Stephen Leather - Tango One

Hell, Den Donovan had actually made him coffee.

Fullerton unlocked his front door and walked through to the kitchen, all polished stainless steel and gleaming white tiles. He opened the fridge and took out a chilled bottle of Bollinger champagne. He picked up a fluted glass and went out on to his terrace which overlooked the fast-flowing Thames. He popped the cork, filled the glass, then toasted himself. His grin widened.

"Onwards and upwards, Fullerton," he said, then drank deeply. He felt elated, almost light headed. He was in. He was part of Den Donovan's circle. He'd met the man, talked to the man, joked with him. He was in close, and already Donovan was trusting him.

Fullerton went back inside his apartment. He walked along a white-painted corridor to his study with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sat down in front of his computer. He switched on the machine and flexed his fingers like a concert pianist preparing to perform. While the machine booted up he sipped at his champagne.

He logged on to the Safe Web site and then switched through to the website that Hathaway had assigned to him three years earlier. Hathaway had warned Fullerton about using his own computer, but Fullerton had grown tired of using internet cafes to file his reports. He'd made the decision to use his own machine, though he religiously deleted all incriminating files after each session. Fullerton grinned and started typing.

Gregg Hathaway's office was just five miles away from Jamie Fullerton's penthouse apartment, in the hi-tech cream and green headquarters of Mi 6, the Secret Intelligence Service, at Vauxhall Bridge on the south bank of the Thames. Unlike Fullerton, Hathaway didn't have a river view his office was four floors underground. Hathaway preferred to be underground. A view was a distraction that he could do without.

Hathaway sat back in his chair as he scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing feeling of excitement. Over the years Fullerton had supplied him with increasingly useful intelligence which had helped put more than a dozen top London criminals behind bars, and Hathaway had recommended that Fullerton be promoted to sergeant. What Hathaway read on his screen now was pure gold, though, and it made his pulse race. Dennis Donovan was back in the UK. And was involved with Carlos Rodriguez. Rodriguez was a name that Hathaway was familiar with, a major Colombian player who was high up on the DEA's most wanted list.

If they could tie Donovan and Rodriguez together, Donovan could be sent down for a long, long time.

Donovan had to wait almost two hours in the Passport Office before his number flashed up on the overhead digital read-out. He went to the booth indicated, where a bored Asian woman in her late forties flashed him a cold smile.

"I need a replacement passport for my son," said Donovan. He slipped a completed application form through the metal slot under the armoured glass window.

The woman picked up the application form and flicked through it.

"You say replacement? What happened to the original?"

"He lost it," said Donovan.

"Did you report the loss?"

"I thought that's what I was doing now."

The woman gave him another cold smile, then went back to reading the form.

"Was it stolen?"

"I really don't know."

"Because if it was stolen, you have to report the loss to the police."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't stolen," said Donovan.

The woman looked at the two photographs that Donovan had clipped to the application form.

"We have to be sure," said the woman.

"I'm sure it's missing," said Donovan, struggling to stay calm.

He was beginning to understand why they needed the armoured glass.

"If it's missing, you'll have to supply your son's birth certificate.

And have the photographs signed by his doctor. Or your minister."

"I just want a replacement," said Donovan.

"You have his details on file already, don't you?"

The woman pushed the form back through the metal slot.

"Those are the rules," she said.

"If you're not able to supply the passport, we'll need a birth certificate and signed photographs."

Donovan glared at the woman. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw the CCTV camera staring down at him. The silent witness. He smiled at the woman and picked up the form.

"You have a nice day," he said, and walked away. Over his head, the digital read-out clicked over to a new number.

Gregg Hathaway walked slowly along Victoria Embankment. His right knee was hurting, had been since he woke up. On the far side of the Thames, the Millennium Eye slowly turned, every capsule on the giant Ferris wheel packed with tourists. Hathaway stood and watched the wheel for a while and wondered what it must be like to see London as a tourist. The buildings, the history, the exhibitions. The Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, Madame Tussaud's.

Hathaway's London was different. Darker. More threatening. Hathaway's London was a city of criminals, of terrorists and drug dealers, of subversives, of men and women who scorned society's laws and instead played by their own rules. Den Donovan was such a man, and the only way he was ever going to be brought down was if Hathaway played Donovan at his own game. Hathaway knew that he was taking a huge risk. Even MI6 had its own rules and regulations, and what Hathaway was doing went well beyond his remit. In Hathaway's mind the end most definitely justified the means, but he doubted that his masters would see it that way.

He turned away from the wheel and sat down on a wooden bench. The river flowed by, grey and forbidding. A sightseeing boat chugged eastwards. More tourists. Cameras clicking, children eating ice cream, pensioners in floppy hats and shorts.

"Nice day for it," said a voice behind Hathaway.

Hathaway didn't turn around. He'd been expecting the man. A detective inspector working out of Bow Street Police Station whom Hathaway used from time to time. It was a symbiotic relationship that served both men well. Hathaway had an undetectable conduit into the Met; the inspector received information that made him look good. Plus occasional cash payments from the MI6 informers' fund.

The detective sat down next to Hathaway and crossed his legs at the ankles. He wore a charcoal-grey suit and scuffed Hush Puppies. His tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was in his late thirties but looked older, with frown lines etched in his forehead and deep crow's feet around his eyes.

"So how's life?" he asked Hathaway jovially.

"Same old," said Hathaway.

The detective took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Hathaway. Hathaway shook his head. The detective knew that Hathaway had given up smoking, but every time they met, he'd offer him a cigarette none the less.

The detective lit one with a disposable lighter and blew smoke towards the river, waiting for Hathaway to speak.

"Den Donovan is back," he said.

The detective raised one eyebrow.

"Bloody hell."

"He's in London. I've checked with Immigration and there's no record of him coming in, but he's got more identities than Rory Bremner."

"Your source?"

Hathaway tutted in disgust.

"Worth a try," grinned the detective.

"Where is he?"

"Not sure, lying low at the moment. He's going to have to pop his head above the parapet fairly soon, though. Money problems."

"Den Donovan? He's worth millions."

"Take it from me, he's got cash flow problems. He's selling his art collection. He's already cleared his paintings out of his Kensington house."

"I know it," said the detective.

"Is Six going to be looking at him?"

"Not yet."

"Customs?"

"You've got this to yourself, but I wouldn't expect the Cussies or Six to stand by once they know he's back."