The Final Reckoning (28 page)

He was dreaming of Rebecca. She was scraping something from a wall, it could have been paper or paint, it was hard to tell. But the more she scraped, the more the wall began to crumble. Whole hunks of plaster were coming off, crashing onto the floor. But still she carried on, apparently oblivious to the rubble piling up around her and the dust powdering her face. She occasionally looked over her shoulder, so that he could see her. She didn't seem angry so much as determined. Finally, the wall gave way, a huge oval opening up like a mouth. Somehow the ceiling stayed in place, but Tom could see through the hole and so could Rebecca. They both could see it, the light bouncing off the ripple of solid black and deep red. There, on the other side, was a grotesquely oversized swastika.

His eyes snapped open, his breathing hard. He squinted, trying to focus on the wall ahead. It seemed to be plain white. There was no window, just a cross-hatched square in the door on the left.

He swivelled his head around to the table at his side. A small wooden cabinet, with a plastic jug of water. Above it, fastened to the wall, was a sign warning of the correct evacuation procedure in the event of a fire. Where the hell was he?

He tried to get out of bed, but his legs were thick and leaden. He pulled away the tight, starched sheets covering him and saw he was wearing green surgical scrubs.
My God.

His mind raced. Had he had some terrible traffic accident? Is that what this was, the intensive care unit of a hospital? What had happened? And then, halting this torrent of thoughts with a thud:
Rebecca.

He had to think back. What was the last thing he could remember? He could picture her: jeans, boots, a white buttoned shirt. He felt a sensation that was wholly unfamiliar: the anticipation of great sadness, a kind of pre-grief. He was imagining the pain he would feel if he could not see her again.

They had been in Starbucks. He had been buying the drinks, he had turned to her. There was a man there, the man they had arranged to meet…

Tom tried again to get out of bed. This time he picked up his legs with his hands, grabbing his own thighs as if they were someone else's, but once his feet were on the ground, he buckled and had to grab the bed to stay upright. He steadied himself. Now, his jaw clenched in determination,
he headed for the wall and shuffled his way along it to the door. Stretching up, he got a view through the rectangle of glass of an empty corridor and, opposite, what he guessed was a nurses' station. It all seemed too uncluttered, too neat and hi-tech to be an NHS hospital. Was this some private clinic?

He would step outside and find a nurse or a doctor to explain everything. And maybe he would see Rebecca. Perhaps she would be sitting there, flicking through a magazine, waiting for him. Unless …

He reached for the door handle. The metal was so cold in his hand, it made him shiver. But it would not turn. Perhaps whatever accident he had suffered, or treatment he had endured, had weakened him. He tried again and came up against the hard metal stop of a lock. He was locked in.

He stayed there, leaning against the door, too exhausted to risk the trek back to the bed. He was panting. He needed to think.

Starbucks, Rebecca and him at the counter. He could see the woman who had taken their drinks order, the tiredness in her face, the streaks in her otherwise blonde hair. The man who had greeted Rebecca. So the meeting had happened as planned. But then what?

A remembered emotion bubbled upward, arriving somewhere in his chest: jealousy. Instantly, he could picture Rebecca's smiling face, warm and friendly towards the newcomer. Richard.

And now Tom could see the three of them, stepping outside the café. There was a car, a silver car … he could see no more.

Tom rubbed his temples. It was like trying to dredge up a dream, a fragment would appear, only to slip through his fingers, sand from the bottom of the sea. He could not remember. Weary of supporting himself upright, he slid to the floor.

He had not noticed the small camera in the far corner of the room, nor the other one diagonally opposite. Nor did he know about the motion sensors placed under the mattress of the bed, which sounded an alarm as soon as the normal ups and downs of breathing ceased for more than thirty seconds – and which were, of course, triggered when the patient left the bed entirely. So he wasn't to know that he had set off an alarm at the nurses' station. He couldn't hear it because his room was thoroughly soundproofed – chiefly to ensure that no sound ever got out, but which, naturally, also ensured no external sound ever got in. Such were the demands necessitated by this ward's usual patients.

Tom reached up for the doorhandle, using it to haul himself up. He winced as he tugged at it, the memory of early mornings on the monkey bars at the overpriced gym on Lafayette and Bond returning to him. That seemed like a different age. In truth, it seemed like a different person. Finally he was standing, his back resting in the corner where the two walls met. Now, with one last push,
he heaved himself around so his eyes were level with the window-hole in the door. It was filled entirely with a face.

Tom rocked back with shock. The face had been just an inch or two away from his, separated only by glass. And now he could hear the sound of the door unlocking, an electronic release.

Two men walked in, accompanied by a nurse putting away a swipe card. ‘Thank you,’ said the less bulky of the two men. ‘We can take it from here.’ He waited for the nurse to close the door behind her before he spoke again. ‘I hope you slept well. In fact, I know you slept well because I've been watching you.’

Now that he heard his voice, Tom remembered him. It was Richard, the man they had met in the café.

‘What happened? Where am I?’

‘It's a long story, Tom. Put it this way. We were in London, we needed you to take a little trip. And so we took it.’

The smugness of this man, his smooth, chatty manner and his studiedly relaxed hair, sent the rage thudding through Tom's arterial network; the veins on his neck began to throb. Without planning it, and despite the sluggishness of his limbs, he brought back his right arm and curled his fingers into a fist.

He got within six inches of Richard's face but no closer. The bodyguard, or whoever the other man was, simply lifted up a hand and caught Tom's
arm as if it were a stray twig. He didn't merely block the punch, but pushed Tom's arm back, twisting it in its socket. Tom let out a yelp of pain.

‘No need for any of that, Tom. Now as it happens, we—’

‘What have you done with Rebecca? Where's Rebecca?’

‘Let me finish.’ The bodyguard was still holding onto Tom's arm, keeping it in a half-nelson behind his back. ‘As it happens, I was going to come and wake you anyway.’

‘Where's REBECCA?’

‘She's here. In this same city.’

Tom gasped his relief. Then: ‘What city? Where am I?’

‘Don't you know? I'd have thought you'd have worked it out. You've been fast asleep in the city that never sleeps.’ He paused. ‘No? You're in New York, Tom.’

New York?
It made no sense. How could he have been in Starbucks in the West End and now be in New York? He didn't remember flying anywhere.

‘Who are you?’

Richard ignored the question. ‘I'm sorry we had to do it this way, Tom. But the boss will explain everything soon enough. And look.’ He lifted the travel bag he had been holding at his side and placed it on the bed. ‘I even have your clothes.’

A few minutes later, Tom was in a wheelchair, watching as nurses and orderlies busied past him.
Any risk of him crying out was tempered by the presence at the wheelchair's handlebars of the bodyguard: Tom did not doubt that, were he to cry out, he would soon be silenced, by a fist if not by some stray item of medical equipment.

Richard hadn't been lying. All the voices and accents he heard confirmed this was, indeed, the United States.

He was wheeled into an elevator. Richard pressed the button for the basement. It took them to a service area, the plush carpets and furnishings now replaced by steel doors and grey concrete. He wondered, for the first time, if they were planning to do away with him here, to crush his body in some industrial waste machine.

In silence they wheeled him out through a pair of double doors; he felt a change of temperature. He was in a car park.

They went into a side bay, one marked by a disabled badge. There was the electronic squawk of car doors opened by remote control.

The meathead pushing the chair now tucked his hands into Tom's armpits and lifted him. In a single movement that was more efficient than brutal, Tom was loaded onto the back seat of an empty car. Richard stepped into the passenger seat, the bodyguard took the wheel and fired up the ignition, letting the engine idle. Richard turned around and with a smile that renewed in Tom the urge to punch his lights out, he said, ‘We're just waiting for one more and we'll be on our way.’

How had he let himself get into this position? Somehow he had been so careless, so lacking in basic vigilance that he had allowed himself to become a helpless prisoner in the hands of… whoever the fuck these people were. That was the worst of it: he had no idea who was holding him or why. All those years detailing the human rights abuses of this regime or that tinpot dictator, compiling reports on ‘the disappeared’ of Latin America or Africa and look at him: he had learned nothing. He had made himself a victim.

Now there was a clunk and the opening of the passenger door opposite. He looked up and felt his heart squeeze.

He studied her face closely. In the dull twilight of a locked car in an underground car park, it was almost impossible to discern anything but an outline. To make sure she was really there he touched her, running his fingers gently over her skin, her cheekbones, her chin.

‘Are you, OK? Did they hurt you?’ ‘I'm fine,’ Rebecca said. ‘Woozy, bit nauseous, exhausted. Like being a junior doctor really.’ She smiled weakly, sending a stab of pain through him that felt very close to love.

Now the car took off, emerging up an exit ramp and into the daylight. Their captors had not been lying. They were in New York. It took him a while to realize it, but Tom was back on the very street he had driven down hours before he had left for London. There was the Bellevue Medical Center and there, still open for business, was the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, where – how long ago? – he had gazed
upon the staring, blue-eyed corpse of Gershon Matzkin.

They were driving in the opposite direction from his last journey, heading north up First Avenue. A sensation that was part bafflement, part dread began to rise inside him. They were travelling towards the United Nations.

A picture of Henning Munchau floated into Tom's head. Could this really be his handiwork? What terrible secret could he, or those he served, harbour that he would do this – and to one of his oldest friends? It seemed so idiotic. Didn't Henning realize that he would simply have had to say the word – ordering rather than suggesting Tom's return – and Tom would have jumped on a plane back to New York? Instead he had gone to these extreme lengths. Tom looked over at Rebecca, absorbing the sight of her in profile, a corkscrew curl of hair tucked behind one ear.
Unless, it was not Tom that Henning had needed to get to New York…

They were descending again, down another slope into an underground car park. Damn. He hadn't been paying attention at the crucial moment: he didn't know precisely where they were.

Once more they parked up by an elevator shaft. This time there were no wheelchairs. Richard and the bodyguard simply guided Tom and Rebecca into the lift, flanking them to prevent escape. Saying nothing, Richard pressed the button. The top floor, Tom noticed.

The lift doors opened and now he understood: they were in a hotel, on what, he guessed, was the penthouse level. They walked down a corridor until they reached a door where two young men in dark blue suits, curled wires in their ears, stood as sentries on either side. Richard gave each of them a nod and the door was opened.

Inside was the sitting room of a suite, clearly one of the best in the building. Tom had seen hotel rooms like this only a couple of times, travelling with the UN high command. In his memory, they were always strewn with piles of paper, the odd, hastily installed fax machine and several uncleared trays of room service food. These quarters, he noted, had much less clutter.

He and Rebecca were invited to sit down and they did so in silence. Rebellion was wholly pointless, he reasoned: they would soon meet the ‘boss’ Richard had mentioned.

Finally, another young man entered the room, darting only a quick glance in their direction: Tom guessed he saw something in his expression, a reluctance, perhaps even an embarrassment. Richard and this man exchanged a few words. Tom strained to hear what they were saying, even to hear what language they were speaking. He couldn't make it out; he wasn't sure he recognized it at all.

The minutes went past, Rebecca occasionally turning out her palms as if to say ‘What the hell is going on?’ All he could do was shrug.

And then there was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the dark wood door. Someone had arrived. The flurry of activity, the pulse of adrenalin passing through the room, told Tom it was someone important. The boss.

More delay and then Richard spoke. ‘I can show you in now.’

The two got up and followed him through the connecting door, into a larger sitting area. This room was spotless. They could see the figure of a suited man, his back to them, standing at the large picture window, apparently taking in the view of Manhattan and the East River in the morning light.

At last he turned around. ‘Welcome to the Presidential Suite,’ he said.

Tom took in that voice, and the face he instantly recognized, and felt his veins turn to ice.

He knew the smart thing to do. That much his Harvard education had given him: he was at least sharp enough to know the precise course of action he needed to follow if he was to please the Commissioner and advance his own career.

Better still, it was remarkably, enticingly simple. All he had to do was do nothing and say no more. He simply needed to end his presentation, close the lid of his laptop and shake his superior's hand and be on his way. Any one of his colleagues would consider that a very good morning's work – and take the rest of the day off.

But something nagged at Jay Sherrill. It would have been pompous to call it a pang of conscience. And wrong too. It wasn't his conscience that was speaking so much as an irritating personality trait: this anal desire of his for neatness and completeness. He simply knew that it would niggle him all day and for the rest of the week if he didn't give Commissioner Riley the full story. Of course it
made no political sense; the boss had already told him as directly as he could that he did not want to know anything more. He had a narrative in mind and he did not want it disrupted by inconvenient facts.

Still, though, Sherrill did not want to take that decision alone. He wanted to let Riley decide. Tell him everything, then, if he chooses not to use the information, the responsibility will be his. I will have done my duty. Sherrill knew that was playing it by the book, but he couldn't see any other way. He had been raised on the book.

‘There are a couple more elements to the story, Commissioner.’

‘Always are, Detective. Lots of chaff in any investigation. Our job's to put aside the chaff so all we got left is wheat.’

‘I know that, sir. But I thought you ought to know—’

‘Sure. Maybe you can speak to Donna outside and arrange another appoint—’

‘This won't take long, sir. It's simply that identifying the dead man, Gerald Merton, as a terrorist may not wholly have been a mistake.’

‘Well, that's a mighty interestin’ theory. ‘I'm sure. Now if you just—’

‘It's not only a theory, sir. There's the weapon – the hitman's friend, you called it – hidden in Merton's hotel room. He had been consorting with a known arms dealer. The UN's man, who's been in London, says there may be a history of vigilante killings.’

The Commissioner's expression changed instantly. Gone was any trace of avuncular warmth. ‘What UN man?’

‘Tom Byrne. He's the lawyer the UN put on the case.’

‘Yes – to
oversee
your investigation. What's he doing investigating?’

‘He's not. Not officially of course. But the UN sent him to London to mend fences with the family. To head off any compensation—’

‘Never mind that. You say he's uncovered what?’

‘He's given me very few details. But he believes the weapon in the hotel room might be explained by—’

‘He
knows about the gun?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Riley now sat upright and began to straighten the papers on his desk. ‘I see,’ he said, in a voice now drained of all southern bonhomie. Sherrill instantly understood what it meant: the Commissioner had concluded that his little game – blaming the Intelligence Division for the death of an innocent old man – was now over. If it had just been Sherrill, it wouldn't have been too tricky to find a carpet under which they could have swept any awkward facts. But now the circle of knowledge had unexpectedly widened. His scheme couldn't work.

‘Detective, a thought has just struck me; 'pologize for not thinking of it earlier.’

‘Yes, sir?’ Sherrill could feel his throat turn arid.

‘This killing took place inside the environs of the United Nations, correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that inside the jurisdiction of the United States of America?’

‘I'm sorry, sir, I don't—’

‘Is it on American
soil
, Detective?’

‘I suppose, technically speaking, it doesn't count as—’

‘Nothin' technical about it. It's not. And I know what the District Attorney of this city, or a US attorney for that matter, would say about that. He would say that no crime has been committed here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No crime has been committed. There is no offence he or any prosecuting authority could pursue. Yes, a shooting has taken place. But it did not happen on US soil. Which means there is no crime under US law and nothing here to trouble any US law enforcement agency – such as the New York Police Department.’

‘But you said this was a high priority case, you said I should report directly to you.’

The Commissioner adopted a faux official voice. ‘In the post 9/11 environment, I didn't want to take any chances. In case this might have had implications for the rest of the city.’ Then he leaned forward, fixing Sherrill with a stare. ‘But the basic point still stands, as a quick call to the DA's office
or any one of our legal advisers here would instantly confirm. No crime here, Detective. You're off the case – because there is no case. This meetin' is over.’