The Final Reckoning (26 page)

Tom had barely read the words when Rebecca began typing furiously:
Who are you? How do you know what's going on?

Tom rubbed his chin, ‘I wonder if you should say—’

‘Too late,’ Rebecca said, coming down hard on the return key. ‘I've already sent it.’

‘For God's sake, we needed—’ He stopped himself: he couldn't afford to pick a fight now, not with what he was about to tell her. He glanced over to the man with the white headphones: he had his head down and was banging away at the keyboard, apparently oblivious to them and everyone else. ‘Rebecca, there's something you need to look at.’ He turned his screen towards her, so that she could see his discovery for herself. ‘Remember my old boss, Henning Munchau? Legal Counsel to the Secretary-General of the United Nations and all that? OK. Take a look at this.’

He watched as Rebecca's face lit up in the blue
glow of the computer screen, her eyes skipping across the few lines of biography on Wilhelm Henning Munchau he had just called up. She didn't look surprised, Tom decided; she just seemed to be concentrating very hard.

‘You think this could be what this is all about?’

‘I don't know. It seems crazy. OK, Henning plays hardball, no doubt about it. But underneath the cynical exterior, he's on the side of the angels. Serious humanitarian. If you'd seen him in East Timor, when the rebels were getting pounded, he—’

‘But it would explain a lot. His father's a Nazi—’

‘Probably grandfather.’

‘—and he doesn't want it to get out. Maybe he knows my father knew about his family and he's determined to prevent us discovering it. It would explain a lot.’

‘I know. But I can't believe he would go to those lengths: sending men over here to wreck your father's home, your home, to bug our meetings—’

‘To kill Goldman.’

‘Even if he wanted to do that, he wouldn't have the capacity to do it. People always imagine the United Nations is some global power. But it's got nothing. If it wants ink for the photocopier it has to go begging.’

‘Have you got a better explanation?’

Tom rubbed his eyes until they emitted an
audible squeak. He had no good answer. After all, what did they know? That there had been a plan to poison the water supply of post-war Germany that had clearly been abortive. That, instead, DIN had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of former SS officers while they awaited trial for war crimes. But how this related to now, to the present day, he could not say. Despite everything they had learned, he and Rebecca could not even state for certain what Gerald Merton had been doing in New York two days ago.

‘No. I can't think of—’

‘A-ha. Here we go. He's replied.’

I'm a friend and I really want to help.

Instantly, Rebecca hammered out a reply:
Of my father's?

It took perhaps thirty seconds but then Facebook announced a new message had landed. She clicked it open.
I never had the privilege of knowing your father. But I knew his work.

She turned to Tom. ‘What the hell does that mean, his “work”? My father was a dry cleaner.’ She pounded the keyboard.
What ‘work’ do you have in mind?

The reply came back in a matter of seconds.
I am an admirer of DIN.
Rebecca looked back at Tom, hesitating. ‘What do you think we should do, Tom?’

Again, that ‘we’ sent a thrill through him. He wanted to hold her, to stroke her, to spend hour after hour meeting the gaze that seemed to see
him so clearly. It required a great effort to bring himself back. ‘I think we should meet him,’ he said. ‘Somewhere public, somewhere safe.’ Tom glanced over at the man at the end of the row, squinting to make out what was on his screen: he appeared to be immersed in some kind of gothic video game.

Rebecca was typing again, breaking off for a moment to check her watch.
I'll be in Starbucks, Portland Place at 6pm.

‘Say you'll be with me. As protection.’

We'll be in Starbucks, Portland Place at 6pm.

‘Here.’ Tom leaned over and started pressing the keys himself. Rebecca did not pull back. Tom had the sense she was breathing in the smell of him. ‘Best not be subtle.’

I'll be with a friend: he's helping me.

Then, as an afterthought, Rebecca typed five more words:
How will I recognize you?

The reply took only a few seconds to come back.

Don't worry about that: I'll recognize you.

It was Tom's idea to be early. You always had an advantage in any negotiation if you owned the room: that's why, back at the UN, there was such an elaborate protocol over where colleagues would meet, even for the most mundane exchange. Standard practice was for the official on the lower grade to travel, as if in supplication, to his superior. If you were in the latter position you got to rock back on your own swivel chair, to fiddle with your own pencils and rubber bands and act like the wolf in his lair. Meanwhile the other guy had to operate from a stiff-backed chair, ideally one that had been chosen precisely because it was lower than yours.

This was neutral territory, a café in the middle of a busy street. But by being here ten minutes early, Rebecca and he could simulate the office politics of UN Plaza, if only a little bit. Tom scanned the place looking for the cosy armchairs that had originally made Starbucks' name, back in those distant days of the early 1990s when the hand-written
blackboard signage and pierced noses of the baristas deluded people into thinking the cafés were vaguely alternative, even grungy – what with the Seattle connection and all – rather than a corporate chain bent on global domination. The Tom of the last couple of years would doubtless admire the capitalist ingenuity of it all. But today he couldn't help but lament the sardine economics that provided only a couple of soft chairs, using the rest of the floor space to cram in ever more punters.

‘There,’ he said pointing at a round wooden table which could just about accommodate three people. It would be awkwardly intimate, even claustrophobic, but it did have the advantage of ensuring that they could talk with this ‘Richard’ quietly. If they were being followed, any eavesdropper would struggle to hear the conversation. That the place was so full had its advantages.

Now that the territory was marked as theirs – jackets hooked over backs of chairs, Rebecca's bag firmly planted on the table – Tom dug into his pockets for some change. ‘So what will it be, mademoiselle?’

Rebecca managed a taut smile. She clearly dreaded what they were about to hear. Speculation was one thing. But to hear finally and irrevocably the nature of the quagmire they had waded into, to hear spelled out exactly what her father had done – as ‘Richard’ had promised they would – well, that that was much more frightening. It suggested finality.

Tom went over to the counter to order a cappuccino and a latte, hesitating when asked whether he wanted
venti
or
grande.
He handed over the money to the button-nosed, blue-eyed blonde: Polish or Lithuanian or Slovenian, he couldn't tell; maybe even Latvian.

While he waited for them to pour, scoop, froth and steam the concoctions, he looked over at Rebecca, now gazing into middle distance. If he had found these last few days inflicting a fatigue he had not experienced outside a war zone, how much more exhausted must she have been. She had lost her father, in every sense. Each day, each hour, she had had to assimilate some new, more astonishing aspect of his story. The latest addition had been her own father's readiness to commit mass murder, to take the lives of God knows how many hundreds of thousands of Germans without discrimination, at random. And yet, as he gazed at Rebecca now – on the phone, no doubt checking in once again with the hospital – he had to marvel at her resilience, marching forward as if there was no time to rest, as if she would bind her wounds only later when the battle was over. He realized that he felt for her a sentiment that, painful to admit, he had rarely felt for a woman. Not just desire or affection or even love, but deep admiration.

Maybe she sensed his eyes on her. She came over to the counter, even though she didn't need to, and he was about to open his arms to her, or smile, when the girl announced that his drinks were
ready, gesturing him towards the elliptical side table where they placed the coffees once brewed. He picked up the two oversized mugs and had turned back to Rebecca when he saw a man standing directly in front of her, his eyes wide in greeting.

‘Rebecca Merton?’ He stuck out a hand. ‘It's Richard.’

He was, Tom would have guessed, a couple of years older than her and several years younger than him. His brown hair was longish, almost tousled, even though he was wearing a suit. He looked healthy, as if he worked out.

He turned to Tom. ‘Where are you sitting?’

Tom paused, uncertain what tone to adopt. Eventually, and with his hands full with coffee, he used his head to indicate, twisting a look over his right shoulder and saying ‘Just there.’

‘Great. I'll just get a drink and join you.’

They took their seats, Tom furrowing his forehead into a question for Rebecca. She shrugged, as if to say, ‘I don't know. Not what I expected.’ They sipped their coffee and waited, the hot liquid that slid down Tom's throat a comfort.

‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ the man said once he had come back with a mug of his own, tucking his chair tight under the table to ensure no one had to shout to be heard. ‘And at such short notice.’

Rebecca said nothing. She brought the mug up to her lips and drank her coffee. Tom could see it was a stalling tactic: force this man to talk.

‘And I'm sorry about the whole Facebook thing.
I just couldn't see any other way to get in touch with you.’

‘That's OK.’ She smiled. Tom was surprised by that; it seemed oddly eager to please.
Don't reward him too early: he hasn't given us anything yet.

Tom extended a hand. ‘Tom Byrne.’ He shot a look over at Rebecca, checking that she was not about to take a lead. She seemed happy for him to do it. Hadn't this, after all, been their deal, that he would navigate through what was, for her, the alien territory of negotiations and information trading?

‘So you say you know what's going on with all this mess?’ He had vowed not to sound aggressive and he was pleased with the result: the question had come out casual rather than rude.

‘Yes, and we will talk about that. About that and everything else. We really will. I have to say Rebecca, you do look very tired. Do you feel tired?’

‘As a matter of fact, Richard, I'm really exhausted.’ She smiled again, showing even more of her teeth. Tom was amazed by this sudden show of friendliness. ‘Does it show?’

‘I'm afraid it does, Rebecca. And what about you, Tom? Are you feeling tired?’

Tom wanted to tell him to mind his own business and to get on with telling them what they needed to know. But that urge gave way to another feeling. Maybe it was the warmth of the room or the restorative power of a hot drink or just the sight of Rebecca at last relaxed. Whatever the source, now didn't seem the moment for a fight.
This man was being friendly and mellow. Tom felt he should be friendly and mellow too.

‘You know what? I am really tired. Isn't that funny?’ And Tom gave a smile that turned into a small chuckle.

‘Do you want to get some fresh air perhaps? Would you like some fresh air, Rebecca?’

‘Yes, Richard I would.’

‘And you, Tom? How about you? Would you like some fresh air?’

‘I think I would, Richard. Thank you.’

‘OK. Well, why don't you drink up and we'll get some fresh air. That's it, finish off those coffees and we'll take a walk.’

Both Tom and Rebecca did as they were told, taking a sip, then keeping the mug close by their lips to down some more. They did that more or less in silence, until there was no coffee left.

‘All righty then,’ Richard said, so that now all three of them were smiling. ‘About that walk.’

They got to their feet, Tom giving Rebecca a quizzical look that was nevertheless pleasant: this is odd, isn't it? She gave a semi-shrug back to him that said,
Let's just go with the flow.

‘Pick up your handbag, Rebecca.’ It was Richard, his wording – direct, as if he were giving an order – surprising Tom. But Rebecca, who had been such hard work with him, didn't object to being bossed about by this strange man, this ‘Richard’. Tom wanted to criticize or complain or at least make a sarcastic remark, but he didn't have the energy.

They were outside now, stepping into an immediate and fast-moving stream of pedestrians, rushing in such haste, barking into their phones so loudly, Tom felt his head spin. Some were carrying umbrellas which meant, Tom realized after a delay, that it was raining.

‘Tell you what,’ said Richard, his voice still calm and smooth. ‘Maybe this isn't quite the right atmosphere. Since we all want fresh air, maybe we need to drive somewhere.’

‘Drive?’ Rebecca said.

‘Yes, drive. And guess what, here's my car.’

Tom had noticed it already, a split second earlier: a silver Mercedes saloon, hugging the kerb. It was not quite a limousine; more like a very upmarket hire car, the kind his high-paying clients – including those whose tax returns claimed they were in the New Jersey construction industry – would occasionally send to collect him. He noticed the windows were blacked out.

At that very moment, just as Richard stopped speaking, Tom felt a firm and sudden push to his lower back, a robust nudge, the kind busy-bodies used to administer on the Tube to ensure the passengers moved into the carriage. It obviously worked because, without quite knowing how it had happened, it was no longer raining. He was in the dry. A second or two later, he found himself on the back seat of the Mercedes. Rebecca was on the other side and Richard was in between them.

He wasn't sure if it was real, or just his woozy imagination, but the car seemed to be gliding forward. There was no outside noise at all. Tom could see nothing more than the ear of the driver and that seemed to be filled by some kind of device. It was flickering with a blue light.

‘Rebecca, would you just roll up your sleeve for me.’

Tom watched, though he seemed to be looking through a gauze. Was it especially dark in this car? Tom tried rubbing his eyes. No, it made no difference. His vision still seemed soft, as if someone had rubbed Vaseline on the lens.

‘There we go,’ Richard was saying, as Rebecca obliged, offering him the flat surface on the underside of her right elbow. She didn't even flinch when Richard produced a syringe, pushing a small squirt of fluid from its needle as a test. ‘You'll feel a small jab and that will be that.’

Tom watched all this as if it were being played back to him on videotape. He tried to tell himself that it was happening right now, that it was strange and probably not a good idea, but somehow he couldn't get the words out. It wasn't just speaking that was the problem. His thoughts themselves seemed to have slowed down, as if they had to travel through a thick, viscous treacle of lethargy. No matter what he was seeing happen in front of him, he couldn't rouse himself to feel that strongly about it. He had a vague sense that he should, but mainly he just wanted to relax.
He heard a distant voice say, ‘I'm just going with the flow.’

‘That's really good that you're going with the flow, Tom,’ Richard said. ‘Really good.’ He produced another syringe and nodded in the direction of Tom's right sleeve. Automatically, Tom unrolled it and presented the patch of exposed skin, offering this man he had met perhaps ten minutes earlier his vein.

‘By the way, Tom, I'm sorry I had to drug your coffee.’

Tom felt the tiniest prick and watched as the needle tucked under his skin, the vein now protruding.

‘Not nice to have tainted two perfectly good cappuccinos like that. Or was one a latte? Anyway, sorry about that.’

The man's voice was getting more remote, as if he were speaking on a cellphone and had just gone into a tunnel. As a matter of fact, that was just how Tom felt. He imagined himself on a first class train, stretching his legs forward and pushing his seat back, ready for a really good sleep. And all around, the light was falling away, replaced by darkness. A tunnel of darkness, enveloping him, covering him. What harm would it do to surrender and allow himself some rest? He would tell this man, this Richard, that that was what he was going to do, that he was going to sleep. If only he could find the energy to open his eyes, then he would tell him. He would tell him …