The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Rebecca was ashen. ‘Why? Why on earth would you have done that?’

Tom could see strain on Rebecca's face, draining it of colour. She was visibly struggling to make sense of what they were hearing. Each revelation had shaken up the kaleidoscope and then, just as it was resettling into a new picture she could understand, it was thrown into chaos all over again.

‘I've asked myself that same question. Many times.’ The President fixed Rebecca with a steady gaze. Tom noticed his eyes were reddening around the edges. ‘I knew the leaders were desperate to stop Aron. But they didn't know where he was or how to get to him. No one did. Then he contacted me, at the last minute. He was in a hurry: he had a question about storage of the poison. Was he meant to keep it cold, in the dark? We met and he let slip that he was leaving the next day. We knew he was going by British transport ship. So the British had to watch the port only for that single day. It was easy.’

‘I still don't understand why.’

The old man let out a deep sigh. ‘My disease. I suppose that's the answer. My disease.’

‘What disease?’ Rebecca's doctor voice.

‘The same disease I've always had.’ He paused, as if they were expected to know the answer. After a few moments of silence, he filled the space. ‘Ambition. I knew that the very highest echelons were determined to stop Aron and they couldn't do it. And then, thanks to me, they could. Within a few weeks, I was out of that laboratory, appointed as a personal adviser to the old man. The man who became my country's first leader. Funny, we all called him the old man. But I am now much older than he was. Anyway, I've been at the top ever since.’

Tom was struck by the man's honesty. Self-criticism was not usually politicians' strength and this went much further.

‘All right,’ Tom said, aware he was interrupting a conversation between the two of them. ‘Why don't you just tell the world what you've told us? You're the man who stopped Tochnit Aleph. That should win you a few more prizes.’

‘Oh, the world would be delighted, I agree. I could be a hero. Except the world is not Israel, Mr Byrne. In Israel, Aron of the Ghetto is a hero. And not some passing idol either. I mean a gever, a hero on a Biblical scale. He is the man who defended the Jews against their greatest enemy. He will be remembered in thousands of years, like Judah Maccabee or the boy David who slew Goliath. His name is already a legend in my country. Jews around the world read his poetry. Against him, I am an ant. A politician, cutting deals. And that's before they know what I know. And what you now know. That I betrayed him. The great Aron of the Ghetto. And to the British! The hated imperial masters, who shut the gates of Palestine in our hour of mortal peril!’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I think the question is, what are we going to do? We all need an exit strategy.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ It was Rebecca.

‘It means, my dear, that we need a way out. You need to leave here safely, with a guarantee that you will not be troubled by any of this again.’ He let the words hang in the air a while, so that Tom and Rebecca could weigh them. They sounded emollient and reasonable, until you stepped back – and realized they were a threat.

He went on. ‘And I need a guarantee that what you know, what we have discussed here, will never be made public. That you will take this secret to your grave.’

At last, thought Tom: a negotiation. Some lawyers did nothing else. Tom had not been one of them, not when he started. But at the UN there had always been a bit of bargaining involved in the job, even if it was a departmental tussle within the UN. He had once had to resolve a dispute over a Pacific island – in truth a glorified rock, smaller than the average New Yorker's bathroom – claimed by two rival, and slightly larger, islands. It was an arcane and hair-splitting dispute but it had ended in a negotiation. Besides, his work over the last few months, including for the Fantoni family, had been nothing but deals.

Tom sat up stiffly, an attempt to establish some authority in the room. His mind was revving. He had planned for this moment, but only over the last few minutes. He would have to improvise. ‘OK. We each know what we want and what we have. You will give Rebecca safe passage back to London. Once there, she'll arrange to give you the papers that you want. They will be originals. Once you have them, you will know that there is no more hard evidence of what happened. No evidence of your role.’

‘Except what's in your heads.’

‘Yes. But how likely are we to use that? Why, realistically, would we want to cause trouble? Now that we know what you can do to us.’ This was the first move.

The President rubbed his chin, then began a slight rocking motion, forwards and backwards, like a family patriarch on the porch, taking his time. Tom decided to press the point, see if he could close the deal.

‘If you can inject us with anaesthetic just off bloody Regent Street, then you can inject us with something worse.’ He watched the old man. ‘We have no interest in causing you embarrassment.’

‘And in return?’

‘You let us have our lives back. You call off your thugs and give back our passports and wallets.’

‘And you will give me back those papers.’

‘They will be yours. And so long as nothing happens to us, no one will ever see them.’

This was the second move, the one Tom hoped would be decisive.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that I have already made an electronic copy of those papers and scanned them into a website. A dormant website, programmed to stay dormant so long as I log in, with my password, every seven days. If for some reason I don't log in – say, I've been incapacitated in some way – then the site goes live. And sends an email alert to a few chosen addresses. Editor@NewYorkTimes.com would be one. Editor@JerusalemPost might be another. Oh, and we wouldn't want to leave out the BBC or CNN.’ Tom looked over at Rebecca. Her eyes were wide; she looked startled.

The President spoke again, his pitch now rising. ‘You've done this?’

Tom nodded, a bead of sweat forming on his upper lip. ‘We spent a lot of time at that internet cafe, as I'm sure your friends have told you.’

‘How dare you?’ The old man examined both faces then, with effort, hauled himself upright. ‘What if something goes wrong with this website, what if it accidentally-’

‘No need for you to worry about that. It's secure. Just so long as nothing happens to us.’

The President was pale, unsure what to say. Rebecca leaned forward, as if keen to exploit this moment of weakness. ‘I have one more condition.’

Tom swivelled round and glared at her: Don't ruin this.

She ignored him. ‘In return for keeping what you have told us safe and secret, in return for keeping that website dormant, I want you to use your influence to get me a meeting. With the Secretary-General of the United Nations.’

‘Oh, for God's sake, Rebecca-’ Tom couldn't help himself. What the hell was she playing at, risking the wrath of a man who had already proved he would stop at nothing to get his own way, and for what?

With a half-smile, which Tom interpreted as sheer disbelief at the cheek of the woman, the President held up a hand to silence him. ‘Tell me again. What is it you want?’

‘What Rebecca is trying to-’

‘I asked the lady myself, Mr Byrne.’ She had gone too far, Tom was certain of it. Any moment now the President would summon the heavies to come in and close this problem down once and for all.

Rebecca spoke again. ‘What I want is for you to get me a meeting with the Secretary-General. I want him to look me in the eye and admit what the UN did to my father. Then this nightmare can be over. My father did not survive all that he survived to be treated like this, as if he were nothing.’ Her voice was cracking. ‘Dirt on someone's shoe.’

‘I understand,’ the President said quietly. ‘Dr Merton, I truly understand.’

Suddenly, as if snapping himself out of a trance, he turned to Tom and shook his hand, giving him no chance to refuse the gesture. ‘I am prepared to accept these terms. I will contact the Secretary-General's office right away. And so long as you come to no harm, this internet site of yours will remain locked. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it stays locked and hidden even after my death: my future reputation matters to me just as much, you know. I can make arrangements that will hold after I'm gone. If that information is ever released, our agreement will be void. There will be people ready to act on that fact.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good. And now I would like to have a private word of remembrance with Dr Merton.’

He headed for the doorway: Tom wondered if he was about to usher Rebecca into the outer suite. Was he going to ask her to pray with him? But he gestured for her to stay behind, leaving Tom and Rebecca alone. Neither dared speak, fearing the old man would come back at any moment. He was gone for no more than twenty seconds, no doubt preparing his aides for the departure of his two ‘guests’.

When the President came back, he immediately placed an arm over Rebecca's shoulder, guiding her towards the window. Tom could only see their backs but he could hear the old man muttering something in a language he guessed was Hebrew: judging by Rebecca's low nod of response, it was probably a word of condolence for her father, perhaps even a memorial prayer. The President then removed his arm so that he could face Rebecca directly, clasping her hands in a double-handshake, the kind of showy gesture politicians saved for the special occasion. Tom was sure he had seen this very man do just that at the signing of a peace treaty a couple of decades earlier. There were more inaudible words of farewell, then the door opened and Tom and Rebecca were shown out – leaving the eighty-four-year-old President of the State of Israel gazing out of the window, quite alone.