Stephen Leather - Tango One

Hathaway nodded.

"You're right. We can tap his phones, we can watch him from CCTV, from satellites even. We have his DNA and fingerprints on file, we know almost everything there is to know about Dennis Donovan, but we can't catch him in the act. And if we stick to using traditional methods, we probably won't."

"See, that doesn't make sense to me. How can he operate if you've got him under surveillance?" She flicked ash into an ashtray shaped like a four-leafed clover.

"Because at the level Donovan operates, it's all about contacts. It's not as if he hands over a briefcase of cash and picks up a bag of drugs. He has a conversation with a Colombian. Face to face. On a beach maybe. Or walking down a street. Somewhere he can't be overheard. Then he talks to a shipping guy. Probably a guy he's used a dozen times before. Then money gets transferred from a bank in the Cayman Islands to a bank in Switzerland and the Colombian puts the drugs on a ship and the ship sets sail. Donovan flies to Amsterdam and has another meeting with a couple of guys from Dublin and money is transferred between two other bank accounts and the drugs are unloaded on the south coast of Ireland and driven up to Belfast and on to a ferry to the UK. We put him under the microscope and what do we have?

Donovan chatting to his friends, that's what we have. And even if we could hear what he was saying, he'd be talking in code. It wouldn't mean a thing to a court."

"So the plan is he's going to open his heart to me when he sees me dancing around a silver pole? Just as a matter of interest, Gregg, is there a Plan B?"

Hathaway chuckled and leaned back, putting his hands behind his neck and stretching out.

"You're right to be suspicious, Tina, but we have thought this through.

This is long term. Years rather than months. If we put you undercover now, you might not get to meet Donovan for two years. Three. But the pool he swims in isn't that big and I have no doubt at all that you'll come across his associates if not the man himself. And they're going to open up to you because you're a pretty girl." He held up a hand heading off her attempt to interrupt him.

"I'm stating that as a fact, Tina, I'm not trying to soft soap you. Put guys together with booze and pretty girls and tongues start to loosen.

These guys work under such secrecy that often they're bursting to tell someone. To boast. To show what big men they are."

Tina had smoked the cigarette down to the filter and she stubbed it out in the ashtray. She took another and lit it. She offered the pack to Hathaway but he shook his head.

"Let's suppose I agree to do this," she said.

"What happens to the money?"

Hathaway looked confused.

"What money?"

"I'll be a police officer, right? On standard pay and conditions?"

Hathaway nodded.

"But if I'm working in a what was it you called it an executive entertainment bar? If I'm working there, I'll get wages. And tips."

"Yours to keep."

Tina blew smoke up at the ceiling, a slight smile on her lips.

"Do you how much those girls earn?" she asked.

"Sixty, seventy grand. Sometimes more."

"Yeah," said Tina.

"That sounds about right. And I get to keep it, yeah?"

"Every penny."

Jamie Fullerton's jaw dropped.

"Let me get this straight," he said.

"Any money I make from illegal activities is mine to keep?"

"It has to be that way," said Hathaway.

"Believe me, the powers that be aren't happy with the idea, but we don't have any choice."

"And I won't ever be asked to pay the money back?"

"I don't see how that could ever happen."

Fullerton stood up and paced around the sitting room.

"And you're going to set me up in this new life? Make me look like a criminal?"

"Initially. Hopefully you'll become self-funding quite quickly."

Hathaway waved at the section of bookshelves devoted to art.

"You studied art history at university. Got a First, right?"

Fullerton nodded.

"So we'll build on that. Set you up in a gallery. Give you some works of art to get you started. And we'll put some stolen works your way.

To add authenticity."

Fullerton's eyes widened in astonishment.

"You're going to give me stolen paintings? To sell? And I get to keep the money?"

Hathaway wiped his forehead with his hand. He looked uncomfortable and when he spoke he chose his words carefully.

"What we will be doing is establishing your cover, Jamie. This isn't a game. If Donovan, or anyone else for that matter, discovers who you are or what you're doing, your life will be on the line."

Fullerton nodded.

"I understand, but how does me being an art dealer get me close to Donovan?"

"He's an art freak. A bit of a collector, but he appears to be more interested in visiting galleries. He also uses galleries and museums as meeting points. What we're suggesting is that you establish a small gallery, then start moving into the drugs business. You presumably have your own suppliers?"

"Sure."

"So start with them. Start increasing the quantities you buy from them, then move up the chain."

"And then you bust them?"

Hathaway shrugged.

"That depends. We're after the big fish, Jamie, not street dealers.

Not everyone you tell us about is going to be brought in, but all the information you give us will go on file. You just keep working towards Donovan."

Fullerton sat down.

"How do you know this will work?"

"We don't. It's a new strategy."

"It's a gamble, that's what it is."

"Maybe," Hathaway conceded.

"You're gambling with our lives."

Hathaway frowned.

"Our? What do you mean?"

"I'm assuming I'm not the only agent you're sending undercover. You don't strike me as the type who'd put all his eggs in one basket."

Eventually Hathaway nodded slowly.

"Don't assume anything, Jamie. Don't go into this thinking that there'll be other undercover agents who'll pull your nuts out of the fire if anything goes wrong. You can't trust anyone. Is it a risk? Of course. But the uniformed bobby walking the beat puts his life at risk every day. He never knows when a drunk's going to try to hit him with a bottle or a drug addict's going to stick him with an HIV-infected needle. In a way, you'll be in a better position, because you'll know the dangers you're facing."

Fullerton exhaled deeply.

"Have you ever done it?" he asked.

"Gone undercover?"

Hathaway nodded.

"Several times, but never long term. A few months at most."

"What's it like?"

"It means living a lie. It means developing a second personality that has to become more real than your own. Everything you say and do has to be filtered through the person you're pretending to be. It means never being able to relax, never being able to let your guard down."

"That's what I thought."

"But you'll be in a slightly different position. When I was working undercover, I was pretending to be a villain. You'll be the real thing."

Cliff Warren stood up and walked through to his kitchen.

"Do you want a beer?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Thanks," said Hathaway.

Warren opened his fridge door and took out two bottles of Sol. They clinked bottles and Warren sat down again.

"What happens if I get arrested?" he asked.

"It's up to you, but once you've revealed to anybody that you're undercover, you're of no further use."

"But if I get pulled in on drugs charges, I could be facing a long prison sentence."

Hathaway nodded.

"You could indeed." He drank from the bottle but his eyes never left Warren's face.

"So what do I do?"

"You could go through the system and serve your time. If that's what you were prepared to do. It would do wonders for your cover, Cliff."

Warren sat stunned as the ramifications of what Hathaway was proposing sank in.