Donovan had bitten the inside of his mouth when he was hit and he could taste blood as he slowly regained consciousness. The left-hand side of his head throbbed and he was having trouble breathing. The room was spinning around him and Donovan blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It didn't do any good, everything was still revolving. Then he realised it wasn't the room that was spinning. It was him.
He'd been suspended by his feet from a metal girder with rope, and his hands had been tied behind him. His jacket was bunched around his shoulders and he could see his socks and the bare skin of his shins. His nose felt blocked and his eyes were hurting and he had a piercing headache. He'd obviously been hanging upside down for a long time. He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm.
Two pairs of legs span into view. Dark brown shoes. Grey trousers. Black coats. Then they were gone. Machinery. A dark saloon car. Welding cylinders. A jack. A calendar with a naked blonde with impossibly large breasts. A workbench. Then the legs again. Donovan craned his neck but he couldn't see their faces.
One of the men said something in Spanish but Donovan didn't catch what it was. He knew who they were, though. Colombians. He coughed and spat out more blood.
He heard footsteps and a third pair of legs walked up.
"Hola, hombre," said a voice.
"Que pa saT Donovan twisted around, trying to get a look at the man who'd spoken. It took his confused brain several seconds to process the visual information.
A short, thickset man in his mid twenties. Powerful arms from years of lifting weights. A neat goatee beard. It was Jesus Rodriguez, Carlos Rodriguez's nephew and a borderline psychopath. Donovan had seen him several times in Carlos Rodriguez's entourage but had never spoken to the man. He'd heard the rumours, though. Ears cut off. Prostitutes scarred for life. Bodies dumped at sea, still alive and attached to anchors.
"Oh, just hanging around," said Donovan, trying to sound confident even though he knew that if the Colombian had just wanted a chat he wouldn't have had him picked up and suspended from the ceiling. And the fact that Doyle hadn't called him to warn him about the Colombians meant that he probably wasn't able to.
"You should have let me know you were coming."
"Where's my uncle's money, Donovan?" said Rodriguez.
Donovan stopped turning. The rope had twisted as far as it would go. He was facing away from the Colombian and all he could see was the black saloon. Its boot was open. That was how they'd got him to the garage. And if things didn't go well, it was probably how he'd leave.
"Somebody borrowed it," said Donovan.
"Well, amigo, I hope they're paying you a good rate of interest, because that loan is going to cost you your life."
"I didn't steal your money, Jesus," said Donovan. The rope began to untwist and Donovan revolved slowly.
"So where is our ten million dollars?"
"I'm not sure."
"That's not the answer I'm looking for, capullo."
Donovan heard metal scraping and a liquid sloshing sound. Something being unscrewed. More sloshing. A strong smell of petrol. Then the three pairs of legs swung into view. One of the men was holding a red petrol can.
Donovan's insides lurched.
"Look, Jesus, I haven't got your money."
The man with the can started splashing it over Donovan's legs. Donovan began to shiver uncontrollably. His conscious mind, his intelligence, told him that Rodriguez wouldn't kill him while there was a chance that he'd get his money, but he'd heard enough horror stories about the man to know how irrational he could be, especially when he'd taken cocaine. Rodriguez was a user as well as a supplier, and when he was using he was a nasty piece of work.
"If you haven't got my uncle's money, then there's nothing for us to talk about, is there?"
"I've been ripped off. By my accountant."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer."
More petrol was slopped over Donovan's legs. It dripped down his chest and dribbled into his nose, stinging so badly that his eyes watered. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, hoping that the Colombian wouldn't think he was crying.
"I'm looking for him. For God's sake, Jesus, he's ripped off sixty million fucking dollars."
"Of which ten million is my uncle's."
"If I had the money, I'd have given it to him. You think I don't know what happens to people who don't pay your uncle?"
"If you didn't, you're about to find out."
The man with the red can poured the last of the petrol down Donovan's back. It trickled down the back of his neck and dribbled through his hair. The fumes made him gag and he felt as if he would pass out again.
"Why did you run, capullo?
"Because I knew if I didn't pay, this would happen."
Rodriguez snorted.
"You thought you'd be safe in London, did you?"
"No, but I thought if I could get enough time, I might be able to get the bastard. Get the money back."
Rodriguez folded his arms and studied Donovan.
"And how were you planning to do that?" he asked.
Donovan forced a smile.
"I thought I might hang him upside down and pour petrol over him. See if that works."
Rodriguez stared at Donovan with cold eyes, then a smile slowly spread across his face. He threw back his head and laughed. His two companions stood watching Rodriguez laugh as if they didn't understand what was funny. Rodriguez wiped his eyes and shook his head.
"You English, you always keep your sense of humour, no matter what. What's the expression you have? To die laughing?"
"Killing me won't get your uncle's money back, Jesus. That's the one true thing in this situation."
Rodriguez reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold cigarette lighter. Petrol was pooling on the floor below Donovan's head. Rodriguez crouched down and steadied Donovan with a gloved hand. He looked into his eyes.
"Don't underestimate the fear factor, amigo," he said.
"This will be a lesson to everyone else. Fuck with the Rodriguez family and you'll burn in hell." He patted Donovan on the face, then straightened up.
Donovan panicked.
"For God's sake, Jesus, I've got money. I can pay you some of it."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer, capullo." Rodriguez raised his hand and clicked the lighter.
Donovan twisted around, thrashing from side to side.
"Jesus, for fuck's sake, stop it."
"How much?"
"Give me a minute. Let me think. Let me bloody think!"
Rodriguez clicked the top down on the lighter.
"One minute. Then it's barbecue time." He took a step back and watched as Donovan slowly twisted in the air.
"I've got two Sparbuch passbooks. That's a million and half bucks."
Rodriguez frowned.
"What's a Sparbuch?"
Donovan cleared his throat and coughed up more bloody phlegm.
"Jesus, I'm choking here. Cut me down, yeah?"
"What is a Sparbuch?" repeated Rodriguez. He clicked the lighter open.
"It's a bank account," said Donovan hurriedly.
"They're for accounts in Czechoslovakia. The ones I've got are in US dollars."
"Fine. So give me the money."
"I don't have the money, I have the passbooks. The money is in Czechoslovakia."
"So transfer the money."
"It's not as easy as that. They're bearer passbooks. Whoever has the passbooks and the passwords has the account. You have to show the passbook to get the money. They won't do electronic transfers."
"That sounds like bullshit," said Rodriguez. He flicked the lighter again.
"Me cargo en tus muertos." I shit on your dead. As bad a curse as there was in Spanish.
"Look, talk to your uncle!" said Donovan hurriedly.
"I'm offering you money here. Kill me and you get nothing. He's going to be really pissed at you if he finds out afterwards that I was going to pay him, right?"