plane is coming from. And I know who's paying for the consignment. Does it seem like I'm missing anything there?'
'Knowing is one thing, proving is another.'
'I have proof,' said Hathaway confidently.
Donovan paced up and down the bridge, shaking his head.
'Fine, you've got proof, but you've overplayed your hand. All I have to do is to walk away. I walk away from the deal and you've got nothing.'
Hathaway smiled.
'Conspiracy doesn't depend on you taking delivery, Donovan. You put the deal together. That I can prove.'
'Bollocks.'
'I have people undercover. Close to you.'
'Now I know you're lying.'
'Your infallible sense of smell? You can always spot an undercover cop or Cussie? You always took pride in that particular skill, didn't you? Well, I got people in under your radar, Donovan. Up close and personal.'
Donovan stopped pacing and stared at Hathaway. Could he be telling the truth? Is that how he knew about the plane? But who? Who was the traitor? Who had betrayed him? Jordan and Macfadyen? Had they been turned when the Mexican deal went belly up? It had always struck Donovan as suspicious that Customs hadn't let the consignment run. Now he knew why. Jordan and Macfadyen had done a deal. Their freedom in exchange for Donovan's. They'd helped set him up.
'I know who it is,' he said confidently.
Hathaway shook his head.
'No you don't,' he said.
'I guarantee you don't.'
'We'll see.'
'The thing is, Donovan, you can't afford to be wrong, can you? You're wrong on this and you lose everything. You lose your money and you lose your freedom.'
'I'll risk it.' He turned to go.
'It isn't Ricky Jordan. And it isn't Charlie Macfadyen,' said Hathaway quietly.
Donovan stopped.
'If it was them, you'd hardly tell me, would you?'
'Agreed, but I'm telling you it's not them. You have my word.'
Donovan laughed out loud.
'Your word? Your fucking word? Now it's coming down to you crossing your heart like a bloody Cub Scout. Why should I believe a word you tell me?'
Hathaway patted the laptop computer case.
'Because I have proof.'
Donovan stared at the computer case.
'What sort of proof?'
Hathaway looked at his watch again.
'We're going to have to start the ball rolling, Donovan. That plane is getting closer.'
'What do you want?'
'I told you what I wanted. You got sixty million dollars from Sharkey. I want it.'
'I don't have sixty million. I owed ten million.'
'To Rodriguez?'
Donovan nodded.
'Fifty million, then.'
'I had to pay for the recovery of the money, plus there was the cash that Sharkey spent.'
'Why don't you just tell me how much is left? And don't bother lying, because I can find out.'
'Forty-five mill,' said Donovan.
'That's what I want, then. Forty-five million dollars. That's the price of your freedom. The price of your life.'
'So I give you forty-five million and you tell me who the undercover agent is?'
'Agents. Plural.'
'And how do I give you the money? Used notes?'
'Sarcasm doesn't become you, Donovan.' Hathaway tapped the case again.
'We do it online. Same way Sharkey took the money off you. Same way you got it back off Sharkey.'
Donovan shook his head.
'Do I look like I was born yesterday? I transfer forty-five million to you, then you show me sheets of blank paper. Where does that leave me?'
'That's not how we'll do it. You transfer five million. I show you proof. You transfer more money. I show you more proof. At any point you can stop. But believe me, Donovan, you won't want to stop. The proof I'm offering is unequivocal.'
'And what then? You give me the names, you give me the proof. What then?'
'I walk away.'
'And the agents?'
Hathaway took a deep breath as if steadying himself for what he was to say next.
'You do what you have to do, Donovan.'
'You know what that will be,' said Donovan coldly. It wasn't a question.
'It's a game, Donovan. That's what you taught me. It's a game and there are winners and there are losers. I'm doing what I have to do to be a winner.'
'You're a callous bastard, Hathaway.'
'Well, gosh, Donovan. Sticks and stones. Are we going to do this or are you going to prison for twenty years?'
Donovan stared at Hathaway for several seconds, then he nodded slowly.
'Okay,' he said quietly.
'Let's see what you have.'
Gregov took his hands off the controls as the autopilot kicked in. He opened his flight case.
'What do you feel like?' he asked Peter.
Peter shrugged.
'Aerosmith?'
Gregov nodded appreciatively.
'Good choice.' He took out a cassette and slotted it into the player and turned the volume all the way up. The cockpit was soon filled with pounding rock music. The two Russians jerked their heads in time with the beat.
Behind them, in the massive cargo bay, eight thousand kilos of heroin were loaded on to five wooden pallets. The heroin had begun life as opium harvested in the poppy fields of the eastern Afghanistan province of Nangarhar. The opium had been carried by camel over the border into Turkey where it had been processed into morphine and then into heroin by Russian chemists. Gregov had paid a thousand dollars a kilo for the heroin, a total of eight million dollars for the load, which meant that the one flight alone was going to generate a profit of sixteen million dollars.
'What are you going to do with your share?' shouted Gregov.
Peter shrugged.
'I don't know. What are you going to do?'
Gregov laughed sharply.
'I don't know. I'll think of something. One thing's for sure, I'm going to get laid a lot!'
Peter picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and took a swig.
'You get laid a lot anyway,' he said, tossing the bottle over to Gregov.
Gregov drank from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
