The Final Reckoning
First Avenue was free of traffic now, thanks to the NYPD officers armed with 50mm machine guns who had sealed the road from both north and south, 30th Street all the way to 59th. The UN headquarters now sat in the centre of a ‘sterile zone’ thirty blocks long. Since First Avenue was a main artery for the eastern half of Manhattan, New York City was about to seize up.
In the air, four NYPD Agusta A119 helicopters equipped with high-resolution, thermal-imaging ‘super-spy’ cameras now hovered, together policing an impromptu no-fly zone over the entire area. At the same time, on the East River, police launches took off from their bases in Throgs Neck, Brooklyn and along the Queens shoreline. No one would be able to enter or escape the United Nations compound by air or by water.
Not much later, the NYPD's Chief of Detectives arrived with his own lights and sirens. To his pleasure, he had got there ahead of Charles ‘Chuck’ Riley, the Police Commissioner, whose motorcade and motorcycle outriders pulled up a few moments later. Both nodded with satisfaction as they observed a lockdown utterly complete. As their aides would brief reporters for the rest of the day, there had been a suspected terror attack on one of the city's ‘high value targets’ and New York had responded ‘with swift and deadly force’.
But as they stepped out of their cars and shook hands with each other, the two men instantly saw the nature of their problem. They could approach the now-locked steel gate of the UN but go no further. They had reached the limit of the NYPD's authority, the very boundary of United States sovereignty. They were able to look into the eyes of the two men on the door, one a policeman from Montenegro, the other from Belgium. The Commissioner was sure he could see their hands trembling.
Inside, on the thirty-fourth floor, the United Nations Under-Secretary-General for Legal Affairs heard the fire alarm before he heard anything else. Henning Munchau leapt to his feet. He checked his outer office: nobody there, too early. He called down to front desk security but the phone just rang and rang. He checked his window, wondering for a moment if he was about to see a 747 steaming through the air, larger and lower than it should be, about to pierce the glass skin of the UN headquarters, killing the eight thousand people who worked within as well as a good number of the world's heads of government.
It was only then that his deputy, a Brazilian, rushed in, the blood absent from his face. He struggled to speak, and not just because he was out of breath. ‘Henning, I think you need to come right away.’
Eighteen minutes after Felipe Tavares had fired his fatal shot, Henning Munchau was standing close to the lifeless body that had still not been touched, save for the waterproof cape placed over it. The rain was still coming down.
At his side stood the Under-Secretary-General for Safety and Security, stunned into silence. Both had just received an instant briefing, giving them the roughest outline of what had happened. Munchau saw the discotheque of lights that now ringed the UN compound and the small army of NYPD men that surrounded it and felt like the inhabitant of a medieval castle on the first day of a siege.
And now he could see, standing on the other side of the railings, a face he recognized, one rarely off the front page of the city papers, the man they called ‘The Commish’. This was one legal conference that would have to take place outside, on foot and in the rain.
‘Commissioner, I am Henning Munchau, chief lawyer of the United Nations.’
‘Good to meet ya, Henning,’ the Commissioner said, his face and tone conveying nothing of the sort. ‘We appear to have a situation.’
‘We do.’
‘We cannot enter these premises and respond to this incident unless you formally request that we do so.’ The language was officialese, the accent down-home Southern.
‘Looks like you've already responded in quite a big way, Commissioner.’ Though German, Munchau spoke his eerily fluent English with a hint of Australian, both accent and idiom, the legacy, so UN legend had it, of his service in the UN mission in East Timor.
Riley shrugged. ‘We cannot enter the compound without your consent. And I'm assuming you don't have the resources to handle a terrorist incident.’
Henning tried to hide his relief. It meant the NYPD had not yet heard about the dead man. That would give him time.
‘You're quite right,’ Munchau said, struck by the strangeness of speaking through metal railings in the rain, like an outdoor prison visit. He envied the Commissioner his umbrella. ‘But I think we need to agree some terms.’
The policeman smiled wanly. ‘Go ahead.’
‘The NYPD come in but only at the request and at the discretion of the United Nations.’
‘No discretion. Once you let us in, it's our investigation. All or nothing.’
‘Fine, but none of this.’ He gestured towards the SWAT teams, their guns cocked. ‘This is not the UN way. This is not Kabul.’ Munchau saw Riley bristle, so he went further. ‘This is not Baghdad.’
‘OK, minimal show of force.’
‘I'm talking one or two armed men only, to accompany your detectives.’
‘Done.’
‘And your investigation to be shadowed at all times by a representative of the UN.’
‘A representative?’
‘A lawyer. From my team.’
‘A lawyer? For Christ's—’
‘Those are the conditions.’
Munchau saw the Commissioner weigh it up, knowing he could hardly refuse. A suspected terror attack in New York, the NYPD had to be involved. ‘The Commish’ couldn't go on television saying that the department was sitting this one out, whatever the explanation. Munchau knew that: Riley would want to be on the air within the hour, reassuring New Yorkers that he had it all under control.
Now a black limo pulled up, with a whole new battalion of lights and sirens. Behind it were two satellite TV trucks, clearly given special permission to come through. The Mayor had arrived.
‘OK,’ the Commissioner said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I accept.’
Munchau offered his hand through the railings and the policeman took it hurriedly. Munchau nodded to the UN guard on the gate, who fumbled with the lock until it opened.
Watching the TV reporter heading his way, Munchau made a point of raising his voice to declare, ‘Mr Commissioner, welcome to the United Nations.’
CHAPTER THREE
It took time for the Chef de Cabinet of the Secretary-General of the United Nations to convene this meeting. Besides Munchau and his counterpart in Security, the UN's most senior officials, the rest of the elite quintet of USGs – Under-Secretaries-General – had been on their way to the building when the shooting happened. (The UN high command tended to work late, but did not start especially early.) Thanks to the shutdown of First Avenue, none reached UN Plaza much before ten a.m.
Now, at last, they were gathered in the Situation Center. The more cynical folk in the building always cracked a smile at that name. Built in the aftermath of 9/11, this heavily armoured, lavishly equipped and top secret meeting place was clearly modelled on the legendary Situation Room of the White House. But of course the UN could not be seen to be aping the Americans: the United States' many enemies in the UN would not tolerate that. Nor could the Americans be allowed to believe that the UN Secretary-General was getting ideas above his station, imagining himself a match for the President of the United States. So the UN would have no Sit Room, but a Sit Center, which made all the difference.
At its heart was a solid, polished table, each place around it equipped discreetly with the sockets and switches that made all forms of communication, including simultaneous translation, possible. Facing the table was a wall fitted with state-of-the-art video conferencing facilities: half a dozen wide plasma screens that could be hooked up rapidly by satellite, across secure links, to UN missions around the globe. The Secretary-General was never on the road for less than a third of the year, but the existence of the Sit Center meant that he did not always have to leave New York if he wanted face-to-face talks with his own people. Above all, it was there for when disaster struck.
There had been no need for video links this time: the danger was right here in New York. The Chef de Cabinet, Finnish like his boss, began by explaining that the building remained in partial lockdown, with authorized access and egress only. No one would be let in or out without the express permission of the Legal Counsel. That had been agreed with the New York Police Department who wished to interview every witness, even if that meant interviewing the entire UN workforce.
The Chef de Cabinet went on to confirm that the Secretary-General himself had not been inside UN Plaza at the time. He had been at a breakfast at the Four Seasons held in his honour and was now heading over through horrendous traffic. He had told his audience that he had made a deliberate decision to continue with his planned engagement, that to do otherwise would be ‘to hand a victory to those who seek to disrupt our way of life’. Apparently that had elicited an ovation, but it made Henning Munchau wince. Not only because it felt like a crude pander to New Yorkers, echoing their own post-9/11 rhetoric of defiance, and not only because he reckoned it would have been smarter politics for the new Secretary-General to have stood with his own people as they appeared to come under attack, but largely because the SG had now opened up a gap between public perception of the morning's incident – a terrorist outrage, bravely thwarted – and what Henning knew to be the reality.
The Chef de Cabinet explained that technicians were trying to connect the SG via speakerphone.
‘In the meantime, I suggest we establish what we know and work out some options that we can present to the Secretary-General. Can I start with you, Henri?’
The Under-Secretary responsible for the security of UN personnel across the globe glanced down at the note he had hastily written when being briefed by the Watch Commander, translating from his own handwritten French.
‘We understand that a man was shot at 8.51 a.m. today by a member of the UN's Security and Safety Force in front of the main visitors' entrance between 45th and 46th Streets. He had been monitored by a team from the NYPD Intelligence Division who had been in liaison with ourselves and they had cause to believe he posed an imminent danger to the United Nations. That information was passed to the Watch Commander and he passed it onto the guards on duty, including the officer who fired his weapon, believing the man to be a suicide bomber.’
‘And the man is dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what else do we know? Is the building in any danger?’
‘The lockdown procedure was followed perfectly. The building is now secure. We have no reason to believe this was the start of a series of attacks.’
‘And why is that?’
Henri Barr hesitated. He looked over at Henning, who gave a small nod. ‘Because we strongly suspect that the man killed does not match the profile put together by the NYPD.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ It was the USG for humanitarian affairs, a white South African ex-communist who had made his name in the anti-apartheid movement. His bullshit detector was famously robust.
‘It means that the man who was shot was old.’
‘Old?’
‘Yes, he was a very old man.’ Barr lost oxygen at the end of the sentence and gulped. ‘But his clothes fitted the description and they seemed to be the clothes of a suicide bomber.’
‘Oh come on. He was dressed like a suicide bomber and that's why we killed him?’
The Chef de Cabinet stepped in. This was no time for grandstanding or arguments, though he could feel the adrenalin rising in the room. ‘When you say “old”, Henri, what do you mean?’
‘We estimate maybe seventy, perhaps more.’
‘Did he even look Muslim?’ It was the question that several of them had wanted to ask but had not dared. But Anjhut Banerjee, the Indian Under-Secretary for Peacekeeping, had none of their inhibitions.
‘No,’ said Barr, looking down at his notes. ‘It seems not.’
‘Good God,’ Banerjee said, falling back into her chair. ‘You do know what this means, don't you?’ she said, looking directly at the Chef de Cabinet. ‘I was in London when the police shot some Brazilian electrician on a train because they thought he looked like a suicide bomber. Completely innocent man.’ She exhaled sharply, shorthand for ‘You have no idea the shit that is coming our way’.
‘What is our vulnerability, Henning?’ The Chef de Cabinet looking towards the lawyer.
‘You mean our liability?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can look into that, but I don't think we should get too hung up on compensation claims and the like. That's not the nature of the problem.’ He paused, forcing the man at the head of the table to press him.
‘What is the nature of the problem, then?’ ‘Same as with most legal problems in this place. It's not legal. It's political.’
‘So what do you suggest we do about it?’
‘I think I know exactly what needs to be done. And, better still, I know just the man to do it.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Tom Byrne was jolted awake by a sound both unfamiliar and unpleasant. These days if he ever set the alarm, he used the iPod docked in his Bose bedside player, waking up to the soothing welcome of a song from his own collection. Yesterday it had been Frank Sinatra, serenading the morning with I've Got You Under My Skin. What an improvement on how he used to begin his day, with the dreary drone of the BBC bloody World Service.
But this noise was worse than the radio. It was a repeating chime, with a long, echoing sustain, the sound lingering in the air. Tom could feel his heart thumping in his chest. And then he saw the culprit: his new BlackBerry, fresh out of the box just yesterday. He hadn't got around to setting it to silent.
He squinted at his watch. Half past ten in the morning. That was OK: he hadn't got to bed till five, having worked through the night on the Dubai contract. Then he remembered: he hadn't spent all night working.
‘Hey, Miranda. Wakey wakey.’
There was a groan from the pile of brunette hair resting on the pillow next to him, followed by a lift of the head and a grunt. ‘It's Marina.’
‘Sorry.’ Tom swung his legs out of the bed and headed over for the blinds, which he louvred open, flooding the room with light. ‘OK, Marina, I mean it. Rise and shine.’
The woman in the bed sat up, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. She didn't bother to cover herself, affording Tom a daytime view of the generous breasts he had been enjoying just a few hours earlier. Maybe young Upper West Side brunettes had their drawbacks, but right now he wasn't seeing any. Perhaps he could hop back into bed for another half hour …
The BlackBerry sounded again, a single high-volume chime to herald the arrival of a message. Bound to be his clients: he had sent them the first draft of the paperwork in the middle of the night, and here they were, already demanding revisions. You could say what you liked about organized crime, but you had to hand it to them: they worked long hours.
His new clients were what you'd call ‘a family of Italian-American descent with long and historic roots in the New York construction industry’ – that is if you were their lawyer. They were now seeking to expand into property in the Persian Gulf, all legal and legit, but there was a pile of international papers that had to be filed first. A friend of a friend had recommended him and the family were happy to have him – they liked being represented by a big-shot international lawyer, British-born and with several years at the United Nations on his resumé – and he was happy to have them, earning more in a week than he had earned in a year working for the blue-helmets of UN Plaza.
He watched as Marina slunk out of bed, nodding her in the direction of the shower, then looked back down at the BlackBerry. 1 Missed Call. He pressed it to see a single name displayed: Henning.
Now there was a surprise. Henning Munchau, Legal Counsel for the United Nations, hadn't called Tom from his personal cellphone all that often even when Tom worked for him. But that had been more than a year ago.
Tom would listen to the message first, before calling back – a habit picked up at the UN, an institution whose organizing principle could be boiled down to three little words: wait and see. His younger self had always been in such a hurry, but Tom had learned from the best that it paid to take your time, give yourself a moment to think, let the other guy show his hand first, even – especially – when the other guy was your boss. Or former boss. A few seconds' thinking time might make all the difference. Christ, the rule even applied to face-to-face conversations in that place. It was as if Harold Pinter had written the dialogue, the way UN officials would pause to read each other's expressions and divine their motivations.
‘Hi Tom, it's Henning. We need to talk. I know what you said about… Meet me at that coffee shop as fast as you can. Tom, I… don't call me back.’
Not even a ‘long time no speak’, the prick.
So the UN's most senior lawyer needed to discuss a topic so sensitive he didn't dare do it on the telephone or in his own building. That was hardly news: everyone knew there was not a word spoken in UN Plaza that was not monitored, by the Yanks at NSA, by the Brits at GCHQ and by God knows who else. But ‘meet me at the coffee shop’ was especially interesting. That meant Henning didn't even want to give away a specific location. And why on earth, given everything that had happened, had he called Tom? If it had been anyone else from the UN, Tom would have hit delete and not given it another thought. But this was Henning.
He walked into the closet, reviewing the line of suits arranged like conscripts on parade. Big meeting like this would normally call for the Prada or Paul Smith. But Tom didn't want to rub Henning's public sector salary in his face; he'd go for something plainer. Pink shirt and cufflinks? No, the plain blue would do. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: wrong side of forty, but he could still scrub up all right. No time for a shower today though. He shot two bursts of Hugo Boss aftershave onto his neck and mussed up his close-cropped, dirty blond hair.
The BlackBerry was now winking with the arrival of an email. Subject: Dubai. Sure enough, the Fantonis had been reading the small print. They'd noticed the legal obligation to pay compensation to the fishermen whose villages they were about to destroy to make way for a luxury high-rise development. ‘Can't we make this clause go away?’
Tom got ready to draft a reply that would explain the moral obligation on all developers to ensure that anybody rendered homeless would be adequately …
Fuck it. Using his thumbs, he typed: ‘Leave it to me: it's gone.’
He gathered up his things, admiring again the vast, open space of this loft apartment. He wondered about firing up the plasma TV, to check on the news but decided against it: Henning was waiting. Instead he poked his head around the bathroom door and called into the cloud of steam: ‘See yourself out, Miranda.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The cab driver shook his turbaned head, muttering that he would get as far as he could, but the road had been blocked for the last hour. ‘On the radio, they say something about terror attack. You here on 9/11?’
Tom handed him a ten dollar bill and got out at 39th Street, walking as far as he could. He could see the clutch of police cars, their red lights winking, and behind them the glare of TV bulbs already illuminating a jam of trucks bearing satellite dishes. In itself that was no surprise during General Assembly week. He assumed the Russian tsar was in town – no point calling him anything else – or any one of the usual procession of African, Central Asian and Middle Eastern despots in New York for the glory of a stroll up to the podium of the General Assembly when they were lucky not to be in the dock at the Hague.
But now he could see a city cop, a woman, turning people back from the first entry gate to UN Plaza. Along the railings, stretching for several blocks, apparently encircling the entire compound like a ribbon on a Christmas gift, was a continuous thread of yellow-and-black plastic tape: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
He walked on, noticing how each successive entrance was blocked off. The gate used by the public was thronged by a pack of reporters, photographers and cameramen. Tom was tall enough to peer over their heads, to see, in the middle of the paved area in front of the security marquee, a small tent constructed from green tarpaulin. Around it fussed police officers, a single photographer and a forensic team in overalls, masks and white latex gloves.
He crossed the road, threading his way through the cars. Facing him was the concrete phallic symbol that was the Trump World Tower and a skyscraper decorated with a damp and limp German flag: Deutschland's mission to the UN. The Nations' Café was just next door.
He saw Henning Munchau immediately, earnestly studying the map-of-the-world pattern that decorated the vinyl table top. Funny how easily men of power could be diminished. Inside the UN, Munchau was a player who could stride through corridors, winning deferential nods of the head from everyone he passed. But take him out of the building and he was just another New York suit with a briefcase and thinning hair.
To Tom's surprise, Henning rose the moment they had made eye contact, leaving his coffee untouched. His eyes indicated the door: follow me. What the hell was going on?
Once outside, Henning raised his eyebrows, a gesture Tom took a second or two to understand. ‘Of course,’ he said finally. Munchau was one of those smokers who never carried his own cigarettes: he believed that if you didn't buy them, you didn't really smoke them. Tom reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pouch of Drum rolling tobacco – one of the few constants in his life these last few years – inside which was a small blue envelope of cigarette papers, and in a few dexterous moves conjured a neat, thin stick which he passed to Henning. He did the same for himself, then lit them both with a single match.
‘Fuck, that's better,’ said Henning, his cheeks still sucked in, refusing to exhale the first drag. He looked hard at Tom, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘It's been a long time. You doing OK?’
‘Never better.’
‘That's good.’ Henning took another long drag. ‘Because you look like shit.’
Tom let out a laugh, which triggered a broad Henning grin, the smile that had made Tom instantly like the man when they first met all those years ago. That and the Munchau patois, flawless English with an Australian lilt and the earthy vocabulary to match. Tom had seen it take shape: they had served on the Australian-led East Timor mission together. Their friendship had been one legacy of that experience. That the Legal Counsel had become that rarest of creatures – a Hessen-born doctor of jurisprudence with a mouth like a Bondi surfer – was another.
‘So you don't miss the old place? Working for the family of nations and all that?’
‘No, I don't miss it. So, Henning, we're both busy guys. What is it you need?’
‘It's about this—’ he trailed off. ‘About what happened here this morning.’
‘Yeah, what is all this? I saw the police line and—’
‘You don't know? Christ, Tom, all those fat corporate fees and you can't afford a radio? A man was shot here about two hours ago, a suspected terrorist.’
‘OK.’
‘Not OK,’ said Henning. He exhaled a plume, then checked left and right. In a whisper, his eyes intent, he said, ‘Turns out we got the wrong guy.’
‘He wasn't a terrorist?’