The Geneva Deception

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Tarrytown, New York

2nd May-4.03 p.m.

This was how everything had started.

A funeral. Black limos lining the road. A sea of unfamiliar faces. Secret service agents patrolling the grounds. Guests seated in a horseshoe. The coffin draped with the Stars and Stripes. The service droning towards its muted conclusion.

For a moment it seemed to Tom that time had stood still. That he must have imagined everything. That any moment now Jennifer would appear out of the rain and, silhouetted against the headlights of the car behind her, wave at him to run up and see her.

Except today there was no rain, clear blue skies and the crisp spring sunlight conspiring to lift the congregation’s sombre mood. Today there was no choreographed ceremony or martial display, the service playing out with a discreet intimacy of its own invention. Today people were there not because of some misplaced sense of duty or to cut a deal, but out of love. And today, rather than be exiled to some sodden, wind swept slope, Tom was sitting amongst them.

Same start. Different ending.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Tom whispered to Archie as FBI Director Green stepped forward and handed Jennifer’s parents the neatly folded flag. Her father took it with a proud nod, clutching it to his chest, his left arm hugging her mother into his collar, her shoulders shaking. Next to them both, Jennifer’s sister and her boyfriend were clasping each other’s hands.

‘You know what? I’ll miss her,’ Archie sighed, medical gauze still taped to his left cheek. ‘Never thought I’d say that about an FBI agent, but I really will.’

‘I’m sure she would have said the same about you,’ Tom smiled.

‘How was Allegra when you saw her?’

‘Still angry.’

‘Do you think she’ll stick with it? With being a copper, I mean?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think she knows herself yet.’

The service ended and the congregation broke up. Some remained seated, alone with their thoughts; others lingered in small groups, swapping memories or phone numbers as old acquaintances were renewed; a few paused at the grave’s edge, peering down at the earth-speckled coffin and maybe passing on a final thought.

Tom had a sudden urge to go and introduce himself to Jennifer’s parents, to share his memories of her and hear theirs, to let them know the part she’d played in his life and he in hers. But there seemed little point. They had no idea who he was. The truth was, he was as much a stranger here as he had been at his grandfather’s funeral.

‘Come on then. Let’s go.’

He got up and made eye contact with FBI Director Green on the other side of the coffin. He too was preparing to leave, it seemed, but the sight of Tom caused him to mutter some instructions to his security detail and then step towards him. Tom met him half-way.

‘Kirk.’

‘Mr Director.’

‘I thought you might like to know that Santos was killed yesterday. In Panama.’

Tom nodded slowly, a weight that he had scarcely been aware of slowly lifting from his shoulders.

‘How?’

‘Hard to tell really. There wasn’t much left of him. My people tell me a grenade.’

‘Dangerous things, grenades.’ Tom nodded. ‘What about the shooter? This isn’t over yet.’

‘We’re still working on it.’ Green shrugged. ‘As soon as we get a firm lead, I’ll let you know.’

‘And the ballistics results? I know someone who…’

‘We’ll find him. And when we do, I promise you that he’ll feel the full force of…’

‘Not if I get him first.’

‘Be careful, Kirk. I can’t protect you if you do something…’

‘Excuse me, but are you Tom Kirk?’ Jennifer’s father had appeared in front of them. A tall man, he was immaculately dressed in a pale grey suit and a black woven silk tie, his eyes sore, a slight tremor in his voice.

‘Yes, yes I am,’ Tom stammered, feeling both surprised and strangely awkward. ‘I’m so sorry…’

‘I think…I think she would have wanted you to have this.’

Biting his lip to hold back his tears, he pressed the triangular shape of the folded flag into Tom’s uncertain hands and then, with a tight nod at Green, fell back to his sobbing wife’s side.

Tom and Green stood there silently, only a few feet apart, the material strangely warm against Tom’s chest. Green glanced around, as if to check that no one was watching, then thrust out his hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Tom hesitated for a few moments, then shook it.

The next instant he was gone, caught up in a flurry of dark suits, Ray-Bans and clear plastic earpieces as he was bundled towards his car.

‘You think he let you escape from the FBI building on purpose?’ Archie murmured.

‘I think I did exactly what he’d hoped I would,’ said Tom. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

‘Mr Kirk? Mr Kirk?’

A voice called out as they turned to leave. Tom’s eyes narrowed, unable to place the man navigating his way through the crowd, although he recognised his jowly face and the metronomic sway of his gut from somewhere.

‘Larry Hewson, from Ogilvy, Myers and Gray,’ the man introduced himself enthusiastically.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’ Tom frowned.

‘We met at your grandfather’s funeral. I’m the Duval family…’

‘Attorney, yes,’ Tom suddenly remembered. ‘How did you…?’

‘Your associate was kind enough to suggest that I might find you here,’ Hewson explained.

Tom fixed Archie with a questioning stare.

‘My associate?’

‘He kept bloody calling.’ Archie shrugged. ‘I didn’t think he’d actually show up.’

‘There’s the small matter of your grandfather’s will,’ Hewson continued. ‘As I explained to you when we last met, he specified that I was to pass on to you something that your mother had given him shortly before her death.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘This time I’ve brought all the paperwork with me. If you wouldn’t mind just signing here-’ Hewson produced a sheet of paper and a pen and then held up his briefcase so that Tom could lean against it as he signed. ‘Excellent,’ he exclaimed, popping the briefcase’s brass catches and taking out a small wooden box and an envelope that he handed to Tom with a flourish. ‘Then I will be on my way.’

With a nod, he filed away the signed sheet of paper and strode off towards his waiting car, a phone snapping to his cheek.

‘What is it?’ Archie asked in a curious voice.

‘A letter from my mother,’ Tom replied, the sight of his name written in faded black ink strangely familiar from hoarded postcards.

The envelope opened easily, revealing a white card dated to the year before she’d died, across which she’d scribbled a brief message:

Darling Tom

One day, when you’re older, you might want some answers. And if you’re reading this, it probably means I’m not there to give them. So what’s inside this box might help. Whatever you find, don’t think too badly of me. I always loved you. I still do.

Love Mummy

Tom turned away from Archie, his eyes hot and stinging, his throat tightening, and opened the box.

All of a sudden, the events of the past few weeks came flooding back into sharp focus. De Luca’s strange familiarity on meeting him, Faulks’s openmouthed surprise at the mention of his name, Santos’s veiled questions.

Because inside, nestling on a black velvet background, was a watch.

A watch with an ivory face and an orange second hand.