"If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?"
Clare's face tightened.
"So you have got someone on the inside?"
"Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood."
There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.
"You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?"
Clare groaned.
"You are so transparent," he said.
"You want me to grass, right?"
"Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel."
"I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass." Clare sipped his water.
"And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do."
"I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step."
"That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?"
Clare frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Lawyers. Money. Sort of go together like .. . well, like drug dealers and prison."
Clare sniggered contemptuously at his visitor.
"What do you make in a year?" he asked.
"I get by."
"You get by? You don't know what getting by is. Whatever you earn in a year, multiply it by a thousand and I've got more than that tucked away. Think about that, you sad fuck. You'd have to work for a thousand years to get the sort of money I've got."
The man took a slow drink from his paper cup, then placed it carefully on the table.
"And that, Marty, brings me to my second order of business, as it were."
Clare felt a chill in his stomach, suspecting that things were about to take a turn for the worse. He tried to keep smiling, but his mind was racing frantically, trying to work out what was coming next.
"Your money situation might not be quite as clear cut as you seem to think," said the man.
"What the fuck do you know about my money situation?"
"More than you'd think, Marty."
"Who the hell are you? And don't give me that bringer of bad news crap. You're a Brit, so you've no jurisdiction here. I don't have to talk to you."
"Do you want me to go, Marty? Just say the word and I'll leave you to your weights and your porn channel until the men from the CAB pay you a visit. But by then it'll be too late."
"What the hell would the CAB be wanting with me?"
"Take a wild guess."
Clare took another drink from the paper cup. His hand was shaking and water slopped over his arm. He saw his visitor smirk at the show of emotion and Clare hurriedly put the cup down on the floor. The Criminal Assets Board was an Irish organisation, set up to track down the assets of criminals living in Ireland. Their initial brief had been to run drug dealers and other criminal undesirables out of the Irish Republic, and they had been so successful that their remit had been expanded to cover tax evaders and white-collar criminals. Their technique was simple they tracked down assets and put the onus on the owner of the assets to prove that they were acquired by legitimate means. Homes, land, money, bonds. And if the owner couldn't prove that the assets weren't connected to criminal activities, the CAB had the right to confiscate them.
"All my stuff in Ireland's legit," Clare said.
"It's in your wife's name, if that's what you mean. But that's not quite the same as legit, is it? And what about the property development in Spain? And the villas in Portugal? You probably thought you were being really clever putting ownership in an Isle of Man exempt company, but CAB are wise to that."
Clare swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again but he didn't want to pick up the paper cup. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue.
"They found your accounts in St. Vincent and they're homing in on your accounts in Luxembourg. Then there's your Sparbuch account. Do you know where the name comes from, by the way?"
Clare shook his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. The man's voice seemed to echo in Clare's ears, as if he were talking at the end of a very long tunnel.
"From the German, Sparen, which means save, and Buck, which means book. Brilliant concept, isn't it, for guys in your line of work? An anonymous account operated under a password. No signature, no identification, completely transferable. He who has the passbook and codeword has the money. Got yours just before the deadline, didn't you? Smart boy, Marty. Austria stopped issuing Sparbuch accounts in November 2000. You had the inside track on that, I bet. You can still get them in the Czech Republic, but Austrian schillings are so much more confidence-inspiring than Czech crowns, aren't they?"
Clare slumped in his chair. He felt as if a strap had been tightened across his chest and every breath was an effort of will.
"Are you okay, Marty? Not having a heart attack, are you? Though I have to say, the Dutch do have an excellent health care system."
"Who grassed me up?" gasped Clare, his hand on his chest.
"Who do you think?"
Clare frowned. Sweat was pouring down his face. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and it came away dripping wet.
"By the way, I think you were being a tad optimistic on your figure of a thousand times my annual salary. I reckon at best you've got five million quid salted away and CAB know where pretty much all of it is."
Clare's mind was in a whirl. The only person who knew about the Sparbuch account was his wife Mary, and he trusted her with his life. The realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.
"Mary."
The man grinned.
"Ah, the penny has finally dropped, has it? She was none too happy with your arrest situation the two Slovakian girls .. ."
Clare closed his eyes and swore. The man with the camera.
"You bastard," he whispered.
"The women, plus the fact that CAB were prepared to cut her a deal on the house and the Irish accounts pretty much puts your balls on the fire, Marty."
Clare opened his eyes.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.
"A chat, Marty."
"About what?"
"Den Donovan."
Donovan spent the night at the Hilton Hotel in Kingston. He checked in wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and slacks, but when he checked out of the hotel in the morning he was wearing baggy denim jeans, a T-shirt that he'd bought in a gift shop in Rasta colours with "I Love Jamaica' spelled out in spliffs, and a woollen Rasta hat. If the receptionist thought his attire incongruous for a business hotel, she was professional enough to hide her opinion behind a bright smile of perfect teeth.
Donovan knew that he looked ridiculous, but then so did most of the Brits returning home after two weeks of sun, sand and sex in Jamaica. The worst that would happen was that he'd get a pull by Customs at Stansted, but they'd be looking for ganja, not an international drugs baron.