Winterland

by Alan Glynn

He then nods at her and gets into his car. Gina watches as he speeds off towards the East Link toll bridge.

  She bites her lower lip.

  People die on our roads every day of the week.

  So is that it? Is he right after all?

  Maybe.

  She crosses to the other side of the street and heads up the quays. She holds her jacket closed against the wind.

  But maybe – and just to see it through – she should have one more little chat with Terry Stack.

  Even though the prospect doesn’t exactly appeal to her.

  As she walks along, Gina glances every now and again to the left, into the dark-flowing Liffey – but this only adds to her anxiety. It’s as though the river might somehow have a surprise in store, as though it wouldn’t be at all inconceivable for the murky water itself to rise up suddenly and reach out from between the stone banks in a great whoosh to engulf her.

  Soon after he gets across the East Link toll bridge, Norton pulls in at the side of the road. He puts a hand up to his chest and takes a few deep breaths.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he says out loud.

  He fumbles in his jacket pocket for his pillbox. When he finally gets it out, he knocks back two Narolet tablets.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  He cannot believe how close he came to pushing that girl over the barrier, to giving her a quick shove and …

  He shakes his head.

  He has never committed an act of violence in his life, not directly … but Jesus …

  It would have been so easy.

  And, of course, for a variety of reasons, insane. Because someone would have seen him doing it, one of the construction workers behind them, or one of the crane operators maybe. And in the unlikely event of no one seeing it, there’d be the sheer coincidence of another death in the same family, and the awkward questions that would raise. Not to mention the negative impact of all the publicity.

  But apart from anything else, it was the feeling – for the two or three seconds he was holding her by the arm – the feeling, the urge to do it.

  Like electricity in his veins.

  Jesus.

  Talk about fucking impulse control.

  Norton’s hands are shaking.

  He had no real intention of doing it, clearly, it would have been madness, it’s just that … she was being so stubborn.

  He rubs his chest. He’s still breathing heavily.

  Could he actually have done it?

  He thinks of his daughter, Patricia, who lives in Chicago and would be the same age, more or less, as Gina. He tries to picture her standing there, in Gina’s place. He tries to drum up the appropriate level of emotion.

  But it doesn’t come.

  He feels flushed. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror.

  He starts the car again.

  By the time he’s on Strand Road, and the Narolet is kicking in, he begins to calm down, and to realise that the issue here isn’t whether or not he is capable, or was capable, of pushing Gina to her death; the issue is how close he came, again, to self-destructing.

  But he has to think now, and be logical. Because Gina doesn’t actually know anything. She’s just speculating, and not even in any focused way. She’s looking for answers. She’s upset. She’s grieving.

  Norton reaches down and turns on the CD player.

  She seems to think that there’s some link between her brother’s death and the gangland killing of her nephew – but she isn’t going to find one. She also seems to think that her brother wouldn’t have driven his car if he was drunk – but the alcohol level in his bloodstream is on record, and is irrefutable.

  So sooner or later, and despite an obvious – and obviously congenital – stubborn streak, she’ll have to come to her senses.

  Norton goes through the junction at Merrion Gates. He turns right and heads back towards town.

  But still – and just to be on the safe side – he wonders if he shouldn’t arrange to have Fitz keep an eye on her.

  He relaxes his grip on the steering wheel.

  The track that’s playing at the moment on the stereo is gorgeous – it’s the intermezzo from …

  He can’t remember what it’s called. It was in an ad.

  He’ll phone Fitz later on.

  As he’s passing the RDS, Patricia comes back into his mind. She’s working as an administrator, or a curator, in a museum, or a gallery, or something – he isn’t quite sure what it is. She doesn’t come home very often. She and her mother had a falling out a few years ago. It was over … again, something – he isn’t clear on the details.

  He pictures her once more – he can’t help it – pictures her where Gina was standing, directly in front of him, ready to be shoved, to fall backwards into the howling wind, into the abyss.

  As the music gently climaxes, he feels a lump forming in his throat. When the music stops, he glances into the rearview mirror.

  He has tears in his eyes.

  3

  It is a crisp and sunny morning in Manhattan and Larry Bolger is walking north along Madison Avenue. Every half block or so he looks to the right and catches a glimpse of himself reflected in a store window. Over the coming week – here in New York, in Boston, in Chicago – this figure he sees floating beside him will be meeting the top management teams of twenty major companies. He’ll be addressing chambers of commerce and Irish-American community groups. He’ll be visiting factories and business parks. He’ll be attending power breakfasts.

  He’ll be talking himself blue in the face.

  But for the moment at least, and for the next hour or two, he is off the radar, a fugitive from this intense, punishing schedule, as well as from the other people on the delegation – his private secretary, his handlers, the IDA executives, the journalists.

  Twenty minutes ago, Bolger slipped out through a side entrance of the hotel on 57th Street where they’re all staying and headed up here on foot. He could have used a town car or taken a cab, but he decided to walk instead. After sending a quick text to Paula, he even switched off his mobile phone.

  Because the truth is, he’s actually a little nervous about this.

  He crosses at 71st Street.

  Up ahead, on the sidewalk, a uniformed porter is chatting with the driver of a parked limousine. The granite-clad building the two men are standing in front of is imposing but fairly anonymous. The only thing that tells you it’s the Wilson Hotel is an oval plaque on the wall next to the entrance.

  Bolger strolls past a second porter. He goes through a set of revolving doors and into the lobby. He is immediately struck by how sumptuous the place is inside – with its crystal chandeliers, enormous gilt mirrors and Louis XVI-style furniture.

  He heads for the desk, but before he reaches it he spots Ray Sullivan approaching from the other side of the lobby.

  ‘Larry, good to see you,’ Sullivan says, arm outstretched. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  They shake hands vigorously.

  Bolger last met Sullivan a couple of years back, in Dublin, when Amcan was opening its new plant in one of the industrial estates.

  ‘We have a suite upstairs,’ Sullivan says, ‘so let’s just go on up, OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Bolger loves the understatement.

  We have a suite upstairs.

  He knows that the Oberon Capital Group not only has a suite upstairs, it actually owns the whole hotel – along with about ten billion dollars’ worth of other stuff around the globe.

  ‘We’ll meet some people,’ Sullivan says as they’re getting into the elevator, ‘and then Mr Vaughan will join us for lunch.’

  Mr Vaughan – James Vaughan, the old man – is a cofounder of Oberon. He’s also a Wall Street legend, a former deputy director of the CIA and a veteran of the Kennedy administration.

  They get out on the fifth floor and walk along a wide, empty corridor. At the very end they arrive at a door, and Sullivan raps on it lightly.

  Bolger’s stomach is jumpi
ng.

  The door is opened by a young man, who nods at Sullivan and then stands aside. They pass through a sort of vestibule and emerge into a large reception room. At a quick glance Bolger counts six people – two standing, four sitting. They are all men. The ones who are sitting immediately stand up and there is a general hubbub of welcome. Moving around, Bolger shakes hands with each of them in turn. One is shortish and rotund, and Bolger recognises his name – he’s a Nobel prizewinning economist. The rest of them are tall and chiselled, each with the appearance and demeanour of a five-star general in civilian clothes, or of a presidential candidate. One of them, a senator, actually was a presidential candidate a few years ago. Another one is a former defence secretary. Then there is the CEO of Gideon Global, Don Ribcoff, whom Bolger has met before. The other two he’s not sure about.

  ‘Sit down, Larry,’ Ray Sullivan says, ushering him over to a sofa. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Er …’ Bolger would kill for a large whiskey.

  ‘Water’s fine,’ he says. ‘Sparkling, thanks.’

  He lowers himself onto the sofa. The senator, the former defence secretary and the economist all sit down as well – but on the sofa opposite.

  ‘So, Larry,’ the senator says, ‘until a while ago, it looked like you guys over there in Ireland had pretty much rewritten the rule book on how to run a successful economy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bolger says, ‘it seems we were doing something right, I suppose.’

  Hearing himself here, Bolger is suddenly appalled. This is America he’s in. They don’t do self-deprecation. He has to play it up.

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ he goes on quickly, ‘we’ve structured a corporate tax environment that allows enterprise to breathe, to really grow, so as long as we can resist harmonisation from Brussels and get out of this slump we all seem to be in at present, I don’t see why it shouldn’t continue to go our way.’

  Over the years, Bolger has never been fazed by anything he’s ever had to do in his capacity as a public representative – but this feels different. This feels like a job interview.

  ‘Ah, Brussels,’ the former defence secretary says, and with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Our friends in the Commission.’

  The young man who opened the door earlier appears from Bolger’s left and presents him with a glass of water. The glass, which is on a silver tray, looks like Waterford cut crystal. Bolger takes it and raises it to the three men opposite. This feels like a foolish gesture as he’s doing it, and it is, but he can’t help himself.

  He takes a sip from the glass.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘Brussels is still reeling from our rejection of Lisbon, but whatever way it plays out, whether the Treaty eventually passes or not, one thing you can be sure about, and probably for decades to come, is that tax-based competition between member states will continue – which of course is great for us, because attracting inward investment is exactly where our tax regime is so strong.’

  The economist takes up this point and they tease it out for a few minutes before moving on to other topics. After about half an hour, someone’s mobile phone rings. Five minutes after that the door leading to the vestibule opens and a burly man wearing dark glasses comes in. He is followed by another man, who is much older and walking very slowly.

  This is James Vaughan.

  Everyone stands up.

  Throughout his years as a politician, and especially since being appointed to the cabinet, Bolger has met a lot of people – dignitaries, the occasional head of state, showbiz celebrities – but this is of a different order of magnitude.

  He steps forward and extends his hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’

  Vaughan, who must be in his mid-to late seventies, is a small man, stooped and quite frail-looking. But his eyes are astonishing – blue, bright, very alert.

  ‘So,’ he says, shaking Bolger’s hand, ‘how is the next prime minister of Ireland?’

  ‘Oh, well, let’s not –’

  Bolger stops himself. His impulse is to dismiss this, but he holds back. He bows in acknowledgement of the question, and smiles.

  ‘Or what is it you guys call it again?’ Vaughan says. ‘Tee something … Tee –’

  ‘Taoiseach.’

  ‘That’s it. Means chieftain, right?’

  ‘Yes. Leader. It’s –’

  ‘Chieftain. I like that,’ Vaughan says, looking around at the others. ‘Maybe we should use that from now on, chieftain executive officer.’

  Everyone laughs.

  ‘OK, Phil,’ Vaughan then says, turning to the burly man he came in with. ‘I think we’re all set.’ Phil nods silently and retreats. Vaughan moves over towards the sofa, but he doesn’t sit down.

  ‘So, Ray,’ he says, ‘what’s the deal here, we’re going to eat something?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ray Sullivan says, turning backwards and clicking his fingers. The young man walks over to a set of double doors on the far side of the room and opens them.

  Through the doors Bolger sees what looks like a full-sized dining room. The table is set and uniformed servers are hovering about, adjusting cutlery and repositioning glasses.

  ‘Larry,’ Vaughan says to Bolger, beckoning him over with an outstretched arm, ‘come, come, sit with me.’

  The next hour passes very quickly for Bolger. He listens with great attention as Vaughan talks – and exclusively to him – on a wide range of subjects, including his time as Assistant Secretary at the Treasury Department under Jack Kennedy, his famous run-in with LBJ, and how he was told on good authority over thirty years ago that Mark Felt was Deep Throat. One story Bolger particularly likes is about Vaughan using the expression ‘irrational exuberance’ in a private conversation with Alan Greenspan two days before the Fed Chairman used it himself in a black-tie dinner speech and caused a worldwide wobble in the markets.

  As coffee is being served, Vaughan suddenly turns the conversation around. ‘So tell me, Larry. How are things down on Richmond Dock? I hear we’re making quite an impression on your skyline over there.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Vaughan, indeed.’ The ‘we’ isn’t lost on Bolger. With a 15 per cent stake in the building, and Amcan, which it owns, set to be the anchor tenant, Oberon – he supposes – is a key player in the project. ‘Aside from the usual objections about height,’ he says, ‘everything has gone pretty smoothly. I think the city is ready for this.’

  ‘Sure it is,’ Vaughan says, ‘sure it is, a city needs its symbols. And what’s so awful about height anyway? I mean, it’s just a basic expression of … ambition. It’s in the DNA. I know it’s in my DNA.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘Look, for an earlier generation the big idea was frontier expansion – go west, young man, that kind of thing – but for us it was go up, it was the great land grab in the sky.’

  Bolger nods along at this, engrossed, barely aware of anyone else around the table.

  ‘And back then,’ Vaughan continues, ‘size mattered, too. That’s what it was about in the end, really, scale. It was all get a load of this, and get a load of that … I don’t know, eight miles of elevator shafts, three thousand tons of marble, two and a half million feet of electrical cable, ten million bricks …’

  He follows this with a story about how in the late fifties, when he was East Coast Vice-President of Wolper & Stone, he personally oversaw the construction of the firm’s new corporate headquarters in midtown Manhattan. After that, he somehow loops back to the present and to the strategic importance for Oberon of establishing a high-profile base in Europe. In the space of about five minutes, he manages to use the words ‘bridgehead,’ ‘gateway’ and ‘portal’.

  But then, at around 2.30, and out of the blue, he announces that he has to go and lie down. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Larry,’ he says, ‘but I’ve got this blood condition. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Of course, please, please.’

  As Vaughan gets up, everyone else at the table gets up, too. Ray Sullivan confers with the young man, who imm
ediately takes out his mobile phone and starts making a call.

  ‘Walk me to the door, Larry,’ Vaughan says to Bolger, taking him by the arm.

  ‘I can’t tell you what an honour this has been for me, Mr Vaughan, really.’

  ‘Well thank you, Larry, nice of you to say so.’ He applies a little pressure to Bolger’s arm. ‘And let me just add something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No one ever knows what’s going to happen in politics, am I right?’

  Bolger nods.

  ‘These are democratic times we live in.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It’s the people who decide.’

  ‘Hhmm.’

  ‘But from what I’m told, in Ireland right now, you’re the man to watch, so I want you to know something.’ Vaughan lowers his voice here, almost to a whisper. ‘We’re behind you all the way.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘And if there’s anything we can do to help …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When they get to the door – where the burly Phil is waiting – Vaughan releases Bolger’s arm. He turns and extends his hand. ‘Larry,’ he says, ‘it was nice meeting you.’

  They shake.

  ‘And remember what I said.’

  ‘I will.’

  Vaughan turns again and leaves.

  Twenty minutes later, after more arm-squeezing, more handshakes, more urgent, whispered assurances of support, Bolger leaves, too. Ray Sullivan takes him back downstairs, where a car is waiting.

  The driver slips across to 72nd Street and then turns left onto Fifth Avenue.

  With his head still reeling, Bolger tries to interpret what has just happened.

  It was an endorsement – plain and simple. Bolger is primed to take over his party. The party is a shoo-in at the next election. The Oberon Capital Group needs to maintain a US-friendly European base for its biotech, aerospace and defence contractors.

  It isn’t exactly rocket science.

  Nor is he under any illusions about what might be required of him. Or about how easily an endorsement from Oberon could be withdrawn.