Stephen Leather - Tango One

"It's based on the technology that the TV detector vans use to see what channel your TV is watching. It's just been developed so that it can read whatever information is on screen. Customs have had it for at least three years."

Donovan wasn't worried about using Fullerton's computer. Underwood had told him that the art dealer wasn't under surveillance and as always he was going to carry out all transactions via proxy servers that would leave no trail. Donovan tapped away on the keyboard. He logged on to the site of the Swiss bank into which Rojas had put the money he'd taken from Sharkey. Donovan grinned as he saw that there was just under fifty-five million dollars in the account.

"Yes!" he said.

"Good news?" asked Fullerton.

"I'm back in the black," he said.

"Glad to hear it."

To the tune of fifty-five million dollars. If you've got any of that shampoo around, now might be a good time to crack open a bottle."

Fullerton went off to the kitchen.

Donovan transferred ten million dollars to Carlos Rodriguez's account.

Legally and morally he figured he didn't owe the Colombian a penny, but after the attempted hit last night, it was clear that legality and morality currently didn't form part of Rodriguez's vocabulary. When he'd finished, he defragmented the disk and then sat down on one of the sofas.

Fullerton came back with an opened bottle of Krug champagne and two glasses. He poured champagne for the two of them and they clinked glasses.

"To crime," said Fullerton.

Donovan laughed and sipped his champagne.

"How much have you got so far, Jamie?" he asked.

"Five million, definite. Three from dealers, two from guys in the City who'll want the gear selling on."

"That's not a problem. You've got the cash in your account, yeah?"

Fullerton nodded.

"Offshore. It's well clean."

Donovan picked up a pen and started writing numbers down on a notepad.

Five million pounds from Fullerton. O'Brien in Dublin was in for five hundred kilos at twelve grand a kilo. He'd already sent six million pounds through to Donovan's account. Five million pounds had already come from Macfadyen and Jordan, and PM had sent through the one million seven hundred thousand pounds for his two hundred kilos. That made a total of just under eighteen million pounds. Almost twenty-six million dollars. More than enough.

"We're home and dry, Jamie," he said.

"We're over budget. Even without what I've got in my account. It's a done deal."

They clinked glasses again.

"How much have we got?"

"Twenty-six million US. Bit less maybe. Depends on the exchange rate."

"And for that we get how much?"

Donovan tapped his nose.

"That's for me to know."

"Oh come on, Den. If you can't trust me by now…"

"It's a lot, Jamie."

Fullerton dropped down on to a sofa and put his feet up on a coffee table.

"Bastard!" he said, only half joking.

Donovan took a long drink of champagne, then put his glass down by the keyboard.

"Okay, don't fucking sulk," he said.

"My guys are bringing in eight thousand kilos. For the money we've taken in, we've got to hand over about two thousand. That means profit for me is…"

"Six thousand kilos of high-grade Afghan heroin. Street value six hundred million pounds!"

"Nah, it's not as simple as that, Jamie. I'm not gonna be standing on street corners selling wraps. That's the only way you get a hundred grand a kilo. I'll have to sell it wholesale, and even if I could get top whack I wouldn't get more than twenty grand a kilo."

That's still a hundred and twenty million pounds, Den. Fuck me."

Donovan smiled at Fullerton's enthusiasm.

"If I were bringing in a few hundred kilos I could get twenty, but this consignment is just too big. I can hardly keep it in my loft and sell it bit by bit. I'm gonna have to sell it off to someone with a distribution network, and in the UK that means the Turks. The Turks buy their raw material at about the price I'm paying. Their expenses are that much higher than mine because they bring it overland, but that still works out at about eight thousand pounds a kilo by the time they get it into the UK. They're not going to pay me more than that.

Probably a fair bit less. If I'm lucky I'll get six grand a kilo."

"Six grand a kilo, six thousand kilos, that's still thirty-six million quid." Fullerton raised his glass to Donovan.

"I salute you, Den."

Donovan picked up his own glass and toasted Fullerton.

"Back at you, Jamie. And a chunk of that money is for you. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Nah," said Fullerton.

"You could have funded it yourself "Wasn't sure I'd be getting that money back, Jamie. That's an added bonus."

"Fifty-five million dollars is one hell of a bonus, Den."

The two men sipped their champagne.

"These guys who are bringing the gear in. You've used them before?"

Donovan shook his head.

"No, this is the first run. They're good guys, though. Russians."

Fullerton got up and refilled Donovan's glass.

"They were flying for the Army in Afghanistan," Donovan continued.

"Huge transporter planes, almost as big as jumbos. Ilyushins, they're called. The Russians used them to fly troops and cargo, up to forty thousand kilograms. Jamie, these things can carry battle tanks."

"So you're using the Russian Army to fly drugs halfway around the world?"

"Nah, they left the Army a few years back. They were working in Afghanistan when the Soviet empire fell apart. The Russians stopped paying their soldiers, and after six months with no salary they just took the planes. Flew two of them out of Afghanistan to Luxembourg.

Reregistered them and set up their own air freight company, subcontracting out to charities and relief agencies. If a charity wants to fly food or medicine into Africa or wherever, they call these guys. They're working out in Turkey at the moment, flying stuff out to the earthquake survivors."

"And Turkey is where they turn Afghanistan opium into heroin."

"Got it in one, Jamie. And it's mainly Russian chemists doing it. My mates have got contacts. We do in one hop what it takes the Turks weeks to do. They bring their gear overland, through God knows how many countries, and at every border there are palms to be greased."

Donovan put his glass down again.

"Right, let's get that money transferred into my pal's account, then we're off and running."

After he left Fuller-ton's flat, Donovan used an international calling card to phone Carlos Rodriguez in Colombia.

"I heard you were no longer with us, my friend."

"Not for the want of Jesus trying," said Donovan.

"If it makes you feel any better, I did soil a perfectly good pair of boxer shorts."

Rodriguez chuckled.

"What is it you want, Den?"

"I want you to call Jesus off," said Donovan.

"I've just transferred ten million dollars into your account."

"And you got that money from where, my friend?"

"My accountant. I found him."

"Congratulations. Ten million, you say?"

"Check for yourself, Carlos."

"I will, my friend. And if what you say is true, I will talk to my nephew."

"Thank you, Carlos."

"I am sorry for any unpleasantness."

"I understand, Carlos. If the positions had been reversed, I'd have been the one spraying you with bullets."

Donovan hung up. His next call was to a Turkish businessman who lived in a twelve-bedroom mansion overlooking Wimbledon Common. A while later he caught a black cab to Wimbledon and spent the best part of three hours with the man.

Donovan got back to Louise's flat just after midnight. He let himself in and smiled as he saw that she was asleep on the sofa, curled up around a cushion. A half-finished game of patience was laid out on the coffee table.