The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘I want to go to the funeral.’

‘I can see the case for that, Secretary-General.’

‘So you think it's a good idea? I'm glad, Munchau. My political staff say it would be unwise.’

‘Why do they say that, sir?’

‘Gowers here says it could be seen as an admission of liability. I said that was a legal point, not a political one. Which is why I was so keen to see you. If you see no legal problem, then we can go ahead. You're the boss.’

At that, the Secretary-General dipped his head in a small, courtly nod as if to say, ‘over to you’. The Time magazine profile had been right: ‘the world's top diplomat has world-class charm’. He embodied everything people liked about the Nordics: wholly professional, yet without Teutonic efficiency; informal, without American over-familiarity; progressive, without Latin fervour. The magazine had said that, just as some argued the Olympics should always be in Athens, so the world would be a better place if the top post at the UN was permanently in Nordic hands. The rotation system wouldn't allow such a thing, of course, but once Asia and Africa had had their turn, and a European seemed possible, then the long-standing foreign minister of Finland rapidly became the obvious choice. The Russians had been expected to object but, to everyone's surprise, they didn't and so Paavo Viren had glided into the post unopposed.

‘Why are you so keen to go, sir?’

‘I think it's the right thing to do. This man was killed on our soil, in our care. I think we have to take responsibility for that and make amends for it. Don't you?’

‘I can see that.’

‘You keep seeing things but not telling me what you think. Please Dr Munchau, give me your opinion.’

Before he had a chance, the Secretary-General's Chef de Cabinet leaned forward to speak. The three of them, plus a note-taker, were in the SG's private office, arranged on the two couches which he had installed within days of his arrival: the essential tools of diplomacy, he had called them.

‘While you think on that, Dr Munchau,’ the Chef de Cabinet began, ‘let me just game out some of the scenarios here. Best case is the SG flies to London, has a handshake and photo-op with Merton's daughter, and that draws a line under the whole episode. Worst case: he turns up for the funeral, gets spurned, maybe even faces protests and barracking and then we've magnified a problem into a larger crisis.’

‘All right, that's enough, Marti. We need to hear what the Legal Counsel thinks.’

‘Well, sir. Strictly speaking, there is no legally meaningful admission implied by your visiting the family. As you say, you are paying condolences simply because this terrible accident happened on our soil.’

‘Good.’

‘But.’

‘Ah, a but. In this building, there is always a but, no?’

‘Such a move will inevitably be seen as an act of contrition. Secretaries General ordinarily attend only the funerals of heads of government or heads of state. For you to go to London would be such an extraordinary gesture, it would imply we had something to apologize for.’

‘Well, we do.’

The Chef de Cabinet looked aghast; Henning Munchau smiled tolerantly. ‘That's not something we would want to say publicly, sir. Certainly not at this stage.’

‘Oh, for heaven's sake.’

‘I'm quite serious, sir. We cannot possibly make any kind of apology or statement of regret until we have all the facts. Which we don't yet have.’

‘We killed an innocent man!’

‘But, sir, the crucial point is that the UN guard did not know that at the time. The officer on duty seems to have believed the man in question posed an immediate threat to the life of our personnel. Which would make this a killing in self-defence.’

‘OK, so we apologize for that then. It was a genuine mistake, but we apologize for it. What's wrong with that?’

Henning shot a quick glance at the chef de cabinet, a look that said: ‘Christ, have we been saddled with a boy scout as Secretary-General?’

Detecting the dissent, the boss sat back. ‘Look, I'm not naïve. I see the risks. But you're not thinking politically. If I'm photographed with the widow, or daughter or whoever it is, showing humility, that makes me look good. Transparent, honest, human. A new approach from the new man at the UN. This could be wonderful PR.’

Over my dead body, thought Henning. ‘Sir, let me speak with my man in London. If he's managed to square the family, then your idea could be a very good one. I'll get in touch with him right away. I don't think he'll let us down.’