Stephen Leather - Tango One

She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.

"And you!" he shouted.

Sharkey started downstairs.

"There's no need to be stupid, Robbie," he said.

Robbie backed away.

Vicky looked over her shoulder.

"Stewart, leave this to me. Please."

"If he says anything to Den…"

"Shut the hell up!" she shouted.

"I'm just saying…"

"Don't say," she yelled.

"Don't say anything. You've caused enough…" Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.

"Robbie!" she shouted.

"Robbie, come back."

She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

"Shit," he said quietly.

"What are we going to do now?"

The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.

"Thought I might get a boat, Carlos," he mused, staring out across the water.

"What do you think?"

Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.

"I always get seasick," he said.

"I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style."

"I still get sick," said Rodriguez.

Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.

Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.

A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St.

Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.

"How's everything?" Donovan said, keeping his voice low.

"The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening," said Rodriguez.

"And the consignment?"

"The fuel tanks of the yellow ones."

"The yellow ones?"

"We thought they'd be easier to spot."

"Every yellow one?" asked Donovan.

Rodriguez nodded.

"Every one."

"Isn't that a bit… predictable?"

Rodriguez grinned.

"Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?"

Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the world. Up to four hundred Beetles a day rolled off the production line in Puebla, and many went overseas. Rodriguez had bought up a consignment of sixty of the cars and had arranged to ship them to the United Kingdom.

"Don't worry, Den," said Rodriguez.

"Palms have been well greased at both ends. Yellow, green or rainbow coloured, no one is going to be going near those cars."

"Sweet," said Donovan.

"And my money?"

"I'll put the first tranche in this afternoon."

"And the rest on arrival?" said Rodriguez.

"Soon as we've got the gear out." Donovan slapped the Colombian on the back.

"Come on, Carlos, have I ever let you down?"

"Not yet, my friend, but a little bird tells me that you have been talking to Russians."

"Carlos, I talk to a lot of people."

"Russian pilots. With transport planes. Staying at a hotel in Anguilla. Not far from your villa, in fact."

Donovan raised an eyebrow.

"I'm impressed, Carlos."

"Knowledge is power," said the Colombian.

"I thought money was power."

The two men stopped and faced each other, the warm sea breeze rustling their clothes.

"Knowledge. Money. Power. They are all connected," said the Colombian.

"These Russians, they have been flying Soviet weapons into Colombia for FARC, you know that?"

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.