Bloodland: A Novel

by Alan Glynn

  Vaughan shifts his weight on the couch, shunts forward a bit. ‘But what I think, and what I try to do with some of these companies – and to answer your question – what I think is that if we work harder and faster, and redouble our efforts, and push, I mean whatever it takes, if we do that, we can get the jump on next season, next year, the next decade.’ He clenches his fist and raises it slightly. ‘If we imagine our way into the future with enough vigour and determination, we can somehow actually arrive there. It’s a bit like that old slogan from the World’s Fair, I remember it as a kid.’ He pauses. ‘Tomorrow, Now!’

  ‘Oh my god,’ the pretty redhead beside him says, hand on chest, clearly unable to help herself, ‘that’s so inspiring.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Vaughan turns toward her and nods in acknowledgement. ‘Clark there knows what I’m talking about. Right, Clark?’

  Rundle is taken by surprise. ‘Sure, Mr Vaughan, yeah. Absolutely.’

  At that point, Herb Felder intervenes, tapping his watch.

  Minutes later, they’re all downstairs and piling into various cars.

  Rundle sees Don Ribcoff on the sidewalk, but there’s no time to talk.

  As planned, he and J.J. ride together.

  When the car pulls out and joins the flow of traffic, J.J. exhales loudly and says, ‘What the fuck was that?’

  Rundle turns to him, ‘Look, he’s always been like that. Despite what he says, the old man thinks he’s going to live forever.’ He turns the other way and looks out the window, Third Avenue flitting past, the corner of Fifty-eighth just up ahead. ‘But we know different, right?’

  * * *

  Jimmy glances up and sees what looks like a flotilla of black limousines and SUVs turning onto to Fifty-eighth Street from Third Avenue. He leans back against the railings, almost as though he’s standing to attention, and watches.

  Around the entrance to the hotel there is a flurry of activity – positions are taken, equipment is prepped. On either side of the marquee burly guys in suits line up, enough of them to create an effective blockade, with photographers moving around and behind them, dancing like boxers, already pointing, clicking, whirring.

  The flotilla moves along the street at a stately pace. It then pulls in and stops, one of the limousines flush with the hotel entrance.

  Along the line of vehicles – an SUV, three limos and another SUV, Jimmy can see them clearly now – multiple doors open at once and more burly guys in suits appear, some on the sidewalk, others on the street.

  Jimmy steps away from the railings and moves a few paces along to try and see better. But he doesn’t get too close. He’s assuming he’s still under surveillance and doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

  Undue attention.

  He doesn’t want to alarm anyone. Not that there aren’t plenty of other people around the place now for them to be worried about.

  Passersby, civilians, gawkers.

  As the back doors of all three limos are being opened, Jimmy senses a collective, almost gravitational pull, a jolt, like an implosion, towards them. This is accompanied by a noticeable increase in the level of clicking and whirring.

  From the first car, two ladies appear, in their forties, svelte and elegant. These, Jimmy takes it, are the Rundle wives. From the second car – slightly harder to see now, with the scramble intensifying – the Rundle brothers themselves appear, the senator with the wire brace on his hand and wrist, Clark instantly recognisable from photos in that Vanity Fair spread.

  They all move from the kerb onto a carpet under the marquee. The pace is leisurely, and Jimmy has the impression that someone from inside the hotel has emerged to greet them. This causes a delay, as there seems to be some handshaking and small talk going on. It’s possible they’re doing this for the benefit of the photographers and camera crews, but Jimmy doesn’t mind, because standing in his direct line of vision at the moment – through an accidental configuration of the crowd, and it surely won’t last – is the only person here this morning he’s interested in seeing, Clark Rundle.

  The chairman and CEO of BRX is tall and distinguished-looking, but in a central casting sort of way. Jimmy would love to be able to read his expression, to decode it, to pick up on something in it, vibes or a signal that would explain, or illuminate, but nothing like that happens.

  It’s the face of a middle-aged business executive.

  What did he expect?

  And when a security guy moves and cuts off Jimmy’s line of vision, the face goes with it, instantly forgotten, the slate wiped clean.

  A second or two later, with a further shift in the crowd formation, Jimmy catches a flash of the senator – telegenic smile in place as he greets someone in the line, pointing at them in recognition.

  But then something happens.

  From the other side of the street, just up a bit, there’s a sudden movement. A man breaks away from a line of people at the kerb and comes rushing across the street in a diagonal line towards the hotel entrance. He’s shouting, ‘Senator, Senator.’

  Everyone turns and looks. The man is big, in a leather jacket, with a buzz cut and mirror shades.

  Reaction is swift.

  Two of the security detail double back around the main limousine and head straight into his path, blocking him from getting any further.

  ‘Senator,’ the man continues shouting, ‘tell us the truth, tell us where you were, tell us what you were doing.’

  The security guys push him back, as others arrive to help.

  Jimmy and everyone else – including those under the marquee – watch in shock for a couple of seconds. Then, as the senator starts to move, bodyguards bundling him inside, the man lunges forward once more, pushing against the security guys, and shouting, ‘Tell us about your trip to Buenke, Senator. Tell us what really happened.’

  Jimmy freezes.

  What?

  The security guys shove the man back again and this time he breaks loose, taking a few steps away from them. ‘Assholes,’ he says, standing in the middle of the street now and starting to straighten his jacket. The security guys remain where they are, looking over their shoulders.

  Jimmy glances back towards the marquee.

  Gone.

  Everyone inside, everyone who matters, the rest filtering in slowly, the show over.

  Jimmy looks out at the street again. The security guys are shaking their heads at each other as the man in the leather jacket retreats, walking backwards for a bit, but then turning and striding off in the direction of Third Avenue.

  A woman in front of Jimmy says to her companion, ‘What did that guy say?’

  ‘I don’t know, but what a freak.’

  Jimmy stares at the backs of their heads.

  Buenke.

  He said Buenke.

  He said tell us about your trip to Buenke.

  Before he knows what he’s doing, Jimmy has skipped out onto the street and is crossing to the other side.

  He walks quickly, glancing back every couple of seconds. When he gets to the corner, he turns right, and scans the sidewalk in front of him.

  There he is, half a block away, buzz cut, black leather jacket.

  Forward motion.

  Keeping his distance, Jimmy follows.

  * * *

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.’

  Standing at the light, waiting to cross at Fifty-seventh Street, Tom Szymanski’s insides feel like they’re being put through a meat grinder. He can’t believe it. That’s all he had to offer? That was his A game? Shouting out stuff like some fucking anti-globalisation protester at a G8 summit?

  Really?

  Jesus.

  The light changes and he moves forward, no idea where he’s going, that stupid Lipstick Building a few blocks on making him queasy now just having to look at it.

  What happened?

  He was primed and ready and he could have done it, easily. Granted, there wouldn’t have been any fine marksmanship involved, but if he’d positioned hi
mself across the street, up close, clear view.

  One shot is all it would have taken.

  To the chest, or head.

  M9 sliding from his pocket, arm outstretched, element of surprise – it would have been a piece of cake.

  So what stopped him?

  He doesn’t know.

  He’s too fucking self-aware, maybe, too analytical. Too able to see different points of view at the same time, a potentially lethal trait in this line of business.

  He doesn’t know.

  Too tired?

  He tried to convince himself he was crazy – and he is, up to a point, sure, given what he’s seen – but he doesn’t have that extra bit of crazy that Ray Kroner had, the bit that presses too hard on whatever nerve ending it is that causes you to … flip. And maybe that’s it, to stand there in the street and shoot some bastard in cold blood you don’t even know, you’d absolutely have to flip. But for him, back there on Fifty-eighth Street, as he gazed across at the entrance to the hotel, fingering the gun in his pocket, he just knew it was never going to happen.

  Not today, not ever.

  Tom Szymanski, too sane to flip.

  But where did that leave him? He still had his sense of outrage over Buenke, over the ‘incident’ and the subsequent lies, he still had his raw anger – so he ends up, what, powerless, screaming like a girl?

  It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.

  What actually is funny is that he’s now thinking about going back and retrieving his holdall from that dumpster.

  Or looking for the nearest Duane Reade.

  And it’s when he stops suddenly, and turns around, to scan this section of Third Avenue for the familiar signage, that something strikes him – it’s in his line of sight, a barely perceptible flicker, a reaction maybe to his own action of turning around. That guy at the kerb? The one over there at the camera store window?

  Szymanski turns back and moves on.

  Someone recognised him. He didn’t see Donald Ribcoff at any point, but so what?

  Also, he said Buenke.

  Which basically means he’s fucked. Because Szymanski understands how Gideon works. The company is like some primitive organism – it’s lean, it’s hungry, and self-preservation is about the sum total of what it knows. Walking on now, crossing Fifty-sixth Street, he can even imagine its physical presence, on his back – and not just eyes, human ones, tracking his every move, but laser pointers as well, from the surveillance equipment they’ll be using.

  Having to deal with this was never part of the plan.

  Because if he’d carried out the plan he wouldn’t be here. If he’d shot the senator, they’d have shot him.

  No question about it.

  Right between the eyes.

  So what happens now?

  He turns at the next corner, onto Fifty-fifth Street, and speeds up. About halfway along the block he spins around suddenly and comes charging back, straight into the guy who was standing at the window of the camera store on Third, young guy, maybe late twenties, startled-looking, but –

  You make a calculation.

  He grabs the guy by the lapels of his jacket, steers him to the left and rams him up against the window of a Chinese restaurant.

  He ignores anyone passing by and they ignore him.

  It’s ten thirty in the morning and the Chinese restaurant is closed.

  But make this quick.

  ‘You fuckin’ following me?’

  Stupid question, and when he looks into the guy’s eyes one thing he knows straight off. He isn’t Gideon.

  ‘Yes,’ the guy says, swallowing. ‘I am, was, following you.’

  And that’s not the answer Szymanski expected either. He loosens his grip slightly.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I heard what you said back there.’

  Szymanski hesitates, screws his eyes up. ‘What are you, British?’

  ‘Irish.’

  Another moment of hesitation and then Szymanski releases him. He stands back, catches his breath, glances up and down the street.

  The guy straightens his jacket and rubs his shoulder.

  ‘OK, Irish,’ Szymanski says, staring at him now, ‘what the fuck do you want?’

  * * *

  Inside the ballroom of the Blackwood Hotel, sitting at tables and standing at the back, several hundred people listen attentively as J.J. thumps out what Rundle considers to be a pretty good speech. He knows it’s a good speech because he’s read it, not because he’s listening to it right now.

  That’s something he can’t do.

  Listen, focus.

  And given what happened outside, he doesn’t know how J.J. can do it either – focus on the speech, let alone deliver the damned thing.

  From his front-row table, Rundle looks up, cell phone in hand.

  ‘… so, friends, in the light of this long, unbroken tradition of public service, it has always been my impulse to get out there and get my hands dirty, to get into the community and get involved, to do the right thing.’

  Not only deliver it, shit, but do so with such obvious conviction.

  It’s impressive.

  ‘And for that very same reason, I am now running for president, because I want to get involved, because I want to go on doing the right thing…’

  The crowd bursts into spontaneous applause.

  Rundle glances at his phone. He has texted Ribcoff three times and is still waiting for a reply.

  Where the fuck is he? And where is Vaughan?

  He looks up again, left and right, around the ballroom.

  Unable to focus, because … Buenke.

  That man out there said Buenke.

  ‘But I know I’m not alone in feeling such an impulse. I know that in your own way you feel it too. And it’s not hard to understand why. There’s no mystery about it.’

  But who was he? Who is he? Certainly not the young journalist from Dublin Ribcoff spoke about the other day – not looking like that, he couldn’t be.

  So who?

  ‘It’s because, quite simply, we are each of us shareholders in this great democracy, we are each of us the bearers of a sacred trust. And so today, in New York City, I ask you to help me protect that sacred trust. I ask you to support the notions of integrity and accountability.’

  Rundle’s phone vibrates. He looks at it.

  ‘I ask you to vote for truth, for equality, for justice. I ask you to join me in the greatest journey of our lives. I ask you to be right there by my side as we march on Washington.’

  Need to speak, v. urgent, am in reception.

  ‘I ask you to embrace your destiny. I ask you, when the time comes, to vote for John Rundle. Thank you and God bless America.’

  Putting his phone away, Rundle rises with the cheering crowd but immediately slips off to the side, head down, and makes for the back of the room, and the exit.

  When he gets out to reception, leaving the rapturous applause behind, he spots Ribcoff straightaway. The two men move towards each other at speed, converging by a gigantic potted palm plant in the centre of the lobby.

  ‘The fuck, Don.’

  Ribcoff looks furious, barely able to speak.

  ‘He’s Gideon. Motherfucker.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s one of ours, that guy out on the street.’ Pointing. ‘He was there, in Buenke, when it happened. He helped save your brother’s life for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t –’

  ‘He seemed really stressed by it at the time, by the whole thing, I don’t know. They figured he might be unstable. So they put him on leave.’

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘But we’re not talking regular army leave, where you come back after a month.’

  Rundle can’t believe this. ‘You fired him?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Jesus. And now what? This is some kind of blowback?’

  Ribcoff shakes his head, unable even to make eye co
ntact. ‘We’d have taken him out already, except…’

  Rundle waits. ‘Except?’

  ‘Except apparently right now he’s down on Fifty-fifth Street talking to Jimmy fucking Gilroy.’

  13

  ‘SO YOU’RE WHAT, some kind of a journalist?’

  Jimmy nods, seeing himself intermittently reflected in the guy’s mirror shades, and finding this disconcerting to say the least. They’re both standing at the kerb now, next to a fire hydrant. Every couple of seconds the guy flicks his head left, then right, checking out either end of the street. He’s agitated, and seems dangerous. It’s not just the buzz cut and the shades, he’s brawny and muscular and looks as if he could uproot this fire hydrant with one hand and smash it over someone’s head.

  Jimmy’s, for instance.

  But for all that, and the sense they both clearly have that they’re being watched, Jimmy feels strangely calm. There’s something here, he knows it, and he’s not going to let it go.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, adopting a tone he hopes he’ll be able to maintain. ‘Investigative journalist. I’m working on a book about a helicopter crash that happened a few years ago in Ireland and which I believe,’ looking left and right himself now, ‘was perpetrated by some of our friends up the street here.’

  The guy looks at him. ‘I don’t have any fucking friends here.’

  Jimmy swallows. ‘Figure of speech. I’m talking about BRX, and Gideon Global.’

  ‘Oh really?’ the guy says and laughs sourly. ‘BRX and Gideon?’ He scans the street again, east, west, but when he looks back at Jimmy, he pauses, holding his gaze for a moment, as though weighing something up. ‘I could tell you some fucking stories about them.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d like to hear them.’ Beat. ‘What’s your name?’

  The guy hesitates, weighing this up, too. Then, ‘Tom.’ He shrugs. ‘Whatever. That’ll do for the moment.’

  ‘Tom. OK.’ Jimmy feels a spasm of excitement, giddiness almost, and can’t believe what he’s about to say next. ‘Do me a favour, Tom, will you, and take those fucking shades off?’

  This would be the moment for Tom to uproot the fire hydrant, but to Jimmy’s surprise and relief he doesn’t. He takes off his shades and clips them to his shirt pocket.