Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  But a resolution has to be arrived at.

  That’s the bottom line.

  Rundle looks out the window, at the clouds below, billowing furiously.

  He has spent his life arriving at solutions – structuring complex deals, negotiating buyouts . . . manipulating, cajoling, sweet-talking, playing hardball where necessary – but it has always been in streamlined air-conditioned spaces, in hotel rooms, office suites and conference centres.

  This is going to be very different.

  A jungle clearing, kids with Kalashnikovs, a damp hut, a metal table, a bare light bulb. That’s how J.J. described it. Equally, depending on his mood, the colonel could choose to hold the meeting in his new palace – so-called, and still half-built by all reports, with its unsuitable antique furniture, staircases leading nowhere and empty Olympic-sized swimming pool.

  The point is, it’ll be different.

  And Rundle has this notion –

  He can’t help it.

  He has this notion that by travelling to Africa in person, by engaging directly with a local warlord, by not flinching, he will come away stronger, empowered somehow, equipped not just with a re-negotiated mining contract but with a psychological edge as well, an air of dark authority. It’s as if he expects to be infected, bitten, tainted in some way.

  His soul.

  Rundle looks away, suddenly uncomfortable with this, a little embarrassed even. He swivels his seat around to face the empty cabin.

  He is aware of all the history here, of the tropes and metaphors routinely used, the clichés even. He’s aware of the complex web of interdependencies going back over decades, the involvement of various agencies, corporate, military, intel.

  He’s aware, too, of the enduring friendship between Jimmy Vaughan and Mobutu Sese Seko.

  But –

  Rundle swivels back to face the window again.

  That would have been confined to Paris, or London, or Washington, wouldn’t it? At no point, as far as he knows, did Vaughan himself ever actually go to Congo.

  He’s going, though, and it feels appropriate.

  Rundle leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

  He’s only sorry now that he didn’t arrange to have Nora come along as well.

  *

  Conway sits at the kitchen counter, distracted, agitated, gazing at Corinne as she cajoles Jack into eating some cereal. What if he were married to her, he thinks, and Jack was their first, and they lived in an apartment in Paris, and he ran a successful software or consultancy business? And Corinne adored him, deferred to him, wanted him.

  What if . . .

  ‘Well?’

  Conway looks up. Ruth is standing there, with her coat on. She nods at the radio.

  ‘Any mention of when the funeral is?’

  He straightens up. ‘Thursday morning.’

  She passes Jack on her way to the fridge and strokes his head.

  ‘Is it going to be a state funeral?’

  ‘Mamma.’ Delayed reaction.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She opens the fridge and takes out a carton of cranberry juice. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘No, me neither.’ It’s not the only thing he can’t believe. His brief phone call to Don Ribcoff and then . . . problem solved?

  Again?

  Or maybe Larry Bolger simply obliged, succumbed to the enormous pressure he was under, the guilt, the fear, the apprehension.

  Ticker couldn’t take it any more.

  Either way, problem solved.

  That problem solved.

  Who does Conway phone up now, though, about his other problems? His financial woes, his impending professional meltdown, his own guilt and fear and apprehension?

  ‘Oh,’ Ruth says, ‘I meant to ask you. How did the meeting go?’

  They’d been so caught up last night in the news about Bolger’s death that they hadn’t talked about anything else.

  He pauses. He’s about to tell her the truth. But not with Corinne there, not with the baby, not in the kitchen.

  ‘It went OK, I think. We’ll see.’

  Ruth pours some juice into a glass and puts the carton back in the fridge.

  ‘Right,’ she says, and knocks the juice back. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Mamma.’

  A few minutes later, Conway heads out himself.

  Driving into town feels normal enough, like any other morning, but only so long as he keeps the radio off and ignores the constant pinging of his phone. As soon as he arrives at his building, however, the feeling evaporates. Because what awaits him here, up on the sixth floor, especially after yesterday’s debacle with the Black Vine people, will bear no resemblance to a normal day at the office. Instead, there’ll be frantic messages from Martin Boyle, from the banks, maybe even from business correspondents, people at RTE and Newstalk and the papers. Among the staff, there’ll be an air of panic, of incredulity, of how can this be happening.

  He’ll be expected to say something.

  He’ll be expected to turn this around.

  *

  When Jimmy walks into his apartment on Tuesday afternoon he is almost sick. Finbarr warned him that the place had been turned over, but he isn’t prepared for the visceral shock of it – the sense of what it’d be like, he imagines, to look in the mirror one morning and see your face unexpectedly disfigured.

  He puts his bag down.

  Everything has been disturbed, moved, knocked over. The bookshelves have been cleared, with all the books now in messy heaps on the floor.

  But he’s prepared to bet there isn’t a single one missing.

  Because burglars don’t take books, certainly not old paperbacks. They clear bookshelves because they’re looking for something.

  He goes over to his desk and switches on the computer. It’s one of the few objects in the room still in its proper place.

  Which will maybe tell its own story.

  And, straightaway, does.

  Wiped.

  Fuck.

  It’s not the loss of data he’s concerned about – he has that on his laptop, on a flash drive, stored online – it’s the message this conveys. It’s how it makes him think again about what happened in London.

  Fuck.

  He looks around.

  Apparently, two other apartments in the building were broken into as well, but he can only conclude that these were for show.

  It’s with a certain degree of ambivalence, not to say unease, that he decides to start tidying up. The alternative would be to go and stay with a friend, but this is where he lives. It’s his apartment. He isn’t going anywhere.

  He kneels on the floor, picks up a few books.

  Starts there.

  Thumbs through a couple of them, ends up reading bits, and quickly feeling indignant.

  He picks up a Scribner’s Gatsby.

  A Picador Dispatches.

  Concrete Island.

  It takes him a while.

  In fact, it’s not until the next morning that Jimmy can bring himself to get back to work.

  And effectively this means tracking down Dave Conway.

  Without much difficulty he finds an address for Conway’s office in town and a reference to his home, which is somewhere near Enniskerry. He also finds a couple of phone numbers and an e-mail address. But initial approaches prove fruitless – a cursory message is taken, a call is not returned, an e-mail gets an automatic out-of-office reply. He makes it as far as the reception area of the building where Conway Holdings has its offices and is told that no one is available to see him.

  But he picks up on something here. There’s a certain frantic air about the place, maybe even a sense of panic – which is not unusual these days, but he wonders if there’s more to it than that.

  He considers going out to Enniskerry to see if he can locate Conway’s house, but decides against it, reckons that it might be a bit tricky. Or even risky.

  Or just pointless.

  When he gets back to the apar
tment, he delves further into a couple of online news archives, and keeps reading, searching, probing, as if some revelation might be at hand, some neat and convenient tying together of the various threads.

  It’s not quite that, but a significant fact does emerge from the acres of material he manages to scan – Dave Conway and Larry Bolger were close. During Bolger’s time in office reference after reference puts the two men together, at meetings, in corridors, on the phone.

  In photographs.

  Jimmy looks at a few of these and tries to parse the body language, to extract some meaning from the position of a hand on a shoulder or the direction of a gaze.

  It proves difficult, elusive.

  Ultimately what he gets from the photographs is pretty obvious. And simple. It’s the realisation that as a result of this close association between the two men, Dave Conway will more than likely be attending Larry Bolger’s state funeral tomorrow morning in the church at Donnybrook and then later out at St Felim’s Cemetery.

  *

  ‘I see the way you look at her.’

  This is whispered. Ruth only whispers when she’s about to explode. Or when there’s no choice, when she’s at something like a funeral, and a state funeral at that.

  And at the bloody graveside.

  ‘I don’t look at her,’ he says. ‘Jesus.’

  Conway has been blindsided by this. Of course he looks at Corinne. The girl is so beautiful she breaks his fucking heart every time he sees her – but he’s not fourteen, he’s not an idiot.

  He swallows.

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He swallows again.

  OK . . . maybe it’s not inconceivable – lately, at any rate – that Ruth has caught him staring at the au pair.

  For inappropriately long periods of time.

  But whatever she might think it’s not actually sexual. He doesn’t want to fuck her. He’s old enough to be her father.

  He just –

  He wants to envelop himself in the fragrant idea of her, and disappear.

  Basically.

  Evaporate. Escape.

  Which might well be worse. From Ruth’s perspective. Mightn’t it?

  A more serious transgression.

  He should shut up.

  It’s been a long day. Two hours in the church, readings, tributes, poetry, the interminable shuffle back along the aisle to get out, then the car park, the cortège, the lined streets.

  And now they’re out here at St Felim’s, at the graveside.

  Waiting.

  For the oration. Which is to be delivered by another former Taoiseach, and will no doubt be tedious beyond belief.

  ‘I don’t understand. What is wrong with you?’

  Ruth doesn’t look at him when she says this. It’s more of a rhetorical question. He’s reluctant to fight with her, but it’s inevitable, he supposes.

  They’re a few rows back from the graveside, seated, and it’s chilly, uncomfortably so. He doesn’t recognise anyone on either side of them. No one seems to be listening anyway, everyone caught up in their own whispered conversations.

  He stares at her, waits until she turns.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he then says, almost giddy with the knowledge that he’s about to obliterate any annoying thoughts she might have about him and the au pair. ‘I’m as close to being bankrupt as makes no difference. That’s what.’

  She stares at him, eyes widening.

  His stomach turns.

  He can see her trying to take this in.

  But he won’t have to say anything more, that much is clear. She gets it. Every time he tried to imagine the scene it took him ages, working through it, just to explain.

  Not necessary, it seems.

  Ruth can put the pieces together. And can probably extrapolate from it, too, see the ramifications.

  All the way to the poor house.

  ‘You fool,’ she hisses.

  God, Conway thinks, if only that’s all I was.

  ‘And what about the kids? Jesus.’

  At least he doesn’t have to go into any of the other stuff with her. The Larry Bolger stuff. The Susie Monaghan stuff.

  The Don Ribcoff stuff.

  ‘The house is in your name,’ he says quietly, aware now of her starting to tremble beside him. ‘Remember? So are half of the companies. It’ll take ten years to sort it all out.’

  Something occurs to him at that point. Phil Sweeney. Where is he? He didn’t see him at the church. He should be here somewhere.

  Conway looks around, over his shoulder.

  He’s assuming that despite their little falling-out things are OK there. With Phil. With the young guy, whatshisname, Jimmy Gilroy.

  Now that Bolger is –

  Well . . .

  He’s just assuming.

  Big crowd here. He turns back, stares straight ahead, at the grave, at the coffin.

  But maybe he shouldn’t be making assumptions like that.

  In the distance, a black state car glides into view.

  Maybe he shouldn’t be making assumptions like that at all.

  *

  Jimmy sits huddled behind his Honda on a low wall opposite the entrance to the cemetery. There’s a large crowd here and they’ve all just watched the funeral cortège snake its way along the Cherryvale Road and disappear in through the imposing iron gates of St Felim’s.

  Earlier on, Jimmy spotted Dave Conway and his wife coming out of the church in Donnybrook and getting into a dark green BMW. There was a large crowd there too and it wasn’t easy, but Jimmy knew it was him – recognised him from photographs. He wasn’t going to be able to follow them directly, because of how the cortège was organised, but he knew where they were headed and made his own way out. He took an alternative and much quicker route, but when he arrived at the cemetery he found, not surprisingly, that access to it was restricted.

  With more crowds gathering, he decided to pick a spot, sit down and just let the afternoon unfold at its own glacial pace.

  He glances over at the gates again now.

  The thing is, Conway will reappear at some point and Jimmy will follow him.

  Until then all he can do is watch and wait. Besides, it’s a nice day, cool, intermittently sunny, and there’s a gentle breeze.

  There are worse things he could be doing.

  He feels strange, though. He’s not here as a punter, not here to gawk or pay his respects. Nor does he feel, at the same time, like one of the journalists or photographers he keeps spotting about the place, guys he knows from his days at the paper.

  In any case, they wouldn’t allow that. He’s officially out of the system, on the fringes at best.

  They’re a very protected species.

  When one of them wanders past, in fact, Jimmy gets the look, the slight double-take.

  Fuck are you doing here?

  ‘Hi¸ Chris.’

  ‘Jimmy.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not bad. Nice day for it.’

  Chris Sullivan. Political correspondent. Late forties. Inside track on just about everything.

  Jimmy looks up at him, squints. ‘Shouldn’t you be inside?’

  ‘On my way.’ Sullivan checks his watch. ‘Larry’s not going anywhere.’ Then, eyebrows furrowed, ‘You working?’

  It crosses Jimmy’s mind to say something here, maybe even to say everything. He has what he has, information-wise, story-wise. What he doesn’t have is the back-up and resources of a legitimate news organisation.

  If there is such a thing anymore.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t call it work.’ He holds a hand up to his face to block out the light. ‘Though mind you, I was wondering.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What did you make of it?’ He gestures towards the cemetery. ‘A heart attack? In London?’

  Sullivan shrugs. ‘If that’s how you’re going, I don’t think you get to choose where it happens.’

  ‘He was
relatively young, though. Healthy. Bit strange.’

  Sullivan looks at him. ‘What?’ Long pause. Then, ‘Would you fuck off. Larry Bolger? What are you saying?’

  Jimmy hesitates.

  That I talked to him a few days ago? That he implicated some pretty influential people in a horrendous crime, and that now he’s dead?

  He clears his throat.

  ‘Nothing. I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘Apparently.’ Sullivan shakes his head. ‘And I’d keep it that way. Take it easy, Jimmy.’ He walks a few yards along the path, turns and crosses the road.

  Jimmy watches as Sullivan approaches the cemetery gates. A uniformed guard lets him in. He disappears.

  It wouldn’t have worked out.

  Jimmy doesn’t have anything concrete, and if he did he’d be more or less giving it away. Guys like Chris Sullivan don’t share their by-lines.

  Jimmy leans forward and rests his head on the side of the motorbike.

  He’s a long way off a by-line on this one.

  But what choice does he have? He has to keep going.

  Has to keep waiting.

  And it’s at least another ninety minutes before the first few cars start trickling out of the cemetery. During this time the crowd pretty much disperses. Nothing left to gawk at.

  Jimmy then gets ready and keeps his eyes peeled for the green BMW.

  After a couple of minutes, and about five or six cars, he sees it.

  9

  A Gideon convoy takes Clark Rundle from the airport, which is just inside the Congolese border, to a lakeshore hotel near the old governor’s mansion in Bukavu. The hotel has spectacular views of the lake and seems to be fairly comfortable, with spacious rooms and a functioning AC system, but Rundle is focused on only one thing now – seeing Arnold Kimbela and then getting the hell out of here.

  It has been the longest two days of his life.

  The flight from Paris to Kigali was bad enough, but then there was a ten-hour overnight delay before he could take the short flight to Bukavu. At all times he has been surrounded – cocooned, indeed – by Gideon personnel, and there has never been the slightest question about his safety, but something about the . . . the atmosphere, clammy and dense, and the people, staring faces seen in the distance, harsh voices carried on the air . . . he doesn’t know, there’s a general hard-to-define looseness here, a dreamlike, nightmarish feeling that everything is about to fall apart, slide into chaos, and it bothers him, it’s like an incipient headache, or a rising wave of nausea.