Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  Alone in his room, he gags and rushes to the toilet, but nothing happens.

  He feels insecure, almost like a child, and for one or two seconds actually wants to cry. He imagines Nora sitting on the bed, opening her arms to him, but he flinches from the image, and shakes his head.

  Then he goes over to the mini-bar, opens it and extracts two small bottles, a Jack Daniel’s and a Teacher’s. He unscrews these and knocks them back, one straight after the other.

  That settles him.

  After a while, he takes a shower, shaves, puts on a fresh suit. He looks at himself in the mirror. He straightens his tie.

  At noon, they’re taking him back to the airport for the last leg of the journey, the one-hour flight to Buenke. They’ll be landing at the airstrip, which is a few miles from Kimbela’s compound, and a few more again from the mining area itself. With any luck, he should be back here at the hotel by late evening, ready to start the return trip in the morning.

  Rundle paces the room for a while, going over various negotiating positions in his head, stuff he might need to pull out later on. Then, suddenly, he stops. He stands at the window and looks out at Lake Kivu. For the first time since arriving here, he feels able to . . . not relax exactly, but . . .

  Slow down a little.

  Look at something directly in front of him and not be thinking about something else. And what’s directly in front of him right now, he has to admit, is pretty stunning.

  Not so the streets of Bukavu. As the convoy speeds through them a couple of hours later, along Avenue de la Résidence and Avenue Lumumba, past rundown art deco buildings – dusty and peeling, remnants of what must once have been a gorgeous city, probably as far back as the 1950s – Rundle’s anxiety returns. It’s the shanty town overlay, the air of menace and despair, the realisation that without this armoured SUV he’s in, and the ones up ahead and behind, without his Gideon shell, he wouldn’t survive ten minutes here, that left to walk any of these streets on his own, he’d be torn apart, limb from limb, then left to rot and decompose.

  For the dogs, for the maggots.

  The flight to Buenke is in a light aircraft and does nothing to mitigate his feelings of anxiety. They pass over mountainous terrain, jungle and scrubland and while it’s all undeniably beautiful he has this queasy sense that he’s falling deeper and deeper into some inescapable abyss. This is Congo’s ‘wild east’ after all, a region of the country in which government forces and rebel militias vie for control of the abundant natural resources so coveted by the rest of the world.

  Though, OK, vie for control . . .

  That makes it sound almost civilised, like a game of chess or something. But it’s not. The hard fact is, shifting loyalties here and the fluidity of the security situation in general make eastern Congo one of the most unstable and barbarous regions on the entire planet.

  If there is a real chess game, where it’s played out, he supposes, is behind this great cloak of ungovernability, and the players are people like himself, and James Vaughan, and whoever the party leaders in Beijing have sanctioned to come over here and do business. It’s like the Cold War, with its drawn-out proxy conflicts, only this time there’s no pretext, no talk of a clash of ideologies, no talk of a domino effect.

  This time it’s strictly business.

  At the Buenke airstrip, Rundle is greeted, much to his relief, by Don Ribcoff, who came on ahead to oversee the security arrangements in person. He looks at home here, all dressed-up and heavily armed.

  Rundle isn’t complaining.

  As the two men walk from the plane to another convoy of SUVs, they discuss arrangements. Kimbela is at his compound for the rest of the day and will receive Rundle at 1600 hours. What happens after that – locations, timeframes, catering – will very much depend on how negotiations proceed. At all points along the way Rundle will be accompanied by a team of eight Gideon contractors, and leading the unit will be Peter Lutz, who – as they arrive at the head car of the convoy – Ribcoff now introduces Rundle to.

  ‘Sir,’ Lutz say, extending his hand, ‘it’s an honour.’

  Rundle wants to say at ease here, or some such, but he knows this isn’t the military, knows the PMCs do things differently – he’s just not au fait with the protocols.

  Not, of course – if this was the military – that he’d be saying at ease to anyone.

  He’s a bit thrown at the moment, that’s all. The heat here is unbelievable, like New York in August, only ten times worse.

  He looks at Ribcoff with renewed respect. The man is more or less wearing battle fatigues and hasn’t broken a sweat.

  By the same token, Rundle is in a suit and tie, and while he won’t claim not to have broken a sweat, he is holding his own.

  What he says, turning to Lutz, is, ‘That business last week?’

  Lutz nods, readies himself. ‘Very unfortunate, sir, and we all send our best wishes to the Senator, but as far as procedures here are concerned, I can assure you that a definite line has been drawn in the sand.’ He pauses, glances around, and although there is no one within earshot, continues in a lower, more discreet tone. ‘As you know, sir, during the course of the incident it became necessary to terminate the contractor concerned. It was unavoidable. The only other contractor closely involved, and in a defensive capacity, let me stress, has already shipped out on extended leave, so I think –’

  ‘Why?’

  Lutz hesitates, seems surprised by the question. ‘Why has he gone on leave, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He appeared to have been traumatised by the incident. I felt it wiser to remove him, for his own sake, and also for the morale of the unit.’

  Rundle considers this. ‘Makes sense, I guess.’

  Ribcoff then nods at Lutz, who extends an arm, indicating to Rundle the middle car.

  ‘OK,’ Rundle says, following him, and adding, a little self-consciously, ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  It’s a phrase he’s heard James Vaughan use many times.

  *

  Conway pulls out of the cemetery onto the Cherryvale Road. There is a big reception being held in a local hotel and everyone will be there, most of the cabinet, various financiers, business people, a bishop or two, the media, celebrities . . .

  But at the earliest opportunity – approaching the first main intersection – Ruth takes a deep breath and says, ‘Take me home.’ Her voice is shaky, uncertain. These are the first words she’s uttered in over an hour.

  Although Conway doesn’t want to go to the reception either, he certainly doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to go anywhere.

  But with Ruth in the car what choice does he have?

  He takes a left, leaving the main road behind – and the route to the hotel.

  He wants to say something, just to break the silence. There is nothing to say, though. Unless they want to have it out and go all the way.

  But not in the car.

  Not in the kitchen, not in the bedroom, not in front of the au pair, the kids, the baby.

  Where then?

  ‘Ruth, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s a mess. North Atlantic are calling in their debts, and –’

  ‘You’re only telling me this now?’ She punches the dashboard. ‘You let me go on thinking everything was OK?’

  ‘I didn’t want –’

  Ruth screams. ‘What? You didn’t want me to be worried? Don’t give me that crap, Dave, I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so on the ball,’ Conway says, squeezing the steering wheel, ‘why didn’t you see this coming? Because it’s been staring us in the face for months. You read the papers. You follow the news. Why should I be immune? Why should I be any different?’

  Ruth screams again, but quickly muffles it. ‘Because,’ she says, the shake still in her voice, ‘I thought you were different.’

  Conway doesn’t know how to respond to this.

  He says nothing.

  Once more, a thick silence descend
s.

  The traffic is heavy and every light seems to be red.

  It’s torture.

  When they pull into their driveway, Ruth straightens up. She opens her side of the car before Conway has even cut the engine. She then storms across the gravel and in through the front door of the house, slamming it behind her.

  Conway follows. He moves slowly, digging out his keys. When he gets inside, Ruth is standing in the hallway with the phone up to her ear.

  He drops his keys onto the hall stand.

  Ruth lowers the phone and presses a button on it.

  ‘Four messages,’ she says. ‘One from the Times, one from the Sunday Business Post, two from Martin Boyle. All urgent.’ She looks at him. ‘Jesus. So I’m the last to know, is that it?’ She flings the phone down onto the hall stand. There are tears in her eyes. ‘Bankrupt?’

  Conway picks up the phone and replaces it in its charger. ‘Look, I owe the bank a couple of hundred million, Ruth. There’s no way I can pay it back.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  He looks at her, says nothing.

  ‘What about . . .?’

  At which point Molly and Danny come rushing down the stairs, ‘MOMMY, DADDY . . .’

  Followed by Corinne, who is holding Jack.

  The next few minutes are chaotic. Everyone moves to the kitchen at the back of the house. The kids dominate, which is fine, it provides convenient cover – because Conway doesn’t want to continue the conversation with Ruth, doesn’t want to answer any of her questions, her what-abouts. Besides, he knows them all in advance. What about the kids? What about schools? What about the house? What about the horses? What about Umbria? What about me?

  But that’s all shit they can sort out, with lawyers and accountants, and a little bit of pulling together. What Conway would like to point out to Ruth, but can’t, is that this could all be so much worse, that they’ve been lucky, that the man whose funeral they’ve just come from, if he’d lived, was actually on the point of burying them.

  There’s no shame in financial ruin if everyone else is going through it at the same time, is there? But the scandal of a trial for, at the very least, conspiracy to murder, the ignominy of that would be insurmountable, the disgrace of it ineradicable. Then they really would lose the house, and the kids really would suffer.

  She doesn’t have a clue.

  But he can’t tell her now, because the simple fact is he didn’t tell her then. How could he have? Why would he have? It wasn’t supposed to get that complicated and messy. He found himself in the situation and he handled it.

  He protected his interests.

  And moved on.

  Not that he’s pretending it was easy, or that it didn’t leave a mark, it did . . .

  He still dreams about it.

  But –

  And it’s just then, as he senses Ruth approaching – rapidly, from the left – that Conway realises what he’s doing. His mind might be elsewhere, but he’s staring at Corinne again. He has allowed himself to be distracted, mesmerised even, by the revealing gap that appears every so often between the bottom of her short silk top and the top of her sculpted blue jeans. He catches sight of it as she moves about the kitchen, as she reaches up for something, or leans over, his eye tracking this innocent, elusive slit of smooth, tanned skin.

  When Ruth gets to him, it happens very fast. She swings her hand back and slaps him hard on the face.

  ‘You pig.’

  He lurches sideways, sliding off the stool. He brings a hand up to his stinging cheek.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘MOMMY!’

  ‘Out,’ Ruth says to him, as they both turn to look at a shocked Molly. ‘Now. Out of here.’ She grabs him by the arm and they move towards the door.

  Corinne, clearly shocked too, steps forward to distract Molly.

  Out in the hallway, door closed behind them, Ruth raises her hand again, but Conway blocks it, takes a firm hold of her wrist.

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Get out of this house,’ she says, resisting, her voice no longer shaky.

  ‘Ruth, I –’

  ‘Don’t –’

  For a few seconds they stay like that, locked in position, staring at each other, and in steely silence – too many words required, too many knotty, complicated sentences, to even begin the process of –

  But suddenly, Conway releases her. He turns and walks off, grabbing his keys from the stand as he passes it. Without looking back, he goes out the hall door. He is careful not to slam it behind him.

  *

  The ride to the compound is fast and bumpy. On the way, they pass through a tiny village, which Don Ribcoff points out as the scene of last week’s ‘incident’. Rundle tries to picture it, J.J. close to a heart attack as all hell breaks loose around him, but the images are insubstantial, fleeting, and in any case are superseded by others – ones nearer the surface, and drawn from memory, chiefly Rundle and Kimbela in a Paris apartment three years ago, what Rundle likes to think of as his Africa summit. There were plenty of guns around the place that day – none of them Rundle’s, as it happens – but at least outside the apartment it was fucking Paris.

  This is going to be different. Outside wherever they sit down today it will be Congo.

  Democratic Republic of.

  No surprise then that Rundle’s guts are in a knot.

  As he recalls, Arnold Kimbela was scary and charming in about equal measure. But that was then, when Rundle knew very little about the man – which was mainly that he was a local force to be reckoned with, commander of a brigade of the Congolese army that operated outside the control of the Congolese government, but who also, more importantly, ran the mines, doled out the contracts, a loose enough arrangement by international standards, even by official Congolese standards, but round here all that you needed.

  In the meantime, no doubt, the scariness-to-charm ratio will have shifted considerably. Gregarious and larger-than-life as he was, and probably still is, the colonel has acquired a reputation for brutality.

  Extreme methods.

  And so on.

  Rundle closes his eyes.

  He doesn’t have much of a stomach for this sort of stuff, but he takes a pragmatic view. Short of invading the continent, there isn’t much anyone can do about how these people choose to run their affairs. However, the international trade in mineral resources is a vital one, and is also, frankly, unstoppable, so the cost – and, by extension, awareness of that cost – is extremely difficult to avoid.

  Whatever that might mean.

  He opens his eyes again.

  He’s beginning to sound a bit like a politician.

  He looks out of the window. Flat grey scrubland rushes past. One minute this place is astonishingly beautiful, and the next it’s drab.

  And bleak.

  Or is that just how he feels?

  ‘You ready for this?’ Don Ribcoff says.

  Rundle turns to him. ‘Yeah. Piece of cake.’ He smiles. ‘I mean, it’s just business, right?’

  ‘Well, I don’t –’

  ‘Look, I know, I know, kids with Kalashnikovs, heart of darkness, all of that shit, but at the end of the day it’s a meeting, it’s negotiations, it’s striking a deal. I’m a businessman, he’s a businessman. We disagree, what’s he going to do, eat me?’

  Ribcoff grunts. ‘We’re not likely to let that happen, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try.’

  ‘Oh relax, Don. This’ll actually be pretty tedious. These mining contracts aren’t a barrel of laughs you know.’

  This is bluster on Rundle’s part. He’s nervous, no getting away from it, but after what happened with J.J., he’s not about to put it on display. Besides, Don Ribcoff is the hired help here, he’s security, and the details of what goes on, of what this is about, are – and must remain – strictly confidential.

  Soon the convoy is slowing down and they’re turning left in through some gates to a walled enclosure. They follow a heavily tree-lined driveway for
about two hundred yards and come out onto a clearing. Then they stop alongside the main entrance to what Rundle takes to be Kimbela’s famously unfinished ‘villa’. It’s the sort of thing a prosperous tea merchant might have built for himself in one of the new suburbs of mid-Victorian London.

  Here, of course, it looks absurd.

  On the opposite side of the clearing is the row of concrete shacks J.J. talked about.

  Rundle glances around. The place appears to be deserted. But within seconds this changes. Jeeps pull up on either side of the convoy, brakes screeching, soldiers piling off, and suddenly they’re surrounded.

  Rundle stiffens.

  Ribcoff rolls his eyes. ‘This is Kimbela’s praetorian guard. I can’t believe we actually train these idiots.’

  ‘Really? And who supplies them with those pressed fatigues and crisp felt berets?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Ribcoff laughs. ‘Sure.’

  Rundle makes a show of laughing along. Then he reaches for the door and opens it. He steps out of this climate-controlled SUV and into a wall of heat.

  Ribcoff does the same, followed by Lutz and his team in the other two vehicles.

  Everyone stands around for a moment, soldiers, private contractors, but it’s barely enough time for any kind of tension or animosity to build. Not that it should, Rundle thinks, given that they’re all basically on the same payroll.

  ‘Clark, my old friend.’

  The voice is deep and resonant. Rundle turns around and sees Kimbela emerging from behind one of the jeeps. He too is in pressed fatigues and a crisp beret.

  And mirrored sunglasses.

  Regulation issue.

  Rundle gets the impression that they’ve all dressed up for this, for the occasion. He doesn’t think they did it for J.J. And there don’t seem to be any drug-crazed children around either.