Bloodland: A Novel

by Alan Glynn

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Oh.’ He groans. ‘Do I have to spell it out? She was a fucking pig when it came to the coke.’ He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. ‘What she was, basically, was a coke whore, no other word for it. That’s what was going on that weekend. It was all about the charlie.’

  Jimmy’s heart sinks. Does he want to hear this?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, I’m not a hundred per cent certain, but I had this feeling at the time that she was involved in setting up some sort of a … deal, and a pretty big one. I bumped into her late on the Saturday night and she more or less told me that straight out. But when I pressed her for details, she went all coy.’

  ‘A coke deal?’

  ‘I assumed so, yeah.’

  A bar girl appears at this point and Lynch holds up his glass. Jimmy nods at her and says, ‘Yeah, whatever that is, and I’ll have the same.’

  The bar girl smiles and makes a face that says, gents, er, I’m not a mind reader.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Lynch says, ‘a triple Hennessy.’

  Jimmy swallows and nods.

  The bar girl retreats.

  ‘So,’ Jimmy says, after a suitable pause, ‘why did she go for the helicopter ride? The story doing the rounds was that she was trying to make you jealous. Heading off with Niall Feeley.’

  ‘Hah. I heard that one, too, and you know what? Niall Feeley was a close friend of mine, but he was big into the show tunes as well as the paragliding, so that doesn’t wash. There was something else going on.’

  He stops there, looks into his glass and swirls what’s left in it around.

  Jimmy waits.

  Lynch then knocks the brandy back in one go. He holds the glass aloft, allowing the burning sensation to work its little bit of magic.

  Jimmy fights the impulse to reach over and shake him. After a moment, he says, quietly, ‘So, what do you think was going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. For the life of me.’ He pauses. ‘Jimmy, isn’t it?’

  Jimmy nods.

  ‘Look, Jimmy, Susie was great, she was funny, she was different – she was the light of my fucking life for a while, I can tell you that – but by the end there, by that weekend, she was in serious trouble, she was strung out, and I just didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t want to know. So what I’m telling you is, there was something going on, sure … but what that was exactly? I haven’t a bloody clue.’

  Jimmy is about to respond to this when the bar girl re-appears. She lays the two drinks down and hands Jimmy the bill.

  Thirty-eight euro. For fuck’s sake.

  He takes out his wallet, hands over a fifty and waits for the change. He doesn’t look at the bar girl. When she’s gone, he lifts his glass and takes a sip from it.

  Lynch does the same.

  Then Jimmy says, ‘What about Ted Walker?’

  ‘No, Ted organised the whole thing, him and Niall. They were showing off, trying to impress Ben Schnitz. It was all a bit … it was a scene. If you catch my drift.’

  Jimmy nods along. Then something occurs to him.

  ‘What about the other guy? The Italian? Gianni something. Bon … Bonacci?’

  Lynch raises his eyebrows and stares into space for a while, thinking. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘Right, the Italian guy. I forgot about him.’

  ‘Was he…?’

  ‘No, he was … come to think of it, he was with Susie, but not … he wasn’t with her, I mean, as such, no one thought that, because he was a weedy little guy, short, with glasses. But you know that was typical Susie as well, she was always picking up strays and oddballs. She was a tease. She’d play with them for a while and then send them packing, usually with an irreversible hard-on and a broken heart for their troubles.’

  ‘So he wasn’t with her, strictly speaking, and he wasn’t with the paragliding contingent?’

  Lynch considers this. ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you –’

  ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t even an executive. He was some kind of a UN inspector or something.’

  ‘Right.’

  Lynch puts his glass down and stands up. ‘I’m going to the john,’ he mutters.

  Jimmy watches him as he wanders off. None of this is clear. But at the same time, in a way, it’s crystal clear.

  Because it’s the same thing he’s heard over and over again. Directly or indirectly.

  This isn’t about Susie Monaghan.

  Which means it’s about someone else.

  And it seems obvious to Jimmy now – without any evidence at all – that that someone else is Gianni Bonacci.

  * * *

  Clark Rundle stands under the sidewalk canopy and watches the evening traffic drift by on Park. This is another of those times when he wishes he still smoked. The doorman is only a few feet behind him and probably has a pack of butts in his coat pocket, or inside somewhere, behind his little desk or in his cubbyhole. But what’s Rundle going to do here? Turn and ask the guy, maybe make a face, all pally and conspiratorial, wait for the pack to be produced … then someone comes along and he gets caught bumming a cigarette off of Jimmy Vaughan’s doorman?

  Nice.

  Besides, it’s more than a smoke he needs.

  More than an afternoon with Nora. More than a week in the Bahamas.

  He rubs his hands together in the cold.

  It’s …

  A moment later, Don Ribcoff’s limo pulls up at the kerb. The doorman appears from behind Rundle, has it covered. Ribcoff emerges from the back of the car looking solemn, anxious even.

  ‘Clark.’

  ‘Don.’

  They spoke briefly on the phone a little earlier. Ribcoff explained about the call he got from Dave Conway in Dublin and Rundle explained about his sit-down with J.J.

  A follow-up with the old man seemed inevitable.

  But when Rundle got on to him Vaughan said he was busy, said he had some people around and could maybe squeeze out ten minutes if they showed up before seven thirty. Rundle felt like saying he was busy too, but that seeing as how they were looking at a potential catastrophe here – a total and utter meltdown, in fact – he for one didn’t have a problem cancelling his fucking dinner plans.

  What he said was, OK, whatever, they’d see him at his place at seven twenty.

  Rundle and Ribcoff go through the lobby now and take the private elevator up to Vaughan’s apartment. The interior of the elevator cab is something to behold, with its wood panelling, its brass insets, its chandelier and mirrors, its little red velvet bench. Rundle compares it to the stainless steel panels and tubular handrails of his own elevator cab in the Celestial. If that one is maybe a bit too spare and minimalist, a bit too late modern, Vaughan’s one is an outrageous throwback to the Gilded Age.

  Ribcoff looks around and makes a low whistling sound.

  ‘You think this is bad,’ Rundle says, ‘wait till you see the actual apartment.’

  They are greeted in the entry foyer by one of Vaughan’s staff and then ushered into the library. In this high-ceilinged, mahogany-panelled room the two men wait – and for the best part of their allotted ten minutes. When Vaughan eventually appears, wearing a tuxedo and smoking a cigar, he seems a little preoccupied. He makes no attempt at small talk, nor does he ask them to sit down or offer them anything to drink.

  ‘So?’

  Rundle begins. He explains that J.J. bottled it and came back from Congo with nothing. The Buenke incident has been contained, he says, but they currently have no idea what Kimbela’s position is vis-à-vis them, vis-à-vis the Chinese, nothing. On top of which, he goes on, there appears to be some sort of a situation brewing over in Dublin.

  Vaughan furrows his brow.

  Ribcoff takes a step forward. ‘I got a call this afternoon,’ he says. ‘From Dave Conway. Remember him?’

  Vaughan nods.

  ‘Well, he told me that Larry Bolger has been hitting the bottle, running his mouth off. Seems he spoke to some jour
nalist.’

  Vaughan’s reaction to this is somewhat muted.

  After a long silence, Rundle says, ‘You’re not surprised by that, Jimmy?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ The old man gives him a cryptic look and then takes a puff from his cigar. ‘The truth is, Larry Bolger has been running his mouth off to me. Leaving voice messages. It’s actually getting out of hand. It’s as close now to blackmail as makes no difference.’

  Rundle’s heart sinks. ‘Jesus H. Christ.’

  Ribcoff exhales audibly, but doesn’t say anything.

  Vaughan paces back and forth across the room, taking occasional puffs from his cigar.

  Rundle takes a step backwards and leans on the end of the red leather couch behind him. What he actually does need, thinking about it, is a week in the Bahamas with Nora.

  And a carton of Lucky Strikes.

  Which’d just be for openers.

  ‘Don,’ Vaughan says eventually. ‘We’ve got to do something about this.’

  Ribcoff nods in acknowledgement.

  Vaughan points his cigar at him. ‘Come to my office first thing in the morning. We can talk about it then.’ He pauses. ‘And Clark?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Seems to me that you need to take a trip.’

  Rundle’s stomach does a little somersault.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You need to take a trip,’ Vaughan repeats. ‘To the Congo. Democratic Republic of. See our friend. Get some answers.’ He studies the glowing ash at the tip of his cigar. ‘Because it’s clear that your idiot of a brother wasn’t up to the job.’ He lets that hang in the air for a moment. ‘Though presumably you will be.’ He looks up, meets Rundle’s hard stare. ‘Won’t you?’

  6

  ‘PRONTO.’

  Holding up the notebook, Jimmy Gilroy braces himself.

  ‘Er … posso parlare con la Signora Bonacci, per favore?’

  ‘Non e a casa addesso.’

  What?

  ‘Er –’

  ‘Chi parla?’

  Shit.

  Panic.

  That didn’t take long.

  ‘Er, non parlo italiano.’

  There is a pause.

  ‘English?’

  ‘Yes. English. I speak English. I’m Irish. Sono irlandese.’

  ‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘Irlandese.’

  Jimmy isn’t sure but even after these few brief seconds … does he detect a change of tone?

  ‘Yes, er … si.’ What does he think he’s doing? He got one of the students across the hall to come over and write a few phrases down in this notebook. But the hope was that Signora Bonacci might have a bit of English herself and that they could muddle through.

  ‘What I can … what … what is it you want?’

  The voice is young, female. Signorina Bonacci?

  ‘My name is Jimmy Gilroy,’ he says, swivelling in his chair. ‘I am a journalist.’ The next bit he already feels guilty about, because – he doesn’t know – is it even true? ‘I am investigating the air crash three years ago in which Gianni Bonacci was killed.’

  ‘O dio mio.’

  Jimmy winces. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There is a long silence, and then, ‘I am Francesca Bonacci. Gianni’s daughter.’

  ‘Hello.’ Jimmy winces again. How young is she? A teenager? A kid? It’s hard to tell. Bonacci was forty-five when he died. ‘May I ask how old you are, Francesca?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  He needs to be careful here.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to disturb you in this way, but … I would like to speak with your mother sometime, if that is possible. Does she speak English?’

  ‘No. She does not speak any English.’

  This sounds slightly defensive, even a bit confrontational. Has he offended her? ‘Could I ask you some questions?’ he then says, with nowhere else to go. ‘Or ask her some questions through you?’

  ‘What kind of questions? What is it you are investigating, mister, er…?’

  ‘Gilroy. But please, call me Jimmy.’ He pauses. ‘I’m not sure what I’m investigating, Francesca, and that’s the truth. I realise this must be very painful for you, and I apologise for the intrusion, but I just need to gather some information first before I can –’

  ‘Gather?’

  ‘What? Er … collect. Get.’ He looks around. Where was he? ‘Before I can…’ He trails off, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘Accuse.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Accuse. Before you can accuse somebody. Is that what you mean?’

  Jimmy looks again at the notebook in his hand, stares at the spidery scrawl, as though it were some type of code, something he could use to turn this situation around. But the fact is, there’s nothing left here to decipher – these are just simple phrases and he has already used them up.

  He tosses the notebook onto the desk.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, almost to himself, ‘maybe. But accuse who, and of what?’

  Francesca Bonacci scoffs at this. ‘Now you are looking for answers? Now? What about three years ago, eh?’

  That’s exactly what Maria Monaghan said to him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When we wanted answers to those questions, my mother, my uncles, the lawyers, no one would talk to us, in Ireland, no one would give us any information. We found what was the phrase, someone told me, a brick wall.’

  She’s angry. It also strikes Jimmy how remarkably self-possessed she seems to be for seventeen. But at the same time, what is she saying?

  ‘I don’t understand, Francesca. Questions? Answers? If what happened was an accident –’

  ‘Oh, per piacere,’ – from the tone he takes this to mean oh, please – ‘you really believe that?’

  ‘Well, it’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  There is silence for a moment. Then she says, ‘What is your e-mail address?’

  His impulse is to ask why, but he just gives it to her. This could well be a step in the right direction.

  ‘You will need a translator,’ she says.

  He’s not sure what this means. Something she is going to send him?

  ‘OK. No problem.’

  ‘I must go now,’ she says.

  He doesn’t argue. ‘Thank you, Francesca.’

  The line goes dead.

  Jimmy closes the phone and puts it down. He sits back and stares at the computer screen.

  He’s exhausted.

  It took him over an hour and several phone calls to locate that number. This was followed by an awkward twenty minutes with the student from across the hall, who was clearly hungover and kept insisting it’d be easier if he made the call himself. But Jimmy couldn’t take the chance.

  Then … questions, answers, a brick wall … you really believe that? Bonacci’s widow and daughter making the same claim that Larry Bolger made?

  A few minutes later things get even knottier when he hears the ping of an incoming e-mail. It’s from Francesca. There is no message, just a single hyperlink. He clicks on it and his browser opens up onto the homepage of what looks like an Italian news website.

  At first it makes no sense to him. It’s in Italian. He doesn’t understand any of it. He considers bothering the student across the hall again when suddenly something comes into focus for him. He recognises a few names clustered together – Enrico Mattei, Giuseppe Pinelli, Aldo Moro, Marco Biagi, Carlo Giuliani. As far as he remembers, from things he’s read and seen over the years, these men were all high-profile victims of political assassination.

  In some form or other. At least in theory.

  At which point he realises this must be a website devoted to, or specialising in, Italian conspiracy theories. Aldo Moro, for example, was the ex-prime minister who was kidnapped and killed in 1978, allegedly by the Red Brigades. Enrico Mattei was a politician who challenged the oligopoly of the international oil markets and died in a mysterious plane crash in the early 1960s.

  Jimmy
flicks around the site for a while, scans various chunks of text at random. Eventually, in a sidebar, he comes across Gianni Bonacci’s name. He is unable to decipher the text that surrounds it, but the very presence of Bonacci’s name here, on a website of this nature, surely indicates that –

  What?

  When Jimmy Googled Bonacci’s name before, he filtered out any stuff that wasn’t in English. The stuff he did look at was UN-related and fairly uninteresting. He Googles the name again now and sees that there are references to him on dozens of Italian sites, many of which – at a glance – also contain references to Mattei, Moro and others. In addition to this, he repeatedly comes across words such as omicidio, assassinio, vittima, cospirazione.

  From what Jimmy can make out, Bonacci would be fairly low down on any league table of political assassinations, but the mere fact that his death is perceived by some people in this way at all comes as quite a shock.

  And there must be a reason for it.

  He swivels his chair around, looks across the room at his bookshelves.

  Mustn’t there?

  Or is even posing this question a first and dangerous step into the delusional, self-perpetuating fog that is the mindset of the conspiracy theorist?

  He swivels back around.

  It doesn’t matter, though. It’s fine. Someone else’s perception of the truth – however outlandish or irrational – is a valid starting point for any investigation.

  He sets up a reply to Francesca’s e-mail. He thinks about what to say. He starts typing. But when he is half a sentence in, his buzzer sounds.

  Damn.

  He gets up and goes over to the intercom, presses the button. ‘Yeah. Who is it?’

  ‘Hi, Jimmy. It’s Phil Sweeney.’

  Jimmy closes his eyes for a second. He turns away from the intercom. He groans.

  Why didn’t he just leave it?

  * * *

  Rundle gets up at six and puts on some coffee. He takes a shower and then spends at least twenty minutes in the walk-in closet choosing which of his fifty or sixty suits to wear. There is no real reason for him to do this. He doesn’t have any particular thing on today. But he finds it relaxes him, the ritual of it, moving down the line, checking out the different fabrics, feeling the subtle variations in texture … vicuna, merino, cashmere, silk.