Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

‘So what is it we can help you with, Detective?’

‘Well, sir, I really did not mean to trouble you with this. It's a matter way below-’

‘What, my pay grade, Detective?’ There was a mirthless smile. ‘Why don't you let me be the judge of that? What are the questions you have for this department?’

‘Sir, the UN security force opened fire on Gerald Merton at 8.51am yesterday. Two minutes earlier, the Watch Commander of that force had received a warning from his liaison within NYPD, offering a description of a terror suspect said to be about to enter the United Nations compound. It was on the basis of that description – for which Gerald Merton offered a complete match – that the UN officer opened fire.’ He knew this account would have more punch if he added the words, ‘thereby killing an innocent old man,’ but he could not bring himself to do it. In spite of the indifference shown by the Commissioner, to Sherrill's mind the gun and fingerprints found in Merton's room remained the most compelling evidence in the case.

Lake rubbed his chin, apparently deep in thought. ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘And your question to me is what exactly?’

Sherrill could see that Lake was going to extend not the slightest help.

‘I want to know how the NYPD was in a position to pass on what could only be live intelligence to the UNSF, sir.’

‘Live intelligence? Are you sure you're not getting a little ahead of yourself here, Detective? Is intelligence an expertise of yours?’

Sherrill could feel a burning sensation in his cheeks; one he desperately hoped did not manifest itself. He tried to calm himself, to remember that this tactic of intimidation – the invocation of specialist knowledge – was just that, a tactic. ‘I don't think it requires any great expertise, sir. Just as it would have required no great expertise to see that Gerald Merton was a man in his mid-seventies – hardly the profile for a terrorist.’

At that, Lake's eyes turned to steel. ‘There are two answers to that, Mr Sherrill: the official one and the unofficial one. The official one is that this department never comments on operational matters, lest we compromise those working in the field to protect the great city of New York and, with it, the entire United States.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sherrill wondered if he was about to make some headway. ‘And what's the unofficial one?’

‘We may have had our eye on the UN for a while, with evidence of a ticking time-bomb over there. Or we may not. But this was one hundred per cent a fuck-up by the Keystone Kops at UN Plaza. You try to roll the blame ball over to this department for that and you better make sure you're not in the path of travel. Because if you are, I will personally make sure that it crushes you into the ground so hard you'll think yourself lucky if you end up writing out parking tickets in Trenton, do I make myself clear, Detective?’

Sherrill swallowed hard. ‘Doesn't this count as coercion of a law enforcement officer, sir?’

‘Save it for the Kennedy School, Detective. The only words I have uttered to you in this meeting are as follows: that this department never comments on operational matters, lest we compromise those working in the field to protect the great city of New York and, with it, the entire United States. Any other words imagined by you will be denied by me. I will swear an affidavit to that effect and submit it to any court – along, of course, with a copy of your medical records showing your past history of mental illness.’

Jay Sherrill could feel the wind exiting his stomach as surely as if he had been punched. He barely managed to whisper the words, ‘What are you talking about?’

Stephen Lake looked down at a single sheet of paper he now held between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Seems, Mr Sherrill, that you once sought counselling for depression. Is that compatible with the role of a first grade detective in the New York Police Department? Hmm, I can't recall. Perhaps we should just check with the Chief of Detectives.’ He reached for his telephone and began punching the keypad.

‘No!’

‘What is it, Detective?’

‘It was years ago; I was a student! My brother had just died!’

‘My condolences. I'm sure the human resources department of the NYPD would have been real sympathetic when you applied to be a fast track, high-flying, big swinging dick detective. Except, for some reason, you forgot to share that piece of information with them, didn't you? I've got your form right here in front of me.’ He reached for another document. ‘“Have you ever sought professional help for a mental health problem, including but not confined to…” blah, blah, blah, oh there it is, “depression”? And here's the little check box you've marked with an X and guess which one it is. It couldn't be clearer. N-O spells no. That counts as a lie in my book. Might even count as perjury. Remind me to check that with a lawyer.’ He threw the paper down onto the desk and fixed Jay Sherrill with a fierce stare. ‘In case I haven't made myself clear, Detective, this is what I'm saying to you. You go take your blame ball and roll it onto someone else's yard – because this one's full of land mines and one of them will blow you right out of the sky. I guarantee it.’

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.’