Stephen Leather - Tango One

Donovan nodded.

"Okay. You're the expert."

Knight scribbled on his pad.

"So far as sweeping goes, I've got a state-of-the-art scanner that'll do the job. Brand new RF detector from Taiwan. Pick up anything. Just run it around all suspect surfaces. You can use it on the car, too.

I'll show you how to use it, a child can operate it."

"Okay. And I'm going to need a personal unit."

"Just what I was going to suggest. I've got a new model in from the States. Bit bigger than a pack of fags, you wear it on your belt like a bleeper. Vibrates when it picks up micro radio frequencies. You know they're wired, but they don't know that you know. Cool thing about this model is that it also picks up most makes of tape recorder.

You wear a flat antenna under your watch band with the cable running up your sleeve. It's not one hundred per cent reliable, but close. It'll certainly pick up the shit that the Brits use. They're usually about five years behind the Yanks."

Donovan grinned. Knight knew his stuff, which is why he'd been using him for the past four years, ever since Knight had picked up his second PhD and decided to leave academia for the commercial world. He wasn't cheap, but Knight's equipment had saved Donovan's skin on several occasions.

Knight tapped the notepad.

"Going back to the house. How about I fix up an acoustic noise generator for you? You're going to be able to sweep for RF bugs and I can give you a metal detector to pick up wired microphones in the walls, but it's easy to miss transmitters in AC outlets. Plus everyone's using laser or microwave reflectors these days, picking up vibrations from windows. Bloody hard to detect. But switch on the noise generator and they'll just pick up static."

"Excellent," said Donovan.

"Cash on delivery?"

"As always." Donovan stood up and held out his hand. Knight swung his legs off the table and shook hands.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Alex."

"Pleasure's all mine, Den. How's the wife?"

"Don't ask," said Donovan.

"Just don't ask."

Stewart Sharkey scrolled through the spreadsheet, a slight smile on his face. Sixty million dollars. He had sixty million dollars. He wondered how much space sixty million dollars would take up. A million was maybe two suitcases full. Sixty million would be one hundred and twenty suitcases. Sharkey tried to picture a hundred and twenty suitcases. He grinned. It was one hell of a lot of money. Invested in bog-standard shares and high-interest offshore accounts, it would earn four or five million dollars a year. More than enough to live on.

To live well on. Sharkey had other plans for the money, however. Big plans. And if his plans worked out, he'd turn that sixty million into hundreds of millions. He'd do it legitimately, too. Property development. Central Europe, probably. Get in on the ground floor before they joined the EU bandwagon. There were fortunes to be made in the countries of the former Soviet Union, and Sharkey was the man to do it, now that he had the resources.

The mobile phone on the table next to the computer bleeped and Sharkey grabbed for the receiver.

"Stewart? It's David."

David Hoyle. A lawyer based in Shepherd's Bush in West London. Sharkey had known him for years, but this was the first time he'd used him professionally.

"Hiya, David. I trust you're using a call box?"

"I am, Stewart, but is this really necessary?"

"You don't know Vicky's husband, David." That was one of the reasons that Sharkey was using him. Hoyle had never done any work for Den Donovan, or anyone like him. He was a family lawyer who specialised in divorce work and had never been within a mile of a criminal court.

"Even so, Stewart, I feel a bit silly walking out of my office every time I talk to you."

"A necessary precaution, David. I'm sorry."

"Where are you?" Hoyle asked. The number that Sharkey had given him was a GSM roaming mobile. It was aUK number but Sharkey could use it anywhere in Europe.

"Not too far away," said Sharkey.

"Best you don't know the specifics."

"Oh please, Stewart. That would be covered by client confidentiality."

Sharkey smiled. He knew that Den Donovan wouldn't be worried about a little thing like client confidentiality.

"How can I help you, David?"

"We've heard back from his lawyers. The husband is applying for sole custody. And of course he will be trying to have the injunction lifted."

Sharkey grunted. They had expected that Donovan would want sole custody of Robbie. And that he'd want to take him out of the country.

So far as Sharkey was concerned, he would be quite happy for Donovan to get what he wanted, but he had to keep Vicky happy, for a while at least, and that meant going through the motions.

"I assume that Victoria still wishes to apply for custody?" asked Hoyle.

"Absolutely," said Sharkey.

"I would expect the hearing to be within the next two weeks," said Hoyle.

"You do realise that Victoria will have to appear in person?"

"That's definite, is it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then that's the way it'll have to be."

"I'll get the papers drawn up, Stewart. I'll be in touch."

Sharkey cut the connection and put the mobile phone back on the table.

There was no way he could allow Vicky to go back to London. The moment she set foot back in the UK, Donovan would get to her. And from her he'd get to Sharkey. It would all be over. Sharkey shuddered.

He stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

"Was that the phone?" asked Vicky, walking in from the terrace.

"The lawyer. He's on the case."

"He served the injunction?"

Sharkey nodded.

"And Den's fighting it, like we knew he would."

"Bastard. He showed no interest while he was away now he wants to play the father."

"It's going to be okay, Vicky. The injunction's in force, Den can't take him out of the country. He does that and he'll go straight to prison."

"What about custody?"

"The lawyer's doing the paperwork now."

"How long?"

"He didn't say. You know lawyers." He raised the glass.

"Do you want one?"

"No, thanks. I thought I'd go out for a walk. Go to the beach maybe.

Do you want to come?"

Sharkey sat down opposite his laptop.

"Not right now. Don't forget…"

"I know," she said.

"Dark glasses. Sunhat. Don't talk to anyone."

"Just in case," said Sharkey.

"You never know who you might bump into."

"How long's it going to be like this, Stewart?"

"Not much longer."

Vicky walked in to the bedroom to change, and Sharkey sipped his brandy. He was already bored with Vicky. Bored with her dark moods, her insecurities, her constant whining. In a perfect world he'd just leave her, but it wasn't a perfect world so long as Den Donovan was in it. Hopefully the Colombians would soon catch up with Donovan, and when that happened then Sharkey's world truly would be perfect. With Donovan out of the way, he could walk out on Vicky without worrying about the repercussions. He'd be free and clear and in sole possession of sixty million dollars.

"You know I love you?" he called after her.

"I know," she replied.

"I love you, too."

Sharkey smiled to himself. It was all so easy.

One of the wheels on Donovan's supermarket trolley was sticking and the damn thing wouldn't go where he wanted it to. It had been a long time since Donovan had done the weekly shopping. In Anguilla his Puerto Rican cook did the shopping every day, and in London Vicky had handled all the household chores. He'd been putting it of flong enough, but he was fed up with drinking black coffee and he had to prepare for Robbie's return. The freezer was practically empty, and what frozen food was still in there wasn't the sort of stuff that Donovan knew how to cook. He scanned the shelves looking for tea bags but all he could see was coffee. A hundred types of coffee, but no tea. He looked down at the contents of his trolley. A pack of apples, a double pack of Andrex toilet tissue and a sliced loaf. Hovis. He scratched his ear and tried to remember what was in the fridge. Or rather, what wasn't in the fridge. He needed milk. And Coca Cola. Beer. Orange juice.