Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Okay," he said eventually.

"Get the drafts made out to Carlos Rodriguez." He spelled out the surname.

"And you want the drafts?" asked Fullerton.

"Yeah. Maybe. Talk to me once you've got them, right?"

"Individual drafts from each sale would be the quickest way," said Fullerton.

"Is that okay?"

"So long as the total's more than two million quid, Jamie, I'll be a happy bunny."

Goldman took out a leather cigar case and held it up.

"Okay if I smoke?" he asked.

"Sure," said Donovan.

"They're your lungs."

Goldman offered the case to Fullerton, but he shook his head and drank his coffee. Goldman took out a cigar and sniffed it appreciatively.

"One other thing," said Fullerton, 'and please don't take this the wrong way, Den. Provenance is okay, yeah?"

Donovan smiled tightly.

"Goldman said you weren't over concerned about provenance."

Fullerton flashed Goldman an annoyed look and Goldman focused all his attention on cutting the end off his cigar and lighting it with a match.

"Well, thanks for the character reference, Maury."

Goldman pretended not to hear. Fullerton looked back at Donovan and shrugged carelessly.

"Frankly, some of the people I sell to couldn't care less where the paintings come from, so long as the provenance is reflected in the price, that's all. But they might be a bit miffed if they pay top whack for a painting then find out it's got to stay in a locked basement."

Donovan nodded.

"They're all kosher, Jamie. Maury here can vouch for that."

Goldman nodded enthusiastically but kept looking at his cigar.

"All the money was well clean by the time it went through Maury's books." He grinned.

"I had a team of Smurfs working flat out for a month for the Rembrandt in the master bedroom."

"Smurfs?"

Donovan grinned.

"Another time, Jamie. Just take my word for it, the paintings are clean. Bought and paid for."

"That's all I need to know, Den. I'm on the case." He stood up.

"Okay if I start loading the smaller paintings into Maury's car?"

"Sure, I'll give you a hand."

"We'll send a van for the larger works," said Goldman. He waved his cigar at Fullerton.

"Take extra care with the Van Dycks, they're spoken for."

"Can you get the van here this morning?" asked Donovan.

"I'm up to my eyes this afternoon."

Goldman winked and pulled a tiny Nokia mobile from his jacket pocket.

It looked minuscule as he held it against his jowly face.

"Office," he shouted. He smiled at Donovan.

"Voice-activated dialling. New technology, huh?" He frowned and said "Office' again, louder this time. His frown deepened and then he cursed and tapped in the number.

Donovan jerked his thumb towards the stairs.

"Come and look at the Rembrandt," he said to Fullerton.

"It's not my favourite piece, but it should fetch the most. Maury talked me into it, said it'd be a great investment. He's a Philistine, but you can't fault his business sense."

Fullerton followed Donovan upstairs. The Rembrandt drawing was in an ornate gilt frame to the left of the door, positioned so that Donovan could see it while he was lying in bed. Fullerton whistled softly.

"Nice," he said. He stood back from the picture and stared at it in silence for almost a full minute. It was of a small child reaching for an apple. A boy, but with long hair and an angelic, almost feminine face. The boy was looking around as if he feared being caught taking the fruit, but he was too well dressed to be a beggar or a thief. He was the son of nobility, so maybe the theft was greed. Or a lark.

"Just look at the hand," said Fullerton.

"You can see the corrections, he must have worked on it for hours." He moved to the side to get a slightly different view.

"Quill and reed pen with a brown ink," he said.

"A very similar drawing went for almost three hundred grand at Sotheby's in New York a couple of years ago. That was an old man kids always fetch higher prices."

"You're as much a Philistine as Maury," laughed Donovan.

"I'm not saying it's not a great work, I'm just saying it's a very saleable piece. Which is why you bought it, yeah?"

"Can't argue with that, Jamie."

"I don't think I'll have a problem placing it," said Fullerton.

"I know a couple of guys with cash that want to put it into art."

"Clean money?"

Fullerton flashed his shark-like smile again.

"It will be by the time you get it, Den."

Donovan took the Rembrandt drawing down off the wall and placed it on the bed. He went into the bathroom and pulled a pale blue hand towel off the heated rail and tossed it to Fullerton.

Fullerton carefully wrapped the drawing in the towel.

"Can I ask you something, Den?"

"Anything so long as it's not geography," said Donovan.

"I hate geography."

"You've got a decent security system, but weren't you taking a risk, having them on show?"

"It's not like I advertised them," said Donovan.

"And most opportunistic break-ins are druggies looking for a video or a CD player. They wouldn't recognise a Rembrandt if it bit them on the arse." He nodded at the drawing that Fullerton was wrapping.

"Even my wife didn't know what that was worth. A scribble, she called it."

"You didn't tell her what it was?"

Donovan shrugged.

"Vicky had a stack of interests, but art was never one of them. I tried to take her to galleries and stuff but it bored her rigid. More interested in Gucci than Goya."

Fullerton picked up the Rembrandt.

"Can I see the Butters-worths?"

"Sure." Donovan took Fullerton down to the study.

Fullerton put the Rembrandt on the desk and studied the painting that covered the wall safe.

"Brilliant," he said.

"You know about Buttersworth?" said Donovan.

"Did a thesis on nineteenth-century American painters, believe it or not, and I always had a penchant for maritime artists. Look at that sunset, would you? More than a hundred and thirty years ago he painted that. We're getting the same view today that he had then. It's like we're seeing something through his eyes, isn't it, something that's been gone for more than a century. Awesome. Look at the skyline there, New York as it was back then. And just look at the detail in the clouds." He turned to look at Donovan.

"And you use it to hide a safe. Who's the Philistine now?"

Donovan's jaw dropped.

"How the hell did you know that?"

Fullerton grinned and walked over to the frame. He pointed to the wall to the left of the gilded frame.

"See the indentations there?"

Donovan moved closer and peered at where Fullerton was pointing. He was right, there was a line of small marks where the frame had been pressing against the wall when it was swung away from the safe.

"You've got a good eye," said Donovan.

"A thiefs eye," laughed Fullerton.

"But don't worry, Den, your secret's safe with me."

"Bloody thing's empty anyway," said Donovan.

Fullerton went over to look at the second Buttersworth.

"I think I know just the man to buy these," he said.

"A corporate finance chap over at Citibank. He's got a bonus cheque eating a hole in his pocket and he's mad about boats. I'm sure he'll jump at them." He turned and grinned confidently.

"This is going to be a piece of cake, Den. Take my word for it."

Jamie Fullerton opened the metal gates with his remote control and drove his black Porsche into the underground car park. He was grinning as he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse.

Three years he'd been waiting to meet Den Donovan, and he'd finally been handed the man on a plate. He couldn't believe his luck. He shook his head. No, it hadn't been luck. He'd been in the right place at the right time, and that had been down to planning, not chance. He'd put a lot of time and effort into cultivating Maury Goldman, once he'd found out that Goldman had been Donovan's art dealer of choice. There'd been other dealers, too. And other contacts. All friends and acquaintances of Donovan, all possible leads to the man himself. And it had worked. He'd been in the man's house. Shaken hands with him.