Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  Should he be flattered?

  ‘Colonel,’ he says and extends a hand.

  Kimbela steps forward and they shake. The colonel is forty-two now, but he still looks like a slightly excitable, overweight teenager.

  With attitude.

  Which is exactly what he would have been twenty-five years ago when his old man was running an extortion and racketeering network for Mobutu.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Clark. Tell me, how is your brother?’ As he says this, Kimbela makes a move towards the house and indicates for Rundle to follow him. Rundle does so, followed in turn by Lutz and several of the Gideon contractors. ‘J.J. is well,’ he says. ‘He’s recovering. It wasn’t an easy trip for him.’ Then, feeling he should amend this, adds, ‘It wasn’t an easy time . . . for anyone.’

  ‘No, no it wasn’t.’ Solemn here. ‘But anyway, look. I saw him on, what is it called, Face the Nation? Online? He was good. Very good. The brace is an interesting touch, I think. No?’ He turns, looks at Rundle and bursts out laughing. Then, ‘American politics, if I may say so, is quite boring. Fiscal reform? Please.’ He laughs again, even louder this time.

  Rundle tries to join in – he wants to be polite, but at the same time feels it shouldn’t be all one way. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘at least we have systems that work, we get things done, you know?’

  Kimbela either doesn’t hear this or chooses to ignore it.

  They are standing now in a large reception room. The furniture, as J.J. said, is fake Louis Quinze, upholstered chairs, a couple of chaises longues and a credenza arranged in no particular order.

  It’s like a forgotten corner of some discount home furnishing outlet in a New Jersey shopping mall.

  ‘So, Clark,’ the colonel says, turning to Rundle, ‘would you like some tea?’

  *

  Conway gets in the car, reverses quickly on the gravel and turns. He shoots along the driveway, narrowly avoiding a stalled motorbike at the gates. He turns left and takes off.

  He has no idea where he’s going, but it doesn’t matter. He needs time to think. Now that he’s come clean with Ruth, and that the Times and Business Post are clearly on the case, he can start devising a realistic rescue package for the company. And what he mustn’t forget is that it can be done. Compared to how things might have turned out, it won’t be that hard either. Dealing with the media intrusion is going to be tough, but easily preferable to dealing with the cops. And downsizing Conway Holdings? Creative restructuring? Brutal cutbacks? All a hundred times more preferable – how could they not be? – to prison time.

  Somehow he has to bring Ruth on board and get her to see things his way.

  After driving aimlessly for a while, Conway decides where he’s going. From here he can get to Tara Meadows in fifteen minutes. It’s quiet there, and isolated. He won’t have to talk to anyone. He’ll give Ruth a couple of hours to cool off and then he’ll phone her.

  By that time he’ll have worked it out, everything, even a rescue package for their marriage. First off, Corinne will have to go. Not that any of it is her fault, but she’s a distraction. They can get some hatchet-faced old biddy to replace her. As he drives, Conway sees that the real issue on the domestic front is that he has hidden things from Ruth. Not just the true nature of the First Continental deal, and what happened at Drumcoolie Castle, all of that, which is understandable, but lots of other stuff as well, ordinary stuff, banal stuff.

  And unnecessarily.

  Being secretive has become a habit.

  Ruth deserves better.

  He must do better.

  Glancing in his rearview mirror a moment later, as he comes off the roundabout, Conway notices something.

  There’s a motorbike. It’s been there for a while. He wonders if it’s the same one that was stalled at the gates of his house.

  As he was pulling out.

  Seemed to be stalled.

  Shit.

  It’s a journalist, has to be.

  Approaching the entrance to Tara Meadows now, Conway is undecided. He turns in anyway. At least it will flush this bastard out. He’ll hardly just follow him in.

  But he does, brazenly.

  Right behind him, no hesitation.

  Conway proceeds along Tara Boulevard, towards the Concourse. Then he swerves suddenly, pulls in at the kerb and opens the door. He gets out. He stands there on the road, door still open behind him, and glares at the approaching motorcyclist.

  The motorcyclist slows down, and stops. He gets off the bike and immediately starts undoing the clasps on his helmet.

  Conway readies himself. He’s in no mood for this, but there’s no point in being overly aggressive either. It won’t be his last encounter with one of these guys. As he watches the helmet coming off, he wonders what the angle is going to be, financial or tabloid – figures and statistics or fat-cat confidential?

  The guy is quite young. Conway stares at him for a few seconds, but doesn’t recognise him. And he’s fairly sure he would. Because he knows most of the hacks in this town. Over the years, he’s been inter—

  Oh Jesus.

  It hits him.

  Of course. It’s so obvious.

  Then Conway’s whole world dissolves, everything, his plans, his assumptions . . . even his delusions . . .

  But what did he expect? What did he think he was paying for all these years?

  No more Phil Sweeney, no more buffer zone.

  Simple equation.

  The young guy turns and hangs his helmet on one of the handlebars of the motorbike. When he turns back, Conway looks him in the eye and says, ‘You’re Jimmy Gilroy, aren’t you?’

  *

  Jimmy nods.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  How does Conway know this? Probably Phil Sweeney. Not that it matters.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Jimmy’s a little nervous here. There’s no other way of proceeding, though. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’

  Conway doesn’t answer straightaway. But his body language is telling. Initially, it was aggressive – hands on hips, ready for a confrontation – then it changed suddenly. Now he’s the one who seems nervous.

  ‘Questions about what?’

  ‘Different things. It depends.’ Jimmy glances around. This is one of those ghost estates – half-built, then abandoned when the money ran out. Despite the late afternoon sunlight, there’s a bleak, almost menacing feel to the place. ‘Can we go somewhere?’

  Conway stares at him. He shakes his head. ‘What do you want to ask me?’

  Jimmy pauses. He’s reluctant to begin, standing out in the open air like this. ‘Tara Meadows?’ he says, with a sweep of his hand, indicating the entire estate. ‘Is it one of yours?’

  Conway exhales, clearly fighting the urge to snap at him, or worse. ‘That’s one of your questions?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ He exhales again. He looks up at the sky. He seems to be considering something.

  Jimmy remains very still.

  ‘Fine,’ Conway says eventually. ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ He turns around, pushes the door of his car closed and starts walking along the road, heading further into the estate.

  Jimmy hesitates. He looks back at his bike. He should lock it.

  ‘Follow me,’ Conway says over his shoulder. ‘I want to show you something.’

  Jimmy follows.

  They walk along Tara Boulevard and enter a large, deserted town square. Thinking about it, Jimmy remembers an article he read a couple of years back about this development, what it was supposed to be, the great hopes for it. He can’t believe what he’s seeing now, though – a bleak, windswept square surrounded by empty apartment blocks and office buildings. On the far side of it he spots a group of youths, some on bikes, circling aimlessly, others sitting on a low wall drinking cans of beer.

  ‘You see this?’ Conway says, striding now towards the entrance to one of the buildings. ‘Supposed to be a h
otel, the five-star . . . something, we didn’t have a name for it yet. But you know who’s living here now? Yeah?’ He holds open the door for Jimmy, who hesitates but then goes in past him.

  ‘No, who?’

  ‘Homeless people. Drunks. I don’t know. Squatters, junkies. Anybody who wants to. Welcome to Tara fucking Meadows.’

  Jimmy walks straight in and looks around. It’s a hotel lobby all right, or would be if they finished it. He can see where the reception desk should go, and the lounge area. Over to the right, double doors, half open, lead into another room, probably a dining area or a function room.

  The whole place is dark and musty.

  All of a sudden Jimmy isn’t sure how comfortable he feels here. Dave Conway, if he wanted to, could stab him in the heart with a knife, repeatedly, leave him there on the floor to die. And how long would it be before anyone – apart from the local rat population – discovered his body? It could be days, weeks even. The only thing is, Conway doesn’t look like the sort of person who carries a knife around with him. Or even a gun. Standing in this bare hotel lobby now, he looks exactly like what he is, a businessman.

  Besides, why would he want to kill Jimmy in the first place?

  He hasn’t heard any of his questions yet.

  And it’s entirely possible that he won’t have any answers when he does – that he won’t have the slightest idea of what Jimmy is talking about.

  ‘So,’ Conway says, ‘this is it. This is all there is. All that’s left.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s what I’m reduced to, so believe me, I’ve got enough on my plate without’ – he stops for a moment – ‘without whatever Susie Monaghan crap you’re peddling.’

  Jimmy takes a notebook from his back pocket and flicks it open. ‘I’m not peddling anything, Mr Conway, and as people keep pointing out to me, this isn’t about Susie Monaghan.’

  ‘What is it about then, tell me.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to know why Gianni Bonacci wrote your name on the back of a business card belonging to Clark Rundle.’

  Conway leans forward. ‘Come again?’

  Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He waits.

  ‘A business card? So fucking what? I did business with the guy.’ Conway shakes his head. He seems flustered. ‘Who did you hear this from anyway, Larry Bolger?’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy says. ‘I heard it from Bonacci’s wife. His widow.’

  ‘His widow?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve just come back from Italy. I went to her apartment and talked to her. She showed me the card.’

  Conway shrugs. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he says, ‘Come on. What’s this about? I’m tired.’

  Jimmy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wishes they could sit down somewhere. He wishes he knew what he was doing. He wishes he had a job. ‘Right,’ he says, glancing at his notebook. ‘Here it is. Larry Bolger more or less told me that the helicopter crash that weekend wasn’t an accident. He said that Susie was collateral damage and implied that one of the other passengers was at the heart of this. I talked to some people and went through the passenger list and, let’s put it this way, Gianni Bonacci’s name is the only one that I couldn’t eliminate. Then I went and spoke to his wife who told me that the day before the crash Gianni had told her his life was in danger, that he had come across something, stumbled on it, something significant. Now.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Around this time you sold your company First Continental Resources to BRX, a company owned by Clark Rundle, whose name, along with yours, turns up on a business card in Gianni Bonacci’s briefcase.’ He pauses. ‘So, there it is . . . it’s just a lead. That’s all. I’m pursuing it. I’m here asking if there’s anything you can tell me, if you can explain any of this.’

  He flicks the notebook closed, as though he was reading from it and is now finished.

  Nerves.

  He looks up.

  Conway is staring at him. ‘This is all unsubstantiated, it’s . . . it’s circumstantial.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s circumstantial, sure, but the circumstances keep piling up. A few days after my conversation with Larry Bolger and what happens? He drops dead. Then my apartment is broken into. Nothing of any value is taken, but the hard drive on my computer is wiped. Meanwhile I have people like Phil Sweeney telling me I’m in over my head, and to find another story. Offering me money.’

  Conway maintains eye contact, but there’s something different about him now, about his facial expression. It’s as though a key element that was holding it in place has dropped out. Certainty, conviction.

  Self-belief.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ he says. ‘What paper? When is this story coming out?’

  Jimmy hesitates. He’s not about to throw away his advantage here by admitting he’s not working for anyone. ‘Well, probably not this Sunday, but definitely –’

  ‘According to Phil Sweeney you’re unemployed.’

  Jimmy looks away, then back, sighs. ‘OK, maybe, but when I get this figured out, I won’t be, all right?’ He pauses. ‘I mean, do you not remember that crash? Six people dead? This is a big fucking story.’

  Conway doesn’t say anything.

  Jimmy waits a beat. ‘So. I take it you’re the one Phil Sweeney is trying to protect. Is that right?’

  Conway takes a deep breath. He holds it in for a few seconds before releasing it as a slow, shuddering sigh. He stares at Jimmy for another few seconds. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  Conway sighs again, in the same way. ‘Well then,’ he says, his voice weary, defeated. ‘I suppose the answer to your question is yes.’

  Jimmy swallows. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your question. About Phil Sweeney and who he’s trying to protect. The answer to it. It’s yes.’

  *

  It quickly becomes clear to Rundle why sending his brother down here was such a miscalculation. Kimbela didn’t take J.J. seriously. He didn’t think he was expected to.

  For his part, Rundle had thought he was being clever.

  Because who wouldn’t be flattered by the attentions of a US senator, one who comes thousands of miles to pay you a visit, and at your convenience?

  Arnold Kimbela, apparently.

  It turns out that J.J. is a mere politician, not the sort of person – not round here anyway – who commands much respect. Politicians are a joke. They kiss babies and smile for the cameras. They do what they are told. Clark, on the other hand, is a businessman, and one with an international profile. He is – there’s an expression for it – a mover and a shaker. He gets things done.

  It’s on the tip of Rundle’s tongue to say, well, what about Mobutu? But he knows what the answer would most likely be. Mobutu wasn’t a politician. Are you crazy? He was Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku wa za Banga, the king, the all-powerful warrior who goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake.

  OK. Fine.

  Rundle is tired.

  They’ve been sitting in this room now for over an hour, sipping tea from china cups and shooting what could only loosely be called the breeze. The heat is so overpowering that Rundle feels he might be close to hallucinating. They’ve had the tea ceremony with the little zombie girl, who turns out to be family – Kimbela’s niece or daughter, or maybe even his wife, Rundle isn’t quite sure. Possibly all three. They’ve discussed Lost, which Kimbela has watched on box sets. They’ve argued over the new LudeX 3 games console, its place in the market and whether or not it will achieve full spectrum dominance.

  And all the time, in the background, soldiers and contractors stand around, smoking, whispering, some obviously bored, others trying to listen in on the conversation.

  But at a certain point, Rundle has had enough.

  ‘So, colonel,’ he says, ‘we have business to discuss.’

  ‘We do?’ Kimbela seems puzzled.

  Rundle isn’t in the mood for games. ‘Our ongoing relationship, the contract situation. BRX
is very anxious to continue at Buenke, and to help in any way we can, but we do realise that there’s competition.’ He glances over his shoulder, sees Ribcoff, then looks back at the Colonel. ‘A rival bid. From the Chinese.’

  Kimbela still looks puzzled. ‘But I thought . . .’ He leans forward. ‘I thought I’d discussed this with your brother. I instructed him to inform you of my position. Isn’t that why he came? To deliver a message?’

  Rundle suppresses a groan. ‘Yes, but . . .’ There’s no finessing this. ‘Look, I didn’t get the message, OK? Between one thing and another, what happened here, his injury, he got confused.’

  ‘Aaaaahh,’ Kimbela says, drawing it out. ‘And look at me, thinking my old friend Clark has come on a social visit. To pay his respects.’

  ‘Oh, but I have, too, I –’

  Kimbela bursts out laughing, and even slaps his thigh. ‘Of course you have, of course you have.’ He wipes a tear from his cheek. ‘But seeing as how you are here, no? Maybe we can clear the matter up, is that it?’ He goes on laughing.

  Rundle finds this really annoying, and wonders what Ribcoff is making of it all. ‘Well, I do need to know what you said to J.J.’ He’s whispering. ‘Because, as you can imagine, a lot is riding on it.’

  Kimbela nods, all serious again. He shifts his considerable weight in the chair, which looks as if it could snap under him at any second. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘These Chinese? Scary people. They want everything, and they want it now. And not just in Congo, in all of Africa.’ He sighs, and shakes his head.

  Naturally, Rundle is aware of this. Even in the three years since BRX bought the mine at Buenke, the Chinese presence in Africa has increased exponentially. And BRX, with substantial oil and mining interests in Angola, Mozambique and Equatorial Guinea, has seen this growth at first hand.

  ‘They send people over,’ Kimbela continues, ‘who will live in huts and survive on a bowl of rice a day. You people?’ He gives another of his short, loud bursts of laughter. ‘You people have to have hot dogs and sodas and Taco Bell and reality TV shows and every kind of shit. So the result is, you are being left behind.’ He pauses. ‘You have . . .’ He clicks his fingers. ‘Yes, fallen asleep at the wheel.’