'Not this trip,' said Donovan.
Zimmerman pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out three passports. All were European Union burgundy. He handed them to Donovan one at a time.
'One United Kingdom, one Irish and one Spanish. As requested.'
Donovan checked all three carefully, even though he knew Zimmerman never made a mistake. Donovan's picture was in all three passports, though each had a different name and date of birth. The passports were genuine and would pass any border checks. Zimmerman had a network of aides across Europe who made a living approaching homeless people and paying for them to apply for passports they'd never use. The passports were then sent to Anguilla, where Zimmerman replaced the photographs with pictures of his paying customers.
'Excellent, Helmut, as always.' Donovan took an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. Thirty-six thousand dollars.
Zimmerman put the envelope, unopened, into the drawer and shut it. Donovan smiled at the open demonstration of trust, well aware, however, that if he ever tried to cheat the German, it would take just one phone call to Europol to render the passports useless.
'So,' said Zimmerman, placing his hands flat on the desk and pushing himself up, 'until next time, Dennis.'
Donovan put the passports into his jacket pocket, and the two men shook hands before Zimmerman showed Donovan out of the villa.
Doyle already had the door of the Mercedes open. They drove in silence to the airport. Doyle parked in the short-term car park and they walked together to the terminal.
'I should come with you, boss.'
'Double the chance of us being flagged, Barry. Better you take care of business here.'
They walked into the terminal building, the air conditioning hitting them like a cold shower. A brown envelope was waiting for Donovan at the information desk. Inside was the return segment of a charter flight ticket from Jamaica to Stansted Airport in the name he'd given the travel agent, the name that was in the UK passport, and a Ryanair ticket from Stansted to Dublin, Ireland. It too was in the UK passport name.
As they walked back to the general aviation terminal, Donovan ran through a mental checklist of everything that needed to be done. He didn't appear to have forgotten anything, but he knew that the devil was always in the details.
'Okay, boss?' asked Doyle.
'Sure,' said Donovan.
'You know how I hate small planes.' It wasn't flying that was worrying Donovan, it was what Carlos Rodriguez would do when he discovered that his money hadn't been paid into his account. Doyle would bear the brunt of Rodriguez's fury, but if Donovan told Doyle to make himself scarce it would be a sure sign of guilt. Doyle would have to stay and face the music.
The pilot and co-pilot were already warming up the engines by the time they reached the sleek white Cessna Citation. Doyle took Donovan's luggage from the boot of the Mercedes and the owner of the charter company came out to help load it into the plane. Donovan shook hands with Doyle, then hugged the man and patted him on the back.
'You take care, you hear,' said Donovan.
'Sure, boss,' said Doyle, momentarily confused by the sudden show of affection.
Donovan shook hands with the owner of the charter company, and then climbed into the back of the plane. The co-pilot closed the door and two minutes later they were in the air, climbing steeply over the beach and banking to the west. Donovan peered out of the window. Far below he could see the Mercedes heading back to the villa. Donovan flashed the car a thumbs-up.
'Be lucky, Barry,' he whispered. He settled back in the plush leather seat. It was a two-hour flight to Jamaica.
Marty Clare strained to lift the bar, breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow. A large Nigerian stood behind him, spotting for him, his hands only inches from the bar: this was Clare's third set, and he was lifting his personal best plus a kilo.
'Come on, man, one more,' the Nigerian urged.
Clare roared like an animal in pain, his face contorted into a snarl, his arms shaking, his knuckles white on the bar, then with a final explosion of air from his chest the bar was up and on its rests.
The Nigerian patted Clare on the back as he sat up.
'Good job.'
Clare grinned and took a swig from his water bottle.
A young, blond guard walked over to them. He was barely out of his teens, his pale blue uniform several sizes too big for him.
'Mr. Clare? Visitor for you.'
Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.
'I was going to shower,' he said.
'I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare,' said the guard.
The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language. There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.
Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.
He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed. The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.
'I could come back later if it's a bad time,' said the man.
Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the . face of an informer. A grass. The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.
'Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future.'
'And you would be?' asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.
'I would be the bearer of bad news,' said the man.
'A harbinger of doom.' He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.
'Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?' asked Clare.
'Indeed it would, Marty,' said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.
Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.
'Then what the fuck are you doing here?' he asked.
The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.
'I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into.'
Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.
'This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it.'
'Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty.'
