Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

More delay and then Richard spoke. ‘I can show you in now.’

The two got up and followed him through the connecting door, into a larger sitting area. This room was spotless. They could see the figure of a suited man, his back to them, standing at the large picture window, apparently taking in the view of Manhattan and the East River in the morning light.

At last he turned around. ‘Welcome to the Presidential Suite,’ he said.

Tom took in that voice, and the face he instantly recognized, and felt his veins turn to ice.

He knew the smart thing to do. That much his Harvard education had given him: he was at least sharp enough to know the precise course of action he needed to follow if he was to please the Commissioner and advance his own career.

Better still, it was remarkably, enticingly simple. All he had to do was do nothing and say no more. He simply needed to end his presentation, close the lid of his laptop and shake his superior's hand and be on his way. Any one of his colleagues would consider that a very good morning's work – and take the rest of the day off.

But something nagged at Jay Sherrill. It would have been pompous to call it a pang of conscience. And wrong too. It wasn't his conscience that was speaking so much as an irritating personality trait: this anal desire of his for neatness and completeness. He simply knew that it would niggle him all day and for the rest of the week if he didn't give Commissioner Riley the full story. Of course it made no political sense; the boss had already told him as directly as he could that he did not want to know anything more. He had a narrative in mind and he did not want it disrupted by inconvenient facts.

Still, though, Sherrill did not want to take that decision alone. He wanted to let Riley decide. Tell him everything, then, if he chooses not to use the information, the responsibility will be his. I will have done my duty. Sherrill knew that was playing it by the book, but he couldn't see any other way. He had been raised on the book.

‘There are a couple more elements to the story, Commissioner.’

‘Always are, Detective. Lots of chaff in any investigation. Our job's to put aside the chaff so all we got left is wheat.’

‘I know that, sir. But I thought you ought to know-’

‘Sure. Maybe you can speak to Donna outside and arrange another appoint-’

‘This won't take long, sir. It's simply that identifying the dead man, Gerald Merton, as a terrorist may not wholly have been a mistake.’

‘Well, that's a mighty interestin’ theory. ‘I'm sure. Now if you just-’

‘It's not only a theory, sir. There's the weapon – the hitman's friend, you called it – hidden in Merton's hotel room. He had been consorting with a known arms dealer. The UN's man, who's been in London, says there may be a history of vigilante killings.’

The Commissioner's expression changed instantly. Gone was any trace of avuncular warmth. ‘What UN man?’

‘Tom Byrne. He's the lawyer the UN put on the case.’

‘Yes – to oversee your investigation. What's he doing investigating?’

‘He's not. Not officially of course. But the UN sent him to London to mend fences with the family. To head off any compensation-’

‘Never mind that. You say he's uncovered what?’

‘He's given me very few details. But he believes the weapon in the hotel room might be explained by-’

‘He knows about the gun?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Riley now sat upright and began to straighten the papers on his desk. ‘I see,’ he said, in a voice now drained of all southern bonhomie. Sherrill instantly understood what it meant: the Commissioner had concluded that his little game – blaming the Intelligence Division for the death of an innocent old man – was now over. If it had just been Sherrill, it wouldn't have been too tricky to find a carpet under which they could have swept any awkward facts. But now the circle of knowledge had unexpectedly widened. His scheme couldn't work.

‘Detective, a thought has just struck me; 'pologize for not thinking of it earlier.’

‘Yes, sir?’ Sherrill could feel his throat turn arid.

‘This killing took place inside the environs of the United Nations, correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that inside the jurisdiction of the United States of America?’

‘I'm sorry, sir, I don't-’

‘Is it on American soil , Detective?’

‘I suppose, technically speaking, it doesn't count as-’

‘Nothin' technical about it. It's not. And I know what the District Attorney of this city, or a US attorney for that matter, would say about that. He would say that no crime has been committed here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No crime has been committed. There is no offence he or any prosecuting authority could pursue. Yes, a shooting has taken place. But it did not happen on US soil. Which means there is no crime under US law and nothing here to trouble any US law enforcement agency – such as the New York Police Department.’

‘But you said this was a high priority case, you said I should report directly to you.’

The Commissioner adopted a faux official voice. ‘In the post 9/11 environment, I didn't want to take any chances. In case this might have had implications for the rest of the city.’ Then he leaned forward, fixing Sherrill with a stare. ‘But the basic point still stands, as a quick call to the DA's office or any one of our legal advisers here would instantly confirm. No crime here, Detective. You're off the case – because there is no case. This meetin' is over.’

Tom looked over at Rebecca. She was as shell-shocked as he was.

‘I'm sorry about the way this meeting has been arranged. Not my usual style. Not my usual style at all.’

Tom was too stunned to speak. To see this man, in this context, talking like this – it was dizzying.

‘I never actually met your father, Rebecca. Though our paths crossed. I wonder if he knew that. I'm not sure.’

The accent was even stronger than Tom remembered it. Did he usually soften it? Why was he allowing its cadences of Eastern Europe to be heard now? Was he making some point? Remember who I am.

‘We're getting ahead of ourselves. We need to set some ground rules. We need to talk about the terms of this meeting.’

Again, Tom felt the ire boil inside him. First this man was talking about how things had been ‘arranged’ and now this – as if Rebecca and Tom were taking part in a routine New York business appointment, the slot in the diary mutually agreed.

Tom wanted to scream about abduction, about involuntary sedation, about the thousand violations of basic human rights law and international standards that this ‘meeting’ represented. He wanted to be the angry lawyer he had once been, warning his antagonist of the depth of the shit he had waded into. But he couldn't bring himself to say any of it to this man simply because of who he was. All he could manage was to squeeze out the words: ‘This will destroy you.’

And at that the man gave a slight nod, the same rueful, thoughtful gesture Tom had seen him give on TV interviews going back – what? – forty years. Anyone who watched Newsnight or Nightline or who had ever opened a serious newspaper would have recognised it. It was the expression of the man who had, at different times, served as education minister, foreign minister and even prime minister of his country. And even though he was well past eighty years old, the career of this veteran politician – one of the best-known statesmen in the world – was not over.

Now Tom was facing him across this room, just a few yards apart. He was staring at the President of the State of Israel.