Bloodland: A Novel (28 page)

And bleak.

Or is that just how he feels?

‘You ready for this?’ Don Ribcoff says.

Rundle turns to him. ‘Yeah. Piece of cake.’ He smiles. ‘I mean, it’s just business, right?’

‘Well, I don’t –’

‘Look, I know, I know, kids with Kalashnikovs, heart of darkness, all of that shit, but at the end of the day it’s a meeting, it’s negotiations, it’s striking a deal. I’m a businessman, he’s a businessman. We disagree, what’s he going to do, eat me?’

Ribcoff grunts. ‘We’re not likely to let that happen, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try.’

‘Oh relax, Don. This’ll actually be pretty tedious. These mining contracts aren’t a barrel of laughs you know.’

This is bluster on Rundle’s part. He’s nervous, no getting away from it, but after what happened with J.J., he’s not about to put it on display. Besides, Don Ribcoff is the hired help here, he’s security, and the details of what goes on, of what this is about, are – and must remain – strictly confidential.

Soon the convoy is slowing down and they’re turning left in through some gates to a walled enclosure. They follow a heavily tree-lined driveway for about two hundred yards and come out onto a clearing. Then they stop alongside the main entrance to what Rundle takes to be Kimbela’s famously unfinished ‘villa’. It’s the sort of thing a prosperous tea merchant might have built for himself in one of the new suburbs of mid-Victorian London.

Here, of course, it looks absurd.

On the opposite side of the clearing is the row of concrete shacks J.J. talked about.

Rundle glances around. The place appears to be deserted. But within seconds this changes. Jeeps pull up on either side of the convoy, brakes screeching, soldiers piling off, and suddenly they’re surrounded.

Rundle stiffens.

Ribcoff rolls his eyes. ‘This is Kimbela’s praetorian guard. I can’t believe we actually
train
these idiots.’

‘Really? And who supplies them with those pressed fatigues and crisp felt berets?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘Yeah?’

Ribcoff laughs. ‘Sure.’

Rundle makes a show of laughing along. Then he reaches for the door and opens it. He steps out of this climate-controlled SUV and into a wall of heat.

Ribcoff does the same, followed by Lutz and his team in the other two vehicles.

Everyone stands around for a moment, soldiers, private contractors, but it’s barely enough time for any kind of tension or animosity to build. Not that it should, Rundle thinks, given that they’re all basically on the same payroll.

‘Clark, my old friend.’

The voice is deep and resonant. Rundle turns around and sees Kimbela emerging from behind one of the jeeps. He too is in pressed fatigues and a crisp beret.

And mirrored sunglasses.

Regulation issue.

Rundle gets the impression that they’ve all dressed up for this, for the occasion. He doesn’t think they did it for J.J. And there don’t seem to be any drug-crazed children around either.

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 hotel, 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.’