Jesus Rodriguez was standing on the bank of the Serpentine wearing a cream-coloured suit with a white silk shirt buttoned at the neck with no tie.
Donovan hated having to meet Rodriguez out in the open, because it made it harder to spot any surveillance, but Macfadyen and Jordan hadn't wanted a meeting indoors. They hung back as Donovan walked up to Rodriguez.
"Is that them?" asked the Colombian, nodding at Macfadyen and Jordan.
"Yeah. They're jittery. So am I."
"We're just having a walk in the park, my friend."
"A Colombian drugs lord, two of the main suppliers of Class A drugs in Scotland, and Tango One. The fact that we're in one place is just about grounds for a conspiracy charge."
"You worry too much," said the Colombian. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and slipped a cigarette between his lips. He held his gold lighter up and grinned mischievously at Donovan.
"You changed your clothes, I hope?" Donovan flashed Rodriguez a cold smile and Rodriguez lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the cigarette and then sighed as he exhaled. He started walking alongside the Serpentine and Donovan went with him. He took the Sparbuchs from his inside pocket and handed them to the Colombian.
Rodriguez flicked through them.
"As good as cash, you say?"
"Better than cash," said Donovan.
"They're useless without the passwords. And you can fly around the world with them in your pocket and no one's the wiser."
Rodriguez nodded appreciatively and put the passbooks into his jacket pocket. Donovan handed him a slip of paper with two words written on it. Rodriguez put it in his wallet.
"If it was me, I'd have killed you. You know that?"
"I'd guessed," said Donovan. He looked around casually. The two men who had been with Rodriguez were some distance away, standing in the shade of a spreading sycamore tree.
"Having said that, my uncle told me to tell you that if you do get your finances sorted out, he would be prepared to resume our business relationship."
Donovan smiled ruefully.
"I'll bear that in mind, Jesus. Tell him thanks."
"And you will have the money from the paintings before I leave London?"
"I hope so," said Donovan.
Rodriguez chuckled dryly.
"Just remember that we have another can of petrol," he said.
"Now, these two men in black, they know the score?"
Donovan nodded.
"They'll pay you on delivery. Eighteen mill. They have it offshore, so they can transfer to any account you nominate."
"How much do they know about me?"
"Your name. And that you're the supplier. They're worried it might be a set-up. That's why they want me here."
Rodriguez grinned.
"So you can protect them?"
"So that if the shit hits the fan, I'll get hit, too."
"Do you think they're satisfied yet?"
"I'll ask them." Donovan beckoned at Macfadyen and Jordan. The two men looked at each other, then walked cautiously over the grass towards him. Donovan turned to the Colombian.
"You can trust them, Jesus."
"My uncle thought he could trust you, capullo."
"This isn't about trust. I was ripped off."
"The hows and whys don't concern me, all that matters is the money. That's what this business is all about: the movement and acquisition of capital. That's why you must never make it personal. When you make it personal is when you make mistakes." He patted Donovan on the back again, hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Remember that."
"Thanks, Jesus," said Donovan.
"Did you get that from a Christmas cracker?"
"My father told me that," said Rodriguez.
"A lifetime ago. Before he was shot in the back of the head by a capullo he turned his back on."
Macfadyen and Jordan joined them. Macfadyen nodded at Rodriguez, then jerked a thumb towards the men under the tree.
"They with you?" he asked.
"They are," said Rodriguez evenly.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not so long as they stay where they are," said Macfadyen.
"There are three of you and one of me but you don't see me shitting my pants," said Rodriguez. He blew a tight plume of smoke that was quickly whisked away by the wind. He nodded at Donovan.
"Perhaps you should do the honours."
"This is Charlie Macfadyen. Edinburgh's finest. Charlie, this is Jesus Rodriguez."
The two men shook hands.
"And this is Ricky Jordan."
"From Liverpool," said Rodriguez.
"Birthplace of the Beatles." He shook hands with Jordan.
"I've heard of you, Ricky. You were in Miami two years ago doing business with Roberto Galardo."
Jordan narrowed his eyes and Rodriguez laughed out loud.
"Don't worry, Ricky, I'm not DEA. Roberto is an old friend. And he quite definitely didn't tell me about you and those three lap-dancers." He winked conspiratorially.
"You do know that the Hispanic one was a transsexual, right?"
Jordan's face flushed and Macfadyen sniggered.
"You never told me about that, Ricky," he teased.
"She was female," said Jordan.
"Of course she was," said Rodriguez.
"By the time you met her."
Jordan's brow creased into a frown, not sure whether Rodriguez was joking or not.
The Colombian put his arm around Jordan's shoulder and hugged him.
"So, let's talk business, shall we?" He looked across at Donovan.
"Call me at the hotel about the other thing, okay? Two days."
Donovan nodded.
"You okay now?" he asked Macfadyen.
"Yeah. I guess."
"I'll leave you to it. Be lucky, yeah?" He flashed Macfadyen a thumbs-up.
"She was definitely a girl," Jordan continued to protest as Donovan walked away.
Donovan took his time leaving Hyde Park. He had a coffee in the cafeteria overlooking the Serpentine, checking out the faces of the passers-by, then he walked slowly along Rotten Row towards Hyde Park Corner, stopping twice to tie and retie his shoelaces. At one point he looked at his watch and then turned and quickly walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.
Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.
The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.
When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.
The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.
"I'm here to see Maury," he said.
"Is he expecting you?"
"Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?"
She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.
"Do you have many customers?" asked Donovan.