Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Ah yes. Your wife," said Rodriguez.

"So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?"

The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering.

Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.

"Yeah, I feel like a right twat, Carlos. Does that make you happy?"

"The only thing that will make me happy is when I have my ten million dollars."

"Killing me isn't going to get your money back."

"So you said. Where is your wife now?"

"Sitting at home waiting for me. Where the fuck do you think she is, Carlos?" spat Donovan.

"She's on the fucking run, that's where she is."

"You have people looking for her?"

"The Spaniard."

"Rojas is good. Expensive, but good. Does he know your money's gone?"

Donovan didn't reply and Rodriguez chuckled.

"Your situation just gets worse and worse, doesn't it, amigoT Jesus Rodriguez was glaring at Donovan, annoyed at having to hold the phone to his mouth.

"What about when the consignment arrives?" said Rodriguez.

"How were you expecting to pay the second tranche?"

"What can I say, Carlos? I haven't got the first ten mill, let alone the second."

"So even if I take what you're offering me now, you're not going to be able to pay for the consignment when it arrives?"

"If I find that bastard Sharkey, you'll get your money."

"That's a big "if, amigo. The people who are taking on the cocaine, they have paid you half, yes?"

"Yes."

"Fifteen million?"

"Eighteen."

"I presume they are not yet aware of your financial situation," said Rodriguez.

"God willing."

Rodriguez chuckled "Amiga, you are in so much shit. How can I let you go? If I don't kill you, they will. And if they kill you, I lose everything."

"If I can deliver the gear, they'll pay me another eighteen mill," said Donovan.

"You can have all that. The eighteen plus the passbooks plus the paintings is more than twenty mill. You get your money, they get their gear. Everyone wins."

"But why do I need you in this equation, amigo?" asked Rodriguez.

"Why don't I just tell my nephew to kill you now?"

"It's my deal."

"It was your deal," he said.

"Who is taking delivery of the cars?" he asked.

Donovan closed his eyes. He could see where Rodriguez was going.

"You can't do this to me, Carlos."

"Amigo, I can tell my nephew to turn you into a flaming kebab and do what the hell I want with the cars, so don't tell me what I can and cannot do."

Donovan opened his eyes.

"It's being split between Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen," he said.

"Fifty fifty."

"Jordan I have heard of," said Rodriguez, 'but who is this Macfadyen?"

"He's a big fish in Edinburgh. They both are. Got the backing of some property guys who were looking to diversify.

This is their first big deal but I know them from way back. Solid as they come. Look, let me run with this, Carlos. You'll get your money.

All of it."

"I don't think so, amigo. When word gets out how you've been screwed, no one's going to be doing business with you. It'll be open season. I will deal with Jordan and Macfadyen myself "You bastard!"

Jesus Rodriguez took the phone away from Donovan's ear and slapped him across the face. Talk to my uncle with respect, capullo. With respect." He slapped Donovan again and then put the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry about that, Carlos," said Donovan. He spat out more bloody phlegm.

"Your nephew wanted a word."

"He's a good boy. Very enthusiastic. Now what were you saying?

Questioning the marital status of my parents, I seem to remember."

Jesus started to click his lighter again.

"Okay, okay!" shouted Donovan.

"It's yours! The deal's yours!"

"Good call," said Carlos Rodriguez.

"Let me talk to my nephew."

Donovan tried to smile up at Jesus Rodriguez.

"He wants to talk to you."

Jesus walked up and down as he listened to his uncle, his shoes crunching on the bare concrete. Eventually he put the phone away and walked back to where Donovan was gently swinging.

"You are one lucky capullo' he said.

"I'm staying at the Intercontinental. Tell Jordan and Macfadyen to contact me there. I will explain the new arrangement to them."

"Okay," said Donovan wearily.

"How long will it take you to sell your paintings?" asked Rodriguez.

Donovan glared at the Colombian.

"Oh, come on. You'll get your money for the gear, Jesus."

"My uncle says you owe interest, capullo. I will take the passbooks and the money from the paintings." He held out the lighter.

"Or we end this now."

The fight went out of Donovan. Suspended from the ceiling and doused with petrol didn't put him in any position to argue with the Colombian.

Besides, Carlos Rodriguez did occupy the moral high ground, in as much as there was a moral high ground in the world of drug trafficking.

Donovan had promised to pay ten million dollars when the drugs left Mexico. He had failed to come up with the money, and in the circles that Donovan moved in, that was equivalent to signing his own death warrant. Donovan had hoped that he would have been able to find Sharkey before Rodriguez had found him, but his gamble had failed and now he had to pay the price.

"You can have the passbooks tonight," said Donovan.

"I should be able to sell the pictures within a few days."

"I will be in London for three days. Bring the money and the passbooks to me at the hotel." He started to walk away, then hesitated.

"Don't make a fool of me again, capullo."

I won't.

"Next time I won't phone my uncle. I don't have to say that I know how to find you, and that I know where your son is, do I?"

"No, you don't," said Donovan coldly.

Rodriguez nodded.

"Three days," he repeated, then walked away.

"Jesus!"

Rodriguez turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Cut me down, yeah?"

Rodriguez nodded at his men. One of them took a penknife from his coat pocket and walked behind Donovan. Donovan felt the rope being cut from around his wrists. His fingers began to tingle as the circulation returned. Rodriguez walked away as the man cut the rope around Donovan's ankles. Donovan hit the ground hard, jarring his shoulder, but he was so numb that he felt hardly any pain. He lay on the concrete floor, gasping for breath.

He heard the doors of the car open and slam shut, then the engine revving. A metal gate rattled up and the car drove out and then he was alone. He sat up, massaging his legs, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Carlos Rodriguez wasn't the most vicious of the Colombian drug lords, but he was far from being a pushover, and Donovan knew for a fact that he'd killed several times. One simple command from him and Jesus would have happily ended Donovan's life.

Donovan had always got on well with Carlos Rodriguez, which might have explained the Colombian's apparent change of heart. Or maybe Rodriguez had never intended to kill Donovan; maybe it had all been a mind game from the start and Jesus Rodriguez and his two henchmen were pissing themselves laughing as they drove away.

Donovan stood up slowly. He was still drenched in petrol so he took off most of his clothes and draped them on a workbench to dry. He paced up and down as he considered his options, which now appeared to be few and far between.

Marty Clare started his third set of sit-ups. He did three hundred during each early-morning workout, six sets of fifty. His torso glistened and he grunted each time he sat upright, his hands clenched behind his neck, his knees slightly bent.

The man watching Clare was also sweating, but not from exertion. He was a tall, almost gangly, black man in his late twenties with a shaved head and wicked scar on his left forearm. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his right hand was in his pocket, clenched around an eight-inch-long metal spike that had been carefully sharpened.