Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

‘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.’