Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

‘I understand.’ His voice softened. ‘But this is not the way.’

‘But I heard you in Goldman's office. Saying that DIN was right, that the law had always failed the victims. “The bigger the crime, the worse it is,” that's what you said. I remember it because I agreed with you. “There is no law,” you said, “just politics”. Remember?’

Tom found it unbalancing, to be reminded of his own words like this. It was true, he had said those things, angered by Goldman's pettifogging, pedantic deference to the law when he, Tom, had seen the law's failure again and again, in Rwanda and East Timor and God knows where else.

Yet at this moment, an elderly man in his grip, holding him still while a needle at his neck threatened his life, Tom could not stand by what he had said. The prospect of killing a man like this repelled him. Theory was one thing; the actual physical deed was quite another. This was not justice. It was everything the law was meant to stop: the descent into barbarism.

‘Rebecca. It can't be like this. DIN killed people because there was no other way. But you have evidence. You can take this to a court. There could be a trial.’

She made a snort, her head tilting back in mockery. Tom waited for Viren himself to say something, to agree that, yes, he would submit himself to a trial. His silence suggested he was as smart a politician as his reputation promised: he understood that if he endorsed any strategy of Tom's it would be the kiss of death. Rebecca would reject it.

‘You think they would ever put this man on trial?’ she said. 'They would come up with the same bullshit they always come up with. “He's too old. The evidence is cold. The witnesses are dead. The statute of limitations has passed. It didn't take place on our soil.” I've heard every argument in the book.

‘Even so, Rebecca, the alternative is to sink to their level. You won't be killing them; you'll be turning into them. Remember, Plan A? It didn't happen. In the end, the Jews couldn't do it.’ He sighed. ‘The law is all we've got, Rebecca. It's not perfect. Christ, I know that better than anyone. But it's all we've got.’

‘I need to end this.’ She was trembling now, her whole body shaking. ‘I've lived with this my whole life, Tom. Can you imagine that, knowing your own life is trivial compared to everything that happened? Can you imagine that? Of course you can't. No one can.’

In a brief change in the light, Tom could see there were tears slipping slowly down her cheeks. He wanted desperately to touch her.

‘Your life is not trivial. It matters.’

She said nothing.

‘Your life mattered to your father, Rebecca. He named you after his mother for a reason.’ He swallowed. ‘I think you were meant to be her second chance.’

She reeled back, her clenched hand finally coming away from Viren's neck. The old man now seized his opportunity, using all his strength to shake Tom off. As Tom fell backwards, he stumbled, hitting his head on the edge of one of the benches. He was stunned.

In that same instant, Viren lunged at Rebecca. He reached for her wrist, pulling it upward. She was still clasping the syringe, now terrified that the old man was about to turn the needle back on her. She let out a scream as he tugged at her arm.

The light in the room suddenly changed. Two men had come into the doorway, casting new shadows. Viren looked up to see Henning Munchau staring at him, his face aghast. The Secretary-General seemed frozen.

That moment of delay, of paralysis, was all Tom needed. He hauled himself up and surged forward, crashing into the space between Viren and Rebecca, pushing the pair apart. Rebecca staggered backwards, at last out of the old man's reach. But the needle was no longer in her hand.

Tom turned, only to find Viren coming at him, his eyes wild, clutching the syringe and aiming it directly at Tom's heart. Tom reached for Viren's wrist, but the old man had remarkable strength. Even in Tom's grip, he was pressing forward, the tip of the needle getting closer and closer until it was no more than an inch from Tom's chest.

With an almighty surge, Tom shoved Paavo Viren's wrist backward – listening to the roar of horror as the Secretary-General of the United Nations realized he had plunged the needle deep into the jugular vein of his own neck.

One year later

‘And how many displaced people are we talking about?’

‘Maybe a million.’

‘Mainly in Chad, or elsewhere?’

‘Chad mostly.’

‘Conditions in the camps?’

‘They are very overcrowded. Shortages of food. Disease. The biggest problem is panic. Everyone is terrified.’

‘And what are the aid agencies saying?’

‘They have their own problems. Some say they cannot do anything for the victims, when they have the security of their own staff to worry about. The Janjaweed target them, too, you know. Deliberately. And it's working: many of the NGOs have withdrawn.’

Tom pushed back into his chair, chewing at the top of his pen. His concentration was total. But once this meeting was over, he would allow himself the same thought that kept occurring these days: it was good to be back, absorbed once more in the work he was born to do.

‘I need to look at all the documents you have, all the paperwork. So that we can assemble a cast-iron case. First we need to establish the general circumstances, so that we can paint a picture of the overall humanitarian situation, just the kind of details we've been discussing now. Then we move onto the specifics of each individual. OK?’

It was the fifth Darfur-related meeting Tom had had in the last month. He wondered how long these problems had festered before reaching his desk. He held up his hand, in a request for patience, and turned in the direction of his assistant.

‘Lequasia!’

During the silence that followed, Tom turned to his client and raised his eyebrows – a gesture that conveyed long-suffering patience. He tried again, this time raising his voice. ‘Lequasia!’

At last she appeared, emerging from the back corridor where Tom had added a decent coffee maker to the battered old kettle that used to sit there. In the light, he counted at least four strands of radically different colours in her hair, some plaited, some straight. Or were they simply hair extensions, purchased in that black women's salon just off the Holloway Road?

‘Lequasia, thanks for gracing us with your presence. I hope we're not keeping you from some urgent appointment with your stylist. Let me introduce you to Ismael Yahya Abdullah.’

She reached over to shake Ismael's hand, her false nails digging into his palms.

Tom went on: ‘He's here on behalf of himself and five other people seeking asylum in this country from Darfur. He's studying at UCL. Since he's been here the longest, and has the best English, he's going to be the point of contact for the whole group. Could you give him six copies of the basic asylum form please?’

Tom said goodbye, leaving Lequasia and Ismael in the waiting area. He turned back to his computer – there was an email to Henning he wanted to finish – when he heard the door open. In truth, he sensed it more than he heard it. First, the chill draught from the street, then the unmistakable shuffling sound that could only mean one thing.

‘Hello, Lionel.’

‘Hello, Mr Byrne.’

‘Julian's actually in court today, but he'll be back soon.’

‘Julian's in court? Why, what did he do?’

‘He didn't do anything. He's a lawyer. He's acting for somebody.’

‘They going to send him to jail?’

‘They might.’

‘Julian's going to jail? Oh-’ and he began to sob.

‘No, Lionel. Not Julian. Julian's not going to jail. His client might be going. If the court finds him guilty.’