in German every time he went out too far into the sea.
A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St. Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.
'How's everything?' Donovan said, keeping his voice low.
'The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening,' said Rodriguez.
'And the consignment?'
'The fuel tanks of the yellow ones.'
'The yellow ones?'
'We thought they'd be easier to spot.'
'Every yellow one?' asked Donovan.
Rodriguez nodded.
'Every one.'
'Isn't that a bit ... predictable?'
Rodriguez grinned.
'Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?'
Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the world. Up to four hundred Beetles a day rolled off the production line in Puebla, and many went overseas. Rodriguez had bought up a consignment of sixty of the cars and had arranged to ship them to the United Kingdom.
'Don't worry, Den,' said Rodriguez.
'Palms have been well greased at both ends. Yellow, green or rainbow coloured, no one is going to be going near those cars.'
'Sweet,' said Donovan.
'And my money?'
'I'll put the first tranche in this afternoon.'
'And the rest on arrival?' said Rodriguez.
'Soon as we've got the gear out.' Donovan slapped the Colombian on the back.
'Come on, Carlos, have I ever let you down?'
'Not yet, my friend, but a little bird tells me that you have been talking to Russians.'
'Carlos, I talk to a lot of people.'
'Russian pilots. With transport planes. Staying at a hotel in Anguilla. Not far from your villa, in fact.'
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
'I'm impressed, Carlos.'
'Knowledge is power,' said the Colombian.
'I thought money was power.'
The two men stopped and faced each other, the warm sea breeze rustling their clothes.
'Knowledge. Money. Power. They are all connected,' said the Colombian.
'These Russians, they have been flying Soviet weapons into Colombia for FARC, you know that?'
Donovan nodded. FARC was the initials of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the country's biggest rebel group.
'Not these guys. But they're friends of the guys you're talking about.'
'Guns in, cocaine out. It's a dangerous game, my friend. We wouldn't want the rebels becoming too strong. We have friends in the Government, you know that.'
Donovan nodded. It was one of the reasons that the Rodriguez cartel had been so successful.
'I've no interest in their cocaine, Carlos. You have my word. I'm talking to them about some business on the other side of the world. Poppy business.'
Rodriguez smiled.
'Be careful, Den. The Russians are not to be trusted. They are vicious thugs who will kill you at the drop of a hat.'
Donovan laughed and patted the Colombian's shoulder.
'Carlos, they say exactly the same thing about the Colombians.'
The Colombian laughed along with him.
'And maybe they're right, my friend. Maybe they are right.'
Donovan heard his name being called from the road. It was Doyle, waving Donovan's mobile phone in the air. He never carried it himself, and he never discussed business on it. He was all too well aware of how easily the authorities could listen in to cell phones, which was why he'd arranged to meet Rodriguez on the beach. Anyone trying to eavesdrop would be easy to spot, and the wind and the crashing surf would make long-distance electronic surveillance difficult if not impossible.
'I think your associate is trying to attract your attention,' said Carlos dryly.
Donovan glared over at Doyle who was now walking across the sand in their direction, still waving the mobile phone like a conductor trying to energise an orchestra.
'You'd better push off, Carlos,' said Donovan.
'I'm going to have a quiet word with Mr. Doyle.'
'It's always difficult to get good people,' said the Colombian.
'I could tell you stories. Another time, though.' He walked away down the beach, the cream linen trousers of his suit cracking in the wind like the sails of a racing yacht.
Donovan strode towards Doyle.
'What the fuck are you playing at?' he yelled.
'I told you to stay on the road. And if that fucking phone is switched on I'll shove it so far up your arse that your teeth'll vibrate when it rings.'
'It's Robbie,' said Doyle, so quietly that his Scottish burr was almost lost in the wind.
'He sounds hysterical. Something about Vicky.'
'Oh Christ,' said Donovan. He grabbed the phone out of Doyle's hand and slammed it to his ear.
'Robbie, what's wrong?'
As Robbie explained what had happened, the colour drained from Donovan's face. He walked to the water's edge as he listened to his son, occasionally whispering quietly into the phone, barely noticing the waves that lapped over his Bally loafers.
When Robbie had finished, Donovan told him not to worry, that everything would be all right, that he'd take care of it.
'Dad, you have to come home. Now.'
'I will, Robbie. I promise.'
'Now,' Robbie repeated.
'A day or two, Robbie. I've got to get a flight and stuff. Where are you?'
Robbie sniffed.
'I don't know,' he said.
'What do you mean, you don't know?'
'I'm near school. I ran away. But I don't know where to go.'
'Call your Auntie Laura. Right now. She'll pick you up.'
'I don't want to go home, Dad.'
'You don't have to. You can stay with your aunt until I get there.'
Robbie said nothing and for a moment Donovan thought that he'd lost the connection.
'Robbie, are you there?'
'Yeah, I can hear you,' said Robbie. There was another long silence, with Donovan listening to nothing but the crackle of static.
