Stephen Leather - Tango One

He took more rubbish bags upstairs and methodically went through the rooms, putting everything that belonged to his wife into the bags.

Clothes. Cosmetics. Videos. CDs. Tapes. Holiday souvenirs.

Everything and anything that was personal to her. He filled six bags and threw them out of the bedroom window so that they landed in the back garden with a satisfying thud.

Donovan showered and changed into clean chinos and a polo shirt, and he was combing his hair when the doorbell rang. It was Jamie Fullerton, grinning widely and carrying two red Manchester United holdalls.

"How's it going, Den?" he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Fine, Jamie. Come on in."

Donovan took him through to the kitchen. Fullerton heaved the bulging holdalls on to the kitchen table.

"Beer?" asked Donovan.

"Sure."

Donovan took two bottles out of the fridge and uncapped them. He gave one to Fullerton and they clinked bottles.

"To crime," said Fullerton.

Donovan froze, his bottle halfway towards his mouth.

"Say what?"

Fullerton took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It was a crime, the way I ramped those paintings. Way over the odds, they paid." He nodded at the holdalls.

"There's your cash. A cool three hundred and fifty, on top of the money I gave the Colombian. Am I good or am I good?"

Donovan put his bottle on the table and unzipped one of the holdalls.

It was full of wads of fifty-pound notes. He took out a thick wad and flicked the notes with his thumb.

"It's spotless, Den. You could put that on a church plate with a clean conscience."

Donovan put the wad of notes into his jacket pocket and zipped up the holdall. Fullerton raised his bottle in salute and Donovan did the same.

"Good job, Jamie. Thanks."

"You want a line? To celebrate?"

Donovan's face hardened.

"You brought drugs into my house?"

Fullerton grimaced.

"You know I'm under surveillance, right? Tango One, I am."

"Tango One?"

"That's what the filth call their most wanted. A Alpha, B Bravo, C Charlie. T stands for target and it's T Tango. Tango One, Target One.

And I'm it. They're probably out there now. And you brought drugs into my house? How stupid is that?"

"Shit. I'm sorry. It's only for personal use, though. Couple of grams." He grinned.

"Good stuff, too."

"Yeah, I can see that from your face. You look like you're plugged into the mains."

Fullerton took a small silver phial from his pocket.

"Want some?"

"Are you not listening to me, Jamie?"

"Yeah, but if we get rid of the evidence, what can they do?

Unless you want me to flush it, but I have to say, Den, this is primo blow. I get it off a guy in Chelsea Harbour who supplies half the TV executives in London."

Donovan was about to argue, but the cocaine-induced eager-to-please look on Fullerton's face made him laugh out loud.

"Go on then, you daft bastard," he said, picking up the two holdalls.

"I suppose you deserve it."

Donovan took the holdalls through to his study. With the Buttersworth painting now gone, the safe was exposed and Donovan decided against putting the money in it. He went upstairs and pulled down the folding ladder that led up to the loft, and hid the holdalls behind the water tank.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Fullerton had prepared four lines of cocaine on the kitchen table and was rolling up a fifty-pound note.

"You said a line," said Donovan.

"One line."

"I lied," said Fullerton. He bent down and snorted one of the lines, then held his head back and gasped as the drug kicked in.

"Wow!" he said.

Fullerton held out the rolled-up banknote to Donovan but Donovan shook his head.

Fullerton snorted the three remaining lines.

"Be careful, yeah? Don't carry gear when you're anywhere near me.

They're going to be looking for any excuse to put me away."

"Understood, Den." He made a Boy Scout salute and grinned.

"Dib, dib, dib," he said.

"You were never a Scout," said Donovan.

"Was too."

Donovan grinned and shook his head.

Fullerton drained his lager.

"You want to go out and celebrate?"

"What did you have in mind?" asked Donovan.

"Bottle of shampoo. Pretty girls. On me."

Donovan thought about Fullerton's offer. He had things to do if he was going to get the house ready for Robbie, but it had been a while since he'd let his hair down. A few drinks wouldn't do him any harm.

"Okay. But no more drugs."

Fullerton threw him another salute.

"Scout's honour."

Fullerton's black Porsche was parked a few doors down from Donovan's house. Fullerton drove quickly, weaving through the evening traffic, his hand light on the gear stick and his foot heavy on the accelerator.

They'd only been driving for five minutes when Donovan pointed at a phone box.

"Pull up here, Jamie. I've got to make a call."

Fullerton groped into his pocket and held out a mobile.

"Use this."

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, it's not the sort of call I want to make from a mobile."

Fullerton pulled up at the side of the road. He gestured with the mobile.

"It's okay, Den. It's a pay as you go. Not registered or anything."

Donovan took the mobile off him and weighed it in his hand. It was a small Nokia, the same model he'd bought for Robbie for his last birthday. State of the art.

"Let me tell you about mobiles, Jamie. Everything you say into this, or near this, they can listen in to."

"They?"

"The Feds. Customs. Spooks. With or without a warrant. They're the perfect bugs because you take them with you everywhere you go, and there's so many of them that no one even notices them any more."

"Den, no one but me has ever touched that phone. No way have they put a bug in it. On my life."

Donovan shook his head. They don't have to. It's all done with systems these days. Once they know the number, they can listen in to every call you make. Every call you receive. But it's worse than that, Jamie. They can tell where you are to within a few feet. They can look into your Sim card and get all the data off it. Your address book, every call you made and every call you received. They can see it all."

Fullerton raised his eyebrows. He stared at the mobile in Donovan's hand.

"Shit."

"It gets worse," said Donovan.

"They can send a nifty programme direct to the handset that turns it into a listening device, even when it's switched off."

"Oh come on," said Fullerton.

"I'm serious, Jamie. I got it from the horse's mouth. Customs guy out in Miami who's on my payroll. Anything said in a room, they can tune into from a targeted mobile. Even if it's switched off. Okay, so long as they don't know you, you can carry on in your own sweet way, but I'm Tango One and any mobile I go near is a potential threat." He tossed the phone back to Fullerton.

"And once they've seen you with me, your phone becomes a threat, too."

Fullerton put away the mobile.

"Why do you think they're so cheap, Jamie?" asked Donovan.

"Supply and demand. Economies of scale."

"Bollocks," Donovan sneered.

"It's because the Government wants everyone to have one. Already three quarters of the population have one, and before long every man, woman and child who can talk will have a mobile. Then they've got us.

They'll know where every single person is to within a few feet; they'll know who they're talking to and what they're saying."

"Big Brother," said Fullerton quietly.

"It's nearly here," said Donovan.

"Couple of years at most. Between CCTV cameras and mobiles, there'll be no more privacy. They'll know everything about you." He gestured at the phone box.

"So that's why anything sensitive, you use a brand new Pay As You Go mobile or public land line."