Troop and eight SBS troopers were positioned in two more inflatables some fifty metres away to his right. Gannon wasn't expecting trouble, but he knew it was better to be over-prepared. Even though the freighter was owned by a respectable shipping company and operating on a scheduled route, there was always a chance that an over- enthusiastic crewman might grab a weapon of some sort.
Twenty minutes later and Gannon got word over his radio that the SBS advance party was on board and concealed. Gannon radioed that the inflatables were to move in. The engines roared and the three boats surged forward through the waves.
The DHL courier walked into the hotel lobby and up to the reception desk.
'I have a delivery for Monsieur Stewart Sharkey,' he said in fluent French. The receptionist, a man in his forties with a spreading handlebar moustache, grunted and nodded at a man sitting at the far end of the reception area, sitting on a long low sofa and reading a copy of Le Monde.
The courier walked across the marble floor, under three huge crystal chandeliers.
'Monsieur Sharkey?'
The man lowered his paper.
'Oui?'
'I have a package for you from London. Can you sign here please?' said the courier in accented English.
The man stood up and took the computerised clipboard. He scrawled a signature on the LCD screen and handed the clipboard back to the courier. The courier held out the package, an A4 manila envelope, then he frowned. He checked the serial number on the label stuck to the envelope against the readout on the clipboard and cursed.
'I am sorry, Mr. Sharkey. I have the wrong envelope. I will have to get it from the van.'
'No problem,' said the man.
'Would you come with me? It would save time.'
'I'm not sure .. .' the man began, but the DHL courier had already walked away, so he followed him.
The DHL van was parked about fifty feet from the entrance to the hotel. The courier opened the rear door of the van and poked his head inside, mumbling something in French.
The man walked up behind him.
'Have you got it?' he asked.
The courier whirled around and pressed the twin prongs of a small black stun gun against the man's throat. He pressed a switch on the gun and the man jerked once and slumped forward, his mouth working soundlessly. The courier caught him and pushed him into the back of the van. Two pairs of hands grabbed the man's jacket and hauled him inside. The door slammed shut as the courier walked around to the driver's door.
The sound of the doorbell jarred Donovan out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. It was just before midday. He'd been asleep for almost three hours. He hadn't undressed when he'd got home from the morning school run, he'd just stretched out on the bed intending to nap for half an hour or so. Downstairs, the doorbell rang again, then someone knocked on the door, hard. Donovan sat up. He went downstairs.
'Okay, okay, I'm coming,' he muttered as the doorbell rang again. He opened the door, blinking his eyes. It was Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen and they both looked as mad as hell. Jordan was reaching inside his black Armani jacket.
Donovan knew something was wrong and he tried to close the door. He was too slow Macfadyen put his shoulder against the door and barged through, Jordan following close behind.
'You bastard!' shouted Macfadyen, slamming Donovan against the wall.
Jordan kicked the door closed and pulled a gun from inside his jacket. He thrust the barrel under Donovan's chin.
'You got cut out of the deal, so you fucked it up for us,' he shouted.
Donovan glared at the gun.
'You brought a fucking gun into my house? How stupid are you, Ricky?'
Jordan snarled at Donovan and pushed the gun harder against Donovan's chin, forcing his head back against the wall.
'You are fucking dead meat, mate,' he spat.
'Yeah, right,' said Donovan.
'Of course I am. You're going to pop me and then walk out of here. Earth to Planet Jordan, you wouldn't get fifty feet.'
Jordan frowned.
'Why not?'
'Because I'm Tango fucking One, that's why,' said Donovan.
'Every man and his dog are watching me.'
'No one stopped us coming in, did they?' said Jordan.
'Well, you haven't shot me yet, have you?' said Donovan.
'Pull the trigger and see what happens.'
Jordan looked at Macfadyen, who shrugged.
Donovan smiled, trying to put them at ease.
'While you're deciding what to do, how about we have a beer?' he said.
'They're in the fridge, Charlie.'
'Beer?'
'If you want something stronger, all the booze is in the cabinet in the sitting room.'
'We didn't come here for fucking beer, Den,' said Macfadyen.
'Well, like I said, the sky's gonna fall in if you fire that thing in here, so why don't we have a beer and then you can shoot me somewhere else.'
'Are you taking the piss, Den?' asked Macfadyen.
'I'm just trying to be civilised,' said Donovan.
'Go on, Charlie, get the beers. Ricky and I'll carry on the conversation in the sitting room.' Donovan grinned at Jordan.
'If it makes you feel any happier, Ricky, you can keep on pointing it at me.'
Jordan looked across at Macfadyen, who nodded.
'Yeah, why not?'
Macfadyen went down the hall to the kitchen. Jordan slowly took the gun away from Donovan's neck.
'No tricks, yeah?' he said.
Donovan walked into the sitting room. He put his finger against his lips and then made a cut-throat gesture with his right hand. Jordan frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Donovan hissed and put his fingers against his lips again. He went over to the sideboard and picked up the acoustic noise generator that Alex had left. He put it on the coffee table, plugged it in and switched it on. The room was filled with static.
'What the fuck's that?' said Macfadyen, walking in with three cans of lager. He tossed one to Donovan and put one down on the coffee table for Jordan.
Donovan sat down on the sofa and motioned for Jordan to sit down next to him.
'It masks the sound of our voices. In case they're using laser microphones.'
Macfadyen looked around nervously.
'I swept the place this morning,' said Donovan, 'and I've got the phones monitored.' He nodded at the box of electronics.
'This is just to be on the safe side, but keep your voices down, yeah? Now what the fuck is going on?'
Macfadyen took a copy of the early edition of the Evening Standard from his jacket pocket and tossed it on to the coffee table. Donovan read the headline and cursed.
'SAS SWOOP ON 100 MILLION COCAINE HAUL.' The story was by lined by the paper's chief reporter, who had clearly been well briefed on the operation. The SAS had swooped on a freighter carrying VW Beetles from Mexico. Cocaine had been packed into the cars. Cocaine with a street value of a hundred million pounds. That was an over-estimate, Donovan knew.
'That's bollocks, a hundred million,' he said, and Macfadyen nodded.
At street level the consignment would probably be worth sixty million pounds. Maybe seventy, depending on how prices held up. The authorities, be they cops, Customs or the Security Service, always over-estimated because
