Stephen Leather: Tango One

"So that's it?" said Jordan.

"We're just going to let them go?"

Macfadyen sighed.

"Ricky, if you don't shut up, I'll shoot you myself "I'm just saying..

."

"Don't say," said Macfadyen.

"It's Den's call. Good on you, Den. Where are you going?"

"Home," said Donovan.

"I've got some soccer kit needs washing. And beds to make. Shopping to do." He grinned.

"A woman's work is never done, hey, lads?"

Three Months Later The rooster kicked out and the metal spur attached to its left claw ripped through the stomach of its adversary. Blood spattered across the sawdust and the crowd cheered and yelled. Fistfuls of pesos were waved in the air, but Hathaway doubted that anyone would be prepared to bet on the underdog. There were few comebacks in cock fighting It wasn't like with humans: bouts couldn't be fixed to hype up the entertainment value. The cocks went in, they fought, the better fighter won. Victory might come by virtue of being faster, or stronger or having more heart, but once one of the cocks was on top, death came quickly.

Hathaway had been to cockfights in Thailand, but he found them a lot less satisfactory because the Thais didn't fit spurs to the birds, so the bouts were longer and scrappier. Maybe it was because the Thais were Buddhists and didn't want to inflict unnecessary pain, but Hathaway thought the Roman Catholic Filipino way was actually kinder.

Kills were generally quicker and cleaner.

Hathaway wasn't a great fan of the Philippines, but it was the perfect place to hide, for a while at least. It was a country where pretty much anything could be had for a price, where security and privacy could easily be acquired, and where there were enough Westerners with shady pasts for yet another one to blend in with few questions asked.

The money was all stashed away offshore where it could never be found.

Hathaway had become an expert at tracing hidden money and he had put his skills to good effect. He had bought an isolated villa on the outskirts of Manila, made friends with the local police chief, and hired a dozen of the chiefs men as his personal bodyguards. He never went anywhere without at least four of them in attendance, and as he stood at the edge of the cock fighting pit all four were within fifty feet, enjoying the cockfight but keeping a watchful eye out for potential threats.

So far as Hathaway was concerned, there was only one potential threat Den Donovan. Hathaway had no illusions: at some point Donovan would be looking to get his money back. Donovan was still Tango One, however, and the powers that he would be doing everything they could to put him behind bars. It was just a matter of time.

The fact that the drugs hadn't been on the plane when it had landed had meant that Donovan had escaped prison that time, but his luck couldn't hold out for ever. The abortive drugs bust had actually helped Hathaway, in that it gave him a good reason for resigning. His direct superior had spent an hour trying to convince him to stay, and the head of Human Resources had offered to find him a non-operational role within the organisation, but Hathaway had continued to insist that he should take the blame for the debacle and had walked out. He hadn't even bothered to fill in his pension forms or empty his desk.

Of course, Hathaway would much have preferred for the drugs to have been on the plane and for Donovan to have been put away for twenty years, but sometimes not everything went to plan. Sometimes you had to go with the flow. Tango One would get sent down eventually, and if he didn't, Hathaway had more than enough money to have Donovan taken out of the equation by other methods. More permanent methods.

In the pit, the winning bird lashed out again and the weaker bird went down, blood streaming from its neck. Grim-faced men in straw hats were screaming for the stricken bird to get up and fight, but Hathaway knew that they were wasting their breath. It had been a mortal blow.

Hathaway didn't want to have to take out a contract on Donovan unless it was absolutely necessary. It wasn't that he had moral reservations about ordering the death of another man, especially a man like Donovan, but paying for an assassination left a trail that could be followed.

There were plenty of professionals around who could do the job, but if anything went wrong even the most professional of killers would give up the name of his employer in exchange for a reduced sentence. It wasn't a risk that Hathaway was prepared to take, not yet.

The owner of the winning bird stepped forward and picked it up, holding it high above his head to a series of rousing cheers from the men who'd won money on the fight, and boos and catcalls from those who'd lost.

A small boy ran out with a bucket and threw fresh sawdust down over the bloodstained parts of the ring, while one of the winning owner's assistants picked up the dead bird and carried it away. It was traditional for the winning owner to eat the losing bird.

Hathaway looked over his shoulder. There were more than five hundred men crammed into the warehouse around the ring. No women. Almost all the spectators were locals: Western sensibilities were often offended by the sight of two cocks doing what came naturally.

Hathaway stiffened as he noticed that one of the few Westerners around the arena was looking in his direction. He was a man in his thirties wearing a beige safari suit. There was something familiar about the man a vague tickle somewhere in Hathaway's memory suggested that they'd met some time in the past. Hathaway frowned. As a rule he had an almost infallible memory for faces. The man raised an eyebrow and nodded at Hathaway. Hathaway smiled instinctively, and nodded at the man. Was it a greeting from someone who recognised Hathaway, or just a nod of recognition between two outsiders?

Hathaway racked his memory. Male, mid-thirties, good looking, well built, two-day growth of beard. Ray-Ban sunglasses. Good teeth.

Hathaway's mental filing system drew a blank. Then Hathaway realised why the man seemed familiar and he smiled slowly. He was the spitting image of the French crooner. What was his name? Distel, that was it.

Sacha Distel. He was looking at a much younger version of Sacha Distel. Hathaway relaxed. The guy was probably mistakenly recognised all the time. Hathaway gave him a small wave, then turned to watch the next cocks being prepared for battle. The man in charge of Hathaway's security had seen the unspoken exchange and he looked across at Hathaway for guidance. Hathaway nodded at him and mouthed, "It's okay."

In the pit, a pot-bellied man with a battered straw hat was attaching shiny metal spurs to a bird with jet-black feathers. Hathaway looked over at the black bird's opponent. It was a totally white bird with a scarlet crop. Hathaway smiled. He liked white birds. It always made the bloodletting look that much more dramatic. He waved a handful of pesos at one of the bookmakers and placed a bet on the black bird.

Hathaway was feeling lucky.