The Final Reckoning Read Online Free PDF Page B

result.
    But it was hardly a top-flight legal assignment. He would not have to liaise with Foreign Office lawyers or diplomatic officials. He would probably have to deal with some London ambulance-chaser desperate to get his hands on a pot of UN cash. Bit of a waste of his CV: eleven years as an international lawyer with the UN and before that a legal resumé that included spells doing litigation in a City firm and three years as an academic at University College, London.
    ‘There are plenty of Brits around who could do this, Henning. Maybe not at the most senior level, but just below. Perfectly capable lawyers. Why me, Henning?’
    ‘Because you're a safe pair of hands.’
    Tom raised an eyebrow: a lawyer who'd left the UN the way he had was not what you'd call a safe pair of hands.
Come on
, the eyebrow said,
tell the truth.
    ‘OK, you're not a conventional safe pair of hands. But you're someone I can rely on.’
    Tom made a face that said flattery wasn't going to work.
    Henning sighed in resignation. ‘You know what they're like, the young lawyers here, Tom. Christ, we were both like that not so long ago. Full of idealistic bullshit about the UN as “the ultimate guarantor of human rights” and all that crap.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So we don't need any of that now. We need someone who will do what needs to be done.’
    ‘You need a cynic.’
    ‘I need a
realist.
Besides, you're not afraid to put the rulebook to one side every now and then. This might be one of those times.’
    Tom said nothing.
    ‘Above all, I know that you'll regard the interests of the United Nations as paramount.’ The hint of a smile playing around the corner of Henning's mouth gave that one away. He couldn't risk some British lawyer who might – how would one put it? – lose sight of his professional allegiances. Always a risk a Brit might give a call to his old pals at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, just to keep them in the loop. Lunch in Whitehall, a bit of chit-chat, no harm done. But there was no risk of that with Tom Byrne, graduate of Sheffield Grammar and the University of Manchester. He could be relied on not to betray the UN to his old boy network for one very simple reason: he didn't have an old boy network.
    ‘You know me: I'm a citizen of the world.’
    ‘I knew I could rely on you, Tom.’
    ‘You did a lot for me, Henning. I haven't forgotten.’
    ‘After this, we're even. Really. Which is not to say you won't be properly rewarded.’
    ‘Not the usual crappy UN rates?’
    ‘Separate budget for this, Tom. Emergency fund.’
    ‘So I'm to give the family whatever they want.’
    ‘Yep. Your job is to make sure that, after today, none of us ever hears another word about the dead old guy. When he gets buried, I want this whole thing buried with him.’

CHAPTER SIX
    Henning led them through the press gauntlet, the pair of them using their shoulders to carve a passage. Reporters threw questions at Henning even though they clearly had no idea who he was but he said nothing until they had reached the entrance of the makeshift tent that contained the dead man's body.
    ‘Tom, this is Jay Sherrill. The Commissioner tells me he is one of his elite, first grade detectives.’
    ‘First grade? That sounds junior.’ He couldn't help it: the guy looked about nineteen. Maybe early thirties, tops. Neatly pressed shirt; studious absence of a tie; sleek, hairless, handsome face. Tom could have drawn up a profile of Jay Sherrill then and there: one of the fast-track Ivy Leaguers favoured by all urban police forces these days. They were the young guns who spoke and dressed more like management consultants than cops. Had probably done a fortnight on the street and wasthereafter catapulted to the first rank of the force. Tom had read an article about men like this in the
New York Times
magazine, how they never wore uniform – they were ‘out of the bag’ in NYPD jargon – and how they did their own hours. They were the new officer