Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

The day that changes a life, or endsa life, rarely comes with a warning. There are no signs in the sky, no darkravens on a post, no soundtrack in a minor key. To Felipe Tavares, securityofficer at the United Nations building in New York, September 23 had started asa regular Monday.

He had come in on the Long IslandExpressway on the 6.15 train, picked up a cappuccino and a muffin a skinnyblueberry one, in a concession to his wife waved his permit at the guys onthe 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 theUN Security Force, complete with the Sam Browne belt and the brass badge thatstill triggered a charge of pride, and dressed for his shift.

Next, he went to the armoury to pickup his weapon. He handed over his smartcard photo ID, taking in return a 9mmGlock, standard issue for most serving members of this miniature police force,charged with protecting the international territory that was the UN compoundand everything within it. Felipe took the ammunition from the pouch on his beltand loaded up, carefully pointing the weapon into the loading barrel to guardagainst any misfires. Once his gun was holstered on his belt, alongside histruncheon, a P38 baton with handle, pepper spray and cuffs, he headed for thebasement'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 tomake sure his men and women were tidy, sober and fit for duty.

That done, he headed back to themain entrance on First Avenue between 45th and 46th Streets to begin what heassumed would be another long day checking permits and answering tourists'questions. It was warm enough, but rain was in the air; he put on hisorange-and-black waterproof cape. The work would be boring, but he did notcare. Felipe Tavares had yearned to escape from the drudgery of small-townPortugal where he had been born and grown up, and where, if he had not movedfast, he would have died and he had made it. He was in New York City and thatalone was excitement enough.

* * *

At that same moment, across town ina Tribeca side street that was no more than an alley, Marcus Mack conducted hisown morning routine. African-American and in his late twenties, wearing loose,frayed jeans, with a full head of dreadlocks and with a grungy Crumplercomputer bag slung across his shoulder, he checked on his parked car. Anyonewatching 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 waschecking the tyre pressure. They probably wouldn't have seen him feeling in thewell above the wheel and finding, stuck there with duct tape, a cellphone. Hetook it and walked on.

Perhaps a minute later the phonerang, as Marcus knew it would. The voice that spoke was familiar but Marcusknew better than to say hello. It said four words Athens coffee shop,seven-thirty then hung up. At the corner of the street, and withoutceremony, Mack dropped the telephone into a garbage can.

The cafe was full, the way hishandler liked it. Marcus spotted him instantly, on a stool in the window, justanother grey-suit reading his newspaper. Marcus took the seat next to him andpulled out his laptop. They made no eye contact.

The handler's phone rang and hepretended to answer it. In fact, he was speaking to Marcus, whose eyes remainedfixed on the computer screen in front of him.

We've picked up activity inBrighton Beach. The Russian.

He did not have to say any more.Marcus knew about the Russian, as did the other member of his unit in the NYPDIntelligence Division. The Russian was an arms supplier who had been spotted ayear ago. The Division had enough to shut him down immediately but the orderhad come from on high: Keep him in play. It was a familiar tactic. Leave abad guy in business, watch who comes and goes and hope he leads you to someworse guys. Throw back the minnow, catch the shark.

Surveillance camera caught a man inblack entering the Russian's place last night, leaving an hour later. Tracedhim to the Tudor Hotel, 42nd and Second.

Marcus did not react, just kepttapping away at his keyboard, for all the world an urban guy reshuffling hisiTunes collection. But he knew what the location meant. The Tudor was perhapsthe nearest hotel to the United Nations building. And this was the UN's bigweek. Heads of government from all over the world had piled into New York toaddress the General Assembly. US Secret Service were crawling all over theplace in preparation for the President's visit later in the week, but therewere more than a hundred other prize targets already here, all jammed within afew Manhattan blocks for seventy-two fraught hours. In a week like this,anything was possible. A Kurd bent on assassinating the head of the Turkishgovernment, a Basque separatist determined to blast the Spanish prime minister,ideally on live television: you name it.