Stephen Leather - Tango One

The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.

"Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future."

"And you would be?" asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.

"I would be the bearer of bad news," said the man.

"A harbinger of doom." He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.

"Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?" asked Clare.

"Indeed it would, Marty," said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.

Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.

The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.

"I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into."

Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.

"This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it."

"Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty."

Clare snorted.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison?

There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison."

"Got it all planned, haven't you?"

"A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life."

Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.

Clare stood up.

"So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself "The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.

"Like fuck."

The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.

"So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator."

"Bullshit."

"Why would I make up something like that, Marty?"

Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.

"Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?"

"Sit down, Marty."

Clare stood where he was.

"Sit the fuck down."

Clare sat down slowly.

"One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey."

"Says who?"

"Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment.

One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey."

Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.

The man smiled.

"Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?"

"You should know. You had someone undercover, right?"

"Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news."

Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.

"The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States."

"Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts "jump", we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees."

"I'm Irish," said Clare.

"Northern Irish," said the man quietly.

"Not quite the same."

"I'm an Irish resident."

"Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States.

That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?"

"That's not in my name. It's a company asset."

"Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then."

"This isn't fucking fair!" shouted Clare.

The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.

Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.

"I want a drink," he said.

"Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness," said the man.

"A drink of water," said Clare.

The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.

"Why would you want the Americans to have me?" asked Clare.

"Who said I did?" asked the man.

"You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal prison."

"Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty."

"Nah, you've got an agenda," said Clare.

"You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind."

"If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?"

Clare's face tightened.

"So you have got someone on the inside?"

"Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood."

There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.

"You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?"

Clare groaned.

"You are so transparent," he said.

"You want me to grass, right?"

"Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel."

"I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass." Clare sipped his water.

"And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do."

"I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step."

"That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?"

Clare frowned.

"What do you mean?"