Tango One

"I was going to shower," he said.

"I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare," said the guard.

The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language. There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.

Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.

He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed. The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.

"I could come back later if it's a bad time," said the man.

Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the . face of an informer. A grass. The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.

"Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future."

"And you would be?" asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.

"I would be the bearer of bad news," said the man.

"A harbinger of doom." He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.

"Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?" asked Clare.

"Indeed it would, Marty," said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.

Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.

The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.

"I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into."

Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.

"This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it."

"Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty."

Clare snorted.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison? There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison."

"Got it all planned, haven't you?"

"A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life."

Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.

Clare stood up.

"So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself "The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.

"Like fuck."

The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.

"So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator."

"Bullshit."

"Why would I make up something like that, Marty?"

Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.

"Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?"

"Sit down, Marty."

Clare stood where he was.

"Sit the fuck down."

Clare sat down slowly.

"One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey."

"Says who?"

"Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment. One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey."

Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.

The man smiled.

"Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?"

"You should know. You had someone undercover, right?"

"Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news."

Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.

"The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States."

"Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts "jump", we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees."

"I'm Irish," said Clare.

"Northern Irish," said the man quietly.

"Not quite the same."

"I'm an Irish resident."

"Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States. That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?"

"That's not in my name. It's a company asset."

"Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then."

"This isn't fucking fair!" shouted Clare.

The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.

Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.

"I want a drink," he said.

"Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness," said the man.

"A drink of water," said Clare.

The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.

"Why would you want the Americans to have me?" asked Clare.

"Who said I did?" asked the man.

"You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal prison."

"Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty."

"Nah, you've got an agenda," said Clare.

"You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind."

"If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?"

Clare's face tightened.

"So you have got someone on the inside?"

"Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood."

There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.

"You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?"

Clare groaned.

"You are so transparent," he said.

"You want me to grass, right?"

"Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel."

"I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass." Clare sipped his water.

"And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do."

"I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step."

"That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?"

Clare frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Lawyers. Money. Sort of go together like .. . well, like drug dealers and prison."

Clare sniggered contemptuously at his visitor.

"What do you make in a year?" he asked.

"I get by."

"You get by? You don't know what getting by is. Whatever you earn in a year, multiply it by a thousand and I've got more than that tucked away. Think about that, you sad fuck. You'd have to work for a thousand years to get the sort of money I've got."

The man took a slow drink from his paper cup, then placed it carefully on the table.

"And that, Marty, brings me to my second order of business, as it were."

Clare felt a chill in his stomach, suspecting that things were about to take a turn for the worse. He tried to keep smiling, but his mind was racing frantically, trying to work out what was coming next.

"Your money situation might not be quite as clear cut as you seem to think," said the man.

"What the fuck do you know about my money situation?"

"More than you'd think, Marty."

"Who the hell are you? And don't give me that bringer of bad news crap. You're a Brit, so you've no jurisdiction here. I don't have to talk to you."

"Do you want me to go, Marty? Just say the word and I'll leave you to your weights and your porn channel until the men from the CAB pay you a visit. But by then it'll be too late."

"What the hell would the CAB be wanting with me?"

"Take a wild guess."

Clare took another drink from the paper cup. His hand was shaking and water slopped over his arm. He saw his visitor smirk at the show of emotion and Clare hurriedly put the cup down on the floor. The Criminal Assets Board was an Irish organisation, set up to track down the assets of criminals living in Ireland. Their initial brief had been to run drug dealers and other criminal undesirables out of the Irish Republic, and they had been so successful that their remit had been expanded to cover tax evaders and white-collar criminals. Their technique was simple they tracked down assets and put the onus on the owner of the assets to prove that they were acquired by legitimate means. Homes, land, money, bonds. And if the owner couldn't prove that the assets weren't connected to criminal activities, the CAB had the right to confiscate them.

"All my stuff in Ireland's legit," Clare said.

"It's in your wife's name, if that's what you mean. But that's not quite the same as legit, is it? And what about the property development in Spain? And the villas in Portugal? You probably thought you were being really clever putting ownership in an Isle of Man exempt company, but CAB are wise to that."

Clare swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again but he didn't want to pick up the paper cup. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue.

"They found your accounts in St. Vincent and they're homing in on your accounts in Luxembourg. Then there's your Sparbuch account. Do you know where the name comes from, by the way?"

Clare shook his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. The man's voice seemed to echo in Clare's ears, as if he were talking at the end of a very long tunnel.

"From the German, Sparen, which means save, and Buck, which means book. Brilliant concept, isn't it, for guys in your line of work? An anonymous account operated under a password. No signature, no identification, completely transferable. He who has the passbook and codeword has the money. Got yours just before the deadline, didn't you? Smart boy, Marty. Austria stopped issuing Sparbuch accounts in November 2000. You had the inside track on that, I bet. You can still get them in the Czech Republic, but Austrian schillings are so much more confidence-inspiring than Czech crowns, aren't they?"

Clare slumped in his chair. He felt as if a strap had been tightened across his chest and every breath was an effort of will.

"Are you okay, Marty? Not having a heart attack, are you? Though I have to say, the Dutch do have an excellent health care system."

"Who grassed me up?" gasped Clare, his hand on his chest.

"Who do you think?"

Clare frowned. Sweat was pouring down his face. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and it came away dripping wet.

"By the way, I think you were being a tad optimistic on your figure of a thousand times my annual salary. I reckon at best you've got five million quid salted away and CAB know where pretty much all of it is."

Clare's mind was in a whirl. The only person who knew about the Sparbuch account was his wife Mary, and he trusted her with his life. The realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.

"Mary."

The man grinned.

"Ah, the penny has finally dropped, has it? She was none too happy with your arrest situation the two Slovakian girls .. ."

Clare closed his eyes and swore. The man with the camera.

"You bastard," he whispered.

"The women, plus the fact that CAB were prepared to cut her a deal on the house and the Irish accounts pretty much puts your balls on the fire, Marty."

Clare opened his eyes.

"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.

"A chat, Marty."

"About what?"

"Den Donovan."

Donovan spent the night at the Hilton Hotel in Kingston. He checked in wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and slacks, but when he checked out of the hotel in the morning he was wearing baggy denim jeans, a T-shirt that he'd bought in a gift shop in Rasta colours with "I Love Jamaica' spelled out in spliffs, and a woollen Rasta hat. If the receptionist thought his attire incongruous for a business hotel, she was professional enough to hide her opinion behind a bright smile of perfect teeth.

Donovan knew that he looked ridiculous, but then so did most of the Brits returning home after two weeks of sun, sand and sex in Jamaica. The worst that would happen was that he'd get a pull by Customs at Stansted, but they'd be looking for ganja, not an international drugs baron.

He settled his account with American dollars and tipped the doorman ten dollars for opening the back door of a taxi and putting his suitcase and holdall in the boot. It was a thirty-minute ride to the Norman Manley International Airport. Donovan had no idea who Norman Manley was, or why the Jamaicans had named their airport after him, and he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was that it was a relatively easy place to fly to the UK from.

He put on a pair of impenetrable sunglasses and joined the hundred-yard-long check-in queue for the charter flight. Honeymooning couples who were just starting to think about what married life meant back in dreary, drizzly England; middle-aged holiday makers with sunburned necks, keen to get back to good old fish and chips; and spaced-out fun seekers who were biting their nails and wondering if it really had been a good idea to tuck away their last few ounces of Jamaican gold into their wash bags There was a sprinkling of Rasta hats, several with fake dreadlocks, and lots of T-shirts with drugs references, so Donovan blended right in.

It took almost an hour to reach the front of the queue. He handed over the passport and ticket and flashed the Jamaican girl a lopsided grin.

"Wish I could stay longer," he said.

"Honey, you can move in with me any time," laughed the girl, 'but you'd have to lose the hat."

"I love my hat," he said.

"Then it's over, honey. Sorry." She checked the passport against the name on the ticket. Donovan's travel agent had worked wonders to get him a seat on the charter flight. A scheduled flight would have been easier, but there'd be more scrutiny if he arrived at Heathrow. Holidaymakers returning to Stansted would barely merit a second look. The agent must have had a pre-dated return ticket issued in the UK and then Fed-Exed it out to Kingston. It had arrived first thing that morning as Donovan had been eating his room service breakfast. The unused Stansted-Jamaica leg section of the ticket had already been discarded. It was that sort of creativity that merited the high prices the agent charged. Donovan was paying more for the cramped economy seat to Stansted than it would have cost to fly first class with British Airways.

The check-in girl ran him off a boarding card and handed it back to him with the passport.

"I'd wish you a good flight but it looks like you're flying already," she laughed.

Donovan bought a pre-paid international calling card and phoned the number in Spain. The answer machine kicked in again and Donovan left another message. The Spaniard could be difficult to get hold of at times, but that was because his services were so much in demand.

Vicky Donovan put her hands up to her face and shook her head.

"I can't do this, Stewart. I can't."

Sharkey reached over and massaged the back of her neck.

"We don't have any choice, Vicky. You know what he's capable of "But running isn't going to solve anything, is it? He'll come after us." A car horn sounded behind them and Vicky flinched.

"Relax," said Sharkey.

"He's miles away."

"He'll be on his way. And if he isn't, he'll send someone." She looked across at Sharkey, her lower lip trembling.

"Maybe if I talk to him. Try to explain."

"He was going to find out some time, Vicky," said Sharkey.

"We couldn't carry on behind his back for ever."

"We were going to wait until Robbie was older, remember?" Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I can't leave Robbie. I can't go without him."

"It's temporary."

"Den won't let us take him, Stewart. You know how much he loves him."

Sharkey shook his head.

"He left him, didn't he? He left both of you."

"He didn't have a choice."

"We all have choices." Sharkey took her hand. He rubbed her wedding ring and engagement ring with his thumb. The wedding ring was a simple gold band, but the engagement ring was a diamond, and sapphire monstrosity that had cost six figures. Sharkey knew its exact value because he'd been with Donovan when he'd bought it from Maplin and Webb with a briefcase full of cash. Vicky had shrieked with joy when Donovan had presented it to her, down on one knee in a French restaurant in Sloane Square. Now Sharkey hated the ring, hated the reminder that she was Donovan's woman.

"He'll calm down eventually," he said soothingly, even though he knew that it would be a cold day in hell before Den Donovan would forgive or forget.

"I'll get a lawyer to talk to him. We'll come to an arrangement, don't worry. Divorce. Custody of Robbie. It'll be okay, I promise."

Sharkey stroked Vicky's soft blonde hair and kissed her on the forehead. She wasn't wearing make-up and her eyes were red from crying, but she was still model pretty. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with irises so blue that people often thought she was wearing tinted contact lenses, and flawless skin that took a good five years off her real age. She would be thirty on her next birthday, a fact that she was constantly bringing up. Would Sharkey still love her when she was thirty? she kept asking. Would he still find her attractive?

"We shouldn't have taken the money, Stewart. That was a mistake."

"We needed a bargaining chip. Plus, if we're going to hide, that's going to cost."

"You'll give it back, won't you?"

"Once we've sorted it out, of course I will." He smiled and corrected himself.

"We will, Vicky. We're in this together, you and me. I couldn't have moved the money without your authorisation. And I'm the one who knew where it was. And where to put it."

Sharkey pulled her towards him and kissed her on the mouth. She opened her lips wide for him and moaned softly as his tongue probed deep inside. He kissed her harder and she tried to pull away but Sharkey kept a hand on the back of her neck and kept her lips pressed against his until she stopped pulling away and surrendered to the kiss. Only then did Sharkey release her and she sat back, breathing heavily.

"Christ, I want you," said Sharkey, placing his hand on her thigh.

"We've time. We don't have to check in for our flight for three hours."

"Stewart.. said Vicky, but he could hear the uncertainty in her voice and knew that he'd won. He pulled her close and kissed her again and this time she made no attempt to pull away.

Donovan stayed air side when he arrived at Stansted. It had been the flight from hell. The teenager occupying the seat in front of him had crashed it back as soon as the wheels left the runway and didn't put it upright until they were on final approach to land in the UK. Donovan had downed several Jack Daniels with ice, but the seat was so small and uncomfortable that there was no chance of sleeping. Plus, there was the small matter of the four-year-old sitting behind him who thought it was fun to kick the seat in time with badly hummed nursery rhymes.

He collected his luggage and went through Customs without incident, still wearing his sunglasses and Rasta hat. Like most UK airports, Stansted had installed a video recognition system during the late 'nineties. Closed-circuit television cameras scanned passengers departing and arriving, cross-checking faces against a massive database. The system, known as Mandrake, was still in the test phase, but Donovan knew that his photograph, along with all other top players in the international drugs business, was in the database. The technology was almost ninety-five per cent accurate, final checking always had to be done by a human operator, but it could still be fooled by dark glasses and hats. Donovan had been told by one of the high-ranking Customs officers on his payroll that once the system had been debugged and was running smoothly, the airport authorities would insist that all head coverings and sunglasses be removed in the arrival and departure areas. They were already working out how to avoid the expected flurry of lawsuits from Sikhs and others for whom a covered head was an act of religious expression.

There were only two uniformed Customs officers in the "Nothing To Declare' channel and they were deep in conversation and didn't seem in the least bit interested in the charter flight passengers. Donovan knew that the lack of interest was deceptive the area was monitored by several hidden CCTV cameras, and Customs officers behind the scenes would be looking for passengers who fitted the profile of drugs traffickers. Donovan's Rasta hat and druggie T-shirt would actually work in his favour it would mark him out as a user, but no major drug smuggler would be wearing such outlandish garb.

Donovan passed through without incident. He shaved and washed in the airport toilets and changed into a grey polo neck sweater and black jeans. He kept his sunglasses on and carried a black linen jacket. He dumped the Rasta hat and T-shirt in a rubbish bin.

He had two hours to kill before his Ryanair flight to Dublin, so he stopped off at a cafeteria for a plate of pasta and a glass of wine that came out of a screw-top bottle, and read through The Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail.

His seat on the Ryanair jet was if anything smaller than his charter seat, but the flight took just under an hour. There were no immigration controls between the UK and Ireland, so there was no need for Donovan to show his passport.

He collected his Samsonite suitcase, walked through the unmanned blue Customs channel and caught a taxi to the city centre. Donovan was a frequent visitor to the Irish capital. It was the perfect transit point for flights to Europe or the United States. From here he had the option of travelling to and from the UK by ferry, or of simply driving up to Belfast and flying to London on what was considered aUK internal flight.

The taxi dropped Donovan at the top of Grafton Street, the capital's main shopping street. It was pedestrianised and packed with afternoon shoppers: well-heeled tourists in expensive designer clothes rubbing shoulders with teenagers up from the country, marked out as the Celtic Tiger's poor relations by their bad skin, cheap haircuts and supermarket brand training shoe. Careworn housewives pushing crying children, groups of language students with matching backpacks planning their next shoplifting expedition, all remained under the watchful eyes of security guards at every shop front whispering to each other in clunky black transceivers.

Donovan carried his suitcase and holdall into the Allied Irish Bank, showed an identification card to a uniformed guard and went down a spiral staircase to the safety deposit box vault.

"Mr. Wilson, haven't seen you for some time," said a young man in a grey suit and a floral tie. He handed a clipboard to Donovan, who put down his suitcase and holdall and signed in as Jeremy Wilson.

"Overseas," said Donovan.

"The States."

"Welcome back to the land of the living," said the young man. He went over to one of the larger safety deposit boxes and inserted his master key into one of its two locks, giving it a deft twist.

"I'll leave you alone, Mr. Wilson. Give me a call when you're done."

Donovan waited until he was alone in the room before putting his personal key into the second lock and turning it. He opened the steel door and slid out his box. It was about two feet long, a foot wide and a foot deep and heavy enough to make him grunt as he hefted it up on to a teak veneer desk with partitions either side to give him a modicum of privacy.

The single CCTV camera in the vault was positioned behind Donovan, so no one could see what was in the box. He lifted the lid and smiled at the contents. More than a dozen brick-sized bundles of British fifty-pound notes were stacked neatly on the bottom of the box. On top of the banknotes lay four gold Rolex watches, four passports and two burgundy-coloured hard-back account books. They were Czechoslovakian Sparbuch accounts, one with a million dollars, and the other containing half a million. With the appropriate passwords, they were as good as cash.

Donovan placed his holdall next to the metal box and packed the money into it, then put the passbooks and passports into his jacket pocket. He put the UK passport that he'd used to fly from Jamaica into the box, then replaced the box in its slot and locked the metal door.

He pressed a small white buzzer on the desk and the young man came back and turned the second lock with his master key. Donovan thanked him and carried his suitcase and holdall upstairs.

Donovan walked to St. Stephen's Green and along to the taxi rank in front of the grand Shelbourne Hotel. A rotund grey-haired porter in a black uniform with purple trim took the suitcase from him and loaded it into the boot of the lead taxi. Donovan gave him a ten-pound note and kept the holdall with him as he slid into the rear seat.

"Airport?" asked the driver hopefully.

"I want to go to Belfast," said Donovan.

"You up for it?"

The driver grimaced.

"That's a long drive and my wife'll have the dinner on at six."

"Use the meter and I'll treble it."

The driver's eyebrows shot skywards. He nodded at the holdall.

"Not got drugs in there, have you?"

Donovan grinned.

"Chance'd be a fine thing. No. But I've got a plane to catch. Do you wanna go or shall I give the guy behind the biggest fare he'll have this year?"

"I'll do it," said the driver, 'but the wife'll have my balls on toast."

"Buy her something nice," said Donovan, settling back into the seat.

"Usually works for me."

The driver laughed.

"Yeah, wives, huh? What can you do with them? Can't live with them, can't put a bullet in their heads." He laughed uproariously at his own bad joke and started the car.

Donovan looked out of the window, tight lipped. Flecks of rain spattered across the glass. It always seemed to be raining when he visited Dublin, and he couldn't remember ever seeing blue skies over the Irish capital.

The taxi pulled into the afternoon traffic and Donovan closed his eyes. He'd forgotten to call the Spaniard, but he could do that when he reached Belfast.

Stewart Sharkey nodded towards the bar.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked Vicky. Their flight hadn't been called and the boarding gate was only a short walk away.

Vicky shook her head.

"It's a bit early for me. You go ahead, though. I'm going to use the bathroom."

"Are you all right?" asked Sharkey, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I don't know, Stewart. I don't know how I feel. I'm sort of numb, it's like I'm going to faint or something. Like I keep stepping outside my own body."

"Good sex will do that every time," joked Sharkey, but she pushed his hand away.

"This isn't funny," she hissed. They'd checked into one of the airport hotels, and the sex had been quick and urgent, almost frantic. Sharkey hadn't even given her chance to get undressed and there had been no soft words, no caresses. Just sex. It was as if he'd wanted to show that she was his. That he could take her whenever he wanted. She'd wanted him, too, but not like that. She'd wanted to be held, to be comforted, to be told that it was all right, that he'd protect her.

"I know it isn't," soothed Sharkey, 'but there isn't much else I can do just now except try to lighten the moment, right? We've got a plane to catch, then we can plan what we do next."

Vicky forced herself to smile.

"Okay," she said.

Sharkey hugged her and she rested her head against his chest. He nuzzled his face into her. He could smell the cheap shampoo from the hotel room.

"You know I love you," he whispered.

"You bloody well better," she said, slipping her arms around his waist and squeezing him.

"I wouldn't want to go through all this for the sake of a quick shag."

"It's going to work out, trust me."

She squeezed him again, then released her grip on him and wiped her eyes.

"I look a mess," she said.

"Go get your drink. I'll see you in a couple of minutes."

She walked away quickly, her skirt flicking from side to side. It was one hell of a sexy walk, thought Sharkey. Vicky Donovan was a head-turner, and that might turn out to be a problem down the line. Men looked at stunning blondes with impressive cleavages and shapely legs, and the more men who looked at her, the more chance there was of someone recognising her.

Donovan thrust a handful of fifty-pound notes at the driver, making sure that he couldn't see inside the holdall.

"Sterling okay?" he asked.

"I don't have any Euros."

"I suppose so," said the driver, carefully counting the notes. His face broke into a smile when he realised how much money he was holding. He reached into the taxi's glove compartment and handed a dog-eared business card to Donovan.

"You need a lift again, you call me, yeah? The mobile's always on."

"Sure," said Donovan.

"Pop the boot, yeah?" The driver unlocked the boot and Donovan pulled out his suitcase. He walked into the terminal building and bought a business class ticket to Heathrow at the British Airways desk.

Before checking in he took his holdall and suitcase into the toilets and pulled them into a large cubicle designed for wheelchair access. He put most of the money into the suitcase, since it was less likely to be noticed there than in the holdall. He wasn't committing an offence by flying from Belfast to London with bundles of fifty-pound notes, but he didn't want to attract attention to himself. He kept one passport, one of the UK ones, in his jacket pocket and hid the rest in a secret compartment in his wash bag.

He washed his hands and face, checked his reflection in the mirror, and put his dark glasses back on. Belfast Airport was saturated with CCTV cameras, and like all British airports was equipped with the face-recognition system that he had successfully evaded at Stansted. He took the Panama hat from his holdall and put it on his head at a jaunty angle.

He checked in for the flight and winked at his suitcase as it headed off on its lonely journey down the conveyor belt.

He bought aUK telephone card and called the Spaniard from a payphone. This time the Spaniard answered.

"Fuck me, Juan, where the hell have you been?"

"Hola, Den. {Que pa saT "I'll give you que pasa, you dago bastard. My world's going down the toilet tit first and you're sunning yourself on some bloody beach."

"I wish that were true, amigo. I have only just got back from .. ." the Spaniard chuckled to himself.. . 'wherever I was," he finished. Like Donovan, Juan Rojas had a serious distrust of the telephone system.

"You will no doubt read about it in the papers, manana. So what can I do for you, my old friend?"

"Same old, same old," said Donovan.

"I'd like a face to face."

"Amigo, I am only just off a plane," said Rojas.

"Don't fucking give me amigo, you garlic-guzzling piece of shit, are you gonna help me or do I have to call the Pole? The way the currency is, he's a lot cheaper than you are."

"If this is your idea of romancing me, I have to tell you, old friend, it's not making me wet between the legs." He paused, but Donovan knew that he'd got the Spaniard's attention so he said nothing. Eventually Rojas broke the silence.

"Where?" he asked.

"Remember the last time we met in the UK?"

"Vaguely. My memory isn't what it was."

"The park."

"Ah. Where the animals were."

Donovan frowned. The animals? They hadn't met at the zoo. It had been on Hampstead Heath. Then he smiled. It was the Spaniard's idea of a joke. They'd seen several cruising homosexuals, and when they'd walked past one, Rojas had pulled Donovan close and planted a noisy wet kiss on his cheek.

"Yeah, Juan. The animals. Tomorrow, okay? Same time as before, plus two, okay?" Nine o'clock at night. Dark.

"I will be there, amigo, with a huge hard-on for you."

Donovan laughed out loud and hung up.

He sat in the business class lounge sipping a Jack Daniels and soda until his flight was called.

Vicky splashed water over her face and then stared at her reflection in the mirror above the washbasins. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red from crying and her skin was blotchy around her nose. She put her hands on her cheeks and pulled the skin back. The wrinkles vanished as the skin tightened across her cheekbones. Twenty-nine going on fifty is how she felt. She hated what she saw in the mirror. She looked tired and scared and hunted.

She took a lipstick from her handbag and carefully applied it, then brushed mascara on to her lashes. She put her face close to the mirror and admired her handiwork. Even if she looked like shit, she might as well look like shit in full warpaint. She stood up straight and pulled her shoulders back, then turned her head right and left. Twenty-nine. Thirty next birthday. God, how could she be thirty? Thirty was halfway to sixty. She shuddered at the thought of grey hair and mottled, wrinkled skin and receding gums and brittle bones. Or maybe not. Maybe with a good plastic surgeon and if she ate right and gave up smoking and drinking she could put off the decay for a further decade.

She walked out of the ladies'. To her left was a rank of public phones. She stopped and stared at them. No calls, Stewart had said. Calls could be traced, and he'd insisted that they both throw away their mobiles before leaving for the airport. She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out her purse. She had a British Telecom card that still had several pounds on it. She picked up the receiver of the phone in the middle of the row and slotted in the card, then tapped out the number of Robbie's mobile. It rang through immediately to his message bank and she cursed.

It was three o'clock, so he was probably still at school, and the teachers insisted on penalty of detention that all phones were switched off in class. They were the new must-have accessory and had long passed the stage of being a status symbol. Virtually every pupil now had a phone, so status came from having the latest model, and Robbie's was state of the art, a present from Den.

She was about to hang up, but then she changed her mind.

"Robbie, it's Mum. I just called to say hello. You I know I love you, don't you?" She paused, as if expecting an answer.

"I am so sorry about what happened, love, I really am. If I could turn back the clock .. ." She felt tears well up in her eyes and she blinked them back. A family of Indians walked by, chattering loudly: an old man in a grubby turban and a bushy beard, a young married couple with three young children and a grandmother bringing up the rear, all dressed in traditional Indian garb. She turned away from them, not wanting them to see her pain.

"I'm going away for a few days, Robbie. Not far, I promise. But I'm going to see you again soon, I miss you so much .. ." The answering service buzzed and the line went dead. Vicky put a hand up to her eyes and cursed quietly. She replaced the receiver and pulled out the phone card.

"What are you doing, Vicky?"

Vicky jumped and almost screamed. She whirled around to find Sharkey standing behind her.

"What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?" she hissed.

"Who were you phoning?"

"It's none of your business who I was phoning," she said, trying to push past him.

"You shouldn't be spying on me."

He put a hand on each shoulder and lowered his head so that his eyes were level with hers.

"I wasn't spying, I just came to see where you were," he said quietly.

"I didn't creep up on you, you had your back to me. And in view of our situation, I think I do have a right to know who you were phoning. You know as well as I do how easy it is to trace calls."

"We're at the fucking airport, Stewart. We've left the car outside. He's going to know we were here, so one call isn't going to make a difference."

"That depends on who you called."

"I didn't call Den, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried, I just want to know, that's all."

She glared at him for several seconds.

"I was calling Robbie."

"I told you, no calls. No fucking calls!"

"I wasn't going to tell him where we were going!" she protested.

"Vicky, you can't tell him anything. Period. Okay?"

"I just want to talk to him." Her voice was a tired croak, almost a death rattle. She sounded at the end of her tether.

Sharkey kissed the top of her head.

"And you will do, Vicky. I promise, but let's get ourselves sorted first. Let's make sure we're not vulnerable. Then we can approach Den from a position of strength."

He straightened up and put an arm around her shoulder.

"Come on, you need a stiff drink."

He half pushed, half led her towards the bar. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her, and once she stumbled and Sharkey had to grab her to stop her falling. He guided her to the bar and helped her on to a stool before ordering her a double vodka and tonic. She drank it with shaking hands, almost in one gulp, and he ordered another for her.

As Vicky Donovan was downing her third vodka and tonic and Stewart Sharkey was anxiously looking at his watch, Den Donovan was less than a hundred yards away, collecting his suitcase from the carousel in Terminal One. Even though he was wearing his Panama hat and sunglasses, he kept his head down until he was out of the terminal building. The sky was a leaden grey, threatening drizzle if not an outright shower. Donovan joined the queue for a black cab, and forty-five minutes later he was being driven down the Edgware Road. He told the taxi driver to drop him in front of a small rundown hotel in Sussex Gardens. The reception desk was manned by a bottle-blonde East European girl with badly permed hair and a large mole on the left side of her nose. She had a pretty smile and spoke reasonable English. She told Donovan that they had a double room available and that she'd need to see a credit card.

Donovan told her that his credit cards had been stolen while he was on holiday, but he had a passport and was happy to leave a large cash deposit. She seemed confused by his request, but after she'd spoken to her manager on the phone she nodded eagerly.

"He say okay. Three hundred okay for you?" Three hundred pounds was just fine. Donovan never used credit cards if he could possibly help it they left a clear trail that could be followed. He gave her six fifty-pound notes and she held up each one to the light above her head as if she knew what she was looking for. He checked in under the name of Nigel Parkes, which was the name on one of the UK passports he was carrying.

Once in his room, Donovan opened his suitcase and took out a reefer jacket and an old New York Yankees baseball cap and put them on. He peeled off several hundred pounds in fifties from one of the bricks of banknotes in his suitcase and shoved them into his wallet. Then he put his sunglasses on, locked his door and went out with the door key in his pocket.

He walked down Edgware Road past the packed Arab coffee houses and the banks with camels and squiggly writing on the front. Little Arabia, they called it, and Donovan could see why. Three quarters of the people on the streets were from the Middle East: fat women covered from head to foot in black, grizzled Arabs in full desert gear, teenagers dripping with gold wearing designer gear and shark-like smiles. Not a pleasant place, thought Donovan. You never knew where you were with Arabs. He'd almost lost an eye in a shoot-out with three Lebanese dealers in Liverpool when he was in his late teens, and he'd refused to do business with Arabs ever again. Arabs and Russians. You couldn't trust either.

He walked into an electrical retailer's and bought eight different pay-as-you-go mobile phones and two dozen Sim cards. A CCTV camera covered the cash register, but Donovan kept his head down and the peak of the baseball cap hid virtually all his face as he handed over the cash.

"You gotta lot of girlfriends?" asked the gangly Arab behind the counter.

"Boyfriends," said Donovan. He leered at the shop assistant.

"What time do you finish, huh?"

The shop assistant took a step back, then looked at Donovan quizzically, trying to work out if he was serious.

"You make joke, yes?"

"Yeah, I make joke," said Donovan.

The shop assistant laughed uneasily, put the phones and Sim cards in two plastic carrier bags, and gave them to Donovan. Donovan walked back to the hotel. He stopped off at a news agent on the way and bought five twenty-pound phone cards.

There were four power points in the room, and Donovan put four of the mobile phones on charge before heading for the shower.

Barry Doyle stretched out his hand for his beer and took a sip from the bottle, keeping his towel over his eyes. He was lying by the side of Donovan's pool, recovering from a two-hour workout in his boss's gym. The staff of three a maid, a handyman and a cook stayed in a small house on the edge of the compound and were available around-the-clock even when Donovan was away, so Doyle figured he might as well take advantage of the amenities on offer. The cook was superb, a rotund Puerto Rican woman in her late fifties who knew her way around a dozen or more cuisines and who could whip up poached eggs and beans on toast just the way Doyle liked them. Just the way his mother used to make them.

He heard footsteps and Doyle smiled under the towel. It would be Maria, the maid. Twenty-two years old, an hour-glass figure and a Catherine Zeta-Jones smile. Doyle had been lusting after Maria ever since she started working for Donovan, and he'd told her to bring him a fresh iced beer every half an hour.

"Thanks, Maria," he said, spreading his legs apart to give her a good look at the bulge in the front of his swimming trunks.

Rough hands grabbed both arms and yanked him up off the sun-lounger. The towel fell to the floor and Doyle blinked in the sudden sunlight. A squat man stood in front of him, brown skinned with a thick moustache and heavy eyebrows. Doyle squinted and his eyes slowly focused. Carlos Rodriguez.

"Where is he?" asked Rodriguez.

"He's not here," said Doyle.

Rodriguez slapped him, hard.

"Where is he?"

"What the fuck is your problem?" spat Doyle. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and he winced as he ran his tongue over a deep cut inside his cheek.

Rodriguez slapped him again and the men on either side of Doyle tightened their grip on his arms.

"He flew to Jamaica yesterday," hissed Rodriguez.

"Why?"

"Look, Carlos, what's going on? There's no need for this. If you've got a problem with Den, you'll have to talk to him. I'm not his fucking keeper."

Rodriguez stepped forward and grabbed Doyle's throat. He had long fingernails and they dug into Doyle's flesh as he squeezed.

"I want to talk to him, you piece of shit. That's why I need to know where he went." Doyle tried to speak, but Rodriguez's grip was too tight and he couldn't draw breath. He started to choke and Rodriguez took his hand away. Doyle coughed and blood splattered over Rodriguez's cream linen suit. Rodriguez looked down at the spots of blood disdainfully.

"Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?" he said quietly.

"Any idea at all?"

"I'm sorry," gasped Doyle.

Rodriguez dabbed at the blood spots with a white handkerchief.

"He flew to Jamaica and then he disappeared. I'm assuming he's not lying on the beach smoking ganja, so where the fuck is he?"

Doyle heard a scraping noise behind him and he twisted his head around. A fourth man in his twenties, thickset with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and weightlifter's forearms, had pulled the large umbrella from its concrete base. He grinned at Doyle and tossed the umbrella on to the tiled floor. He knelt down next to the umbrella base and took a length of chain from the pocket of his chinos.

Rodriguez grabbed Doyle by the hair.

"Don't look at him, look at me. He's not your problem, I am."

Doyle's eyes watered from the pain and he glared at the Colombian.

"Good," said Rodriguez soothingly.

"Anger is good. So much more productive than fear. Anger makes the body and the mind work more efficiently, but fear shuts everything down. So how is your mind working now? Your memory returning, is it? Where is he?"

Doyle felt hands running around his waist but when he tried to look down Rodriguez jerked his head up.

"How deep do you think the pool is at this end?" asked Rodriguez.

"What?"

"The pool? Twelve feet, do you think?"

Doyle swallowed nervously.

"This is stupid."

Rodriguez let go of Doyle's hair and slapped him twice, forehand and backhand. He had a chunky diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand and on the second blow it sliced through Doyle's cheek. Doyle felt the flesh part and the blood flow but he wasn't aware of any pain. It was as if his whole body had gone numb. Rodriguez was right. Fear was totally unproductive. His body was shutting down. Preparing for death.

"Are you calling me stupid?" hissed Rodriguez.

"No." Doyle tried to touch his injured cheek but the man on his right twisted his arm up behind his back.

"There must be something wrong with my ears, then, because I thought I heard you say I was stupid."

"I said it was stupid. The situation."

Rodriguez smiled without warmth.

"The situation? That's what this is, a situation?"

The man with the weightlifter's forearms knelt down in front of Doyle, his face level with Doyle's crotch. He had the chain in his hands and he passed it around Doyle's waist and fastened it with a small padlock. The man leered at Doyle as he stood up.

"I meant that it's pointless getting heavy with me. Den's the one you want."

"Which is why I'm asking you for the last time. Where is he?"

"London."

Rodriguez frowned.

"London? He said he was wanted in England. He said he couldn't go back."

"His wife's been screwing around. He's gone back to sort it out."

Rodriguez started to chuckle. So did the man with the weightlifter's forearms.

"Sauce for the goose, that's what you English say, right? Donovan's dick is hardly ever inside his pants."

Doyle said nothing. The man with weightlifter's forearms walked behind him and Doyle heard the umbrella base being pushed along the floor towards the pool. The chain tightened around Doyle's waist, and his heart began to pound.

"Carlos, don't do this," Doyle said, his voice a dry croak.

"Where is my money?"

"What money?"

"The ten million dollars that Donovan was supposed to pay into my account yesterday."

"He didn't say anything to me about money. I swear."

The umbrella base received another push and it grated across the tiles. It was only a foot away from the edge of the swimming pool, and the chain was now taut. The two men either side of Doyle shoved him closer to the pool.

"I swear!" Doyle screamed.

"Help me! Somebody help me!" His voice echoed around the pool area.

"Scream all you want," said Rodriguez.

"The hired help want to live as much as you do, my friend. They won't interfere. And they will have a sudden lapse of memory when the police arrive." He sniggered.

"They might even say you were acting suicidal." Rodriguez dangled the padlock key in front of Doyle's face, then tossed it into the far end of the pool. The shallow end.

"How do I get in touch with him?" Rodriguez asked.

"He said he'd call."

"He has no cell phone in London?"

"He doesn't trust them."

"His house in London. You have the number?"

Doyle nodded at his mobile phone, next to his beer on the white cast-iron table by the sun-lounger.

"It's in my phone. Look, if he calls I'll tell him you want to talk to him. I'll tell him how pissed off you are."

"You will?" said Rodriguez, smiling affably.

"That's so good of you."

"Oh Jesus, please don't do this to me."

Rodriguez grinned at the man with the weightlifter's arms.

"Now he's asking for your help, Jesus." He pronounced it the Spanish way. Hey-zeus.

"Maybe he thinks you've a softer heart than me."

Jesus grinned and said something to Rodriguez in rapid Spanish. All four men laughed.

"Please don't .. ." begged Doyle.

Rodriguez nodded at Jesus, and Jesus put his foot on the umbrella base and shoved it into the pool. At the same time, the two men holding Doyle pitched him into the water. There was a loud splash and all four men scattered to avoid the water as the concrete block and Doyle disappeared under the surface.

Chlorinated water lapped over the edge of the pool a few times, then the surface went still. The four Colombians peered into the water, shading their eyes against the burning afternoon sun. Doyle was waving his arms and legs around like a crab stranded on its back and a stream of bubbles burst from his mouth and rippled to the surface. Jesus looked at his watch.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Ninety seconds?"

"Nah," said Rodriguez.

"Less. He didn't catch his breath when he went in."

The Colombians laughed and watched as Doyle died.

The dyed-blonde receptionist looked up as Donovan walked down the stairs. She smiled.

"You go out?" she asked.

"Just for a couple of hours."

"You leave key?"

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, I'll keep it with me." He walked up to the counter. She was holding a book.

"What are you reading?"

"I learn English." She held up the book and showed it to him.

"I go school every morning."

Donovan took the book, flicked through it and handed it back.

"Your English is great," he said.

"Where are you from?" He looked into her eyes as he talked. They were a deep blue with flecks of grey.

"Poland. Warsaw."

"Great country. Beautiful city. Amazing art galleries."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"You have been to Warsaw?"

"I've been pretty much everywhere." He winked at her and put on his baseball cap.

"Catch you later."

Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens towards Edgware Road, confident that the hotel was still a safe area. The receptionist had shown no signs of tension, no fear, no look in the eyes that suggested that someone had told her that she was to report his movements, that he was anything other than a tourist passing through. Now he knew what her regular reactions were, he'd easily spot any changes.

Donovan walked along Edgware Road, stopping to look in several shop windows. Each time he stopped he checked reflections to see if anyone was following him. That was the beauty of Edgware Road: white faces stuck out.

At the corner of Edgware Road and Harrow Road was a pedestrian underpass. Most people used the pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights above ground, but Donovan walked slowly down the sloping walkway whistling softly to himself.

Underground there were public toilets, a news agent and a shoe repair shop, but more importantly there were half a dozen exits. Donovan loitered for a while until he was satisfied that no one had followed him down, and then he walked quickly up the stairs that led to the Harrow Road exit, close to Paddington Green police station. Donovan kept his head down Paddington Green was where the Metropolitan Police's Anti-Terrorist Squad was based, and the area was saturated with CCTV cameras.

Donovan knew that there were more than a million CCTV cameras scattered across the United Kingdom, giving it the dubious distinction of having more of the prying electronic eyes per head of population than anywhere in the world. More than two hundred thousand new cameras were added every year. On average, aUK citizen going about his lawful business in the capital would be captured on three hundred cameras on at least thirty different systems every day. They were in shops, office buildings, in ATMs, on buses, there was almost nowhere that wasn't covered. The police already had access to all the networks, but their ultimate aim was to have them all linked and tied to the Mandrake face recognition system. While the ordinary citizen probably wasn't over-concerned about the lack of privacy, believing the police line that no one but criminals had anything to fear from saturation CCTV coverage, Donovan was far from being an ordinary citizen.

He headed towards Maida Vale, and stopped at the Church of St. Mary, a red brick building long-ago blackened by exhaust fumes from the stream of traffic that pelted along the nearby A4O. Just along from the tumbledown churchyard was a small park with two old-fashioned red phone boxes at its entrance. Donovan sat on a bench in the graveyard and took out a mobile phone. He'd only been able to charge it for half an hour, but that would be long enough for what he wanted. He tapped out the number of Richard Underwood's direct line, dialing 141 first so that his number wouldn't show up on Underwood's phone.

The chief superintendent answered with a long groan before saying, "Yes?"

"What's up, Dicko? Piles giving you jip?"

"The perfect end to the perfect day. Where are you?"

Donovan smiled to himself.

"A shithole, that's where I am," he said.

"You know the churchyard on the Harrow Road?"

"Yes," said Underwood, suspiciously.

"Fifteen minutes. I'll call the one on the right."

"Why don't I call you?"

"Because I don't want this phone ringing, that's why. Fifteen minutes, yeah?"

Donovan cut the connection before the policeman could argue. He walked around the churchyard a couple of times, then went and stood behind a clump of trees. A few minutes later, Underwood came walking briskly from the direction of the police station, his raincoat flapping behind him, a look of intense discomfort on his jowly face. He was a large man, overweight rather than big boned, with a large gut that strained over the top of his trouser belt. He reached the two red phone boxes and stamped his feet impatiently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat.

Donovan took out his mobile phone and dialled the number of the phone box. A second or two later and the phone in the box on the left started to ring. Donovan grinned as he watched Underwood jump, then stand and stare at the phone box. He put his head on one side, then looked at the phone box on the right, as if to reassure himself that it wasn't the one that was ringing. He looked around, then pulled open the door to the box on the left and picked up the phone.

"You said the one on the right," the policeman said.

Donovan chuckled.

"Right, left, what's the odds? You're breathing heavily, Dicko, you out of condition?"

"It's a long bloody walk and you know it. With cameras all the way."

"Not by the church. Besides, who'd be watching you? You're a watcher, not a watchee." He started walking towards the phone boxes.

"Whereabouts are you?"

"Not far, Dicko. Not far."

"Don't piss me around, Den. This isn't a sodding game."

"Behind you."

Underwood turned around and his jaw dropped as he saw Donovan striding across the grass towards him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he exploded.

Donovan laughed and put his mobile phone away. Underwood stood in the call box the phone still pressed against his ear, his mouth open in surprise. Donovan pulled the door open for him.

"Breathe, Dicko. Breathe!"

Underwood's cheeks had flared red and his eyes were wide and staring.

"Bloody hell, I'm not going to have to give you the kiss of life, am I?" said Donovan.

"What the fuck's going on?"

"Put the phone down and let's have a chat, yeah?"

Underwood stood staring at Donovan for several seconds, then he slowly replaced the receiver.

"You said you were somewhere in Europe."

"Well, strictly speaking, I am. Last I looked, Britain was still in the EC and you reported to Europol."

"It's an information- and resource-sharing organisation. We don't report to them," said Underwood stiffly.

"But that's not the point."

"I know it's not the point, I was just making conversation. Come on, you soft bugger."

Underwood squeezed out of the phone box and the two men walked down the Harrow Road, towards the canal that meandered through Little Venice before winding its way to Regents Park and Camden.

"You shouldn't be here, Den."

"You can say that again. But that bitch'll get my boy if I don't do something." Donovan had already decided not to mention the missing sixty million dollars. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.

"You think you'll get custody?"

"I'm his bloody father."

"Yeah, but .. ."

"There's no buts, Dicko. I'm his dad, and his mum was caught stark bollock naked doing the dirty with my accountant. No judge in the land is going to give him to a woman like that."

"You and judges aren't on the best of terms, truth be told."

"Fuck you."

"You know what I mean."

They walked down Warwick Avenue and turned left on Blomfield Road, parallel to the canal. On one side, the side along which the two men were walking, stood beautiful stucco houses with carefully tended gardens costing millions of pounds.

The other side of the water was lined with utilitarian council flats with featureless walls and blank windows. A narrow boat packed with tourists put-putted towards Camden. A group of Japanese tourists were photographing as if their lives depended on it, and both Donovan and Underwood automatically turned their faces away.

"How did you get into the country?" asked Underwood.

"Need to know," said Donovan.

"What's my situation?"

"Same as it's always been."

"Shit."

"They've got long memories, Den. You can't just run off and expect to come back to a clean slate. Life's not like that."

"So I'm still Tango One?"

"Strictly speaking you've dropped down the ranks a bit, but as soon as it's known you're back, you'll be up there in pole position."

"Hopefully I'll get Robbie and be out of here before anyone knows where I am."

"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed."

"What have they got on me that's current?"

"That's the good news," said Underwood.

"So far, nothing."

"That's something."

"Yeah, but you haven't heard the bad news yet."

Donovan said nothing. Ahead of them was a pub. The Paddington Stop. It sounded as if it belonged to an age when passing bar gees would stop off for a refreshing pint, but it was as ugly as the council flats opposite and had been built decades after the last working barge had travelled the canal. The two men looked at each other. They both nodded at the same time and headed towards the pub.

Underwood waited until he had a pint of lager in front of him and there was no one within earshot before continuing.

"Marty Clare," he said, and sipped his lager.

Donovan toyed with his Jack Daniels and soda, a slight frown on his face.

"He's in Amsterdam, right?"

"He's in Noordsingel Detention Centre in Rotterdam is where he is," said Underwood.

"And he's preparing to sing like the proverbial."

Donovan shook his head.

"No way. Not Marty."

"His lawyer is dotting the "t's and crossing the "i's as we speak."

"You know this for a fact?"

Underwood gave him a disdainful look but didn't say anything. Donovan cursed.

"What've they got on him? He could do Dutch porridge standing on his head."

"The Yanks want him. One of the consignments was earmarked for New Jersey. That's all the DEA need. Assets, money, the works. And if they can get him extradited, they'll throw away the key."

"Stupid bastard. How'd they get him in the first place?"

Donovan shrugged.

"Come on, Dicko, don't give me that Gallic shoulder thing. Someone grassed?"

"More than that, I think."

"You think, or you know?"

"Bloody hell, Den, you don't give up, do you?"

Donovan leaned across the table so that his mouth was just inches away from the policeman's ear.

"My fucking life's on the line here, Dicko, now stop pissing around. I need to know where I stand."

Underwood nodded slowly and put his glass down.

"Undercover Cussie."

"Dutch or Brit customs?"

"Dutch."

"Do you have a name?"

"No, Den, I don't have a name. Why the hell would the cloggies tell me who their secret weapons are?"

"Information and resource sharing, you said."

"Superficial at best. We've linked databases but we all protect our assets. What are you going to do, Den?"

Donovan looked at Underwood, his eyes cold and hard.

"Do you really want to know, Dicko?"

Dicko sucked air in through clenched jaws, then took a long drink of lager.

"How close did they get to me?" asked Donovan.

"Strictly surveillance."

"No one up close and personal?"

An elderly man in paint-spattered overalls and a shapeless hat walked over to the jukebox, slotted in a coin and jabbed at the selection buttons. Underwood waited until the man had walked back to his space at the bar before speaking again.

"Give me a break, Den. What do you think, I can just wander along to SO10 and ask them what undercover agents they've got in play?"

"You're NCS liaison, aren't you? National Crime Squad would have a vested interest."

"Which would have been sparked off by what? Do you want me to tell them you're back? Because if you're out in the sunny Caribbean, why would the Met or the NCS give a rat's arse what you're up to?"

"If they've sent anyone against me, I need to know."

"And I've got another ten years of a career ahead of me."

"You could retire tomorrow."

Underwood grinned.

"Not officially." He had a little under a million pounds secreted away in various offshore accounts, but the money was untouchable until after he'd left the force. Even then he'd have to be careful. A villa in Spain. A decent-sized boat. Maybe a small bar overlooking the sea. But that was. a decade away. Until then he had to be careful. He and Donovan went back a long way, longer than he cared to remember at times, and the friendship was something he treasured. However, friendship alone didn't warrant risking spending ten years behind bars on Rule 42 with the nonces and rapists.

"Just find out what you can, Dicko, yeah?"

"Sure."

"You know I'll see you right."

"Yeah, I know," said Underwood. Virtually every penny of the million pounds that Underwood had salted away had come from Donovan. And at least two of the promotions that Underwood had received had been a direct result of spectacular arrests following up on information provided by Donovan. Sure, Donovan always had an agenda of his own, either settling a score or putting a competitor out of business, but Underwood had reaped the benefits, career-wise and financially. He drained his glass.

"I better be going."

Donovan handed him a folded piece of paper.

"Call me on this number. What about the bitch?"

"Vicky?"

"She is the bitch of the day, yes."

Underwood looked uncomfortable.

"It's bad news, Den. Guess I'm a bit worried about being the bearer. They left yesterday."

"To where?"

"Spain. Malaga."

"No way."

"Booked on a British Airways flight out of Heathrow. Sharkey left his car in the longterm car park. Left a deposit on his credit card."

"No way they'd go to Spain. I know too many faces out there. And the car is too obvious. He wanted it found."

"I'm just telling you what I was told."

Donovan sat shaking his head.

"It'd make my life easier if they were there." He made a gun with his hand and mimed firing two shots, then blew away imaginary gunsmoke.

"But they're too smart for that." He grinned.

"At least Sharkey is." He frowned, then leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

"Luggage? They check in any luggage?"

"Hell, Den, how would I know that?"

"You ask. You say, did they check in, and if they did, did they have any luggage? How exactly did you get to be a detective, Dicko?"

"Funny handshake and a rolled-up trouser leg," said Underwood.

Donovan didn't react to the joke. He spoke quickly, hunched forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

"It's the oldest trick in the book. Done it myself with Vicky a couple of times. You check in for an international flight. Tickets, passports and all. But you have another ticket for somewhere where they don't check passports. Dublin. Glasgow. The Channel Islands. You pass through Immigration, then you go and check in for your real flight. Tell them you were late so didn't have time to check in at the other side. No passports, ticket can be in any name. Providing you haven't checked in any luggage, the flight you didn't get on will depart on time, give or take, and they won't even take you off the manifest. They'll just reckon you're pissed in the bar or lost in Duty Free. Once you're in Jersey you get the Hovercraft to France. Or from Dublin you fly anywhere."

"Yeah, maybe."

"No maybe about it. They've flown the coop." His upper lip curled back in a snarl.

"They think they're smart," he whispered, almost to himself, 'but I'm smarter."

Underwood stood up. He smiled thinly.

"I am sorry about you and Vicky. Really."

"I'll have the bitch, don't you worry."

"Don't do anything .. . you know." He shrugged, not wanting to say the words.

"She screwed him in my bed."

"She's the mother of your child, Den. Any vengeance you wreak on her is going to affect Robbie."

"You think he's not been affected already by what she's done?"

"Sure. He'll hate her for it, but at the end of the day she's still his mother. And you're still his dad. I know this isn't easy .. ."

"You know fuck all!" hissed Donovan, banging the flat of his hand down on the table, hard. Several heads turned in their direction, but shouted threats weren't an unusual occurrence in the pub and when it became clear that no one was about to be hit, the heads turned back.

"Just take it easy, that's all I'm saying. I know you, Den. Red rag to a bull, this'll be. Like the Italians say. Best eaten cold, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. He knew that Underwood had his best interests at heart.

"Just watch my back, Dicko," he said.

"I'll cover the rest of the bases."

Donovan went back to the hotel and showered and changed. He ate a steak and salad and drank a glass of white wine at an Italian restaurant on the Edgware Road, reading a copy of the Guardian but keeping a close eye on people walking by outside. He paid the bill and then spent five minutes walking around the underpass before rushing above ground and hailing a black cab. He got to Hampstead a full hour before he was due to meet the Spaniard. He walked through the village, doubling back several times and keeping an eye on reflections in the windows of the neat cottages until he was absolutely sure he hadn't been followed.

He walked out on to the Heath, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. He wore black jeans and white Nikes and his New York Yankees baseball cap, and he looked like any other hopeful homosexual trawling for company.

Donovan went the long way around to the place where he'd arranged to meet Rojas, and lingered in a copse of beech trees until he saw the Spaniard walking purposefully along one of the many paths that crisscrossed the Heath. A middle-aged man in a fawn raincoat raised his eyebrows hopefully but Rojas just shook his head and walked on by.

Donovan smiled to himself. Rojas was a good-looking guy, and he was sure that half the trade on the Heath would get a hard-on at the mere sight of the man. He looked like a young Sacha Distel: soft brown eyes, glossy black hair and a perfect suntan. His looks were actually an acute disadvantage in his line of work he could never get too close to his quarry because heads, male and female, always turned when he was around. Donovan could imagine the eyewitness reports the police would get: "Yeah, he was the spitting image of Sacha Distel. In his prime." That was why Rojas always killed at a distance. A rifle. A bomb. Poison. A third party.

Donovan waited until he was sure that Rojas was alone before whistling softly to attract his attention. Rojas waved and walked over the grass to the copse. He gave Donovan a bearhug and Donovan smelled garlic on his breath.

"Dennis, good to see you again."

"Don't get over-emotional, Juan. I know you're going to be billing me for your time. Plus expenses. Plus plus."

Rojas laughed heartily and put an arm around Donovan's shoulders.

"You still have your sense of humour, Dennis. I like that."

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

"What have you heard?"

Rojas shrugged carelessly.

"I have heard that Marty Clare is in Noordsingel Detention Centre. And that the DBA want to put him in a cell with Noriega."

"Bloody hell, Juan. I'm impressed."

"It's a small world, my friend. So is it Marty you want taking care of?"

Donovan nodded.

"I hope you never get angry with me, Dennis."

"But who would I hire to kill you, Juan? You're the best."

"Bar none," agreed the Spaniard.

"Bar none."

"Soon as possible, yeah?"

"I took that for granted. My usual terms."

"No discount?"

"Not even for you."

They walked around the copse, their feet crunching in the undergrowth.

"There's something else." Donovan told Rojas about his wife and his accountant and their departure through Heathrow. The Spaniard listened in silence, nodding thoughtfully from time to time.

"I want them found, Juan." Donovan handed Rojas an envelope.

"There's their passport details, credit cards, phone numbers. They know I'll be looking for them and they'll be hiding."

"I understand."

"When you've found them, I need to talk to them."

"You mean you want to be there when I .. ." Rojas left the sentence unfinished.

"I need some time alone with them. That's all." Donovan wasn't prepared to tell the Spaniard about the missing sixty million dollars.

"You can finish up after I've gone."

"Both of them?" asked Rojas, his face creased into a frown.

"Both of them," repeated Donovan.

"Amigo, are you sure this is a wise course of action?" said Rojas.

"She is your wife. Business is business but your wife is personal. You punish her of course, but .. ." He shrugged and sighed.

"She fucked my accountant. In my house. In front of my kid."

"And he should die. No question. But your wife .. ."

"She's not my wife any more, Juan."

"The police will know."

"They'll suspect."

The Spaniard shrugged again, less expressively this time, more a gesture of acceptance. He could see that there was no point in arguing with Donovan. His mind was made up.

"Very well. You are the customer and the customer is always right."

"Thank you."

"Even when he is wrong."

They shook hands, then Rojas reached around Donovan and gave him a second bone-crushing bearhug.

"Be careful, Dennis. And I say that from a business perspective, not from personal concern, you understand?"

Donovan grinned. He understood exactly.

The Spaniard winked and walked away across the grass and back to the path. Donovan watched him go until he was lost in the night then he turned and went in search of a taxi.

It was just after eleven o'clock when Mark Gardner got home. He dropped his bulging briefcase by the front door and tossed his coat on to a rack by the hall table.

"Don't ask!" he said, holding up a hand to silence her.

"But if Julie or Jenny ever express any interest in entering the advertising industry, take them out and shoot them, will you?"

Laura handed him a gin and tonic and went into the kitchen. Mark stood and walked through the archway that led through to a small conservatory. He flopped down on one of the rattan sofas and swung his feet carefully up on to the glass-topped coffee table. He sighed and sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out of the french windows. Scattered around the garden were knee-high mushroom-shaped concrete structures in which were embedded small lights. They'd been installed by the previous owner of the house, along with more than two dozen garden gnomes. The gnomes had moved out with the owner, but the mushroom lights had stayed, and while their friends constantly teased them for their lack of taste, Mark and Laura had grown to like the effect at night small pools of light that looked like miniature galaxies lost in the blackness of an ever-expanding universe.

Mark sank deep into the sofa and sniffed his gin and tonic. Bubbles were still bursting to the surface and he could feel the cold pinpricks on his nose. He knew that he was drinking more than normal, but his agency had recently acquired a batch of new clients and he was keen to make a good impression. A good impression meant longer hours, and longer hours meant he was finding it harder to wind down after work. Without a few strong gin and tonics, his mind would continue to race and he'd find it impossible to sleep. Too many and he'd wake up with a headache, but so far he'd been able to maintain a happy medium. He took another sip and sighed.

Something moved in the garden, something dark, something that was striding towards the french windows. A man. Mark jumped and his drink spilled over his chest. He cursed and scrambled to his feet, the glass shattering on the tiled floor of the conservatory.

"Are you okay?" Laura shouted from the kitchen.

Mark took a step back, away from the french windows. His feet crunched on broken glass. He put his hands up defensively even though the man was a good twenty feet away and on the other side of sheets of security glass.

"Stay where you are, Laura there's someone in the garden," As usual, his wife did the exact opposite of what he asked and came running from the kitchen.

"Who is it?"

"Stay where you are!" he yelled.

Laura appeared in the archway, a tea towel in her hands. Mark looked around for something to use as a weapon and grabbed at a heavy brass vase that they'd bought while on holiday in Tunisia. He hefted it by the neck, swinging it like a club.

The man walked up to the window, his hand raised. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Mark flinched, fearing that he was going to be shot, but the man's gesture turned into a wave, and when he pressed his face against the glass, Mark sighed with relief.

"It's Den!" said Laura.

"Yes, darling, I can see that now," said Mark, sarcastically.

Donovan took off his baseball cap and gave Mark a thumbs-up.

"Surprise!" he mouthed.

Mark realised he was still swinging the brass vase and he grinned sheepishly. He put it back on its table and went to unlock the french windows.

Donovan stepped into the conservatory and shook Mark's hand.

"That was some welcome," he said, nodding at the vase.

"Most people use the front door," said Mark.

"In fact, our real friends usually phone first."

Donovan slapped Mark on the back and then rushed over to hug his sister.

"He's still a moaning bugger, then?" he said.

"Like a broken record," she said, hugging him tight.

"I did warn you about him before you got married."

"Yes, you did," laughed Laura.

"I am still here, you know," said Mark. He knelt down and started picking up the pieces of broken glass.

Donovan moved to help him put the glass splinters on a copy of The Economist.

"Didn't mean to spook you, Mark. Sorry."

"I wasn't spooked," said Mark.

"You caught me by surprise, that's all."

"I didn't want to come up the front path, just in case."

"In case we're being watched?" asked Laura, sitting down.

"Who'd be watching us, Den?"

"I dunno, Sis. I don't know who knows I'm here. Better safe than sorry."

Mark carefully lifted up the magazine and carried it out to the kitchen. Donovan went to sit next to his sister.

"When did you get back?" she asked.

"Yesterday. How is he?"

"He's okay. Cried his eyes out the first night, now he's sort of numb. Shock."

Donovan shook his head, his lips tight.

"I'll swing for that bastard Sharkey. And her."

"That's not going to help Robbie, is it?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you going to do, Den?"

Donovan shrugged.

"He's going to have to come back with me. I'll get him a new passport and we'll head off."

"To the Caribbean?" she said, scornfully.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"What about his school? His friends? Us?"

"It won't be for ever, Laura. There are schools there. He'll make friends. You and Mark can come out on holiday."

Mark appeared at the door.

"What holiday?"

'I'm just saying, if Robbie and I go to Anguilla, you can come and stay."

Mark and Laura exchanged worried looks.

"What?" said Donovan.

"Nothing," said Mark.

"Come on, spit it out."

Mark hesitated, then took a deep breath.

"Look, it's none of my business, Den, but right now Robbie needs stability. Pulling him out of his environment and dumping him on a tropical island is going to be a hell of a shock to his system."

"It's Anguilla. It's not Robinson Crusoe. We're not going to be fishing with safety pins and drinking from coconuts. It's more bloody civilised than this shithole called England, I can tell you."

"Maybe, but this is home. Anyway, I'm not arguing with you. Robbie's your son. End of story. What do you want to drink?"

"JD and soda," said Donovan.

"You'll be lucky," said Laura.

"You can have whisky and like it."

Donovan grinned.

"Okay, but the good stuff, none of that Bells crap."

Mark disappeared back into the sitting room.

"He's right, you know," said Laura.

Donovan nodded.

"Yeah, I know, but the UK's just too hot for me now." He rubbed his hands over his face.

"Shit."

"What?"

"I've just remembered. Anguilla's probably not the safest place in the world for me now, either."

"Why's that?"

Donovan flashed her a rueful smile.

"Small run-in with some Colombians."

"Hell's bells, Den. And you want Robbie to get involved in that?"

"I'll get it sorted, don't worry."

"You make sure you do, Den. I'm his godmother, don't forget, and that includes me being responsible for his moral upbringing." She was only half joking.

"He can stay here, you know. As long as needs be. The kids love him. So do we."

"I know, Laura, but I'm his father."

"I know you don't want to hear this, but the fact that you were his father didn't stop you gallivanting off to the Caribbean for months at a time, did it?"

"Gallivanting?" grinned Donovan.

"You know what I mean."

Mark returned with a tumbler of whisky and soda for Donovan and a fresh gin and tonic for himself. Laura flashed him a warning look. It was his third gin in less than an hour.

"The last one was spilt," he said defensively and sat down on the sofa opposite them.

"Okay if I see him?" asked Donovan.

"Sure," said Laura.

They stood up and Laura took Donovan upstairs. She pushed open the bedroom door and stood aside so that Donovan could see inside. Robbie was lying on his front, his head twisted away from the door so that all he could see was a mop of unruly brown hair on the pillow. He tiptoed over to the bunk bed and knelt down, then gently ruffled his son's hair.

Robbie stirred in his sleep, kicking his feet under the quilt.

"Don't worry, Robbie, I'm here now," Donovan whispered. He felt a sudden flare of anger at Vicky and what she'd done. Betraying him was bad enough, but to let her son witness her betrayal, that was unforgivable.

He slipped out of the bedroom and Laura closed the door quietly. They went back downstairs and into the conservatory.

Donovan picked up his whisky and soda and paced up and down. Laura sat down next to Mark, her hand on his knee.

"Has she called?"

Laura nodded.

"Day before yesterday. She said she wanted to speak to him, but I said he was asleep and told her to call back today. She didn't."

"She calls again, just hang up, yeah?"

Laura nodded.

Mark leaned forward, his hands cupping his gin and tonic.

"No offence, Den, but how much trouble are you in?"

Donovan smiled thinly. A very angry Colombian on his trail and sixty million dollars missing from his bank accounts. Quite a lot, really.

"I'll be okay," he said.

"The police are going to be after you, aren't they?"

Donovan's smile widened. About the only good news he'd had so far had been from Dicko telling him that the police didn't have anything on him yet. He shook his head.

"They'll be watching me, but there's no warrant. And I'm not planning on being a naughty boy while I'm here, Mark. Cross my heart. I don't intend to be here more than a few days."

"I wasn't being .. . you know .. ." said Mark. He tailed off, embarrassed.

"I know. It's okay."

"It's just that we've got a business .. . obligations .. ."

"Mark!" protested Laura.

"Leave him alone!"

Donovan held up his hand to silence her.

"Laura, it's okay. Honest. I understand what he means. Mark, I'll be keeping my nose clean, I promise. And I'm really grateful for what you and Laura are doing for Robbie."

Mark leaned over and clinked his glass against Donovan's. They toasted each other.

"I'm sorry, Den. Bit stressed, that's all."

Donovan waved away his apology, then asked Laura if she'd had the locks changed. She went into the sitting room and came back with a set of gleaming new keys and a piece of paper on which she'd written the new code for the burglar alarm system. Donovan took them, drained his glass and then gave his sister a big hug.

"I'm off," he said.

"I'll drop by and see Robbie tomorrow, yeah? And don't tell him I was here tonight, okay?"

Donovan shook hands with Mark, then left through the french windows, keeping in the shadows as he headed back down the garden.

"Who was that masked man?" whispered Mark.

Laura put her arm around his waist.

"He's really pissed off, isn't he?" she said.

"Understatement of the year."

"God, I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."

"I think it's too late for that." Mark put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him.

Donovan flagged down a black cab and had it drop him a quarter of a mile away from his house. He put his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and kept his head down as he walked along the pavement on the opposite side of the road to his house. He walked slowly but purposefully, his eyes scanning left and right under the peak of the baseball cap. There were no occupied cars, and no vans that could have concealed watchers. A young couple were leaning against a gate post devouring each other's tongues but they were way too young to be police. An old lady was walking a liver-coloured Cocker spaniel, whispering encouraging noises and holding a plastic bag to clean up after it.

Donovan checked out the houses opposite his own. There was nothing obvious, but if the surveillance was good then there wouldn't be. He walked on. At the end of the road he turned right. Donovan's house was in a block which formed one side of a square. All the houses backed on to a large garden, virtually a small park with trees and a playing field big enough for football, though the garden committee had banned all ball games. Dogs had also been forbidden to use the garden, and there was a string of rules which were rigidly enforced by the committee, including no music, no organised games, no shouting, no drinking, no smoking. Donovan had always wondered why they didn't just ban everyone from the garden and have done with it.

The garden could be entered from the back doors of the houses, but many of them had been converted into apartments, and those on the upper floors, considered as poor relations by the omnipotent garden committee, had to use a side entrance. One of the keys on the ring that Laura had given him opened the black wooden gate that led to the garden. Donovan stopped to tie his shoelaces, taking a quick look over his shoulder. A black cab drove by, its "For Hire' light on, but other than that the street was deserted. Donovan opened the gate and slipped inside.

He stood for a minute listening to the sound of his own breathing as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There were lights on in several of the houses, but most of the large garden area was in darkness. Donovan walked across the grass, looking from side to side to check that no one else was taking a late evening stroll. He was quite alone. For all he knew, the committee had probably issued an edict forbidding residents from using the garden after dark.

He walked quickly to his house. A flagstoned patio area was separated from the garden by a knee-high hedgerow and a small rockery, and as he walked across it a halogen security light came on automatically. There was nothing Donovan could do about the light but he took off his baseball cap. If any of the neighbours did happen to look out of the window, it would be better that they recognised him and didn't think that he was an intruder. As he unlocked the back door, the alarm system began to bleep. He closed the door and walked to the cupboard under the stairs and tapped out the four-digit number that Laura had given him. The alarm stopped bleeping. Donovan left the lights ofF just in case the house was under surveillance.

Donovan went into the kitchen and took a bottle of San Miguel out of the fridge. He opened it and drank from the bottle.

"Home sweet home," he muttered to himself. It had never felt like home, not really. During the past three years he doubted if he'd spent more than eight weeks in the house. Vicky had bought all the furniture and furnishings, with the exception of the artwork, assisted by some gay designer she'd found in her health club. Donovan couldn't remember his name, but he could remember a close-cropped head, a gold earring and figure-hugging jeans with zips up either leg. He might have been a freak, but Donovan had to admit he'd done a terrific job with the house. Turns out he'd studied art at some redbrick university and he'd been impressed with Donovan's collection some of the rooms he'd designed around the paintings, much to Vicky's annoyance.

Donovan went into the study and checked the safe, even though Laura had already told him that it was empty. He stared at the bare metal shelves and cursed. He wondered if Sharkey had been with her when she'd emptied it. Vicky would have thought about the passport, and probably regarded the cash as hers, but would she have realised the significance of the Spar-buch passbooks in the manila envelope? Donovan doubted it, but Sharkey certainly would have known what the passbooks were, and what they were worth. Donovan slammed the safe door shut and put the painting back in place. He ran his fingers along the gilded frame and smiled to himself. Luckily Sharkey was as ignorant of art as Vicky. The oil painting of two yachts was more than a hundred years old, and together with its partner on the opposite wall was worth close to half a million dollars. They were by James Edward Buttersworth, an American painter who loved yachts and sunsets, and both were used to good effect in the two pictures.

Donovan walked around the ground floor and satisfied himself that none of the works of art had been taken. They were all where they should be. Pride of his collection were three Van Dyck pen and brown ink drawings, preparatory sketches the Dutch master had made for a huge canvas that was now hanging in the Louvre. They featured a mother and daughter, and Donovan had bought them shortly after Robbie was born.

Donovan walked slowly upstairs, his hand on the banister. He imagined Robbie doing the same. Hurrying back from school, then rushing upstairs to see his mother. Catching her in the act. Donovan couldn't imagine how Robbie must have felt. Donovan had never seen his mother kiss his father, much less seen them in any sexual situation. Sex wasn't something that parents did. To find his mother in bed with someone else must have ripped the heart out of Robbie's world. Donovan's lips tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist. He'd make sure Vicky paid for what she'd done. Sharkey, too.

He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The door to Vicky's wardrobe was open. There were lots of empty hangers inside and one of her suitcases was missing. Donovan went over to the bed. He stared at the sheet, picturing the two of them, Sharkey and his wife, screwing their brains out in his bed. Vicky had been a virgin when she'd met Donovan, and clung to her virginity for a full three months before surrendering it to him on her seventeenth birthday. They'd married a year later, and so far as Donovan knew, she'd been faithful to him throughout their marriage. He'd been her first and only lover, that's what she'd said. Usually affectionately, though occasionally, when she suspected that he'd been playing around, she'd thrown it in his face like an accusation. However, he'd never doubted that she'd been true to him, that he was the only man who'd ever taken her. Until Sharkey.

Donovan picked up the quilt and threw it on to the bed. Maybe Sharkey hadn't been her first affair. Maybe there'd been others. Maybe she'd been screwing around behind his back for years. He felt his heart start to pound and he kicked the bed, hard, cursing her for her betrayal. He walked around the upper floor of the house, checking the bedrooms but not really sure what he was looking for. It was more territorial; it was his house and he wanted to pace out every inch of it. He'd sell it, of course. Soon as he could. He wanted nothing more to do with it. It was tainted. He hated the place, he didn't want to spend a minute longer there.

He went back downstairs, reset the alarm and let himself out through the back door. The security light came on, blasting the patio with stark halogen whiteness. Donovan pulled on his baseball cap and hurried off across the grass.

He unlocked the gate leading out of the garden, checked that there was no one around, then slipped through the relocked it. He put his head down and his hands in his pockets and walked briskly along the pavement.

As he walked past a dark saloon he heard a car door open. Donovan tensed. He'd been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed anyone sitting in any of the parked cars. He took a quick look over his shoulder. A large man in a heavy overcoat was walking around to the boot of his car, jingling his keys.

Donovan turned away and walked faster. Two men were walking along the pavement purposefully towards him. They were big men, too, as big as the man who was opening the car boot behind him. Donovan stepped off the pavement but they were too quick for him. One grabbed him by the arm with shovel-like hands and the other pulled out something from his coat pocket, raised his arm and brought it crashing down on the side of Donovan's head. Everything went red, then black, and Donovan was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Donovan had bitten the inside of his mouth when he was hit and he could taste blood as he slowly regained consciousness. The left-hand side of his head throbbed and he was having trouble breathing. The room was spinning around him and Donovan blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It didn't do any good, everything was still revolving. Then he realised it wasn't the room that was spinning. It was him.

He'd been suspended by his feet from a metal girder with rope, and his hands had been tied behind him. His jacket was bunched around his shoulders and he could see his socks and the bare skin of his shins. His nose felt blocked and his eyes were hurting and he had a piercing headache. He'd obviously been hanging upside down for a long time. He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm.

Two pairs of legs span into view. Dark brown shoes. Grey trousers. Black coats. Then they were gone. Machinery. A dark saloon car. Welding cylinders. A jack. A calendar with a naked blonde with impossibly large breasts. A workbench. Then the legs again. Donovan craned his neck but he couldn't see their faces.

One of the men said something in Spanish but Donovan didn't catch what it was. He knew who they were, though. Colombians. He coughed and spat out more blood.

He heard footsteps and a third pair of legs walked up.

"Hola, hombre," said a voice.

"Que pa saT Donovan twisted around, trying to get a look at the man who'd spoken. It took his confused brain several seconds to process the visual information.

A short, thickset man in his mid twenties. Powerful arms from years of lifting weights. A neat goatee beard. It was Jesus Rodriguez, Carlos Rodriguez's nephew and a borderline psychopath. Donovan had seen him several times in Carlos Rodriguez's entourage but had never spoken to the man. He'd heard the rumours, though. Ears cut off. Prostitutes scarred for life. Bodies dumped at sea, still alive and attached to anchors.

"Oh, just hanging around," said Donovan, trying to sound confident even though he knew that if the Colombian had just wanted a chat he wouldn't have had him picked up and suspended from the ceiling. And the fact that Doyle hadn't called him to warn him about the Colombians meant that he probably wasn't able to.

"You should have let me know you were coming."

"Where's my uncle's money, Donovan?" said Rodriguez.

Donovan stopped turning. The rope had twisted as far as it would go. He was facing away from the Colombian and all he could see was the black saloon. Its boot was open. That was how they'd got him to the garage. And if things didn't go well, it was probably how he'd leave.

"Somebody borrowed it," said Donovan.

"Well, amigo, I hope they're paying you a good rate of interest, because that loan is going to cost you your life."

"I didn't steal your money, Jesus," said Donovan. The rope began to untwist and Donovan revolved slowly.

"So where is our ten million dollars?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's not the answer I'm looking for, capullo."

Donovan heard metal scraping and a liquid sloshing sound. Something being unscrewed. More sloshing. A strong smell of petrol. Then the three pairs of legs swung into view. One of the men was holding a red petrol can.

Donovan's insides lurched.

"Look, Jesus, I haven't got your money."

The man with the can started splashing it over Donovan's legs. Donovan began to shiver uncontrollably. His conscious mind, his intelligence, told him that Rodriguez wouldn't kill him while there was a chance that he'd get his money, but he'd heard enough horror stories about the man to know how irrational he could be, especially when he'd taken cocaine. Rodriguez was a user as well as a supplier, and when he was using he was a nasty piece of work.

"If you haven't got my uncle's money, then there's nothing for us to talk about, is there?"

"I've been ripped off. By my accountant."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Wrong answer."

More petrol was slopped over Donovan's legs. It dripped down his chest and dribbled into his nose, stinging so badly that his eyes watered. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, hoping that the Colombian wouldn't think he was crying.

"I'm looking for him. For God's sake, Jesus, he's ripped off sixty million fucking dollars."

"Of which ten million is my uncle's."

"If I had the money, I'd have given it to him. You think I don't know what happens to people who don't pay your uncle?"

"If you didn't, you're about to find out."

The man with the red can poured the last of the petrol down Donovan's back. It trickled down the back of his neck and dribbled through his hair. The fumes made him gag and he felt as if he would pass out again.

"Why did you run, capullo?

"Because I knew if I didn't pay, this would happen."

Rodriguez snorted.

"You thought you'd be safe in London, did you?"

"No, but I thought if I could get enough time, I might be able to get the bastard. Get the money back."

Rodriguez folded his arms and studied Donovan.

"And how were you planning to do that?" he asked.

Donovan forced a smile.

"I thought I might hang him upside down and pour petrol over him. See if that works."

Rodriguez stared at Donovan with cold eyes, then a smile slowly spread across his face. He threw back his head and laughed. His two companions stood watching Rodriguez laugh as if they didn't understand what was funny. Rodriguez wiped his eyes and shook his head.

"You English, you always keep your sense of humour, no matter what. What's the expression you have? To die laughing?"

"Killing me won't get your uncle's money back, Jesus. That's the one true thing in this situation."

Rodriguez reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold cigarette lighter. Petrol was pooling on the floor below Donovan's head. Rodriguez crouched down and steadied Donovan with a gloved hand. He looked into his eyes.

"Don't underestimate the fear factor, amigo," he said.

"This will be a lesson to everyone else. Fuck with the Rodriguez family and you'll burn in hell." He patted Donovan on the face, then straightened up.

Donovan panicked.

"For God's sake, Jesus, I've got money. I can pay you some of it."

"How much?"

"I don't know."

"Wrong answer, capullo." Rodriguez raised his hand and clicked the lighter.

Donovan twisted around, thrashing from side to side.

"Jesus, for fuck's sake, stop it."

"How much?"

"Give me a minute. Let me think. Let me bloody think!"

Rodriguez clicked the top down on the lighter.

"One minute. Then it's barbecue time." He took a step back and watched as Donovan slowly twisted in the air.

"I've got two Sparbuch passbooks. That's a million and half bucks."

Rodriguez frowned.

"What's a Sparbuch?"

Donovan cleared his throat and coughed up more bloody phlegm.

"Jesus, I'm choking here. Cut me down, yeah?"

"What is a Sparbuch?" repeated Rodriguez. He clicked the lighter open.

"It's a bank account," said Donovan hurriedly.

"They're for accounts in Czechoslovakia. The ones I've got are in US dollars."

"Fine. So give me the money."

"I don't have the money, I have the passbooks. The money is in Czechoslovakia."

"So transfer the money."

"It's not as easy as that. They're bearer passbooks. Whoever has the passbooks and the passwords has the account. You have to show the passbook to get the money. They won't do electronic transfers."

"That sounds like bullshit," said Rodriguez. He flicked the lighter again.

"Me cargo en tus muertos." I shit on your dead. As bad a curse as there was in Spanish.

"Look, talk to your uncle!" said Donovan hurriedly.

"I'm offering you money here. Kill me and you get nothing. He's going to be really pissed at you if he finds out afterwards that I was going to pay him, right?"

"My uncle has left this up to me, capullo."

"Right. Fine. So make an executive decision here. Call him and tell him I've got a million and half dollars for him. Use your cell phone, come on."

Rodriguez studied Donovan with emotionless brown eyes, then nodded slowly. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number. He kept staring at Donovan, then said something in Spanish. Donovan kept hearing the word 'capullo'. Prick. Rodriguez listened, then nodded, then spoke some more. Donovan's Spanish was good but not fluent, and a lot of what Jesus was saying was slang. Gutter Spanish. However, he mentioned the word "Sparbuch' several times.

Rodriguez walked over to Donovan.

"He wants to talk to you."

Rodriguez thrust the phone against the side of Donovan's head.

"What's this about Sparbuch accounts?" asked Carlos Rodriguez.

"Everyone uses them in Europe, Carlos. They're better than cash. It's clean money, it's in the fucking bank, for God's sake."

"But if I want the cash, I have to go to Czechoslovakia?"

"It's a three-hour flight. It's no big deal. But they're better than cash. You owe someone, you give them the passbook and the password."

There was a long silence and for a moment Donovan thought the connection had been cut.

"Carlos? Are you there?"

"Where are these passbooks?"

"In my hotel."

"That still leaves you eight and a half million dollars short."

"Paintings," said Donovan.

"I have paintings in the house. Three million dollars' worth."

"What good are paintings to me?"

"You can sell them. Three million, easy."

"I'm not an art dealer, amigo."

"Bloody hell, Carlos, work with me on this, will you? With the paintings and the passbooks, I've got almost five million dollars."

"Which is only half what you owe me. The man who ripped you off. Who is he?"

"My accountant. Sharkey, his name is."

"And you gave this man access to your accounts." Rodriguez chuckled.

"I didn't think you were that stupid, amigo."

"He had help," said Donovan. He was starting to relax a little. At least the Colombian was talking, and so long as he was talking Donovan had a chance.

"Ah yes. Your wife," said Rodriguez.

"So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?"

The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering. Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.

"Yeah, I feel like a right twat, Carlos. Does that make you happy?"

"The only thing that will make me happy is when I have my ten million dollars."

"Killing me isn't going to get your money back."

"So you said. Where is your wife now?"

"Sitting at home waiting for me. Where the fuck do you think she is, Carlos?" spat Donovan.

"She's on the fucking run, that's where she is."

"You have people looking for her?"

"The Spaniard."

"Rojas is good. Expensive, but good. Does he know your money's gone?" Donovan didn't reply and Rodriguez chuckled.

"Your situation just gets worse and worse, doesn't it, amigoT Jesus Rodriguez was glaring at Donovan, annoyed at having to hold the phone to his mouth.

"What about when the consignment arrives?" said Rodriguez.

"How were you expecting to pay the second tranche?"

"What can I say, Carlos? I haven't got the first ten mill, let alone the second."

"So even if I take what you're offering me now, you're not going to be able to pay for the consignment when it arrives?"

"If I find that bastard Sharkey, you'll get your money."

"That's a big "if, amigo. The people who are taking on the cocaine, they have paid you half, yes?"

"Yes."

"Fifteen million?"

"Eighteen."

"I presume they are not yet aware of your financial situation," said Rodriguez.

"God willing."

Rodriguez chuckled "Amiga, you are in so much shit. How can I let you go? If I don't kill you, they will. And if they kill you, I lose everything."

"If I can deliver the gear, they'll pay me another eighteen mill," said Donovan.

"You can have all that. The eighteen plus the passbooks plus the paintings is more than twenty mill. You get your money, they get their gear. Everyone wins."

"But why do I need you in this equation, amigo?" asked Rodriguez.

"Why don't I just tell my nephew to kill you now?"

"It's my deal."

"It was your deal," he said.

"Who is taking delivery of the cars?" he asked.

Donovan closed his eyes. He could see where Rodriguez was going.

"You can't do this to me, Carlos."

"Amigo, I can tell my nephew to turn you into a flaming kebab and do what the hell I want with the cars, so don't tell me what I can and cannot do."

Donovan opened his eyes.

"It's being split between Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen," he said.

"Fifty fifty."

"Jordan I have heard of," said Rodriguez, 'but who is this Macfadyen?"

"He's a big fish in Edinburgh. They both are. Got the backing of some property guys who were looking to diversify.

This is their first big deal but I know them from way back. Solid as they come. Look, let me run with this, Carlos. You'll get your money. All of it."

"I don't think so, amigo. When word gets out how you've been screwed, no one's going to be doing business with you. It'll be open season. I will deal with Jordan and Macfadyen myself "You bastard!"

Jesus Rodriguez took the phone away from Donovan's ear and slapped him across the face. Talk to my uncle with respect, capullo. With respect." He slapped Donovan again and then put the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry about that, Carlos," said Donovan. He spat out more bloody phlegm.

"Your nephew wanted a word."

"He's a good boy. Very enthusiastic. Now what were you saying? Questioning the marital status of my parents, I seem to remember."

Jesus started to click his lighter again.

"Okay, okay!" shouted Donovan.

"It's yours! The deal's yours!"

"Good call," said Carlos Rodriguez.

"Let me talk to my nephew."

Donovan tried to smile up at Jesus Rodriguez.

"He wants to talk to you."

Jesus walked up and down as he listened to his uncle, his shoes crunching on the bare concrete. Eventually he put the phone away and walked back to where Donovan was gently swinging.

"You are one lucky capullo' he said.

"I'm staying at the Intercontinental. Tell Jordan and Macfadyen to contact me there. I will explain the new arrangement to them."

"Okay," said Donovan wearily.

"How long will it take you to sell your paintings?" asked Rodriguez.

Donovan glared at the Colombian.

"Oh, come on. You'll get your money for the gear, Jesus."

"My uncle says you owe interest, capullo. I will take the passbooks and the money from the paintings." He held out the lighter.

"Or we end this now."

The fight went out of Donovan. Suspended from the ceiling and doused with petrol didn't put him in any position to argue with the Colombian. Besides, Carlos Rodriguez did occupy the moral high ground, in as much as there was a moral high ground in the world of drug trafficking. Donovan had promised to pay ten million dollars when the drugs left Mexico. He had failed to come up with the money, and in the circles that Donovan moved in, that was equivalent to signing his own death warrant. Donovan had hoped that he would have been able to find Sharkey before Rodriguez had found him, but his gamble had failed and now he had to pay the price.

"You can have the passbooks tonight," said Donovan.

"I should be able to sell the pictures within a few days."

"I will be in London for three days. Bring the money and the passbooks to me at the hotel." He started to walk away, then hesitated.

"Don't make a fool of me again, capullo."

I won't.

"Next time I won't phone my uncle. I don't have to say that I know how to find you, and that I know where your son is, do I?"

"No, you don't," said Donovan coldly.

Rodriguez nodded.

"Three days," he repeated, then walked away.

"Jesus!"

Rodriguez turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Cut me down, yeah?"

Rodriguez nodded at his men. One of them took a penknife from his coat pocket and walked behind Donovan. Donovan felt the rope being cut from around his wrists. His fingers began to tingle as the circulation returned. Rodriguez walked away as the man cut the rope around Donovan's ankles. Donovan hit the ground hard, jarring his shoulder, but he was so numb that he felt hardly any pain. He lay on the concrete floor, gasping for breath.

He heard the doors of the car open and slam shut, then the engine revving. A metal gate rattled up and the car drove out and then he was alone. He sat up, massaging his legs, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Carlos Rodriguez wasn't the most vicious of the Colombian drug lords, but he was far from being a pushover, and Donovan knew for a fact that he'd killed several times. One simple command from him and Jesus would have happily ended Donovan's life.

Donovan had always got on well with Carlos Rodriguez, which might have explained the Colombian's apparent change of heart. Or maybe Rodriguez had never intended to kill Donovan; maybe it had all been a mind game from the start and Jesus Rodriguez and his two henchmen were pissing themselves laughing as they drove away.

Donovan stood up slowly. He was still drenched in petrol so he took off most of his clothes and draped them on a workbench to dry. He paced up and down as he considered his options, which now appeared to be few and far between.

Marty Clare started his third set of sit-ups. He did three hundred during each early-morning workout, six sets of fifty. His torso glistened and he grunted each time he sat upright, his hands clenched behind his neck, his knees slightly bent.

The man watching Clare was also sweating, but not from exertion. He was a tall, almost gangly, black man in his late twenties with a shaved head and wicked scar on his left forearm. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his right hand was in his pocket, clenched around an eight-inch-long metal spike that had been carefully sharpened.

The gym was covered by two closed-circuit television cameras that were constantly monitored by prison guards in the control centre. The CCTV cameras were in fixed positions and the man knew that he was standing in a blind spot. The man's hand was sweating but he didn't want to take it out and wipe it because that would mean letting go of the spike. Two men were working with weights, but they had been in the gym for almost an hour and were getting towards the end of their workout.

Clare finished his third set and stood up, wiping his face with his towel. He went over to a press bench and picked up two small free weights, then lay on his back on the bench. The man watched. And waited. He went and sat on an exercise bike and pedalled slowly. The exercise bike was also out of view of the two CCTV cameras.

Clare worked on his arms and pectorals for ten minutes then went back to his sit-ups. The man carried on cycling slowly, his hand still on the spike.

The two men at the weights bench laughed and headed for the door, wiping their faces with their towels.

Clare got to his feet, stretched and groaned, and picked up his towel. He walked past the exercise bikes, humming to himself. The man kept his head down until Clare had gone by, then slid off his saddle and walked up behind Clare, pulling out the spike. Clare turned to look at the man, but before he could react the man sprang forward, grasping for the collar of Clare's T-shirt with his left hand as he thrust the spike forward. Clare twisted and the spike ripped through his shirt. Clare swore and tried to push the man away but the man was too quick and slashed with the spike, cutting Clare's upper arm. Blood spurted across Clare's chest and the man lashed out again, this time with a stabbing movement. Clare fell back, but the man followed through and the spike stabbed into Clare's stomach. He carried on falling back and crashed into an exercise bike, then rolled on to his side. The man raised the spike above his head but then hesitated. Clare was lying in an area covered by the CCTV camera by the door.

The man turned, kept his head down and hurried out of the gym, thrusting the spike into his pocket as he jogged down the corridor.

Clare put his hands over the wound in his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers and he screamed up at the CCTV camera.

"You bastards! Get down here!"

The single lens stared down at him dispassionately. Clare groaned and closed his eyes.

Den Donovan woke up with a splitting headache. He wasn't sure if it was the petrol fumes or the clip on the side of the head that had done the damage, but either way his head throbbed every time he moved it. He found a small plastic kettle and sachets of coffee, creamer and sugar on a table next to the wardrobe and made himself a cup of strong coffee. He sat on the bed and sipped it as he considered his options. He didn't appear to have many. He had to give the two Sparbuchs to Rodriguez. He had to sell his paintings and give the proceeds to the Colombian. Then he had to put Jordan and Macfadyen in touch with him and step out of the deal. Which left him with what? Not much, Donovan decided. There was the Russian deal on the back burner but the Russians would want cash in advance and cash was something that Donovan was fast running out of.

First things first. He picked up one of the unused mobile phones and dialled Macfadyen's mobile number from memory. The answering service kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, but just gave the number of the mobile and asked Macfadyen to call him. Charlie Macfadyen was a religious screener of calls, so Donovan wasn't surprised when he called back two minutes later.

"How's it going, you old bastard?" asked Macfadyen.

"I've had better weeks," said Donovan.

"Where are you?"

"London. There isn't a problem, is there?" asked Macfadyen.

"Not for you, mate," said Donovan.

"Everything's sweet. But from now on you're dealing with the man direct."

"Since when?"

"Since today."

"You okay, mate?" Macfadyen sounded concerned and Donovan was touched.

"Not really. Your man'll explain the situation."

"I'd rather be dealing with you better the devil and all that shit."

"It's not an either or," said Donovan.

"He wants to deal direct."

"And you're walking away? Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I don't know him. I do know you."

Donovan closed his eyes and cursed silently. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have over the phone.

"We're gonna have to meet," said Macfadyen.

"Where are you?"

"Can't you just do as you're told?" said Donovan angrily.

"Look, mate, you've got a stack of my bread. How do I know your guy's gonna honour that? Caveat fucking emptor, right?

How do I know it's not gonna be guns blazing when I go to see him?"

"Because he wants to meet at the Intercontinental."

"Oh, it's in the book of rules now that no one gets shot in a five-star hotel, is it?"

"Your imagination's in overdrive," said Donovan.

"Take a Prozac, will you?"

"I'm serious, Den," said Macfadyen.

"I need more than this or you can give me back my bread and we'll call it quits."

Donovan's head felt like it was splitting in half. He transferred the phone to his other ear. Giving Macfadyen his money back was an impossibility. And if he refused to go through with the deal, the Colombian would be back with another can of petrol and the lighter, and this time there'd be nothing Donovan could say or do that would stop him going up like a roman candle.

"You know the Paddington Stop, yeah?"

"Little Venice?"

"See you on the terrace in one, yeah?"

"I'm bringing Ricky with me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Be nice, yeah?" said Donovan.

"We're on the same side here."

"I bloody hope so, Den. See you in one hour."

The phone went dead. Donovan pulled the battery off the back of the phone and removed the Sim card. He dropped it into the toilet bowl in the bathroom and flushed, then put a replacement Sim card into the phone. He put on his jacket and headed out. As he was closing the door he hesitated, then went back into the room and got the two Sparbuchs out of his suitcase. The Paddington Stop was less than half an hour's walk if he went the direct route, but that meant walking past Paddington Green police station, and he'd prefer to give it a wide berth. Besides, a long walk might help clear his head.

"So, Mr. Clare, how are you feeling?" asked the prison governor. He was a small, portly man in his late thirties with a kindly face and gold-framed glasses.

"How do you think I'm feeling?" said Clare.

"He nearly killed me."

"Superficial, I'm told," said the governor.

"If someone stabbed you in the stomach, I doubt you'd think it superficial," said Clare bitterly. He was lying in the prison hospital ward. Only three of the eight beds were occupied. The other two patients were prisoners recovering from drug overdoses and were both on the far side of the ward, connected to saline drips. A guard had been standing by the door ever since Clare had been admitted.

"Neither of your wounds were life-threatening, Mr. Clare," said the governor patiently, 'but that's not to say we're not taking the matter seriously. You say you can't identify your assailant?"

"He was black. In his twenties, maybe. I hardly saw him."

"Many of our inmates are black, Mr. Clare. You can appreciate how difficult it is to identify the man from your description."

"I want out of here," said Clare.

"Now."

"The medical facilities here are more than sufficient for your needs, Mr. Clare," said the governor. He looked at a white-coated doctor who nodded on cue.

"I don't give a shit about my medical treatment," said Clare.

"We all know what this was about. It was Den Donovan. He either wanted to warn me, or he wanted me dead. Either way, I'm out of here. Get me my lawyer, and get me Hathaway. If he wants me to grass on Donovan, he can bloody well make sure I'm taken care of

Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens and across Lancaster Gate to Hyde Park. It was a sunny morning but there was a cold breeze blowing across the park so he zipped up his bomber jacket and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had his baseball cap and sunglasses on.

Two young women in tight tops, jodhpurs and boots were riding gleaming chestnut horses along the bridle path. Donovan wasn't the only male head to turn and watch them go by. They moved in unison, gripping their mounts with their muscular thighs.

As Donovan watched them ride off, he scanned the park, looking for familiar figures. He'd been checking reflections in windows and car mirrors all the way down Sussex Gardens and had knelt down to tie his shoelaces before entering the park, and he was reasonably sure that he hadn't been followed. He wasn't looking at faces, or even heads, because faces were notoriously hard to recognise, and profiles of heads could easily be changed with wigs or hats or scarves. Donovan checked out bodies. Their shape, their posture, the way they moved. People who were watching or following weren't behaving normally, and no matter how good they were, there'd be signs that could be spotted a stiffness, a momentary hesitation when they were looked at, an awkwardness about disguising the hands going towards a concealed microphone, a hundred and one things that could give them away. Donovan saw nothing to worry him.

Half an hour later, Donovan was on the towpath opposite the Paddington Stop. He leaned against the railings and waited. There was a terrace between the pub and the canal with half a dozen wooden tables and benches, most of which were occupied by midday drinkers from the nearby council estates.

Donovan saw Jordan and Macfadyen arrive in a bright red Ferrari with the top down. They drove into the car park behind the pub and a couple of minutes later walked out on to the terrace. Donovan stayed where he was and watched with an amused smile as the two men checked out the occupants of all the tables. Jordan shook his head and Macfadyen looked at his watch. Eventually Macfadyen spotted Donovan and said something to Jordan. Both men looked at him across the canal. Donovan pointed to the footbridge and motioned for them to come over.

He walked back along the towpath as Macfadyen and Jordan walked over the bridge.

"What's up, Den?" teased Jordan in his nasal Liverpudlian whine.

"Thought we'd be here mob-handed?" Jordan was average build with a beaked nose and a cleft chin and ears that stuck out like cup handles. He was dressed as usual in black Armani and had a chunky gold ring on his right hand that glinted in the sun. Macfadyen was more casually dressed, sporting a black Valentino leather jacket over a pale green polo-necked pullover, and he had a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was balding and had shaved what hair he had left close to his skull, showing off a curved scar above his left ear that looked like a Nike swoosh. Both men, like Donovan, were wearing sunglasses. Jordan's were Armani.

Den smiled and shrugged. The bridge was an excellent way of making sure he knew exactly who he'd be meeting. If they'd turned up with reinforcements, he'd have been able to beat a hasty retreat back under the A4O and disappear into the Bayswater shopping crowds.

"Just being careful." He hugged Jordan and patted him on the back. He felt Jordan's hands run down his back, the fingers probing under Donovan's jacket.

"For fuck's sake, Ricky," he protested.

"What are you looking for?"

Macfadyen was watching, an amused look on his face.

"Yeah, well, you've gotta expect us to be careful, too," he said. He nodded at the bridge.

"No need for that. You think we'd have come near you if we'd had a sniff that Five-O were on our tail?"

Donovan pushed Jordan away, then took off his jacket and undid his shirt. He pulled his shirt open and showed it to Macfadyen.

"Satisfied?" he sneered.

Macfadyen put his hands up and patted the air.

"Calm down, Den." He grinned.

"I mean, keep your shirt on, yeah? You've got to admit, this isn't the gospel according to Den, is it?"

"You think I'm setting you up?" asked Donovan, buttoning up his shirt.

"You haven't said what you're doing, have you?" said Jordan.

Donovan turned and started walking across the grassy area towards a children's playground. A few swings, a climbing frame, a rusting roundabout. Every flat surface had been covered in graffiti. Nothing clever or ironic, just names. Tags proclaiming territory like dogs pissing against trees. I wrote this, therefore I exist. Empty cries in an uncaring world.

Jordan and Macfadyen followed Donovan.

"Who is he?" asked Macfadyen in his thick Scottish brogue.

"Carlos Rodriguez. He's Colombian. He's big, Charlie. No way's he going to rip you off." He stopped to let the two men catch up, then they walked together to the playground.

"He's the supplier?"

Donovan nodded.

"And you're giving him to us?"

"I think Carlos sees it as the other way around," said Donovan bitterly.

"He's cutting you out?" said Jordan.

"Are you two just gonna keep staring this gift horse down the throat?" said Donovan.

"If I was you I'd be biting my hand off."

"We don't know him, Den," said Jordan.

"We do know you."

"Which is why they want to meet you."

"He's here?" asked Macfadyen.

"His nephew. Jesus."

"We meet him, then what?" asked Jordan.

Donovan frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Future deals. Do we still do business with you?"

Donovan grimaced. It wasn't a question he was able to answer, but he doubted that Rodriguez would ever trust him again.

Macfadyen caught Donovan's look.

"What's happening, Den?"

"Just leave it be, Charlie."

"Is this to do with Marty Clare being banged up in Holland?" Macfadyen asked.

"No."

"We heard he's talking."

Donovan pulled a face.

"He can't hurt me."

Jordan fiddled with his gold ring.

"This Colombian, he's got our money, right?"

"Sort of "Sort of?" repeated Macfadyen incredulously.

"How can he sort of have eighteen million dollars?"

"He's happy to proceed with the deal. When the consignment arrives you pay him the balance."

"You sure about that?" asked Jordan.

"Give me a break, Ricky."

"You can see why we're nervous, Den," said Macfadyen.

"What happens if we turn up and this Colombian says he never saw our money? They're mad bastards, Colombians. Shoot first and fuck the questions, right?"

"Carlos isn't like that," said Donovan. He thought that Jesus might well be the sort to shoot before thinking, but he figured it better not to let them know that.

"Even so .. ." said Macfadyen.

"What do you want, Charlie? Spit it out." Donovan already knew what Macfadyen was going to suggest. It's what he would have insisted on had the roles been reversed.

"You come with us to the meet," said Macfadyen.

"That's not a good idea and you know it. You, me and the Colombian together in one place. Too many fucking cooks, Charlie."

Macfadyen looked at Jordan and something unspoken passed between them. Jordan nodded.

"You're there or we walk away here and now," said Macfadyen quietly.

"That'd be your call, Charlie."

"We'd be wanting our money back."

"And I'd be wanting to shag Britney Spears but it ain't gonna happen," said Donovan.

"Then it'd all get very heavy," said Macfadyen.

"Britney Spears?" said Jordan.

"You'd shag Britney Spears?"

"I was speaking hypothetically," said Donovan.

"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll introduce you. But once you've shaken hands, I'm outta there. Okay?"

Macfadyen and Jordan exchanged another meaningful look. This time it was Macfadyen who nodded.

"Okay," said Macfadyen.

"When?"

"Let me make a call." Donovan took out one of his mobile phones.

Two Dutch plainclothes detectives escorted Marty Clare to the waiting Saab. Clare had insisted through his lawyer that he be taken from the detention centre in a regular car rather than a prison van, and he didn't want any uniforms anywhere near him. Clare's lawyer had spoken to Hathaway at length and had eventually persuaded him to allow Clare to be interrogated at a hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam.

As the taller of the two detectives opened the rear door of the Saab, his jacket fell open and Clare caught a glimpse of a holstered automatic. That had been another stipulation of Clare's he wanted round-the-clock armed protection. The attack in the gym might well have been a warning, but once Donovan found out that Clare was still talking there'd be hell to pay.

The taller detective climbed into the back seat after Clare while the other got into the front and told the driver to head on out.

The car was checked over by two uniformed guards while a third guard examined the ID cards of the two detectives and the paperwork permitting Clare's removal from the centre. There was a photograph of Clare clipped to a letter from the governor's office and the guard carefully checked the likeness against Clare's face. Clare grinned but the guard remained impassive.

The metal gate rattled to the side and the Saab edged forward. A second gate leading to the street didn't start opening until the first gate had closed behind the car.

"This place had better have room service," said Clare.

"And cable. My lawyer was supposed to have insisted on cable."

The two detectives said nothing. Clare turned to the policeman next to him and asked if he had a cigarette. The man shook his head. The car edged into the traffic, then accelerated away.

"What is this, the silent treatment?" joked Clare, but the detective just stared out of the window, stony faced.

"Fuck you, then," said Clare and settled back in the seat, his handcuffed wrists in his lap. The cut on Clare's arm barely bothered him, it had only required three stitches, but the wound in his stomach hurt like hell, especially when he was in a sitting position, so he tried to stretch out his legs to make himself more comfortable. The doctor had given Clare a vial of painkillers but told him to use them sparingly. When the detectives had heard that, they'd taken the tablets off Clare. Clare had laughed in their faces. Suicidal he wasn't.

The driver braked as they approached a set of traffic lights.

The lights were green but a white van ahead of them had slowed. The driver muttered under his breath and was about to sound his horn when the lights changed to red. The van pulled up and the Saab stopped behind it.

The detectives spoke to each other in Dutch. The one in the front laughed and Clare had the feeling they were laughing about him. He scowled. He never heard the crack as the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass cubes, and he died instantly as the bullet ripped through the back of his head and spattered brains and blood over the Saab's windscreen.

The driver and the detectives started shouting. Clare's body twitched as a second bullet smacked into the back of his head but he was already dead. The lights changed from red to green and the white van pulled away. Horns began to sound behind the Saab, but they stopped when the detectives piled out of the car, guns raised above their heads.

Juan Rojas unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his rifle and put it into his briefcase, then swiftly disassembled the weapon and put the pieces away. He closed the briefcase and then examined himself in the mirror above the dressing table. Dark blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, crimson tie. He winked at his reflection. He left the briefcase on the dressing table. It would be collected later by the man who had booked the hotel room.

Rojas had shot Clare from the roof of the hotel. The men in the white van had been working for him, as had the man who had stabbed Clare in the gym. It was an easy shot, just over a hundred metres, but the intersection was overlooked by so many tower blocks that the police would never find out where the bullets had come from. Rojas had wrapped the rifle in a towel and then hurried back through the emergency exit door and into the hotel room.

His mohair coat was hanging on the back of the door and he put it on, then gave his hotel room a once over to make sure that he hadn't left anything behind other than the briefcase. He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the elevator to take him down to the ground floor. Five minutes later he was in a taxi, heading for the airport.

Den Donovan walked along the edge of the Serpentine. Two small children were throwing pieces of bread for a noisy flock of ducks. A large white swan watched disdainfully from a distance. A helicopter clattered high overhead. Donovan kept his head down, more from habit than from any realistic fear that the helicopter was on a surveillance operation.

Macfadyen and Jordan were several hundred yards away, walking together, deep in conversation, though they kept looking across at him. Donovan had insisted on walking to the park, but Macfadyen and Jordan had wanted to drive. They'd parked the Ferrari in the underground car park in Park Lane and were keeping their distance until they'd seen Donovan with the Colombian.

Jesus Rodriguez was standing on the bank of the Serpentine wearing a cream-coloured suit with a white silk shirt buttoned at the neck with no tie.

Donovan hated having to meet Rodriguez out in the open, because it made it harder to spot any surveillance, but Macfadyen and Jordan hadn't wanted a meeting indoors. They hung back as Donovan walked up to Rodriguez.

"Is that them?" asked the Colombian, nodding at Macfadyen and Jordan.

"Yeah. They're jittery. So am I."

"We're just having a walk in the park, my friend."

"A Colombian drugs lord, two of the main suppliers of Class A drugs in Scotland, and Tango One. The fact that we're in one place is just about grounds for a conspiracy charge."

"You worry too much," said the Colombian. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and slipped a cigarette between his lips. He held his gold lighter up and grinned mischievously at Donovan.

"You changed your clothes, I hope?" Donovan flashed Rodriguez a cold smile and Rodriguez lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the cigarette and then sighed as he exhaled. He started walking alongside the Serpentine and Donovan went with him. He took the Sparbuchs from his inside pocket and handed them to the Colombian.

Rodriguez flicked through them.

"As good as cash, you say?"

"Better than cash," said Donovan.

"They're useless without the passwords. And you can fly around the world with them in your pocket and no one's the wiser."

Rodriguez nodded appreciatively and put the passbooks into his jacket pocket. Donovan handed him a slip of paper with two words written on it. Rodriguez put it in his wallet.

"If it was me, I'd have killed you. You know that?"

"I'd guessed," said Donovan. He looked around casually. The two men who had been with Rodriguez were some distance away, standing in the shade of a spreading sycamore tree.

"Having said that, my uncle told me to tell you that if you do get your finances sorted out, he would be prepared to resume our business relationship."

Donovan smiled ruefully.

"I'll bear that in mind, Jesus. Tell him thanks."

"And you will have the money from the paintings before I leave London?"

"I hope so," said Donovan.

Rodriguez chuckled dryly.

"Just remember that we have another can of petrol," he said.

"Now, these two men in black, they know the score?"

Donovan nodded.

"They'll pay you on delivery. Eighteen mill. They have it offshore, so they can transfer to any account you nominate."

"How much do they know about me?"

"Your name. And that you're the supplier. They're worried it might be a set-up. That's why they want me here."

Rodriguez grinned.

"So you can protect them?"

"So that if the shit hits the fan, I'll get hit, too."

"Do you think they're satisfied yet?"

"I'll ask them." Donovan beckoned at Macfadyen and Jordan. The two men looked at each other, then walked cautiously over the grass towards him. Donovan turned to the Colombian.

"You can trust them, Jesus."

"My uncle thought he could trust you, capullo."

"This isn't about trust. I was ripped off."

"The hows and whys don't concern me, all that matters is the money. That's what this business is all about: the movement and acquisition of capital. That's why you must never make it personal. When you make it personal is when you make mistakes." He patted Donovan on the back again, hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Remember that."

"Thanks, Jesus," said Donovan.

"Did you get that from a Christmas cracker?"

"My father told me that," said Rodriguez.

"A lifetime ago. Before he was shot in the back of the head by a capullo he turned his back on."

Macfadyen and Jordan joined them. Macfadyen nodded at Rodriguez, then jerked a thumb towards the men under the tree.

"They with you?" he asked.

"They are," said Rodriguez evenly.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not so long as they stay where they are," said Macfadyen.

"There are three of you and one of me but you don't see me shitting my pants," said Rodriguez. He blew a tight plume of smoke that was quickly whisked away by the wind. He nodded at Donovan.

"Perhaps you should do the honours."

"This is Charlie Macfadyen. Edinburgh's finest. Charlie, this is Jesus Rodriguez."

The two men shook hands.

"And this is Ricky Jordan."

"From Liverpool," said Rodriguez.

"Birthplace of the Beatles." He shook hands with Jordan.

"I've heard of you, Ricky. You were in Miami two years ago doing business with Roberto Galardo."

Jordan narrowed his eyes and Rodriguez laughed out loud.

"Don't worry, Ricky, I'm not DEA. Roberto is an old friend. And he quite definitely didn't tell me about you and those three lap-dancers." He winked conspiratorially.

"You do know that the Hispanic one was a transsexual, right?"

Jordan's face flushed and Macfadyen sniggered.

"You never told me about that, Ricky," he teased.

"She was female," said Jordan.

"Of course she was," said Rodriguez.

"By the time you met her."

Jordan's brow creased into a frown, not sure whether Rodriguez was joking or not.

The Colombian put his arm around Jordan's shoulder and hugged him.

"So, let's talk business, shall we?" He looked across at Donovan.

"Call me at the hotel about the other thing, okay? Two days."

Donovan nodded.

"You okay now?" he asked Macfadyen.

"Yeah. I guess."

"I'll leave you to it. Be lucky, yeah?" He flashed Macfadyen a thumbs-up.

"She was definitely a girl," Jordan continued to protest as Donovan walked away.

Donovan took his time leaving Hyde Park. He had a coffee in the cafeteria overlooking the Serpentine, checking out the faces of the passers-by, then he walked slowly along Rotten Row towards Hyde Park Corner, stopping twice to tie and retie his shoelaces. At one point he looked at his watch and then turned and quickly walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.

Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.

The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.

When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.

The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.

"I'm here to see Maury," he said.

"Is he expecting you?"

"Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?"

She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.

"Do you have many customers?" asked Donovan.

The woman didn't reply. She walked away, her high heels clicking on the grey marble floor like knuckles cracking. Donovan watched her buttocks twitch under her short black skirt, then turned his attention to the painting on the wall opposite the woman's desk. It was modern and mindless, dribbles of paint on over-large canvases, the work of a second-year art student. He took a few steps back, but even distance didn't make the work any more meaningful. There were no price tags on the work, just small pieces of white card with the titles of the pieces. Donovan figured that was always a bad sign, having to give the piece a name. Art should speak for itself.

Scattered around the floor of the gallery were several metal sculptures that looked like the contents of someone's garage welded together haphazardly. Donovan wandered around, shaking his head scornfully.

"Den! Good to see you."

Maury Goldman strode across the gallery, his hand outstretched. His mane of grey hair was swept back as if he'd been riding a scooter without a helmet. Not that there'd be a scooter on the roads capable of bearing Goldman's weight. He was a fat man, bordering on the obese, and his Savile Row suits demanded at least three times the cloth of a regular fitting. As always, his jowly face was bathed in sweat, but his hand when Donovan shook it was as dry as stone. Goldman appeared only days away from a fatal heart attack, but he'd looked that way for the twelve years that Donovan had known him.

Goldman pumped Donovan's hand, and then hugged him. The brunette gave Donovan a frosty look as she went back to her desk, as if she resented the attention that Goldman was giving him.

"When did you get back?" asked Goldman.

"Day or two. How's business?"

Goldman made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand.

"Can't complain, Den."

Donovan gestured at the huge canvases.

"Didn't think you went for this, Maury?"

"Favour for a friend," said Goldman regretfully.

"His son's just graduated .. . what can I say? Maybe Saatchi'll take him under his wing."

Donovan didn't look convinced and Goldman laughed quietly.

"I need a favour, Maury," said Donovan quietly.

Goldman took out a large scarlet handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.

"Come upstairs, we can have a chat there."

Goldman waddled across the gallery and showed Donovan through a door that led to a stairway. He went up the stairs slowly, with Donovan following.

"You should get a lift installed," said Donovan.

"I need the exercise," said Goldman, panting as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door to his private office. He held the door open for Donovan.

The office was a complete contrast to the gallery downstairs, with dark wooden panelling, brass light fittings and a plush royal-blue carpet. The dark oak furniture included a massive desk on which sat an incongruously hi-tech Apple Mac computer. The paintings on the walls were a world apart from the canvases downstairs and Donovan wandered around, relishing the art. Goldman eased himself down on to a massive leather swivel chair behind the desk and watched Donovan with an amused smile on his face.

"This is good," said Donovan in admiration.

"My god, this is good." He was looking at a small black chalk and lithographic crayon drawing of an old woman, her face creased into a thousand wrinkles, yet with eyes that sparkled like a teenager's.

"It's a Goya, right?"

"Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, none other," said Goldman.

"Where the hell did you get it from?"

Goldman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

"Trade secret," he said.

"Kosher?"

Goldman sighed theatrically.

"Dennis, please .. ."

"It must be worth seven fifty, right?"

"Closer to a mill, but I could do you a deal, Dennis," said Goldman, taking a large cigar out of a rosewood box and clipping the end off with a gold cutter.

"It's the other way around," said Donovan, rubbing his chin as he scrutinised the painting.

"I need to sell what I've got."

Goldman lit his cigar and took a deep pull on it, then blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling.

"Have you any idea how much damage the smoke does?" asked Donovan.

"I smoke two a day, doctor's orders."

"I meant to the paintings."

Goldman flashed Donovan a cold smile.

"Do you want to sell everything?"

"Everything in the house."

Goldman raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure you want to do that? Rock solid investments. It's quality you've got there, Den."

"I'm not doing this by choice, Maury, believe me."

Donovan walked over to a green leather armchair opposite the desk and sat on one of the arms. He took out an envelope and dropped it on to Goldman's desk. Goldman opened it and took out a sheet of paper on which Donovan had written down an inventory of all the paintings he wanted to sell.

Goldman took out a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He nodded appreciatively as he ran his eyes down the list.

"We must be talking two mill, Den."

Donovan nodded.

"Maybe more if they went to auction, but I need this doing quickly."

"It's never a good idea to rush into a sale, Den." Goldman leaned forward and tapped ash into a large crystal ashtray.

"You know any bank would lend against those paintings, don't you? Shove them in a vault and take out a loan. You'd pay six per cent, maybe seven."

"I'd only get half the value. Maybe seventy five per cent if I was lucky. I need all of it, Maury, and I need it now."

"Now?"

"Tomorrow."

Goldman's eyes widened.

"Are you in trouble, Den?"

"Not if you sell those paintings PDQ, no. Can you buy them off me?"

Goldman exhaled deeply.

"Two million pounds is out of my league, Den. Give me a week or so and I could maybe fix something up, but you know I could only offer you trade. You need a private buyer."

"Do you know anyone?"

Goldman shook his head, then took another long pull on the cigar.

"No one who'd buy the lot, Den. It's a great collection you've got, but it's your taste, right. I mean, if they were all Picassos I could shift them within the hour, but you've got a mixed bag. Quality, but mixed. We'd have to split the collection up, find buyers for them individually."

"Can you do that?" Donovan tried to sound relaxed but he knew that the Colombian's goodwill had been stretched to its limit and there was no way he'd get an extension. It was three million dollars within two days or it was the rest of his life on the run. Or worse.

"I can try, Den."

Donovan nodded glumly. He could tell from Goldman's voice that the dealer wasn't optimistic.

"I tell you what, I'd be happy to take the Van Dyck sketches off your hands."

"I'm not giving them away, Maury."

"What do you think's fair?"

"You should know, Maury, I bought two of them from you."

"How much did you pay again?"

Donovan grinned. Goldman had a mind like a steel trap and never forgot a trade.

"You sold them to me for twenty grand apiece, Maury, and that was eight years ago. I paid thirty-five grand for the third one, but as they're all preparatory sketches for the same painting, they've got added value as a set."

Goldman tapped ash into his crystal ashtray.

"A hundred and fifty?" Donovan smiled tightly and Goldman sighed mournfully.

"You're a hard man, Dennis. Two hundred?"

"Two hundred it is, Maury. Cash tomorrow, yeah?"

Goldman nodded.

"I'll get on the phone right away about the rest of your collection. Okay if I come around to the house tomorrow morning?"

"Worried I might not have them?"

Goldman ignored Donovan's sarcasm.

"Ten o'clock all right for you?"

Donovan nodded.

Goldman continued to scrutinise the list.

"I know someone who might help," he said.

"In what way? A buyer?"

"A dealer. Young guy, he's been making a bit of a name for himself. Bit of a chancer, it has to be said, but he turns over some good stuff. Sails a bit close to the wind when it comes to provenance, but he has cash buyers. Buyers a bit like yourself, if you get my drift."

"You trust him? This is personal business, Maury. I mean, the paintings are kosher but there's going to be a money trail. I don't have time to do any laundry."

"He's never let me down, Den. And he knows the faces. God forbid I should put you in touch with my competition, but if you're in a bind, he might be able to help."

Donovan nodded.

"Okay, then. What's his name?"

Goldman blew a cloud of smoke across the desk, then waved it away with his hand.

"Fullerton. Jamie Fullerton."

Robbie's thumbs were getting numb, but he didn't want to stop playing with the Gameboy, not while he was so close to beating his personal best. His mobile phone started to ring. He glanced sideways at the phone on the grass beside him. It was a mobile calling him. He put the Gameboy down and picked up his mobile. He didn't recognise the number. He pressed the green button.

"Yes .. ." he said hesitantly.

"Cheer up, you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"Dad!" Robbie shouted. He grinned and pumped his fist in the air.

"That's better," said Donovan.

"You haven't forgotten how to smile, then."

Robbie realised what his father had said. He stood up and looked around the garden, the phone still glued to his ear.

"Where are you?"

"Why? You want to see me?"

"Yes!" Robbie shouted.

"Where are you?"

Donovan stepped out of the kitchen, waving at his son.

"Dad!" Robbie screamed, running towards him. He threw himself at Donovan. Donovan picked him up and swung him around.

"I knew you'd come back," said Robbie.

"I said I would. You know I always keep my word."

Robbie put his arms around Donovan's neck and hugged him tight.

"When did you land? You should have called me, I would have come to the airport."

"I wanted to surprise you," said Donovan. He didn't want to tell Robbie that he'd been in London for two days, or that he'd been in Mark and Laura's house while he was asleep.

"You want a Big Mac?"

"Burger King's better."

"Since when?" Last time Donovan had been in London, Macdonald's was his son's fast food of choice.

"Burger King's better. Everyone knows that. Are we going home?"

"Home?"

"Our house. You're not going to stay with Aunty Laura, are you?"

Donovan put his son back on the ground and ruffled his hair.

"We can talk about that later," he said.

"There's something we've got to do first."

Laura came out of the kitchen.

"Are you staying for dinner, Den?"

"Father and son time," laughed Donovan.

"Junk food's a-calling."

They caught a black cab to Queensway and Donovan took his son into Whiteley's shopping centre. Donovan headed towards a photograph machine on the ground floor.

"What are we doing, Dad?" asked Robbie.

"Passport pictures," said Donovan, helping him into the booth. He gave him two one-pound coins and showed him how to raise the seat.

"I've already got a passport," said Robbie.

"Your mum took it," said Donovan.

"Why?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask her."

"Why do I need a passport?"

"For God's sake, Robbie, will you just do as you're told?" Donovan snapped.

Robbie's face fell and he pulled the curtain shut.

Donovan leaned against the machine.

"Robbie, I'm sorry."

Robbie didn't say anything. There were four flashes and then Robbie got out of the booth. He didn't look at Donovan. Donovan ruffled his son's hair.

"I'm having a bad day, Robbie. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Robbie's voice was flat and emotionless and he still wouldn't look at Donovan.

"We'll go to Burger King, yeah?"

Robbie nodded.

"What are you going to do to mum?"

Donovan's jaw dropped.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not going to let her get away with it, are you?"

"Your mum's made her bed, now she's got to lie in it."

"Will you get divorced?"

"After what she's done, Robbie, she can't come back."

"Yeah, I know. I won't have to stay with her, will I?"

Donovan knelt down so that his face was level with Robbie's.

"Of course not."

"Most of my friends, when their parents split up, they have to live with their mums."

"Yeah, but this is different."

"I know, but it's the judge who decides, right?"

Donovan shook his head.

"After what she did, no judge is going to let her take you away from me. That's as long as you want to stay with me. You do want to stay with me, right?"

"Sure!" said Robbie quickly.

"So that's sorted." Donovan gently banged Robbie's chin with his fist.

"You and me, okay?"

"Okay, Dad."

The strip of photographs slid out of the machine. Robbie picked it up and studied it.

"I look like a geek."

Donovan took the photographs off him.

"You look great." He put the photographs in his pocket. One of the two mobiles he was carrying started to warble. It was the one Rojas was supposed to use. Donovan pressed the phone against his ear.

"How's it going, capullo? he asked, turning away from Robbie.

"The parcel has been dispatched," said Rojas.

"I'm already working on the second matter."

"De puta madre," said Donovan.

"You'll send my fee?"

"Absolutely," said Donovan, though he wished he felt half as confident as he sounded. The line went dead. The Spaniard, like Donovan, always kept calls on mobile phones as short as possible. Even the digitals weren't secure. Virtually no form of communication was these days. Phones, e-mail, letters, all could be intercepted and recorded. Donovan put the phone away and smiled down at Robbie.

"Burger King, yeah?"

Robbie grinned and nodded.

"Great." They walked together out of the shopping centre.

"Dad, you know I know what capullo means, don't you?" asked Robbie.

"I do now," said Donovan.

Robbie's grin widened.

"You should wash your mouth out with soap."

"I'll do that, soon as we get home. But burgers first, yeah?"

Stewart Sharkey carried the two glasses of champagne out on to the terrace and handed one to Vicky. She took it but didn't look at Sharkey. She stared out across the azure Mediterranean with unseeing eyes.

"Cheers," said Sharkey, and touched his glass against hers.

She looked at him slowly, then at the glass in her hand. She frowned, as if seeing it for the first time.

"What have we got to celebrate?" she asked.

"Champagne's not just for celebrating," said Sharkey. He dropped down on to the lounger next to her.

Vicky stared out over the sea again. The bay was dotted with massive white yachts, each worth millions of dollars, and around them moved smaller boats, like worker ants in attendance to the queen.

"We could get a boat," said Sharkey.

"Sail away."

"Den always talked about getting one," said Vicky, her voice flat and emotionless.

"We can do it, Vicky. Tomorrow."

"Where would we go?" she said.

"He'll find us eventually."

"Not here. He's never been to the South of France. Hates the French, you know that. He's no friends here. No contacts."

Vicky turned to look at him.

"So that's the great plan? We stay in Nice for the rest of our lives."

"For God's sake, Vicky, snap out of this, will you!"

She sneered at him and looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"I didn't mean to snap." Vicky didn't react. Sharkey put down his glass and knelt down by the side of her lounger. He stroked her shoulder.

"This is temporary, Vicky. Just until we get things sorted."

Vicky shook her head.

"This isn't getting things sorted. This is hiding."

A red and white helicopter buzzed towards one of the biggest yachts in the bay. Sharkey continued to stroke her shoulder. Her skin was smooth and warm from the sun. He moved his hand up to her neck and ran his fingers through her soft, blonde hair.

"I miss Robbie," she said quietly.

"I know you do."

"I don't think you do," she said.

"You don't have children. You don't know what it's like to have them taken away from you. And that's what Den's going to do. You know that. He'll take Robbie to the Caribbean and I'll never see him again."

"You took his passport, Den can't take him anywhere."

Vicky scowled.

"That's not going to stop him. Den's got half a dozen passports. He can just as easily get one for Robbie."

Sharkey tried to kiss her cheek but she pushed him away.

"Stewart, I don't want to be touched right now. Okay?"

Sharkey put his hands up in surrender.

"Okay. I'm sorry." He sat down on the edge of her lounger.

"Look, there are things we can do. Things I can do. I'll talk to a lawyer. Get some sort of injunction stopping Den taking Robbie out of the country."

"You said we couldn't talk to anyone back in the UK?"

"I'll get it done. I'll find a way. And things are going to get hot for Den he won't be able to hang around London for long."

Vicky shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand.

"What do you mean?"

"Den's got problems, you know that. Customs and the cops will be waiting for him to put a foot wrong. He can't operate in London. He'll have to go back to the Caribbean. And if I talk to a lawyer, he won't be able to take Robbie with him. Once he's gone, we can go back to the UK."

"Den won't run away with his tail between his legs."

"No, but he won't risk twenty years in prison. He's got stuff on the go, and he's going to have to take care of business. He can't do that in London." Sharkey looked earnestly at Vicky, his eyes burning into hers.

"I know what I'm doing, Vicky. I know this is a mess but you're going to have to trust me. Den's as mad as hell just now, but he'll calm down. He'll negotiate. He'll have to."

"Because he wants his money back?"

"Exactly."

"How much did you take, Stewart?"

Sharkey looked away.

"Enough to hurt him. Enough for him to know that he can't push us around."

"How much?"

Sharkey shrugged.

"A few million. It's not important."

"How much is a few?"

"Oh, come on, Vicky. This was never about money. You know that." He took her hand and toyed with her wedding ring.

"I love you. You know I love you. The money's just a way of keeping Den in check. As soon as he's calmed down, we'll give it back. I promise. I've got more than enough to take care of you."

"You promise?"

"What? That I've got enough money?"

"That you'll pay Den back? Once we've sorted out Robbie and everything."

Sharkey nodded.

"I promise."

"I mean it, Stewart. It's one thing to walk out on him. It's another to steal from him."

"You're not stealing. You're entitled. You had signing rights to all those accounts."

Vicky shook her head.

"That was just to keep the money safe. He never gave me the money, it was just in my name."

Sharkey put his hands on her knees.

"Love, we're not stealing from Den. A bit of leverage, that's all I wanted." Vicky bit down on her lower lip. She looked as if she was about to cry again. Sharkey pinched her chin gently.

"Come on, we've got champagne, we've got the sun, we've got a million-dollar view. Let's at least try to enjoy it."

Vicky nodded and forced a smile. Sharkey stood up and kissed the top of her head. She reached up for him and her lips moved to find his. He kissed her and slipped his hand down her bikini top, cupping her breast and feeling her nipple stiffen. She moaned and lay back and Sharkey rolled over on top of her, pushing her bikini bottoms down. She opened her legs wide for him and he entered her quickly, covering her mouth with his to stifle her moans.

She scratched her nails down his shirt and clasped her ankles behind his waist as he pounded into her. Vicky's eyes were closed, but Sharkey stared down at her as he thrust back and forth, his face a tight mask even when he came inside her. His mind wasn't on what he was doing. He was thinking about what he was going to do next. Considering his options. It was starting to look as if he was going to have to choose between Den Donovan's millions and Den Donovan's wife. He'd always planned to have both, and the way things stood at the moment, he wasn't sure which he wanted most.

Vicky opened her eyes and Sharkey smiled down at her.

"I love you," he said, and sounded as if he meant it.

"I love you too," she said, and closed her eyes again.

The taxi pulled up in front of Laura's house. Robbie gave his father a black look and made no move to get out.

"Look, we can't stay in our house," said Donovan.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I told you why not."

"It's our home, Dad."

The driver twisted around in his seat and slid back the glass partition.

"Are you getting out here or not?" he asked in a voice that suggested he couldn't care less either way.

"Give us a minute, yeah?" said Donovan.

"I've got a living to earn, you know."

Donovan's eyes hardened. He stared at the driver.

"The meter's running, so you just turn around and mind your own business, okay?"

The driver hesitated. He tried to meet Donovan's stare but after a few seconds he averted his eyes, mumbled something and then closed the glass partition. Donovan continued to stare at the back of the man's head.

"Dad!" hissed Robbie.

"Stop it."

Donovan turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Don't do that. He's only doing his job."

"He's a prick."

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Lose your temper. It's like you want to start a fight." Robbie nodded at the house.

"I don't want to stay here."

"Aunty Laura takes good care of you, doesn't she?"

"That's not the point."

"What is the point, Robbie?"

Robbie brushed tears from his eyes. He turned his face away so that Donovan couldn't see him cry. Donovan put his arm around his son. Robbie tried to shake him away but Donovan hugged him tightly.

"Just a few days, okay?"

Robbie sniffed.

"Then we can go home?"

"Maybe."

Robbie turned and looked at Donovan accusingly.

"What do you mean, maybe?"

"Are you sure you want to stay in the house?" asked Donovan.

"Wouldn't you prefer to go to Anguilla?"

"No!" said Robbie quickly.

"No way!"

Donovan was surprised by the vehemence in his son's voice.

"I thought you liked the Caribbean?" he said.

"For holidays, yeah. I don't want to live there."

"Come on, Robbie. It's got the sun, the beach. You can go swimming every day. You love it there."

"My friends are here. My school's here."

"Robbie "No!" Robbie shouted.

"I'm staying here! You're not taking me with you!" He fumbled for the door handle and rushed out of the taxi.

Donovan watched him run up to the front door of Laura's house. He started to go after Robbie, but then hesitated and pulled the taxi door shut. He told the driver to go to Sussex Gardens and settled back in the seat.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the palms of his hands. Assuming he could sell his paintings and sell them quickly, he'd be able to pay off Carlos Rodriguez, but with the Colombian dealing direct with Macfadyen and Jordan, Donovan had no imminent source of income. And until he tracked down Sharkey and Vicky, he had virtually no assets, either.

Losing the cocaine deal was a major blow, but Donovan had been planning to end his relationship with Macfadyen and Jordan for some time. The money had started to go to their heads in recent months, and the fact that they'd turned up to a meet in a brand new Ferrari and wearing designer gear suggested that they were losing their grip.

The only good news was that Juan Rojas had taken care of Marty Clare. With Clare out of the equation, the authorities had no evidence against him.

Donovan had known Clare for almost fifteen years, and for the past ten he'd considered him a close friend. They'd been drunk together, they'd partied together, and they'd done business together. Clare had concentrated on cannabis and had refused whenever Donovan had offered to cut him in on cocaine or heroin deals. He'd always protested that the risk reward ratio made hard drugs a dangerous proposition, even though the profits were that much higher. Donovan had always insisted that the risk reward ratio only mattered if you got caught, and Donovan had never come close to being caught.

The fact that Clare had agreed to co-operate with the DEA came as no surprise to Donovan. The DEA were masters at the art of turning players around. They'd spend years gathering evidence and putting together a watertight case, then they'd move in. More often than not, however, they would offer a deal, smaller fishes giving up bigger fishes until they got to the men at the top, the men like Donovan, who were untouchable by conventional means. When it came to facing a twenty-year sentence in a Federal prison, honour among thieves went out of the window pretty damn quickly. Donovan liked to think that he was made of sterner stuff, but he'd never know for certain how he'd react until it happened to him.

Donovan had had no hesitation in ordering Marty Clare's death. He knew that if their positions were reversed, Clare would have done the same. That was how the game was played. You stood by your friends until they betrayed you, then you made sure that retribution was decisive and swift. Clare knew the rules, and he would have known that the minute he started to talk his life would be on the line. He'd have taken that into consideration, factored it into the equation, risk and reward. The reward a life in a witness protection programme, but at least there'd be no bars on the windows and no tattooed men wanting to play pick-up-the-soap in the showers. The risk -retribution from Den Donovan. Donovan smiled to himself. He wondered if Sharkey had run the risk reward calculation for his own situation. He must have done, he must have known how he'd react. Perhaps he'd assumed that his Tango One status would keep him confined to the Caribbean; perhaps he'd assumed that Carlos Rodriguez would do his dirty work for him. Whatever, he'd got the calculation wrong. Retribution would be decisive and swift. And highly personal.

Donovan arrived at the house just after nine thirty the next morning. He let himself in through the back door and tapped in the burglar alarm code. He went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. The milk in the fridge was well past its sell-by date, so he poured it down the sink and sipped his coffee black.

He walked through to his study and stood looking at the painting that concealed the safe. The yachts were turning into the wind, the sky smeared redly behind them. On the left was the skyline of nineteenth-century New York. Donovan never tired of looking at the picture.

He sat down at his desk and took out one of the mobiles that he hadn't used. He dialled the UK number that Gregov had given him. It was answered by a woman with a Russian accent who said that Gregov was helping to load one of the planes, but that if Donovan didn't mind waiting she'd go and get him.

Donovan swung his feet up on to the desk and whistled softly to himself until Gregov came on the line.

"Den, good to hear from you."

"Hiya, Gregov. Wasn't sure if I'd catch you."

"We're flying out tomorrow. Loading up the last of the supplies now. Forty thousand kilos of food and medicine. I love earthquakes, Den. My bread and butter."

"When are you flying back?" asked Donovan.

"Next week. Are we in business, then?"

"Maybe. I'll try to get the finances sorted then I'll get back to you. Eight thousand kilos, right? At three thousand a key?"

"That's right. Twenty-four total, call it twenty-five with expenses."

Donovan raised his eyebrows. Twenty-five million US dollars. He wondered how enthusiastic Gregov would be if he knew the true state of Donovan's finances, but the deal Gregov was offering was so sweet that it could be the answer to all his prayers.

"That seems cheap, Gregov."

"Sure, they're friends of mine. Army buddies. I got them out of a few scrapes in Afghanistan, they sort of owe me. But that's the regular price. Their processing plant is in the middle of nowhere once it gets anywhere near a big city the price doubles. Out of Turkey it goes up tenfold. It's cheap because I get it at the source. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, of course not," said Donovan, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.

"Good man," said Gregov.

"You have the bank account number?"

Donovan said he had.

"When you're ready to move, call Maya at the number you have. She'll get through to me, even if I'm in the air. This is going to be great, Den. Capitalism rules, yeah?"

"Sure," said Donovan.

The doorbell rang as Donovan cut the connection, and he went through to the hall and opened the front door. Maury Goldman stood there with a tall, blond-haired man in his late twenties, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and grey shirt. The man looked fit, as if he worked out, and he flexed his shoulders under his jacket as Donovan looked him up and down.

"Den, this is Jamie Fullerton," said Goldman.

Fullerton stuck out his hand and Donovan shook it. It was a firm, strong grip, and Fullerton held Donovan's look as he squeezed. It wasn't quite a trial of strength, but Donovan felt that Fullerton had something to prove. Donovan continued to apply pressure on the handshake, and Fullerton matched it, then Fullerton nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Donovan."

"Mr. Donovan was my dear old dad and he's well dead. I'm Den," said Donovan, waving them into the house. He patted Goldman on the back and closed the door.

"Do you want coffee?" he asked.

"Coffee would be good," said Fullerton.

Goldman nodded. Donovan took them into the kitchen and made three mugs of coffee, apologising for the lack of milk. Goldman and Fullerton sat down at the pine kitchen table.

"Maury told you what I need?" asked Donovan.

"You want to sell your collection ASAP," said Fullerton.

"Shouldn't be a problem."

"I showed Jamie your inventory," said Goldman.

"He's spoken to several potential buyers already."

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Donovan," said Fullerton.

"Den," he said, correcting himself with an embarrassed smile.

"I thought that with the time pressure, you'd want me to hit the ground running."

"No sweat," said Donovan.

"Have you had any feedback?"

"Some of them I can sell for you today, but the others I'm going to have to show. Can I bring people around here to see them?"

"I'd rather not," said Donovan.

"With respect to your clients, I don't want strangers traipsing around my house. Plus, I'd rather not have people know where they've come from."

Fullerton smiled easily.

"I understand that, but the alternative is to let me walk out of here with two million quid's worth of fine art. If you're okay with that .. ."

Donovan looked at Fullerton, trying to get the measure of the man. He had an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance and he looked at Donovan with his chin slightly raised, almost as if he were spoiling for a fight. There was also an amused look in his eyes, though, as if he were taking a secret pleasure in suggesting that he bring strangers into Donovan's home. There was something about his smile that reminded Donovan of a shark. He was a good-looking guy and Donovan was sure that Jamie Fullerton had broken his fair share of hearts.

"I'm not sure I'd be keen on that, either," said Donovan.

"How about we move them to my gallery?" asked Goldman.

"My insurance'll cover them. Anyone interested can come and see them there."

Donovan nodded.

"That sounds good, Maury. Thanks." He raised his coffee mug in salute.

"I don't want to talk out of turn, but have you considered the insurance option?" asked Fullerton quietly.

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

"In what way?"

Fullerton grimaced, as if he were having second thoughts about what he was about to suggest.

"Come on, Jamie," said Donovan.

"Spit it out."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Fullerton.

"They're insured, right? Why put them on the market? You must know people."

"Must I?" said Donovan coldly.

Fullerton looked uncomfortable. Goldman was pointedly avoiding looking at either of them and was concentrating on a spot somewhere above the wine rack.

"If you don't, I do," Fullerton said.

"They break in, take the paintings, you claim on the insurance and a few years down the line you get them back, ten pence in the pound."

Goldman winced but carried on staring at the wall as if his life depended on it.

"You do know who I am, Jamie?"

"Sure."

"Are you sure you're sure? Because if you know who I am, how do you think the filth would react if they heard that I'd been robbed? First of all, they'd love to get inside my house without a warrant. Second of all, don't you think they'd move heaven and earth to prove that it was an insurance job?"

Fullerton shifted in his seat.

"Stupid idea. Sorry."

Donovan smiled.

"Nah, at least you're thinking creatively. Under other circumstances it might have been a goer, but the way things are at the moment, I've got to keep the lowest of low profiles. I want them sold legit, and I want cash."

Goldman tore his attention away from the wall.

"Cash cash?" he asked.

"As good as," said Donovan.

"Banker's draft. Tomorrow."

"That's tight," said Fullerton.

"That's the way it's got to be," said Donovan.

"Made out to you?"

"Made out to cash."

"Banks aren't over happy about making drafts out to cash," said Fullerton.

"Fuck the banks," said Donovan.

"It's a fair point, Den," said Goldman.

"It might slow things up."

Donovan pursed his lips and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get a headache again.

"Okay," he said eventually.

"Get the drafts made out to Carlos Rodriguez." He spelled out the surname.

"And you want the drafts?" asked Fullerton.

"Yeah. Maybe. Talk to me once you've got them, right?"

"Individual drafts from each sale would be the quickest way," said Fullerton.

"Is that okay?"

"So long as the total's more than two million quid, Jamie, I'll be a happy bunny."

Goldman took out a leather cigar case and held it up.

"Okay if I smoke?" he asked.

"Sure," said Donovan.

"They're your lungs."

Goldman offered the case to Fullerton, but he shook his head and drank his coffee. Goldman took out a cigar and sniffed it appreciatively.

"One other thing," said Fullerton, 'and please don't take this the wrong way, Den. Provenance is okay, yeah?"

Donovan smiled tightly.

"Goldman said you weren't over concerned about provenance."

Fullerton flashed Goldman an annoyed look and Goldman focused all his attention on cutting the end off his cigar and lighting it with a match.

"Well, thanks for the character reference, Maury."

Goldman pretended not to hear. Fullerton looked back at Donovan and shrugged carelessly.

"Frankly, some of the people I sell to couldn't care less where the paintings come from, so long as the provenance is reflected in the price, that's all. But they might be a bit miffed if they pay top whack for a painting then find out it's got to stay in a locked basement."

Donovan nodded.

"They're all kosher, Jamie. Maury here can vouch for that."

Goldman nodded enthusiastically but kept looking at his cigar.

"All the money was well clean by the time it went through Maury's books." He grinned.

"I had a team of Smurfs working flat out for a month for the Rembrandt in the master bedroom."

"Smurfs?"

Donovan grinned.

"Another time, Jamie. Just take my word for it, the paintings are clean. Bought and paid for."

"That's all I need to know, Den. I'm on the case." He stood up.

"Okay if I start loading the smaller paintings into Maury's car?"

"Sure, I'll give you a hand."

"We'll send a van for the larger works," said Goldman. He waved his cigar at Fullerton.

"Take extra care with the Van Dycks, they're spoken for."

"Can you get the van here this morning?" asked Donovan.

"I'm up to my eyes this afternoon."

Goldman winked and pulled a tiny Nokia mobile from his jacket pocket. It looked minuscule as he held it against his jowly face.

"Office," he shouted. He smiled at Donovan.

"Voice-activated dialling. New technology, huh?" He frowned and said "Office' again, louder this time. His frown deepened and then he cursed and tapped in the number.

Donovan jerked his thumb towards the stairs.

"Come and look at the Rembrandt," he said to Fullerton.

"It's not my favourite piece, but it should fetch the most. Maury talked me into it, said it'd be a great investment. He's a Philistine, but you can't fault his business sense."

Fullerton followed Donovan upstairs. The Rembrandt drawing was in an ornate gilt frame to the left of the door, positioned so that Donovan could see it while he was lying in bed. Fullerton whistled softly.

"Nice," he said. He stood back from the picture and stared at it in silence for almost a full minute. It was of a small child reaching for an apple. A boy, but with long hair and an angelic, almost feminine face. The boy was looking around as if he feared being caught taking the fruit, but he was too well dressed to be a beggar or a thief. He was the son of nobility, so maybe the theft was greed. Or a lark.

"Just look at the hand," said Fullerton.

"You can see the corrections, he must have worked on it for hours." He moved to the side to get a slightly different view.

"Quill and reed pen with a brown ink," he said.

"A very similar drawing went for almost three hundred grand at Sotheby's in New York a couple of years ago. That was an old man kids always fetch higher prices."

"You're as much a Philistine as Maury," laughed Donovan.

"I'm not saying it's not a great work, I'm just saying it's a very saleable piece. Which is why you bought it, yeah?"

"Can't argue with that, Jamie."

"I don't think I'll have a problem placing it," said Fullerton.

"I know a couple of guys with cash that want to put it into art."

"Clean money?"

Fullerton flashed his shark-like smile again.

"It will be by the time you get it, Den."

Donovan took the Rembrandt drawing down off the wall and placed it on the bed. He went into the bathroom and pulled a pale blue hand towel off the heated rail and tossed it to Fullerton.

Fullerton carefully wrapped the drawing in the towel.

"Can I ask you something, Den?"

"Anything so long as it's not geography," said Donovan.

"I hate geography."

"You've got a decent security system, but weren't you taking a risk, having them on show?"

"It's not like I advertised them," said Donovan.

"And most opportunistic break-ins are druggies looking for a video or a CD player. They wouldn't recognise a Rembrandt if it bit them on the arse." He nodded at the drawing that Fullerton was wrapping.

"Even my wife didn't know what that was worth. A scribble, she called it."

"You didn't tell her what it was?"

Donovan shrugged.

"Vicky had a stack of interests, but art was never one of them. I tried to take her to galleries and stuff but it bored her rigid. More interested in Gucci than Goya."

Fullerton picked up the Rembrandt.

"Can I see the Butters-worths?"

"Sure." Donovan took Fullerton down to the study.

Fullerton put the Rembrandt on the desk and studied the painting that covered the wall safe.

"Brilliant," he said.

"You know about Buttersworth?" said Donovan.

"Did a thesis on nineteenth-century American painters, believe it or not, and I always had a penchant for maritime artists. Look at that sunset, would you? More than a hundred and thirty years ago he painted that. We're getting the same view today that he had then. It's like we're seeing something through his eyes, isn't it, something that's been gone for more than a century. Awesome. Look at the skyline there, New York as it was back then. And just look at the detail in the clouds." He turned to look at Donovan.

"And you use it to hide a safe. Who's the Philistine now?"

Donovan's jaw dropped.

"How the hell did you know that?"

Fullerton grinned and walked over to the frame. He pointed to the wall to the left of the gilded frame.

"See the indentations there?"

Donovan moved closer and peered at where Fullerton was pointing. He was right, there was a line of small marks where the frame had been pressing against the wall when it was swung away from the safe.

"You've got a good eye," said Donovan.

"A thiefs eye," laughed Fullerton.

"But don't worry, Den, your secret's safe with me."

"Bloody thing's empty anyway," said Donovan.

Fullerton went over to look at the second Buttersworth.

"I think I know just the man to buy these," he said.

"A corporate finance chap over at Citibank. He's got a bonus cheque eating a hole in his pocket and he's mad about boats. I'm sure he'll jump at them." He turned and grinned confidently.

"This is going to be a piece of cake, Den. Take my word for it."

Jamie Fullerton opened the metal gates with his remote control and drove his black Porsche into the underground car park. He was grinning as he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse. Three years he'd been waiting to meet Den Donovan, and he'd finally been handed the man on a plate. He couldn't believe his luck. He shook his head. No, it hadn't been luck. He'd been in the right place at the right time, and that had been down to planning, not chance. He'd put a lot of time and effort into cultivating Maury Goldman, once he'd found out that Goldman had been Donovan's art dealer of choice. There'd been other dealers, too. And other contacts. All friends and acquaintances of Donovan, all possible leads to the man himself. And it had worked. He'd been in the man's house. Shaken hands with him. Hell, Den Donovan had actually made him coffee.

Fullerton unlocked his front door and walked through to the kitchen, all polished stainless steel and gleaming white tiles. He opened the fridge and took out a chilled bottle of Bollinger champagne. He picked up a fluted glass and went out on to his terrace which overlooked the fast-flowing Thames. He popped the cork, filled the glass, then toasted himself. His grin widened.

"Onwards and upwards, Fullerton," he said, then drank deeply. He felt elated, almost light headed. He was in. He was part of Den Donovan's circle. He'd met the man, talked to the man, joked with him. He was in close, and already Donovan was trusting him.

Fullerton went back inside his apartment. He walked along a white-painted corridor to his study with its floor-to-ceiling windows and sat down in front of his computer. He switched on the machine and flexed his fingers like a concert pianist preparing to perform. While the machine booted up he sipped at his champagne.

He logged on to the Safe Web site and then switched through to the website that Hathaway had assigned to him three years earlier. Hathaway had warned Fullerton about using his own computer, but Fullerton had grown tired of using internet cafes to file his reports. He'd made the decision to use his own machine, though he religiously deleted all incriminating files after each session. Fullerton grinned and started typing.

Gregg Hathaway's office was just five miles away from Jamie Fullerton's penthouse apartment, in the hi-tech cream and green headquarters of Mi 6, the Secret Intelligence Service, at Vauxhall Bridge on the south bank of the Thames. Unlike Fullerton, Hathaway didn't have a river view his office was four floors underground. Hathaway preferred to be underground. A view was a distraction that he could do without.

Hathaway sat back in his chair as he scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing feeling of excitement. Over the years Fullerton had supplied him with increasingly useful intelligence which had helped put more than a dozen top London criminals behind bars, and Hathaway had recommended that Fullerton be promoted to sergeant. What Hathaway read on his screen now was pure gold, though, and it made his pulse race. Dennis Donovan was back in the UK. And was involved with Carlos Rodriguez. Rodriguez was a name that Hathaway was familiar with, a major Colombian player who was high up on the DEA's most wanted list. If they could tie Donovan and Rodriguez together, Donovan could be sent down for a long, long time.

Donovan had to wait almost two hours in the Passport Office before his number flashed up on the overhead digital read-out. He went to the booth indicated, where a bored Asian woman in her late forties flashed him a cold smile.

"I need a replacement passport for my son," said Donovan. He slipped a completed application form through the metal slot under the armoured glass window.

The woman picked up the application form and flicked through it.

"You say replacement? What happened to the original?"

"He lost it," said Donovan.

"Did you report the loss?"

"I thought that's what I was doing now."

The woman gave him another cold smile, then went back to reading the form.

"Was it stolen?"

"I really don't know."

"Because if it was stolen, you have to report the loss to the police."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't stolen," said Donovan.

The woman looked at the two photographs that Donovan had clipped to the application form.

"We have to be sure," said the woman.

"I'm sure it's missing," said Donovan, struggling to stay calm.

He was beginning to understand why they needed the armoured glass.

"If it's missing, you'll have to supply your son's birth certificate. And have the photographs signed by his doctor. Or your minister."

"I just want a replacement," said Donovan.

"You have his details on file already, don't you?"

The woman pushed the form back through the metal slot.

"Those are the rules," she said.

"If you're not able to supply the passport, we'll need a birth certificate and signed photographs."

Donovan glared at the woman. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw the CCTV camera staring down at him. The silent witness. He smiled at the woman and picked up the form.

"You have a nice day," he said, and walked away. Over his head, the digital read-out clicked over to a new number.

Gregg Hathaway walked slowly along Victoria Embankment. His right knee was hurting, had been since he woke up. On the far side of the Thames, the Millennium Eye slowly turned, every capsule on the giant Ferris wheel packed with tourists. Hathaway stood and watched the wheel for a while and wondered what it must be like to see London as a tourist. The buildings, the history, the exhibitions. The Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, Madame Tussaud's.