Gregg Hathaway walked slowly along Victoria Embankment. His right knee was hurting, had been since he woke up. On the far side of the Thames, the Millennium Eye slowly turned, every capsule on the giant Ferris wheel packed with tourists. Hathaway stood and watched the wheel for a while and wondered what it must be like to see London as a tourist. The buildings, the history, the exhibitions. The Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, Madame Tussaud's.
Hathaway's London was different. Darker. More threatening. Hathaway's London was a city of criminals, of terrorists and drug dealers, of subversives, of men and women who scorned society's laws and instead played by their own rules. Den Donovan was such a man, and the only way he was ever going to be brought down was if Hathaway played Donovan at his own game. Hathaway knew that he was taking a huge risk. Even MI6 had its own rules and regulations, and what Hathaway was doing went well beyond his remit. In Hathaway's mind the end most definitely justified the means, but he doubted that his masters would see it that way.
He turned away from the wheel and sat down on a wooden bench. The river flowed by, grey and forbidding. A sightseeing boat chugged eastwards. More tourists. Cameras clicking, children eating ice cream, pensioners in floppy hats and shorts.
"Nice day for it," said a voice behind Hathaway.
Hathaway didn't turn around. He'd been expecting the man. A detective inspector working out of Bow Street Police Station whom Hathaway used from time to time. It was a symbiotic relationship that served both men well. Hathaway had an undetectable conduit into the Met; the inspector received information that made him look good. Plus occasional cash payments from the MI6 informers' fund.
The detective sat down next to Hathaway and crossed his legs at the ankles. He wore a charcoal-grey suit and scuffed Hush Puppies. His tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was in his late thirties but looked older, with frown lines etched in his forehead and deep crow's feet around his eyes.
"So how's life?" he asked Hathaway jovially.
"Same old," said Hathaway.
The detective took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Hathaway. Hathaway shook his head. The detective knew that Hathaway had given up smoking, but every time they met, he'd offer him a cigarette none the less.
The detective lit one with a disposable lighter and blew smoke towards the river, waiting for Hathaway to speak.
"Den Donovan is back," he said.
The detective raised one eyebrow.
"Bloody hell."
"He's in London. I've checked with Immigration and there's no record of him coming in, but he's got more identities than Rory Bremner."
"Your source?"
Hathaway tutted in disgust.
"Worth a try," grinned the detective.
"Where is he?"
"Not sure, lying low at the moment. He's going to have to pop his head above the parapet fairly soon, though. Money problems."
"Den Donovan? He's worth millions."
"Take it from me, he's got cash flow problems. He's selling his art collection. He's already cleared his paintings out of his Kensington house."
"I know it," said the detective.
"Is Six going to be looking at him?"
"Not yet."
"Customs?"
"You've got this to yourself, but I wouldn't expect the Cussies or Six to stand by once they know he's back."
"And it's because of his money problems that he's here?"
"So far as I know. He was in to see Maury Goldman, the dodgy art dealer in Mayfair. If I get more, I'll give you a call." Hathaway stood up and winced as he put his weight on his painful leg. The detective didn't notice: he was too preoccupied with how he was going to break the news to his boss.
Hathaway walked away, back towards Vauxhall Bridge. He had no qualms about setting the police on Donovan. He must have known that the moment he set foot back on UK territory he'd be a marked man, and if there'd been no surveillance he'd have been suspicious. This way at least Hathaway would be able to exert some control on the operation.
Donovan lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd tried to get a new birth certificate for Robbie but had been told that it would be at least seventy-two hours. Donovan had phoned the German in Anguilla but the German had said that passports for children weren't something he had in stock and that it would take at least a week to get the necessary documentation together. He could make up a counterfeit within a day but warned that even though his counterfeits were good, he couldn't be held responsible if something went wrong. It wasn't a risk that Donovan was prepared to take. Donovan's plan had been to get a replacement passport for Robbie and take him to Anguilla while he worked out what he was going to do next. There was no way he was going to leave without his son, so he had no choice other than to wait it out in London. With Marty Clare out of the picture, Donovan was in the clear investigation-wise, so there was nothing to stop him moving back into the house with Robbie. The police and Customs would put him under the microscope as soon as they discovered he was back, but Donovan wasn't planning on doing anything in the least bit criminal. He could check out of the hotel, get Robbie back from Laura, and start playing the father.
One of his mobiles rang and Donovan rolled over on to his stomach. It was the mobile that Fullerton and Goldman were to use once they had news of the paintings. Donovan pressed the phone to his ear and lay on his back. It was Fullerton.
"Good news, Den," said Fullerton.
"I could do with some," said Donovan.
"That Citibank guy creamed himself over the Buttersworths. I got him to go to seven hundred and fifty. He practically forced the banker's draft on me."
Donovan sat up. That's good going, Jamie." Donovan had only been expecting half a million dollars for the two paintings.
"That's just the start," said Fullerton excitedly.
"The Rembrandt. Guess what I got for the Rembrandt?"
"Jamie, I don't want to start playing games here. Just tell me."
"Eight hundred grand."
"Dollars?"
"Pounds, Den. Fucking pounds."
"Bloody hell." That was well above what Donovan had been hoping for.
"Yeah, tell me about it. The guy's a bit shady, I have to say, but his money's good."
"You're sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Besides, he's going to make his draft out to me and I'll get a draft drawn off my account. We'll have it sorted by tomorrow."
Donovan ran through the numbers. Eight hundred thousand for the Rembrandt drawing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was about half a million quid. Plus Goldman had promised two hundred thousand pounds for the Van Dycks. So far he had one and a half million pounds. He sighed with relief. At least he was close to getting the Colombian off his back.
"That's brilliant work, Jamie. Thanks."
"I'm pretty close to selling a couple of others, too. I'm seeing a guy this evening who's looking to invest in stuff and doesn't care over much what he buys so long as it goes up in price."
"An art-lover, huh?" said Donovan.
"Don't knock it. It's the investors who keep the market rising. If we had to depend on people who actually liked art, you'd still be able to pick up a Picasso for five grand."
Donovan sighed. He knew that Fullerton was right, but even so, his heart sank at the thought of his lovingly acquired collection being split up and stored away in vaults as an investment.
"Shall I bring you the drafts tomorrow?"
Donovan hesitated. He didn't want to see Rodriguez again, not in the UK, but the drafts had to be hand delivered.
"Den? You there?"
Donovan reached a decision. Fullerton had done a great job in selling the paintings so quickly, and Goldman had said that he had known Fullerton for three years and that he could be trusted.