"Can you do me a favour, Jamie?" he asked.
"Sure," said Fullerton.
"Anything."
He sounded eager to please and Donovan wondered how much Goldman had told Fullerton.
"This guy the drafts are made out to. Carlos Rodriguez. I need them delivered. Can you handle that for me?"
"No problem, Den."
"There's a guy called Jesus Rodriguez staying at the Intercontinental near Hyde Park. He's the nephew of the guy the money's to go to. Can you give them to him in person? Don't just leave them at Reception, yeah? In his hand."
Fullerton laughed.
"Shall I ask him for a receipt?"
"Yeah, and count your fingers after you shake hands with him," said Donovan.
"Seriously, Jamie. Jesus Rodriguez is a tough son of a bitch. Don't take any liberties with him."
"Understood."
"Second thing. He's expecting two million quid. There's the two hundred grand that Goldman's paying me for the sketches, so I need one point eight mill from you. Anything above that, keep for me, okay? Minus your usual fee, of course."
"No problem. Pleasure doing business with you, Den. I mean that. If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate, okay?"
Donovan thanked him and cut the connection. He tossed the phone on to the bed and went into the bathroom to splash water on to his face. Jamie Fullerton was proving to be a godsend. At least something was starting to go right.
Gregg Hathaway leaned back in his seat and stared at the message on his VDU. It was from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway would have preferred Donovan to have taken the money to the hotel, but the fact that Donovan had trusted Fullerton with it was a major breakthrough. It was a direct link between Donovan and one of South America's biggest drug dealers. There was a second terminal to Hathaway's left and he twisted around and tapped on the keyboard. The terminal gave Hathaway direct access to the DEA's database.
He tapped in Rodriguez's name and after a few seconds the Colombian's face appeared. Rodriguez was forty-seven. He'd been born to a wealthy farming family, one of six brothers. Well educated, he spoke five languages and was close to many politicians and businessmen in Colombia, many of whom the DEA suspected of being involved in the drugs trade. Rodriguez had started out working for the Mendoza syndicate but had soon struck out on his own. According to the DEA, Rodriguez was responsible for smuggling cocaine worth more than four hundred million dollars a year into the United States, primarily via Mexico, and was also a major cannabis exporter.
Jesus Rodriguez was the son of Carlos Rodriguez's younger brother and was one of the organisation's hard men, responsible for at least a dozen brutal murders in the Caribbean. According to the DEA report, Jesus Rodriguez was borderline psychopathic and an habitual cocaine user. Hathaway scrolled down through the report. There was no mention of Rodriguez sending drugs to Europe. He smiled to himself. It would do him no harm at all to bring the DEA up to speed. But not just yet. More than a dozen DEA agents worked out of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and he didn't want them getting all hot and bothered about the Colombian before Fullerton had delivered the money.
Hathaway picked up a plastic cup of strong black coffee and sipped it. It was all starting to come together. It had been a year in the planning and three years in the execution, but there were just a few more pieces that had to be put into position before he was ready for the end game.
Jamie Fullerton pounded down the pavement towards his apartment block. He'd run a seven-mile circuit, much of it alongside the Thames, but he had barely worked up a sweat. He was so pumped up with adrenalin he felt as if he could run another circuit, but he had work to do.
He jogged into the reception area of the block and winked at the uniformed security guard who sat in front of a bank of CCTV screens.
"Hiya, George."
"Morning, Mr. Fullerton. Great day."
"And getting better by the minute," said Fullerton. He jogged into the lift and ran on the spot as it climbed up to the top floor.
The message light on his answering machine was winking and he hit the 'play' button. He dropped down and did fast-paced press-ups as he listened to the message. It was a property developer in Hampstead who had seen four of Donovan's paintings the previous evening and had wanted to sleep on it. Fullerton had sold the man more than a dozen works of art in the past, so had been happy to leave the paintings with him while he made up his mind. It had been a wise decision the property developer had decided to go ahead and buy them and wanted Fullerton to call around to his home to pick up a bank draft for half a million pounds. Fullerton punched the air in triumph.
He went over to his dining table, a glass and chrome oval that could seat a dozen people. Three bank drafts were lined up next to a modern silver candelabra. The top draft was drawn on Fullerton's own bank. Eight hundred thousand pounds. The buyer of Donovan's Rembrandt had given Fullerton a cheque for the full amount and Fullerton had had it express cleared. Fullerton hadn't told Donovan the identity of the buyer of the Rembrandt, because it might have made him nervous. Like Donovan, the buyer was a major drug dealer, bringing in tens of thousands of ecstasy tablets from Holland every month. He had stacks of cash that he needed laundering, and art was an easy way of cleaning dirty money. Fullerton picked up the draft and held it to his nose, wondering what eight hundred thousand pounds smelt like. It smelt like paper.
The two other drafts were from Goldman and the buyer of the Buttersworth yacht paintings. In the space of eighteen hours Donovan had raised two million pounds, a reflection of the quality of the collection.
Donovan was clearly attached to his art and Fullerton couldn't work out why he was so desperate to sell. According to Goldman, Donovan was worth tens of millions of dollars. Then there was the fact that the drafts had to be made out to the mysterious Mr. Rodriguez. Fullerton had asked Hathaway for information on Carlos Rodriguez and his nephew, but so far none had been forthcoming.
Fullerton called the Intercontinental and asked to be put through to Jesus Rodriguez's room. A man with a rough South American accent answered. He said that Mr. Rodriguez was busy, but when Fullerton explained why he was calling, a hand was put over the mouthpiece and Fullerton heard muffled Spanish. Then Rodriguez was on the line, oily smooth and saying that he'd see Fullerton in his suite at one o'clock.
He went through to his bathroom and showered, then dressed in a Lanvin suit and Gucci shoes, figuring that if he was hand delivering two million, he might as well look the part. He drove his Porsche to Hampstead and picked up the fourth draft. The drive from Hampstead to the Intercontinental took almost an hour, but he was still ten minutes early, so he sat in Reception until exactly one o'clock before phoning up to Rodriguez's suite.
Two large men in black suits were waiting for him on the seventh floor. They patted him down professionally without speaking, then one of them motioned for him to follow him.
Rodriguez was standing in front of a window offering a panoramic view of Hyde Park. He turned and smiled as Fullerton walked into the room. He was a short man but very muscular as if he spent a lot of time in the gym, dressed in a cream suit and a chocolate-brown shirt. His hair was gelled back and his goatee beard was carefully trimmed. As he held out his hand to shake, Fullerton saw that the nails were carefully manicured and glistened as if they'd been polished. A thick-ridged scar ran along the back of his right hand.
"So you are Donovan's money man?" he asked, gripping Fullerton's hand and squeezing hard.
Fullerton got a whiff of a sickly-sweet cologne.
"He apologises for not coming in person," he said. He took his hand away and resisted the urge to massage his aching fingers.