Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Don't get all bitter and twisted," said Hathaway, zipping the case closed.

"I've given you your freedom. I've given you the names of the bastards who were setting you up for a fall. There's no way we're going to be best friends, but I think a little appreciation is called for."

Donovan stared impassively at Hathaway but said nothing.

Hathaway shrugged.

"I guess I'll just have to settle for the money," he said, then turned and walked away towards Warwick Avenue Tube station.

Donovan waited until Hathaway had turned the corner before opening the envelope. He slid out the by-now familiar application to join the Metropolitan Police. Christina Louise Leigh. The photograph was upside down and he slowly turned it over. The girl in the picture had long blonde hair instead of a short brunette bob, but there was no doubt who she was. Donovan stared at the photograph in disbelief.

He stood up, still staring at the photograph. Louise? He'd trusted Louise with his only child. He'd let her into his life, shared his innermost thoughts with her. He'd let her in through his de fences and all the time it had been a lie. She was a cop. A fucking cop. Which meant that everything, every single thing, that she had told him had been a lie.

Bunny, Jamie and Louise. All of them traitors. All of them police officers. All of them working to put him away. And he'd trusted all three of them. How could he have been so stupid? Hathaway had been right: Donovan had prided himself on being able to spot undercover agents, of being able to read people and to see them for what they really were. How had he been so wrong with these three?

He walked back across the bridge and along the towpath. He almost felt as if his mind had separated from his body and he was watching himself walking by the side of the canal. His head was down and in his right hand he held the envelopes that Hathaway had given him.

A narrow boat painted in garish scarlet and green, was moored opposite the Paddington Stop. On its roof was a line of flower boxes filled with pansies of a dozen different hues and several brightly polished brass coal scuttles Donovan climbed on board the rear of the boat and tapped twice on the wooden door. It was opened by a woman in her late forties holding a clipboard and a stopwatch. She smiled and moved to the side to allow Donovan in.

Alex Knight was sitting in front of a bank of CCTV monitors. He took off a large pair of headphones and grinned at Donovan.

"Did you get it?" asked Donovan.

Knight had half a dozen long-range directional microphones and as many video cameras targeting the area. He had placed two men posing as anglers on the canal side, a man and woman inside the pub, two men in a flat overlooking the canal, and two teams on tower blocks close by.

There was also a camera and a directional microphone in a British Telecom van parked on Blomfield Road and two small radio-controlled cameras mounted on streetlights close to the bridge.

"Every word," said Alex.

"Sound and vision. I'll get it edited and boost the sound where necessary. Should have it done by this evening."

"Tomorrow morning should be okay," said Donovan.

"First thing."

Knight nodded at the envelopes in Donovan's hand.

"Bad news, huh?"

"I've had better," admitted Donovan.

"I couldn't help overhearing that being what you were paying for and all but he didn't take all your money, did he?"

"Most of it," said Donovan, 'but don't worry, I've enough put by to settle your account."

"Thought didn't even cross my mind, Den," said Knight with a grin.

Raymond Mackie threw open the door and waddled into the room. A dozen expectant faces looked up from around a polished oak table. The Head of Drugs Operations had called the meeting on the third floor of Custom House in Lower Thames Street at short notice. Very short notice. Heads of department had been given just twenty minutes to assemble and had been told that there were to be no excuses.

Mackie threw a manila file on to the table and lowered himself into the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table.

"No time for niceties, gentlemen," he said.

"And lady," he added, nodding at the one female member of the team.

"The wonder boys at Vauxhall Bridge have finally decided that they want to start sharing intelligence and have dropped a very hot potato into our laps. I got the call just half an hour ago, so I've no presentation materials and no written notes to hand out. Please listen carefully."

He paused for a couple of seconds to make sure that he had their undivided attention.

"A planeload of Afghanistan heroin is currently being airlifted from Turkey, en route to the UK. Eight thousand kilos."

Mackie let the amount sink in before repeating it.

"Eight thousand kilos. London street value, in the region of eight hundred million pounds. Guinness Book of Records time. The plane is a Russian-made Ilyushin 11-y6, not much smaller than a jumbo jet." Mackie looked at his watch.

"According to the wonder boys, it will be landing at an airfield in South-east England in about four hours. We're going to need SAS back-up on this rather than armed police, but I want as many of our senior people there as possible. I want this to be seen as a Customs operation, not a special forces job. Drugs has been and always will be a Customs priority and this is our chance to show what we can do."

A hand went up at the far end of the table.

Mackie smiled.

"If I can read your mind, the answer to your question is Den Donovan.

Tango One."

"Is that it?" asked Fullerton, his head on one side. Off in the distance was a faint throbbing sound.

"Maybe," said Donovan.

"Take it easy, Jamie. Relax. It'll be here when it's here."

Bunny and PM stood some distance away, deep in conversation.

"What do you think they're talking about?" asked Fullerton.

"Probably discussing when they should pull out their guns and blow us all away so that they can keep all the gear for themselves," said Donovan.

Fullerton's eyes widened and Donovan slapped him on the back.

"Joke, Jamie. Joke. Jordan and Macfadyen have given everybody a going-over with a metal detector: there's nobody here carrying so much as a pocket knife."

It was just after seven o'clock in the evening and dusk was settling in. The airfield was a former R.A.F base that had been declared surplus to requirements during a round of defence cutbacks in the early 'nineties. Until a more permanent use could be found for the facility, the Government had leased the property to a loose-knit group of European Union charities to use as their UK base. Its single runway was almost two thousand metres long. Along one side of the runway ran a line of metal storage sheds in which several charities and emergency aid groups stored equipment and supplies. Various logos were painted on the sliding doors of the sheds, including the insignia of the charity that was chartering the Russian plane. Beyond the sheds stood four large hangars which used to house R.A.F bombers.

Donovan and Fullerton were standing in front of the charity's shed next to half a dozen rented Transit vans, each with its own driver. Jordan and Macfadyen had supplied the drivers, all men whom they had used before and trusted.

Bunny and PM had brought five of their own men and two large trucks with the name of a laundry company on the sides. The backs of the trucks were already open in anticipation of the plane's arrival.

A Russian came up and nodded at Donovan. He'd introduced himself to Donovan when he'd opened the gates for the vans to drive on to the airfield, but the name seemed to contain four or five syllables and Donovan hadn't been able to remember it.

"Hiya, mate, how's it going?" asked Donovan.

"Plane is coming," said the Russian.