The Final Reckoning (16 page)

The instant the fire alarm sounded, the conversation halted. A secretary popped her head around the door to say that she was terribly sorry, but they had to evacuate the building immediately. Henry Goldman composed himself, packed his papers into a leather portfolio case and followed the secretary out.

Outside, there was a crush of employees, two or three of them donning fluorescent bibs, and a mood of nervous excitement. Tom and Rebecca walked the fifteen flights downstairs, neither daring to say much about what had just happened. One of the firewardens peered at their visitor labels and shepherded them to a different meeting point from the rest of the Roderick Jones staff. They stood there for twenty minutes in the early evening cold, Tom seizing the outdoor opportunity for a quick cigarette. He offered one to Rebecca, who pounced on it hungrily. Of course. Most of the doctors he knew were twenty-a-day types. Still she said nothing.

Then, with no announcement, no whistle or klaxon, merely directed by the herd instinct that grips every crowd, people began to drift back into the building. Apparently a false alarm.

They were soon back on the sixteenth floor and in the conference room. The secretary reappeared.

‘Can I help?’ she chirped, as if she had never seen them before.

‘We were here before the alarm. Meeting Mr Goldman?’ Rebecca offered a smile.

‘Oh, but Mr Goldman's gone, I'm afraid.’

‘Gone?’

She shrugged. ‘I assumed you'd finished your meeting.’

At Tom's request, she called down to Security, who checked the executive garage: Mr Goldman's parking space was now empty. ‘He wouldn't have done that in the old days, I can tell you,’ she said, ‘taking the chance to knock off early. Most partners never leave here before ten or eleven; the secretaries have to work in shifts! Mr Goldman was one of the worst. Before he retired, of course.’

Tom gave a full-wattage smile: charm mode. ‘And that was a regular fire drill, was it?’

‘Oh no. We only have those on Mondays. I thought maybe it was faulty wiring: that's what happened the last time. But I just spoke to Janice – she's one of our fire marshals – and she said someone broke through one of the “In case of emergency” things in the basement. Used one of the plastic hammers to break the glass and everything.’

‘Gosh,’ said Tom.

‘You'd think there'd be a fine for that sort of thing,’ the secretary added. ‘Apparently Security have no idea who did it, but they're checking the CCTV already.’

‘Perhaps it was a high-spirited prank,’ Tom said, recalling the language the Dean had used back at Manchester when he and his mates had let off fire extinguishers. ‘By one of the younger members of staff.’

The secretary looked appalled. ‘But we don't have anyone like that here,’ she said. And Tom believed it. That memory of his university days had incubated a new intuition and now it was nagging at him.

Rebecca was in no mood to prolong this chitchat with Henry Goldman's assistant any longer than necessary. They excused themselves and headed out of the building. Letting Rebecca walk on ahead of him, Tom made a quick call to Jay Sherrill: he didn't like the guy, but he at least ought to look like he was co-operating. He wouldn't let on about Merton's Holocaust past: Henning had told him not to and that suited Tom fine. Sherrill might connect that with the gun and discover the DIN story for himself. Before Tom knew it, this whole business would be spinning out of his control. Managing the flow of information, that had been the secret of success in the UN: Henning Munchau had turned it into an art form.

‘Hello, Detective Sherrill, it's Tom Byrne here in London.’

‘Any leads on that weapon we found?’

‘I do have something, as it happens, yes.’

‘Go on,’ said Sherrill.

‘It's sketchy, nothing firm. It's possible that Merton may have had a past in some kind of armed group.’

‘Jesus. What kind of armed group?’

‘Like I said, it's sketchy at the moment. But I think he may have been one of a group of men acting as vigilantes. Taking the law into their own hands, punishing criminals.’

‘When you say “punishing” do you mean—’

‘Yes, Detective Sherrill. I do. But it was a long time ago and I'm not sure it sheds much light on the finding in the hotel room or the Russian—’

‘No, but still. This is useful. What's the evidence?’

‘Just a hint or two in some documents Merton left behind. Nothing explicit.’

‘Anyone in this group ever get convicted?’

‘Not one, as far as I know.’

‘Are they still active?’

‘That's the million-dollar question. I'll check in when I get more.’

He hung up and sprinted to join Rebecca, now unlocking the Saab. Once in the driving seat, she let out a gale of pent-up oxygen: ‘Christ, that was frustrating! He's finally on the brink of telling us something we don't already know and you start
ranting
.’

‘I did not rant. I was just making a point—’

‘I don't want to talk about it.’

‘—that sometimes justice—’

‘I mean it,’ she said, glaring. ‘I
don't
want to talk about it.’ And with that, she pulled out of the parking space and into traffic, the ferocity of her silence filling the car.

The arguments Tom wanted to make were running through his head, but they did not get very far. Rebecca was probably right; he had indeed scared Goldman off. He had made an elementary mistake, voicing his own views on a case when his own views were irrelevant. All that mattered was extracting information from a witness. He knew it was a mistake but that wasn't what unnerved him. It was why he had made it.

The daylight was fading now. Rebecca was gripping the steering wheel furiously, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Tom stared into space. Neither of them paid attention to the wing mirror on Tom's side of the car: if they had, they might have seen the manoeuvre of the Mercedes three cars behind them – the move which confirmed it was following them.

Now officially elderly, the boss could still outrun his staff. Given how little sleep he had had, he should have tired hours ago. It was always like this. While the men in their thirties and forties were already aching for a hot bath and a night's sleep, the boss was ready to crack open a bottle of the Scottish malt whisky he took with him everywhere, loosen his tie and begin some serious talk.

For the aide, it was a reminder of what everyone had said about his future employer when he took the job: that power was the purest form of adrenalin and this guy had it running, in neat form, through his veins. Forget adrenalin, he thought now; it was more like embalming fluid. Somehow, the decades this man had spent at the top of his nation's politics had halted the ageing process entirely; he looked the same as he had twenty-five years earlier. Even his shirts, the aide noticed, looking at his own rumpled effort, remained flat
and unlined in the nineteenth hour of a twenty-hour day.

‘So what do we have?’ the boss began. His usual opening gambit.

‘Well, our people in London managed to follow the subjects—’

‘Subjects? Lets cut the bullshit intelligence language, shall we? You did about as much time in the army as I did.’

‘They followed Rebecca Merton and Tom Byrne to a meeting at a law firm. Fortunately, it was in a tall, steel-and-glass building so, thanks to a highly directional shotgun microphone, we were able to carry out surveillance of the meeting.’

‘I remember approving the budget for those devices. And?’

‘The guy at the law firm spoke at length, detailing the background of the group—’

‘DIN?’

‘Yes, sir. But he did not in any way touch on, er, our aspect of the matter.’ Then, delivered with a grimace: ‘At least not in the portion of the conversation we monitored.’

‘What the hell does that mean? You missed some of it?’

‘The very beginning, sir. But everything that came afterwards suggests our aspect was not touched upon.’

‘But you can't be sure.’

‘The context makes that very clear, sir. And when there seemed to be a risk that it might stray
into, you know, sensitive territory, we took action.’

‘What kind of action?’

‘We terminated the conversation.’

‘How the hell did you do that?’

‘We activated the fire alarm, sir.’

At that the boss gave his first smile. ‘I'm glad machine politics still has some valuable lessons to teach. The fire alarm trick, eh? Always a winner five minutes before an awkward vote. We did that in the old days. Perhaps we should use it at the UN.’

The aide laughed loyally.

‘And now?’

‘It's under control, sir. Subjects are— sorry, the people involved are all under close watch. If the information we are concerned about is known at all, which I strongly doubt, then we will ensure it does not reach either Ms Merton or Mr Byrne. And if it does – we will make sure it goes no further.’

The silence did not break, even as Rebecca parked the car, unlocked the front door and stormed up the stairs into her apartment. Only once she spoke did Tom understand that, in this respect if no other, Rebecca was like several women he had known: capable of bottling up her fury until she was home – here, in her kitchen – so that she would have the argument where she wanted to have it.

‘Seriously, Tom, what the fuck was all that about?’

‘All what?’

‘Today, with Goldman.’

‘I voiced an opinion, that's all. I—’

‘No, you wrecked that meeting at the most crucial stage.’ Her voice was firm and clear: she was Dr Merton, dressing down an anaesthetist who had administered an incorrect dose. ‘You're meant to be helping me, remember? That was our deal. And there we were, listening to Goldman drone
on, telling us what we already knew, and then, just as he's about to get to the—’

‘You already knew all that?’

Her face formed into an expression Tom couldn't understand. ‘No, of course I didn't. But we'd worked it out, hadn't we? From the box.’

‘Sure, but we didn't know any of that detail. Or the context. Or the motivation. I thought you'd be fascinated to hear all that. To understand your father.’

‘This is not therapy for me, OK? In case you hadn't noticed, someone trashed my place today. And we have no idea who they are or what they want. And no idea if they're going to come after me again.’

‘I understand. This is very frightening-’

‘You're damn right, it's frightening.’ The volume was getting higher now. ‘And then you start sounding off, defending vigilante murder, men going around killing people—’

‘Well, can you blame them?’

‘What?’

‘Can you blame them? I mean it, Rebecca. Given everything that had happened to them. They were right: they weren't going to get justice any other way.’

‘How can you say that? You're meant to be a lawyer, for God's sake.’

‘That's exactly why I'm saying it!’ He was shouting now. ‘Oh, yes I used to believe all that crap about “the law” and “justice” and all the fine
words. I was a true believer, Rebecca. I was just like your boy Julian.’ He saw a look of scepticism cross Rebecca's face. ‘I know that seems ridiculous now. But I wasn't always like this, you know.’ He pulled at the cuffs of his Paul Smith suit. ‘I used to believe that so long as you worked hard, gathered all the evidence, filed your briefs, then justice would be done. Why do you think I went to the UN? Because I was one of those saps who was going to change the world.’

He was startled to hear himself talk like this; he hadn't voiced these thoughts, even to himself, for so long. But he couldn't stop.

'I was right there, at the very top. The United bloody Nations. And then I was asked to lead for the UN on the Rwanda tribunal. It was a massive job: I was thrilled to get it. I'd be fighting the good fight.

'I began by reading the witness statements, page after page of them: they were just like your father's notebook. Stories that would make you weep. You know what happened there; everyone knows what happened. We knew it at the time. Minimum of eight hundred thousand people killed in the space of three months. Fastest genocide in human history, they reckon; even faster than the Nazis. And, as always, everyone, but everyone, is up to their necks in blood. It was neighbour killing neighbour, one end of a street rounding up the other and slitting their throats with machetes. Nuns stood by while children were herded into churches and torched
alive.
Nuns
, for Christ's sake. And all the stuff that happens every time: teenage girls getting raped, boys having their balls sliced off, brothers forced to sodomize their sisters, men forced to kill their wives. Thousands of pages of it.

‘On the evidence we had, at least a million people should have been in the dock. But guess how many Hutus have been convicted.’

Rebecca looked down at the floor. ‘I don't know.’

‘Go on. Guess how many Hutus have been convicted by the UN tribunal for the Rwandan genocide.’

‘I don't know.’

‘Just guess.’

‘I don't
know.’

‘Just fucking GUESS, Rebecca!’

‘Five thousand? A thousand? I don't know!’

‘Twenty-six.’

She said nothing.

‘Twenty-six. That's the grand total after a decade and a half of legal work by dozens of lawyers and God knows how many millions of dollars. Twenty-six people. It's bullshit, Rebecca. Bullshit. You know what they say about lies: the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it? It's the same with mass murder. If you kill ten people, you'll never get away with it. But kill a thousand and you'll never see inside a dock, let alone a prison cell. That's what I learned in Rwanda.’ His voice was trembling.

‘So what did you do?’

Tom steadied himself against the kitchen table. He wanted to sit down, but he knew it would look too much like defeat. ‘The usual. Drinking, smoking, drugs – the things you do when you want to throw your life away.’

‘You had a breakdown?’

‘You could say that. In fact the UN personnel department
did
say that.
Byrne, Thomas – indefinite leave on health grounds.
I didn't believe in it any more, that was my illness. I couldn't do a day's work: I knew the whole thing was crap.’

‘Did they fire you?’

‘They would have. But Henning – my boss – he covered for me. Kept me on the payroll, looked out for me. I think he was worried that if they cut me loose, I might do something to myself.’

‘And would you?’

‘I thought about it.’

The silence hung in the air – until he broke it. ‘And then I decided I wouldn't be a sap any more. I'd get wise, like everyone else. Law's a racket, so you might as well enjoy the benefits. Everyone else was doing it, so why not me?’

‘What do you mean, it's a racket?’

‘Put it this way, Rebecca. You wouldn't want to meet my latest clients on a dark night.’ He tried to smile, but all that came was a wince. ‘That's the difference between me and Julian, you see. He hasn't learned the lesson yet. But I have.’

‘What's the lesson?’

‘There's not going to be a brighter tomorrow, and no one cares what happened yesterday, so you might as well live for today.’

‘No one cares what happened yesterday? You really believe that?’

‘I do now. And it seems your father did too: he looked around the world and saw that no one gave a fuck what happened to the Jews. Not really. Not enough to bring the guilty to justice. So he and his friends did it themselves.’

‘How
dare
you presume to know what my father felt about anything?’

‘I'm just repeating what Henry—’

‘You think I'm
proud
of what we found out today? You think it was OK to go around killing and killing and killing like that?’

‘They were Nazis for Christ's sake!’

‘What if they'd got it wrong, Tom? Eh? What if they'd accidentally killed the wrong man? You don't think that happened?’ She took a step towards him so that they were standing and shouting at each other, just a few inches apart.

‘I'm sure they were—’

‘And who gave them the right to do it? Who set them up as judge and jury and executioner?’

‘Oh, for God's sake. If they didn't have the right, who did? It's a bit much for us to sit here, judging the people who lived through all that. It was different for them, they—’

‘Lived through it?’ Her eyes were wild now. ‘You don't think I've lived through it? Are you
kidding? I lived through every
hour
of that war, over and over since the day I was born. Can you imagine growing up in a house that's dark even when the sun's shining? Can you imagine growing up knee-deep in blood, surrounded by all these ghosts? Where even the biggest drama in your life is
nothing
compared to this great big thing, this vast shadow that hangs over everything else?’

‘I, I thought he hardly ever …’ Tom stumbled. ‘You told me your father didn't like to talk about it.’

‘He didn't. But he didn't have to. It was in every room, without him saying a word. This
sorrow.
Do you know what one of the ghetto fighters once said? “If you could lick my heart, it would poison you.” That's what my father was like. So don't tell me I didn't live through it, I lived through—’

And the sentence faltered, as she choked back tears. Without a conscious thought he closed the gap between them, placing his arms around her, trying to calm her with his embrace. But she would not be calmed, hammering instead at his chest, her fists two hard balls.

He could not help himself now. He lifted her chin and guided by an impulse he had held back too long, moved his lips to touch hers.

The kiss was urgent, hungry, powered by the desire that had thumped through him from the first instant he had laid eyes on her. At first she resisted, her hands clutching at his shirt, but it did
not last. Her mouth was just as ravenous as his. The first touch of her tongue sent a current through him, a charge that made him harden in an instant. She could feel it as he pressed against her.

The smell of her was strong now. She pulled off his jacket and rapidly set to work on the buttons of his shirt, unpopping them one after another, then letting out a moan as she touched the warm skin of his chest. Tom placed a hand on her waist, feeling the naked flesh above her belt, when he heard it, a trilling sound that instantly sucked the oxygen from the room. Panting and breathless, she pulled away – and reached for the phone.

‘Oh, hi, Julian.’

Of course, thought Tom, suddenly aware of the blood pulsing around his entire system. Young Julian's lovelorn antennae had probably been twitching the moment they had kissed. He watched Rebecca nod and ‘uh-huh’ her way through the conversation, eventually reaching for a pad to scribble down an address. As she leaned across for a pen, her trousers separated from her top, revealing a narrow sliver of her back and the barest glimpse of the top of her underwear. He wanted her with an intensity that frightened him.

She hung up. ‘That was Julian, calling to ask how it went. He'd spoken to his father. Said he seemed “exercised” by our conversation.’

‘Exercised? Is that good or bad?’ It was a struggle to speak.

‘Julian couldn't tell.’

‘All right. Well, maybe we can go back and see him tomorrow.’

‘Julian reckoned we should try to see him tonight.’

Those antennae were obviously well honed: even from a distance, Julian Goldman was conspiring to ensure Rebecca Merton and Tom Byrne did not get any closer.

She was biting her lip.

‘What is it?’

‘He said he got the distinct impression his father wanted to tell us something. Something important.’