He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the palms of his hands. Assuming he could sell his paintings and sell them quickly, he'd be able to pay off Carlos Rodriguez, but with the Colombian dealing direct with Macfadyen and Jordan, Donovan had no imminent source of income. And until he tracked down Sharkey and Vicky, he had virtually no assets, either.
Losing the cocaine deal was a major blow, but Donovan had been planning to end his relationship with Macfadyen and Jordan for some time. The money had started to go to their heads in recent months, and the fact that they'd turned up to a meet in a brand new Ferrari and wearing designer gear suggested that they were losing their grip.
The only good news was that Juan Rojas had taken care of Marty Clare. With Clare out of the equation, the authorities had no evidence against him.
Donovan had known Clare for almost fifteen years, and for the past ten he'd considered him a close friend. They'd been drunk together, they'd partied together, and they'd done business together. Clare had concentrated on cannabis and had refused whenever Donovan had offered to cut him in on cocaine or heroin deals. He'd always protested that the risk reward ratio made hard drugs a dangerous proposition, even though the profits were that much higher. Donovan had always insisted that the risk reward ratio only mattered if you got caught, and Donovan had never come close to being caught.
The fact that Clare had agreed to co-operate with the DEA came as no surprise to Donovan. The DEA were masters at the art of turning players around. They'd spend years gathering evidence and putting together a watertight case, then they'd move in. More often than not, however, they would offer a deal, smaller fishes giving up bigger fishes until they got to the men at the top, the men like Donovan, who were untouchable by conventional means. When it came to facing a twenty-year sentence in a Federal prison, honour among thieves went out of the window pretty damn quickly. Donovan liked to think that he was made of sterner stuff, but he'd never know for certain how he'd react until it happened to him.
Donovan had had no hesitation in ordering Marty Clare's death. He knew that if their positions were reversed, Clare would have done the same. That was how the game was played. You stood by your friends until they betrayed you, then you made sure that retribution was decisive and swift. Clare knew the rules, and he would have known that the minute he started to talk his life would be on the line. He'd have taken that into consideration, factored it into the equation, risk and reward. The reward a life in a witness protection programme, but at least there'd be no bars on the windows and no tattooed men wanting to play pick-up-the-soap in the showers. The risk -retribution from Den Donovan. Donovan smiled to himself. He wondered if Sharkey had run the risk reward calculation for his own situation. He must have done, he must have known how he'd react. Perhaps he'd assumed that his Tango One status would keep him confined to the Caribbean; perhaps he'd assumed that Carlos Rodriguez would do his dirty work for him. Whatever, he'd got the calculation wrong. Retribution would be decisive and swift. And highly personal.
Donovan arrived at the house just after nine thirty the next morning. He let himself in through the back door and tapped in the burglar alarm code. He went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. The milk in the fridge was well past its sell-by date, so he poured it down the sink and sipped his coffee black.
He walked through to his study and stood looking at the painting that concealed the safe. The yachts were turning into the wind, the sky smeared redly behind them. On the left was the skyline of nineteenth-century New York. Donovan never tired of looking at the picture.
He sat down at his desk and took out one of the mobiles that he hadn't used. He dialled the UK number that Gregov had given him. It was answered by a woman with a Russian accent who said that Gregov was helping to load one of the planes, but that if Donovan didn't mind waiting she'd go and get him.
Donovan swung his feet up on to the desk and whistled softly to himself until Gregov came on the line.
"Den, good to hear from you."
"Hiya, Gregov. Wasn't sure if I'd catch you."
"We're flying out tomorrow. Loading up the last of the supplies now. Forty thousand kilos of food and medicine. I love earthquakes, Den. My bread and butter."
"When are you flying back?" asked Donovan.
"Next week. Are we in business, then?"
"Maybe. I'll try to get the finances sorted then I'll get back to you. Eight thousand kilos, right? At three thousand a key?"
"That's right. Twenty-four total, call it twenty-five with expenses."
Donovan raised his eyebrows. Twenty-five million US dollars. He wondered how enthusiastic Gregov would be if he knew the true state of Donovan's finances, but the deal Gregov was offering was so sweet that it could be the answer to all his prayers.
"That seems cheap, Gregov."
"Sure, they're friends of mine. Army buddies. I got them out of a few scrapes in Afghanistan, they sort of owe me. But that's the regular price. Their processing plant is in the middle of nowhere once it gets anywhere near a big city the price doubles. Out of Turkey it goes up tenfold. It's cheap because I get it at the source. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
"No, of course not," said Donovan, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.
"Good man," said Gregov.
"You have the bank account number?"
Donovan said he had.
"When you're ready to move, call Maya at the number you have. She'll get through to me, even if I'm in the air. This is going to be great, Den. Capitalism rules, yeah?"
"Sure," said Donovan.
The doorbell rang as Donovan cut the connection, and he went through to the hall and opened the front door. Maury Goldman stood there with a tall, blond-haired man in his late twenties, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and grey shirt. The man looked fit, as if he worked out, and he flexed his shoulders under his jacket as Donovan looked him up and down.
"Den, this is Jamie Fullerton," said Goldman.
Fullerton stuck out his hand and Donovan shook it. It was a firm, strong grip, and Fullerton held Donovan's look as he squeezed. It wasn't quite a trial of strength, but Donovan felt that Fullerton had something to prove. Donovan continued to apply pressure on the handshake, and Fullerton matched it, then Fullerton nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Good to meet you, Mr. Donovan."
"Mr. Donovan was my dear old dad and he's well dead. I'm Den," said Donovan, waving them into the house. He patted Goldman on the back and closed the door.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee would be good," said Fullerton.
Goldman nodded. Donovan took them into the kitchen and made three mugs of coffee, apologising for the lack of milk. Goldman and Fullerton sat down at the pine kitchen table.
"Maury told you what I need?" asked Donovan.
"You want to sell your collection ASAP," said Fullerton.
"Shouldn't be a problem."
"I showed Jamie your inventory," said Goldman.
"He's spoken to several potential buyers already."
"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Donovan," said Fullerton.
"Den," he said, correcting himself with an embarrassed smile.
"I thought that with the time pressure, you'd want me to hit the ground running."
"No sweat," said Donovan.
"Have you had any feedback?"
"Some of them I can sell for you today, but the others I'm going to have to show. Can I bring people around here to see them?"
"I'd rather not," said Donovan.
"With respect to your clients, I don't want strangers traipsing around my house. Plus, I'd rather not have people know where they've come from."
Fullerton smiled easily.
"I understand that, but the alternative is to let me walk out of here with two million quid's worth of fine art. If you're okay with that .. ."