Bloodland: A Novel (19 page)

‘I don’t understand, Francesca. Questions? Answers? If what happened was an accident –’

‘Oh,
per piacere
,’ – from the tone he takes this to mean
oh, please
– ‘you really believe that?’

‘Well, it’s what I’m trying to find out.’

There is silence for a moment. Then she says, ‘What is your e-mail address?’

His impulse is to ask why, but he just gives it to her. This could well be a step in the right direction.

‘You will need a translator,’ she says.

He’s not sure what this means. Something she is going to send him?

‘OK. No problem.’

‘I must go now,’ she says.

He doesn’t argue. ‘Thank you, Francesca.’

The line goes dead.

Jimmy closes the phone and puts it down. He sits back and stares at the computer screen.

He’s exhausted.

It took him over an hour and several phone calls to locate that number. This was followed by an awkward twenty minutes with the student from across the hall, who was clearly hungover and kept insisting it’d be easier if he made the call himself. But Jimmy couldn’t take the chance.

Then …
questions
,
answers
,
a brick wall
 …
you really believe that?
Bonacci’s widow and daughter making the same claim that Larry Bolger made?

A few minutes later things get even knottier when he hears the ping of an incoming e-mail. It’s from Francesca. There is no message, just a single hyperlink. He clicks on it and his browser opens up onto the homepage of what looks like an Italian news website.

At first it makes no sense to him. It’s in Italian. He doesn’t understand any of it. He considers bothering the student across the hall again when suddenly something comes into focus for him. He recognises a few names clustered together – Enrico Mattei, Giuseppe Pinelli, Aldo Moro, Marco Biagi, Carlo Giuliani. As far as he remembers, from things he’s read and seen over the years, these men were all high-profile victims of political assassination.

In some form or other. At least in
theory
.

At which point he realises this must be a website devoted to, or specialising in, Italian conspiracy theories. Aldo Moro, for example, was the ex-prime minister who was kidnapped and killed in 1978, allegedly by the Red Brigades. Enrico Mattei was a politician who challenged the oligopoly of the international oil markets and died in a mysterious plane crash in the early 1960s.

Jimmy flicks around the site for a while, scans various chunks of text at random. Eventually, in a sidebar, he comes across Gianni Bonacci’s name. He is unable to decipher the text that surrounds it, but the very presence of Bonacci’s name
here
, on a website of this nature, surely indicates that –

What?

When Jimmy Googled Bonacci’s name before, he filtered out any stuff that wasn’t in English. The stuff he did look at was UN-related and fairly uninteresting. He Googles the name again now and sees that there are references to him on dozens of Italian sites, many of which – at a glance – also contain references to Mattei, Moro and others. In addition to this, he repeatedly comes across words such as
omicidio
,
assassinio
,
vittima
,
cospirazione
.

From what Jimmy can make out, Bonacci would be fairly low down on any league table of political assassinations, but the mere fact that his death is perceived by some people in this way at all comes as quite a shock.

And there must be a reason for it.

He swivels his chair around, looks across the room at his bookshelves.

Mustn’t there?

Or is even posing this question a first and dangerous step into the delusional, self-perpetuating fog that is the mindset of the conspiracy theorist?

He swivels back around.

It doesn’t matter, though. It’s fine. Someone else’s perception of the truth – however outlandish or irrational – is a valid starting point for any investigation.

He sets up a reply to Francesca’s e-mail. He thinks about what to say. He starts typing. But when he is half a sentence in, his buzzer sounds.

Damn
.

He gets up and goes over to the intercom, presses the button. ‘Yeah. Who is it?’

‘Hi, Jimmy. It’s Phil Sweeney.’

Jimmy closes his eyes for a second. He turns away from the intercom. He groans.

Why didn’t he just leave it?

*   *   *

Rundle gets up at six and puts on some coffee. He takes a shower and then spends at least twenty minutes in the walk-in closet choosing which of his fifty or sixty suits to wear. There is no real reason for him to do this. He doesn’t have any particular thing on today. But he finds it relaxes him, the ritual of it, moving down the line, checking out the different fabrics, feeling the subtle variations in texture … vicuna, merino, cashmere, silk.

It’s distracting. It keeps his mind occupied.

Though admitting this fact sort of defeats the purpose.

So he eventually just picks one out at random – a charcoal grey William Fioravanti.

He goes back to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.

The thing is, he doesn’t mind travelling to Congo – in a way he’s looking forward to it, taking the reins, settling this thing once and for all – but what he does resent is being
told
to go. It’s the attitude he has a problem with, the tone. Rundle is well used to Vaughan’s quasi-imperial style – he grew up with it, and most of the time he even enjoys it – but last night was simply too much. The contempt Vaughan displayed for Rundle, and right there in front of Don Ribcoff, was …

Well, it was unacceptable.

And it wasn’t only the offhand manner, or the business of the ten-minute ‘audience’. No, Vaughan had said earlier he was having some people around, but it soon became clear that these weren’t just any people. Crossing the foyer on his way out, Rundle caught a glimpse through the door of the main reception room, which was ajar, and he’s pretty sure he recognised Dick Cheney standing there talking to the CEO of Chipco and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Nice little get-together. And what, all of them casually over for canapés and a glass of white wine? A quick tour of the walk-in humidor?

Rundle could care less about Vaughan’s social life, but he
has
taken to seeing himself – at some level – in the role of Vaughan’s protégé. He also knows that Vaughan has come to depend on
him
for certain things – that the Buenke project, for example, always significant, has assumed an even-greater urgency of late. So why, Rundle wonders, would Vaughan exclude him from such a high-level gathering of luminaries and policy-makers? Why would he have him scuttled in and out of the apartment as though he were no more than an errand boy?

Rundle doesn’t wish to be unkind, but he half suspects that James Vaughan may be succumbing to a mild form of dementia, a strain of clinical paranoia perhaps, and one that is specifically associated with old age. Vaughan settles in his mind that he can no longer fulfil his ambitions unaided, that he is now dependent on this younger man – and he kicks out in rebellion, as though to ward off death, to deny its proximity.

One day he lionises the younger man, the next day he humiliates him.

Rundle considers himself a student of human nature and can understand the dynamic at play here – not that he enjoys being on the receiving end of it. Nail this Congo thing, however, and maybe the game changes. Maybe he’ll have Vaughan exactly where he wants him.

Until then he can put up with the mood swings and the abuse.

Rundle finishes his coffee and gets moving.

Outside, his car is waiting.

On the way to the office, Thirty-fourth Street flitting past, he makes some notes. If this really is to be a game changer, he’ll need to be heading down there with some serious leverage under his arm. J.J. wasn’t authorised to make any offers; he was just supposed to listen. But the time for that has passed.

He pencils in a few calls for the morning.

Then, of course, he’ll have to discuss travel and security arrangements with Don Ribcoff.

*   *   *

Phil Sweeney arrives at the open door and gives it a little tap.

Jimmy is at his computer, pretending to be absorbed in something. He waits a couple of seconds before looking up from the screen. ‘Phil, how’s it going?’

‘Not bad, Jimmy, not bad.’

‘Come in, sit down.’

Phil Sweeney has aged quite a bit since Jimmy last saw him. As usual, he’s wearing a very expensive suit, and he’s got the shoes, the watch, the cologne. But he’s also lost weight, and it doesn’t look like the kind you lose because you’re eating better and taking care of yourself. He is tall and imposing, no change there, but definitely more stooped than Jimmy remembers.

‘So,’ Sweeney says, not sitting down. ‘You know why I’m here.’

Jimmy stands up. ‘You want some coffee?’

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m here, Jimmy, I want some
coffee
.’

Jimmy sighs, sits back down. ‘Tell you the truth, Phil, I
don’t
know why you’re here. Unless you’ve got something new you want to talk about.’

‘Don’t get smart, Jimmy. This is serious shit and
you’re
in over your head.’

‘If it’s as serious as you say, Phil, then I think everyone’s in over their head.’

That sounds clever, but Jimmy isn’t really sure what it means.

‘Listen to me,’ Sweeney says, palms forward, switching gears. ‘Let’s back up here for a minute, yeah? Larry Bolger is not a well man. It’s pretty obvious he’s got a drink problem. There’s depression there, too. Adjustment issues. All
I
was trying to do was help him out.’

Jimmy says nothing, nods along.

‘So when he starts mouthing on about this or that, the past, making bizarre statements, like he did today, I think we can safely assume it’s the bottle talking, yeah? And to be honest with you, I didn’t realise he was that far gone.’

Looking at Sweeney, Jimmy feels a little strange. When he was younger, and the old man was still alive, Jimmy was in awe of Phil Sweeney, afraid of him even. When the old man was dying, and for a while afterwards, Sweeney was a big man in his life, a commanding presence. He exuded confidence and authority. You listened to him. You didn’t cross him.

Now Sweeney is stooped, tired-looking, maybe a little sick himself.

Now someone is about to cross him.

‘Phil,’ Jimmy says quietly, ‘we’ve been over it. On the phone. This isn’t about Larry Bolger. I’m not interested in Larry Bolger. I just want to look into what he said, check it out, see if there’s anything to it.’

Sweeney hesitates, then explodes. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jimmy, do you not
get
it? How many different ways do I have to
say
it? Back off. Leave it alone.’ He leans forward. ‘
This isn’t for you
.’

Jimmy stares at him in disbelief. ‘Don’t you see that telling me that only makes it worse?’

‘I’m warning you, Jimmy. For the last time. Jesus Christ.’ Sweeney is shouting now, pointing his finger. ‘And don’t forget something, you
owe
me.’

Jimmy stands up. ‘I do, yeah, but not this, Phil, I don’t owe you
this
. You helped me along, fine, and I’m grateful –’

‘Damn sure I helped you along, Jimmy. But I also played you like a fucking fiddle. Every story I fed you had an agenda,
my
agenda.’ Sweeney makes a sound here, a laugh, but it’s hard, mirthless. ‘And you were
so
easy. You were
so
eager to get ahead.’

Jimmy swallows. He’ll need a little time to process that one. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘for all the good it did me.’

‘Oh, and what, that’s
my
fault? Take some responsibility for yourself, would you?’ Sweeney glances around the room. ‘I mean, look at where you live. It’s a shithole. What do you think your old man would make of this?’

Jimmy stiffens. He doesn’t answer.

‘What do you think he’d make of you, now, today?’ Sweeney shakes his head. ‘Dec Gilroy. I’m telling you,
there
was a man who knew how to play the game, knew when to speak up and when to shut up.’

Jimmy takes a step forward. ‘Shut up about
what
, though? Something like
this
? I don’t think so, Phil. In fact, it was playing the game, playing your game, that made him sick in the first place, shutting up about stuff … but it was the small stuff, the tawdry stuff, the personal stuff, not anything like this.’ He pauses. ‘And tell me Phil, do you actually know what
this
is, what we’re talking about here?’

Phil Sweeney stares back at him. He doesn’t answer.

‘A helicopter crash, six people dead,
but not an accident
? That’s the allegation that came out of Larry Bolger’s mouth. And that’s what you want
me
to shut up about? That’s what you think Dec Gilroy would shut up about?’

‘Yeah, but come on, it’s ridiculous –’

‘Is it? I don’t know, Phil. I’ve already peeled away a layer or two and I’m not so sure.’ He pauses. ‘And how can
you
be so sure?’

‘Because –’

‘Who are you representing anyway? Not Larry Bolger surely, not directly. And I doubt that it’s Ted Walker’s family, so –’

‘
Shut up
.’

Jimmy is taken aback at this, but to his surprise he does shut up.

He turns around and goes back to the desk. He sits down.

There is silence for a while. Phil Sweeney remains standing in the middle of the room, swaying gently, almost imperceptibly, like a tall building.

Jimmy closes his eyes. An image comes to him, of the old man lying in his bed, gaunt, reduced, getting weaker by the day, diminishing, but never diminished …

Eventually, in a quiet voice, Phil Sweeney says, ‘What layers, Jimmy? Peeled away what layers? What have you…’

Jimmy opens his eyes, looks up, meets his gaze. ‘Just stuff, Phil. Leads.’ He lays a hand on some papers on the desk.