The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

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.’