Donovan chartered a small twin-engined plane to fly him and Doyle back to Anguilla. Donovan went into the charter firm's offices and made arrangements for another flight later that day. He booked a private jet and left a deposit in cash and then walked over to the terminal building where he made three calls from a payphone while Doyle went to pick up the car.
The first call was to a German who had access to passports and travel documents from around the world. Not forgeries or copies, but the genuine article. He wasn't cheap but the goods he supplied were faultless. The German gave Donovan a name and Donovan repeated it to himself several times to make sure he'd memorised it. The second call was to the agent who made most of Donovan's travel arrangements. He was far from the cheapest on Anguilla, but he was the most secure. Donovan explained what he wanted and gave him the name that he'd memorised. The third call was to Spain, but it wasn't answered. An answer machine kicked in and Donovan said just ten words in Spanish and hung up.
Doyle arrived in the Mercedes, and Donovan climbed in the back and sat in silence during the drive to his villa. It wasn't just that he had a lot on his mind. The DEA and British Customs, and whatever other agencies were operating in the millionaires' paradise, weren't above planting any manner of surveillance device in the vehicle while it had been parked at the airport. Until it had been swept, the Mercedes was as insecure as a mobile phone conversation.
Doyle stayed in the car while Donovan went into the villa and packed a Samsonite suitcase and a black leather holdall. He wasn't over-concerned with what went into the luggage: it was merely part of the camouflage. A man in his thirties flying alone into the UK from the Caribbean without any luggage would be guaranteed a pull by Customs. From the wall safe in the study of the villa, Donovan took a bundle of US dollar bills and stuffed them into the holdall. On the way out he picked up a Panama hat and shoved it into the holdall.
He threw the bags into the back of the car, then got into the front with Doyle.
'I'd better see the Russians first,' he said.
'Then we'll go and see the German.'
Doyle drove to a five-star hotel about a mile from Donovan's villa. They found the Russians sitting by the pool. Gregov was the bigger of the two, broad shouldered and well muscled with a tattoo of a leaping panther on one forearm and the Virgin Mary on the other. His grey hair was close cropped, thick and dry, and his weathered face was flecked with broken blood vessels. He looked in his early fifties, but Donovan knew that he was only thirty-five.
Gregov stood up and pumped Donovan's hand.
'Champagne, huh?' he asked, gesturing at a bottle of Dom Perignon in a chrome ice bucket beaded with droplets of water. The two Russians had been on the island for five days and Donovan had never seen them without an opened bottle of champagne within arm's length.
'No can do,' said Donovan.
'I've got to get back to the UK.'
'Who are we going to party with?' said Gregov's partner, Peter, who stayed sprawled on his lounger. Peter was the younger of the two men, a six-footer with a wiry frame. Like Gregov, his hair was cut close to his skull, but his was a fiery red and there was a sprinkle of freckles across his snub nose. His face was red-from sunburn and his legs and arms tanned, but his chest remained a pasty white. Below his left nipple two bullet wounds were visible, star-shaped rips in his chest that had healed badly leaving uneven ridges of scar tissue.
'From what I've seen, you don't need me to help you two party,' laughed Donovan.
'You really have to go?' asked Gregov.
'I'm afraid so.'
'But we can do business, yes?' asked Peter, swinging his legs off the lounger and putting his bare feet on to the tiles.
'Definitely,' said Donovan.
'Because we can go elsewhere,' said Peter.
'Not that we want to,' said Gregov, flashing his partner a warning look.
'Den, we want to do business with you.'
'And I with you, Gregov. I've got a personal matter to take care of back in London, but then I'll get back to you and we'll do a deal.'
'This personal matter. Can we help? We have connections in London.'
Donovan shook his head.
'Nah, that's okay. I'm on top of it.' He clapped Gregov on the back.
'Look, your bill's taken care of. Anything you want, it's on me. I've got your UK office number and the number of your office in Belgrade. They'll be able to get in touch with you?'
Gregov nodded.
'We are backwards and forwards between the UK and Turkey three times a week but we check in every day. The earthquake relief charities are paying us thirty thousand dollars a flight to take in their people and equipment. Good money, huh? Famine and earthquakes are good money makers for us, Den. Not quite as profitable as your business, but a good living, yes.'
'You've done well, you and Peter. The Russian Army's loss, yeah?'
Gregov nodded enthusiastically.
'Yes, their loss, our gain. Fuck Communism, yes?'
'Definitely,' said Donovan. He made a clenched fist and pumped it in the air.
'Capitalism rules.'
The two Russians laughed then took it in turns to hug Donovan and Doyle.
After they'd said their goodbyes to the Russians, Doyle drove Donovan to the far east of the island, where the German lived in a villa three times the size of Donovan's. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wall topped with razor-sharp anti-personnel wire first developed for the Russian gulags. The two men were checked out by closed-circuit television cameras and then the twin metal gates clunked open. Doyle edged the Mercedes slowly up the curving gravel led driveway. They passed two more cameras before pulling up in front of the German's palatial villa. Doyle waited in the car while Donovan got out and went to find the German.
Helmut Zimmerman greeted Donovan at the front door, grasping him in a brutal bear hug and then slapping him on the back.
'Next time I could do with more notice, Dennis,' he said. He was a big man, almost six inches taller than Donovan's six feet, with broad shoulders that strained at his beach shirt and muscular thighs that were almost as wide as Donovan's waist. Everything was in proportion except for Zimmerman's hands, which were as small and delicate as a young girl's, almost as if they'd stopped developing at puberty.
'This isn't by choice, Helmut.'
'You have time for a drink?'
'I haven't even had time to take a piss,' laughed Donovan.
'I've got to be back at the airport by six.'
Zimmerman took Donovan along a marble-floored hallway, either side of which stood alabaster statues of Greek warriors. Above their heads electric candles flickered in a line of ornate crystal chandeliers.
At the far end of the hallway hung a massive gilded mirror, twice the height of a man. Donovan grinned at their reflection.
'Helmut, you live like a Roman fucking emperor,' he said.
'You like it, huh? I'll send my interior designer around to see you. Your place is so ... stark. Is that the word? Stark?'
'Yeah, stark's how I like it.'
To the left of the mirror was a white door with a gilt handle. Zimmerman opened it with a child-like hand and led them down another corridor to a windowless room with white walls, a huge Louis XIV desk and decorative chairs. A tapestry of a goat herder playing pipes to his flock hung on one of the walls, and a collection of antique urns was displayed on glass shelves on another. Behind the desk a bank of colour monitors was linked to CCTV cameras inside and outside the villa. On one of the monitors Donovan could see Doyle sitting in the Mercedes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
'He is not going with you?' asked Zimmerman, sitting down at the desk. It was at least ten feet wide but the German's bulk dwarfed it.
