Stephen Leather - Tango One

"I need the exercise," said Goldman, panting as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door to his private office. He held the door open for Donovan.

The office was a complete contrast to the gallery downstairs, with dark wooden panelling, brass light fittings and a plush royal-blue carpet.

The dark oak furniture included a massive desk on which sat an incongruously hi-tech Apple Mac computer. The paintings on the walls were a world apart from the canvases downstairs and Donovan wandered around, relishing the art. Goldman eased himself down on to a massive leather swivel chair behind the desk and watched Donovan with an amused smile on his face.

"This is good," said Donovan in admiration.

"My god, this is good." He was looking at a small black chalk and lithographic crayon drawing of an old woman, her face creased into a thousand wrinkles, yet with eyes that sparkled like a teenager's.

"It's a Goya, right?"

"Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, none other," said Goldman.

"Where the hell did you get it from?"

Goldman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

"Trade secret," he said.

"Kosher?"

Goldman sighed theatrically.

"Dennis, please…"

"It must be worth seven fifty, right?"

"Closer to a mill, but I could do you a deal, Dennis," said Goldman, taking a large cigar out of a rosewood box and clipping the end off with a gold cutter.

"It's the other way around," said Donovan, rubbing his chin as he scrutinised the painting.

"I need to sell what I've got."

Goldman lit his cigar and took a deep pull on it, then blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling.

"Have you any idea how much damage the smoke does?" asked Donovan.

"I smoke two a day, doctor's orders."

"I meant to the paintings."

Goldman flashed Donovan a cold smile.

"Do you want to sell everything?"

"Everything in the house."

Goldman raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure you want to do that? Rock solid investments. It's quality you've got there, Den."

"I'm not doing this by choice, Maury, believe me."

Donovan walked over to a green leather armchair opposite the desk and sat on one of the arms. He took out an envelope and dropped it on to Goldman's desk. Goldman opened it and took out a sheet of paper on which Donovan had written down an inventory of all the paintings he wanted to sell.

Goldman took out a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He nodded appreciatively as he ran his eyes down the list.

"We must be talking two mill, Den."

Donovan nodded.

"Maybe more if they went to auction, but I need this doing quickly."

"It's never a good idea to rush into a sale, Den." Goldman leaned forward and tapped ash into a large crystal ashtray.

"You know any bank would lend against those paintings, don't you? Shove them in a vault and take out a loan. You'd pay six per cent, maybe seven."

"I'd only get half the value. Maybe seventy five per cent if I was lucky. I need all of it, Maury, and I need it now."

"Now?"

"Tomorrow."

Goldman's eyes widened.

"Are you in trouble, Den?"

"Not if you sell those paintings PDQ, no. Can you buy them off me?"

Goldman exhaled deeply.

"Two million pounds is out of my league, Den. Give me a week or so and I could maybe fix something up, but you know I could only offer you trade. You need a private buyer."

"Do you know anyone?"

Goldman shook his head, then took another long pull on the cigar.

"No one who'd buy the lot, Den. It's a great collection you've got, but it's your taste, right. I mean, if they were all Picassos I could shift them within the hour, but you've got a mixed bag. Quality, but mixed. We'd have to split the collection up, find buyers for them individually."

"Can you do that?" Donovan tried to sound relaxed but he knew that the Colombian's goodwill had been stretched to its limit and there was no way he'd get an extension. It was three million dollars within two days or it was the rest of his life on the run. Or worse.

"I can try, Den."

Donovan nodded glumly. He could tell from Goldman's voice that the dealer wasn't optimistic.

"I tell you what, I'd be happy to take the Van Dyck sketches off your hands."

"I'm not giving them away, Maury."

"What do you think's fair?"

"You should know, Maury, I bought two of them from you."

"How much did you pay again?"

Donovan grinned. Goldman had a mind like a steel trap and never forgot a trade.

"You sold them to me for twenty grand apiece, Maury, and that was eight years ago. I paid thirty-five grand for the third one, but as they're all preparatory sketches for the same painting, they've got added value as a set."

Goldman tapped ash into his crystal ashtray.

"A hundred and fifty?" Donovan smiled tightly and Goldman sighed mournfully.

"You're a hard man, Dennis. Two hundred?"

"Two hundred it is, Maury. Cash tomorrow, yeah?"

Goldman nodded.

"I'll get on the phone right away about the rest of your collection.

Okay if I come around to the house tomorrow morning?"

"Worried I might not have them?"

Goldman ignored Donovan's sarcasm.

"Ten o'clock all right for you?"

Donovan nodded.

Goldman continued to scrutinise the list.

"I know someone who might help," he said.

"In what way? A buyer?"

"A dealer. Young guy, he's been making a bit of a name for himself.

Bit of a chancer, it has to be said, but he turns over some good stuff.

Sails a bit close to the wind when it comes to provenance, but he has cash buyers. Buyers a bit like yourself, if you get my drift."

"You trust him? This is personal business, Maury. I mean, the paintings are kosher but there's going to be a money trail. I don't have time to do any laundry."

"He's never let me down, Den. And he knows the faces. God forbid I should put you in touch with my competition, but if you're in a bind, he might be able to help."

Donovan nodded.

"Okay, then. What's his name?"

Goldman blew a cloud of smoke across the desk, then waved it away with his hand.

"Fullerton. Jamie Fullerton."

Robbie's thumbs were getting numb, but he didn't want to stop playing with the Gameboy, not while he was so close to beating his personal best. His mobile phone started to ring. He glanced sideways at the phone on the grass beside him. It was a mobile calling him. He put the Gameboy down and picked up his mobile. He didn't recognise the number. He pressed the green button.

"Yes…" he said hesitantly.

"Cheer up, you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"Dad!" Robbie shouted. He grinned and pumped his fist in the air.

"That's better," said Donovan.

"You haven't forgotten how to smile, then."

Robbie realised what his father had said. He stood up and looked around the garden, the phone still glued to his ear.

"Where are you?"

"Why? You want to see me?"

"Yes!" Robbie shouted.

"Where are you?"

Donovan stepped out of the kitchen, waving at his son.

"Dad!" Robbie screamed, running towards him. He threw himself at Donovan. Donovan picked him up and swung him around.

"I knew you'd come back," said Robbie.

"I said I would. You know I always keep my word."

Robbie put his arms around Donovan's neck and hugged him tight.

"When did you land? You should have called me, I would have come to the airport."

"I wanted to surprise you," said Donovan. He didn't want to tell Robbie that he'd been in London for two days, or that he'd been in Mark and Laura's house while he was asleep.

"You want a Big Mac?"

"Burger King's better."

"Since when?" Last time Donovan had been in London, Macdonald's was his son's fast food of choice.