The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER FIFTY

Tom had barely read the words when Rebecca began typing furiously: Who are you? How do you know what's going on?

Tom rubbed his chin, ‘I wonder if you should say-’

‘Too late,’ Rebecca said, coming down hard on the return key. ‘I've already sent it.’

‘For God's sake, we needed-’ He stopped himself: he couldn't afford to pick a fight now, not with what he was about to tell her. He glanced over to the man with the white headphones: he had his head down and was banging away at the keyboard, apparently oblivious to them and everyone else. ‘Rebecca, there's something you need to look at.’ He turned his screen towards her, so that she could see his discovery for herself. ‘Remember my old boss, Henning Munchau? Legal Counsel to the Secretary-General of the United Nations and all that? OK. Take a look at this.’

He watched as Rebecca's face lit up in the blue glow of the computer screen, her eyes skipping across the few lines of biography on Wilhelm Henning Munchau he had just called up. She didn't look surprised, Tom decided; she just seemed to be concentrating very hard.

‘You think this could be what this is all about?’

‘I don't know. It seems crazy. OK, Henning plays hardball, no doubt about it. But underneath the cynical exterior, he's on the side of the angels. Serious humanitarian. If you'd seen him in East Timor, when the rebels were getting pounded, he-’

‘But it would explain a lot. His father's a Nazi-’

‘Probably grandfather.’

‘-and he doesn't want it to get out. Maybe he knows my father knew about his family and he's determined to prevent us discovering it. It would explain a lot.’

‘I know. But I can't believe he would go to those lengths: sending men over here to wreck your father's home, your home, to bug our meetings-’

‘To kill Goldman.’

‘Even if he wanted to do that, he wouldn't have the capacity to do it. People always imagine the United Nations is some global power. But it's got nothing. If it wants ink for the photocopier it has to go begging.’

‘Have you got a better explanation?’

Tom rubbed his eyes until they emitted an audible squeak. He had no good answer. After all, what did they know? That there had been a plan to poison the water supply of post-war Germany that had clearly been abortive. That, instead, DIN had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of former SS officers while they awaited trial for war crimes. But how this related to now, to the present day, he could not say. Despite everything they had learned, he and Rebecca could not even state for certain what Gerald Merton had been doing in New York two days ago.

‘No. I can't think of-’

‘A-ha. Here we go. He's replied.’

I'm a friend and I really want to help.

Instantly, Rebecca hammered out a reply: Of my father's?

It took perhaps thirty seconds but then Facebook announced a new message had landed. She clicked it open. I never had the privilege of knowing your father. But I knew his work.

She turned to Tom. ‘What the hell does that mean, his “work”? My father was a dry cleaner.’ She pounded the keyboard. What ‘work’ do you have in mind?

The reply came back in a matter of seconds. I am an admirer of DIN. Rebecca looked back at Tom, hesitating. ‘What do you think we should do, Tom?’

Again, that ‘we’ sent a thrill through him. He wanted to hold her, to stroke her, to spend hour after hour meeting the gaze that seemed to see him so clearly. It required a great effort to bring himself back. ‘I think we should meet him,’ he said. ‘Somewhere public, somewhere safe.’ Tom glanced over at the man at the end of the row, squinting to make out what was on his screen: he appeared to be immersed in some kind of gothic video game.

Rebecca was typing again, breaking off for a moment to check her watch. I'll be in Starbucks, Portland Place at 6pm.

‘Say you'll be with me. As protection.’

We'll be in Starbucks, Portland Place at 6pm.

‘Here.’ Tom leaned over and started pressing the keys himself. Rebecca did not pull back. Tom had the sense she was breathing in the smell of him. ‘Best not be subtle.’

I'll be with a friend: he's helping me.

Then, as an afterthought, Rebecca typed five more words: How will I recognize you?

The reply took only a few seconds to come back.

Don't worry about that: I'll recognize you.