CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

He tried to remember what this feeling was like and the comparison, when it came to him, was a surprise. But the combination of anxiety and anticipated relief – the sense that while he was about to endure something painful and risky, things would be better afterwards – was indeed similar. Jay Sherrill felt now just as he had when he first stepped into the office of the therapist who had counselled him after the death of his brother. Now, as then, he had concluded that the very act of taking action had to be better than enduring another anguished, unending night.

It was good that he had had so little time to prepare. He had contacted Henning Munchau late last night, asking to see him urgently. He didn't like going over Tom Byrne's head, but he had little choice: he hadn't been able to get hold of Byrne since yesterday lunchtime.

Munchau had seemed reluctant to take his call. Maybe he didn't like to undermine Byrne: more likely, he wanted arm's length deniability on the whole Gerald Merton business. Doubtless that was why he had contracted out the case to a lawyer who had left the UN more than a year ago. ‘I'll see what I can do,’ was the most Munchau had promised. Besides, he had no reason to bother with Sherrill: by now he would have had word from the DA's office that there were to be no charges in the Merton case. No crime had been committed; the UN was off the hook.

And then a call from Munchau twenty minutes ago, saying that a window in his schedule had suddenly opened up. If Jay could be in UN Plaza in the next fifteen minutes, they could have coffee in the delegates' lounge.

‘Sorry to spring that on you like that,’ the German said, in an accent Sherrill struggled to place. Was it European or Australian?

‘Not at all. Just glad you could make the time.’

‘Unusual situation. Secretary General just asked me to clear an hour of his schedule, which suddenly gave me an hour I didn't have.’

‘Right.’

‘He's meeting Rebecca Merton, as it happens. One on one.’

‘She's in New York?’

‘Didn't Byrne tell you? They flew in together.’

‘So he's alive then.’

Munchau arched an eyebrow.

‘It's just I've had no word from him for twenty-four hours. Despite multiple messages.’

‘That's Tom for you. So: what can I do for you?’

‘This conversation is strictly confidential, yes?’

‘If you want it to be.’

‘Well, my career – which is probably over – might depend on it.’

‘What's on your mind, Detective?’

‘Two days ago I had a meeting with the head of the NYPD Intelligence Division.’

‘With Stephen Lake?’

‘Yes.’

‘I'm listening.’

‘He said something I barely noticed at the time, but which I can't quite figure out.’

‘What was it?’

‘It could have been a simple slip of the tongue…’

‘Detective?’

‘He said,’ Sherrill read from his notebook, ‘“We may have had our eye on the UN for a while, with evidence of a ticking time-bomb over there”.’

‘He said that?’

‘“Or we may not.”’

‘Are you saying that the intel division knew there was a terror threat to the UN and didn't pass it on?’

‘No, sir, I'm not. That's what I thought it meant too. But listen to the exact wording. Lake didn't say a “a ticking time-bomb on its way to the UN” or “a bomb aimed at the UN”. He said “a bomb over there”.’

‘As if it were already here.’

‘Exactly.’

Henning looked around, watching delegates chat and smoke. ‘But NYPD wouldn't sit by and let this place be blown up. It would be their fuck-up, apart from anything else.’

‘I agree, Dr Munchau. Which is why I think he didn't mean it literally. He was using the phrase metaphorically.’

‘So intel knows something about this place that counts as a time-bomb.’

‘Something that could destroy the UN, yes, sir. That's what I suspect.’

The look of recognition and then alarm that spread across Henning Munchau's face meant that when he silently got to his feet, Jay Sherrill knew he had no option but to follow.

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