"Mr. Clare? Visitor for you."
Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.
"I was going to shower," he said.
"I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare," said the guard.
The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language. There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.
Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.
He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed. The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.
"I could come back later if it's a bad time," said the man.
Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the . face of an informer. A grass. The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.
"Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future."
"And you would be?" asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.
"I would be the bearer of bad news," said the man.
"A harbinger of doom." He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.
"Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?" asked Clare.
"Indeed it would, Marty," said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.
Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.
"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.
The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.
"I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into."
Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.
"This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it."
"Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty."
Clare snorted.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison? There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison."
"Got it all planned, haven't you?"
"A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life."
Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.
Clare stood up.
"So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself "The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.
"Like fuck."
The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.
"So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator."
"Bullshit."
"Why would I make up something like that, Marty?"
Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.
"Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?"
"Sit down, Marty."
Clare stood where he was.
"Sit the fuck down."
Clare sat down slowly.
"One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey."
"Says who?"
"Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment. One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey."
Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.
The man smiled.
"Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?"
"You should know. You had someone undercover, right?"
"Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news."
Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.
"The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States."
"Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts "jump", we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees."
"I'm Irish," said Clare.
"Northern Irish," said the man quietly.
"Not quite the same."
"I'm an Irish resident."
"Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States. That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?"
"That's not in my name. It's a company asset."
"Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then."
"This isn't fucking fair!" shouted Clare.
The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.
Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.
"I want a drink," he said.
"Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness," said the man.
"A drink of water," said Clare.
The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.
"Why would you want the Americans to have me?" asked Clare.
"Who said I did?" asked the man.
"You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal prison."
"Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty."
"Nah, you've got an agenda," said Clare.
"You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind."