planning on doing anything in the least bit criminal. He could check out of the hotel, get Robbie back from Laura, and start playing the father.
One of his mobiles rang and Donovan rolled over on to his stomach. It was the mobile that Fullerton and Goldman were to use once they had news of the paintings. Donovan pressed the phone to his ear and lay on his back. It was Fullerton.
'Good news, Den,' said Fullerton.
'I could do with some,' said Donovan.
'That Citibank guy creamed himself over the Buttersworths. I got him to go to seven hundred and fifty. He practically forced the banker's draft on me.'
Donovan sat up. That's good going, Jamie.' Donovan had only been expecting half a million dollars for the two paintings.
'That's just the start,' said Fullerton excitedly.
'The Rembrandt. Guess what I got for the Rembrandt?'
'Jamie, I don't want to start playing games here. Just tell me.'
'Eight hundred grand.'
'Dollars?'
'Pounds, Den. Fucking pounds.'
'Bloody hell.' That was well above what Donovan had been hoping for.
'Yeah, tell me about it. The guy's a bit shady, I have to say, but his money's good.'
'You're sure?'
'Sure I'm sure. Besides, he's going to make his draft out to me and I'll get a draft drawn off my account. We'll have it sorted by tomorrow.'
Donovan ran through the numbers. Eight hundred thousand for the Rembrandt drawing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was about half a million quid. Plus Goldman had promised two hundred thousand pounds for the Van Dycks. So far he had one and a half million pounds. He sighed with relief. At least he was close to getting the Colombian off his back.
'That's brilliant work, Jamie. Thanks.'
'I'm pretty close to selling a couple of others, too. I'm seeing a guy this evening who's looking to invest in stuff and doesn't care over much what he buys so long as it goes up in price.'
'An art-lover, huh?' said Donovan.
'Don't knock it. It's the investors who keep the market rising. If we had to depend on people who actually liked art, you'd still be able to pick up a Picasso for five grand.'
Donovan sighed. He knew that Fullerton was right, but even so, his heart sank at the thought of his lovingly acquired collection being split up and stored away in vaults as an investment.
'Shall I bring you the drafts tomorrow?'
Donovan hesitated. He didn't want to see Rodriguez again, not in the UK, but the drafts had to be hand delivered.
'Den? You there?'
Donovan reached a decision. Fullerton had done a great job in selling the paintings so quickly, and Goldman had said that he had known Fullerton for three years and that he could be trusted.
'Can you do me a favour, Jamie?' he asked.
'Sure,' said Fullerton.
'Anything.'
He sounded eager to please and Donovan wondered how much Goldman had told Fullerton.
'This guy the drafts are made out to. Carlos Rodriguez. I need them delivered. Can you handle that for me?'
'No problem, Den.'
'There's a guy called Jesus Rodriguez staying at the Intercontinental near Hyde Park. He's the nephew of the guy the money's to go to. Can you give them to him in person? Don't just leave them at Reception, yeah? In his hand.'
Fullerton laughed.
'Shall I ask him for a receipt?'
'Yeah, and count your fingers after you shake hands with him,' said Donovan.
'Seriously, Jamie. Jesus Rodriguez is a tough son of a bitch. Don't take any liberties with him.'
'Understood.'
'Second thing. He's expecting two million quid. There's the two hundred grand that Goldman's paying me for the sketches, so I need one point eight mill from you. Anything above that, keep for me, okay? Minus your usual fee, of course.'
'No problem. Pleasure doing business with you, Den. I mean that. If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate, okay?'
Donovan thanked him and cut the connection. He tossed the phone on to the bed and went into the bathroom to splash water on to his face. Jamie Fullerton was proving to be a godsend. At least something was starting to go right.
Gregg Hathaway leaned back in his seat and stared at the message on his VDU. It was from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway would have preferred Donovan to have taken the money to the hotel, but the fact that Donovan had trusted Fullerton with it was a major breakthrough. It was a direct link between Donovan and one of South America's biggest drug dealers. There was a second terminal to Hathaway's left and he twisted around and tapped on the keyboard. The terminal gave Hathaway direct access to the DEA's database.
He tapped in Rodriguez's name and after a few seconds the Colombian's face appeared. Rodriguez was forty-seven. He'd been born to a wealthy farming family, one of six brothers. Well educated, he spoke five languages and was close to many politicians and businessmen in Colombia, many of whom the DEA suspected of being involved in the drugs trade. Rodriguez had started out working for the Mendoza syndicate but had soon struck out on his own. According to the DEA, Rodriguez was responsible for smuggling cocaine worth more than four hundred million dollars a year into the United States, primarily via Mexico, and was also a major cannabis exporter.
Jesus Rodriguez was the son of Carlos Rodriguez's younger brother and was one of the organisation's hard men, responsible for at least a dozen brutal murders in the Caribbean. According to the DEA report, Jesus Rodriguez was borderline psychopathic and an habitual cocaine user. Hathaway scrolled down through the report. There was no mention of Rodriguez sending drugs to Europe. He smiled to himself. It would do him no harm at all to bring the DEA up to speed. But not just yet. More than a dozen DEA agents worked out of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and he didn't want them getting all hot and bothered about the Colombian before Fullerton had delivered the money.
Hathaway picked up a plastic cup of strong black coffee and sipped it. It was all starting to come together. It had been a year in the planning and three years in the execution, but there were just a few more pieces that had to be put into position before he was ready for the end game.
Jamie Fullerton pounded down the pavement towards his apartment block. He'd run a seven-mile circuit, much of it alongside the Thames, but he had barely worked up a sweat. He was so pumped up with adrenalin he felt as if he could run another circuit, but he had work to do.
He jogged into the reception area of the block and winked at the uniformed security guard who sat in front of a bank of CCTV screens.
'Hiya, George.'
'Morning, Mr. Fullerton. Great day.'
'And getting better by the minute,' said Fullerton. He jogged into the lift and ran on the spot as it climbed up to the top floor.
The message light on his answering machine was winking and he hit the 'play' button. He dropped down and did fast-paced press-ups as he listened to the message. It was a property developer in Hampstead who had seen four of Donovan's paintings the previous evening and had wanted to sleep on it. Fullerton had sold the man more than a dozen works of art in the past, so had been happy to leave the paintings with him while he made up his mind. It had been a wise decision the property developer had decided to go ahead and buy them and wanted Fullerton to call around to his home to pick up a bank draft for half a million pounds. Fullerton punched the air in
