Tango One

"They're going into snorkel mode," Gannon told them.

"They should be boarding within thirty minutes."

The sub skimmer was able to travel half-submerged, with only the divers' heads, the exhaust pipes and air inlet above the surface, making it almost impossible to be spotted, either by eye or by radar. On board the sub skimmer were two four-man bricks of SBS troopers in full diving gear. They would clandestinely board the freighter prior to Major Gannon and his men making a more straightforward frontal approach.

As well as the eight SAS troopers in the inflatable with the major, a further eight SAS troopers from Boat Troop and eight SBS troopers were positioned in two more inflatables some fifty metres away to his right. Gannon wasn't expecting trouble, but he knew it was better to be over-prepared. Even though the freighter was owned by a respectable shipping company and operating on a scheduled route, there was always a chance that an over-enthusiastic crewman might grab a weapon of some sort.

Twenty minutes later and Gannon got word over his radio that the SBS advance party was on board and concealed. Gannon radioed that the inflatables were to move in. The engines roared and the three boats surged forward through the waves.

The DHL courier walked into the hotel lobby and up to the reception desk.

"I have a delivery for Monsieur Stewart Sharkey," he said in fluent French. The receptionist, a man in his forties with a spreading handlebar moustache, grunted and nodded at a man sitting at the far end of the reception area, sitting on a long low sofa and reading a copy of Le Monde.

The courier walked across the marble floor, under three huge crystal chandeliers.

"Monsieur Sharkey?"

The man lowered his paper.

"Oui?"

"I have a package for you from London. Can you sign here please?" said the courier in accented English.

The man stood up and took the computerised clipboard. He scrawled a signature on the LCD screen and handed the clipboard back to the courier. The courier held out the package, an A4 manila envelope, then he frowned. He checked the serial number on the label stuck to the envelope against the readout on the clipboard and cursed.

"I am sorry, Mr. Sharkey. I have the wrong envelope. I will have to get it from the van."

"No problem," said the man.

"Would you come with me? It would save time."

"I'm not sure .. ." the man began, but the DHL courier had already walked away, so he followed him.

The DHL van was parked about fifty feet from the entrance to the hotel. The courier opened the rear door of the van and poked his head inside, mumbling something in French.

The man walked up behind him.

"Have you got it?" he asked.

The courier whirled around and pressed the twin prongs of a small black stun gun against the man's throat. He pressed a switch on the gun and the man jerked once and slumped forward, his mouth working soundlessly. The courier caught him and pushed him into the back of the van. Two pairs of hands grabbed the man's jacket and hauled him inside. The door slammed shut as the courier walked around to the driver's door.

The sound of the doorbell jarred Donovan out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. It was just before midday. He'd been asleep for almost three hours. He hadn't undressed when he'd got home from the morning school run, he'd just stretched out on the bed intending to nap for half an hour or so. Downstairs, the doorbell rang again, then someone knocked on the door, hard. Donovan sat up. He went downstairs.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he muttered as the doorbell rang again. He opened the door, blinking his eyes. It was Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen and they both looked as mad as hell. Jordan was reaching inside his black Armani jacket.

Donovan knew something was wrong and he tried to close the door. He was too slow Macfadyen put his shoulder against the door and barged through, Jordan following close behind.

"You bastard!" shouted Macfadyen, slamming Donovan against the wall.

Jordan kicked the door closed and pulled a gun from inside his jacket. He thrust the barrel under Donovan's chin.

"You got cut out of the deal, so you fucked it up for us," he shouted.

Donovan glared at the gun.

"You brought a fucking gun into my house? How stupid are you, Ricky?"

Jordan snarled at Donovan and pushed the gun harder against Donovan's chin, forcing his head back against the wall.

"You are fucking dead meat, mate," he spat.

"Yeah, right," said Donovan.

"Of course I am. You're going to pop me and then walk out of here. Earth to Planet Jordan, you wouldn't get fifty feet."

Jordan frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm Tango fucking One, that's why," said Donovan.

"Every man and his dog are watching me."

"No one stopped us coming in, did they?" said Jordan.

"Well, you haven't shot me yet, have you?" said Donovan.

"Pull the trigger and see what happens."

Jordan looked at Macfadyen, who shrugged.

Donovan smiled, trying to put them at ease.

"While you're deciding what to do, how about we have a beer?" he said.

"They're in the fridge, Charlie."

"Beer?"

"If you want something stronger, all the booze is in the cabinet in the sitting room."

"We didn't come here for fucking beer, Den," said Macfadyen.

"Well, like I said, the sky's gonna fall in if you fire that thing in here, so why don't we have a beer and then you can shoot me somewhere else."

"Are you taking the piss, Den?" asked Macfadyen.

"I'm just trying to be civilised," said Donovan.

"Go on, Charlie, get the beers. Ricky and I'll carry on the conversation in the sitting room." Donovan grinned at Jordan.

"If it makes you feel any happier, Ricky, you can keep on pointing it at me."

Jordan looked across at Macfadyen, who nodded.

"Yeah, why not?"

Macfadyen went down the hall to the kitchen. Jordan slowly took the gun away from Donovan's neck.

"No tricks, yeah?" he said.

Donovan walked into the sitting room. He put his finger against his lips and then made a cut-throat gesture with his right hand. Jordan frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Donovan hissed and put his fingers against his lips again. He went over to the sideboard and picked up the acoustic noise generator that Alex had left. He put it on the coffee table, plugged it in and switched it on. The room was filled with static.

"What the fuck's that?" said Macfadyen, walking in with three cans of lager. He tossed one to Donovan and put one down on the coffee table for Jordan.

Donovan sat down on the sofa and motioned for Jordan to sit down next to him.

"It masks the sound of our voices. In case they're using laser microphones."

Macfadyen looked around nervously.

"I swept the place this morning," said Donovan, 'and I've got the phones monitored." He nodded at the box of electronics.

"This is just to be on the safe side, but keep your voices down, yeah? Now what the fuck is going on?"

Macfadyen took a copy of the early edition of the Evening Standard from his jacket pocket and tossed it on to the coffee table. Donovan read the headline and cursed.

"SAS SWOOP ON 100 MILLION COCAINE HAUL." The story was by lined by the paper's chief reporter, who had clearly been well briefed on the operation. The SAS had swooped on a freighter carrying VW Beetles from Mexico. Cocaine had been packed into the cars. Cocaine with a street value of a hundred million pounds. That was an over-estimate, Donovan knew.

"That's bollocks, a hundred million," he said, and Macfadyen nodded.

At street level the consignment would probably be worth sixty million pounds. Maybe seventy, depending on how prices held up. The authorities, be they cops, Customs or the Security Service, always over-estimated because it made them look good, and the bigger the haul, the more column inches they'd get. But whatever the value, the drugs had been intercepted and Jordan and Macfadyen were looking for someone to blame. Donovan's mind raced. If they really did believe that he had given up the deal, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him. If their roles were reversed, Donovan would do the same.

"I don't see any mention of Customs," said Donovan.

"The reporter only mentions the SAS."

"That's not the point, Den," said Macfadyen.

"The point is, someone must have grassed."

"And you think I'm a sore loser, is that it? A dog in the manger?"

"Dog in the manger, wind in the willows, chicken in the fucking basket, call it what you want, but you're the obvious candidate."

"Right," agreed Jordan, nodding furiously.

"And what exactly would I have to gain by gras sing you up?" asked Donovan.

"Brownie points with HM Customs?" said Macfadyen.

"Yeah, well, like I said, I'm not sure that it was a Customs bust. When they do catch anyone, they're normally rushing to take the credit. But do you seriously think I'd risk pissing off a man like Rodriguez to get Brownie points with anyone?"

"You've got to admit, the timing does look bloody suspicious, Den," said Macfadyen.

"It wasn't me, lads. Hand on heart."

"Then who?" asked Jordan.

"If not you, who?"

"Who knows?" said Donovan.

"Maybe someone on your team. Maybe you've been under surveillance yourself. You can't wear Armani suits and drive around in flash cars and not get noticed."

"It wasn't us," said Jordan, defensively. He still had the gun pointing at Donovan's stomach and his finger was on the trigger.

"Fine. So it wasn't you. And it wasn't me. Which means it was either someone working for Rodriguez or someone on the outside. Someone on the ship got suspicious about the cargo. Maybe enough palms weren't greased in Mexico. Or it might even have been bad luck. We all know there's a million and one things can go wrong with every deal. Something else why didn't they follow through? Why didn't they let it run?"

"Maybe they didn't want to lose the gear," said Macfadyen.

"Bollocks. They'd have saturation surveillance: they'd tag the gear, the works. You've got to ask why they didn't do that."

"Why do you think they didn't?" asked Jordan.

"Could be they already know," said Macfadyen.

"Could be you already told them."

"So why are you here giving me grief and not sitting in a cell drinking tea out of a paper cup? Don't you think if I were trying to stitch you up I'd have done it properly?"

"Maybe they screwed up," said Jordan.

"Act your age, Ricky. The SAS boarded the ship in the middle of the night. Does that sound like a lack of planning?"

"That still doesn't answer the question why didn't they let the consignment run?" said Macfadyen.

"I don't know, Charlie. Answer that and maybe we'll find out who grassed the deal."

"Shit," said Macfadyen.

"You can say that again," said Donovan.

"We're down millions on this deal," said Jordan.

"We're down millions with nothing to show for it."

"That's the rules of the game and you both know it," said Donovan.

"You budget for losing one in four consignments. You build it into your costs. You did that, right?"

"Sort of," said Macfadyen.

"Sort of?"

"Not all the money was ours. We got three mill off a Yardie gang in Harlesden."

Donovan raised his eyebrows.

"Smart move," he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

"I thought you didn't do business with the Yardies."

"This guy's cool."

"Yeah, well, if he's cool, why are you worried?"

"Because it was the first deal he'd done with us. He's going to think we ripped him off."

"So explain it to him. Anyway, that's your problem, not mine."

"We've lost a lot of money, Den. A shed load

"Nothing compared to what I'm down," said Donovan.

"What do you mean?" asked Macfadyen.

Donovan closed his eyes.

"Forget it," he said.

"It doesn't matter."

Jordan jabbed the gun into Donovan's ribs.

"It matters," he said.

Donovan opened his eyes.

"My accountant ripped me off for sixty million dollars. A big chunk of that was on its way to Rodriguez."

Macfadyen pounced.

"Including our money, yeah?"

Donovan nodded.

"So that's why Rodriguez wanted to deal with us direct?"

Donovan nodded again.

"So our money never got to Rodriguez? You've still got it."

Donovan sighed.

"I can see where you're going. Charlie, but you're wasting your time. I haven't got your money."

"No, but neither has Rodriguez. So that wasn't our consignment." He grinned.

"We haven't lost shit."

"Your deal was with the Colombians. Not me."

"You never gave them our money, so the buck stops with you."

"You're not listening to me, Charlie. I haven't got a penny to my name."

"You've got this house."

"It's in a trust. For my boy. Can't be touched. I've fuck all, Charlie, until I can get my hands on Sharkey."

"Sharkey?"

"My accountant. I've got people looking for him. You know Rodriguez is going to be asking the same question you are. He's going to want to know who grassed the deal."

"I bet he is," said Macfadyen.

"Yeah, well, bear in mind he might think it was you two."

"What do you mean?"

"You're the new factors in the equation. If he's going to suspect anyone, he's going to suspect you. And that would explain why they went in while the ship was still at sea. To distance it from you."

"That doesn't make sense," said Macfadyen.

"Why would we bust our own deal?"

"I'm not saying you did," said Donovan.

"I'm just saying that Rodriguez is going to want to talk to you."

Macfadyen sat back in his chair.

"This is a fucking nightmare," he sighed.

"Yeah, well, bursting in here and waving a gun around doesn't help," said Donovan.

"What do we do?" asked Macfadyen. He gestured at Jordan's gun, which was still levelled at Donovan's midriff.

"Put it away, Ricky."

Jordan looked as if he might argue, then he nodded and slipped the automatic inside his jacket.

"First, you two have got to keep a low profile. They'll trace the coke back to Rodriguez, and if they link you to him they're gonna be on your case. I'll talk to Rodriguez. Second, I can offer you a way of making your money back. If you're interested."

"What?" asked Macfadyen.

"Heroin. From Afghanistan."

"I'm not dealing with the fucking Turks, Den," said Macfadyen.

"I've been burned before with them."

"Yeah, they're mad bastards," said Jordan.

"You can't trust them."

"I'm not doing this through the Turks," said Donovan.

"I might get them to come in as investors, but the deal's mine."

"How much?"

"For you guys, ten grand a key."

Macfadyen looked at Jordan and raised an eyebrow. Jordan nodded. Then Macfadyen's eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, but delivery where? It's no fucking good to me over in Amsterdam, even at that price."

"In the UK, mate. South of London, but if you want I'll get someone to drive it up north to you."

"You can get Afghan heroin into the UK for ten grand a key?" said Jordan in disbelief.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Den, David bloody Copperfield?"

"It's not magic, Ricky. I've just got a way of getting it in direct, bypassing all the middle-men."

"What, like Star Trek, you're gonna get Scottie to beam it down?" said Macfadyen.

"Actually, not far off that."

Macfadyen and Jordan shared another look and Donovan could practically hear the wheels turning in their heads. Ten grand a kilo was a great price. On the street in Edinburgh prices were as high as a hundred and twenty grand a kilo once it had been cut, and Macfadyen and Jordan had their own chains of dealers. They'd be able to keep the bulk of the profits themselves.

"How do we know we won't be throwing good money after bad?" asked Macfadyen.

"Because this is my deal, Charlie. Me and a couple of guys who've come up with a sure fire way of getting the gear in under the noses of Customs. As much gear as you can buy. I've got everything riding on this one, so I'm gonna make damn sure it works out okay."

"What do you think?" Macfadyen asked Jordan.

Jordan nodded slowly.

"It's easier to shift than coke. Give us a chance to put two fingers up to the Dutchmen, wouldn't it? They keep jacking their prices up. If we show them we've got an alternative supply it's gonna put pressure on them." He nodded more enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I say go for it. Let's go in for five hundred keys."

Macfadyen nodded.

"Yeah, okay. How about I bring O'Brien in on this? Dublin prices are up, he'd be in for five hundred keys."

"Okay," agreed Donovan, 'but get him to pay twelve a key. And tell him we don't want Euros. It's pounds or dollars. No one wants Euros."

"Is this going to be a regular, Den, or a one-off?" asked Jordan.

"Ricky, it's going to run and run," said Donovan, smiling broadly.

"What about the Yardies?" asked Macfadyen.

"Fuck the Yardies. They're big boys."

"The guy's a vicious bastard. He's going to want answers."

"A minute ago you said he was cool."

"Yeah, well, that was before we lost three million quid of his. You're going to have to talk to him."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because he's not going to believe a word I tell him from now on. But you're Den Donovan. He knows about you."

"Because you told him, right? For fuck's sake, Charlie, can't you ever keep your big mouth shut?"

Jordan winced.

"He already knew who you were," said Macfadyen quickly.

"That was one of the reasons he was so keen to do the deal."

"Charlie, you had no business telling anyone I was involved. How the hell have you managed to stay out of prison? Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe these Yardies are the ones who gave the deal away?"

"Give me some credit, will you, Den? All I said was that I was doing a coke deal and that you were involved. I didn't say from where, I didn't say how, I didn't say when. Hell, Den, you hardly told me anything. It was only when we met that Jesus guy that we heard about the Beetles. The Yardies don't even know about that." He pointed at the Evening Standard.

"They won't even know that that's their coke. Though I guess they'll put two and two together pretty sharpish."

"So you want me to tell him his three million's gone? And how do you think he'll react to that?"

"I dunno, Den. How do you think he'll react if I tell him that his three million never got to the Colombians?"

Macfadyen stared at Donovan, who met his gaze with unblinking eyes. The threat hung in the air between them like a storm cloud about to break. Jordan looked from one to the other, waiting to see who would speak first.

Eventually Donovan nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said.

"What's his name?"

"PM," said Macfadyen.

"His sidekick's the brains of the outfit, though. Doesn't say much but you can see the wheels are always turning. Watch out for him. His name's Bunny."

Juan Rojas walked into the warehouse, rubbing his gloved hands together.

"Everything go to plan?" he asked.

A man was stripping off the uniform of a DHL courier.

"Like a lamb to the slaughter," he said. All trace of a French accent had vanished.

Rojas slapped the man on the back.

"You ditched the van?"

"The guys are doing it now."

"Excellent," said Rojas.

He walked to the middle of the warehouse where a man sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. Thick strips of bright blue insulation tape bound his arms and legs to the chair and another strip had been plastered across his mouth.

Rojas cursed.

"This isn't Sharkey," he said. Rojas ripped off the strip of insulation tape. The man gasped.

"I've a message from him," said the man.

"He said Donovan can go fuck himself." The man smiled.

Rojas's lips tightened.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He's not here in Paris, that's for sure. I only spoke to him on the phone."

Rojas cursed.

"There's more."

"Go on."

"He said you're to phone him. You have his mobile number, right?"

Rojas nodded.

"Right. Did he tell you what I'd do to you, when I found out that you'd set me up?" He took a small automatic from his coat pocket.

The man smiled.

"He said you'd be a professional. He said you'd appreciate the irony. And he said he'd transfer a quarter of a million dollars to any account you nominate. I'm to give him the account number in person."

Rojas looked at the man. A smile slowly spread across his face and he put the gun away.

"He is a good judge of character," he said.

"Luckily for you."

"Yeah, that's him," said Shuker, peering through his binoculars.

"Charlie Macfadyen. Big wheel in Edinburgh. Brings in most of the city's coke and heroin. Don't know the other guy, though."

"Wonder what it was all about?" said Jenner, as the motor-drive on his SLR clicked and whirred. Down in the street, the two men walked away from Donovan's house towards a gleaming red Ferrari.

"Dunno. They went in looking like they were going to kill him, and half an hour later they're best of friends."

The bedroom door opened and two men walked in Shuker and Jenner's replacements. One of them was carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.

"You seen this?" he said, tossing the paper to Shuker.

Shuker looked at the headline, then held it up for Jenner to read.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Shuker.

Jenner nodded.

Donovan switched off the noise generator and put it back on the sideboard. His ears ached from the constant static sound. He paced up and down as he went through his options. Carlos Rodriguez had lost his cocaine and his money and would be looking for revenge. Donovan had managed to talk around Macfadyen and Jordan, but Rodriguez wouldn't be so easy. And if Rodriguez sent his nephew, Donovan doubted that he'd even be given a chance to explain.

Donovan could run, but wherever he went the Colombians would find him eventually. And running would mean leaving Robbie behind. The only way to mollify Rodriguez would be to reimburse him for the lost cocaine or to find out who had given up the deal to the authorities, and he wasn't in a position to pursue either option. Donovan cursed. He had no room to manoeuvre. None at all. He was virtually out of funds, stuck in the UK, and top of the most wanted list. Donovan couldn't see how it could get any worse.

He put on a brown leather jacket, picked up three fully charged mobile phones and slotted them into various pockets. He rolled up the Evening Standard, got the keys to the Range Rover, secured the house, and drove off. He didn't bother sweeping the car or looking for a tail. He drove to Marble Arch and parked in an underground car park, then walked to Marble Arch Tube station. He bought a one-day Travelcard allowing him unlimited use of the underground system, then caught a Central Line train to Oxford Circus station.

After twenty minutes of swapping trains and lines, he finally got off at Charing Cross. He spent ten minutes walking aimlessly around the station, checking reflections, doubling back, walking into dead ends. He was clean. He was sure he was clean.

He went over to a bank of public phones and shoved in his BT phone card. He called Directory Enquiries for the number of the Intercontinental and then called the hotel and asked for Rodriguez's room. The receptionist said he'd checked out two days earlier. Donovan replaced the receiver. With any luck, Rodriguez had gone back to Colombia. That at least gave Donovan some breathing space. Maybe.

He dialled the Spaniard's number, but the answer machine kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, just asked Rojas to call him on the mobile.

Next he called the Yardie whom Macfadyen had brought in on the Colombian coke deal. The man answered.

"Yo?"

"PM?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm a friend of Macfadyen's."

"So?"

"So he wanted me to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"Face to face."

"Fuck that."

"He thought I should explain why the deal he cut you in on has gone belly up."

"Say what?"

"Can you read, PM?"

"What the fuck you mean?"

"Buy the Standard. Front-page story. When you've read it, call me back on this number." Donovan gave him the number of one of the mobiles he was carrying, then hung up.

He used another of his mobiles to phone Underwood. The detective wasn't pleased to hear from Donovan, but Donovan cut his protests short and told him to call him back as soon as possible.

Donovan's next call was to Jamie Fullerton. He arranged to meet him at his gallery later that afternoon. Finally he called Louise.

Donovan sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square, rereading the article on the cocaine bust. One of the mobiles rang. Donovan pressed the green button. It was PM.

"What the fuck's going on, man?" asked PM.

"Your phone clean?"

"Only had it two days, and after this the Sim card goes in the trash."

"You don't know me, PM, but you know of me. I put Macfadyen on to the deal. He cut you in. He wants me to talk through what happened."

"Where and when?"

"This evening. Say seven."

"Where?"

"You choose. I don't want you jumpy."

"You being funny?" bristled the Yardie.

"I was actually being considerate. Letting you choose the turf."

PM gave him the address of a house in Harlesden, then cut the connection.

Donovan waited, then walked around the square, watching tourists photographing themselves next to the huge lions that stood guard around Nelson's Column.

Louise arrived at two o'clock, walking up the steps of the National Gallery and standing at its porticoed entrance. She was wearing sunglasses and a long dark blue woollen coat with the collar turned up. Donovan watched her from the square until he was sure that she hadn't been followed.

She waved as she saw him walking towards her. He hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

"It's all very mysterious," she said.

"Yeah, sorry. Had to be. Come on in."

"In here?"

"Sure. You never been inside an art gallery before?"

"Never."

"You'll love it."

Donovan ushered her inside and to the right, into the East Wing.

"God, it's huge," whispered Louise.

Donovan grinned.

"You don't have to whisper, it's not a funeral."

Louise stopped in front of a painting of sunflowers, the colours so vibrant that they seemed to jump off the canvas. Half a dozen Japanese tourists were clustered around the painting listening to a commentary on headphones, nodding enthusiastically. Louise was a head taller than all of them so she had an unobstructed view. She took off her sunglasses.

"It's beautiful," she said. She read the details on the plaque to the left of the picture, then looked at Donovan, clearly surprised.

"It's a Van Gogh," she said.

"That's right."

"But they're worth millions."

"Sure. And some."

They were standing less than five feet away from the canvas and there was nothing between them and it. No bars, no protective glass.

"We could grab it and run," she said.

"We could," said Donovan, 'but there are security staff all around and every square inch is covered by CCTV."

Louise craned her neck but couldn't see any cameras.

"Don't worry, they're there," said Donovan.

"So what is it with you and art galleries?" she asked.

Donovan shrugged.

"Ran into one to hide from the cops. I was fourteen and should have been at school. Two beat bobbies were heading my way so I nipped into the Whitworth gallery."

"Where's that?"

"Manchester. Huge building, awesome art, but I didn't know that when I went in. I walked through a couple of the galleries, just to get away from the entrance, and then I got to a gallery where a volunteer guide was giving a talk about one of the paintings.

"She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them." Donovan smiled at her.

"You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't." He shook his head.

"No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open."

A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.

"I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.

"I'm being boring. Sorry."

"You're not," said Louise.

Donovan smiled.

"It opened my eyes. I know that's a cliche, but it did. You see, a painting isn't just a picture of an event like a photograph is. A photograph is totally real, it's what you'd see if you were there. But a painting is the artist's interpretation, which means that everything that's in the painting is in for a reason. Each one is like a mystery to be solved."

Louise's smile widened and Donovan tutted.

"I'm being patronising, aren't I?"

Louise shook her head.

"I was smiling at your enthusiasm," she said.

"You're like a kid talking about his comic book collection."

They walked through the double doors to another gallery, this one full of Impressionist paintings. It wasn't Donovan's favourite room and he barely glanced at the canvases.

"Can I ask you something?" said Louise.

"Sure."

She looked across at him apprehensively.

"Promise me you won't get upset."

"Sure," he said.

"Your wife left you, right?"

Donovan nodded.

"You must have known her better than you know anyone in the world, right?"

"I guess so."

"And you didn't see it coming?"

"I suppose I was too busy doing other things. I was away a lot."

"Do you miss her?"

"Do I miss her?" said Donovan, raising his voice. Heads swivelled in his direction, and one of the curators flashed him a warning look. Donovan let go of her hand and bent his head down to be closer to hers.

"Do I miss her?" he repeated.

"She screwed my accountant. In my bed." His face was contorted with anger and she took a step away from him. He put his hands up.

"I'm sorry," he said. Touchy subject."

"I can see."

Donovan looked around. An elderly couple were openly staring at him and he glared menacingly at them until they looked away. He took a deep breath.

"And you're right. I should have seen the signs. There probably were clues when the two of them were together. It must have been going on for a while."

"And there weren't any signs?"

"Like I said, I was away a lot."

"Which is a sign in itself," she said.

Donovan looked at her with narrowed eyes and a growing respect for her intelligence. Louise was a bright girl.

"I mean, if everything was hunky dory, you'd have spent more time with her, right?"

"There were other considerations," said Donovan.

"For instance?"

"This is getting to be like an interrogation," he said.

"I just want to know who I'm getting involved with, that's all."

"Is that what you're doing? Getting involved?"

She turned and walked away, then looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Maybe," she said.

Donovan caught up with her and they walked together through the Sackler Room, where the gallery kept its paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough and Stubbs. Donovan admired the way that Louise hadn't asked what it was he'd wanted. He'd kept the phone conversation as brief as possible, just saying that he needed a favour and that he wanted to meet her outside the National Gallery. Most people would have arrived bursting with questions, but Louise had seemed happy just to chat.

"I do appreciate you coming, Louise," he said.

"I owe you, Den. Whatever it is you need, I'm here for you."

Donovan nodded.

"How much do you know about what I do?" he asked.

"Enough, I guess. Kris said you had a reputation."

"She's probably told you right. I've got a problem. Some guys think I've double-crossed them and they're going to be after my blood. I haven't, but in my business it's often perceptions rather than the reality of the situation that count. Thing is, I need someone to take care of Robbie until I get it sorted."

Louise frowned.

"You want him to stay with me?"

"Is that a problem?"

She shook her head. "No, it's just.. .well,hedoesn'tknowme."

"That's the point. I could put him with my sister, but that's the first place they'll look if he's not at home. Nobody knows that I know you."

"Exactly," said Louise.

"You've no idea who I am, yet you're putting me in charge of your son."

"If it's too much trouble, forget I asked."

"No, it's not that," she said earnestly.

"I'm happy to help, believe me, but I'm looking at it from your point of view. With the best will in the world, Den, I'm a complete stranger to you."

Donovan grinned.

"I know where you live and I know where you work. I know the registration number of your car, and I know that you work for Terry Greene and Terry's a mate from way back."

Louise nodded slowly.

"Okay, but there's another thing you've got to bear in mind. I'm not a mum, Den. I've never taken care of a kid before."

"He's nine. He doesn't need much looking after. Feed him, make sure he cleans his teeth and give him the TV remote. He'll be fine. And it'll only be for a few days. Just until I get things sorted."

Louise folded her arms.

"I can't believe you trust me that much."

"Are you saying I can't?"

She shook her head.

"No. I'm just ... I don't know, surprised. Touched."

"I'll pay you." Donovan reached for his wallet.

"No!" said Louise quickly.

"I don't want your money, Den. I'm happy to do this for you."

"I'll collect him from school and bring him straight round. It'll mean you not going to work."

"That's okay. I was wanting to stay off until my eye healed anyway."

Donovan hugged her.

"Thanks, Louise. I was starting to run out of people I can trust."

Sharkey's mobile rang. He picked it up. Vicky came in from the bedroom, naked except for a towel, still wet from the shower.

"Stewart Sharkey?"

The accent was Spanish. Sharkey smiled. Den Donovan was so predictable sometimes.

"Ah, Juan Rojas. It would either be you or the Pole. And just between the two of us, I always thought you were the more professional."

"You are making me blush, Mr. Sharkey."

The guy you have knows nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"I realise that," said Rojas.

"I have already released him. I trust you will adhere to your end of the agreement?"

"You gave him the account number?"

"I did."

"The money will be in your account within forty-eight hours. You do realise that it's Donovan's money?"

"While it is in your possession, it's your money to do with as you wish," said Rojas.

"I doubt that Den will see it that way," said Sharkey.

Vicky was watching Sharkey with a confused look on her face. Sharkey turned around so that he didn't have to look at her.

"What about Hoyle? I assume you have him."

"Temporarily. I will make a phone call. I am not being paid to kill lawyers. Unfortunately."

"Donovan has paid you to kill me, hasn't he?"

"Of course."

"And there's no point in my offering to pay you more?"

Rojas chuckled.

"I thought not," said Sharkey.

"Much as money is my driving force, there are ethics that have to be adhered to. You do understand?"

"Of course I understand," said Sharkey.

"I will find you," said Rojas quietly.

"Eventually." There was no menace in the voice. It was for the Spaniard a simple statement of fact.

"I've enough money to hide for a long, long time," said Sharkey.

"Yes, you do, but no one can hide for ever. Not from me."

"We'll see." Sharkey hesitated. He knew he should keep the call short, but there was something he wanted to know.

"How did you feel, when you knew that I set you up?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" asked Rojas.

"When you found out that the guy wasn't me. That I wasn't even in Paris."

"You didn't fool me. Not for a second."

"What?"

"I'm standing right behind you, Mr. Sharkey."

Sharkey whirled around, his mouth open, throwing up his free hand as if warding off a blow. Vicky took a step back, her eyes wide, a look of horror on her face. Sharkey's head jerked left and right, his heart pounding. There was no one there.

"What's wrong?" asked Vicky.

Rojas chuckled in Sharkey's ear.

"Made you look," he said, and cut the connection.

One of the mobiles in Donovan's leather jacket burst into a tune. It was the theme from The Simpsons. Louise grinned.

"Fan of the show, are you?" she asked. They were walking across Trafalgar Square towards the Tube station.

"Robbie's been playing with them," said Donovan.

"I've told him I'll tan his hide if he doesn't stop."

"It's cute," said Louise.

Donovan pressed the green button. It was Underwood.

"Hang on, Dicko. Give me a minute." He put his hand over the receiver.

"Louise, I'm gonna have to talk to this guy. Sorry. Do you want to go on ahead? I'll bring Robbie around at about five thirty. Okay?"

If Louise was hurt by him wanting to take the call in private, she didn't show it.

"Sure," she said.

"I'll get some shopping done. You take care, Den." She kissed him softly on the cheek and walked away, putting on her dark glasses and pushing her hands deep into her pockets.

Donovan wanted to call her back and ask her to wait for him, but he steeled himself: there was no way he would jeopardise Underwood's position by talking to him in front of anyone else. He turned his back on her and put the phone to his ear.

"Dicko, sorry about that. Busy day."

"While I'm on lying on a beach with a pina co lada

"Jeez, you are becoming a moaning old fart," said Donovan.

"I'm a desk man these days, Den. It's not like it used to be when I was out and about. Then I could stop by and chew the fat. These days it's noticed if I go out. Questions get asked."

"Yeah, well, speaking of questions, I've got one for you."

The detective sighed mournfully but Donovan carried on talking.

"I need a check on two Yardies out Harlesden way. One's called Tony Blair, goes by the nickname PM. The other's Bunny. I don't know his real name."

"At least I don't have to phone a friend on this one," said the detective.

"The file's been across my desk several times. They're big players in north-west London. Crack and heroin. Some legit businesses for cleaning the cash. Drinking dens in tough neighbour hoods that we do our best to steer clear of. What's your interest?"

"Need to know, Dicko. Sorry. If you know about them, how come they're still up and running?"

"How long have you been Tango One? Just because they're targeted doesn't mean they get put away."

"Are you sure there's not more to it than that?"

"Spit it out, Den. I'm not psychic."

"Do they have someone on the inside?"

"Well, gosh, Den. I'll just raise it at the next meeting of Bent Detectives Anonymous, shall I?"

"Don't get all sensitive on me," said Donovan. He was starting to get annoyed at the detective's constant whining.

"Have there been rumours? Are they getting tipped off?"

"I don't think so. They're just smarter than the average black gang-banger, that's all. In particular, this Bunny character has his head screwed on all right. PM was just a small time teenage dealer until Bunny hooked up with him. Now he's a sort of.. . what's that thing that Robert Duvall did for Marlon Brando in The Godfather?"

"Consigliore?"

"What's that mean?"

"It's an advisor."

"Yeah. That's what Bunny does for PM. Keeps him out of the shit. Word is that Bunny's gay, but PM doesn't hold it against him. That's the talk, anyway. You got info on them might put them away? Be a feather in my cap."

"If I do, Dicko, you'll be the first cop I'll call."

"One other thing," said the policeman.

"There doesn't seem to have been any money paid into my account over the past couple of weeks."

"Don't worry," said Donovan.

"Cheque's in the post."

Donovan spent an hour going in and out of several department stores in Oxford Street until he was satisfied that he wasn't being tailed, then he walked to Fullerton's gallery, checking reflections in windows and doubling back three or four times to make absolutely sure that no one was following him.

Fullerton's gallery was on the third floor of a building in Wardour Street. The entrance was a glass door between a coffee bar and a photographer's store. He pressed a button and was buzzed in. He walked slowly up the stairway looking at framed reproductions of Old Masters on the walls.

The gallery itself was bright and airy with white walls and skylights and a light oak floor. The paintings on the walls were an eclectic mix of old oils and modern acrylics, but it was all good-quality work.

Fullerton came striding over from a modern beech and chrome desk, his hand outstretched. There was no one else in the gallery.

"Den, good to see you," said Jamie.

They shook hands.

"Business quiet?" asked Donovan.

"I had a couple of viewings arranged but I put them off, figured you'd want a word in private, yeah? Do you want a drink? I've got shampoo in the fridge."

"Nah, I've got to pick up Robbie from school, and it wouldn't be a good idea to turn up smelling of drink."

"Coffee, then? It's the real Italian stuff."

"Yeah, coffee's fine. Thanks." Donovan had his portable MRF detector on and he walked slowly around the gallery, passing the left hand close to any surfaces where a listening device could have been concealed. The Weeper on his belt remained stubbornly silent. The gallery was clean.

Donovan sat down on a low-slung leather sofa and studied the paintings on the wall opposite until Fullerton returned with two china cups on delicate saucers. He sat down next to Donovan.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Not really," said Donovan.

"Did you read about that big cocaine bust? The one where the SAS went in?"

"Shit, that was yours?"

"Sort of," said Donovan.

"I set it up but then it got taken over by that guy we met in the club. Ricky. It all turned to shit, so now they're looking for the leak. If there was a leak."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Donovan sipped his coffee.

"Good coffee, mate."

"Yeah, I've got one of those Italian jobbies. I can do the frothy stuff, too. I'm serious, Den. If you're in a jam, I'd be happy to help."

"Maybe there is something you can do. It depends."

"On what?"

"On how much you want to get involved. In what I do."

"Den, so long as it's safe and I make a profit, I'm your man."

Donovan nodded.

"Maury said you know people with money, guys with lots of cash, not necessarily legal."

"Good old Maury."

"Is he right?"

"Sure. The art business is a great place to hide cash. Moveable assets, saleable around the world. And when you sell you get an auction-house cheque."

"Okay, here's the scoop. I have a very sweet deal that I'm setting up, and I'm looking for guys who can market heroin. Top-grade heroin from Afghanistan. I can get it way, way cheaper than any wholesaler can supply it in this country, or anywhere in Europe."

"How cheap?" asked Fullerton.

"Delivered to the UK, ten thousand pounds a kilo. That's about one third of the regular dealer price. Almost a tenth of the street price."

Fullerton nodded.

"A wrap's a couple of quid at the moment, works out at about seventy quid a gram. Seventy grand a kilo on the street."

"This is good gear, though, Jamie. Right from the source. Totally uncut. I reckon street value would be nearer a hundred grand a key in London."

"I'm sure I could get some interest, Den. How much are we talking about?"

"As much as you want," said Donovan.

"You can't leave it as open-ended as that."

Donovan sighed.

"I'm going to be bringing in eight thousand keys."

"No fucking way!"

Donovan grinned.

"Like I said, it's a sweet deal. See what interest there is, but be bloody careful. I'm going to want money up front, and I'll arrange for it to be delivered anywhere they want in the UK."

"They're going to want to know how you're getting it into the country."

"No can do, Jamie."

"But you can tell me, right?"

Donovan pulled a face.

"Maybe later, but at the moment, all anyone needs to know is that the gear will be in the UK. And soon. Providing we get the down payment together."

"And how much is that?"

Donovan smiled. If Fullerton knew the cost of the consignment, he'd know how much Donovan was paying per kilo. And how much profit Donovan would be making on the deal.

"Let me worry about that, yeah?"

DC Ashleigh Vincent checked her wristwatch.

"Log him back home at sixteen hundred hours on the dot, Connor. Arrived in a black cab."

Vincent's partner grunted and reached for a metal clipboard hanging on the wall.

Vincent gave him the registration number of the taxi, and then took a swig from her bottle of mineral water.

The two Drugs Squad detectives were in the back of a van painted in British Telecom livery parked about a hundred yards away from Donovan's front door. Vincent was sitting on a small fishing stool on top of which she'd placed an inflatable cushion and she'd stripped down to a t-shirt and jogging shorts. Sweat was trickling down her back. The front windows of the van were open a couple of inches to allow in some air but there was nothing in the way of a breeze to cool them down. The one saving grace was that Vincent's partner hadn't been eating curry the night before. Vincent envied the Customs investigators who were holed up in an apartment in the terrace facing Donovan's house. That was the proper way to do surveillance, she thought. All the comforts of home: a shower when they needed one, a bed for a quick nap and a proper toilet instead of a plastic bucket.

Vincent put her binoculars back to her eyes.

"Hang on, he's coming out again. Heading for the Range Rover. Log him out at sixteen oh-four."

Donovan climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover and started the engine.

Vincent wiped her brow with a small towel. It was such a waste of her time, she thought. At first she'd been excited at being part of the team on the trail of Tango One, but she'd soon realised that she was nothing more than a clerk, noting when he entered and left the house. Word had come down from up high that all surveillance on Donovan had to be non-obtrusive. There was to be no covert entry of his house, no following his car, no attempt to find out where he was going or whom he was seeing. Vincent knew that meant only one thing the powers that be already knew what Donovan was up to. Which meant they had someone on the inside. Which meant that Vincent's input into the operation was close to zero.

She watched through the binoculars as Donovan drove to the end of the street and turned on to the main road.

"I hope they throw away the key," she muttered.

Donovan beeped the horn of the Range Rover when he saw Robbie walking out of the school gates. Robbie waved and ran over.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," said Robbie, climbing into the front passenger seat and throwing his backpack into the rear of the car.

"Said I would, didn't I? O ye of little faith."

Donovan kept checking his mirror as he drove away from the school. They reached a roundabout and he drove around it twice before shooting towards an exit without indicating.

"Dad, what are you playing at?" asked Robbie.

"What?"

"You're driving like a nutter."

"You can get out and walk if you want."

"And this isn't the way home either."

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," said Donovan.

"There's been a change of plan."

"What do you mean?"

"I need you to take a few days off school."

Robbie sighed theatrically.

"I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.

"You just told me I had to go."

"I know, but something's happened. Until I get it sorted, I need you to stay with someone."

"What are you talking about, Dad?"

Donovan checked his rear-view mirror. There was no one on his tail.

"I've got a bit of a problem about the house. We can't stay there for a while."

"What sort of problem?"

"A gas leak. I had the gas people out and they said it's not safe."

"So I'm going to stay at Aunty Laura's?"

"Not exactly. You remember that lady who gave me the lift to school with your soccer kit?"

"I'm not staying with her," said Robbie, pouting. He folded his arms and put his chin on his chest.

"Why can't I stay with Aunty Laura?"

"Because I say you can't. You'll like Louise. She's okay."

"I'm not staying with your girlfriend."

"You'll do what I bloody well tell you to do. And she's not my girlfriend."

"You can't make me."

Donovan glared at his son.

"What do you mean, I can't make you? You're nine years old."

"That doesn't mean you're in the right."

Donovan drove in silence, fuming. Robbie sat glaring out of the window, kicking the foot well Eventually Donovan couldn't stand the sound of the kicking any longer.

"Stop that!" he yelled.

"Stop what?" asked Robbie, innocently.

"You know what. That kicking."

"I don't want to stay with that woman. If I can't stay in my own house, I want to stay with Aunty Laura."

"You can't."

"Why not? Has she got a gas leak, too?"

Donovan gritted his teeth. A car ahead of him slowed to turn right without indicating. Donovan pounded on the horn.

"Look at that moron," he said. He swerved around the stationary car, mouthing obscenities at the driver.

They came to a red light and Donovan brought the car to a halt.

"Okay, look, I'll be honest with you," he said.

"I've upset some people, Robbie. Over a business deal. These people aren't very nice and I'm a bit worried about them coming around to the house and doing something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, but I'd feel safer if you stayed somewhere else. And didn't go to school. Normally I'd say stay with Aunty Laura and Uncle Mark, but these people might know where they live, too. That's all."

"So you were lying about the gas leak?"

Donovan nodded.

"I'm sorry."

Robbie looked at him scornfully.

"That was the best you could come up with? Weren't you ever a kid, Dad?"

Donovan grinned.

"It was bad, wasn't it."

"It was stupid. How long do I have to stay with her?"

"A few days. I'll be there most of the time."

"Has she got Sky?"

Donovan shrugged.

"I think so."

"Okay, then. I don't want to miss The Simpsons."

Jamie Fullerton paced up and down his gallery, a glass of champagne in his hand. His computer was switched on and Fullerton stared at the monitor as he paced. Eight thousand kilos of heroin. Den Donovan was planning to bring eight thousand kilos of heroin from Afghanistan into the UK, and Fullerton had the inside track.

Ten thousand pounds a kilo was cheap. Very cheap. Especially for delivery in London. In Amsterdam the price was close to twenty thousand pounds a kilo, and then there was the added risk of getting it into the country. If Donovan was preparing to sell it at ten thousand a kilo, he must be buying it at a fraction of that price. Which meant he was getting it close to the source. Afghanistan, probably. Or Pakistan. Or Turkey. Any closer to Europe and the price would increase dramatically. But if Donovan was getting his heroin at or close to the source, how was he going to get it in to the UK?

Fullerton knew that he should tell Hathaway what he'd found out. The whole purpose of Fullerton going undercover was to gather evidence against Tango One. By rights he should send Hathaway an e-mail immediately. Something was holding Fullerton back, through, and as he paced around his gallery, he tried to work out what it was. Was it that he liked Den Donovan? That he felt guilty about betraying a man who was close to becoming a friend? Or was it because Donovan was offering Fullerton a chance to make a lot of money? Easy money. In the three years since Hathaway had set Fullerton up with the Soho gallery, Fullerton had stashed away almost a million pounds dealing in works of art, legal and otherwise, and it was money he was pretty sure Hathaway was unaware of. Fullerton could put that cash into Donovan's deal and treble it. He'd be a player. It would mean crossing a line, but over the years that Fullerton had been undercover, that line had blurred to such an extent he was no longer sure where he stood, officially or morally. And as he paced up and down his gallery, sipping his champagne, he was becoming even less sure which side of the line he was on.

Donovan pressed the bell to Louise's flat and the front door lock clicked open. She had the door to her flat open as they got to the landing. She'd changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and clipped back her hair with two bright pink clips.

"You must be Robbie," she said, holding out her hand.

"Yeah, if he's my dad then I must be," said Robbie sourly. Then his face broke into a grin.

"You've got Sky, right?"

"Sure."

Robbie shook hands with her.

"You are his girlfriend, aren't you?"

"Not really."

"Do I have to sleep on a sofa?"

Louise shook her head.

"No, I've got a spare bedroom."

"With a TV?"

Donovan pushed the back of Robbie's head with the flat of his hand.

"When did you get so picky?" he said. He held up a small suitcase.

"I've packed some of his things, and I'll bring more around tomorrow."

"Are you going right away? I've got shepherd's pie in the oven."

"No, I can stay," said Donovan.

Louise showed Donovan and Robbie in to the sitting room. She pointed down the hallway.

"Robbie, your bedroom's on the right. There's a bathroom opposite."

Donovan handed the suitcase to his son.

"And keep it tidy, okay?"

"It's all right, I've got my own bathroom," said Louise.

"You don't know this one. He never picks up after himself."

"Oh, he's a guy, then, is he?" laughed Louise.

Robbie took his case to his room while Louise busied herself in the kitchenette.

"You really cooked?" asked Donovan.

"It's only shepherd's pie, Den. It's no biggie. Do you want coffee?"

"Sure. Thanks." He went over to a sideboard and took his mobile phones out of his jacket pocket and lined them up. There were four of them.

"Expecting a call?" asked Louise.

"Different people have different numbers," said Donovan.

"Helps me keep track of who's who."

"Paranoia?"

"Maybe."

"Which number do I have?"

Donovan picked up one of the Nokias and waggled it.

"Only you've got this number," he said.

"I'm flattered."

Robbie came back into the sitting room.

"Okay?" asked Donovan.

"Yeah, it's fine," said Robbie.

"Are you staying here as well?"

Louise looked at Donovan and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"I'll be popping in and out," he said.

"Because there's only two bedrooms, and the bed in mine is really small."

"It's a single," said Louise.

"Your dad can sleep on the sofa, if he decides to stay."

"And how long have I got to stay here?"

"It's not a prison, Robbie," said Donovan.

"Like I said, a few days."

"Are you hungry?" asked Louise.

"Yeah," said Robbie.

"Starving."

One of the mobile phones lined up on the sideboard burst into life.

Donovan picked it up. It was the Spaniard.

"It's not good news, amigo."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Donovan.

"He's not in Paris," said Rojas.

"He had someone else pick up the papers."

"Bastard!" hissed Donovan.

"Language," chided Robbie.

Donovan glared at him.

"If I were to guess, I would say that he is somewhere in France," continued Rojas.

"A big city. Nice or Marseilles perhaps. But we are not in a guessing game here, of course. He could well have moved on by now."

"But you're still on the case?"

"Of course," said Rojas.

"I have a number for him. Do you have a pen?"

Donovan clicked his fingers and waved for Robbie to get him a pen. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a Tesco receipt. Robbie gave him a pen, scowling.

"Okay, Juan, go ahead." Rojas gave him the number.

"That's aUK mobile, yeah?" asked Donovan.

"Yes. A roaming GSM."

"Can we find him through the number?"

Rojas whistled through his teeth.

"If it was a landline, I have contacts in the phone company who could help us, but mobiles are a different matter. I can certainly find out which numbers he has called, but locating the handset would require a warrant and would have to be done at a senior police level or by one of the intelligence agencies. Even in Spain I think it unlikely I would be able to do it. In France .. He left the sentence unfinished.

"Okay, Juan. Thanks anyway. Onwards and upwards, yeah?"

"There is one other thing, amigo. Just so there is no misunderstanding down the line. Sharkey is paying me a quarter of a million dollars not to hurt his accomplice. The man we picked up in Paris."

"I have no problem with that, Juan."

"It is always a pleasure doing business with you, amigo."

Donovan cut the connection.

"Who was it?" asked Robbie, flicking through the channels on the TV.

"None of your business," said Donovan.

"And get your feet off Louise's coffee table. Haven't you got homework to do?"

"Tomorrow's Saturday," said Robbie.

"I've got the whole weekend."

After dinner, Robbie gathered up their plates and took them into the kitchenette.

"You've got him well trained," said Louise.

"He's doing it to impress," said Donovan.

"I'm not," said Robbie.

"Do you want a coffee?" asked Louise.

"Or something stronger? I've got whisky. Or beer?"

Donovan looked at his watch.

"I've actually got to be somewhere. I'm sorry."

"You're not going out?" Robbie called from the kitchenette.

"Business," said Donovan.

"It's okay, Robbie, we can watch TV," said Louise.

Donovan scooped up the mobiles off the sideboard and put them in the pockets of his jacket.

"You be good, yeah?" he said to Robbie.

"Do you want to borrow the car?" asked Louise.

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, I'm going to be using taxis."

"There's that paranoia again," teased Louise.

"It's not that. It's just that where I'm going, it's likely to get broken into."

Louise tossed him a door key.

"In case you get back late," she said.

"Save you waking me up."

Donovan thanked her and went outside in search of a black cab.

The address PM had given him was in a row of terraced houses in Harlesden. Donovan could feel the pounding beat of reggae music through the seat of the cab long before they reached the house. The driver twisted around in his seat.

"Are you sure about this?" asked the driver.

"It looks a bit ethnic out there."

Donovan could see what the man meant. Haifa dozen burly men in long black coats were standing guard at the open door to the house, four with shaved heads glistening in the amber streetlights, two with shoulder-length dreadlocks. A dozen young black men and women were waiting to be admitted, moving to the sound of the pounding beat inside. Several were openly smoking joints. It was the sort of street the police never patrolled. If they turned up at all it would be mob-handed with riot shields and mace. Parked both sides of the street were expensive BMWs and four-wheel drives, most of them brand new.

"Yeah, this is it," said Donovan, handing the driver a twenty-pound note.

"Keep the change, yeah?"

"Thanks, guy," said the driver.

"Good luck."

Donovan got out of the cab and the driver drove off quickly without putting his "For Hire' sign on.

Donovan walked to the head of the line of people waiting to go in. He nodded at the biggest of the bouncers, who was wearing an earpiece and a small radio microphone that bobbed around close to his lips.

"I'm here to see PM," said Donovan.

The man nodded, his face impassive.

"He expecting you. Third floor. Door with "Fuck off' on it."

"That would be irony, would it?" asked Donovan.

"That would be the way it be," said the man.

Donovan pushed his way through the crowded first floor and found the stairs. The air was thick with the smell of marijuana and sweat, and the music was so loud his teeth vibrated. Teenagers sitting on the stairs drinking beer from the bottle looked up at him curiously as he walked up to the second floor. The wooden stairs were stained and pockmarked with cigarette burns.

One of the second-floor bedrooms had been converted into a bar. There were tin baths filled with ice and loaded with bottled beer, and a table full of spirits and mixers. Two black guys with turtle-shell abdomens and red and white checked bandanas were passing out bottles and shoving banknotes into a metal box without handing back change. There were several white girls around, predominately thin and blonde and baring their midriffs, but no white males. Donovan was attracting a lot of attention, but there didn't seem to be any hostility, just curiosity.

One small man with waist-length dreadlocks and a vacant stare grinned at Donovan, showing a mouthful of gold teeth, and offered him a puff at his soggy-ended joint, but Donovan just shook his head.

He went up to the third floor of the building. At the top of the hallway two young blacks wearing headsets and almost identical Nike hooded tops, woollen hats, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, moved aside without speaking to Donovan. The big man must have told them he was on his way up.

The "Fuck Off sign was written with black lettering on a gold background. Donovan knocked and the door opened partially. A pair of wraparound sunglasses reflected Donovan's image back at him in stereo.

"Den Donovan," said Donovan.

The man opened the door without speaking. Donovan walked in to the room. Half a dozen West Indians were sitting around the room on sofas, most of them smoking spliffs and drinking beer. Sitting behind a desk was a young black man with close-cropped hair wearing what looked like a Versace silk shirt. Around his neck hung a gold chain the thickness of a man's finger, and on his left wrist he wore a solid gold Rolex studded with diamonds.

"PM?"

The man at the desk nodded.

"Den Donovan."

"I know who you are," said PM. Standing behind PM was a black man well over six feet tall dressed in a black suit and grey T-shirt. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a goatee beard.

Donovan smiled amiably.

"Charlie and Pvicky said I should swing by. Pay my respects."

"What happened to my money, Den?"

"Your money paid for the coke, and the coke is sitting in one of The Queen's warehouses," said Donovan. He walked over to a sofa and sat down.

"It's swings and roundabouts. A percentage of deals go wrong. You have to live with that. Build it into your price."

"That don't answer my question."

"If you want to know why the deal went wrong, you're asking the wrong person."

"Someone grassed."

"Probably."

"And it was your deal."

"I set it up, yes, but these things grow. More people get involved. The more people get involved, the greater the risk."

PM slammed his hand down on to the desk.

"Fuck the risk. I want my money back."

"We all lost on this deal, PM."

PM reached into a drawer and pulled out a massive handgun, a black metal block with an inch-long barrel and an extra-long clip. Donovan recognised the weapon. It was a Mac-io machine gun. Lethal at short range, but unpredictable. It was a spray-and-pray weapon. Spray the bullets around and pray you hit something.

"PM, you pull the trigger on that and there's gonna be bullets flying all around the room."

"Yeah, but first one's gonna be in your gut."

"You know they pull to the right, yeah? To the right and up."

"So I'll aim left and low."

The man with the dreadlocks took a step forward. He fixed Donovan with a cold stare.

"You got any suggestion as to how we can get our money back?" he asked. The fact that he was the only one other than PM to open his mouth meant he was probably the one called Bunny, PM's adviser.

"You have to write it off. You can put that thing against my head and threaten to blow my brains out all you want, but I don't have your money. We're all in the same boat: you, me, Packy, Charlie, the Colombians who supplied the stuff."

"When things go wrong, there's always someone at fault."

"Agreed, but I didn't fuck up. Neither did Charlie and Pvicky. The Colombians are experts. It was either bad luck or someone new to the equation."

"You pointing the finger at us?" asked Bunny.

"There's no point in trying to apportion blame," said Donovan.

"We have to move on."

"And how do we do that?" asked Bunny.

PM seemed to relax a little. He put the gun back in the drawer, then leaned back and swung his feet up on the desk. He clicked his fingers at one of his men and the man fetched him a bottle of beer.

"I can cut you in on another deal. Heroin."

"Price?"

"Ten thousand a key."

PM drank his beer as Bunny rattled off quick fire questions.

"Source?"

"Afghan. Pure."

"Delivered where?"

"UK. South of England."

"Specifically."

"An airfield."

"You're flying it in?"

"That's the idea."

Bunny leaned forward and whispered into PM's ear. PM nodded as he listened but kept his eyes fixed stonily on Donovan's face.

"How much?" asked PM, when Bunny had finished whispering.

"Up to you."

"We'll go eight a key. And we'll take two hundred."

"Eight? I said ten."

"Yeah, but you owe us for the coke deal. And I figure if you're letting us in at ten, you're getting it for three or four, right?"

Donovan didn't say anything. He was paying the Russians three thousand dollars a kilo, about two thousand pounds. Even letting the Yardies in at eight grand he was still making a profit of three hundred per cent.

"I'd be cutting my throat at eight, PM. Nine."

"Eight five."

Donovan hesitated, then nodded.

"Eight five it is. You're sure you can move two hundred?"

PM's eyes hardened.

"You think we're smalltime, huh?"

"Two hundred is a lot, that's all."

"We can move it."

"That's great. I'll get Charlie to arrange the money with you." Donovan stood up.

"One thing," said PM coldly.

"This gets fucked up, so do you. Bad luck twice in a row ain't no bad luck. I'll be pointing more than my finger. Clear?"

"Clear, PM."

The man with wraparound sunglasses opened the door and the pounding music billowed into the room.

"You drive here?" asked Bunny.

"Cab," said Donovan.

"Was worried about losing the CD player."

Bunny laughed throatily.

"I'll walk you down, fix you up with a ride."

Donovan nodded his thanks, and Bunny followed him down the stairs and out on to the street.

"Thanks for taking the heat off me," Donovan said to Bunny.

"The safety was on," said Bunny.

"Yeah, I saw that."

"Figured you did."

They walked slowly down the road, talking in quiet voices.

"Couldn't ask everything I wanted to know without cutting across the man, but this Afghan gear, where's it coming from?" asked Bunny.

"The easy answer to that is Afghanistan, but that's not what you mean, right?"

"Ain't no way you're flying it out of Afghanistan. There's opium there, but the processing is done outside. Pakistan. Or Turkey maybe."

"My contacts are in Turkey."

"And you're flying it direct?"

Donovan nodded.

"That's a long flight," said Bunny.

"I've got a big plane."

"Two thousand miles and some."

"Like I said, I've got a big plane. Let me ask you something. Has PM got the weight to move two hundred keys?"

"We wholesale some already. He's got dealers all over north London and contacts south that'll buy up any surplus. He can move it."

Donovan nodded. Then this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Bunny smiled thinly.

"We'll see about that. It's a bit premature to start emunerating any KFC ready meals. When do you tell us where we collect?"

"Day of delivery."

"Which will be when?" asked Bunny.

"Assuming all the money is in play, within the next twenty-four hours, probably three days."

"That quick?"

"The Turkish end is all ready to go. Charlie'll get the details to you."

Bunny shook his head.

"No, we deal with you on this one. No discussion."

Donovan wanted to argue, but it was clear from Bunny's tone that there was nothing he could say that would get him to change his mind.

"Okay," said Donovan.

"You call me direct when you've got the money. It's going to be electronic transfer through SWIFT. No used notes in suitcases."

"Not a problem. We have money in the system."

Donovan gave him the number of one of his mobiles.

"Call this from a landline. Don't identify yourself, just give me the number but transpose the last two digits. I'll call you back from a call box."

There was a squeal of brakes from a car in the street. Donovan whirled around. A large Mercedes had pulled up opposite them. The front passenger window was open and something was thrust through the opening. Donovan cursed. It was a gun. A big gun. He'd been so involved in the conversation with Bunny that he hadn't been aware of the car driving down the street. The gun jerked and there was a loud series of muffled bangs. Bullets thwacked into the wall of the house behind Donovan. He felt an arm across the back of his neck, pulling him down. It was Bunny.

"Down, man, get down!" Bunny yelled.

Bullets were hitting the concrete pavement all around Donovan. Now there were two guns spewing out bullets. Bunny grabbed Donovan's jacket collar and hauled him behind a black Wrangler Jeep just as its windows shattered into a thousand glass cubes.

Donovan looked up at Bunny. The West Indian was crouched over him.

"Stay down, man!" Bunny yelled.

The Jeep crashed to one side as its tyres were ripped apart by the gunfire. Puffs of dust exploded on the brick walls of the terraced houses, and glass was shattering everywhere. Bullets whizzed all around them.

Donovan looked back at the house they'd just left. Two West Indians had pulled handguns from inside their coats and were blasting away at the Mercedes. The Mercedes leaped forward and then braked again. Now the gunmen had a clear shot at Bunny and Donovan around the side of the Jeep.

"Bunny, watch out!" Donovan yelled.

Bunny whirled around just as one of the machine guns burst into life. Bullets thwacked into the front of the Jeep, shattering its headlights. Two bullets slammed into Bunny's chest and he fell back on to Donovan.

More West Indians ran out of the house brandishing guns. One of the men had a Mac-io like PM's and he fired a burst at the Mercedes, thudding holes into its boot. The Mercedes sped off.

Donovan crawled out from under Bunny, expecting to see his chest a bloody pulp. Instead Bunny was rubbing his chest and scowling.

"Bastards," he said.

He sat up.

"You okay?" he asked Donovan.

"Am I okay? What the fuck do you mean, am I okay?"

Donovan got to his feet and helped Bunny up. Haifa dozen of Bunny's crew came running up.

Why aren't you .. ." asked Donovan, his whole body shaking.

"Dead?" asked Bunny. He lifted up his shirt and showed Donovan a white Kevlar bullet-proof vest.

"Pretty much compulsory in Harlesden these days," he said.

"You should get one."

"I don't think you'll catch me around here again," said Donovan. He clapped Bunny on the shoulder.

"I owe you, mate. I'm like a fucking elephant, I won't forget this."

"We're not home free yet," said Bunny, looking around. In the distance they could hear sirens and there were shouts from the house. Doors were opening all along the street.

"The Operation Trident boys'll be on their way. They move fast on black-on-black shootings before any witnesses disappear into the woodwork. We've got to move. Come on."

Bunny headed down the street, away from the house. Donovan followed him. Donovan knew that Bunny was wrong about it being a black-on-black attack. As the car had been driven away, Donovan had seen a face he recognised in the back seat. Jesus Rodriguez.

Louise shuffled the playing cards and laid them out on the coffee table. She'd been playing patience for more than two hours, half concentrating on the cards, half watching the television with the sound muted.

The door to the spare bedroom opened and Robbie appeared, rubbing his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said.

"Do you want a drink? Cocoa or something?"

Robbie nodded and sat down on the sofa. Louise went through to the kitchenette and put a pan of milk on to boil.

"That's patience," said Robbie, pointing at the cards.

That's right."

"You know you can play it on computer. It comes with Windows."

"I know. But I haven't got a computer here."

"Everyone's got a home computer these days," said Robbie.

"Not me. Besides, I like the feel of the cards. It's relaxing. That's why people play patience."

"It's boring."

"Yeah, you're right. But it gives you something to do with your hands."

Louise stirred cocoa powder into the hot milk, then poured the cocoa into a mug.

She gave the mug to Robbie and sat down next to him.

"Thanks," he said. He took a sip.

"How do you know my dad?" he asked.

Louise shrugged.

"He helped me when I needed help."

"You didn't know him when my mum was around, did you?"

Louise shook her head.

"I only met him a few days ago. When he came back from the Caribbean." She reached over and stroked his hair.

"Why, are you worried that I might have taken him away from your mum?"

"No way!" said Robbie vehemently.

"She was the one having the affair."

"Because I didn't meet your dad until after your mum left. Cross my heart."

"She didn't leave," said Robbie.

"She ran away."

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter." He took another sip of cocoa.

"You know your dad loves you, don't you? That's why he brought you here. So that you'd be safe."

"He said some people were after him. Do you know who they are?"

"No. He didn't tell me. He just said he needed somewhere for you to stay."

"He never says anything about what he does. It's like it's all some big secret."

Louise gathered up the cards and shuffled them slowly.

"You're lucky to have a dad," she said.

"It's not luck. It's biology."

"I mean to have a father who's around. My dad died when I was a kid. Younger than you."

Robbie put his mug on to the coffee table and wiped his mouth.

"So your mum took care of you, did she?"

"Sort of. For a while. Then she married again." Louise shuddered at the memory of her stepfather.

"That's why I left home."

"Your stepfather didn't like you?"

"Oh, he liked me all right. He liked me too much. Couldn't keep his bloody hands off me."

Robbie looked away, embarrassed.

Louise reached over and put a hand on his leg.

"I'm sorry, Robbie. Bad memories." She forced a smile.

"Do you want to play cards? Until you feel sleepy?"

"Okay. What do you want to play?"

"Guest's choice."

"Blackjack."

Louise frowned.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah," said Robbie eagerly.

"Can we play for money?"

Louise looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Am I being hustled here?"

"Do you want a beer?" asked Bunny, opening the door to a small fridge.

"Yeah, cheers," said Donovan.

The two men were in a room five minutes walk away from the shooting, above a minicab office. They'd hurried through the office with Bunny nodding a greeting to two big jamaicans who'd been sitting on a plastic sofa and a West Indian in a Rasta hat who was talking nineteen-to-the-dozen into a microphone. Bunny had taken Donovan up a flight of stairs and through a door on which had been tacked a sign saying "Management Only."

Bunny tossed Donovan a can of lager and sat down behind a cheap teak veneer desk.

"We'll hang out here for a while, till things quieten down. Just in case someone gives your description to Five-O."

"I thought we all looked the same."

Bunny flashed Donovan a tight smile and popped the tab on his can of beer.

Donovan looked around the room. There was worn lino on the floor and a bare minimum of furniture. The desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. Sheets of hardboard had been nailed over the window and the only light came from a single naked bulb in the centre of the ceiling.

"Nice place you've got here," he said.

"It serves its purpose."

"The taxi firm is yours?"

"None of it's mine, PM's the top man."

"Yeah, right," said Donovan. He took a long gulp of beer.

"You use the taxi business to clean your cash?"

"Some. But it makes money, too. Try getting a black cab in London anytime after nine. Especially if you want to come out this way. We can pretty much charge what we want. We even pay tax."

Bunny leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his shirt. He examined his Kevlar vest.

"You were lucky," said Donovan.

"The way they were spraying bullets, you could have got hit in the head."

"Firing from a car, they'd be lucky to hit anything. They've been watching too many movies."

Donovan took another drink from his can.

"How long have you been with PM?" he asked.

"Three years, thereabouts."

"Not thought about setting up on your own? Or joining a bigger operation?"

"Why? You recruiting?"

"You've got your head screwed on, seems you'd make more working for yourself than helping PM up the slippery pole."

Bunny shrugged.

"I do okay."

"You're holding his hand," said Donovan.

"Don't let him hear you say that, he's young but he's hard."

Donovan raised his can in salute.

"No offence, Bunny," he said.

"I was just making an observation."

"I'm happy with the way things are, Den. But if you were to make me an offer .. ." Bunny left the sentence hanging.

"You'd be an asset, that's for sure. I've not met many who throw themselves in front of a bullet for me."

"That's not the way it went down, and you know it," laughed Bunny.

"I practically fell on top of you."

"Whatever," said Donovan.

"The simple fact is that if it wasn't for you and that vest, I'd be lying on the street in a pool of blood. Seriously, Bunny, if I was going to be in this for the long haul I'd make you an offer, but after this Turkish deal, I'm out of the game."

"For good?"

Donovan grinned.

"For as long as the money holds out. And that'll be for a long, long time. I've got a boy needs looking after. Robbie. Nine years old."

"Your son?"

Donovan nodded.

"His mum's done a runner so I'm going to be a single parent. For a while at least. You got kids, Bunny?"

Bunny shook his head.

"Married?"

Another shake of the head. Donovan kicked himself mentally. Underwood had said that Bunny was gay. He'd clean forgotten but Bunny was a big man, well-muscled and hard-faced, and there wasn't the slightest thing about him that was in the least bit effeminate.

"Yeah, well considering how unlucky I've been in the marital stakes, you're probably well out of it," said Donovan, He sipped his beer.

"What about the drugs game, Bunny? You see a future in it for you?"

"Long term, the only future's prison, right? You've got to quit while you're ahead. Make your stash, get it in legit businesses, then leave the dirty stuff behind. It's always been that way. Half the land in this country is owned by the descendants of robber barons of the Middle Ages. In a hundred years time, drugs money will have become old money and no one will remember where it came from. Take your son. Nine, you said? You'll put him in a good school, a top university, then you'll have enough money to set him up in whatever he wants to do. His children will be another step removed, and eventually it'll all be clean and no one will care."

"So long as we don't get caught."

Bunny grinned and raised his can of beer.

"Here's to not getting caught!"

Donovan grinned. He leaned over and clinked his can against Bunny's.

Donovan stayed in the office with Bunny for the best part of an hour, then Bunny arranged for a minicab to run Donovan home. Donovan decided to go to his house in Kensington rather than disturbing Louise. He had the cab drop him half a mile from the house and he went in through the communal gardens and the back door.

He showered and had a whisky, and then put his mobiles on charge on the bedside table before diving under the quilt. He was asleep within minutes.

When Donovan woke up it was light and a pop song was playing. He rolled over and groped for whichever mobile was ringing, cursing his son. He'd told Robbie several times not to mess with the phones. They were too important to be played with.

As he picked up the phone that was ringing, he realised that it was his son's. Robbie must have put his phone on the sideboard in Louise's flat next to Donovan's and he'd picked it up by mistake. Whoever was calling had blocked their ID. Donovan pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear.

For several seconds there was silence, then a voice.

"Robbie?" It was Vicky.

"Robbie?" She sounded close to tears.

"Robbie, talk to me."

Donovan wanted to cut the connection, but he couldn't bring himself to press the red button. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was seven o'clock in the morning.

Vicky sobbed.

"Oh Robbie, I'm so sorry."

"He's asleep," said Donovan.

"Den. Oh God."

"What do you want, Vicky?"

"I want to talk to Robbie."

"Like I said, he's in bed." Donovan didn't want to tell her that Robbie wasn't sleeping at the house. And he certainly didn't want to tell her about Louise.

There was a long silence, broken only by Vicky's sniffling.

"I'm sorry, Den," she said eventually.

"Not sorry enough," he said.

"Not yet."

"Please don't be like that, Den."

"After what you did? I think I've earned the right to be any way I want."

"I didn't mean it to be this way, Den. I was lonely. You left me on my own too long."

"I was making a living. I was paying for your bloody house, your car, your holidays, your shopping trips. You never had to work a day in your life, Vicky. Not one fucking day. And I paid for that."

"So you own me, is that it? You paid for the clothes on my back, so I have to be the quiet little wifey sitting at home, grateful for your odd appearance?"

"We talked about it. You knew my situation. I was Tango One. Most wanted."

"Well, at least you were number one at something, because you were a lousy husband and a lousy father."

"Fuck you," said Donovan. He pressed the red button but instantly regretted it. He stared at the phone's readout, hoping that she'd call back, but she didn't.

He began idly to flick through the phone's menu. He flicked through the message section. Robbie had a stack of saved messages. Donovan grinned as he read them. Probably girlfriends. Idle chit-chat. Childish jibes at teachers. Stupid jokes. Then Donovan froze.

"I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW -DAD." The message had been sent when Donovan had been on the beach in St. Kitts, talking to Carlos Rodriguez. That was why Robbie had gone rushing home from school and found Vicky in bed with Sharkey.

The message had been sent from aUK mobile. Donovan didn't recognise the number, but there was something familiar about it. He tapped out the number and put the receiver to his ear. The phone was switched off and there was no answering service.

Donovan looked at the digits on the phone's readout, deep creases across his brow. Where had he seen that number before? He rolled out of bed and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He flipped it open. The Tesco receipt was sticking out of one of the credit card slots. He slowly slid it out and looked at the telephone number he'd written on it. The number that the Spaniard had given him. The numbers matched. Donovan cursed. It had been Stewart Sharkey who'd sent the text message to Robbie. He'd wanted to be caught in bed with Vicky. It had all been planned.

Another phone rang. The landline. Donovan went over and looked at the eavesdropping detector. The green light was on. No one was listening in on the line. Maybe it was Vicky, calling back on the house phone. He picked up the receiver.

"We have to meet," said a voice. A man. English.

"Who is this?" asked Donovan.

"I know what you're doing and I need to talk to you," said the voice.

"Yeah, right. How old do you think I am? Twelve?"

"It's about Stewart Sharkey."

"What about him?"

"What do you think? Do you want your money back, or not?"

Donovan hesitated for a few seconds, then sighed.

"Where?"

"Camden Market. In four hours."

"You've got to be joking." Camden Market on a Saturday morning had to be one of the most crowded places on the planet.

"Safety in numbers," said the man.

"You know you are being watched? A bedroom across the street. And a British Telecom van. I wouldn't want you bringing any strangers to the party."

"I'll make sure I'm clean," said Donovan.

"How will I find you?"

"I'll find you," said the man. The line went dead.

Donovan caught a black cab to Oxford Street and spent fifteen minutes in the Virgin Megastore looking for tails. The record store's clientele was mainly young and scruffy, so police and Customs agents would find it harder to blend. He spotted two definites and a possible.

He left the store, dived into another black cab and had it drive him to Maida Vale and drop him on the south side of the Regents Canal opposite the Paddington Stop, the place where he'd watched for the arrival of Macfadyen and Jordan. He paid off the driver and dashed across the footbridge and ran along Blomfield Road to Jason's, a restaurant with a sideline running narrow boat trips along the canal. The route terminated at Camden Market. Donovan had timed it so that he arrived just as a boat was preparing to leave.

He bought a ticket and climbed aboard. There were almost twenty passengers on the boat, mainly tourists. It was a pretty trip, cruising by the vast mansions of Little Venice and through Regents Park, but Donovan was barely aware of the passing scenery. His mind was racing, trying to work out who had called him. It wasn't the Colombians, that was certain. They wouldn't want him in a crowded place like Camden Market. Ideally they'd want him alone and tied to a chair. Why the market? Safety in numbers, the man had said. But safety for who? For Donovan? Or for the caller? He adjusted the Velcro collar under his wristwatch. The personal RF detector was already switched on.

They arrived at Camden and the grey-haired boatman jumped out and secured the narrow boat then announced that they'd be returning in forty-five minutes and that passengers should be back by then if they intended returning to Little Venice.

Donovan walked through the market. It was packed with tourists and teenagers in shabby clothing. There were shops and stalls everywhere selling New Age rubbish, handmade pottery, secondhand clothes, incense, posters, CDs, T-shirts with smart-arse slogans. Donovan couldn't see a single thing he'd ever want to buy, but figured that Robbie would probably have had a great time. Donovan scanned the faces around him. It would be impossible to spot a tail. There were just too many people milling around, and at times he was shoulder to shoulder with shoppers. It was crazy, thought Donovan. It was the last place in the world he'd choose for a meeting.

Suddenly there was a man standing in front of him. A face that Donovan recognised. A short man with thinning, sandy hair and a cocksure smile on his face.

"Long time, no see, Donovan," said the man.

"Gregg Hathaway," said Donovan, shaking his head.

"Can't say this is a pleasant surprise."

The two men stood with their feet shoulder-width apart, like boxers eyeing each other up at the weigh-in. People were having to flow around them like a river parting around rocks.

Donovan moved his left hand forward, closer to Hathaway, but the detector on his belt stayed resolutely quiet. Hathaway's own left hand also moved and Donovan glanced down. He saw a thin strip of Velcro under the man's watchband and smiled.

"State of the art," said Hathaway, smiling too.

"The difference is, the taxpayer paid for mine."

"Still with Customs, then?" asked Donovan. He edged a little closer to Hathaway and moved his hand again. No reaction from the bleeper. If Hathaway hadn't come wired, then what did he want? A chat about old times? They really were old times, because it had been more than ten years since Donovan had seen him.

Hathaway patted his right knee.

"Not much of a future for me in Customs and Excise after you put a bullet in my leg."

"Sorry to hear that," said Donovan. He looked around. Was he about to be arrested, was that it? Had Hathaway brought him to Camden Market so that he could be grabbed in the crowd? There was certainly no way that Donovan could run, there were just too many people.

"I'm here on my own, Donovan," said Hathaway. He was wearing a dark blue duffel coat with the hood up, brown trousers and brown, scuffed Timberland boots. He looked like a train spotter thought Donovan, and he blended perfectly into the crowds around him.

"What's this about?"

"Let's walk."

Hathaway turned to his right and started walking towards the canal. Donovan went with him, trying to keep close to the man's side, but it was difficult with there being so many people. Donovan's detector vibrated and he jerked. He looked around. Hathaway was also looking left and right, a frown on his face. They both saw the man at the same time. Long hair, sallow complexion, tattered jeans and a camouflage combat jacket covered in badges. Donovan smiled and so did Hathaway as the same thought went through their minds. An undercover drugs officer. As easy to spot as a nun in a brothel. As the man walked away from them, their beepers stopped vibrating.

Hathaway led Donovan through a shop-lined courtyard to a small coffee shop with several outside tables. Two American tourists were just leaving and Donovan and Hathaway grabbed their table. Hathaway ordered two coffees from a young waitress who had half her head shaved.

All the other tables were occupied, so when Hathaway spoke it was in little more than a whisper.

"You've done well over the years," he said.

Donovan shrugged. He knew Hathaway wasn't bugged, but that didn't mean he was going to say anything that was even remotely incriminating. Donovan was there to listen, to find out what Hathaway wanted. He continued to scan the crowds for familiar body shapes and clothing, but he knew that it would be impossible to spot any watchers. There were just too many people.

"Relax, I came alone, Donovan," said Hathaway.

"I've as much to lose being seen talking with you as you have."

"I'm just soaking up the atmosphere, Gregg," said Donovan.

"Who are you with, then, if it's not Customs?"

"A different bunch," said Hathaway.

"People who don't mind so much that I can't run the hundred metres in twelve seconds any more."

"What do you want, an apology? You should be grateful, mate. I've done a lot worse."

"Oh, I know you have, Donovan. In some ways I got off lightly. I mean sure, I lost my job and my wife, but at least you didn't tie me to a chair and cut me to bits while you videotaped it."

Their coffees arrived and the two men sat in silence until the waitress moved away again.

"You've never cared about the rights and wrongs of drugs, have you?" asked Hathaway, keeping his voice low.

"You said you had information about Sharkey. Or was that just to get me here?"

Hathaway sipped his coffee. He grimaced.

"This taste like real coffee to you? Tastes instant to me."

"Coffee's coffee," said Donovan.

"I'm interested in your thought processes, that's all. It's not that you don't have a sense of right and wrong, is it? You know the difference. You just don't care. Am I right?"

Donovan leaned across the table towards Hathaway.

"Does anyone really care?" he whispered.

"I mean, really care. And at the end of the day, does it really matter?"

Hathaway met Donovan's stare and shrugged.

"I don't know. I think that's the question I'm asking myself "My mum was a good person," said Donovan.

"Really good. Do anything for anybody. My father walked out on her when I was six. Just didn't come back from work one day. He was last seen at the bus station and that was it. Did she deserve it? Did she fuck. Few years later she met up with man number two, a right piece of work. Friday night recreation for him was getting pissed in the pub and then knocking her around. She never fought back, never shouted, just suffered in silence. You'd think he'd have mellowed, but it just made him worse. So did what goes around come around? Of course it didn't. She got cancer and died a horrible death. I still remember her screaming. He pissed off, and me and my sister were put in care. Do I know what's right and what's wrong? Damn right I do. Do I care?" Donovan smiled thinly and shook his head.

"So what do you want, Gregg?

"The morality of selling drugs isn't a problem for you, is it? That's rhetorical. No need for you to answer."

"I know what rhetorical means, you patronising cripple."

Hathaway looked genuinely hurt.

"There's no need to be offensive, Donovan," he said.

"I didn't mean to be patronising."

"Fine, then I didn't mean to be offensive. Can we get on with whatever it is you want?"

"I guess my point is that the whole moral status of what we both do is a very grey area. Always has been. Tobacco and alcohol kill millions more than drugs, but they're controlled by public companies so they're okay. Legitimate. You take the cocoa plant and make chocolate. That's legal. Extract cocaine and it's illegal. You take a naturally growing plant, dry the leaves, wrap them up in paper and sell them to millions. Legal. Take another plant, extract the sap, process it into something you can smoke, heroin, and that's illegal. No morality, just the powers that be making decisions about what people can and cannot do. But you understand that better than me, don't you?"

"About drugs?"

"About morality. You know none of it really matters, right? It's just a game. Someone else sets the rules, we choose which side we want to be on, and we play the game. I chase you. You try to get away. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. And at the end of the day there's never going to be a winner. The game just goes on, right?"

Donovan shrugged.

"Maybe," he said. He couldn't see where the conversation was going. He wanted to scream at Hathaway, to grab the man by the throat and shake him until he told him what it was he wanted.

"See, it doesn't really matter which side you're on, does it? You choose your side then you play the game. It's like when we were kids. Didn't really matter if you were a cop or a robber. A cowboy or an Indian."

"I'm going," said Donovan. He started to get to his feet, but Hathaway held up his hand.

"I'm almost done," he said.

Donovan sat down again.

"I want you to understand what it is you taught me when you put that bullet in my leg all those years ago. You taught me that it doesn't matter which side you're on, all that matters is how you play the game. And for that, I want to shake your hand."

Hathaway reached out his right hand. Donovan looked down at it, frowning. The fingernails were bitten to the quick. He slowly put out his own hand and shook. As their hands made contact he felt something hard in Hathaway's palm. Donovan realised it was a folded piece of paper. He tried to pull his hand away but Hathaway tightened his grip like a vice.

"You're trying to set me up," hissed Donovan. That's what this had all been about. Hathaway was planting drugs on him. Donovan looked around frantically, expecting to see police closing in on him.

"Don't be stupid, Donovan," soothed Hathaway.

"Why would I plant a two-quid wrap on you? You deal in thousands of kilos. It's going to be all or nothing." He slowly shook Donovan's hand, then eased his grip. Donovan felt the paper pressing against his own palm.

"Take it," said Hathaway.

Donovan pulled his hand away. He opened the piece of paper. There was a typewritten address on it in capital letters. An address in the South of France.

"Sharkey's there," said Hathaway softly.

"How do you know that?"

"Tracked his phone. Easy peasy when you work for the good guys. I know you have your ways, but our ways are more efficient. Unlimited resources, so long as you have access. And I've got access."

"And what do you want? A drink?"

Hathaway looked scornfully at Donovan.

"How much would you give me? A few grand. This isn't about a few grand. Besides, you seem to have forgotten that you're pretty much broke at the moment."

"If it's not about a bung, then what is it about?" asked Donovan.

Hathaway grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

"Need to know, Donovan. All in good time. At the moment, just don't look this gift horse in the mouth. You go and get your money, then we'll talk again."

Donovan looked at the address again.

"Is she still with him?" he asked.

"I gather so." Hathaway stood up, grunting as he put his weight on his right leg.

"Bitch."

"You've got to learn to live and let live," said Hathaway, rubbing his right knee.

Donovan slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

"Maybe next time we should meet at the National," said Hathaway.

Donovan stiffened. He knew about his meeting with Louise?

Hathaway smiled at his discomfort.

"Word to the wise," he said.

"You might be able to shake off the cops by whizzing around the Underground, but all we do is sit and watch you via a link to the Transport Police's CCTV control room. We don't need to put people down after you. We just watch you on TV and wait for you to surface." He threw Donovan a sloppy salute.

"Catch you later, yeah?" Hathaway turned and walked away, dragging his right leg slightly. He edged into the shopping crowds and within seconds Donovan had lost sight of him.

Stewart Sharkey pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes and waved at the waiter. He ordered an omelette and a cafe latte and a bottle of good wine in fluent French, then settled back and scanned the front page of Le Monde. He'd have preferred to have read one of the British tabloids, but it was important to maintain his cover. So far as anyone knew, he was French, a Parisian businessman taking a well-earned break from the heat of the capital. When he and Vicky were out, she had to keep her mouth shut, because even if she tried to speak French it was glaringly obvious that she was English. Meals outside the apartment were taken in silence unless there was no one within earshot, and even then conversation was limited to snatched whisperings. Frankly, Sharkey preferred to dine alone.

There was little in the newspaper about what was happening back in the UK. Like the English, the French were extremely parochial about their news. He turned to the sports pages. At least the French appreciated English soccer.

Sharkey heard chair legs scrape against the flagstones and he lowered his paper. A man in his thirties grunted and lowered himself into a chair at the table next to Sharkey's. The man ordered a coffee and lit a small cigar. Sharkey went back to reading the paper.

"Checking the currency rates?" said a voice. Sharkey lowered his paper again. The man at the next table tapped ash into a glass ashtray and nodded at the paper.

"Seeing how many francs you get to the pound." The man spoke English, but with an accent, and not French.

Sharkey formed his face into a pained frown, trying to make it clear that he wasn't looking for a conversation.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak English," he said in his perfect French.

"The pound. Is it better to hold the pound, do you think, or dollars?"

"I'm sorry, I have no interest in the currency markets," said Sharkey in French, raising the paper and flicking it to make a cracking sound.

The man leaned forward and blew smoke over the top of the newspaper.

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Sharkey? I would have thought that with sixty million stolen dollars, you'd be very interested."

There was another scraping sound behind Sharkey and he looked over his shoulder. Two men sat down at the table behind him. Big men with dark brown skins and thick moustaches, black sunglasses and flashy gold rings on their fingers. The black lenses of their sunglasses stared back at him impassively.

"Yes, they are with me, Mr. Sharkey."

Sharkey put down his paper.

"Who are you?" He glanced left _ and right, praying silently that there would be a gendarme close by. Officially, he had done nothing wrong and he had nothing to fear from the authorities.

"You don't know me, Mr. Sharkey. And please don't bother looking around for help." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small Taser stun gun.

"You know what this is, Mr. Sharkey?"

Sharkey nodded. It generated a high-voltage pulse that could disable a man in seconds, producing the equivalent of a massive heart attack or epileptic fit.

"There are two ways we can handle this," the man continued, an amiable smile on his face.

"I can press this against your neck and give you twenty thousand volts. You go down, I announce that I am a doctor and my two friends behind you offer to transport you to hospital in their very roomy Mercedes Benz. You wake up in about ten minutes with a very bad headache."

Sharkey sighed.

"And the alternative?"

"I pay your bill and mine. We smile and walk to the car together." The man caressed the stun gun with his thumb.

"Which is it to be, Mr. Sharkey?"

"Whatever he is paying you, I will pay you ten times as much."

The man shook his head.

"Please do not embarrass yourself, Mr. Sharkey. We are all professionals here."

Sharkey closed his eyes. He could feel tears welling up and he blinked them away. He had come so close, so damn close. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He felt almost light headed and he knew that it was the endorphins kicking in, the body's protective mechanism swamping his system with chemicals. It was all over. Den Donovan had won and he had lost.

He forced himself to smile.

"Okay," he said.

"Let's go."

Vicky turned around in the shower, letting the water play over her face. She twisted the temperature control and gasped as the water turned icy cold. She ran her hands over her face, pulling back her hair. Sharkey kept telling her she'd have to dye it, but she didn't want to, she enjoyed being blonde. She'd agreed to cut her hair shorter and to wear a hat and dark glasses whenever she stepped outside, but that was as far as she was prepared to go.

As she turned off the shower she heard the door to the apartment open and close.

"Stewart? Is that you?" she called, then shook her head in annoyance. Of course it was him. Who else would be letting themselves in with a key? She wrapped a towel around herself and checked her reflection in the mirror. There were dark patches under her eyes and her skin was dry and flaking. She needed a morning in a spa, being worked on by experts. A massage, a long soak, then a facial and a skin-toning session. A seaweed wrap, maybe. She needed pampering, but Sharkey was practically keeping her a prisoner in the apartment. Damn him. Damn him and damn Den Donovan. They were as bad as each other. They chased, they wooed, they pursued, then when Vicky finally opened up her heart to them, they walked all over her. Treated her like a possession, something to be owned and put on show. Vicky smiled sadly at her reflection. Except that Sharkey wasn't even able to put her on show. She was like a bird in a cage, available for him and him alone. A secret possession.

She heard him walking into the bedroom.

"Did you forget something?" she called.

She opened the bathroom door, then jumped as she saw the man standing there, his arm outstretched to grab hold of the handle. Her mouth fell open and she took a deep breath, ready to scream, but before a sound left her throat a second man stepped from the side of the door and clamped a cloth over her mouth. Her nostrils were filled with a sickly-sweet odour and then the room started to swim. She felt the strength drain from her legs and everything went black.

Louise cooked lasagne and opened a bottle of red wine. Donovan sat down at the dining table as she heaped the pasta on to three plates.

"Robbie, there's salad in the fridge. Can you get it for me?"

"Sure," said Robbie, dashing off to the kitchen.

"He's a good kid," said Louise.

"He likes you," said Donovan, pouring wine into their glasses.

"It's mutual." Louise sat down next to him. She picked up her glass and clinked it against his.

"It's nice having you both here."

Robbie returned with a glass bowl filled with salad and put it on the table.

One of Donovan's phones started ringing. He pressed the green button. It was the Spaniard.

"Hang on, Juan, let me get some privacy," said Donovan, standing up.

"It's a madhouse here."

"Well, thank you very much," said Louise.

Donovan grinned.

"I need to speak to this guy, sorry. I'll go outside."

Donovan left the apartment and hurried downstairs and out of the front door. He spoke to the Spaniard again as he walked along the side of the house to the garden.

"Yeah, sorry about that, Juan. How did it go?"

"Your money is back in your account," said the Spaniard.

Donovan pumped the air with his fist.

"Juan, you are a fucking star!"

"Yes, I know."

"You took your fee out first, right?"

"Of course I did, amigo. And my expenses."

"Whatever it cost, you are worth it, you dago bastard."

"I couldn't have done it without knowing where he was," said the Spaniard.

"A little bird told me," said Donovan.

"I can't say any more than that."

"Your little bird is very well informed," said the Spaniard.

"I myself could do with a little bird like that."

"How was Sharkey?"

"Co-operative. Eventually. It took several toes and three of his fingers, but he told us everything."

"Still alive?"

"Just."

"Make sure he's never found, Juan."

"Thy will be done. And your wife, amigo, what about your wife?"

Donovan walked to the far end of the garden. A couple of sparrows were squabbling over a bread crust that had been placed on a wooden bird table.

"Amigo? Your wife?"

Donovan closed his eyes.

"Have you hurt her?"

"Not yet. We have her restrained, but we haven't harmed her. I wanted to talk to you first. She is very afraid, amigo. If you wanted her to learn a lesson, I feel she has learned it."

"Did she see what you did to Sharkey?"

"No, but she was in the other room. She heard everything."

"Let me speak to her."

The phone went quiet. Donovan heard rustlings and muffled voices, then Vicky was on the line.

"Den .. ." she said.

"Den, I'm sorry. Really."

"I'm sure you are," said Donovan coldly.

"I didn't know how much he'd taken. I swear to God, I didn't. He told me he was just taking some of it, so you'd have to talk to us. I swear."

"He cleaned me out, Vicky. And a big chunk of the money didn't belong to me. It was promised to some Colombian guys. You've no idea what a spot you put me in."

"I didn't mean, to Den. Honest." She began crying again.

Donovan turned around. He looked up at the house.

Robbie was at one of the windows, looking down. Robbie waved and Donovan waved back.

"Sharkey wanted me dead, Vicky. Do you understand that? He knew that I owed that money to the Colombians, and he knew what they'd do to me when they didn't get it."

Vicky didn't say anything, she just kept sobbing into the phone.

"There's something else you don't know," continued Donovan.

"Sharkey wanted Robbie to find you in bed with him."

"No .. ." sobbed Vicky.

"It's true, Vicky. He sent him a text message. Pretended it was from me. He wanted to be caught. He wanted you to have to run away with him. He used you, Vicky. From day one."

"No .. ."

Robbie was still looking out of the window at Donovan. Donovan turned so that his back was to the house.

"From day one. He didn't love you, he didn't want you. He just wanted my money. And once he had that and I was out of the way, he was going to dump you."

"What are you going to do, Den? What are you going to do to me?"

"What do you think I should do, Vicky? After what you did to me, what do you think I should do?"

"I don't know," she sobbed.

"I'm sorry, Den. I swear to God, I'm so sorry. Please don't tell Robbie."

"Robbie already knows, remember?"

"About the money. I meant, about the money. And about this. Just tell him I went away."

"Vicky .. ."

"I'm sorry .. ." she said, then all Donovan could hear were sobs.

"Look, Vicky, don't cry. Okay? Just stop crying."

"I do love you. And I love Robbie."

"Vicky, stop. Please. Nothing's going to happen to you. I promise."

Vicky sniffed.

"What do you mean?"

"The men there. They won't hurt you. I promise."

"You're going to let me go?"

Donovan hesitated, wondering if he were doing the right thing.

"Yes," he said eventually.

"Oh, thank you, Den. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'll never hurt you again, I promise. I'll never let you down again."

Donovan took a deep breath.

"You're not going to get the chance, Vicky. You're not to come near me again. Not within twenty miles. I'm not going to stop you coming back to England, because that's where your family are, but you don't come near me. Or Robbie."

"Den .. . please."

"I mean it, Vicky."

"But Robbie's my son. You're my family."

"The time for thinking about that was before you let him catch you in bed with Sharkey. We're not your family any more. Robbie and I are family. You walked out on us."

"Den, this isn't fair."

"Don't go there, Vicky. You're well behind in the fairness stakes. But I will let you see Robbie. On his birthday. On your birthday. Christmas. I'll even throw in Mother's Day. When he's twelve he can decide how much time he spends with you. Do you understand?"

"Okay," she said, and sniffed again.

"Okay. If that's how it has to be."

"One other thing. You drop the injunction. Talk to your lawyer. I think he's going to be quite happy to lose you as a client after what he's been through. You give up all rights to Robbie. Go back on that and the men there will come looking for you again. They can bury you next to Sharkey. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes. I'll do what you say. And Den .. ."

"Yeah?"

"I really am sorry."

"Put the Spaniard back on."

There were more muffled voices and then Rojas was on the line.

"Are you okay, amigo?

"I'm fine, Juan." He took a deep breath.

"Let her go, yeah? Hold her until you've disposed of Sharkey, then let her go."

"That's a good decision, amigo."

"I hope so."

Donovan cut the connection and put the phone back in his pocket and went back into the house.

Louise and Robbie looked up as he walked back into the flat.

"Is something wrong, Dad?" asked Robbie.

"Nah, everything's fine," said Donovan, 'but I'm going to have to go out for a while." He nodded at Louise.

"Can I borrow your car?"

"Sure," said Louise. She stood up and picked up the keys from the sideboard.

"Can I help?"

"I've just got to do something."

"Be careful, yeah?"

Donovan laughed.

"Honest, it's nothing. I have to do something online, that's all."

Louise kissed him on the cheek. Donovan winked at Robbie over her shoulder.

"Look after her, okay?"

"Are you coming home tonight?" asked Robbie.

"I hope so."

Donovan went downstairs and climbed into Louise's Audi. He used one of the mobiles to call Fullerton.

"Jamie? I need a favour. You've got a computer, yeah?"

"Sure, Den. Come around. We need to talk anyway."

Fullerton gave Donovan the address of his flat. Donovan drove to Docklands and parked the Audi on a meter.

Fullerton met him at the lift.

"Thought you had a computer at your place," said Fullerton.

"I'm under surveillance, there's a chance they've tapped the phone line. Plus they've got gear these days that can read what's on a screen from outside the house."

"Bollocks," said Fullerton.

"Nah, it's true. My security guy was telling me about it." Fullerton led Donovan to his computer. It was already switched on and connected to the internet.

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

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

"Yes!" he said.

"Good news?" asked Fullerton.

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

"Glad to hear it."

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

Fullerton went off to the kitchen.

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

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

"To crime," said Fullerton.

Donovan laughed and sipped his champagne.

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

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

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

Fullerton nodded.

"Offshore. It's well clean."

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

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

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

They clinked glasses again.

"How much have we got?"

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

"And for that we get how much?"

Donovan tapped his nose.

"That's for me to know."

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

"It's a lot, Jamie."

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

"Bastard!" he said, only half joking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donovan smiled at Fullerton's enthusiasm.

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

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

"I salute you, Den."

Donovan picked up his own glass and toasted Fullerton.

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

"Nah," said Fullerton.

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

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

The two men sipped their champagne.

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

Donovan shook his head.

"No, this is the first run. They're good guys, though. Russians." Fullerton got up and refilled Donovan's glass.

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

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

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

"Nah, they left the Army a few years back. They were working in Afghanistan when the Soviet empire fell apart. The Russians stopped paying their soldiers, and after six months with no salary they just took the planes. Flew two of them out of Afghanistan to Luxembourg. Reregistered them and set up their own air freight company, subcontracting out to charities and relief agencies. If a charity wants to fly food or medicine into Africa or wherever, they call these guys. They're working out in Turkey at the moment, flying stuff out to the earthquake survivors."

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

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

Donovan put his glass down again.

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

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

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

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

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

Rodriguez chuckled.

"What is it you want, Den?"

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

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

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

"My accountant. I found him."

"Congratulations. Ten million, you say?"

"Check for yourself, Carlos."

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

"Thank you, Carlos."

"I am sorry for any unpleasantness."

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

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

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

He went over to her and brushed her cheek. She murmured but didn't wake up. He leaned over her and blew gently in her ear.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

She opened her eyes and squinted up at him.

"Oh, hi Den. Sorry- I was waiting up for you."

"You didn't have to. But thanks."

Louise sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily.

"How's Robbie?" Donovan asked.

"He went to bed at ten," she said.

"Made me promise to get you to go and say goodnight when you get back. What time is it?"

"Late. Go on, you go off to bed and I'll make up the sofa."

She stood up, then lost her balance and fell against him. He caught her, his hands instinctively slipping around her waist. She looked up at him, her mouth only inches from his, and before he knew what he was doing Donovan was kissing her. His tongue probed inside her mouth and she responded, grinding her hips against his, then just as quickly she pushed him away, gasping for breath.

"I'm sorry," said Donovan.

"It's okay," she said, brushing the hair from her eyes.

"No, that was stupid." He realised that he was still holding her around the waist and he released his grip, but she made no move to back away from him.

"After what you went through with that guy, the last thing you want is some man mauling you."

"It's not that, Den. Honest. And you're not just some man." She kissed him on the cheek, close to the mouth, then slid her hand around his neck and kissed him again, softly on the lips.

"When she broke away this time, it was slowly and with a soft caress along his cheek.

"It's just that with Robbie next door, and everything else. Now's just not the time." She gestured around the flat.

"And this isn't really the place. It wouldn't feel right. Do you understand?"

Donovan smiled.

"Sure. He's already caught one parent in the act."

"You know what I mean, though?"

"I know exactly what you mean. Now off to bed, I'm knackered."

"Everything's okay?"

Donovan nodded.

"Everything's just fine. Couldn't be better."

The shower was running when Tina got up so she made toast and coffee and had the table set by the time that Donovan came into the room.

"Robbie up yet?" he asked.

Tina shook her head. Donovan knocked on his son's bedroom door and shouted for him to get out of bed. He sat down at the table and bit into a piece of dry toast.

"Do you want to do something today?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Shopping. The zoo."

"The zoo?" laughed Tina.

"You know what I mean. Get Robbie out of the house."

"I'm going to have to go out for a while," said Tina.

"But in the afternoon, sure."

"Anything I can help you with?"

Tina shook her head.

"Shopping. Woman's stuff. I won't be long. How did it go yesterday?"

"Better than I'd hoped," said Donovan. He drank his coffee.

"I got the money back. The money my wife cleared out of my bank accounts."

"Den, that's great news. That's brilliant."

"It's better than a kick in the head. I've paid off the guys who were after me, so I'm almost free and clear."

"Almost?"

"Just one more deal."

Tina sat down at the table.

"Can't you stop now? You've got your money back."

"I've got to see this one thing through, Louise. Too many people will lose money if I pull out now."

Tina reached across the table and held his hand.

"Den .. ." she said.

The bedroom door opened and Tina pulled back her hand. Robbie walked out, dressed in a Simpsons T-shirt and jeans.

"Hey, just because it's Sunday doesn't mean you don't shower," said Donovan.

"Can't I have breakfast first?"

Donovan waved at him to sit at the table.

"Do you want me to cook?" asked Tina.

"I've got bacon and sausages."

"I'll do it," said Donovan.

"You go get your stuff."

Tina picked up her bag and left. She walked to the main road and caught a black cab to an Internet cafe. She kept glancing over her shoulder but knew that there was no reason for anyone to be following her. Donovan trusted her completely. Trusted her with his only son.

She paid the taxi driver and went inside the cafe. It was one she'd used several times before to file reports to Hathaway.

Tina sat at the computer terminal and lit a cigarette. Two schoolgirls at the next terminal were giggling to each other as they sent messages to a chat room, while a teenage boy at a machine in the corner kept looking around guiltily and turning his VDU so that no one else could see what he was looking at.

A waitress brought over a cappuccino and put it down next to Tina.

"Are you okay there?" she asked in a New Zealand accent.

"You know what you're doing?"

Tina forced a smile.

"Technically," she said.

"I'm sorry, but it is no-smoking here."

"Okay. Sorry." Tina took a long drag and prepared to stub it out.

"No worries," said the waitress.

"If no one complains, I don't care. I'm a twenty-a-day girl myself. But if you see a sour-faced guy with acne, that's my boss, so get rid of it quick, yeah?"

"Thanks," said Tina gratefully. She waited until the waitress had gone before logging on to Hathaway's website. Over the past few days she'd heard enough one-sided telephone conversations to get a rough idea of what was going on. She'd heard Donovan talking to someone called Charlie, and they'd discussed Turks and a plane. He'd spoken to someone called PM about money being transferred, and she kept hearing him talking about 'gear' and 'heroin'.

Donovan was putting together a major deal and it was going to happen the following day. Tina wasn't sure where, though she'd heard Donovan say 'airfield' several times, so she'd assumed it was coming in by plane. As he'd said 'airfield' not 'airport', Tina thought that must be significant. It wasn't coming into Heathrow or Gatwick.

Tina began to type, then she hesitated. For the first time in three years of being undercover she felt guilty about what she was doing. She took no pleasure in betraying Den Donovan.

Donovan and Robbie were watching television when Louise arrived home.

"Get everything you wanted?" asked Donovan.

Louise held up a Safeway carrier bag.

"Do you still want to go out?" she asked.

"Dad said we could go to the Trocadero and play video games if it's okay with you," said Robbie excitedly.

"Fine by me," said Louise.

"Let me put this stuff away and we're out of here."

They drove to Central London in the Audi and spent the best part of two hours in the Trocadero, with Robbie rushing from machine to machine.

Several times Donovan caught Louise watching Robbie with a wistful look on her face.

"You never wanted children, Louise?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," she said.

"I thought all women had maternal instincts."

"Yeah, well you never met my mother," said Louise.

"My family situation isn't something I'd wish on any kid."

"Just because you had a rough time doesn't mean your kids will. Sometimes we learn from the mistakes our parents make."

"Yeah, and sometimes we repeat them. I'm not sure if it's worth the risk."

They watched as Robbie went over to a racing video game and sat in its bucket seat, expertly guiding a computer-generated car through a series of sharp turns.

"I wouldn't mind kissing you again," said Donovan.

"Sometime."

Louise turned and looked at him, her eyebrows raised.

"Where did that come from?" she asked.

Donovan shrugged.

"I just wanted you to know, that's all. Things are a bit crazy just now, but in a few days everything will be sorted. Maybe then .. ."

"Maybe then what?"

"Bloody hell, Louise. Don't make me beg. I'm only asking for a date."

Louise laughed.

"We'll see."

"I'm serious."

"So am I," said Louise. She looked at him in silence, and then shook her head.

"What?" asked Donovan.

"I don't know. I just wish we'd met under different circumstances. That I wasn't a dancer. That you weren't doing what you're doing. That we'd just met in a normal way. In a supermarket or in a pub."

"We met, and that's all that matters."

Louise looked as if she wanted to say something else but then she turned away and went over to stand behind Robbie. Donovan could see that something was troubling her, but he didn't want to press her. She'd tell him eventually.

After Robbie had tired of playing video games they ate Chinese food in Chinatown and went home to spend the evening watching TV. Louise and Donovan drank a bottle of wine together. Donovan slept on the sofa, and this time there was no goodnight kiss from Louise.

Donovan walked into Tina's sitting room, his hair still wet from the shower. Tina was in the kitchenette, frying sausages.

"Good morning," she said.

"You want breakfast?"

"Just coffee," said Donovan.

Robbie was on the sofa in his pyjamas, watching cartoons.

"Hey, just because you're not going to school doesn't mean you can lie around half-naked all day."

"I'm not half naked," said Robbie.

"Get dressed. Now."

Robbie scowled and went off to the bedroom.

Tina handed Donovan a mug of coffee.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Sure. Why?"

"You keep frowning."

"Yeah? Sorry." He drank his coffee.

"I've got a busy day, that's all."

The landline rang and Tina answered it. She listened and frowned, then handed the phone to Donovan.

"It's for you," she said.

"No one knows I'm here," said Donovan.

"It's a man. He asked for you."

Donovan took the phone.

"Who is it?" he snapped.

"That's no way to talk to an old friend," said a voice.

"Who are you?"

"It's Hathaway, Donovan."

"How did you get this number?"

Hathaway chuckled.

"That's for me to know, Donovan. We need to meet."

"I'm busy."

"I know you're busy, Donovan. That's what we need to talk about. You've got the money back from Sharkey, right? Now I've got more information for you. Information that you're going to want."

Donovan looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Heliad to be at the airfield at four o'clock in the afternoon, and it was a two-hour drive from London. He had time.

"You know Blom-field Road? Little Venice?"

"I know it, but since when have you been setting the venues?"

"I'm not going to Camden again. Little Venice is quiet, there are plenty of ways in and out, not too many people."

"Donovan, if I wanted to take you down, I'd have people outside your door right now. I just want to talk. The information I gave you last time was solid gold. What I have for you today is even better."

"There's a bridge over the canal, opposite a pub called the Paddington Stop. I'll see you there in four hours. One o'clock. I can't get there any earlier, I've got things to do."

"One o'clock is fine." The line went dead.

Donovan finished his coffee and went into the kitchenette.

"I'm going to have to go out."

"When will you be back?" asked Tina.

"I'm not sure. Late."

"How late?" pressed Tina.

"God, I don't know. Have I got a curfew now?"

"Don't go, Den. Please." Donovan smiled.

"I have to."

She put the frying pan by the sink.

"You're up to something, aren't you? You're working. I know you are."

Donovan reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Best you don't know," he said.

"Is that how you treated Vicky? Kept her at a distance? Pushed her away?"

Donovan frowned.

"What's brought this on?" Tina hugged him and put her head against his chest.

"Just stay here. Let someone else take the risk, Den. Let's take Robbie out. Go somewhere. Have a day out."

Donovan put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"What do you think's going on, Louise?" he asked.

She shrugged his hands away.

"I've heard you on the bloody phones, Den. I know what you're doing. You're bringing gear in and today's the bloody day."

"Have you been spying on me?"

"Don't be stupid, Den. This is a small flat and your phones have been ringing red hot for the last twenty-four hours."

"I have to go."

Tina shook her head.

"No you don't. You don't have to go. You can walk away. Walk away from it all."

"We'll talk about it later," he said. Tears welled up in Tina's eyes.

"Louise, I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Damn you, Donovan!"

Donovan took a step back from her, genuinely surprised at the intensity of her reaction.

"I don't have time for this now, Louise. We'll talk about it later."

"And what if there isn't a later, Den?"

Donovan pressed a finger against her lips, then he leaned over, kissed her on the forehead, and hurried from the flat. Tina rushed after him but he closed the door without looking back.

She leaned against the door, her eyes filled with tears. She'd wanted to say more, but she couldn't. She couldn't tell him, because the truth was that she was betraying him. She was helping to set him up.

She wiped her eyes and sniffed. And who was the man who'd phoned? Donovan always made and received calls on his mobiles, he never used her phone. There had been something vaguely familiar about the man's voice, but for the life of her Tina couldn't place it. Whoever it was, he'd unnerved Donovan.

Robbie came out of the bedroom. He stopped in the hallway when he saw Tina was crying.

"What's wrong?"

Tina shook her head.

"Nothing."

"He'll come back," he said.

"Don't worry."

Tina nodded and wiped her eyes again.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It's not your fault," said Robbie.

"That's just the way he is."

"I know," she said.

She held out her arms and Robbie rushed towards her and hugged her.

"It'll be okay," he said soothingly.

Tina patted Robbie's head. She knew that it wasn't going to be okay. It was going to be far from okay.

Donovan waited on the bridge, whistling softly to himself. He adjusted the Velcro band under his watch strap and then put a hand on the detector unit on his belt. Everything was going according to plan. Jordan and Macfadyen had already left for the airfield. Donovan had called PM and told him where the plane was landing and what time to get there. And he'd arranged to meet Fullerton at Hyde Park Corner so that they could drive to the airfield together. The only fly in the ointment was Gregg Hathaway.

A narrow boat chugged underneath the bridge. A grey-haired woman in her seventies had her hand on the tiller and she gave Donovan a cheery wave as the boat went by. Donovan waved back.

He straightened up and saw Hathaway walking down Formosa Street, a laptop computer case hanging from one shoulder.

Hathaway was grinning as he walked to the middle of the bridge.

"Lovely day for it," he said cheerily.

"What is it you want?" asked Donovan.

"I want to be rich, happy, to be with somebody who loves me. Children would be nice. Pretty much what every man wants."

The detector on Donovan's belt remained still. Hathaway wasn't wearing a recording device or transmitter.

"You know what I mean," said Donovan.

Further down the canal a middle-aged angler threw a handful of ground bait into the water.

"I want to talk," said Hathaway.

"Try the Samaritans," said Donovan.

"I'll miss your sense of humour, Donovan." He looked at his wristwatch.

"Got somewhere to go?" asked Donovan.

"No, but you have, haven't you?"

"I'm tired of playing games, Hathaway. What do you want?"

Hathaway smiled without warmth.

"You didn't think twice before putting that bullet in my leg, did you?"

"I thought about killing you."

"I bet you did. Have you any idea how that bullet changed my life?"

"Got you a better job, didn't it?"

"I loved being in Customs, Den. Loved working undercover. I was bloody good at it."

Donovan flashed Hathaway a sarcastic smile.

"Clearly you weren't. If you'd been any good, I wouldn't have made you."

"Someone grassed me. One of your informers."

Donovan shook his head.

"You gave yourself away. I forget now what it was, but it was down to you. Some story you told. Some anecdote. You told it wrong. Told it like you'd memorised it. Like it was a script."

"Bullshit!"

"Why would I lie? To hurt you?" Donovan chuckled.

"We're beyond that, aren't we?"

"It was the job I'd always wanted. I was one of the good guys, fast track. Then you shot me and I'm in hospital for three months. And three months after that I'm sitting at a desk in human resources being told that there is no place for me in the leaner, meaner Customs and Excise. Thank you for your loyal service and good night."

"You got a pension, right? Disability?"

"Peanuts. Wife didn't like the idea of my being thrown on the scrap heap at twenty-four, so she went off in search of pastures new."

"Women, huh?" said Donovan sarcastically.

"What can you do with them?"

"You changed my life, Den. You didn't give me a choice, didn't consider the ramifications, you just went ahead and did it. Now I'm going to do the same to you."

"You're going to try to put me behind bars, is that it? You want me in prison?"

"I want your money."

Donovan's jaw dropped.

"All of it," added Hathaway.

"What do you mean, all of it?"

"All the money that you got back from Sharkey. I want it. And I want it now."

"You're out of your mind."

"I know everything, Donovan. I know about the plane, I know about the heroin. I know about Macfadyen and Jordan. I know about the airfield. To use the vernacular, you are fucked. You have one way out. Only one. You give me the money. Do that and I'll let you go ahead with the Turkish deal."

Donovan shook his head in confusion.

"I know, bit of a shock to the system." Hathaway looked at his watch again.

"I reckon they'll still be loading the plane, don't you? Another hour before it gets into the air. There's probably no way you could reach them now. Even if you wanted to."

Donovan cursed. He turned to walk away, then stopped. He opened his mouth to speak but he was too confused to say anything. He closed his mouth and stared at Hathaway. He wanted to lash out, to kick the man to the ground and to keep kicking until he was unconscious. Or worse.

Hathaway smiled as if he could read Donovan's mind.

"Face it, Donovan, I've got you by the short and cur lies But look on the bright side: whatever you make from the Turkish deal you get to keep, so it's not as if I'm leaving you penniless."

Donovan shook his head.

"Why would I give you the money?"

"Because if you don't, you're going to prison. Possibly for the rest of your life. Eight thousand kilos of heroin, Donovan. Conspiracy to import. They'll throw away the key. Plus there's the Mexican deal. The Beetles. Mexico is next door to the States, and Rodriguez has been shoving cocaine over the border like there's no tomorrow. I link you to Rodriguez and the DEA will want a piece of you."

"You've got fuck all. You've got fuck all and you know it."

"Excuse me, but I know where the plane is going to land. I know what's on the plane. I know where the plane is coming from. And I know who's paying for the consignment. Does it seem like I'm missing anything there?"

"Knowing is one thing, proving is another."

"I have proof," said Hathaway confidently.

Donovan paced up and down the bridge, shaking his head.

"Fine, you've got proof, but you've overplayed your hand. All I have to do is to walk away. I walk away from the deal and you've got nothing."

Hathaway smiled.

"Conspiracy doesn't depend on you taking delivery, Donovan. You put the deal together. That I can prove."

"Bollocks."

"I have people undercover. Close to you."

"Now I know you're lying."

"Your infallible sense of smell? You can always spot an undercover cop or Cussie? You always took pride in that particular skill, didn't you? Well, I got people in under your radar, Donovan. Up close and personal."

Donovan stopped pacing and stared at Hathaway. Could he be telling the truth? Is that how he knew about the plane? But who? Who was the traitor? Who had betrayed him? Jordan and Macfadyen? Had they been turned when the Mexican deal went belly up? It had always struck Donovan as suspicious that Customs hadn't let the consignment run. Now he knew why. Jordan and Macfadyen had done a deal. Their freedom in exchange for Donovan's. They'd helped set him up.

"I know who it is," he said confidently.

Hathaway shook his head.

"No you don't," he said.

"I guarantee you don't."

"We'll see."

"The thing is, Donovan, you can't afford to be wrong, can you? You're wrong on this and you lose everything. You lose your money and you lose your freedom."

"I'll risk it." He turned to go.

"It isn't Ricky Jordan. And it isn't Charlie Macfadyen," said Hathaway quietly.

Donovan stopped.

"If it was them, you'd hardly tell me, would you?"

"Agreed, but I'm telling you it's not them. You have my word."

Donovan laughed out loud.

"Your word? Your fucking word? Now it's coming down to you crossing your heart like a bloody Cub Scout. Why should I believe a word you tell me?"

Hathaway patted the laptop computer case.

"Because I have proof."

Donovan stared at the computer case.

"What sort of proof?"

Hathaway looked at his watch again.

"We're going to have to start the ball rolling, Donovan. That plane is getting closer."

"What do you want?"

"I told you what I wanted. You got sixty million dollars from Sharkey. I want it."

"I don't have sixty million. I owed ten million."

"To Rodriguez?"

Donovan nodded.

"Fifty million, then."

"I had to pay for the recovery of the money, plus there was the cash that Sharkey spent."

"Why don't you just tell me how much is left? And don't bother lying, because I can find out."

"Forty-five mill," said Donovan.

"That's what I want, then. Forty-five million dollars. That's the price of your freedom. The price of your life."

"So I give you forty-five million and you tell me who the undercover agent is?"

"Agents. Plural."

"And how do I give you the money? Used notes?"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Donovan." Hathaway tapped the case again.

"We do it online. Same way Sharkey took the money off you. Same way you got it back off Sharkey."

Donovan shook his head.

"Do I look like I was born yesterday? I transfer forty-five million to you, then you show me sheets of blank paper. Where does that leave me?"

"That's not how we'll do it. You transfer five million. I show you proof. You transfer more money. I show you more proof. At any point you can stop. But believe me, Donovan, you won't want to stop. The proof I'm offering is unequivocal."

"And what then? You give me the names, you give me the proof. What then?"

"I walk away."

"And the agents?"

Hathaway took a deep breath as if steadying himself for what he was to say next.

"You do what you have to do, Donovan."

"You know what that will be," said Donovan coldly. It wasn't a question.

"It's a game, Donovan. That's what you taught me. It's a game and there are winners and there are losers. I'm doing what I have to do to be a winner."

"You're a callous bastard, Hathaway."

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

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

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Let's see what you have."

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

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

Peter shrugged.

"Aerosmith?"

Gregov nodded appreciatively.

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

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

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

Peter shrugged.

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

Gregov laughed sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't smoke," said Donovan.

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

"Five million," said Hathaway.

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

"Five million," repeated Hathaway.

"We don't have all day."

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

"Cheap at half the price," he said.

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

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

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

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

Donovan hesitated, but his fingers stayed on the keyboard.

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

"It's all or nothing, Donovan."

Donovan bit down on his lower lip, knowing that Hathaway was right and hating himself for it. He input the instructions to transfer the fifteen million dollars as Hathaway watched. Hathaway rubbed his chin. He was breathing heavily and Donovan could feel the man's warm breath on his cheek with each exhalation.

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

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

"I'm afraid so," said Hathaway.

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

"Deep cover," said Hathaway.

"Deep, deep cover."

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

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

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

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

"I trusted him," he said quietly.

"Of course you did," said Hathaway.

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

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

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

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

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

"You have my word," said Hathaway.

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

Donovan glared at the man.

"You bastard," he hissed.

Hathaway grinned.

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

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

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

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

"Thanks for everything," he said.

Donovan ignored Hathaway's outstretched hand.

"What are you going to do now?"

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

"Aren't you going to open it?"

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

Hathaway stood up.

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

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

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

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

Donovan stared impassively at Hathaway but said nothing.

Hathaway shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

A narrow boat painted in garish scarlet and green, was moored opposite the Paddington Stop. On its roof was a line of flower boxes filled with pansies of a dozen different hues and several brightly polished brass coal scuttles

Donovan climbed on board the rear of the boat and tapped twice on the wooden door. It was opened by a woman in her late forties holding a clipboard and a stopwatch. She smiled and moved to the side to allow Donovan in.

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

"Did you get it?" asked Donovan.

Knight had half a dozen long-range directional microphones and as many video cameras targeting the area. He had placed two men posing as anglers on the canal side, a man and woman inside the pub, two men in a flat overlooking the canal, and two teams on tower blocks close by. There was also a camera and a directional microphone in a British Telecom van parked on Blomfield Road and two small radio-controlled cameras mounted on streetlights close to the bridge.

"Every word," said Alex.

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

"Tomorrow morning should be okay," said Donovan.

"First thing."

Knight nodded at the envelopes in Donovan's hand.

"Bad news, huh?"

"I've had better," admitted Donovan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mackie let the amount sink in before repeating it.

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

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

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

Mackie smiled.

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

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

"Maybe," said Donovan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Plane is coming," said the Russian.

"I switch on lights."

"Great. Thanks."

The Russian walked off to wards the tower building, most of which had been converted to offices.

Donovan turned to Fullerton.

"What is his name?"

Fullerton shook his head. He didn't know either.

"What about the Turks? Where are they?"

"We'll meet up with them later."

"Not like Turks to be so trusting," said Fullerton.

"Bit of a racist statement, Jamie."

"You know what I mean. Consignment this size, you'd think they'd want to be here."

"It's all in hand, Jamie. Don't worry." Donovan slapped Fullerton on the back.

"Come on, cheer up. You're in the big time, now. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Sure," said Fullerton. He smiled, but there was a worried look in his eyes.

"Of course it is. The big time."

Donovan glanced over at PM and Bunny. The two black men looked back at him impassively. Donovan grinned and gave them an exaggerated thumbs-up. PM's face broke into a smile but Bunny continued to stare at Donovan, stony faced.

The landing lights came on, two bright white stripes down either side of the runway.

Jordan and Macfadyen strolled over. They were wearing heavy jackets with designer labels.

"Are we on?" asked Jordan.

"Looks like it," said Donovan.

Fullerton scanned the skies.

"Which way is east?" he asked.

Donovan pointed off to their right.

"Over there." He narrowed his eyes.

"I think I see it."

"God, my heart's pounding," said Fullerton.

"Like I've run ten k."

One of Donovan's phones buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He'd been sent a text message.

"Adrenalin," said Donovan.

"Nothing like it."

"Yeah, you're right. Better than a coke rush."

"Better than anything, because this rush comes with tens of millions of pounds of readies attached," said Donovan. He grinned.

"That's it. See it?" Donovan looked down at his mobile phone and scrolled through the text message.

"DEN IT'S A TRAP. RUN. LOUISE." He smiled to himself and deleted it.

Fullerton nodded.

"Yeah. Bloody hell, it's happening, it's actually happening."

Donovan put the phone back in his pocket. He shouted over to PM and Bunny and gestured at the sky.

"Here we go," he yelled at them.

"That's us."

Everybody was now staring up at the sky and pointing. The plane was at about five thousand feet, flying below an impenetrable layer of grey cloud. The engine noise was louder now, and the plane seemed to be descending quickly, as if in a hurry to get on the ground. The undercarriage and nose-heel dropped down and the flaps lowered. The plane was coming in straight to land. It had a large T-shaped tail unit with a high-set swept back wing on which were mounted four turbofan engines.

"Can you imagined if it crashed and burned?" said Fullerton.

"The whole of the south of England would be on a heroin buzz for weeks."

Donovan didn't reply. He just watched the approaching plane with a half smile on his lips.

"Come on," Donovan whispered to himself.

"Come to Daddy."

The flaps were lowered and the plane visibly slowed, then the nose came up and the wheels hit the concrete with a squeal and puffs of black smoke and then the plane was rolling by them. Donovan caught a glimpse of a grinning pilot through the windshield as the plane went by, but he couldn't tell if it was Gregov or Peter.

Fullerton began to jump up and down.

"We did it. We fucking we did it!" He punched the air, then turned and hugged Donovan.

"Fucking hell, Den, we did it."

Donovan patted Fullerton on the shoulder.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"We did, didn't we?"

The giant transport plane turned off on to a taxiway and then turned again so that it rolled back towards them. Bunny and PM walked over, their hoods up on their black Puffa jackets.

"Okay, guys?" asked Donovan.

"Will be once I see the stuff," said PM.

"You okay, Bunny?" asked Donovan.

"Don't see you smiling."

"Like the man said, all we see now is a plane."

The plane slowed and then stopped, about a hundred yards away from where they were standing. The engines shut down one by one.

"Right, let's get the vans over there," said Donovan.

The engines of the Transit vans burst into life and Bunny motioned for his drivers to get into the laundry trucks. That was when all hell broke loose.

Three helicopters came in low from the west, swooping over the wire perimeter face and then breaking away from each other to land at different parts of the field. One hovered close to the tower building, and six men clothed in black, holding automatic weapons, jumped out. A second helicopter disgorged more armed men on the far side of the plane and they ran to surround it. The third helicopter landed at the end of the line of storage sheds. Another six armed men piled out and started running towards Donovan and his crew, guns at the ready, their boots pounding against the concrete.

"What the fuck's this?" hissed Fullerton.

Donovan said nothing. He didn't try to run and he didn't show any emotion other than a slight smile as he slowly raised his hands in the air.

An armoured Land-rover crashed through the gate in the perimeter fence and then turned sharply to the left, allowing a dozen faster vehicles to speed by. Half were police cars, blue lights flashing but sirens off, and half were dark saloons filled with big men in black jackets.

Two of the Transit vans roared off, but a burst of automatic fire ripped out the tyres of one, and the other was rammed against the wall of one of the sheds by a police car. Police officers surrounded the van and dragged out the stunned driver. Jordan and Macfadyen made a run for it, but both were rugby-tackled to the ground by police officers.

PM was about to run, but Bunny dropped a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't bother, bro. These are heavy people. Don't give them no excuse to get heavier."

PM nodded grimly, then slowly followed Donovan's example and raised his arms above his head. Bunny did the same.

The armed men in black surrounded Donovan and his men, swinging their weapons from side to side, their faces hidden behind respirators. They wore heavy black body armour over black uniforms.

"Fuck me, it's the SAS," whispered Fullerton.

"Just stay calm, Jamie," said Donovan.

"Hands in the air."

Men in black jackets with "CUSTOMS' written on the back in bright yellow piled out of the saloon cars and walked towards the plane.

SAS troopers were waving at the pilots to open the door at the front of the fuselage. To make sure they got the message, they fired a quick burst of gunfire over the top of the plane.

The door opened and one of the SAS troopers shouted clipped instructions to the pilots.

Hands started patting down Donovan. He looked to his left. It was a burly, unsmiling police sergeant.

"It's okay, I'm not armed," said Donovan.

"None of us is."

"Pity," said one of the SAS troopers, his voice muffled by the respirator.

"Fuck you," said PM.

"You wanna try something without all that hi-tech crap? Huh, probably isn't even a man inside that Robocop suit."

"Easy, PM," said Bunny.

The ramp at the back of the plane began to open.

"Open Sesame," whispered Donovan.

The sergeant finished searching Donovan and moved on to Fullerton. Donovan slowly lowered his hands. No one stopped him.

The end of the ramp scraped against the concrete. The sergeant nodded at two young constables.

"Take him over there, lads," said the sergeant.

"Someone wants a word with him." The two police officers escorted Donovan to the back of the ramp, where an obese man wearing a black Customs jacket a size too small was waiting for him.

"Den Donovan," said the man, barely able to contain his glee.

"You've no idea what a pleasure it is finally to meet you. Raymond Mackie, Head of Drugs Operations, Customs and Excise."

"Yeah, I know who you are," said Donovan.

"They call you the Doughboy, don't they? Why is that? Can't just be because you're a fat bastard, can it?"

Mackie's eyes hardened.

"Up until today you were designated Tango One, Donovan, but as of this evening you're no longer a target, you're a prisoner. Come on, I can't wait to see what eight thousand kilos of heroin looks like."

Mackie strode up the ramp, breathing heavily, flanked by four young Customs officers wearing similar black nylon jackets. One of the police officers pushed Donovan in the small of the back.

"Okay, okay," said Donovan, glaring at the man. The officer was barely half Donovan's age.

"Be nice, yeah?"

Donovan followed Mackie and the Customs officers up the ramp into the cavernous interior of the plane. Two men in their twenties wearing stained khaki jumpsuits were sitting on two seats fixed to the fuselage. Other than the two men, the plane was empty.

One of the men waved at Mackie.

"We want claim political asylum. Okay?"

Mackie's jaw dropped.

"What?"

The other man punched his colleague on the shoulder.

"He make joke," he said to Mackie.

"My friend has big mouth. Make big joke."

Mackie looked around the vast space, five times the height of a man, his mouth still open in astonishment. The other Customs officers were equally surprised.

"What the hell's going on?" spluttered Mackie.

A door opened at the far end of the cargo area and Gregov stepped out carrying a white plastic carrier bag in one hand. He walked through the hold. Two SAS troopers, their weapons hanging from slings, followed him.

Gregov opened the carrier bag and took out two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes. He held them out to Mackie.

"I was going to declare them," he said.

"Honest I was." He winked at Donovan.

"Hiya, Den. Good to see you again."

Jamie Fullerton took a swig of his beer and plonked it down on the desk next to his computer. He stared at the screen and for the one hundredth time checked to see if he had e-mail. There were no new messages for him. Fullerton had sent a full report to Hathaway on what had happened at the airfield and had expected an immediate reply.

Hathaway must have known about the abortive raid at the airfield and must have realised by now that Fullerton had been there. Fullerton had said in his e-mail that Donovan had only told him about the flight at the last minute and that there hadn't been time to get a message to Hathaway.

Fullerton had been held in a cell for an hour, interrogated by two plainclothes detectives whose hearts clearly weren't in it, and then released. No laws had been broken, not the least because of Donovan's insistence that nobody carried a gun. They were all guests of the Russian aviation company, and the Ilyushin had filed a valid flight plan. It was suspicious, there was no getting away from that, two dozen men and a convoy of vans all waiting for an empty plane, but there was nothing illegal about it.

Fullerton had tried calling Donovan's mobile several times but it was switched off.

He took another drink of beer, then decided he needed something stronger. Something with a real buzz to it. He headed for the bathroom where he kept his coke. The door intercom buzzed as he walked down the hallway and he stopped to look at the CCTV monitor. It was Charlie Macfadyen.

Fullerton picked up the receiver.

"Charlie? What do you want?"

"We want a word about yesterday's fiasco," said Macfadyen, running a hand over his shaved head.

Fullerton buzzed him up. He went back to his computer and checked one final time but there were still no new messages. He shook his head, switched off the computer and picked up his beer bottle.

He had the door open for Macfadyen by the time the elevator reached his floor. Macfadyen wasn't alone. There were two men with him. Fullerton didn't know their names but he recognised them from the airfield they had been driving two of the rental vans.

"What's up, Charlie?" asked Fullerton, though he could see that Macfadyen was in no mood for polite conversation. Mac-fad yen mouth was a tight line and his eyes were as cold and dispassionate as a reptile's.

"Not much," said Macfadyen, walking into Fullerton's flat.

"You said you wanted a word?" said Fullerton. He still had the door open, but Macfadyen's companions made no move to walk inside.

"Yeah," said Macfadyen. He reached behind his back and pulled a large automatic from a holster clipped to his belt. He thrust the gun against Fullerton's chest.

"And the word is grass."

Bunny paced up and down his sitting room. He punched PM's number into his mobile phone, but for the hundredth time he went straight through to his message service. Where the hell was PM? And what the hell had gone wrong?

Had Donovan been tipped off? And if he had, why had he gone to the airfield? If he'd known that police and Customs were going to turn up with SAS back-up, why hadn't he just got on the first plane back to the Caribbean?

Bunny had been watching Donovan when the helicopters swooped over the perimeter fence. There'd been no panic in the man's eyes, no attempt to run, he just stood and watched the helicopters with an amused smile on his face.

The police had roughly searched Bunny and PM, practically kicked them to the ground before going through their clothing, and the next time he'd been able to catch a glimpse of Donovan he was being taken to the rear of the transport plane. Just before Bunny had been thrown into the back of a police van, he had seen Donovan being escorted up the ramp into the bowels of the giant plane. There had been no sign of tension on Donovan's face. Just a quiet, almost self-satisfied, smile. It was as if he knew what was coming. As if it had all been planned.

They'd all been split up at the police station. Bunny had been asked if he wanted a lawyer but he'd just shaken his head. He'd given them his name and address and his date of birth, but other than that he'd remained resolutely silent. Without the drugs, there was no case. Even conspiracy to import wouldn't stand up, not with the plane arriving empty.

Two detectives had questioned him and then he'd been left in a cell for six hours. He hadn't seen PM again. As soon as he'd been released, Bunny had caught a cab home. He wanted to get on the internet and get a message to Hathaway, though there was no doubt in Bunny's mind that Hathaway already knew what had happened. He figured that he should stay put until PM got in touch, though. Two drug deals had turned to shit and PM would want to know why.

The doorbell rang and Bunny jerked as if he'd been stung. He hurried over to open the door, but not before making sure that the security chain was on.

It was Jordan. With three other men Bunny had last seen at the airfield.

"How's your luck, Bunny?" asked Jordan.

"I've had better days," said Bunny, wondering why Jordan had turned up on his doorstep.

"You here for a reason, or is this social?"

Jordan leaned forward so that his face filled the gap between the door and the frame.

"We think we know who the rotten apple is," whispered Jordan.

"You'll never guess."

Bunny unhitched the security chain and opened the door.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Jordan pushed Bunny in the chest with the flat of his hand, and he staggered back, his hands flailing out for balance. Jordan kept moving forward, pushing him again, harder this time. Bunny fell backwards over a coffee table and crashed to the floor. Jordan reached his right hand inside his jacket and pulled out a gun.

"It's you, scumbag!" roared Jordan, pointing the gun down at Bunny's surprised face.

Robbie walked out of the spare bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Tina was lying on the sofa, wrapped up in a bathrobe.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked.

"I was waiting for your dad," she said, sitting up and running a hand through her hair.

"He always stays out late," said Robbie, sitting on the sofa next to her.

"Sometimes all night. It used to drive Mum crazy."

"What about you? Didn't you worry?"

Robbie shrugged.

"He always comes back eventually. I guess."

"Suppose he didn't?" said Tina.

"Suppose one day he didn't come back? What would you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Suppose he went out and didn't come back? Stayed away for a long time?"

"You mean if he died?"

Tina pushed him and he pretended to fall off the sofa.

"No, I didn't mean if he died. Just if he couldn't come back. What would you do?"

Robbie sat up and leaned back against the sofa.

"Could I stay with you?"

"Maybe," said Tina quietly.

"Would you like that?"

"I don't want to go back to her. My mum. Not after what she did. I suppose I could stay with Aunty Laura and Uncle Mark, but I'd rather stay with you." He looked up at her.

"Is something wrong?"

Tina shook her head.

"No, everything's fine." She picked up her mobile and called Donovan's number again. It just rang out. No answer. No message service. She had no way of knowing if the phone was even working, or if he'd received the text message she'd sent.

"He always has it switched off," said Robbie.

"Don't worry."

They both heard the knock at the door and jumped. Robbie stood up and ran over to the door.

"Robbie, check first," shouted Tina.

"And use the chain."

There was the sound of a key being inserted in the lock and Tina opened her mouth to scream, but then Donovan opened the door.

"Den! It's you!" said Tina.

Donovan grinned and closed the door. He picked up Robbie and swung him around.

"How many keys have you given out, then?"

"But you knocked."

"I didn't want to walk in on anything, now did I?" said Donovan. He put Robbie down and pushed him towards the spare room.

"Get ready for school."

"What?"

"You heard. School."

"But you said ' "I've changed my mind," interrupted Donovan.

"Get ready." He grinned at Tina.

"Get your glad rags on, kid, let's go out and celebrate."

"Celebrate?"

"We did it, Louise. Wasn't as smooth as I'd hoped, but we did it." He took her in his arms and hugged her.

"Go on, get ready. We'll drop Robbie off at school and then there's some people I want you to meet."

"Den .. ."

Donovan put a finger against her lips.

"Later," he said.

"We can talk later."

He pushed her towards the bedroom. She wrapped the robe around herself and closed the door then leaned against it, her heart pounding. He knew. She was sure that he knew. Something had gone wrong, something had gone very wrong, and now he was going to make her pay.

Her mobile phone was on its charger on the dressing table and she fumbled for it. With trembling fingers she tapped out the number that Gregg Hathaway had given her three years earlier. Her lifeline.

She pressed the phone to her ear and listened as it rang out. It rang. And rang. No one answered it. No answering service kicked in. It just rang. Tina took the phone away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief. How could that be? Hathaway had assured her that the phone would be manned seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. Something must have gone wrong, but what? She called up directory enquiries and in a whispered voice asked for the main switchboard for the Metropolitan Police.

The number was answered by a brisk female voice.

"I want to speak to Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham," Tina said, cupping her hand over her mouth so that her voice wouldn't carry.

"I'm sorry, could you speak up, please," said the woman.

Tina went into her bathroom and turned on the cold tap.

"Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham, please," said Tina.

"He's no longer with the Metropolitan Police," said the woman.

"Can anyone else help?"

Tina felt suddenly dizzy and she held on to the sink for support.

"No, it has to be him," she said.

"How can I get hold of him?"

"Assistant Commissioner Latham retired two years ago on grounds of ill-health," said the woman.

"Pvight, but where he is now? This is very urgent. Life and death."

"I'm afraid he passed away six months after he retired," said the woman.

"Can I put you through to his successor's office?"

There was a knock at the bedroom door. Three quick taps.

"Louise?" asked Donovan.

"You okay in there?"

Tina switched off the phone.

"Yes, just going into the shower," she said, trying desperately to stop her voice from shaking.

She showered and dried herself, then tried Hathaway's number again. There was still no answer.

She threw on a dress, put on lipstick and mascara, then gave her hair a quick brush. She stared at her reflection. She looked as guilty as hell. She tried to smile, but it was the smile of a terrified dog.

"It's okay," she whispered to herself.

"It's going to be okay." She took a deep breath.

"It's okay," she said more confidently.

"You can deal with this." Another deep breath, then she nodded to herself.

"I've been through worse than this and I've coped."

"Are you okay?" Donovan shouted again.

"I'll huff and I'll puff and blow the door down."

"All right, big bad wolf," replied Tina brightly.

"Here I come, ready or not."

She opened the bedroom door. Donovan nodded appreciatively.

"Looking good," he said.

"Why thank you, kind sir."

Robbie was putting his books into his backpack. He'd changed into his school uniform.

"I don't see why I have to go to school," he moaned.

"To get an education," said Donovan, ruffling his hair.

Robbie shook him away.

"First I'm not to go, then you say I'm to go, then you pull me out, now you tell me I've got to go back. That's hardly consistent."

"It's an inconsistent world," said Donovan.

"Isn't it, Louise?"

Tina nodded.

They drove to Robbie's school in the Audi roadster, Tina at the wheel and Robbie in the back. Several of Robbie's friends saw him getting out of the car, and that seemed to cheer him up. Donovan figured that there was probably more kudos arriving in a sports car than a Range Rover.

"I'll pick you up tonight," said Donovan.

"Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it," said Robbie ruefully, but he returned Donovan's wave before heading into school.

"Now what?" asked Tina.

"Now we go celebrate," said Donovan. He looked at his watch.

"Party time."

"It's half past eight in the morning."

"Now don't be a party-pooper, Louise," said Donovan.

"It's not every day I fly eight thousand kilos of gear around the world."

He gave Tina directions and settled back in his seat. She drove across London to St. John's Wood. Donovan told her where to park and climbed out of the car.

Tina locked the Audi, looking around.

"Here?" she said.

"Nah, here's where we lose our tail," said Donovan.

"I didn't see anyone following us," said Tina.

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't, not if they were any good," said Donovan.

"Come on. Home stretch."

"Tango One is out of the vehicle," said the detective into his handset.

"On foot. Repeat on foot."

"Go after him, Alpha Seven," crackled the speaker.

"Softly, softly, yeah?"

The detective nodded at the driver.

"Let's go."

The two plainclothes policemen got out of the saloon and walked quickly in the direction they'd seen Donovan and the girl heading.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," said the detective.

"He didn't know we were on his tail," said the driver.

"He didn't look around and she hardly checked her mirror."

"He knows," said the detective.

"He can smell us."

The driver grinned.

"You maybe, but I showered in the station."

Ahead of them they saw the girl's back disappearing down an alley.

"Who is she, anyway?"

"Lap dancer. She's been taking care of his kid."

"Nice tits."

"I'm sure she'll be chuffed at the compliment, coming from a connoisseur such as yourself. What the hell are they up to?"

"Going for a quickie in the open air?"

"At nine o'clock in the morning? I doubt it. Oh shit, I know what he's doing." The detective put his transceiver to his mouth.

"Alpha Seven, he's going to cross the canal on foot. We need cover on the south side of the canal. We're going to lose him."

The transceiver crackled.

"Affirmative, Alpha Seven."

The two men hurried down the alley. It branched left and right.

"This way," said the detective. The driver rushed after him.

The alley led to the canal towpath. A metal footbridge ran across the canal, barely twenty feet above the surface of the water. Donovan and the girl were already dashing down the steps on the far side. A car was waiting at the side of the road, its engine running.

The detective grabbed the driver's arm and pulled them back. There was nothing they could do on foot and there was no point in showing themselves.

"Tango One is getting into a blue saloon. Possibly a Vauxhall. Registration number unknown. We've lost him. Repeat, we have lost Tango One."

"What do you mean "we", Alpha Seven?" crackled the transceiver.

"What's going on, Den?" asked Tina as the blue saloon accelerated away from the curb.

Donovan flashed her a smile.

"Gatecrashers," said Donovan.

"Can't be too careful." He leaned forward and patted Kim Fletcher on the shoulder.

"Nice one, Kim," he said.

"Did you get the other thing?"

Fletcher popped open the glove compartment and handed Donovan a video cassette.

"He said something about the early worm catching the bird."