The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Jay Sherrill placed a protective hand on the laptop, covering up the Apple symbol; he knew what the NYPD numb-skulls would make of that. It would be one more confirmation that he was a college boy, a white-wine sipping Volvo driver – some homo who should have been a graphic designer rather than a cop.

Though there were some fellow Volvo types around here. This was the Commissioner's office, after all. Bound to be some policy advisers and media specialists in the operation. They wouldn't all be hard-boiled gumshoe cops moulded in the 1950s.

He wanted to open up the machine again, just to be sure the item was still there. What if there wasn't enough power? What if the programme crashed?

‘The Commissioner will see you now.’

He gathered up his things and went straight through, aware that his shirt was creased and that there was a small stain on the right leg of his chinos. He had known that when he put the trousers on this morning. But he had no choice. They were the only semi-clean clothes in the entire apartment. The truth was, he had barely slept or eaten or washed since this whole nightmare of a case had landed in his lap on Monday morning. He was ragged.

‘Good to see you, Mr Sherrill.’

‘My pleasure, sir.’ My pleasure? ‘I mean, thank-’

‘Relax, Mr Sherrill, take a seat. My office said you needed to see me urgently. That sounds like good news.’

‘I hope so, sir.’ Calm. Breathe.

‘Why'd you bring that thing in here? You got something to show me?’

‘Yes, I have.’ He flipped open the lid of his computer, clicked open the iMovie programme and selected the most recent project. Only then did he get up and move round to Riley's side of the desk. ‘May I, sir?’

‘What's this gonna be, Debbie Does Dallas?’

‘Not quite, sir, no. But still pretty interesting.’

A window opened up, a small video screen. Sherrill, hovering at the Commissioner's side, leaned down to expand it. And then he pressed play.

Instantly an image appeared of a silhouetted man. He was seated against a window. The visual grammar was obvious: it was the style of an undercover interview designed to preserve the subject's anonymity. There was a voice on the film, though it was off-mike. It was Sherrill's own.

Please identify yourself.

Then a reply: I am an agent of the New York Police Department, Intelligence Division.

That was enough to have Chuck Riley spin round in his chair and look up at the man over his shoulder. The excitement visible in his expression was what Sherrill had been hoping for. Now, at long last, he began to relax. He heard his own voice on the computer again.

Can you verify that, without revealing your name?

Yes. I can reveal operational details that would only be known to an officer in Intel. I will do that to the Commissioner or any investigating authority.

I appreciate that, but perhaps you could say something now, that might establish your credentials?

The silhouetted figure paused, moving slightly in his chair. The change in profile revealed an unexpected hair style: long, Riley thought, like a woman's.

I could tell you about our operation during the Republican convention when it was in the city, monitoring protesters.

That would be excellent.

The voice proceeded to give details of how he and his fellow agents had travelled beyond New York, to New Mexico and Illinois, to Montreal and even to Europe, snooping on political activists who were planning on demonstrating outside the convention. He spoke about how he had worked undercover, going to left-wing and anti-war meetings, making friends, eventually getting himself on electronic mailing lists – all the while filing reports back to headquarters.

The thing is, everyone thinks we were just watching foreign terrorists. But I gotta tell ya: we were spying on people who had no intention of doing violence to anybody. I even infiltrated some street theatre company, for Christ's sake. Church groups too. And here's the thing: these people were US citizens.

The Commissioner was listening closely, turning his face from the screen so that his ear could be nearer to the computer's speaker. Occasionally, he closed his eyes, as if he wanted to avoid all distraction. He then signalled for Sherrill to stop the machine. ‘You sure he couldn't have got all that from the papers? From the internet or somewhere?’

Sherrill smiled and released the play key.

We all had different code names. My one was Tenzing. Another was called Simpson. And there was Hillary. All famous climbers, apparently. They say the boss is some mountain freak.

At this, Riley sat back and exhaled. That much was true: Stephen Lake was a fanatic, challenging himself by climbing ever more improbable peaks. But Lake was hardly known outside the CIA or, more recently, the Intelligence Division of the NYPD. His penchant for mountains was certainly not public knowledge. The silhouette couldn't have just picked that up. Besides, the Commissioner knew at least one of those codenames was accurate. When The New York Times had started digging into the Republican convention story, he had made some inquiries of his own. He had heard about the unit called Hillary. He'd never have made the link to mountains though; he'd just thought the units had girl's names. Like hurricanes.

‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘I believe him.’

‘I'm glad, sir. Because I think what this man goes on to say explains how Gerald Merton came to be shot dead on the steps of the UN.’

‘And-’

‘And, more importantly, sir, who was responsible for that happening.’

‘That's very good, Sherrill. That's very good indeed.’