"Relax, I came alone, Donovan," said Hathaway.
"I've as much to lose being seen talking with you as you have."
"I'm just soaking up the atmosphere, Gregg," said Donovan.
"Who are you with, then, if it's not Customs?"
"A different bunch," said Hathaway.
"People who don't mind so much that I can't run the hundred metres in twelve seconds any more."
"What do you want, an apology? You should be grateful, mate. I've done a lot worse."
"Oh, I know you have, Donovan. In some ways I got off lightly. I mean sure, I lost my job and my wife, but at least you didn't tie me to a chair and cut me to bits while you videotaped it."
Their coffees arrived and the two men sat in silence until the waitress moved away again.
"You've never cared about the rights and wrongs of drugs, have you?" asked Hathaway, keeping his voice low.
"You said you had information about Sharkey. Or was that just to get me here?"
Hathaway sipped his coffee. He grimaced.
"This taste like real coffee to you? Tastes instant to me."
"Coffee's coffee," said Donovan.
"I'm interested in your thought processes, that's all. It's not that you don't have a sense of right and wrong, is it? You know the difference. You just don't care. Am I right?"
Donovan leaned across the table towards Hathaway.
"Does anyone really care?" he whispered.
"I mean, really care. And at the end of the day, does it really matter?"
Hathaway met Donovan's stare and shrugged.
"I don't know. I think that's the question I'm asking myself "My mum was a good person," said Donovan.
"Really good. Do anything for anybody. My father walked out on her when I was six. Just didn't come back from work one day. He was last seen at the bus station and that was it. Did she deserve it? Did she fuck. Few years later she met up with man number two, a right piece of work. Friday night recreation for him was getting pissed in the pub and then knocking her around. She never fought back, never shouted, just suffered in silence. You'd think he'd have mellowed, but it just made him worse. So did what goes around come around? Of course it didn't. She got cancer and died a horrible death. I still remember her screaming. He pissed off, and me and my sister were put in care. Do I know what's right and what's wrong? Damn right I do. Do I care?" Donovan smiled thinly and shook his head.
"So what do you want, Gregg?
"The morality of selling drugs isn't a problem for you, is it? That's rhetorical. No need for you to answer."
"I know what rhetorical means, you patronising cripple."
Hathaway looked genuinely hurt.
"There's no need to be offensive, Donovan," he said.
"I didn't mean to be patronising."
"Fine, then I didn't mean to be offensive. Can we get on with whatever it is you want?"
"I guess my point is that the whole moral status of what we both do is a very grey area. Always has been. Tobacco and alcohol kill millions more than drugs, but they're controlled by public companies so they're okay. Legitimate. You take the cocoa plant and make chocolate. That's legal. Extract cocaine and it's illegal. You take a naturally growing plant, dry the leaves, wrap them up in paper and sell them to millions. Legal. Take another plant, extract the sap, process it into something you can smoke, heroin, and that's illegal. No morality, just the powers that be making decisions about what people can and cannot do. But you understand that better than me, don't you?"
"About drugs?"
"About morality. You know none of it really matters, right? It's just a game. Someone else sets the rules, we choose which side we want to be on, and we play the game. I chase you. You try to get away. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. And at the end of the day there's never going to be a winner. The game just goes on, right?"
Donovan shrugged.
"Maybe," he said. He couldn't see where the conversation was going. He wanted to scream at Hathaway, to grab the man by the throat and shake him until he told him what it was he wanted.
"See, it doesn't really matter which side you're on, does it? You choose your side then you play the game. It's like when we were kids. Didn't really matter if you were a cop or a robber. A cowboy or an Indian."
"I'm going," said Donovan. He started to get to his feet, but Hathaway held up his hand.
"I'm almost done," he said.
Donovan sat down again.
"I want you to understand what it is you taught me when you put that bullet in my leg all those years ago. You taught me that it doesn't matter which side you're on, all that matters is how you play the game. And for that, I want to shake your hand."
Hathaway reached out his right hand. Donovan looked down at it, frowning. The fingernails were bitten to the quick. He slowly put out his own hand and shook. As their hands made contact he felt something hard in Hathaway's palm. Donovan realised it was a folded piece of paper. He tried to pull his hand away but Hathaway tightened his grip like a vice.
"You're trying to set me up," hissed Donovan. That's what this had all been about. Hathaway was planting drugs on him. Donovan looked around frantically, expecting to see police closing in on him.
"Don't be stupid, Donovan," soothed Hathaway.
"Why would I plant a two-quid wrap on you? You deal in thousands of kilos. It's going to be all or nothing." He slowly shook Donovan's hand, then eased his grip. Donovan felt the paper pressing against his own palm.
"Take it," said Hathaway.
Donovan pulled his hand away. He opened the piece of paper. There was a typewritten address on it in capital letters. An address in the South of France.
"Sharkey's there," said Hathaway softly.
"How do you know that?"
"Tracked his phone. Easy peasy when you work for the good guys. I know you have your ways, but our ways are more efficient. Unlimited resources, so long as you have access. And I've got access."
"And what do you want? A drink?"
Hathaway looked scornfully at Donovan.
"How much would you give me? A few grand. This isn't about a few grand. Besides, you seem to have forgotten that you're pretty much broke at the moment."
"If it's not about a bung, then what is it about?" asked Donovan.
Hathaway grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
"Need to know, Donovan. All in good time. At the moment, just don't look this gift horse in the mouth. You go and get your money, then we'll talk again."
Donovan looked at the address again.
"Is she still with him?" he asked.
"I gather so." Hathaway stood up, grunting as he put his weight on his right leg.
"Bitch."
"You've got to learn to live and let live," said Hathaway, rubbing his right knee.
Donovan slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.
"Maybe next time we should meet at the National," said Hathaway.
Donovan stiffened. He knew about his meeting with Louise?
Hathaway smiled at his discomfort.
"Word to the wise," he said.
"You might be able to shake off the cops by whizzing around the Underground, but all we do is sit and watch you via a link to the Transport Police's CCTV control room. We don't need to put people down after you. We just watch you on TV and wait for you to surface." He threw Donovan a sloppy salute.
"Catch you later, yeah?" Hathaway turned and walked away, dragging his right leg slightly. He edged into the shopping crowds and within seconds Donovan had lost sight of him.
Stewart Sharkey pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes and waved at the waiter. He ordered an omelette and a cafe latte and a bottle of good wine in fluent French, then settled back and scanned the front page of Le Monde. He'd have preferred to have read one of the British tabloids, but it was important to maintain his cover. So far as anyone knew, he was French, a Parisian businessman taking a well-earned break from the heat of the capital. When he and Vicky were out, she had to keep her mouth shut, because even if she tried to speak French it was glaringly obvious that she was English. Meals outside the apartment were taken in silence unless there was no one within earshot, and even then conversation was limited to snatched whisperings. Frankly, Sharkey preferred to dine alone.