Stephen Leather - Tango One

Macfadyen and Jordan exchanged another meaningful look. This time it was Macfadyen who nodded.

"Okay," said Macfadyen.

"When?"

"Let me make a call." Donovan took out one of his mobile phones.

Two Dutch plainclothes detectives escorted Marty Clare to the waiting Saab. Clare had insisted through his lawyer that he be taken from the detention centre in a regular car rather than a prison van, and he didn't want any uniforms anywhere near him. Clare's lawyer had spoken to Hathaway at length and had eventually persuaded him to allow Clare to be interrogated at a hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam.

As the taller of the two detectives opened the rear door of the Saab, his jacket fell open and Clare caught a glimpse of a holstered automatic. That had been another stipulation of Clare's he wanted round-the-clock armed protection. The attack in the gym might well have been a warning, but once Donovan found out that Clare was still talking there'd be hell to pay.

The taller detective climbed into the back seat after Clare while the other got into the front and told the driver to head on out.

The car was checked over by two uniformed guards while a third guard examined the ID cards of the two detectives and the paperwork permitting Clare's removal from the centre. There was a photograph of Clare clipped to a letter from the governor's office and the guard carefully checked the likeness against Clare's face. Clare grinned but the guard remained impassive.

The metal gate rattled to the side and the Saab edged forward. A second gate leading to the street didn't start opening until the first gate had closed behind the car.

"This place had better have room service," said Clare.

"And cable. My lawyer was supposed to have insisted on cable."

The two detectives said nothing. Clare turned to the policeman next to him and asked if he had a cigarette. The man shook his head. The car edged into the traffic, then accelerated away.

"What is this, the silent treatment?" joked Clare, but the detective just stared out of the window, stony faced.

"Fuck you, then," said Clare and settled back in the seat, his handcuffed wrists in his lap. The cut on Clare's arm barely bothered him, it had only required three stitches, but the wound in his stomach hurt like hell, especially when he was in a sitting position, so he tried to stretch out his legs to make himself more comfortable. The doctor had given Clare a vial of painkillers but told him to use them sparingly. When the detectives had heard that, they'd taken the tablets off Clare. Clare had laughed in their faces. Suicidal he wasn't.

The driver braked as they approached a set of traffic lights.

The lights were green but a white van ahead of them had slowed. The driver muttered under his breath and was about to sound his horn when the lights changed to red. The van pulled up and the Saab stopped behind it.

The detectives spoke to each other in Dutch. The one in the front laughed and Clare had the feeling they were laughing about him. He scowled. He never heard the crack as the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass cubes, and he died instantly as the bullet ripped through the back of his head and spattered brains and blood over the Saab's windscreen.

The driver and the detectives started shouting. Clare's body twitched as a second bullet smacked into the back of his head but he was already dead. The lights changed from red to green and the white van pulled away. Horns began to sound behind the Saab, but they stopped when the detectives piled out of the car, guns raised above their heads.

Juan Rojas unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his rifle and put it into his briefcase, then swiftly disassembled the weapon and put the pieces away. He closed the briefcase and then examined himself in the mirror above the dressing table. Dark blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, crimson tie. He winked at his reflection. He left the briefcase on the dressing table. It would be collected later by the man who had booked the hotel room.

Rojas had shot Clare from the roof of the hotel. The men in the white van had been working for him, as had the man who had stabbed Clare in the gym. It was an easy shot, just over a hundred metres, but the intersection was overlooked by so many tower blocks that the police would never find out where the bullets had come from. Rojas had wrapped the rifle in a towel and then hurried back through the emergency exit door and into the hotel room.

His mohair coat was hanging on the back of the door and he put it on, then gave his hotel room a once over to make sure that he hadn't left anything behind other than the briefcase. He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the elevator to take him down to the ground floor. Five minutes later he was in a taxi, heading for the airport.

Den Donovan walked along the edge of the Serpentine. Two small children were throwing pieces of bread for a noisy flock of ducks. A large white swan watched disdainfully from a distance. A helicopter clattered high overhead. Donovan kept his head down, more from habit than from any realistic fear that the helicopter was on a surveillance operation.

Macfadyen and Jordan were several hundred yards away, walking together, deep in conversation, though they kept looking across at him. Donovan had insisted on walking to the park, but Macfadyen and Jordan had wanted to drive. They'd parked the Ferrari in the underground car park in Park Lane and were keeping their distance until they'd seen Donovan with the Colombian.

Jesus Rodriguez was standing on the bank of the Serpentine wearing a cream-coloured suit with a white silk shirt buttoned at the neck with no tie.

Donovan hated having to meet Rodriguez out in the open, because it made it harder to spot any surveillance, but Macfadyen and Jordan hadn't wanted a meeting indoors. They hung back as Donovan walked up to Rodriguez.

"Is that them?" asked the Colombian, nodding at Macfadyen and Jordan.

"Yeah. They're jittery. So am I."

"We're just having a walk in the park, my friend."

"A Colombian drugs lord, two of the main suppliers of Class A drugs in Scotland, and Tango One. The fact that we're in one place is just about grounds for a conspiracy charge."

"You worry too much," said the Colombian. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and slipped a cigarette between his lips. He held his gold lighter up and grinned mischievously at Donovan.

"You changed your clothes, I hope?" Donovan flashed Rodriguez a cold smile and Rodriguez lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the cigarette and then sighed as he exhaled. He started walking alongside the Serpentine and Donovan went with him. He took the Sparbuchs from his inside pocket and handed them to the Colombian.

Rodriguez flicked through them.

"As good as cash, you say?"

"Better than cash," said Donovan.

"They're useless without the passwords. And you can fly around the world with them in your pocket and no one's the wiser."

Rodriguez nodded appreciatively and put the passbooks into his jacket pocket. Donovan handed him a slip of paper with two words written on it. Rodriguez put it in his wallet.

"If it was me, I'd have killed you. You know that?"

"I'd guessed," said Donovan. He looked around casually. The two men who had been with Rodriguez were some distance away, standing in the shade of a spreading sycamore tree.

"Having said that, my uncle told me to tell you that if you do get your finances sorted out, he would be prepared to resume our business relationship."

Donovan smiled ruefully.

"I'll bear that in mind, Jesus. Tell him thanks."

"And you will have the money from the paintings before I leave London?"

"I hope so," said Donovan.

Rodriguez chuckled dryly.

"Just remember that we have another can of petrol," he said.