Stephen Leather - Tango One

Whatever, he'd got the calculation wrong. Retribution would be decisive and swift. And highly personal.

Donovan arrived at the house just after nine thirty the next morning.

He let himself in through the back door and tapped in the burglar alarm code. He went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. The milk in the fridge was well past its sell-by date, so he poured it down the sink and sipped his coffee black.

He walked through to his study and stood looking at the painting that concealed the safe. The yachts were turning into the wind, the sky smeared redly behind them. On the left was the skyline of nineteenth-century New York. Donovan never tired of looking at the picture.

He sat down at his desk and took out one of the mobiles that he hadn't used. He dialled the UK number that Gregov had given him. It was answered by a woman with a Russian accent who said that Gregov was helping to load one of the planes, but that if Donovan didn't mind waiting she'd go and get him.

Donovan swung his feet up on to the desk and whistled softly to himself until Gregov came on the line.

"Den, good to hear from you."

"Hiya, Gregov. Wasn't sure if I'd catch you."

"We're flying out tomorrow. Loading up the last of the supplies now.

Forty thousand kilos of food and medicine. I love earthquakes, Den. My bread and butter."

"When are you flying back?" asked Donovan.

"Next week. Are we in business, then?"

"Maybe. I'll try to get the finances sorted then I'll get back to you.

Eight thousand kilos, right? At three thousand a key?"

"That's right. Twenty-four total, call it twenty-five with expenses."

Donovan raised his eyebrows. Twenty-five million US dollars. He wondered how enthusiastic Gregov would be if he knew the true state of Donovan's finances, but the deal Gregov was offering was so sweet that it could be the answer to all his prayers.

"That seems cheap, Gregov."

"Sure, they're friends of mine. Army buddies. I got them out of a few scrapes in Afghanistan, they sort of owe me. But that's the regular price. Their processing plant is in the middle of nowhere once it gets anywhere near a big city the price doubles. Out of Turkey it goes up tenfold. It's cheap because I get it at the source. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, of course not," said Donovan, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.

"Good man," said Gregov.

"You have the bank account number?"

Donovan said he had.

"When you're ready to move, call Maya at the number you have. She'll get through to me, even if I'm in the air. This is going to be great, Den. Capitalism rules, yeah?"

"Sure," said Donovan.

The doorbell rang as Donovan cut the connection, and he went through to the hall and opened the front door. Maury Goldman stood there with a tall, blond-haired man in his late twenties, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and grey shirt. The man looked fit, as if he worked out, and he flexed his shoulders under his jacket as Donovan looked him up and down.

"Den, this is Jamie Fullerton," said Goldman.

Fullerton stuck out his hand and Donovan shook it. It was a firm, strong grip, and Fullerton held Donovan's look as he squeezed. It wasn't quite a trial of strength, but Donovan felt that Fullerton had something to prove. Donovan continued to apply pressure on the handshake, and Fullerton matched it, then Fullerton nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Donovan."

"Mr. Donovan was my dear old dad and he's well dead. I'm Den," said Donovan, waving them into the house. He patted Goldman on the back and closed the door.

"Do you want coffee?" he asked.

"Coffee would be good," said Fullerton.

Goldman nodded. Donovan took them into the kitchen and made three mugs of coffee, apologising for the lack of milk. Goldman and Fullerton sat down at the pine kitchen table.

"Maury told you what I need?" asked Donovan.

"You want to sell your collection ASAP," said Fullerton.

"Shouldn't be a problem."

"I showed Jamie your inventory," said Goldman.

"He's spoken to several potential buyers already."

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Donovan," said Fullerton.

"Den," he said, correcting himself with an embarrassed smile.

"I thought that with the time pressure, you'd want me to hit the ground running."

"No sweat," said Donovan.

"Have you had any feedback?"

"Some of them I can sell for you today, but the others I'm going to have to show. Can I bring people around here to see them?"

"I'd rather not," said Donovan.

"With respect to your clients, I don't want strangers traipsing around my house. Plus, I'd rather not have people know where they've come from."

Fullerton smiled easily.

"I understand that, but the alternative is to let me walk out of here with two million quid's worth of fine art. If you're okay with that..

."

Donovan looked at Fullerton, trying to get the measure of the man. He had an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance and he looked at Donovan with his chin slightly raised, almost as if he were spoiling for a fight. There was also an amused look in his eyes, though, as if he were taking a secret pleasure in suggesting that he bring strangers into Donovan's home. There was something about his smile that reminded Donovan of a shark. He was a good-looking guy and Donovan was sure that Jamie Fullerton had broken his fair share of hearts.

"I'm not sure I'd be keen on that, either," said Donovan.

"How about we move them to my gallery?" asked Goldman.

"My insurance'll cover them. Anyone interested can come and see them there."

Donovan nodded.

"That sounds good, Maury. Thanks." He raised his coffee mug in salute.

"I don't want to talk out of turn, but have you considered the insurance option?" asked Fullerton quietly.

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

"In what way?"

Fullerton grimaced, as if he were having second thoughts about what he was about to suggest.

"Come on, Jamie," said Donovan.

"Spit it out."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Fullerton.

"They're insured, right? Why put them on the market? You must know people."

"Must I?" said Donovan coldly.

Fullerton looked uncomfortable. Goldman was pointedly avoiding looking at either of them and was concentrating on a spot somewhere above the wine rack.

"If you don't, I do," Fullerton said.

"They break in, take the paintings, you claim on the insurance and a few years down the line you get them back, ten pence in the pound."

Goldman winced but carried on staring at the wall as if his life depended on it.

"You do know who I am, Jamie?"

"Sure."

"Are you sure you're sure? Because if you know who I am, how do you think the filth would react if they heard that I'd been robbed? First of all, they'd love to get inside my house without a warrant. Second of all, don't you think they'd move heaven and earth to prove that it was an insurance job?"

Fullerton shifted in his seat.

"Stupid idea. Sorry."

Donovan smiled.

"Nah, at least you're thinking creatively. Under other circumstances it might have been a goer, but the way things are at the moment, I've got to keep the lowest of low profiles. I want them sold legit, and I want cash."

Goldman tore his attention away from the wall.

"Cash cash?" he asked.

"As good as," said Donovan.

"Banker's draft. Tomorrow."

"That's tight," said Fullerton.

"That's the way it's got to be," said Donovan.

"Made out to you?"

"Made out to cash."

"Banks aren't over happy about making drafts out to cash," said Fullerton.

"Fuck the banks," said Donovan.

"It's a fair point, Den," said Goldman.

"It might slow things up."

Donovan pursed his lips and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get a headache again.