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The Final Reckoning
Sam Bourne
From the author of Number One bestseller The Righteous Men. How are hundreds of unexplained deaths, spanning the globe, connected to the last great secret of the Second World War?Tom Byrne has fallen from grace since his days as an idealistic young lawyer in New York. Now he'll work for anyone – as long as the money's right.So when the United Nations call him in to do their dirty work, he accepts the job without hesitation. A suspected suicide bomber shot by UN security staff has turned out to be a harmless old man: Tom must placate the family and limit their claims for compensation.In London, Tom meets the dead man’s alluring daughter, Rebecca, and learns that her father was not quite the innocent he seemed. He unravels details of a unique, hidden brotherhood, united in a mission that has spanned the world and caused hundreds of unexplained deaths.Pursued by those ready to kill to uncover the truth, Tom has to unlock a secret that has lain buried for more than 60 years – the last great secret of the Second World War.
SAM BOURNE
The Final Reckoning
Table of Contents
The Final Reckoning (#u9d6cc3bb-b8d5-54b4-9510-c713f58d7946)
Prologue (#u68a607fb-be94-5528-a2cb-7fb416bbf5be)
Chapter One (#ucacdbb89-0237-514d-9a57-83cc93de8c7d)
Chapter Two (#ubac2d683-954d-5261-b07d-f76935d2d8ea)
Chapter Three (#u1b9db6db-db73-590d-ac68-f45a0c8fd35a)
Chapter Four (#ue129c18d-4f25-59aa-baea-37d2f81474bd)
Chapter Five (#u125ffddf-9fba-5e5e-aa1d-eee9e1d3a406)
Chapter Six (#u33596936-8361-56b2-843a-1098bc29cc3c)
Chapter Seven (#u35e1048f-d80a-5f33-9e95-c58db8161a45)
Chapter Eight (#ua427e999-c394-5ef8-b43f-18b34f18b60a)
Chapter Nine (#u3e1dd8d8-2290-5196-972a-adc7d23db28f)
Chapter Ten (#u9f28f7e9-c094-52ce-92d2-02390158b433)
Chapter Eleven (#ua25572c6-8412-5cfb-b6ad-91fd9b0e7725)
Chapter Twelve (#ue2c6b9ba-f2ff-5d3d-a76c-d9c3690fab22)
Chapter Thirteen (#u4fd7d3c2-fd8b-5760-9b40-933c0db89a30)
Chapter Fourteen (#u89e5ed32-84d9-5a65-a8da-ed1f2491f1fe)
Chapter Fifteen (#udb45dfaa-06e8-53a9-a64b-669a84e82b02)
Chapter Sixteen (#ucd432225-d557-5dde-88e5-bc98ae21255a)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author's Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
By Sam Bourne (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
THE FINAL RECKONING (#u8d27c806-cdab-5283-89cf-7d9e3e5bed27)
Sam Bourne is the pseudonym of Jonathan Freedland, an award-winning journalist and broadcaster. He has written a weekly column for the Guardian since 1997, having previously served as the paper's Washington correspondent.
In the annual What the Papers Say Awards of 2002 Jonathan Freedland was named Columnist of the Year. His first novel, The Righteous Men, was chosen as a Richard and Judy Summer Read in 2006 and hit Number One on the Sunday Times bestseller list. His second novel, The Last Testament, was a top ten bestseller and has sold over 250,000 copies in the UK alone. He lives in London with his wife and their two children.
For Sarah: Ani l'dodi, v'dodi li.
PROLOGUE (#u8d27c806-cdab-5283-89cf-7d9e3e5bed27)
My pen has hovered over these pages many times. I have wanted so badly to set down my story here – but I have hesitated. Each time I begin a sentence only to pull back. Even now the pen is heavy in my hand.
But there is not much time, I see that now. I understand that if I were to leave these pages blank, all that I have witnessed would be forgotten. Our story would be lost forever.
So forgive me if what you read here is harsh, if it haunts you the way it haunts me. But there will be no exaggeration, no lies. I may not tell everything, but what I will tell will be the truth. This is what happened. Some of it you know already. Some of it you don't. It is my story now, but soon it will be yours.
CHAPTER ONE (#u8d27c806-cdab-5283-89cf-7d9e3e5bed27)
The day that changes a life, or ends a life, rarely comes with a warning. There are no signs in the sky, no dark ravens on a post, no soundtrack in a minor key. To Felipe Tavares, security officer at the United Nations building in New York, September 23 had started as a regular Monday.
He had come in on the Long Island Expressway on the 6.15 train, picked up a cappuccino and a muffin – a skinny blueberry one, in a concession to his wife – waved his permit at the guys on the door and headed to the basement of the United Nations building, headquarters of the institution he had served for the previous three years. There he opened up his locker, pulled out the blue uniform of an officer of the UN Security Force, complete with the Sam Browne belt and the brass badge that still triggered a charge of pride, and dressed for his shift.
Next, he went to the armoury to pick up his weapon. He handed over his smartcard photo ID, taking in return a 9mm Glock, standard issue for most serving members of this miniature police force, charged with protecting the international territory that was the UN compound and everything within it. Felipe took the ammunition from the pouch on his belt and loaded up, carefully pointing the weapon into the loading barrel to guard against any misfires. Once his gun was holstered on his belt, alongside his truncheon, a P38 baton with handle, pepper spray and cuffs, he headed for the basement's ‘ready room’. There he would stand in his place for the line-up, where he and his fellow guards would be reviewed by an officer, checking to make sure his men and women were tidy, sober and fit for duty.
That done, he headed back to the main entrance on First Avenue between 45th and 46th Streets to begin what he assumed would be another long day checking permits and answering tourists' questions. It was warm enough, but rain was in the air; he put on his orange-and-black waterproof cape. The work would be boring, but he did not care. Felipe Tavares had yearned to escape from the drudgery of small-town Portugal where he had been born and grown up, and where, if he had not moved fast, he would have died – and he had made it. He was in New York City and that alone was excitement enough.
* * *
At that same moment, across town in a Tribeca side street that was no more than an alley, Marcus Mack conducted his own morning routine. African-American and in his late twenties, wearing loose, frayed jeans, with a full head of dreadlocks and with a grungy Crumpler computer bag slung across his shoulder, he checked on his parked car. Anyone watching would have assumed he was merely proud of his souped-up, if aged, Pontiac and that when he knelt down by the driver's side rear wheel he was checking the tyre pressure. They probably wouldn't have seen him feeling in the well above the wheel and finding, stuck there with duct tape, a cellphone. He took it and walked on.
Perhaps a minute later the phone rang, as Marcus knew it would. The voice that spoke was familiar but Marcus knew better than to say hello. It said four words – ‘Athens coffee shop, seven-thirty’ – then hung up. At the corner of the street, and without ceremony, Mack dropped the telephone into a garbage can.
The café was full, the way his handler liked it. Marcus spotted him instantly, on a stool in the window, just another grey-suit reading his newspaper. Marcus took the seat next to him and pulled out his laptop. They made no eye contact.
The handler's phone rang and he pretended to answer it. In fact, he was speaking to Marcus, whose eyes remained fixed on the computer screen in front of him.
‘We've picked up activity in Brighton Beach. The Russian.’
