Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

The thing is, everyone thinks we were just watching foreign terrorists. But I gotta tell ya: we were spying on people who had no intention of doing violence to anybody. I even infiltrated some street theatre company, for Christ's sake. Church groups too. And here's the thing: these people were US citizens.

The Commissioner was listening closely, turning his face from the screen so that his ear could be nearer to the computer's speaker. Occasionally, he closed his eyes, as if he wanted to avoid all distraction. He then signalled for Sherrill to stop the machine. ‘You sure he couldn't have got all that from the papers? From the internet or somewhere?’

Sherrill smiled and released the play key.

We all had different code names. My one was Tenzing. Another was called Simpson. And there was Hillary. All famous climbers, apparently. They say the boss is some mountain freak.

At this, Riley sat back and exhaled. That much was true: Stephen Lake was a fanatic, challenging himself by climbing ever more improbable peaks. But Lake was hardly known outside the CIA or, more recently, the Intelligence Division of the NYPD. His penchant for mountains was certainly not public knowledge. The silhouette couldn't have just picked that up. Besides, the Commissioner knew at least one of those codenames was accurate. When The New York Times had started digging into the Republican convention story, he had made some inquiries of his own. He had heard about the unit called Hillary. He'd never have made the link to mountains though; he'd just thought the units had girl's names. Like hurricanes.

‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘I believe him.’

‘I'm glad, sir. Because I think what this man goes on to say explains how Gerald Merton came to be shot dead on the steps of the UN.’

‘And-’

‘And, more importantly, sir, who was responsible for that happening.’

‘That's very good, Sherrill. That's very good indeed.’

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.