He headed towards Maida Vale, and stopped at the Church of St. Mary, a red brick building long-ago blackened by exhaust fumes from the stream of traffic that pelted along the nearby A4O. Just along from the tumbledown churchyard was a small park with two old-fashioned red phone boxes at its entrance. Donovan sat on a bench in the graveyard and took out a mobile phone. He'd only been able to charge it for half an hour, but that would be long enough for what he wanted. He tapped out the number of Richard Underwood's direct line, dialing 141 first so that his number wouldn't show up on Underwood's phone.
The chief superintendent answered with a long groan before saying, "Yes?"
"What's up, Dicko? Piles giving you jip?"
"The perfect end to the perfect day. Where are you?"
Donovan smiled to himself.
"A shithole, that's where I am," he said.
"You know the churchyard on the Harrow Road?"
"Yes," said Underwood, suspiciously.
"Fifteen minutes. I'll call the one on the right."
"Why don't I call you?"
"Because I don't want this phone ringing, that's why. Fifteen minutes, yeah?"
Donovan cut the connection before the policeman could argue. He walked around the churchyard a couple of times, then went and stood behind a clump of trees. A few minutes later, Underwood came walking briskly from the direction of the police station, his raincoat flapping behind him, a look of intense discomfort on his jowly face. He was a large man, overweight rather than big boned, with a large gut that strained over the top of his trouser belt. He reached the two red phone boxes and stamped his feet impatiently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat.
Donovan took out his mobile phone and dialled the number of the phone box. A second or two later and the phone in the box on the left started to ring. Donovan grinned as he watched Underwood jump, then stand and stare at the phone box. He put his head on one side, then looked at the phone box on the right, as if to reassure himself that it wasn't the one that was ringing. He looked around, then pulled open the door to the box on the left and picked up the phone.
"You said the one on the right," the policeman said.
Donovan chuckled.
"Right, left, what's the odds? You're breathing heavily, Dicko, you out of condition?"
"It's a long bloody walk and you know it. With cameras all the way."
"Not by the church. Besides, who'd be watching you? You're a watcher, not a watchee." He started walking towards the phone boxes.
"Whereabouts are you?"
"Not far, Dicko. Not far."
"Don't piss me around, Den. This isn't a sodding game."
"Behind you."
Underwood turned around and his jaw dropped as he saw Donovan striding across the grass towards him.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he exploded.
Donovan laughed and put his mobile phone away. Underwood stood in the call box the phone still pressed against his ear, his mouth open in surprise. Donovan pulled the door open for him.
"Breathe, Dicko. Breathe!"
Underwood's cheeks had flared red and his eyes were wide and staring.
"Bloody hell, I'm not going to have to give you the kiss of life, am I?" said Donovan.
"What the fuck's going on?"
"Put the phone down and let's have a chat, yeah?"
Underwood stood staring at Donovan for several seconds, then he slowly replaced the receiver.
"You said you were somewhere in Europe."
"Well, strictly speaking, I am. Last I looked, Britain was still in the EC and you reported to Europol."
"It's an information- and resource-sharing organisation. We don't report to them," said Underwood stiffly.
"But that's not the point."
"I know it's not the point, I was just making conversation. Come on, you soft bugger."
Underwood squeezed out of the phone box and the two men walked down the Harrow Road, towards the canal that meandered through Little Venice before winding its way to Regents Park and Camden.
"You shouldn't be here, Den."
"You can say that again. But that bitch'll get my boy if I don't do something." Donovan had already decided not to mention the missing sixty million dollars. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.
"You think you'll get custody?"
"I'm his bloody father."
"Yeah, but .. ."
"There's no buts, Dicko. I'm his dad, and his mum was caught stark bollock naked doing the dirty with my accountant. No judge in the land is going to give him to a woman like that."
"You and judges aren't on the best of terms, truth be told."
"Fuck you."
"You know what I mean."
They walked down Warwick Avenue and turned left on Blomfield Road, parallel to the canal. On one side, the side along which the two men were walking, stood beautiful stucco houses with carefully tended gardens costing millions of pounds.
The other side of the water was lined with utilitarian council flats with featureless walls and blank windows. A narrow boat packed with tourists put-putted towards Camden. A group of Japanese tourists were photographing as if their lives depended on it, and both Donovan and Underwood automatically turned their faces away.
"How did you get into the country?" asked Underwood.
"Need to know," said Donovan.
"What's my situation?"
"Same as it's always been."
"Shit."
"They've got long memories, Den. You can't just run off and expect to come back to a clean slate. Life's not like that."
"So I'm still Tango One?"
"Strictly speaking you've dropped down the ranks a bit, but as soon as it's known you're back, you'll be up there in pole position."
"Hopefully I'll get Robbie and be out of here before anyone knows where I am."
"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed."
"What have they got on me that's current?"
"That's the good news," said Underwood.
"So far, nothing."
"That's something."
"Yeah, but you haven't heard the bad news yet."
Donovan said nothing. Ahead of them was a pub. The Paddington Stop. It sounded as if it belonged to an age when passing bar gees would stop off for a refreshing pint, but it was as ugly as the council flats opposite and had been built decades after the last working barge had travelled the canal. The two men looked at each other. They both nodded at the same time and headed towards the pub.
Underwood waited until he had a pint of lager in front of him and there was no one within earshot before continuing.
"Marty Clare," he said, and sipped his lager.
Donovan toyed with his Jack Daniels and soda, a slight frown on his face.
"He's in Amsterdam, right?"
"He's in Noordsingel Detention Centre in Rotterdam is where he is," said Underwood.
"And he's preparing to sing like the proverbial."
Donovan shook his head.
"No way. Not Marty."
"His lawyer is dotting the "t's and crossing the "i's as we speak."
"You know this for a fact?"
Underwood gave him a disdainful look but didn't say anything. Donovan cursed.
"What've they got on him? He could do Dutch porridge standing on his head."
"The Yanks want him. One of the consignments was earmarked for New Jersey. That's all the DEA need. Assets, money, the works. And if they can get him extradited, they'll throw away the key."