Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Can you do spaghetti?" Robbie asked.

"Sure," said Donovan.

"You boil it and throw it against the wall. If it sticks, it's cooked."

Robbie laughed and put two packs of spaghetti into the trolley, along with several jars of bolognaise sauce, then they walked together to the checkout.

"What are you going to do, Dad?"

"About what?" asked Donovan.

"About work. You can't just sit around the house all day."

"Your mother seemed to manage quite nicely."

Donovan paid for the groceries and he and Robbie took the carrier bags out to the Range Rover.

"What do you do, Dad? Your job?"

"You know what I do. I'm a businessman."

"But what do you actually do?"

Donovan got into the front seat and opened the door for Robbie. Robbie got in and fastened his seatbelt.

"What's brought this on?"

"Nothing. It was my friends, that's all. We were talking about what our dads did, and I said you were back and they were asking what you did. I said you were a businessman, but they were asking what sort of business and I said you were out in the Caribbean and they were asking what you did out there. That's all. I think they thought it was strange that I didn't know. Like it was a secret."

"It's no secret, Robbie," said Donovan, starting the engine.

"It's boring, that's all. Import-export. I buy and sell things. Move them from country to country."

"But what sort of things?"

"Anything. Whatever people want to buy and sell. You buy at one price and if you can sell at a higher price, you make a profit. Sell a lot of it and you make a lot of profit. Simple. You don't need a PhD to understand that."

"Yeah, but I still don't know what it is you sell."

"Commodities. Could be anything. Cement, say. I might buy cheap cement and sell it to a construction company in America. Or I might buy fertiliser in Argentina and sell it in China."

"And that's why you had to be in Anguilla a lot?"

Donovan frowned.

"Your friends were asking why I was in Anguilla?"

"No, that was me. You never really said why you were away such a lot."

"It was business, Robbie. Swear to God."

Robbie nodded.

"I know," he said, as Donovan started the car and drove home.

The Increment moved in just before midnight. Major Gannon and his staff sergeant sat in one of three high-speed inflatables, bobbing in the Atlantic just a few miles from where the ocean merged into the English Channel. The major was in radio contact with a sub skimmer some ten miles away to the west.

The sub skimmer built by Defence Boats, had been designed for covert operations. It could be used as a high-speed surface craft capable of carrying ten troopers and all their equipment at speeds of up to thirty knots, or it could operate as a submersible with twin electric motors, going down to a depth of up to fifty metres.

"Affirmative," said Gannon into his radio. He turned to the two men sitting behind him. They were both MI6 operatives and had identified themselves only by first names. James and Simon. Gannon doubted that these were their real names. Unlike the eight troopers who were also in the inflatable, the MI6 men weren't armed, but they wore SAS black fire-retardant suits, body armour, composite helmets and communications units inside their respirators.

"They're going into snorkel mode," Gannon told them.

"They should be boarding within thirty minutes."

The sub skimmer was able to travel half-submerged, with only the divers' heads, the exhaust pipes and air inlet above the surface, making it almost impossible to be spotted, either by eye or by radar.

On board the sub skimmer were two four-man bricks of SBS troopers in full diving gear. They would clandestinely board the freighter prior to Major Gannon and his men making a more straightforward frontal approach.

As well as the eight SAS troopers in the inflatable with the major, a further eight SAS troopers from Boat Troop and eight SBS troopers were positioned in two more inflatables some fifty metres away to his right.

Gannon wasn't expecting trouble, but he knew it was better to be over-prepared. Even though the freighter was owned by a respectable shipping company and operating on a scheduled route, there was always a chance that an over-enthusiastic crewman might grab a weapon of some sort.

Twenty minutes later and Gannon got word over his radio that the SBS advance party was on board and concealed. Gannon radioed that the inflatables were to move in. The engines roared and the three boats surged forward through the waves.

The DHL courier walked into the hotel lobby and up to the reception desk.

"I have a delivery for Monsieur Stewart Sharkey," he said in fluent French. The receptionist, a man in his forties with a spreading handlebar moustache, grunted and nodded at a man sitting at the far end of the reception area, sitting on a long low sofa and reading a copy of Le Monde.

The courier walked across the marble floor, under three huge crystal chandeliers.

"Monsieur Sharkey?"

The man lowered his paper.

"Oui?"

"I have a package for you from London. Can you sign here please?" said the courier in accented English.

The man stood up and took the computerised clipboard. He scrawled a signature on the LCD screen and handed the clipboard back to the courier. The courier held out the package, an A4 manila envelope, then he frowned. He checked the serial number on the label stuck to the envelope against the readout on the clipboard and cursed.

"I am sorry, Mr. Sharkey. I have the wrong envelope. I will have to get it from the van."

"No problem," said the man.

"Would you come with me? It would save time."

"I'm not sure…" the man began, but the DHL courier had already walked away, so he followed him.

The DHL van was parked about fifty feet from the entrance to the hotel.

The courier opened the rear door of the van and poked his head inside, mumbling something in French.

The man walked up behind him.

"Have you got it?" he asked.

The courier whirled around and pressed the twin prongs of a small black stun gun against the man's throat. He pressed a switch on the gun and the man jerked once and slumped forward, his mouth working soundlessly.

The courier caught him and pushed him into the back of the van. Two pairs of hands grabbed the man's jacket and hauled him inside. The door slammed shut as the courier walked around to the driver's door.

The sound of the doorbell jarred Donovan out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. It was just before midday.

He'd been asleep for almost three hours. He hadn't undressed when he'd got home from the morning school run, he'd just stretched out on the bed intending to nap for half an hour or so. Downstairs, the doorbell rang again, then someone knocked on the door, hard. Donovan sat up. He went downstairs.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he muttered as the doorbell rang again. He opened the door, blinking his eyes. It was Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen and they both looked as mad as hell. Jordan was reaching inside his black Armani jacket.

Donovan knew something was wrong and he tried to close the door. He was too slow Macfadyen put his shoulder against the door and barged through, Jordan following close behind.

"You bastard!" shouted Macfadyen, slamming Donovan against the wall.

Jordan kicked the door closed and pulled a gun from inside his jacket.

He thrust the barrel under Donovan's chin.

"You got cut out of the deal, so you fucked it up for us," he shouted.

Donovan glared at the gun.

"You brought a fucking gun into my house? How stupid are you, Ricky?"

Jordan snarled at Donovan and pushed the gun harder against Donovan's chin, forcing his head back against the wall.