"My uncle has left this up to me, capullo."
"Right. Fine. So make an executive decision here. Call him and tell him I've got a million and half dollars for him. Use your cell phone, come on."
Rodriguez studied Donovan with emotionless brown eyes, then nodded slowly. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number. He kept staring at Donovan, then said something in Spanish. Donovan kept hearing the word 'capullo'. Prick. Rodriguez listened, then nodded, then spoke some more. Donovan's Spanish was good but not fluent, and a lot of what Jesus was saying was slang. Gutter Spanish. However, he mentioned the word "Sparbuch' several times.
Rodriguez walked over to Donovan.
"He wants to talk to you."
Rodriguez thrust the phone against the side of Donovan's head.
"What's this about Sparbuch accounts?" asked Carlos Rodriguez.
"Everyone uses them in Europe, Carlos. They're better than cash. It's clean money, it's in the fucking bank, for God's sake."
"But if I want the cash, I have to go to Czechoslovakia?"
"It's a three-hour flight. It's no big deal. But they're better than cash. You owe someone, you give them the passbook and the password."
There was a long silence and for a moment Donovan thought the connection had been cut.
"Carlos? Are you there?"
"Where are these passbooks?"
"In my hotel."
"That still leaves you eight and a half million dollars short."
"Paintings," said Donovan.
"I have paintings in the house. Three million dollars' worth."
"What good are paintings to me?"
"You can sell them. Three million, easy."
"I'm not an art dealer, amigo."
"Bloody hell, Carlos, work with me on this, will you? With the paintings and the passbooks, I've got almost five million dollars."
"Which is only half what you owe me. The man who ripped you off. Who is he?"
"My accountant. Sharkey, his name is."
"And you gave this man access to your accounts." Rodriguez chuckled.
"I didn't think you were that stupid, amigo."
"He had help," said Donovan. He was starting to relax a little. At least the Colombian was talking, and so long as he was talking Donovan had a chance.
"Ah yes. Your wife," said Rodriguez.
"So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?"
The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering. Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.
"Yeah, I feel like a right twat, Carlos. Does that make you happy?"
"The only thing that will make me happy is when I have my ten million dollars."
"Killing me isn't going to get your money back."
"So you said. Where is your wife now?"
"Sitting at home waiting for me. Where the fuck do you think she is, Carlos?" spat Donovan.
"She's on the fucking run, that's where she is."
"You have people looking for her?"
"The Spaniard."
"Rojas is good. Expensive, but good. Does he know your money's gone?" Donovan didn't reply and Rodriguez chuckled.
"Your situation just gets worse and worse, doesn't it, amigoT Jesus Rodriguez was glaring at Donovan, annoyed at having to hold the phone to his mouth.
"What about when the consignment arrives?" said Rodriguez.
"How were you expecting to pay the second tranche?"
"What can I say, Carlos? I haven't got the first ten mill, let alone the second."
"So even if I take what you're offering me now, you're not going to be able to pay for the consignment when it arrives?"
"If I find that bastard Sharkey, you'll get your money."
"That's a big "if, amigo. The people who are taking on the cocaine, they have paid you half, yes?"
"Yes."
"Fifteen million?"
"Eighteen."
"I presume they are not yet aware of your financial situation," said Rodriguez.
"God willing."
Rodriguez chuckled "Amiga, you are in so much shit. How can I let you go? If I don't kill you, they will. And if they kill you, I lose everything."
"If I can deliver the gear, they'll pay me another eighteen mill," said Donovan.
"You can have all that. The eighteen plus the passbooks plus the paintings is more than twenty mill. You get your money, they get their gear. Everyone wins."
"But why do I need you in this equation, amigo?" asked Rodriguez.
"Why don't I just tell my nephew to kill you now?"
"It's my deal."
"It was your deal," he said.
"Who is taking delivery of the cars?" he asked.
Donovan closed his eyes. He could see where Rodriguez was going.
"You can't do this to me, Carlos."
"Amigo, I can tell my nephew to turn you into a flaming kebab and do what the hell I want with the cars, so don't tell me what I can and cannot do."
Donovan opened his eyes.
"It's being split between Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen," he said.
"Fifty fifty."
"Jordan I have heard of," said Rodriguez, 'but who is this Macfadyen?"
"He's a big fish in Edinburgh. They both are. Got the backing of some property guys who were looking to diversify.
This is their first big deal but I know them from way back. Solid as they come. Look, let me run with this, Carlos. You'll get your money. All of it."
"I don't think so, amigo. When word gets out how you've been screwed, no one's going to be doing business with you. It'll be open season. I will deal with Jordan and Macfadyen myself "You bastard!"
Jesus Rodriguez took the phone away from Donovan's ear and slapped him across the face. Talk to my uncle with respect, capullo. With respect." He slapped Donovan again and then put the phone back to his ear.
"Sorry about that, Carlos," said Donovan. He spat out more bloody phlegm.
"Your nephew wanted a word."
"He's a good boy. Very enthusiastic. Now what were you saying? Questioning the marital status of my parents, I seem to remember."
Jesus started to click his lighter again.
"Okay, okay!" shouted Donovan.
"It's yours! The deal's yours!"
"Good call," said Carlos Rodriguez.
"Let me talk to my nephew."
Donovan tried to smile up at Jesus Rodriguez.
"He wants to talk to you."
Jesus walked up and down as he listened to his uncle, his shoes crunching on the bare concrete. Eventually he put the phone away and walked back to where Donovan was gently swinging.
"You are one lucky capullo' he said.
"I'm staying at the Intercontinental. Tell Jordan and Macfadyen to contact me there. I will explain the new arrangement to them."
"Okay," said Donovan wearily.
"How long will it take you to sell your paintings?" asked Rodriguez.
Donovan glared at the Colombian.
"Oh, come on. You'll get your money for the gear, Jesus."
"My uncle says you owe interest, capullo. I will take the passbooks and the money from the paintings." He held out the lighter.
"Or we end this now."
The fight went out of Donovan. Suspended from the ceiling and doused with petrol didn't put him in any position to argue with the Colombian. Besides, Carlos Rodriguez did occupy the moral high ground, in as much as there was a moral high ground in the world of drug trafficking. Donovan had promised to pay ten million dollars when the drugs left Mexico. He had failed to come up with the money, and in the circles that Donovan moved in, that was equivalent to signing his own death warrant. Donovan had hoped that he would have been able to find Sharkey before Rodriguez had found him, but his gamble had failed and now he had to pay the price.
"You can have the passbooks tonight," said Donovan.