The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

He studied her face closely. In the dull twilight of a locked car in an underground car park, it was almost impossible to discern anything but an outline. To make sure she was really there he touched her, running his fingers gently over her skin, her cheekbones, her chin.

‘Are you, OK? Did they hurt you?’ ‘I'm fine,’ Rebecca said. ‘Woozy, bit nauseous, exhausted. Like being a junior doctor really.’ She smiled weakly, sending a stab of pain through him that felt very close to love.

Now the car took off, emerging up an exit ramp and into the daylight. Their captors had not been lying. They were in New York. It took him a while to realize it, but Tom was back on the very street he had driven down hours before he had left for London. There was the Bellevue Medical Center and there, still open for business, was the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, where – how long ago? – he had gazed upon the staring, blue-eyed corpse of Gershon Matzkin.

They were driving in the opposite direction from his last journey, heading north up First Avenue. A sensation that was part bafflement, part dread began to rise inside him. They were travelling towards the United Nations.

A picture of Henning Munchau floated into Tom's head. Could this really be his handiwork? What terrible secret could he, or those he served, harbour that he would do this – and to one of his oldest friends? It seemed so idiotic. Didn't Henning realize that he would simply have had to say the word – ordering rather than suggesting Tom's return – and Tom would have jumped on a plane back to New York? Instead he had gone to these extreme lengths. Tom looked over at Rebecca, absorbing the sight of her in profile, a corkscrew curl of hair tucked behind one ear. Unless, it was not Tom that Henning had needed to get to New York…

They were descending again, down another slope into an underground car park. Damn. He hadn't been paying attention at the crucial moment: he didn't know precisely where they were.

Once more they parked up by an elevator shaft. This time there were no wheelchairs. Richard and the bodyguard simply guided Tom and Rebecca into the lift, flanking them to prevent escape. Saying nothing, Richard pressed the button. The top floor, Tom noticed.

The lift doors opened and now he understood: they were in a hotel, on what, he guessed, was the penthouse level. They walked down a corridor until they reached a door where two young men in dark blue suits, curled wires in their ears, stood as sentries on either side. Richard gave each of them a nod and the door was opened.

Inside was the sitting room of a suite, clearly one of the best in the building. Tom had seen hotel rooms like this only a couple of times, travelling with the UN high command. In his memory, they were always strewn with piles of paper, the odd, hastily installed fax machine and several uncleared trays of room service food. These quarters, he noted, had much less clutter.

He and Rebecca were invited to sit down and they did so in silence. Rebellion was wholly pointless, he reasoned: they would soon meet the ‘boss’ Richard had mentioned.

Finally, another young man entered the room, darting only a quick glance in their direction: Tom guessed he saw something in his expression, a reluctance, perhaps even an embarrassment. Richard and this man exchanged a few words. Tom strained to hear what they were saying, even to hear what language they were speaking. He couldn't make it out; he wasn't sure he recognized it at all.

The minutes went past, Rebecca occasionally turning out her palms as if to say ‘What the hell is going on?’ All he could do was shrug.

And then there was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the dark wood door. Someone had arrived. The flurry of activity, the pulse of adrenalin passing through the room, told Tom it was someone important. The boss.

More delay and then Richard spoke. ‘I can show you in now.’

The two got up and followed him through the connecting door, into a larger sitting area. This room was spotless. They could see the figure of a suited man, his back to them, standing at the large picture window, apparently taking in the view of Manhattan and the East River in the morning light.

At last he turned around. ‘Welcome to the Presidential Suite,’ he said.

Tom took in that voice, and the face he instantly recognized, and felt his veins turn to ice.