlucky I've been in the marital stakes, you're probably well out of it,” said Donovan, He sipped his beer.

“What about the drugs game, Bunny? You see a future in it for you?”

“Long term, the only future's prison, right? You've got to quit while you're ahead. Make your stash, get it in legit businesses, then leave the dirty stuff behind. It's always been that way. Half the land in this country is owned by the descendants of robber barons of the Middle Ages. In a hundred years time, drugs money will have become old money and no one will remember where it came from. Take your son. Nine, you said? You'll put him in a good school, a top university, then you'll have enough money to set him up in whatever he wants to do. His children will be another step removed, and eventually it'll all be clean and no one will care.”

“So long as we don't get caught.”

Bunny grinned and raised his can of beer.

“Here's to not getting caught!”

Donovan grinned. He leaned over and clinked his can against Bunny's.

Donovan stayed in the office with Bunny for the best part of an hour, then Bunny arranged for a minicab to run Donovan home. Donovan decided to go to his house in Kensington rather than disturbing Louise. He had the cab drop him half a mile from the house and he went in through the communal gardens and the back door.

He showered and had a whisky, and then put his mobiles on charge on the bedside table before diving under the quilt. He was asleep within minutes.

When Donovan woke up it was light and a pop song was playing. He rolled over and groped for whichever mobile was ringing, cursing his son. He'd told Robbie several times not to mess with the phones. They were too important to be played with.

As he picked up the phone that was ringing, he realised that it was his son's. Robbie must have put his phone on the sideboard in Louise's flat next to Donovan's and he'd picked it up by mistake. Whoever was calling had blocked their ID. Donovan pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear.

For several seconds there was silence, then a voice.

“Robbie?” It was Vicky.

“Robbie?” She sounded close to tears.

“Robbie, talk to me.”

Donovan wanted to cut the connection, but he couldn't bring himself to press the red button. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was seven o'clock in the morning.

Vicky sobbed.

“Oh Robbie, I'm so sorry.”

“He's asleep,” said Donovan.

“Den. Oh God.”

“What do you want, Vicky?”

“I want to talk to Robbie.”

“Like I said, he's in bed.” Donovan didn't want to tell her that Robbie wasn't sleeping at the house. And he certainly didn't want to tell her about Louise.

There was a long silence, broken only by Vicky's sniffling.

“I'm sorry, Den,” she said eventually.

“Not sorry enough,” he said.

“Not yet.”

“Please don't be like that, Den.”

“After what you did? I think I've earned the right to be any way I want.”

“I didn't mean it to be this way, Den. I was lonely. You left me on my own too long.”

“I was making a living. I was paying for your bloody house, your car, your holidays, your shopping trips. You never had to work a day in your life, Vicky. Not one fucking day. And I paid for that.”

“So you own me, is that it? You paid for the clothes on my back, so I have to be the quiet little wifey sitting at home, grateful for your odd appearance?”

“We talked about it. You knew my situation. I was Tango One. Most wanted.”

“Well, at least you were number one at something, because you were a lousy husband and a lousy father.”

“Fuck you,” said Donovan. He pressed the red button but instantly regretted it. He stared at the phone's readout, hoping that she'd call back, but she didn't.

He began idly to flick through the phone's menu. He flicked through the message section. Robbie had a stack of saved messages. Donovan grinned as he read them. Probably girlfriends. Idle chit-chat. Childish jibes at teachers. Stupid jokes. Then Donovan froze.

“I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW -DAD.” The message had been sent when Donovan had been on the beach in St. Kitts, talking to Carlos Rodriguez. That was why Robbie had gone rushing home from school and found Vicky in bed with Sharkey.

The message had been sent from aUK mobile. Donovan didn't recognise the number, but there was something familiar about it. He tapped out the number and put the receiver to his ear. The phone was switched off and there was no answering service.

Donovan looked at the digits on the phone's readout, deep creases across his brow. Where had he seen that number before? He rolled out of bed and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He flipped it open. The Tesco receipt was sticking out of one of the credit card slots. He slowly slid it out and looked at the telephone number he'd written on it. The number that the Spaniard had given him. The numbers matched. Donovan cursed. It had been Stewart Sharkey who'd sent the text message to Robbie. He'd wanted to be caught in bed with Vicky. It had all been planned.

Another phone rang. The landline. Donovan went over and looked at the eavesdropping detector. The green light was on. No one was listening in on the line. Maybe it was Vicky, calling back on the house phone. He picked up the receiver.

“We have to meet,” said a voice. A man. English.

“Who is this?” asked Donovan.

“I know what you're doing and I need to talk to you,” said the voice.

“Yeah, right. How old do you think I am? Twelve?”

“It's about Stewart Sharkey.”

“What about him?”

“What do you think? Do you want your money back, or not?”

Donovan hesitated for a few seconds, then sighed.

“Where?”

“Camden Market. In four hours.”

“You've got to be joking.” Camden Market on a Saturday morning had to be one of the most crowded places on the planet.

“Safety in numbers,” said the man.

“You know you are being watched? A bedroom across the street. And a British Telecom van. I wouldn't want you bringing any strangers to the party.”

“I'll make sure I'm clean,” said Donovan.

“How will I find you?”

“I'll find you,” said the man. The line went dead.

Donovan caught a black cab to Oxford Street and spent fifteen minutes in the Virgin Megastore looking for tails. The record store's clientele was mainly young and scruffy, so police and Customs agents would find it harder to blend. He spotted two definites and a possible.

He left the store, dived into another black cab and had it drive him to Maida Vale and drop him on the south side of the Regents Canal opposite the Paddington Stop, the place where he'd watched for the arrival of Macfadyen and Jordan. He paid off the driver and dashed across the footbridge and ran along Blomfield Road to Jason's, a restaurant with a sideline running narrow boat trips along the canal. The route terminated at Camden Market. Donovan had timed it so that he arrived just as a boat was preparing to leave.

He bought a ticket and climbed aboard. There were almost twenty passengers on the boat, mainly tourists. It was a pretty trip, cruising by the vast mansions of Little Venice and through Regents Park, but Donovan was barely aware of the passing scenery. His mind was racing, trying to work out who had called him. It wasn't the Colombians, that was certain. They wouldn't want him in a crowded place like Camden Market. Ideally they'd want him alone and tied to a chair. Why the market? Safety in numbers, the man had said. But safety for who? For Donovan? Or for the caller? He adjusted the Velcro collar under his wristwatch. The personal RF detector was already switched on.

They arrived at Camden and the grey-haired boatman jumped out and secured the narrow boat then announced that they'd be returning in forty-five minutes and that passengers should be back by then if they intended returning to Little Venice.

Donovan walked through the market. It was packed with tourists and teenagers in shabby clothing. There were shops and stalls everywhere selling New Age rubbish, handmade pottery, secondhand clothes, incense, posters, CDs, T-shirts with smart-arse slogans. Donovan couldn't see a single thing he'd ever want to buy, but figured that Robbie would probably have had a great time. Donovan scanned the faces around him. It would be impossible to spot a tail. There were just too many people milling around, and at times he was shoulder to shoulder with shoppers. It was crazy, thought Donovan. It was the last place in the world he'd choose for a meeting.