Bloodland: A Novel (24 page)

Damn.

He managed to avoid Martin Boyle after the meeting by going down the stairs and slipping out a side exit of the building, but given the choice now – an hour or two with his lawyer or the next ten minutes with his wife – he’d happily head back into the arms of his lawyer.

Ruth knew the meeting with the Black Vine people was important, but she didn’t know it was critical. Now Conway is going to have to explain to her both that it was critical
and
that he blew it.

And that consequently …

He doesn’t know.

He straightens up. He gets out of the car.

Ruth isn’t stupid, she’s just never paid that much attention to her husband’s financial affairs. When they met, he was already running several successful businesses and she never felt the need to interrogate him about it. So she’ll understand.

But the thing is, she won’t forgive him.

Ruth always took it on trust that Conway knew what he was doing. The big deal he negotiated a few years back with BRX confirmed this for her. Not only that, but it also set the bar for her expectations, and set it pretty high. Because as far as Ruth was concerned –
is
concerned – there’s no debate about the direction this thing is going in. It’s only a matter of time, she believes, recession notwithstanding, before Conway pulls off another spectacular and they move up to the next level.

However, with this Black Vine catastrophe – self-inflicted or not, it doesn’t really matter – they’ve pretty much lost everything.

How does he break
that
to her?

And how does he break it to her that it might even be a lot worse? That the BRX deal itself is in danger of coming apart, of unspooling, and all the way back to that long, wet, complicated summer of three years ago …

As he approaches the front door, rummaging for his key, he wonders how he’s going to be able to face this now, with the kids pulling at him and screaming for attention.

What he’d like to do is turn around and get back in the car, but where would he go? He has to face Ruth sooner or later.

He puts his key in the door.

Where does he even begin? Does he explain to her that while
he
might be responsible for the financial mess they’re in, his old friend and political patron, Larry Bolger, is now a direct threat to their security, to everything they hold dear? That if the man can’t keep his mouth shut, Conway and others might actually end up going to
prison
?

When he gets inside the door he hears sounds coming from the playroom to the right. They’re watching something on TV. He doesn’t go in. He walks straight on towards the kitchen at the back.

Ruth is sitting at the counter, alone, gazing up at the small wall-mounted TV over the fridge.

‘Hi,’ he says.

She turns to look at him. He is alarmed at the expression on her face. Does she know already? Has Martin Boyle phoned?

‘What’s wrong?’ No response. ‘
Ruth?
’

She shakes her head slightly. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘What?’ Panic now. ‘No. Heard
what
?’

She points up at the TV screen. It’s tuned to Sky News. At first he doesn’t understand, it’s just a newscaster, saying something about a Lib Dem by-election candidate …

But then he sees it.

The crawl.

Running across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS: FORMER IRISH PRIME MINISTER LARRY BOLGER DIES SUDDENLY IN LONDON … BREAKING NEWS: FORMER IRISH PRIME MINISTER LARRY BOLGER DIES SUDDENLY …

*   *   *

The elevator door opens onto the underground car park of the BRX Building and Clark Rundle steps out. His car is waiting, but directly behind it is another car, door open, engine running. Don Ribcoff gets out and walks over.

‘Sorry, Clark, this won’t take a minute.’

Ribcoff had phoned just as Rundle was leaving for an appointment and he wanted to see him in person. Since Ribcoff doesn’t place much trust in electronic forms of communication, most of his business is conducted in this way.

Rundle is slightly agitated. He’s en route to the Wilson Hotel, to see Nora. ‘What is it?’ he says.

‘That potential situation we had overseas, with the politician? I’ve just heard it’s been put to bed.’ Even with all his security measures in place, Ribcoff still occasionally has a habit of delivering updates in language like this, coded, bleached of specifics.

Rundle finds it strange.

He makes a face. ‘That was fast.’

‘Well, the old man was pretty adamant.’ Ribcoff shrugs. ‘It
was
rushed, that’s for sure, and they nearly botched it, but it’s fine.’

‘What about the…’ Rundle is about to say ‘journalist’, but stops himself. Might be a bit specific for Ribcoff’s taste. ‘What about the young guy, the, er…’ He’s not good at this. ‘The young guy that the older guy, the politician, talked to?’

‘You mean the journalist?’

Jesus.

Rundle nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘We’re going to keep an eye on him, you know, do a sneak and peek, monitor his activities, and…’ He glances around.

Rundle waits. ‘And?’

Ribcoff looks back. ‘Take action, if necessary.’ He pauses. ‘You know, some form of containment.’

‘OK.’

Maybe Rundle understands it after all, this need for lingo, for euphemism.

‘In the meantime,’ Ribcoff says, ‘I have some travel details for you.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a slim envelope. He hands it to Rundle. ‘Tomorrow, for Thursday. Is that good?’

‘Yes.’

He’ll have to clear his diary and let Eve know he won’t be here when she gets back from England. He’ll also have to arrange to have vaccinations done. Though Ribcoff probably has that set up already.

‘You’ll be going via Paris to Rwanda, and then over the border to the airstrip at Buenke.’

Rundle nods. This will be a Gideon Global operation all the way. They provide transport in and out of the country, as well as escort security at the site.

He’s essentially putting himself in Ribcoff’s hands.

‘And Kimbela?’

‘We’ve just had word from our guy that he’s agreed to a meeting. He’s not happy about what happened last week, but we’re negotiating a reparation package.’

‘And I take it you’ve already done some form of psych screening of your remaining personnel over there.’

Ribcoff doesn’t like this. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it was a blip, unfortunate yes, but … a blip. These things happen. Even Kimbela understands that.’

‘Oh, he does? And I’m supposed to take comfort from the fact?’

‘Clark, come on –’

‘I’m kidding, Don. Jesus, lighten up.’

Actually, he’s not kidding, and on the way to his suite at the Wilson he realises just how much he’s not kidding. In normal circumstances, by the time he’s riding the elevator up to the tenth floor there’d be a certain amount of anticipatory lead in the equation – to adopt Ribcoff’s linguistic technique – but not today.

Not even when Nora comes through the door.

He’s got a knot in his stomach now, and he reckons he’d better get used to it.

It won’t be going away any time soon.

*   *   *

Jimmy isn’t sure what he’s got here, what he’s coming away with, and as he walks back to his hotel, through the dark, quiet streets of the city, a fog of ambivalence, as familiar as it is unwelcome, settles over him. He really liked Francesca and Pina – liked their different styles and coping mechanisms, liked the way they were confrontational with each other and supportive at the same time. But that hardly gives him the right to come along and intrude into their lives, does it? He did the same with Maria Monaghan and look how that worked out. It’s one thing to interview a pharmaceutical executive for a trade publication and ask about patents or production schedules; it’s another thing entirely to sit across from grieving family members who want to understand how and why their loved one died, and know that your questions – your mere presence, in fact – is giving them hope, hope that
you
know in all likelihood to be false.

He didn’t make any promises, though. He didn’t lie to them.

At least.

Is that enough?

He passes a small bar, an enoteca, one of the few places still open, and is tempted to go in, but he’s more anxious to get back to the hotel. He could have used Francesca’s laptop to chase up this lead, but he wasn’t keen on the idea of having her there the whole time, peering over his shoulder. He’s also naturally quite cautious and didn’t want to leave a trail of his internet searches on her computer.

Back in his room, he jots down a few quick notes from the evening. Then he opens his laptop and goes online.

Dave Conway.

When Francesca said the name, Jimmy recognised it straightaway. Dave Conway. Conway Holdings. One of the property guys. Hotels, apartment blocks, housing estates. But he had absolutely no idea what connection Dave Conway might have to Clark Rundle or to Gianni Bonacci.

He types in the name.

The thing is, Jimmy calls this a lead, automatically thinks of it that way, but maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe it’s a different Dave Conway.

He does a search anyway and surfs around for a while – business websites, directories, news archives – not expecting to find anything. To his surprise, however, he quickly comes across a clear, unequivocal connection. Three years ago, it seems, around the time of the conference, Clark Rundle’s company, BRX, bought a Conway Holdings subsidiary, First Continental Resources.

No more than that, no detail, just a reference.

Jimmy is fully aware that this doesn’t have to mean anything, that it’s a random, neutral fact he has found on the internet.

But –

It certainly joins up a lot of dots.

Larry Bolger, Clark Rundle, Dave Conway, Gianni Bonacci, Susie Monaghan.

What all of this means, in turn, he doesn’t really know. But his sense, increasingly, is that it must mean something – that there’s simply too much here for it
not
to mean something.

In which case, it occurs to him, shouldn’t he be concerned? A little nervous even?

Why?

Because –

Jimmy gets up off the bed and goes over to the window. There isn’t much of a view, just red slate roofs in the moonlight. It’s quiet, too, with occasional sounds drifting up from a nearby restaurant, cutlery and plates, laughter.

Because if it does mean something, think what that something must be.

Before now all of this had been academic, more or less, supposition, speculation – and at a considerable remove from any reality Jimmy is familiar with. But there’s something about being in Italy that changes that, recalibrates it, brings it closer to home. Maybe it’s the air or the architecture, he doesn’t know, but he has an acute sense right now of time and history, of ceaseless activity and intrigue, of ripeness and rot, of this calcified political culture where literally anything is possible – where the assassination of a middle-ranking official, for example, would be as routine and banal as the cancellation of an IT support contract.

Jimmy turns around and faces the room.

So what’s he saying? All of a sudden this is plausible? It’s
thinkable
? But wouldn’t that have to apply – logically, sooner or later – to most things? Including, he’d have to suppose, various forms of damage limitation? Damage caused, say, by someone who couldn’t keep his mouth shut? And then, in turn, by whoever that someone might have been talking to?

Jimmy is tired and losing perspective. He feels like having that drink now and wonders if it’s not too late to head back out.

He goes and sits on the edge of the bed.

Maybe he could find that bar again, the one he passed earlier.

He reaches over for the laptop, pulls it towards him. Before he logs off, he clicks onto the
Irish Times
website.

Force of habit.

It’s the first item he sees.

Larry Bolger dead.

One phrase. Three words. No room for ambiguity.

He stares at the headline in shock. Then he clicks onto the main story. It says Bolger died of a heart attack. In the lobby of a London hotel.

Jesus Christ.

But what was he doing in London in the first place? Who was he with? Who was he seeing?

It takes Jimmy a while to understand something here. As he’s staring at the screen, scanning the article, it creeps up on him. He realises he’s taking it for granted that this isn’t what it seems. Based on what? Absolutely nothing. But he’s convinced he’s right.

He’s convinced, too, that it won’t – can’t – end there.

At which point his phone rings. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he reaches over and picks it up.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hi, Jimmy, how’s it going? It’s Finbarr.’

Jimmy stops, looks up, confused. ‘Who?’

‘Finbarr. From across the hall.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Hi. I … I was just reading about Larry Bolger.’

‘Right. I
know
. Weird, isn’t it? But come here, listen.’

‘Yeah?’

Something about his tone.

Jimmy braces himself.

‘Sorry to lay this on you when you’re away and all, but there was a break-in this evening, in the building. Your place got done over. I’m afraid, it’s pretty bad.’

THREE

T
UBE STEADIES HIMSELF
with a couple of deep, measured breaths, replaces the revolver in his holster and steps away. Behind him now, the package is screaming, but what can he do? Venus and Scratch from the lead car were right behind him so they’ll be on it.

Kicking the door closed was dumb, and unnecessary, he could have just gone around it, or through the open window – but he had to feel like he was in a scene from a fucking movie, didn’t he? It’s the perennial temptation, the age-old problem – which comes first, the war or the stories? Put a gun in your hand and who are you?

He turns around.

Sweet Lord.

Venus looks at him.

Tube nods at the lead car.