Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  ‘Maybe. Our asset there is working on it. It turns out someone was with Conway before he did it. The two of them were seen talking, and then this guy was seen leaving. In a hurry. By some local kids.’ He pauses, reluctant to go on. ‘It might’ve been that journalist.’

  ‘Might have been? I thought you had him under surveillance?’

  ‘We did. But not round the clock. I mean, we checked him out, went to his apartment, trawled through his shit, but there was nothing much there. He wasn’t deemed a risk.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘We’re looking into it.’

  Rundle glances around. ‘What’s the take on Conway? What are people saying?’

  ‘Debts, bankruptcy. He was in for a couple of hundred million. Victim of the recession. It seems to be straight up.’

  Rundle nods. ‘Fine, but this journalist prick talks to Bolger, then he talks to Conway . . . we have to assume he knows something. Or thinks he knows something. We have to assume he’s a risk.’

  ‘Yeah. But from what our asset could find out the guy is more or less unemployed. Until recently he was working on a book about that actress who was killed in the helicopter crash. That’s how he got caught up in this.’

  ‘And that doesn’t make him a risk? Jesus, Don.’

  Ribcoff looks around, nodding. ‘OK. I’ll get our asset to take another look at him.’

  ‘Not just another look, Don. Sit on the bastard. We don’t want any surprises here.’

  ‘Right.’

  Rundle is anxious to get away. ‘That it?’

  Ribcoff nods.

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  ‘OK.’

  As Rundle is turning to go, Ribcoff says, ‘By the way, have you seen Mr Vaughan yet? Since we got back?’

  ‘No,’ Rundle says, feeling a slight impatience at the question. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow night.’

  Back in the elevator, he takes out his phone and calls Regal.

  Unfortunately, Nora is not available today. They’re about to suggest someone else, another escort, but Rundle hangs up.

  *

  As he walks along George’s Street on his way to the Long Hall, Jimmy keeps turning and looking behind him. He can’t shake the uneasy feeling that he’s being followed. No one in his line of vision offers themselves up as a likely candidate, but then . . .

  He wouldn’t expect them to.

  Stepping into the pub, Jimmy glances around and spots Phil Sweeney sitting alone at the bar.

  He looks tired. There is a glass of whiskey in front of him.

  ‘Jimmy. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Pint of Guinness, thanks.’

  Jimmy sits on a stool, facing straight ahead, and puts his hands on the bar. ‘I’m sorry about Conway,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah.’ There is a long silence. ‘So, what happened?’

  Jimmy gets straight into it. Since talking to Maria yesterday he has refined the narrative somewhat. He tells it quickly and leaves no room for interruption.

  Sweeney visibly wilts as Jimmy is speaking. At the end he takes a couple of sips from his glass.

  Jimmy’s pint arrives, but he doesn’t touch it. The two men sit for a while without speaking.

  Eventually, Sweeney turns to Jimmy. ‘I had no idea. I knew some stuff, but . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I thought he’d had a fling with Susie, that it was all about covering that up. Keeping the papers out of it. Saving the marriage. I knew there was a business angle as well, but . . . you know, it was business. You learn not to ask awkward questions.’

  Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He keeps staring at his pint.

  ‘Look, Jimmy, I know you have nothing but contempt for me and for what I do, for the company, and for . . . whatever, I don’t want to bring your old man into it, but believe me, what I do, what we did, it’s not this, not what you’re telling me.’ He reaches for his glass. ‘What you’re telling me? Way out of my fucking league.’

  ‘OK,’ Jimmy says.

  ‘I mean, Conway and Bolger? Whatever bullshit they got involved in that weekend, they kept it a secret all this time. I certainly knew nothing about it.’ He drains his glass and makes a sign at the barman. ‘But I have to tell you, Jimmy, I’ve heard some ugly shit in my day, but nothing like this. And I don’t like it. One fucking bit.’

  Jimmy is beginning to wonder how much drink might be in the equation here.

  ‘Look Phil,’ he says, fully expecting to be pounced on, ‘let me be straight with you. This is a big news story and I intend to pursue it. My only problem is that the two main sources for it are now dead.’

  Sweeney looks at him and nods. ‘Yeah, I can see that’d be a problem all right.’

  ‘So,’ Jimmy goes on, ‘I’ve decided, I’m going to New York. On Monday. See if I can get anything out of BRX.’ He pauses. ‘See if I can get near Clark Rundle. I’ve booked the flight. Did it yesterday.’

  Sweeney’s eyes widen. ‘Wow. I don’t know if you’re insane, Jimmy, or just stupid, but . . .’ He stops for a moment. ‘You won’t get anywhere near Clark Rundle. Guys like him operate in a parallel universe. It’s like they live in a bubble.’

  ‘I know. But I have to try. It’s a start.’

  ‘He mightn’t even be in New York.’

  ‘I know.’

  Sweeney stops again. He seems to be considering something. ‘OK, but you know what . . . you’re going to need contacts over there, assistance, help.’

  ‘I don’t have any contacts.’

  ‘I do.’

  The barman arrives with the fresh drink. He places it in front of Sweeney, who picks it up and swirls it around gently.

  Jimmy isn’t sure what’s being said here. ‘You’ll help me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sweeney puts the drink down. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you yet. I got a text the other night. From Dave. It must have been just before he did it.’

  Jimmy turns and looks at him.

  ‘It was fairly cryptic. I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean, it’s bloody obvious now, I suppose, but at the time I thought maybe he was drunk or something. We hadn’t been on the best of terms lately, so I didn’t reply and I wasn’t in the mood to call him.’ Sweeney takes a sip from his drink. Then he takes a deep breath. ‘He said Help Jimmy Gilroy any way you can.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  As Sweeney repeats it, Jimmy closes his eyes. He feels a stabbing sensation in his stomach. After a moment he opens his eyes again and says, ‘What else was in it?’

  Another deep breath. ‘No hard feelings. Tell Ruth I’m sorry. Then the bit about you.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Sweeney exhales loudly. ‘But I was pissed off at him, Jimmy. I barely looked at the damned thing. It made no sense to me. Until the next morning.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, I never thought he’d do something like that, not in a million years. I can see why now, though.’

  Jimmy picks up his pint for the first time and demolishes half of it in one go.

  He lets it settle.

  There is silence for a while.

  ‘OK,’ Sweeney then says, ‘I can make a few phone calls, media and PR people over there I know, people I’ve worked with. It might help. It might be the difference between . . .’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘I don’t know. It might afford you some protection. It’ll be a buffer zone. Because you do realise how dangerous this is, Jimmy, potentially? I mean, given what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Yeah. By definition. It’s what the story is about.’

  Sweeney half smiles at this. He leans over and pats Jimmy on the arm. ‘It’s quite a story alright. I’ll be putting my credibility on the line with these people, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Yeah, Phil, I know.’ And then Jimmy can see it, up close like this, what he suspected before. Sweeney is not well. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Right,’ Sweeney says, turning back to his drink. After a moment, he adds, ‘And one last thing. I’m not doing this because D
ave Conway asked me to. You know that, right? If I’m doing it for anyone at all, Jimmy, I’m doing it for your old man.’

  *

  ‘So, how is our friend, the colonel?’

  Rundle steps out of the elevator and extends a hand to Jimmy Vaughan. They shake.

  ‘He’s good, I guess. He talks a lot.’

  ‘Yeah? What about?’

  ‘Well, it seems he has a thing about the Chinese. Thinks they work too hard.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He prefers our way of doing things.’

  ‘I see.’ Vaughan holds out an arm and indicates for Rundle to follow him. ‘That sounds promising.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  They cross the entry foyer. Vaughan is slightly stooped and moves slowly.

  ‘On your own tonight, Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah. Meredith’s away, in LA. Mrs R is here, though. She’ll look after us.’

  Mrs Richardson is the cook, has been for as long as Rundle can remember.

  They enter the dining room. Two places are set at one end of the long mahogany table.

  ‘Please, Clark, sit down.’

  Rundle stands at his place and waits for Vaughan to take his.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Vaughan says, looking at his watch, ‘we’re going to eat straightaway. Otherwise I’ll get cranky. This is what old age is like, Clark. And it turns out you don’t have a choice in the matter.’

  Rundle laughs at this. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Vaughan shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He puts his hands on the table. ‘So. Tell me everything.’

  Rundle does as instructed. He winds up by expressing the view that Kimbela’s hold over the Buenke region appears to be precarious at best. ‘We could lose access to the mine from one day to the next. A single swipe of a machete and the balance of power shifts.’

  ‘I know, I know, you’ve got all these Mobutu wannabes tearing around the place and it’s just a mess. We had an amazing run with him, though, three decades, at least.’

  We?

  Rundle leans forward, ‘Look, there’s a good five- to ten-year offload at Buenke. The latest imaging shows the seam is deeper than we thought. But as far as I can see what we’re involved in over there is a smash-and-grab operation, essentially, and it has been from the start.’

  ‘Of necessity, Clark, you know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but’ –

  Buenke is only the second place on earth where thanaxite has ever been found and BRX has managed to keep that fact a secret for over three years. Even Kimbela thinks that what they’re extracting is coltan. This is because it’s extremely difficult to distinguish between the two without sophisticated testing.

  – ‘. . . the mine is so primitive. They practically extract the shit by hand. That’s not how BRX usually operates. We need to get in there with proper machinery and infrastructure and do this right.’

  It’s a conversation they’ve had before.

  ‘We couldn’t do it without breaking cover, Clark, and then we’d risk losing everything. We draw attention to ourselves like that and Kinshasa, the Ministry, Gécamines, they’d be down on us like a ton of bricks, then the UN, Global Witness, Amnesty, then Beijing, then every fucking mining company in the world. It’d be a new Klondike.’ He pauses. ‘Besides, even if we managed to keep a piece for ourselves, it would take too long. It’d slow things down.’

  Rundle looks at him for a moment. ‘Slow what things down, Jimmy?’

  He hadn’t intended to go along this route, but he’s getting frustrated. He’s also beginning to accept that he probably has considerably more leverage with Vaughan than he previously imagined. It’s a simple equation. Rundle has access to something Vaughan wants, and seems to want badly, so Rundle should be able to call at least some of the shots.

  Vaughan drums his fingers on the table. Then he looks up. ‘Ah, Mrs R.’

  Over the next few minutes food arrives and there is a considerable amount of small talk with Mrs Richardson. Vaughan also needs to concentrate when he’s eating and tends to go silent for extended periods. Rundle finds the whole business a little trying.

  ‘Slow what things down, Jimmy?’ he repeats, at the earliest opportunity.

  Rundle has worked closely with Vaughan on the Buenke project since the beginning, he’s been happy to – flattered even, to have the old man place his trust in him like that – but now he’s tired of being shut out, of not knowing the full story. BRX sets the supply chain in motion, but once the thanaxite gets to the processing plants in Europe or the US Rundle has no further involvement with it. What he suspects is that the thanaxite is finding its way to a company, or companies, owned by the Oberon Capital Group, but as to what it’s being used for specifically, he has no idea.

  And Vaughan has never been inclined to discuss it.

  ‘What do you know about robotics, Clark?’

  Until now, maybe.

  Rundle leans forward. ‘Come again?’

  Vaughan puts his fork down and dabs his lips with his napkin. ‘You heard me. Robotics.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘It’s the fastest-growing sector in technology today. Development is exponential. I mean, think Moore’s Law, then multiply it by ten.’ He puts his napkin down. He reaches for his glass of water and takes a sip. ‘But as with most new technologies, where do we look to find the best ideas? To the cradle of war, that’s where. Predator drones, Reapers, PackBots, medbots, unmanned this, that and the other. It’s a wonderland of possibilities.’

  Rundle had been about to say that he actually does know quite a bit about robotics, given that mining is an area where the technology is making a significant impact – in tunnel crawling, for example – but as is often the case with Vaughan, he’ll throw a question out there and not really expect or want an answer.

  It’s annoying but you get used to it.

  ‘In Afghanistan and Iraq,’ Vaughan continues, ‘back at the start, there were maybe a couple of dozen robotic units in operation, and only on a trial basis. Now there are literally thousands of them being used every single day. It’s quite simple, Clark. Automation is the future of modern warfare.’

  Rundle nods along, fork suspended over his plate.

  ‘Anyway, a few years ago Jack Drury at Paloma Electronics was contracted by the Pentagon to get something into development – along with almost everyone else in the industry, let it be said. They’re all at it now, lining up at the drawing board to strut their stuff.’ He pauses. ‘But what Jack’s guys have come up with?’ A smile steals over his face. ‘Knocks it out of the park. This thing they have, it’s a multipurpose combat UGV, lasers, sensors, antitank rockets, thousand rounds of ammunition, it’s amazing. They’re calling it the BellumBot. Gives new meaning to the phrase killer app.’

  Rundle, listening carefully, puts his fork down.

  ‘But that’s not all.’ Vaughan’s smile has become a beam now. ‘Because get this. They’re also designing the damn things to think for themselves.’

  Rundle leans forward. ‘Think?’

  ‘That’s right, Clark. Battlefield management systems that can operate autonomously. They’ve developed a range of algorithms using game theory and probability models that enable data to be collected in the field, processed and then actually shared. We’re talking about the holy grail of robotics here. I mean picture it, swarms of units out there collaborating, making decisions, optimising uncertain combat scenarios. And no egos in the mix, no sentiment, no interference. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘Yeah, and Paloma have just received a billion-dollar contract to put the first run into production, five, six hundred of them by Christmas.’ He lets that sink in. ‘And it’s just the start, Clark. In terms of where this is going? We’re only at the Model T stage.’

  Rundle is almost speechless. ‘And . . . you’ve been . . . helping them? On the supply side?’

  ‘We’ve been helping them, Clark. BRX has. Gideon, too. Thanaxite is essential
to the success of this. It allows capacitors to operate at low power levels but extremely high temperatures, which is apparently an unusual combination and criticial for advanced weapons systems. For connectivity and . . . speed. I don’t know.’ He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Look, I’m not going to pretend I understand the technical side of this, I’m eighty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. Talk to Jack Drury about it. But one thing I do know, that grey powder gives us a serious competitive edge.’

  Rundle sits back in his chair and makes a whistling sound. Then he leans forward again, as something occurs to him. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  Vaughan sucks his teeth. ‘Different reasons. I appreciate your continuing loyalty. Your discretion, as well. And your willingness to take on the Kimbela situation. The timing is also right, with this production deal going through. And now, maybe’ – he looks Rundle directly in the eye – ‘with J.J. stepping into the ring, I mean, who knows? It might work out. It certainly couldn’t hurt.’

  Rundle stares at Vaughan. ‘J.J.?’

  ‘Yeah, you can’t have too many friends in high places, if you know what I mean, when it comes to . . . certain matters, policy matters, awarding contracts, that kind of thing.’ He pauses. ‘And by the same token, I’m sure he could use some solid backing.’

  ‘Sure, but . . .’

  ‘What? I know I’ve been critical of him in the past, but he’s made quite an impression recently. I mean, did you see him this morning, on Face the Nation? Man.’

  Rundle nods. He saw it all right and J.J. was indeed impressive, with something new about him, a look in his eyes, a touch almost of rapture.

  ‘He’s a perfectly credible candidate, Clark.’

  Almost as though he’d been the one who was bitten.

  ‘I know. He is.’

  But not crazy or anything, not hysterical, just the right side of that.

  ‘And if you want to tell him I said so, go ahead. Consider it an endorsement. Tell him I might even show up on Wednesday.’

  Rundle is taken aback by this, but he nods vigorously and says thanks.

  A little later on, in the back of his car, he tries to get everything into perspective. On one level, Jimmy Vaughan’s gall, his ego, is breathtaking. From his Park Avenue apartment, in his old man diapers, he seems to believe he’s personally directing the flow of thanaxite out of Congo and all the way along the supply chain to a privately contracted military robotics programme in Connecticut. He also seems to believe he can personally engineer the process of nominating a presidential candidate for the next election.