Tango One
by Stephen Leather
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to John C. Cummings, retired USAF Combat Controller, and James Clanton, USAF Major (Retired), for their help on aviation matters, and to Sam Jenner for the inside track on the Caribbean drugs trade.
Denis O'Donoghue was once again invaluable when casting his professional eye over the manuscript, and I'm especially grateful to my fellow Dublin-based thriller-writer Glenn Meade for getting me through a particularly nerve-wracking case of writer's block.
Sarah Binnersley has line-edited many of my books over the years and as always my work is the better for her keen eye for detail and her no-punches-pulled opinions. And I'm especially grateful to Carolyn Mays at Hodder & Stoughton for overseeing
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The man had been tied to the chair for so long that he'd lost all feeling in his hands and feet. His captors had used thick strips of insulation tape to bind him to the wooden chair and slapped another piece across his mouth, even though he was in a basement and there was no one within earshot who cared whether he lived or died.
The three men who'd brought him to the villa hadn't said a word as they'd dragged him out of the back of the Mercedes and hustled him across the flagstones into the pink-walled villa. He'd lost a shoe somewhere and his big toe poked through a hole in his blue woollen sock.
The tape across his mouth pulsed in and out with each ragged breath as he looked around the room where he was being kept prisoner. No windows. A single door that had been bolted when the three men left. Bare walls, stone with a thick covering of yellowing plaster. A concrete floor. A single fluorescent strip light above his head. One wall had been shelved with slabs of rough local timber and there was a scattering of tinned goods at eye level Heinz baked beans, Batchelor's peas, bottles of HP sauce and boxes of Kellogg's cornflakes and PG Tips. The cravings of an Englishman abroad.
The man fought to steady his breathing. Panic wasn't going to get him anywhere. He had to stay calm. He had to think.
In front of him a Sony digital video camera stood on a tripod, its single lens staring at him full on. The man stared back. He had a bad feeling about the camera. A very bad feeling.
He strained to hear where the three men were, but no sound penetrated the depths of the basement. He hadn't heard them leave the villa or the Mercedes being driven away, but that meant nothing. The soundproofing of the basement worked both ways.
The man tested his bonds. The tape was grey and metallic looking, the type used by plumbers, and while it was only an inch wide, it had been wound around his limbs so many times that they might as well have been made of steel. He tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it was big and heavy and he could barely move it.
He swallowed. His throat felt raw and every breath was painful, but at least the pain proved that he was alive.
He racked his brains, trying to think where he'd gone wrong. He must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, and if he could just work out what it was, maybe he'd be able to put it right. Had someone recognised him, had he said something to give himself away, some stupid slip that he hadn't noticed but which they'd picked up on? He replayed all the recent conversations he'd had but nothing came to mind. He was too professional to make mistakes. Too careful. Too scared.
He knew two of the men who'd brought him down to the basement. One was Scottish, the other Brazilian. He'd known them both for almost two years. He'd drunk with them, who red with them, on occasions almost felt that they were friends. However, when they'd picked him up on the pavement outside the hotel their eyes had been hard and their faces set like stone, and he'd known even before they'd grabbed him that he was in trouble.
The third man, the one who'd driven, was a stranger. Hispanic, jet-black hair that had been swept back, and high cheekbones pockmarked with old acne scars. The driver had kept turning around and grinning at him, but like the other two hadn't said a word during the drive to the villa.
Initially the man had tried to bluff it out, to make a joke of it, then he'd faked anger, saying that they had no right to treat him that way, then he'd threatened them. They'd said nothing. The Scotsman had jabbed the barrel of a large automatic into the man's ribs and kept his finger tight on the trigger. Eventually the man had fallen silent and just sat between his captors, his hands in his lap.
He heard footsteps on the stone steps that led down to the basement and he tensed. The door opened. He recognised the man who stood in the doorway. He was a shade over six feet tall with chestnut-brown hair that was unfashionably long, pale green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over a nose that had been broken at least twice. Dennis Donovan.
'Don't get up, Andy,' said Donovan, and laughed harshly.
The Brazilian appeared at Donovan's shoulder and grinned, showing yellowish, smoker's teeth.
Donovan and the Brazilian walked into the basement and closed the door. Donovan was wearing a red short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki chinos, a Rolex submariner on his left wrist. In his hand was a long kitchen knife. The Brazilian was holding a large plastic bag.
The man said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Donovan had used his real name, which meant that Donovan knew everything.
'You've been a naughty boy, Andy,' said Donovan, stretching out the man's name as if relishing the sound of it.
'A very naughty boy.' From the back pocket of his chinos he took a black ski mask and slipped it on his head. He walked past the man, so close that he could smell Donovan's aftershave, and bent over the video camera. He pressed a button and then cursed.
'Fucking new technology,' he said.
'Ever tried programming a video recorder, Andy? Bloody nightmare. You need a PhD in astrophysics just to set the timer. Ah, there we go.'
Donovan straightened up. A small red light glowed at the top of the video recorder as the glass lens glared balefully at the man in the chair.
Donovan nodded at the Brazilian, who had also put on a black ski mask. Donovan tossed the knife to him in a gentle arc and the Brazilian caught it deftly with his free hand.
The Brazilian advanced towards the man in the chair, flicking the knife from side to side, humming quietly. The man struggled, even though he knew there was no point in struggling. His conscious brain knew that his life was forfeit, but his animal instincts refused to accept the inevitable and he strained against his bonds and tried to
