Stephen Leather - Tango One

"You're a callous bastard, Hathaway."

"Well, gosh, Donovan. Sticks and stones. Are we going to do this or are you going to prison for twenty years?"

Donovan stared at Hathaway for several seconds, then he nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Let's see what you have."

Gregov took his hands off the controls as the autopilot kicked in. He opened his flight case.

"What do you feel like?" he asked Peter.

Peter shrugged.

"Aerosmith?"

Gregov nodded appreciatively.

"Good choice." He took out a cassette and slotted it into the player and turned the volume all the way up. The cockpit was soon filled with pounding rock music. The two Russians jerked their heads in time with the beat.

Behind them, in the massive cargo bay, eight thousand kilos of heroin were loaded on to five wooden pallets. The heroin had begun life as opium harvested in the poppy fields of the eastern Afghanistan province of Nangarhar. The opium had been carried by camel over the border into Turkey where it had been processed into morphine and then into heroin by Russian chemists. Gregov had paid a thousand dollars a kilo for the heroin, a total of eight million dollars for the load, which meant that the one flight alone was going to generate a profit of sixteen million dollars.

"What are you going to do with your share?" shouted Gregov.

Peter shrugged.

"I don't know. What are you going to do?"

Gregov laughed sharply.

"I don't know. I'll think of something. One thing's for sure, I'm going to get laid a lot!"

Peter picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and took a swig.

"You get laid a lot anyway," he said, tossing the bottle over to Gregov.

Gregov drank from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, but at least I won't have to screw the ugly ones any more."

The laptop screen flickered into life. Hathaway nodded at the bench.

"Take a pew, Donovan." Hathaway had set the computer up on one of the trestle tables on the terrace outside the Paddington Stop.

"I tell you what, get us a couple of beers, yeah? We should celebrate."

"I've nothing to celebrate yet," said Donovan. He went into the pub, bought two pints of lager and carried them back outside. Hathaway had placed his mobile phone next to the laptop and was connecting to the internet through the computer's infrared link. Donovan put the glasses on the table and sat down next to Hathaway.

"You haven't got a cigarette, have you?" asked Hathaway.

"I don't smoke," said Donovan.

"I gave up, but I could do with a smoke right now." He turned the laptop towards Donovan, then handed him a piece of paper on which was written the details of a numbered Swiss account.

"Five million," said Hathaway.

Donovan put his hands on the keyboard, then he paused. What if he was being conned? What if Hathaway was setting him up for something? He closed his eyes, his mind spinning. He was being rushed, pushed and shoved into doing something he wasn't comfortable with, but what choice did he have? If Hathaway did have undercover agents in play, then he was facing life behind bars.

"Five million," repeated Hathaway.

"We don't have all day."

Donovan made the transfer. Hathaway watched the screen intently. When he was satisfied that the money had been transferred, he opened a Velcroed document pocket on the side of the laptop case and took out an envelope. He handed it to Donovan.

"Cheap at half the price," he said.

Donovan opened the envelope. Inside was an application form to join the Metropolitan Police. It had been filled out in neat capital letters. Clifford Warren. Twenty-nine years old. An address in Harlesden. Donovan frowned. Clifford Warren? He didn't know anyone called Clifford Warren. There was something else in the envelope. A photograph and another sheet of paper, folded in half. Donovan slid them out. The photograph was a six-by-four head and shoulders shot of an unsmiling black man. Short hair. A square chin. A slightly flattened nose. Bunny. Donovan cursed.

He unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a print-out of an e-mail message. An e-mail to Hathaway detailing the flight from Turkey and when and where the plane was due to arrive in the UK.

"Like I said," murmured Hathaway, as if he were speaking in church, 'unequivocal proof He patted the computer case.

"For the next one, I'm going to need another fifteen million."

Donovan hesitated, but his fingers stayed on the keyboard.

"Getting rid of one is no good," whispered Hathaway.

"It's all or nothing, Donovan."

Donovan bit down on his lower lip, knowing that Hathaway was right and hating himself for it. He input the instructions to transfer the fifteen million dollars as Hathaway watched. Hathaway rubbed his chin.

He was breathing heavily and Donovan could feel the man's warm breath on his cheek with each exhalation.

When Donovan had finished, Hathaway handed him a second envelope. It contained another Metropolitan Police application form and a photograph. James Robert Fullerton.

"No fucking way," said Donovan under his breath.

"I'm afraid so," said Hathaway.

"I've seen him take drugs. He handles stolen gear."

"Deep cover," said Hathaway.

"Deep, deep cover."

There was another sheet of paper inside the envelope. Donovan opened it out. It was a print-out of an e-mail that Fullerton had sent to Hathaway, packed with details about the shipment of VW Beetles from Mexico.

"Funnily enough, I didn't hear a peep from him about the Turkish flight," said Hathaway.

"He's either playing his cards very close to his chest or he's going over to your side."

"Bastard," said Donovan. Donovan stared at the head and shoulders photograph of Jamie Fullerton.

"I trusted him," he said quietly.

"Of course you did," said Hathaway.

"Wouldn't be much point in him being undercover and you not trusting him, would there?"

Donovan tore up the photograph and threw the pieces on the floor.

"And last but not least… twenty-five million dollars," said Hathaway.

"Twenty-five million dollars and you get the third and final name."

"How do I know you're not bluffing? How I do know there aren't just two?"

"You have my word," said Hathaway.

"Have I told you anything yet that isn't true?"

Donovan glared at the man.

"You bastard," he hissed.

Hathaway grinned.

"Maybe, but I'm the bastard who's got the key to you staying out of prison. I've already got twenty million, Donovan. I could walk away now a happy man. Do you want me to do that?" Hathaway started to get up.

"No," said Donovan, quickly. He knew that Hathaway was right. He needed all three names. Two out of three wouldn't keep him out of prison.

Donovan made the transfer and Hathaway slid a third envelope across the table.

"And with that, I'll say goodbye," said Hathaway. He held out his hand.

"Thanks for everything," he said.

Donovan ignored Hathaway's outstretched hand.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to retire. Do all those things I've always wanted to do. I already have several identities fixed up and ready to go. That's the beauty of working for the good guys. I've got real passports. Real paperwork. All I have to do is to slot myself into a new life. A life where I have forty-five million dollars." He nodded at the envelope.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

Donovan shook his head. He didn't want Hathaway to see his reaction to the contents of the envelope. He had a horrible feeling that Hathaway had saved the best until last.

Hathaway stood up.

"In that case, I'll bid you adieu," he said. He closed up the laptop and put it back in its case.

"I hope you get cancer," said Donovan quietly.