Stephen Leather - Tango One

"I have to sit next to her."

"Alison's mother? You sit next to Alison's mother?"

Robbie laughed.

"No, not Alison's mother. Alison. You know what I meant."

Donovan eased off the accelerator.

"What do you want to eat tonight? I've got fish fingers. Roast chicken dinner. Roast beef dinner. Roast turkey dinner."

"You're going to cook?"

"They're TV dinners. Bird's Eye."

Robbie waved goodbye to two of his friends.

"Can we have Burger King?"

"You're a growing boy. You're supposed to have vegetables and stuff."

"I could have onion rings. And French fries."

Donovan laughed.

"Yeah, why not. Do you know where the nearest one is?"

"Sure. Hang a left."

Donovan grinned and followed Robbie's directions. Ten minutes later they were outside a Burger King. There were no parking spaces, so Donovan thrust a banknote into his son's hands and told him to hurry.

"Dad, this is a fifty-pound note!" complained Robbie.

"They'll have change. Hurry up."

Robbie nipped inside and appeared a few minutes later with two large bags. Donovan held out his hand for the change before driving off.

Half an hour later they were eating their burgers in the kitchen, washing them down with Cokes.

"This was a good idea," said Donovan.

"Saves on the washing up, too."

Robbie wiped his ketchup-smeared lips with a serviette.

"I'm glad you're home, Dad," he said.

Donovan reached over and ruffled his hair.

"You know you can always rely on me, right?"

Robbie nodded.

"You okay for pocket money?"

"I could always use more," said Robbie. Donovan took out his wallet and gave Robbie a fifty-pound note.

"Dad, you can't give me fifty quid."

"How much did your mum give you?"

"A tenner. But usually five twice a week. Monday and Friday."

"Okay, well, how about we give you a raise? You're nearly ten, so I figure we can boost it to twenty a week. Okay?"

Robbie grinned.

"Okay."

Donovan took back the fifty-pound note and gave his son a twenty.

Robbie put the note in his pocket.

"What do you want to do tonight?" asked Donovan.

"Do you want to go and see a movie?"

"It's a school night," said Robbie.

"And I've got homework."

"Homework? They give nine-year-olds homework?"

"I've been given homework since I started at that school, Dad."

"Yeah, exams are important. I wish I'd stayed on at school longer."

"No you don't. Not really."

Donovan frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got no qualifications, have you?"

"Just the university of life and the school of hard knocks."

"See, that's what you always say." Robbie picked up the burger wrappers and paper cups and dropped them into the rubbish bin.

"You're rich, though."

"Who says so?"

Robbie waved his arms around the kitchen.

"Dad, look at this place. Look at the Rolex on your wrist. Look at how much it costs to send me that school. You're rich and you know we are."

"Not as rich as Bill Gates."

"I didn't say mega rich. I didn't even say rich rich. I said rich."

Donovan smiled at his son's intensity.

"So what's your point?"

"There is no point, but you don't have to say that you wish you'd stayed in school when you know that's not true. You want me to stay in school because you want me to do something boring like be a doctor or an executive."

"I do, do I?"

"Yeah. That's what Mom wanted, anyway. She was always going on at me to read science books and stuff. Kept saying she didn't want me turning out like you."

"Maybe you don't want to turn out like me. Maybe you'd rather be a doctor hanging around with sick people and working yourself to an early grave."

"No fear," said Robbie scornfully.

Donovan stood up. He rushed forward and grabbed his son around the waist, laughing. He swung Robbie over his shoulder and started to spin around.

"Are you sure?" he shouted.

"Yes! I'm sure. Stop it. I'll be sick!"

Donovan continued to spin.

"Dad! Stop!"

"Do you give in?"

"Yes!"

Donovan put Robbie down carefully. His own head was spinning and he put his hand on a chair to steady himself.

Robbie was giggling and shaking his head.

"You're mad."

Donovan took a step towards him, his hands reaching for his head.

"You want some more?"

"No!" laughed Robbie. He turned and ran out into the hall and up the stairs. He stopped halfway to check that Donovan wasn't chasing him.

"Come down when you've finished your homework," Donovan shouted after him.

"I'll make cocoa."

There were two of them, dressed in dark clothing and wearing black leather gloves. One picked the lock while the other kept watch, though at two o'clock in the morning they were the only two people in the office block. They'd come in through a skylight. It had been alarmed, but the man who was picking the lock had worked for more than twenty years for one of London's top security companies, and there wasn't an alarm system built that he couldn't bypass. Now he worked freelance for ten times what he used to earn as a technician. Men like Juan Rojas were happy to pay a premium for his skills, and for his silence.

He made short work of the lock, pushed open the door and headed for the beeping alarm box. He already knew the make of the alarm, and had memorised the manufacturer's four-digit access code. The alarm stopped beeping. He nodded at his partner and pointed at a door with "David Hoyle' on it in gold capital letters at eye level. His partner went into Hoyle's office and started going through a mahogany veneer filing cabinet.

The man who'd disabled the alarm went through the filing cabinets in the general office. He was looking for any file with the name "Stewart Sharkey' or "Victoria Donovan'. Once he was satisfied that there were no such files in the cabinets, he accessed the office computer system, checking word processing files and e-mail address books. From Hoyle's office he heard the muffled tapping of gloved fingers on a keyboard as his partner accessed the solicitor's private terminal. After twenty minutes he was satisfied that there was no mention of the two names in the system.

The man went through all the desks in the office, checking address books, but found nothing. His partner came out of Hoyle's office, shaking his head. The two men left the same way they'd come.

The alarm buzzed and Donovan rolled over, trying to blot out the noise.

It carried on buzzing. Donovan groped for the button on top of the alarm and hit it with the flat of his hand. He squinted at the digital read-out. Seven-thirty. Donovan groaned. He wasn't an early riser at the best of times.

He padded across the bedroom, put on his robe and opened the bedroom door.

"Robbie, are you up?" There was no answer so he walked along the landing and banged on Robbie's door. There was still no reply.

Robbie was curled around his pillow, snoring softly. Donovan shook him.

"Come on, it's time to get up."

"Five more minutes," said Robbie sleepily.

"You don't have five minutes," said Donovan. He pulled back the quilt.

"Come on, rise and shine."

Donovan opened the curtains wide and went downstairs. He switched the kettle on and made toast, but when he opened the fridge he realised that he'd forgotten to buy butter. Or marmalade. He filled bowls with Sugar Puffs and poured milk over them, then made a pot of tea. Then he poured two glasses of orange juice. Upstairs he heard the shower in Robbie's bathroom burst into life.

The doorbell rang and Donovan went to answer it. It was Alex Knight carrying a leather briefcase and a moulded black plastic suitcase. He seemed to be wearing the same dark blue blazer and black slacks that he'd had on the previous day. He smiled cheerfully at Donovan.