"I should be able to sell the pictures within a few days."
"I will be in London for three days. Bring the money and the passbooks to me at the hotel." He started to walk away, then hesitated.
"Don't make a fool of me again, capullo."
I won't.
"Next time I won't phone my uncle. I don't have to say that I know how to find you, and that I know where your son is, do I?"
"No, you don't," said Donovan coldly.
Rodriguez nodded.
"Three days," he repeated, then walked away.
"Jesus!"
Rodriguez turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"Cut me down, yeah?"
Rodriguez nodded at his men. One of them took a penknife from his coat pocket and walked behind Donovan. Donovan felt the rope being cut from around his wrists. His fingers began to tingle as the circulation returned. Rodriguez walked away as the man cut the rope around Donovan's ankles. Donovan hit the ground hard, jarring his shoulder, but he was so numb that he felt hardly any pain. He lay on the concrete floor, gasping for breath.
He heard the doors of the car open and slam shut, then the engine revving. A metal gate rattled up and the car drove out and then he was alone. He sat up, massaging his legs, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Carlos Rodriguez wasn't the most vicious of the Colombian drug lords, but he was far from being a pushover, and Donovan knew for a fact that he'd killed several times. One simple command from him and Jesus would have happily ended Donovan's life.
Donovan had always got on well with Carlos Rodriguez, which might have explained the Colombian's apparent change of heart. Or maybe Rodriguez had never intended to kill Donovan; maybe it had all been a mind game from the start and Jesus Rodriguez and his two henchmen were pissing themselves laughing as they drove away.
Donovan stood up slowly. He was still drenched in petrol so he took off most of his clothes and draped them on a workbench to dry. He paced up and down as he considered his options, which now appeared to be few and far between.
Marty Clare started his third set of sit-ups. He did three hundred during each early-morning workout, six sets of fifty. His torso glistened and he grunted each time he sat upright, his hands clenched behind his neck, his knees slightly bent.
The man watching Clare was also sweating, but not from exertion. He was a tall, almost gangly, black man in his late twenties with a shaved head and wicked scar on his left forearm. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his right hand was in his pocket, clenched around an eight-inch-long metal spike that had been carefully sharpened.
The gym was covered by two closed-circuit television cameras that were constantly monitored by prison guards in the control centre. The CCTV cameras were in fixed positions and the man knew that he was standing in a blind spot. The man's hand was sweating but he didn't want to take it out and wipe it because that would mean letting go of the spike. Two men were working with weights, but they had been in the gym for almost an hour and were getting towards the end of their workout.
Clare finished his third set and stood up, wiping his face with his towel. He went over to a press bench and picked up two small free weights, then lay on his back on the bench. The man watched. And waited. He went and sat on an exercise bike and pedalled slowly. The exercise bike was also out of view of the two CCTV cameras.
Clare worked on his arms and pectorals for ten minutes then went back to his sit-ups. The man carried on cycling slowly, his hand still on the spike.
The two men at the weights bench laughed and headed for the door, wiping their faces with their towels.
Clare got to his feet, stretched and groaned, and picked up his towel. He walked past the exercise bikes, humming to himself. The man kept his head down until Clare had gone by, then slid off his saddle and walked up behind Clare, pulling out the spike. Clare turned to look at the man, but before he could react the man sprang forward, grasping for the collar of Clare's T-shirt with his left hand as he thrust the spike forward. Clare twisted and the spike ripped through his shirt. Clare swore and tried to push the man away but the man was too quick and slashed with the spike, cutting Clare's upper arm. Blood spurted across Clare's chest and the man lashed out again, this time with a stabbing movement. Clare fell back, but the man followed through and the spike stabbed into Clare's stomach. He carried on falling back and crashed into an exercise bike, then rolled on to his side. The man raised the spike above his head but then hesitated. Clare was lying in an area covered by the CCTV camera by the door.
The man turned, kept his head down and hurried out of the gym, thrusting the spike into his pocket as he jogged down the corridor.
Clare put his hands over the wound in his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers and he screamed up at the CCTV camera.
"You bastards! Get down here!"
The single lens stared down at him dispassionately. Clare groaned and closed his eyes.
Den Donovan woke up with a splitting headache. He wasn't sure if it was the petrol fumes or the clip on the side of the head that had done the damage, but either way his head throbbed every time he moved it. He found a small plastic kettle and sachets of coffee, creamer and sugar on a table next to the wardrobe and made himself a cup of strong coffee. He sat on the bed and sipped it as he considered his options. He didn't appear to have many. He had to give the two Sparbuchs to Rodriguez. He had to sell his paintings and give the proceeds to the Colombian. Then he had to put Jordan and Macfadyen in touch with him and step out of the deal. Which left him with what? Not much, Donovan decided. There was the Russian deal on the back burner but the Russians would want cash in advance and cash was something that Donovan was fast running out of.
First things first. He picked up one of the unused mobile phones and dialled Macfadyen's mobile number from memory. The answering service kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, but just gave the number of the mobile and asked Macfadyen to call him. Charlie Macfadyen was a religious screener of calls, so Donovan wasn't surprised when he called back two minutes later.
"How's it going, you old bastard?" asked Macfadyen.
"I've had better weeks," said Donovan.
"Where are you?"
"London. There isn't a problem, is there?" asked Macfadyen.
"Not for you, mate," said Donovan.
"Everything's sweet. But from now on you're dealing with the man direct."
"Since when?"
"Since today."
"You okay, mate?" Macfadyen sounded concerned and Donovan was touched.
"Not really. Your man'll explain the situation."
"I'd rather be dealing with you better the devil and all that shit."
"It's not an either or," said Donovan.
"He wants to deal direct."
"And you're walking away? Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I don't know him. I do know you."
Donovan closed his eyes and cursed silently. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have over the phone.
"We're gonna have to meet," said Macfadyen.
"Where are you?"
"Can't you just do as you're told?" said Donovan angrily.
"Look, mate, you've got a stack of my bread. How do I know your guy's gonna honour that? Caveat fucking emptor, right?
How do I know it's not gonna be guns blazing when I go to see him?"
"Because he wants to meet at the Intercontinental."
"Oh, it's in the book of rules now that no one gets shot in a five-star hotel, is it?"
"Your imagination's in overdrive," said Donovan.
"Take a Prozac, will you?"
"I'm serious, Den," said Macfadyen.
"I need more than this or you can give me back my bread and we'll call it quits."
Donovan's head felt like it was splitting in half. He transferred the phone to his other ear. Giving Macfadyen his money back was an impossibility. And if he refused to go through with the deal, the Colombian would be back with another can of petrol and the lighter, and this time there'd be nothing Donovan could say or do that would stop him going up like a roman candle.