Stephen Leather - Tango One

"You are fucking dead meat, mate," he spat.

"Yeah, right," said Donovan.

"Of course I am. You're going to pop me and then walk out of here.

Earth to Planet Jordan, you wouldn't get fifty feet."

Jordan frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm Tango fucking One, that's why," said Donovan.

"Every man and his dog are watching me."

"No one stopped us coming in, did they?" said Jordan.

"Well, you haven't shot me yet, have you?" said Donovan.

"Pull the trigger and see what happens."

Jordan looked at Macfadyen, who shrugged.

Donovan smiled, trying to put them at ease.

"While you're deciding what to do, how about we have a beer?" he said.

"They're in the fridge, Charlie."

"Beer?"

"If you want something stronger, all the booze is in the cabinet in the sitting room."

"We didn't come here for fucking beer, Den," said Macfadyen.

"Well, like I said, the sky's gonna fall in if you fire that thing in here, so why don't we have a beer and then you can shoot me somewhere else."

"Are you taking the piss, Den?" asked Macfadyen.

"I'm just trying to be civilised," said Donovan.

"Go on, Charlie, get the beers. Ricky and I'll carry on the conversation in the sitting room." Donovan grinned at Jordan.

"If it makes you feel any happier, Ricky, you can keep on pointing it at me."

Jordan looked across at Macfadyen, who nodded.

"Yeah, why not?"

Macfadyen went down the hall to the kitchen. Jordan slowly took the gun away from Donovan's neck.

"No tricks, yeah?" he said.

Donovan walked into the sitting room. He put his finger against his lips and then made a cut-throat gesture with his right hand. Jordan frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Donovan hissed and put his fingers against his lips again. He went over to the sideboard and picked up the acoustic noise generator that Alex had left. He put it on the coffee table, plugged it in and switched it on. The room was filled with static.

"What the fuck's that?" said Macfadyen, walking in with three cans of lager. He tossed one to Donovan and put one down on the coffee table for Jordan.

Donovan sat down on the sofa and motioned for Jordan to sit down next to him.

"It masks the sound of our voices. In case they're using laser microphones."

Macfadyen looked around nervously.

"I swept the place this morning," said Donovan, 'and I've got the phones monitored." He nodded at the box of electronics.

"This is just to be on the safe side, but keep your voices down, yeah?

Now what the fuck is going on?"

Macfadyen took a copy of the early edition of the Evening Standard from his jacket pocket and tossed it on to the coffee table. Donovan read the headline and cursed.

"SAS SWOOP ON 100 MILLION COCAINE HAUL." The story was by lined by the paper's chief reporter, who had clearly been well briefed on the operation. The SAS had swooped on a freighter carrying VW Beetles from Mexico. Cocaine had been packed into the cars. Cocaine with a street value of a hundred million pounds. That was an over-estimate, Donovan knew.

"That's bollocks, a hundred million," he said, and Macfadyen nodded.

At street level the consignment would probably be worth sixty million pounds. Maybe seventy, depending on how prices held up. The authorities, be they cops, Customs or the Security Service, always over-estimated because it made them look good, and the bigger the haul, the more column inches they'd get. But whatever the value, the drugs had been intercepted and Jordan and Macfadyen were looking for someone to blame. Donovan's mind raced. If they really did believe that he had given up the deal, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him. If their roles were reversed, Donovan would do the same.

"I don't see any mention of Customs," said Donovan.

"The reporter only mentions the SAS."

"That's not the point, Den," said Macfadyen.

"The point is, someone must have grassed."

"And you think I'm a sore loser, is that it? A dog in the manger?"

"Dog in the manger, wind in the willows, chicken in the fucking basket, call it what you want, but you're the obvious candidate."

"Right," agreed Jordan, nodding furiously.

"And what exactly would I have to gain by gras sing you up?" asked Donovan.

"Brownie points with HM Customs?" said Macfadyen.

"Yeah, well, like I said, I'm not sure that it was a Customs bust. When they do catch anyone, they're normally rushing to take the credit. But do you seriously think I'd risk pissing off a man like Rodriguez to get Brownie points with anyone?"

"You've got to admit, the timing does look bloody suspicious, Den," said Macfadyen.

"It wasn't me, lads. Hand on heart."

"Then who?" asked Jordan.

"If not you, who?"

"Who knows?" said Donovan.

"Maybe someone on your team. Maybe you've been under surveillance yourself. You can't wear Armani suits and drive around in flash cars and not get noticed."

"It wasn't us," said Jordan, defensively. He still had the gun pointing at Donovan's stomach and his finger was on the trigger.

"Fine. So it wasn't you. And it wasn't me. Which means it was either someone working for Rodriguez or someone on the outside. Someone on the ship got suspicious about the cargo. Maybe enough palms weren't greased in Mexico. Or it might even have been bad luck. We all know there's a million and one things can go wrong with every deal.

Something else why didn't they follow through? Why didn't they let it run?"

"Maybe they didn't want to lose the gear," said Macfadyen.

"Bollocks. They'd have saturation surveillance: they'd tag the gear, the works. You've got to ask why they didn't do that."

"Why do you think they didn't?" asked Jordan.

"Could be they already know," said Macfadyen.

"Could be you already told them."

"So why are you here giving me grief and not sitting in a cell drinking tea out of a paper cup? Don't you think if I were trying to stitch you up I'd have done it properly?"

"Maybe they screwed up," said Jordan.

"Act your age, Ricky. The SAS boarded the ship in the middle of the night. Does that sound like a lack of planning?"

"That still doesn't answer the question why didn't they let the consignment run?" said Macfadyen.

"I don't know, Charlie. Answer that and maybe we'll find out who grassed the deal."

"Shit," said Macfadyen.

"You can say that again," said Donovan.

"We're down millions on this deal," said Jordan.

"We're down millions with nothing to show for it."

"That's the rules of the game and you both know it," said Donovan.

"You budget for losing one in four consignments. You build it into your costs. You did that, right?"

"Sort of," said Macfadyen.

"Sort of?"

"Not all the money was ours. We got three mill off a Yardie gang in Harlesden."

Donovan raised his eyebrows.

"Smart move," he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

"I thought you didn't do business with the Yardies."

"This guy's cool."

"Yeah, well, if he's cool, why are you worried?"

"Because it was the first deal he'd done with us. He's going to think we ripped him off."

"So explain it to him. Anyway, that's your problem, not mine."

"We've lost a lot of money, Den. A shed load "Nothing compared to what I'm down," said Donovan.

"What do you mean?" asked Macfadyen.

Donovan closed his eyes.

"Forget it," he said.

"It doesn't matter."

Jordan jabbed the gun into Donovan's ribs.

"It matters," he said.

Donovan opened his eyes.

"My accountant ripped me off for sixty million dollars. A big chunk of that was on its way to Rodriguez."

Macfadyen pounced.

"Including our money, yeah?"

Donovan nodded.

"So that's why Rodriguez wanted to deal with us direct?"