Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Now, these two men in black, they know the score?"

Donovan nodded.

"They'll pay you on delivery. Eighteen mill. They have it offshore, so they can transfer to any account you nominate."

"How much do they know about me?"

"Your name. And that you're the supplier. They're worried it might be a set-up. That's why they want me here."

Rodriguez grinned.

"So you can protect them?"

"So that if the shit hits the fan, I'll get hit, too."

"Do you think they're satisfied yet?"

"I'll ask them." Donovan beckoned at Macfadyen and Jordan. The two men looked at each other, then walked cautiously over the grass towards him. Donovan turned to the Colombian.

"You can trust them, Jesus."

"My uncle thought he could trust you, capullo."

"This isn't about trust. I was ripped off."

"The hows and whys don't concern me, all that matters is the money.

That's what this business is all about: the movement and acquisition of capital. That's why you must never make it personal. When you make it personal is when you make mistakes." He patted Donovan on the back again, hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Remember that."

"Thanks, Jesus," said Donovan.

"Did you get that from a Christmas cracker?"

"My father told me that," said Rodriguez.

"A lifetime ago. Before he was shot in the back of the head by a capullo he turned his back on."

Macfadyen and Jordan joined them. Macfadyen nodded at Rodriguez, then jerked a thumb towards the men under the tree.

"They with you?" he asked.

"They are," said Rodriguez evenly.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not so long as they stay where they are," said Macfadyen.

"There are three of you and one of me but you don't see me shitting my pants," said Rodriguez. He blew a tight plume of smoke that was quickly whisked away by the wind. He nodded at Donovan.

"Perhaps you should do the honours."

"This is Charlie Macfadyen. Edinburgh's finest. Charlie, this is Jesus Rodriguez."

The two men shook hands.

"And this is Ricky Jordan."

"From Liverpool," said Rodriguez.

"Birthplace of the Beatles." He shook hands with Jordan.

"I've heard of you, Ricky. You were in Miami two years ago doing business with Roberto Galardo."

Jordan narrowed his eyes and Rodriguez laughed out loud.

"Don't worry, Ricky, I'm not DEA. Roberto is an old friend. And he quite definitely didn't tell me about you and those three lap-dancers."

He winked conspiratorially.

"You do know that the Hispanic one was a transsexual, right?"

Jordan's face flushed and Macfadyen sniggered.

"You never told me about that, Ricky," he teased.

"She was female," said Jordan.

"Of course she was," said Rodriguez.

"By the time you met her."

Jordan's brow creased into a frown, not sure whether Rodriguez was joking or not.

The Colombian put his arm around Jordan's shoulder and hugged him.

"So, let's talk business, shall we?" He looked across at Donovan.

"Call me at the hotel about the other thing, okay? Two days."

Donovan nodded.

"You okay now?" he asked Macfadyen.

"Yeah. I guess."

"I'll leave you to it. Be lucky, yeah?" He flashed Macfadyen a thumbs-up.

"She was definitely a girl," Jordan continued to protest as Donovan walked away.

Donovan took his time leaving Hyde Park. He had a coffee in the cafeteria overlooking the Serpentine, checking out the faces of the passers-by, then he walked slowly along Rotten Row towards Hyde Park Corner, stopping twice to tie and retie his shoelaces. At one point he looked at his watch and then turned and quickly walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.

Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.

The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.

When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.

The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.

"I'm here to see Maury," he said.

"Is he expecting you?"

"Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?"

She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.

"Do you have many customers?" asked Donovan.

The woman didn't reply. She walked away, her high heels clicking on the grey marble floor like knuckles cracking. Donovan watched her buttocks twitch under her short black skirt, then turned his attention to the painting on the wall opposite the woman's desk. It was modern and mindless, dribbles of paint on over-large canvases, the work of a second-year art student. He took a few steps back, but even distance didn't make the work any more meaningful. There were no price tags on the work, just small pieces of white card with the titles of the pieces. Donovan figured that was always a bad sign, having to give the piece a name. Art should speak for itself.

Scattered around the floor of the gallery were several metal sculptures that looked like the contents of someone's garage welded together haphazardly. Donovan wandered around, shaking his head scornfully.

"Den! Good to see you."

Maury Goldman strode across the gallery, his hand outstretched. His mane of grey hair was swept back as if he'd been riding a scooter without a helmet. Not that there'd be a scooter on the roads capable of bearing Goldman's weight. He was a fat man, bordering on the obese, and his Savile Row suits demanded at least three times the cloth of a regular fitting. As always, his jowly face was bathed in sweat, but his hand when Donovan shook it was as dry as stone. Goldman appeared only days away from a fatal heart attack, but he'd looked that way for the twelve years that Donovan had known him.

Goldman pumped Donovan's hand, and then hugged him. The brunette gave Donovan a frosty look as she went back to her desk, as if she resented the attention that Goldman was giving him.

"When did you get back?" asked Goldman.

"Day or two. How's business?"

Goldman made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand.

"Can't complain, Den."

Donovan gestured at the huge canvases.

"Didn't think you went for this, Maury?"

"Favour for a friend," said Goldman regretfully.

"His son's just graduated… what can I say? Maybe Saatchi'll take him under his wing."

Donovan didn't look convinced and Goldman laughed quietly.

"I need a favour, Maury," said Donovan quietly.

Goldman took out a large scarlet handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.

"Come upstairs, we can have a chat there."

Goldman waddled across the gallery and showed Donovan through a door that led to a stairway. He went up the stairs slowly, with Donovan following.

"You should get a lift installed," said Donovan.