"If I was you I'd be biting my hand off."
"We don't know him, Den," said Jordan.
"We do know you."
"Which is why they want to meet you."
"He's here?" asked Macfadyen.
"His nephew. Jesus."
"We meet him, then what?" asked Jordan.
Donovan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Future deals. Do we still do business with you?"
Donovan grimaced. It wasn't a question he was able to answer, but he doubted that Rodriguez would ever trust him again.
Macfadyen caught Donovan's look.
"What's happening, Den?"
"Just leave it be, Charlie."
"Is this to do with Marty Clare being banged up in Holland?" Macfadyen asked.
"No."
"We heard he's talking."
Donovan pulled a face.
"He can't hurt me."
Jordan fiddled with his gold ring.
"This Colombian, he's got our money, right?"
"Sort of "Sort of?" repeated Macfadyen incredulously.
"How can he sort of have eighteen million dollars?"
"He's happy to proceed with the deal. When the consignment arrives you pay him the balance."
"You sure about that?" asked Jordan.
"Give me a break, Ricky."
"You can see why we're nervous, Den," said Macfadyen.
"What happens if we turn up and this Colombian says he never saw our money? They're mad bastards, Colombians. Shoot first and fuck the questions, right?"
"Carlos isn't like that," said Donovan. He thought that Jesus might well be the sort to shoot before thinking, but he figured it better not to let them know that.
"Even so .. ." said Macfadyen.
"What do you want, Charlie? Spit it out." Donovan already knew what Macfadyen was going to suggest. It's what he would have insisted on had the roles been reversed.
"You come with us to the meet," said Macfadyen.
"That's not a good idea and you know it. You, me and the Colombian together in one place. Too many fucking cooks, Charlie."
Macfadyen looked at Jordan and something unspoken passed between them. Jordan nodded.
"You're there or we walk away here and now," said Macfadyen quietly.
"That'd be your call, Charlie."
"We'd be wanting our money back."
"And I'd be wanting to shag Britney Spears but it ain't gonna happen," said Donovan.
"Then it'd all get very heavy," said Macfadyen.
"Britney Spears?" said Jordan.
"You'd shag Britney Spears?"
"I was speaking hypothetically," said Donovan.
"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll introduce you. But once you've shaken hands, I'm outta there. Okay?"
Macfadyen and Jordan exchanged another meaningful look. This time it was Macfadyen who nodded.
"Okay," said Macfadyen.
"When?"
"Let me make a call." Donovan took out one of his mobile phones.
Two Dutch plainclothes detectives escorted Marty Clare to the waiting Saab. Clare had insisted through his lawyer that he be taken from the detention centre in a regular car rather than a prison van, and he didn't want any uniforms anywhere near him. Clare's lawyer had spoken to Hathaway at length and had eventually persuaded him to allow Clare to be interrogated at a hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam.
As the taller of the two detectives opened the rear door of the Saab, his jacket fell open and Clare caught a glimpse of a holstered automatic. That had been another stipulation of Clare's he wanted round-the-clock armed protection. The attack in the gym might well have been a warning, but once Donovan found out that Clare was still talking there'd be hell to pay.
The taller detective climbed into the back seat after Clare while the other got into the front and told the driver to head on out.
The car was checked over by two uniformed guards while a third guard examined the ID cards of the two detectives and the paperwork permitting Clare's removal from the centre. There was a photograph of Clare clipped to a letter from the governor's office and the guard carefully checked the likeness against Clare's face. Clare grinned but the guard remained impassive.
The metal gate rattled to the side and the Saab edged forward. A second gate leading to the street didn't start opening until the first gate had closed behind the car.
"This place had better have room service," said Clare.
"And cable. My lawyer was supposed to have insisted on cable."
The two detectives said nothing. Clare turned to the policeman next to him and asked if he had a cigarette. The man shook his head. The car edged into the traffic, then accelerated away.
"What is this, the silent treatment?" joked Clare, but the detective just stared out of the window, stony faced.
"Fuck you, then," said Clare and settled back in the seat, his handcuffed wrists in his lap. The cut on Clare's arm barely bothered him, it had only required three stitches, but the wound in his stomach hurt like hell, especially when he was in a sitting position, so he tried to stretch out his legs to make himself more comfortable. The doctor had given Clare a vial of painkillers but told him to use them sparingly. When the detectives had heard that, they'd taken the tablets off Clare. Clare had laughed in their faces. Suicidal he wasn't.
The driver braked as they approached a set of traffic lights.
The lights were green but a white van ahead of them had slowed. The driver muttered under his breath and was about to sound his horn when the lights changed to red. The van pulled up and the Saab stopped behind it.
The detectives spoke to each other in Dutch. The one in the front laughed and Clare had the feeling they were laughing about him. He scowled. He never heard the crack as the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass cubes, and he died instantly as the bullet ripped through the back of his head and spattered brains and blood over the Saab's windscreen.
The driver and the detectives started shouting. Clare's body twitched as a second bullet smacked into the back of his head but he was already dead. The lights changed from red to green and the white van pulled away. Horns began to sound behind the Saab, but they stopped when the detectives piled out of the car, guns raised above their heads.
Juan Rojas unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his rifle and put it into his briefcase, then swiftly disassembled the weapon and put the pieces away. He closed the briefcase and then examined himself in the mirror above the dressing table. Dark blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, crimson tie. He winked at his reflection. He left the briefcase on the dressing table. It would be collected later by the man who had booked the hotel room.
Rojas had shot Clare from the roof of the hotel. The men in the white van had been working for him, as had the man who had stabbed Clare in the gym. It was an easy shot, just over a hundred metres, but the intersection was overlooked by so many tower blocks that the police would never find out where the bullets had come from. Rojas had wrapped the rifle in a towel and then hurried back through the emergency exit door and into the hotel room.
His mohair coat was hanging on the back of the door and he put it on, then gave his hotel room a once over to make sure that he hadn't left anything behind other than the briefcase. He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the elevator to take him down to the ground floor. Five minutes later he was in a taxi, heading for the airport.
Den Donovan walked along the edge of the Serpentine. Two small children were throwing pieces of bread for a noisy flock of ducks. A large white swan watched disdainfully from a distance. A helicopter clattered high overhead. Donovan kept his head down, more from habit than from any realistic fear that the helicopter was on a surveillance operation.
Macfadyen and Jordan were several hundred yards away, walking together, deep in conversation, though they kept looking across at him. Donovan had insisted on walking to the park, but Macfadyen and Jordan had wanted to drive. They'd parked the Ferrari in the underground car park in Park Lane and were keeping their distance until they'd seen Donovan with the Colombian.