Bloodland: A Novel (25 page)

‘Sir,’ he then says to the package, loudly, clearly, and with enough firmness to command the poor bastard’s attention, ‘these men will escort you to the airstrip. There you will receive immediate medical attention.’ He pauses. ‘Do you understand?’

The package nods. He’s pale, terrified, in agony.

Venus and Scratch take him away, quickly, out of the car and around the body. They shield him as best they can from what’s up ahead as well, and bundle him into the other car.

Tube just stands there. In theory, they could be vulnerable to attack here, some kind of retaliation, return fire, but it’s highly unlikely. Gideon controls this whole area, the airstrip, the mine, its immediate environs. Once you get near the compound, OK, things are a little different – the painted kids with bloodshot eyes take over … but they’re all still on the same side.

Except …

He looks around.

Except – you’d
think
– when something like this happens.

The lead car starts up, veers right, moves along the edge of the road for a bit and then speeds off.

Spokane, the driver of the middle car, opens his door and gets out, radio in hand.

He looks over at Tube. ‘Support on the way, sir.’

Tube nods.

Support. Clean up. Bags. At least one bag, anyway.

He shakes his head.

What a mess.

A few feet away is Deep Six. He’s just standing there, too, looking around.

Guess they’re both a little shell-shocked.

The silence now is the strangest thing.

Fuck.

No one moaning, no one crying, nothing.

Crazy, efficient
mother
fucker.

If anyone had asked him, Tube would have opted for Deep Six here, not Ashes, on the basis that it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for – and Ashes was anything but quiet, fool couldn’t keep still for a second, slave to his ADHD or whatever he had, though he never seemed
that
disturbed, just a little weird, stupid actually. And that’s another thing, it usually isn’t the stupid ones who end up doing this kind of thing – for whatever reason it’s the smart ones, like Deep Six … who at any rate
seems
smart, but maybe he isn’t, maybe he’s as dumb as he lets on. And who knows, go figure, maybe Ray Kroner
was
smart after all. Doesn’t matter now, though, he’s gone to the bosom of the Lord and he sure as shit ain’t coming back.

Tube looks down at the body.

He didn’t like having to do it, not least because it was his first time at such close range, but it was a split second thing anyway, he acted on reflex, and if he hadn’t, if Ashes had shot the package – it’s just occurring to him now – the fallout would’ve been …

Unimaginable.

There’d be no containing it. Which begs the question – what the hell is Senator John Rundle doing down here anyway? Whatever the strategy is supposed to be, it’s a damn risky one. A Beltway insider like Rundle? Coming to the Congo? For a sit-down with Arnold Kimbela?

He guesses the stakes must be pretty high.

Not that it’s Tube’s job, or his place, to be speculating on such shit, but you can’t help it.

He looks over at Deep Six again.

‘Hell of a thing,’ he says. And that’s when he notices the look on Tom Szymanski’s face. It’s a scowl, brooding, almost baleful. ‘What?’

Szymanski shrugs, seemingly unable to speak.

Tube steps over to him. ‘I didn’t have a choice. That was a US senator, for Christ’s sake.’ He’s whispering this. ‘Ashes was going to
shoot
him.’

Szymanski looks up. ‘A senator?’

‘Yeah, John Rundle. Big family.’ He raises an arm and sweeps it around. ‘His brother actually owns all of this, the mine, the airstrip. You know, BRX.’ He pauses. ‘They write the cheques. So I’m sorry, but Ashes picked the wrong fucking day to go crazy.’

Szymanski considers this, seems to anyway.

‘Yeah,’ he says eventually, under his breath. ‘The wrong fucking day.’ It’s barely audible.

He walks away.

Tube watches him.

He stops in front of Ray Kroner’s body for a second and then walks on.

Venus and Scratch watch in silence as he passes them.

Tube can hear something in the distance now, from behind. It’s on the road. A deep rumbling sound.

Support.

One of the armoured humvees.

Tom Szymanski stops when he comes to the scene up ahead.

Tube studies him – his posture, body language. What’s he thinking? What’s going on inside his head as he looks down at this pile – this fucked-up arrangement – of corpses …

Twisted, bullet-riddled, blood-soaked.

Faces frozen in shock.

This calculus of horror.

Two women, one slumped over an empty wicker basket, the other lying sideways in a pile of, what are they, yams … and behind them, splayed out on the dirt road, three tiny, limp frames …

Is Deep Six straining to take this in, to comprehend it? Is it getting to him? Is he losing his perspective, losing his
mind
?

Tube exhales, turns around, looks in the opposite direction.

The armoured vehicle is approaching. It gets closer, louder. It pulls up next to the first SUV. Doors and hatches open, support personnel appear. They spread out, assess the damage, start the clean-up.

Though Tube is still in charge.

In fact, since the entire Buenke operation is under his command, he’ll be the one responsible for shaping and disseminating the official narrative of what happened here.

Which isn’t going to be easy.

Because Gideon Global don’t do explanations, or apologies.

Tube nods at Venus again and walks over to where he and Scratch are standing. As he does so, he makes a mental note.

Tom Szymanski takes extended leave.

Unpaid.

Effective immediately.

8

O
N THE FLIGHT TO
P
ARIS
, Rundle goes over his notes again and then catches up on some of the J.J. stuff from the weekend. He watches various clips – mainly from the Sunday morning talk shows,
This Week
and
Face the Nation
– and has to admit that J.J. did pretty well. He’d said last week that he wanted to hang onto the media traction while changing the conversation, and he appears to have done just that – little or no mention of the ‘accident’, instead a vigorous assault on the Finance Reform bill. Of course, the high-visibility brace on his hand leaves no one in any doubt about the narrative subtext that’s being peddled here.

But nicely done. All round. No question about it.

Nor has it taken long for the speculation to ramp up about J.J. possibly running for the White House in two years’ time. No one has officially put their hat in the ring yet – it’s too early for that – but the more times you get asked the question, the less plausible, conveniently enough, your coy and disingenuous denials become.

Rundle can even see it himself now.

What’s more, he can see the benefits.

It’s become clear to him recently that his position vis-à-vis James Vaughan and the Oberon Capital Group may not be as solid as he’d been assuming. Rundle has played his part, there’s no doubt about that, he’s kept the supply chain ticking over, and at considerable cost, both financial and otherwise – but there’s also no doubt that in relation to certain follow-on matters he has been kept in the dark.

There’s a bigger picture here – it’s obvious, Rundle can feel it in his bones – but for whatever reason, or reasons, Jimmy Vaughan has consistently made a point of excluding him from it. With J.J. in the White House, however, things would be different. They’d have to be.

It would be a lock.

The Rundle Supremacy.

OK, there’s a long way to go before that happens, but in the short term if BRX can sew up the Africa situation, Oberon might be more favourably disposed towards the senator making a bid for the White House.

Maybe pitch in a little.

Quid pro quo sort of thing. Two-way street.

Not that there’d be anything formalised about it, much less illegal or nefarious – nothing, say, for
The Nation
or
Democracy Now
to be getting worked up about.

Because how do these people think shit gets done?

It’s just business.

Rundle closes his laptop, leans back and sighs.

He’s getting to Paris on his own steam, in the G650, and after that Gideon will be taking over – there’ll be a flight in a military plane to Kigali followed by a quick hop over to Bukavu in eastern Congo. Then he’ll be taken in a light aircraft to the mine at Buenke. At least the reverse trip, with the scale of comfort ascending, will be a little easier.

And in between he sits down with the colonel.

It’ll be a quick turnaround, couple of hours maybe, some hard talking, lots of back and forth, issues, conditions, whatever.

But a resolution has to be arrived at.

That’s the bottom line.

Rundle looks out the window, at the clouds below, billowing furiously.

He has spent his life arriving at solutions – structuring complex deals, negotiating buyouts … manipulating, cajoling, sweet-talking, playing hardball where necessary – but it has always been in streamlined air-conditioned spaces, in hotel rooms, office suites and conference centres.

This is going to be very different.

A jungle clearing, kids with Kalashnikovs, a damp hut, a metal table, a bare light bulb. That’s how J.J. described it. Equally, depending on his mood, the colonel could choose to hold the meeting in his new palace – so-called, and still half-built by all reports, with its unsuitable antique furniture, staircases leading nowhere and empty Olympic-sized swimming pool.

The point is, it’ll be different.

And Rundle has this notion –

He can’t help it.

He has this notion that by travelling to Africa in person, by engaging directly with a local warlord, by not flinching, he will come away stronger, empowered somehow, equipped not just with a re-negotiated mining contract but with a psychological edge as well, an air of dark authority. It’s as if he expects to be infected, bitten, tainted in some way.

His soul.

Rundle looks away, suddenly uncomfortable with this, a little embarrassed even. He swivels his seat around to face the empty cabin.

He is aware of all the history here, of the tropes and metaphors routinely used, the clichés even. He’s aware of the complex web of interdependencies going back over decades, the involvement of various agencies, corporate, military, intel.

He’s aware, too, of the enduring friendship between Jimmy Vaughan and Mobutu Sese Seko.

But –

Rundle swivels back to face the window again.

That would have been confined to Paris, or London, or Washington, wouldn’t it? At no point, as far as he knows, did Vaughan himself ever actually
go
to Congo.

He’s
going, though, and it feels appropriate.

Rundle leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

He’s only sorry now that he didn’t arrange to have Nora come along as well.

*   *   *

Conway sits at the kitchen counter, distracted, agitated, gazing at Corinne as she cajoles Jack into eating some cereal. What if he were married to
her
, he thinks, and Jack was their first, and they lived in an apartment in Paris, and he ran a successful software or consultancy business? And Corinne adored him, deferred to him, wanted him.

What if …

‘Well?’

Conway looks up. Ruth is standing there, with her coat on. She nods at the radio.

‘Any mention of when the funeral is?’

He straightens up. ‘Thursday morning.’

She passes Jack on her way to the fridge and strokes his head.

‘Is it going to be a state funeral?’

‘Mamma.’ Delayed reaction.

‘Yeah.’

She opens the fridge and takes out a carton of cranberry juice. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘No, me neither.’ It’s not the only thing he can’t believe. His brief phone call to Don Ribcoff and then … problem solved?

Again?

Or maybe Larry Bolger simply obliged, succumbed to the enormous pressure he was under, the guilt, the fear, the apprehension.

Ticker couldn’t take it anymore.

Either way, problem solved.

That
problem solved.

Who does Conway phone up now, though, about his other problems? His financial woes, his impending profess-sional meltdown, his own guilt and fear and apprehension?

‘Oh,’ Ruth says, ‘I meant to ask you. How did the meeting go?’

They’d been so caught up last night in the news about Bolger’s death that they hadn’t talked about anything else.

He pauses. He’s about to tell her the truth. But not with Corinne there, not with the baby, not in the
kitchen
.

‘It went OK, I think. We’ll see.’

Ruth pours some juice into a glass and puts the carton back in the fridge.

‘Right,’ she says, and knocks the juice back. ‘I’m off.’

‘Mamma.’

A few minutes later, Conway heads out himself.

Driving into town feels normal enough, like any other morning, but only so long as he keeps the radio off and ignores the constant pinging of his phone. As soon as he arrives at his building, however, the feeling evaporates. Because what awaits him here, up on the sixth floor, especially after yesterday’s debacle with the Black Vine people, will bear no resemblance to a normal day at the office. Instead, there’ll be frantic messages from Martin Boyle, from the banks, maybe even from business correspondents, people at RTE and Newstalk and the papers. Among the staff, there’ll be an air of panic, of incredulity, of how can this be happening.