by Alan Glynn
‘You mean the journalist?’
Jesus.
Rundle nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘We’re going to keep an eye on him, you know, do a sneak and peek, monitor his activities, and . . .’ He glances around.
Rundle waits. ‘And?’
Ribcoff looks back. ‘Take action, if necessary.’ He pauses. ‘You know, some form of containment.’
‘OK.’
Maybe Rundle understands it after all, this need for lingo, for euphemism.
‘In the meantime,’ Ribcoff says, ‘I have some travel details for you.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a slim envelope. He hands it to Rundle. ‘Tomorrow, for Thursday. Is that good?’
‘Yes.’
He’ll have to clear his diary and let Eve know he won’t be here when she gets back from England. He’ll also have to arrange to have vaccinations done. Though Ribcoff probably has that set up already.
‘You’ll be going via Paris to Rwanda, and then over the border to the airstrip at Buenke.’
Rundle nods. This will be a Gideon Global operation all the way. They provide transport in and out of the country, as well as escort security at the site.
He’s essentially putting himself in Ribcoff’s hands.
‘And Kimbela?’
‘We’ve just had word from our guy that he’s agreed to a meeting. He’s not happy about what happened last week, but we’re negotiating a reparation package.’
‘And I take it you’ve already done some form of psych screening of your remaining personnel over there.’
Ribcoff doesn’t like this. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it was a blip, unfortunate yes, but . . . a blip. These things happen. Even Kimbela understands that.’
‘Oh, he does? And I’m supposed to take comfort from the fact?’
‘Clark, come on –’
‘I’m kidding, Don. Jesus, lighten up.’
Actually, he’s not kidding, and on the way to his suite at the Wilson he realises just how much he’s not kidding. In normal circumstances, by the time he’s riding the elevator up to the tenth floor there’d be a certain amount of anticipatory lead in the equation – to adopt Ribcoff’s linguistic technique – but not today.
Not even when Nora comes through the door.
He’s got a knot in his stomach now, and he reckons he’d better get used to it.
It won’t be going away any time soon.
*
Jimmy isn’t sure what he’s got here, what he’s coming away with, and as he walks back to his hotel, through the dark, quiet streets of the city, a fog of ambivalence, as familiar as it is unwelcome, settles over him. He really liked Francesca and Pina – liked their different styles and coping mechanisms, liked the way they were confrontational with each other and supportive at the same time. But that hardly gives him the right to come along and intrude into their lives, does it? He did the same with Maria Monaghan and look how that worked out. It’s one thing to interview a pharmaceutical executive for a trade publication and ask about patents or production schedules; it’s another thing entirely to sit across from grieving family members who want to understand how and why their loved one died, and know that your questions – your mere presence, in fact – is giving them hope, hope that you know in all likelihood to be false.
He didn’t make any promises, though. He didn’t lie to them.
At least.
Is that enough?
He passes a small bar, an enoteca, one of the few places still open, and is tempted to go in, but he’s more anxious to get back to the hotel. He could have used Francesca’s laptop to chase up this lead, but he wasn’t keen on the idea of having her there the whole time, peering over his shoulder. He’s also naturally quite cautious and didn’t want to leave a trail of his internet searches on her computer.
Back in his room, he jots down a few quick notes from the evening. Then he opens his laptop and goes online.
Dave Conway.
When Francesca said the name, Jimmy recognised it straightaway. Dave Conway. Conway Holdings. One of the property guys. Hotels, apartment blocks, housing estates. But he had absolutely no idea what connection Dave Conway might have to Clark Rundle or to Gianni Bonacci.
He types in the name.
The thing is, Jimmy calls this a lead, automatically thinks of it that way, but maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s a different Dave Conway.
He does a search anyway and surfs around for a while – business websites, directories, news archives – not expecting to find anything. To his surprise, however, he quickly comes across a clear, unequivocal connection. Three years ago, it seems, around the time of the conference, Clark Rundle’s company, BRX, bought a Conway Holdings subsidiary, First Continental Resources.
No more than that, no detail, just a reference.
Jimmy is fully aware that this doesn’t have to mean anything, that it’s a random, neutral fact he has found on the internet.
But –
It certainly joins up a lot of dots.
Larry Bolger, Clark Rundle, Dave Conway, Gianni Bonacci, Susie Monaghan.
What all of this means, in turn, he doesn’t really know. But his sense, increasingly, is that it must mean something – that there’s simply too much here for it not to mean something.
In which case, it occurs to him, shouldn’t he be concerned? A little nervous even?
Why?
Because –
Jimmy gets up off the bed and goes over to the window. There isn’t much of a view, just red slate roofs in the moonlight. It’s quiet, too, with occasional sounds drifting up from a nearby restaurant, cutlery and plates, laughter.
Because if it does mean something, think what that something must be.
Before now all of this had been academic, more or less, supposition, speculation – and at a considerable remove from any reality Jimmy is familiar with. But there’s something about being in Italy that changes that, recalibrates it, brings it closer to home. Maybe it’s the air or the architecture, he doesn’t know, but he has an acute sense right now of time and history, of ceaseless activity and intrigue, of ripeness and rot, of this calcified political culture where literally anything is possible – where the assassination of a middle-ranking official, for example, would be as routine and banal as the cancellation of an IT support contract.
Jimmy turns around and faces the room.
So what’s he saying? All of a sudden this is plausible? It’s thinkable? But wouldn’t that have to apply – logically, sooner or later – to most things? Including, he’d have to suppose, various forms of damage limitation? Damage caused, say, by someone who couldn’t keep his mouth shut? And then, in turn, by whoever that someone might have been talking to?
Jimmy is tired and losing perspective. He feels like having that drink now and wonders if it’s not too late to head back out.
He goes and sits on the edge of the bed.
Maybe he could find that bar again, the one he passed earlier.
He reaches over for the laptop, pulls it towards him. Before he logs off, he clicks onto the Irish Times website.
Force of habit.
It’s the first item he sees.
Larry Bolger dead.
One phrase. Three words. No room for ambiguity.
He stares at the headline in shock. Then he clicks onto the main story. It says Bolger died of a heart attack. In the lobby of a London hotel.
Jesus Christ.
But what was he doing in London in the first place? Who was he with? Who was he seeing?
It takes Jimmy a while to understand something here. As he’s staring at the screen, scanning the article, it creeps up on him. He realises he’s taking it for granted that this isn’t what it seems. Based on what? Absolutely nothing. But he’s convinced he’s right.
He’s convinced, too, that it won’t – can’t – end there.
At which point his phone rings. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he reaches over and picks it up.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hi, Jimmy, how’s it going? It’s Finbarr.’
Jimmy stops, looks up, confused. ‘Who?’
‘Finbarr. From across the hall.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Hi. I . . . I was just reading about Larry Bolger.’
‘Right. I know. Weird, isn’t it? But come here, listen.’
‘Yeah?’
Something about his tone.
Jimmy braces himself.
‘Sorry to lay this on you when you’re away and all, but there was a break-in this evening, in the building. Your place got done over. I’m afraid, it’s pretty bad.’
Three
Tube steadies himself with a couple of deep, measured breaths, replaces the revolver in his holster and steps away. Behind him now, the package is screaming, but what can he do? Venus and Scratch from the lead car were right behind him so they’ll be on it.
Kicking the door closed was dumb, and unnecessary, he could have just gone around it, or through the open window – but he had to feel like he was in a scene from a fucking movie, didn’t he? It’s the perennial temptation, the age-old problem – which comes first, the war or the stories? Put a gun in your hand and who are you?
He turns around.
Sweet Lord.
Venus looks at him.
Tube nods at the lead car.
‘Sir,’ he then says to the package, loudly, clearly, and with enough firmness to command the poor bastard’s attention, ‘these men will escort you to the airstrip. There you will receive immediate medical attention.’ He pauses. ‘Do you understand?’
The package nods. He’s pale, terrified, in agony.
Venus and Scratch take him away, quickly, out of the car and around the body. They shield him as best they can from what’s up ahead as well, and bundle him into the other car.
Tube just stands there. In theory, they could be vulnerable to attack here, some kind of retaliation, return fire, but it’s highly unlikely. Gideon controls this whole area, the airstrip, the mine, its immediate environs. Once you get near the compound, OK, things are a little different – the painted kids with bloodshot eyes take over . . . but they’re all still on the same side.
Except . . .
He looks around.
Except – you’d think – when something like this happens.
The lead car starts up, veers right, moves along the edge of the road for a bit and then speeds off.
Spokane, the driver of the middle car, opens his door and gets out, radio in hand.
He looks over at Tube. ‘Support on the way, sir.’
Tube nods.
Support. Clean up. Bags. At least one bag, anyway.
He shakes his head.
What a mess.
A few feet away is Deep Six. He’s just standing there, too, looking around.
Guess they’re both a little shell-shocked.
The silence now is the strangest thing.
Fuck.
No one moaning, no one crying, nothing.
Crazy, efficient motherfucker.
If anyone had asked him, Tube would have opted for Deep Six here, not Ashes, on the basis that it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for – and Ashes was anything but quiet, fool couldn’t keep still for a second, slave to his ADHD or whatever he had, though he never seemed that disturbed, just a little weird, stupid actually. And that’s another thing, it usually isn’t the stupid ones who end up doing this kind of thing – for whatever reason it’s the smart ones, like Deep Six . . . who at any rate seems smart, but maybe he isn’t, maybe he’s as dumb as he lets on. And who knows, go figure, maybe Ray Kroner was smart after all. Doesn’t matter now, though, he’s gone to the bosom of the Lord and he sure as shit ain’t coming back.
Tube looks down at the body.
He didn’t like having to do it, not least because it was his first time at such close range, but it was a split second thing anyway, he acted on reflex, and if he hadn’t, if Ashes had shot the package – it’s just occurring to him now – the fallout would’ve been . . .
Unimaginable.
There’d be no containing it. Which begs the question – what the hell is Senator John Rundle doing down here anyway? Whatever the strategy is supposed to be, it’s a damn risky one. A Beltway insider like Rundle? Coming to the Congo? For a sit-down with Arnold Kimbela?
He guesses the stakes must be pretty high.
Not that it’s Tube’s job, or his place, to be speculating on such shit, but you can’t help it.
He looks over at Deep Six again.
‘Hell of a thing,’ he says. And that’s when he notices the look on Tom Szymanski’s face. It’s a scowl, brooding, almost baleful. ‘What?’
Szymanski shrugs, seemingly unable to speak.
Tube steps over to him. ‘I didn’t have a choice. That was a US senator, for Christ’s sake.’ He’s whispering this. ‘Ashes was going to shoot him.’
Szymanski looks up. ‘A senator?’
‘Yeah, John Rundle. Big family.’ He raises an arm and sweeps it around. ‘His brother actually owns all of this, the mine, the airstrip. You know, BRX.’ He pauses. ‘They write the cheques. So I’m sorry, but Ashes picked the wrong fucking day to go crazy.’
Szymanski considers this, seems to anyway.
‘Yeah,’ he says eventually, under his breath. ‘The wrong fucking day.’ It’s barely audible.
He walks away.
Tube watches him.
He stops in front of Ray Kroner’s body for a second and then walks on.
Venus and Scratch watch in silence as he passes them.
Tube can hear something in the distance now, from behind. It’s on the road. A deep rumbling sound.
Support.
One of the armoured humvees.
Tom Szymanski stops when he comes to the scene up ahead.
Tube studies him – his posture, body language. What’s he thinking? What’s going on inside his head as he looks down at this pile – this fucked-up arrangement – of corpses . . .
Twisted, bullet-riddled, blood-soaked.
Faces frozen in shock.
This calculus of horror.
Two women, one slumped over an empty wicker basket, the other lying sideways in a pile of, what are they, yams . . . and behind them, splayed out on the dirt road, three tiny, limp frames . . .
Is Deep Six straining to take this in, to comprehend it? Is it getting to him? Is he losing his perspective, losing his mind?
Tube exhales, turns around, looks in the opposite direction.
The armoured vehicle is approaching. It gets closer, louder. It pulls up next to the first SUV. Doors and hatches open, support personnel appear. They spread out, assess the damage, start the clean-up.
Though Tube is still in charge.
In fact, since the entire Buenke operation is under his command, he’ll be the one responsible for shaping and disseminating the official narrative of what happened here.
Which isn’t going to be easy.
Because Gideon Global don’t do explanations, or apologies.
Tube nods at Venus again and walks over to where he and Scratch are standing. As he does so, he makes a mental note.
Tom Szymanski takes extended leave.
Unpaid.
Effective immediately.
8
On the flight to Paris, Rundle goes over his notes again and then catches up on some of the J.J. stuff from the weekend. He watches various clips – mainly from the Sunday morning talk shows, This Week and Face the Nation – and has to admit that J.J. did pretty well. He’d said last week that he wanted to hang onto the media traction while changing the conversation, and he appears to have done just that – little or no mention of the ‘accident’, instead a vigorous assault on the Finance Reform bill. Of course, the high-visibility brace on his hand leaves no one in any doubt about the narrative subtext that’s being peddled here.
But nicely done. All round. No question about it.
Nor has it
taken long for the speculation to ramp up about J.J. possibly running for the White House in two years’ time. No one has officially put their hat in the ring yet – it’s too early for that – but the more times you get asked the question, the less plausible, conveniently enough, your coy and disingenuous denials become.
Rundle can even see it himself now.
What’s more, he can see the benefits.
It’s become clear to him recently that his position vis-à-vis James Vaughan and the Oberon Capital Group may not be as solid as he’d been assuming. Rundle has played his part, there’s no doubt about that, he’s kept the supply chain ticking over, and at considerable cost, both financial and otherwise – but there’s also no doubt that in relation to certain follow-on matters he has been kept in the dark.
There’s a bigger picture here – it’s obvious, Rundle can feel it in his bones – but for whatever reason, or reasons, Jimmy Vaughan has consistently made a point of excluding him from it. With J.J. in the White House, however, things would be different. They’d have to be.
It would be a lock.
The Rundle Supremacy.
OK, there’s a long way to go before that happens, but in the short term if BRX can sew up the Africa situation, Oberon might be more favourably disposed towards the senator making a bid for the White House.
Maybe pitch in a little.
Quid pro quo sort of thing. Two-way street.
Not that there’d be anything formalised about it, much less illegal or nefarious – nothing, say, for The Nation or Democracy Now to be getting worked up about.
Because how do these people think shit gets done?
It’s just business.
Rundle closes his laptop, leans back and sighs.
He’s getting to Paris on his own steam, in the G650, and after that Gideon will be taking over – there’ll be a flight in a military plane to Kigali followed by a quick hop over to Bukavu in eastern Congo. Then he’ll be taken in a light aircraft to the mine at Buenke. At least the reverse trip, with the scale of comfort ascending, will be a little easier.
And in between he sits down with the colonel.
It’ll be a quick turnaround, couple of hours maybe, some hard talking, lots of back and forth, issues, conditions, whatever.
