They sat across from each other in the Turkish all-night café, in a side street not far from Checkpoint Charlie.
North put his fingers to his jaw, and it clicked. On the upside, the booze and pills had to be protecting him from the worst of the pain.
‘You’ve a bullet in your brain, which means you could die at any moment, and not that I care, but I’m curious,’ Hone said. ‘Did you want those men to kill you? What was that back there?’
‘An argument about the bill,’ North said. ‘The lads insisted it was their shout – they’re a very hospitable people. But I like to pay my way.’
Through the window, revelling Americans rolled through the streets wearing Russian military caps, past immigrants shuffling their way to one of their many jobs. Hone watched them, before switching his attention back to the man across from him. ‘Berlin, eh? The Holocaust, the Cold War, the Wall. It’s all about the past with you, isn’t it. Why is that?
Behind the one-eyed man hung a ‘Rauchen verboten’ sign – a red cross drawn through a cigarette to make the point. Pulling out a cigarette, Hone winked at North with his good eye and struck a match, before holding the bud of flame to the cigarette. He shook the match side to side to extinguish the flame then let it fall to the floor.
There was the sound of slippers slapping against linoleum as an elderly waitress shuffled over. She scowled. Her shift was nearly over, North guessed. If she noticed the cigarette or the fact Hone had only one eye, or North’s split lip, she didn’t show it. ‘Two coffees and the house late night/early bird special for both of us, please.’ Hone’s German was faultless. North wondered if he’d spent time in Berlin before the wall fell.
Was Hone here to kill him? If he was a risk to the status quo, no one would speak for him. The only thing you did with a risk was eliminate it. But Hone could have killed him at the bar, or better yet, watched from the shadows as the Germans killed him.
Was he planning to oversee North’s arrest? God knows he was guilty of enough crimes. Was the plan to lock him away and forget to ever let him out again? North’s gaze took in their fellow diners, then scanned the street. No sign of backup. No German police. No GSG9 team. No sign of the BND.
‘All right then, I’ll bite. Why are you here, Hone?’
‘Come back to London and work for me.’
North raised an eyebrow. ‘Work for the Friends of Cyclops? For MI5?’ He’d done it once before, but only under duress.
‘You have skills.’
‘My shorthand’s rusty.’
‘You think killing is all you’re good for, North, but you’re capable of more.’
‘Let me get this straight – you don’t want me to kill anyone?’
There was a beat. Hone didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. ‘The woman you loved died,’ he said instead. ‘I never got the chance to say I’m sorry for your loss, but I am.’
North’s jaw clenched so tightly he couldn’t get out the words to let Hone know that he didn’t need his pity.
‘She took a stand because that’s who she was, and she knew the risks, North. Allow her that much. You marked her passing in your own inimitable way. You made sure the guilty paid the price for her death – which I respect. But that has to be done with. That was then, this is now, and you need to think about your own future.’
He had a bullet in his brain, which guaranteed he had no future – didn’t the one-eyed man know that? North pushed back his chair and half stood as the waitress slid plates of shish kebab and wraps and pickles on to the table. Then she paused, a coffee cup in each hand, waiting North out. The heady scent of Turkish coffee – North folded back into the seat. She died… She took a stand. Allow her that much. The words were like knives. The old lady put down the cups, then, grumbling in a mix of Turkish and German, pulled a battered tin lid out of her pocket and slammed it down between them. Hone nodded his thanks, and she let out a final chunter of disapproval before waddling away.
‘You’re young.’ Hone tapped ash from his cigarette into the lid and North thought he caught a flicker of pity. But it went as soon as it came, if it was ever there at all. ‘You presume no one knows what you’re going through. The grief is so raw and the pain so excruciating, you don’t know where to put it. Or what to do with yourself.’
North said nothing. Concentrated on his breathing. She died… and the guilty paid the price. Because he made sure of it.
‘But there’s some comfort to be had in doing your duty to your country. In doing what you’ve been trained to do.’ North could feel the other man’s tension. ‘Have you ever heard of a company called Derkind?’
North shook his head.
‘It’s big in AI – artificial intelligence. There’s a lot riding on it – it has a great deal of government support. It was set up by Tobias Hawke and his wife, Esme Sullivan Hawke.’ Hone lit another cigarette from the stub he’d left smouldering on the tin lid. ‘Esme is my niece.’
So, this was personal, North thought. Worth a trip to Berlin, the hours Hone must have spent finding him, and a fight in a bar.
‘The night before last, an attacker broke into her home in Bloomsbury and nearly killed her.’
‘London’s a big city. Bad things happen there.’
‘Why her?’
‘Why not?’
‘Her apartment is on the fourth floor. Hardly a passing opportunist.’
‘So you’re saying it wasn’t a coincidence?’
‘I don’t believe in God, or in such a thing as a coincidence. I believe someone came for her and that it’s connected with her work. And if I’m right, they’ll come again.’
‘Put someone on her.’
‘I’ve had her covered since the attack, but it’s not enough.’
‘Put her someplace safe then.’
‘You and I know better than most that no place is safe. Plus...’ – Hone scowled – ‘...she won’t go.’
A woman who needed saving? It was beyond him. Doing his duty? He’d fought for his country, nearly died for it – he didn’t need lectures about duty. And he didn’t need this.
‘You’ve had a wasted journey, Hone.’ North drained his coffee. ‘I’m sorry about your niece, but I’m not a bodyguard. Keeping people safe isn’t exactly my area of expertise.’
Stumbling as he got to his feet, North put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pile of euros, a handful of poker chips among them. Paying his way. He expected Hone to reach out for him, pull him back down, and half wished he would and half thought he’d kill him if he did.
‘You’ll change your mind,’ the one-eyed man said. ‘I’ll change it for you. We all have people we go the extra mile for.’ But North didn’t bother responding.
What did he know about women in danger? Too much. About artificial intelligence? Too little. Hone was talking to the wrong man. And if North agreed to do what the one-eyed man wanted, he well understood that it would be good for the security service. It might even be good for Hone’s niece. But Michael Xavier North would bet the house that it wouldn’t be good for him.