"I might get them to come in as investors, but the deal's mine."
"How much?"
"For you guys, ten grand a key."
Macfadyen looked at Jordan and raised an eyebrow. Jordan nodded. Then Macfadyen's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah, but delivery where? It's no fucking good to me over in Amsterdam, even at that price."
"In the UK, mate. South of London, but if you want I'll get someone to drive it up north to you."
"You can get Afghan heroin into the UK for ten grand a key?" said Jordan in disbelief.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, Den, David bloody Copperfield?"
"It's not magic, Ricky. I've just got a way of getting it in direct, bypassing all the middle-men."
"What, like Star Trek, you're gonna get Scottie to beam it down?" said Macfadyen.
"Actually, not far off that."
Macfadyen and Jordan shared another look and Donovan could practically hear the wheels turning in their heads. Ten grand a kilo was a great price. On the street in Edinburgh prices were as high as a hundred and twenty grand a kilo once it had been cut, and Macfadyen and Jordan had their own chains of dealers. They'd be able to keep the bulk of the profits themselves.
"How do we know we won't be throwing good money after bad?" asked Macfadyen.
"Because this is my deal, Charlie. Me and a couple of guys who've come up with a sure fire way of getting the gear in under the noses of Customs. As much gear as you can buy. I've got everything riding on this one, so I'm gonna make damn sure it works out okay."
"What do you think?" Macfadyen asked Jordan.
Jordan nodded slowly.
"It's easier to shift than coke. Give us a chance to put two fingers up to the Dutchmen, wouldn't it? They keep jacking their prices up. If we show them we've got an alternative supply it's gonna put pressure on them." He nodded more enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I say go for it. Let's go in for five hundred keys."
Macfadyen nodded.
"Yeah, okay. How about I bring O'Brien in on this? Dublin prices are up, he'd be in for five hundred keys."
"Okay," agreed Donovan, 'but get him to pay twelve a key. And tell him we don't want Euros. It's pounds or dollars. No one wants Euros."
"Is this going to be a regular, Den, or a one-off?" asked Jordan.
"Ricky, it's going to run and run," said Donovan, smiling broadly.
"What about the Yardies?" asked Macfadyen.
"Fuck the Yardies. They're big boys."
"The guy's a vicious bastard. He's going to want answers."
"A minute ago you said he was cool."
"Yeah, well, that was before we lost three million quid of his. You're going to have to talk to him."
"Me? Why me?"
"Because he's not going to believe a word I tell him from now on. But you're Den Donovan. He knows about you."
"Because you told him, right? For fuck's sake, Charlie, can't you ever keep your big mouth shut?"
Jordan winced.
"He already knew who you were," said Macfadyen quickly.
"That was one of the reasons he was so keen to do the deal."
"Charlie, you had no business telling anyone I was involved. How the hell have you managed to stay out of prison? Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe these Yardies are the ones who gave the deal away?"
"Give me some credit, will you, Den? All I said was that I was doing a coke deal and that you were involved. I didn't say from where, I didn't say how, I didn't say when. Hell, Den, you hardly told me anything. It was only when we met that Jesus guy that we heard about the Beetles. The Yardies don't even know about that." He pointed at the Evening Standard.
"They won't even know that that's their coke. Though I guess they'll put two and two together pretty sharpish."
"So you want me to tell him his three million's gone? And how do you think he'll react to that?"
"I dunno, Den. How do you think he'll react if I tell him that his three million never got to the Colombians?"
Macfadyen stared at Donovan, who met his gaze with unblinking eyes. The threat hung in the air between them like a storm cloud about to break. Jordan looked from one to the other, waiting to see who would speak first.
Eventually Donovan nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said.
"What's his name?"
"PM," said Macfadyen.
"His sidekick's the brains of the outfit, though. Doesn't say much but you can see the wheels are always turning. Watch out for him. His name's Bunny."
Juan Rojas walked into the warehouse, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"Everything go to plan?" he asked.
A man was stripping off the uniform of a DHL courier.
"Like a lamb to the slaughter," he said. All trace of a French accent had vanished.
Rojas slapped the man on the back.
"You ditched the van?"
"The guys are doing it now."
"Excellent," said Rojas.
He walked to the middle of the warehouse where a man sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. Thick strips of bright blue insulation tape bound his arms and legs to the chair and another strip had been plastered across his mouth.
Rojas cursed.
"This isn't Sharkey," he said. Rojas ripped off the strip of insulation tape. The man gasped.
"I've a message from him," said the man.
"He said Donovan can go fuck himself." The man smiled.
Rojas's lips tightened.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He's not here in Paris, that's for sure. I only spoke to him on the phone."
Rojas cursed.
"There's more."
"Go on."
"He said you're to phone him. You have his mobile number, right?"
Rojas nodded.
"Right. Did he tell you what I'd do to you, when I found out that you'd set me up?" He took a small automatic from his coat pocket.
The man smiled.
"He said you'd be a professional. He said you'd appreciate the irony. And he said he'd transfer a quarter of a million dollars to any account you nominate. I'm to give him the account number in person."
Rojas looked at the man. A smile slowly spread across his face and he put the gun away.
"He is a good judge of character," he said.
"Luckily for you."
"Yeah, that's him," said Shuker, peering through his binoculars.
"Charlie Macfadyen. Big wheel in Edinburgh. Brings in most of the city's coke and heroin. Don't know the other guy, though."
"Wonder what it was all about?" said Jenner, as the motor-drive on his SLR clicked and whirred. Down in the street, the two men walked away from Donovan's house towards a gleaming red Ferrari.
"Dunno. They went in looking like they were going to kill him, and half an hour later they're best of friends."
The bedroom door opened and two men walked in Shuker and Jenner's replacements. One of them was carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.
"You seen this?" he said, tossing the paper to Shuker.
Shuker looked at the headline, then held it up for Jenner to read.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Shuker.
Jenner nodded.
Donovan switched off the noise generator and put it back on the sideboard. His ears ached from the constant static sound. He paced up and down as he went through his options. Carlos Rodriguez had lost his cocaine and his money and would be looking for revenge. Donovan had managed to talk around Macfadyen and Jordan, but Rodriguez wouldn't be so easy. And if Rodriguez sent his nephew, Donovan doubted that he'd even be given a chance to explain.
Donovan could run, but wherever he went the Colombians would find him eventually. And running would mean leaving Robbie behind. The only way to mollify Rodriguez would be to reimburse him for the lost cocaine or to find out who had given up the deal to the authorities, and he wasn't in a position to pursue either option. Donovan cursed. He had no room to manoeuvre. None at all. He was virtually out of funds, stuck in the UK, and top of the most wanted list. Donovan couldn't see how it could get any worse.