by Alan Glynn
He gets up and goes over to the window.
As he gazes out across the bay, which is disappearing behind a shroud of evening mist, Jimmy re-runs the conversation with Bolger in his head.
‘Think about it. She wasn’t the only one.’
‘The only one what?’
‘The only one who died in the fucking crash, you gobshite.’
And suddenly it seems so obvious.
He goes back to his desk, shuffles through some papers and finds what he’s looking for.
The passenger list.
It was a privately leased helicopter, piloted by Liam Egan, with five passengers on board. Apart from Susie Monaghan, there was Ted Walker, Gianni Bonacci, Ben Schnitz and Niall Feeley. He has extensive notes on each of these men, and he glances through them now. But nothing new jumps out at him.
It’s stuff he’s been over a hundred times before.
Ted Walker was a top executive at Eiben-Chemcorp, thirty-eight years old and big into extreme sports. The trip was believed to have been organised by him in order to showcase to fellow danger junkie Ben Schnitz some ideal paragliding spots along the north Donegal coastline. Schnitz was a senior vice president at Paloma Electronics.
Also assumed to have been an extreme sports enthusiast, Gianni Bonacci was director of a UN Corporate Affairs Com-mission, and Niall Feeley, an executive at Hibinvest, was known to have been a close friend of both Ted Walker’s and Gary Lynch’s – Gary Lynch having been the guy Susie Monaghan had just broken up with.
The theory at the time was that Susie went along with Feeley in a desperate attempt to make Lynch jealous.
Fine.
But according to Bolger, Susie was collateral damage. So does this eliminate Niall Feeley too? Was he collateral damage as well? Is Ted Walker’s brother being a friend of Phil Sweeney’s significant? And what about the other two?
Jimmy looks over the papers again. He doesn’t know what to think. Nothing presents itself as significant, and everything does. Which isn’t much of a help.
He needs to widen his frame of reference. He needs to get out there and talk to someone.
But where does he start?
It takes him a few minutes of rummaging around – through notebooks, the phone directory, online – to come up with a couple of numbers.
Ted Walker’s brother, Freddie. This is a brash move and it will probably piss Phil Sweeney off no end, but he feels it’s legitimate.
He dials the number. It rings and then goes into message. He hangs up.
The second number he has unearthed is for Gary Lynch.
It’s the same story.
But this time he leaves a message.
Please give me a call.
* * *
Rundle sits at his usual table at the Orpheus Room, nursing a gimlet, waiting for J.J. to arrive. Don Ribcoff did his best this afternoon, but apparently the senator couldn’t be dissuaded from engaging with the media pack at JFK or from then doing a couple of hastily arranged appearances on cable news shows. Rundle caught one of these back at the office and although the whole time he was watching it his heart was in his mouth nothing disastrous happened. Apart from the brace on his hand and wrist, J.J. looked good. He was calm, composed, and constantly made the point that he didn’t want all of this hoopla to be a distraction from the more serious issues he and his fellow delegates had been so focused on in Paris. It was a performance, of course, but Rundle was relieved to see that J.J. seemed to be in full control of his faculties.
He’s due any minute now, so hopefully they can clear things up and move on. Because Rundle has invested a huge amount in this already – time, energy, money.
He set up the Buenke operation at James Vaughan’s behest, and has kept it ticking over for him, but the bottom line is if he blows the current negotiations Vaughan won’t forgive him – he’ll cut him loose and leave him in the wilderness, as he has done with so many others in the past.
Rundle reaches for his gimlet.
He’s in too deep now to let this slip away.
He looks over at the entrance. There is a flurry of activity. This will be the senatorial entourage – handlers, advisors, security. He spots Herb Felder and one or two other people he knows. After a moment the seas part and J.J. appears. He strolls over, nodding and smiling at various people on the way. He arrives and sits down, but with his back to the room.
Rundle’s eye is immediately drawn to the brace, an elaborate and uncomfortable-looking affair of wire and gauze, but it’s the expression on J.J.’s face that he finds particularly disturbing. Away from the cameras now, and sitting with a family member, pressure off, he seems pale, reduced somehow, as if he needs to be taken in hand.
‘How are you, J.J.?’
‘I’m all right, Clark. I’m tired. It’s been a crazy few days.’ A waiter approaches but J.J. waves him away. ‘This has been good for me, but I can’t let it drift. I can’t let it dissipate. I’ve got to take it to the next level, you know, keep the traction but change the conversation.’
Rundle stares at him. ‘Change the conversation?’
‘Yeah, away from Paris, get into some policy thing, an issue. Move it forward.’
Rundle nods. ‘Look, J.J., I sent you down there for a reason. It was important. And this –’ he points at the brace, then indicates behind him, at Herb Felder and the others ‘– it’s all very well, and I hope it works out for you, I do, but right this minute I couldn’t give a fuck about any of it.’ He leans forward, hands out, pleading. ‘I need to know what Kimbela said to you.’
J.J. sighs and slumps back in his chair.
‘I know, Clark, I know. I’ve been trying.’
‘You’ve been trying? I need comprehensive notes on what you guys talked about. I need minutes. Come on, J.J., you’ve sat on a thousand committees, you know the drill.’
‘This wasn’t like any committee, Clark. This was the weirdest fucking experience of my life.’ He leans forward as well. ‘And I’m not just talking about the shooting, which was bad enough, believe me, because I can still see … I can still see the pools of blood, and those little vacant, limp faces, shit –’
‘OK, OK.’ Rundle glances around. ‘Take it easy.’
‘But it was already weird before that, at the compound, from the very moment I arrived there. It’s bizarre, he has this half-built … villa, with a portico and fake-looking Louis Quinze shit inside it, and then nearby there’s this row of concrete shacks, like interrogation rooms or something, whatever, I don’t know. And that’s where we went, straight from the house into one of these, Kimbela leading the way, his permanent entourage right behind him, these heavily armed, heavily drugged children … and meanwhile all I’ve got on either side of me is a couple of pumped-up Gideon guys –’
‘J.J. –’
‘One of whom, by the way, turns out to be a complete fucking psycho.’
‘J.J. –’
‘I’m just telling you what happened, Clark, OK?’ He shakes his head. ‘So we’re in this shack, right, sitting at a metal table, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, it’s dank and smelly, and I’m waiting for … I don’t know what I’m waiting for … a pair of pliers to be produced, a blowtorch, a chainsaw, but then in comes this little girl, eight or nine years old, real cute from a distance, but scrawny up close, and with these sunken eye sockets, like a fucking zombie or something, and she’s carrying a tray of … tea things, which she then puts on the table and proceeds to serve us tea from, this ornate pot, these old china cups, it was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile Kimbela is sitting opposite me, talking his fat sweaty face off, arms flailing, every part of him in constant motion, and the thing is Clark, I’m so freaked out by this stage, I’m so fucking terrified, that I’m just not taking anything in, I’m not hearing a word he’s saying.’
Rundle can feel himself deflating.
‘Did you even –’
He stops and looks his brother in the eye. What was he thinking of, sendin
g him down there? J.J. has never done anything real in his life. It’s all been campaigns and poll numbers, finance bills and select committees, he’s never served in the armed forces, hasn’t travelled that much outside of trade delegations, and he has certainly never met anyone remotely like Arnold Kimbela before.
Rundle thinks back to when he first met the colonel himself. It was about three years ago, and in Paris of all places. A darkened apartment in the Bastille district, Rundle sitting opposite the enigmatic, chunky thirty-nine-year-old, armed guards lurking in the shadows. It was a master class, as he recalls it, in various dark arts, in contract negotiation, in price structuring, in sheer ballsiness. And he expected J.J. to be able to do something similar? And not even in the familiar surroundings of a western city, but actually down in the insane heat and chaos of Congo itself.
He must have been out of his mind.
‘Look, J.J.,’ he says, one last shot. ‘Did you hear any mention of renegotiating the terms? Anything about redrafting –’
‘Clark, listen to me, it’s a miracle I didn’t shit in my pants, OK? And if I’d known what was round the corner, on the ride back to the airstrip, I … Jesus, even thinking about it now.’
‘Relax, J.J., would you? You did what you could, and I’m grateful.’
‘I’m sorry, Clark.’
Rundle shrugs. He leans back in his chair.
Damn.
* * *
It comes to him as he’s having a dump in the en suite bathroom. Humiliation. If you’re looking for a unified field theory of all things Larry Bolger, then that’s it, humiliation. It’s the linking thread, the connective tissue, it’s the recurring theme throughout his life and career. When he was a young man, for instance, his father treated him like a fool, kept comparing him unfavourably to his older brother, Frank. Then there was Paddy Norton, who bossed him around – effectively bullied him – and for the best part of twenty-five years. There was his disastrous visit to Tokyo. His interview with Hot Press. That series of snubs by the German Chancellor when he was EU Council president. And also, let’s not forget, the ignominy of being forced out of office by the same Gang of Three who got him into office in the first place.
Bolger can’t dwell on that one for too long.
But now he has, what? James Vaughan giving him the runaround and the likes of Dave Conway telling him what he is or isn’t allowed to do.
Not to mention that little prick of a journalist.
A sudden rap on the door interrupts his train of thought.
Coming here and …
‘Are we all right in there?’
… having the nerve to …
Bolger closes his eyes.
‘Yes, Mary,’ he says, ‘we are all right.’
Jesus.
Silence follows, then footsteps moving quietly away.
Bolger clenches his fists now, and winces. Something is happening.
Finally.
In agony, he fixes his gaze on the gleaming white tiles of the bathroom floor, his fists still clenched. He’s going to have to do something about this, go to the doctor with it, get it seen to.
Which of course will mean only one thing. More fucking humiliation.
After a while, his mind in a fog, the pain subsides.
He finishes up, and a few minutes later he’s back out in the living room, pacing up and down. Mary is running a bath and he’s decided to wait until she’s in it before he –
Before he –
Places the call.
Through the open door of the bathroom, the roar of the water comes to a sudden halt.
He glances over at the drinks cabinet, but doesn’t feel a thing. In fact, the thought now of a drink makes him a little nauseous.
He’s still hungover and suspects he will remain so well into tomorrow.
He hears Mary getting into the bath, the gentle slosh of the water, the displacement – your man, what’s his name, Archimedes.
He gets his mobile phone from the table and sits down in the armchair, facing the TV. He puts on Sky News with the sound off. He finds the number and hits Call.
It’ll be the same as before, he bets, straight into message. He’s not even sure what this number is, if it’s an office or home number, a service, or what.
‘You have reached…’
Bolger rolls his eyes, waits.
‘Yes, Mr Vaughan, it’s Larry Bolger again. Listen, I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to a decision. You promised me that IMF thing, and fine, maybe it didn’t work out for some reason, whatever, but it seems to me that your obligation in the matter remains … unfulfilled.’ He stares at the TV as he speaks, at the Sky newscaster, his heart pounding. ‘Well, time is running out, let’s put it that way. Or let’s put it another way. I want a job. Do you understand me? A real position, something commensurate with my experience. Like we talked about. Because here’s the deal. Drumcoolie Castle, yeah? Are you with me?’ He clears his throat. ‘I was at that table along with the rest of them, don’t forget that. I heard everything. Yeah? And I followed it all afterwards, too.’ He lets that hang in the air for a second. ‘Now, the thing is … there’s a nuclear option here, which I won’t hesitate to use, believe me. And I think you know what I mean.’ He clears his throat again. ‘So I expect to hear back from you this time.’
He pauses, and hangs up.
His heart is still pounding.
He almost laughs.
* * *
At around eleven thirty Jimmy gets a callback from Gary Lynch.
‘I got your message,’ the voice says. ‘So. Who are you? What do you want?’
Jimmy explains. He’s a journalist. He has some questions about Susie Monaghan. Any chance they could meet?
‘Susie? Holy fuck.’ Lynch sounds drunk. There’s noise in the background, voices, music. He’s in a pub somewhere or a club. ‘Yeah,’ he then says. ‘Why not. I’m in Alba, in town. I’ll be here for another hour or two.’
He hangs up.
Jimmy looks at his phone.
That’s it?
Does he go and meet him? It’s late, but if Lynch is drunk, then yes – going on today’s form. Now is probably the perfect time to go and meet him.
He gets ready in a hurry and heads out. He flags down a taxi on Strand Road and makes it into town in about twenty minutes.
Alba is a club just off George’s Street, over a trendy bistro called Montmartre.
As he is going up the stairs to the club Jimmy realises that he doesn’t know what Gary Lynch looks like. He’s probably seen photographs of him, but none that he remembers, none that stuck. He walks into the main room, which is bright and airy, with a long bar running along the back. The place is crowded but not hectically so, not as crowded on a Thursday night as it would have been a couple of years ago.
There is music. It is loud, pounding.
He is greeted by a hostess.
‘Hi,’ he shouts. ‘Gary Lynch?’
The hostess smiles and points over to a side room.
‘Can I take your jacket?’
Jimmy shakes his head. ‘No, you’re grand,’ he says, and smiles back. He makes his way through the crowd. As he approaches the side room, he sees that it’s a small lounge area with leather sofas and armchairs. Two couples, facing each other across a low table, occupy one part of the room. They’re drinking pints and talking loudly. To the right, sitting alone in a deep armchair, and looking slightly forlorn, is a guy in a suit. He’s about forty. He’s slim, has thinning dark hair and a goatee. In his right hand he’s holding a glass of what looks like whiskey or brandy.
Jimmy leans forward. ‘Gary?’
The man looks up. He seems puzzled. After a moment, he says, ‘Holy shit, that was fast. You’re the journalist?’
Jimmy nods and sits down in the armchair next to the one Gary Lynch is sitting in.
He holds out a hand, ‘Jimmy Gilroy.’
They shake.
‘So,’ Gary Lynch says, ‘Susie Monaghan? That was another
lifetime.’ He grunts. ‘Man, another planet.’
Jimmy leans forward to hear properly.
‘In what sense?’ he says.
‘Well.’ Lynch takes a sip from his glass and then explains that, what was it, three, four years ago, he was a corporate executive on a salary of two hundred and fifty K per annum, with the same again in bonuses and perks. That he was footloose and fancy free, always had the latest Beemer, city breaks every fucking weekend. But that two years ago he lost his job, company upped sticks and relocated to Poland, go figure. And that since then he’s done a stint as a taxi-driver, he’s worked at a call centre and he’s now the manager of a shoe shop around the corner on George’s Street. ‘Keeping the head above water, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ Jimmy says, debating whether or not he should pitch in with a reference to his own circumstances.
‘I’m only glad I never got married,’ Lynch goes on. ‘Though I came close with Susie. Guys I know from the old days? Stuck now with kids, debts, mortgages they can’t afford. It’s a nightmare.’
Looking around, Jimmy wonders where some of these guys are tonight – at home, probably, watching CSI or an old Leinster schools cup final on Setanta Sports.
‘Talk to me,’ Jimmy says, ‘about that weekend, the conference. Drumcoolie Castle.’
Lynch looks at him and laughs nervously. ‘Jesus, cut to the chase, why don’t you? What kind of journalist are you anyway? Is this an article or –’
‘I’m writing a biography of Susie,’ Jimmy says firmly. This may no longer be true, but it sounds good, and it works.
‘Oh, well then,’ Lynch says, nodding his head sagely, ‘a biography. Cool. Am I going to be in it?’
‘That depends. I reckon so. You were engaged to Susie, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah. For a while.’ He takes another sip from his glass. ‘But I couldn’t keep up with her, to be honest. And I was small potatoes anyway, where Susie was concerned. I may have effectively been on half a million per annum, but back then that was nothing. I didn’t own anything, I didn’t run anything. What Susie needed was someone with assets, property, money in the bank. Staying power. There were guys before me like that, but I guess they didn’t work out either. And probably for the same reason. Couldn’t keep up with her.’
