Bloodland

by Alan Glynn

  He closes the magazine and puts it on the seat beside him.

  It’s strange reading about yourself. The material usually feels diluted and one-dimensional. By the same token there’s nothing in the article here he needs to call his lawyers about. It’s accurate enough, he supposes, and will achieve what it was intended to achieve – at least as far as J.J.’s press office is concerned – and that is to help pave the way for this possible nomination.

  Rundle wonders if J.J. has seen it yet. He’s on a foreign trip at the moment – doing Clark a favour, as it happens – so it’s unlikely.

  But then again the article is probably available online.

  In which case, knowing J.J., he’ll definitely have seen it.

  And will be in touch about it the first chance he gets.

  The limo pulls up outside the Orpheus Room on Fifty-fourth Street. Rundle waits for the driver to open the door and then gets out. As he straightens his jacket he glances at the passing traffic down a bit on Park and something occurs to him. It’s easy to forget this, but it’s true what was in the article. There is no rivalry between them, none, and they genuinely do root for each other. In taking BRX Mining & Engineering to new levels of success, Clark has remained largely anonymous, and that’s been fine. J.J. was always the attention-seeker anyway, the approval junkie. But if that’s what his brother wants, a shot at the presidency – which until now, being honest about it, Clark hasn’t really taken that seriously – then why not? And why shouldn’t Clark do everything in his considerable power to help make it happen?

  Add ‘kingmaker’ to his list of achievements.

  Stick it one more time to the old man.

  Fuck, yeah.

  He heads in under the sidewalk canopy.

  Realigning his headspace.

  Inside, Jimmy Vaughan is sitting at his regular table, nursing what looks like a fruit juice.

  Rundle approaches the table with his hand outstretched. ‘Jimmy, how are you?’

  Vaughan looks up. He shakes Rundle’s hand and indicates for him to sit down. ‘How am I? I’m eighty-two years old, Clark, what do you want me to tell you?’

  Rundle laughs at this and sits down. ‘Well, if I could look half as good as you do, Jimmy, and I mean now, let alone when I’m eighty-two, I’d be a happy man.’

  This is bullshit, of course, palaver, but on one level he actually means it. Vaughan is extraordinary for his age, his steely blue eyes displaying an undimmed and ferocious intelligence. As chairman of private equity firm the Oberon Capital Group – as well as sitting member of the Council on Foreign Relations and the Trilateral Commission – Vaughan is something of an éminence grise around these parts.

  A waiter appears at Rundle’s side. ‘Your usual, sir?’

  Rundle nods.

  A gimlet. For his sins.

  He looks at Vaughan. ‘How’s Meredith?’

  Vaughan waves a hand over the table. ‘She’s . . . well.’

  Meredith is Vaughan’s umpteenth wife. They got married about four years ago, and she’s at least forty-five years his junior. Which maybe explains a lot.

  She’s even younger than Rundle’s own wife.

  ‘And Eve?’

  ‘She’s good. She’s in England at the moment, Oxford. Checking up on Daisy.’

  Vaughan smiles.

  Wives, daughters, whatever.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, leaning forward, getting down to business, ‘this thing with the Chinese?’

  Rundle nods.

  ‘It isn’t going to go away, Clark. I mean, let’s say our friend the colonel turns down their offer, yeah? Let’s say we pull that off. It just means they’ll come back with a bigger offer. That’s the kicker in all of this, it isn’t about money.’ Vaughan makes a puffing sound and throws his hands up. ‘It’s like we have to learn a whole new language.’

  Rundle is all too aware of this, but hearing Vaughan articulate it, hearing him sound even vaguely defeatist – that’s a little unnerving.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘or maybe we have to relearn a language we once knew, but have forgotten.’

  Vaughan looks at him for a moment. Then he reaches over and pats him on the arm. ‘Oh lord, Clark,’ he says. ‘That’s a bit subtle, even for me.’ He laughs. ‘Or . . . or what’s that other word . . . inscrutable?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t –’

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  They both look up.

  It’s Don Ribcoff. He has arrived at the table in what seems like a frantic rush. He sits down, nods at Vaughan, but then faces Rundle.

  ‘Forgive me, Clark,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t normally barge in on you like this, but I thought it’d be better not to talk over the phone.’

  Rundle nods, wondering what this is about – the urgency, the not talking on the phone. Especially the not talking on the phone. But also thinking who’d be a better judge of something like that than the CEO of Gideon Global?

  He turns to Vaughan. ‘I didn’t mention it to you Jimmy, but I spoke to Don earlier and asked him to join us.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Vaughan says, and makes an inclusive gesture with his hand. ‘Don, what are you drinking?’

  Ribcoff bites his lip. ‘Er, water, please.’

  Vaughan raises a finger and a waiter seems to materialise out of thin air. Instructions are given, two chilled 330 ml bottles of Veen, one velvet, one effervescent. Almost immediately a second waiter appears with the gimlet and as the drink is being transferred from the tray to the table Rundle takes a moment to study Don Ribcoff.

  He seems uncharacteristically ruffled. Still only in his mid-thirties, Ribcoff is a hugely capable young man, good-looking, fit, and incredibly focused when it comes to his business. He also provides an invaluable service to people like Rundle, Vaughan and many others. The privatisation of the security and intelligence industries has been nothing short of revolutionary and the Don Ribcoffs of this world, who have spearheaded that revolution, are men to be cherished and nurtured.

  Which is why it’s disturbing to see him like this.

  As soon as the waiter withdraws, Rundle reaches for his gimlet.

  Gin and lime juice.

  Who could ask for anything more?

  He takes a sip.

  And then it strikes him that the reason Ribcoff is agitated is because he wants to talk to him.

  He refocuses.

  Vaughan and Ribcoff are looking in his direction.

  ‘What?’

  Ribcoff clears his throat, shifts his weight in the chair and then says, ‘Look, er, this trip the Senator is on? It’s run into a little trouble. I’m afraid we might have to think things over.’

  Rundle immediately says, ‘What things?’

  And then adds, after a beat, ‘What trouble?’

  2

  As they cross the lobby, various people greet Larry Bolger by name. He’s been living in the hotel for over a year now, in one of the penthouse suites, but his presence down here, or in the bar, will still cause a stir.

  How’s it going, Larry? they’ll say. Would you not fancy your old job back? The country needs you.

  Stuff like that.

  He only wishes Irish people weren’t so bloody informal. Bill still gets called Mister President wherever he goes, Bolger has seen it. Not that he wants that particularly, a title or anything, grovelling. Just a little respect.

  Mister Bolger mightn’t be a bad place to start.

  ‘How are Mary and the girls?’ Dave Conway asks, keeping up the small talk until they get settled at a table.

  ‘They’re grand, thanks, yeah. Lisa’s just got her MBA.’

  ‘Another Bolger out of the traps, eh?’

  ‘I’m telling you, I don’t know where she got it from, her mother maybe, but she’s got it.’

  They take a table at the back. It’s early and the dining room next door is crowded, breakfast in full swing, but there’s almost no one in here, in the Avondale Lounge. It’s eerily quiet, with at least half of the room �
� the half they’ve chosen to sit in – still in semi-darkness.

  ‘So,’ Bolger says, and shifts his weight in the chair. ‘How are things with you?’

  Why is he so nervous?

  ‘Yeah, not too bad, Larry, I suppose. We’ve managed to avoid the worst of it. So far, anyway.’

  Dave Conway is one of the canniest businessmen Bolger has ever met and for a while there he was a trusted member of the inner circle, of the kitchen cabinet. It was Dave, in fact, who persuaded Bolger to go to Drumcoolie Castle in the first place.

  To that corporate ethics conference.

  Bolger hadn’t wanted to go.

  Of course. Story of his bloody life.

  A waiter approaches the table, an older guy with a dickie-bow and a silver tray under one arm. Bolger squints at him for a second and scrolls through his mental database.

  ‘Sean,’ he then says, ‘how are you? A pot of coffee will do us fine here, thanks.’

  The waiter nods in acknowledgement and retreats.

  Bolger turns back.

  ‘So,’ Conway says, ‘how are the memoirs coming along?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Bolger groans. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid. What’s that old song? “I Can’t Get Started”?’

  ‘Really? I thought –’

  ‘Writing’s not my strong suit, Dave. I don’t know why I ever agreed to do the damn thing. I sit there for hours and nothing happens. It’s a total waste of time.’

  ‘Do you have a deadline?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s become a bit of a moveable feast. It was supposed to be due two months ago.’ He shrugs. ‘Now . . . I don’t know.’

  Conway nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  Bolger thinks Dave looks a little peaky this morning, tired, not his usual self. Bolger has noticed this quite a bit recently. People he runs into from the old days aren’t as healthy-looking as they used to be.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, after a long pause, ‘here we are.’

  ‘Yes,’ Conway responds, ‘here we are.’

  Bolger hates this. He’s always been known for his direct, no-bullshit approach – it worked with the unions, with the employers, and even occasionally, on the international stage, with fellow heads of government – so what’s up with him now, why is he being so coy? It’s not as though Dave is any kind of a threat to him. If anything, it’s the other way around.

  Two young men in suits come into the lounge and take a table near the entrance. One of them is talking on his phone, the other one is texting.

  Bolger clears his throat.

  ‘OK,’ he says, straightening up in his chair. ‘Reason I asked you in here? That thing in the paper? About a week ago? Did you see it? In Wicklow? The fella they found in the woods?’

  Conway furrows his brow. ‘No. I didn’t. I was away for most of last week.’ He pauses, then his eyes widen. ‘The woods?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bolger says. He looks around the room, over at the two suits, back at Dave. ‘In Wicklow. A body.’

  Conway stares at him, going pale.

  Or was he pale already?

  ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Has there been anything about it since?’

  ‘Not as far as I’ve seen, no. But still. I mean.’

  ‘Right.’ Conway nods, considering this.

  Bolger glances around again, biting his lip.

  Couple out walking their dog.

  Jesus.

  He looks back at Dave. ‘But if there is any more about it . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’d have to . . . do something, wouldn’t we?’

  Conway looks puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, do something? Like what?’

  ‘Ah, come on, Dave, you know what I mean. For fuck’s sake.’

  Bolger hears the incipient panic in his own voice and it irritates him. Before coming down here this morning, he’d decided he was going to remain calm, not lose his cool, tease this out . . . maybe draw on some of the old magic . . .

  ‘We’d have to have a word with someone,’ he says.

  Conway leans forward at this. ‘A word? With who?’ He holds his hands up. ‘Jesus, Larry, would you cop on to yourself. I know you ran the country for, what was it, three years or something, but you’re not running it now.’

  Bolger flinches. ‘I realise that.’

  ‘Because I mean . . . that’s not how things work anymore.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Bolger whispers loudly. ‘Whatever. I get it.’

  He sits back in his chair, and glances around, doing his best to absorb this.

  He’s not an idiot.

  He just thought . . .

  In any case, what he’s now thinking is . . . three years? It wasn’t very long, was it? Not the five or even ten years Paddy Norton had dangled before him that night in his office. He led a heave and then, eventually, after a disastrous election campaign, got heaved himself. Ignominious, inglorious, call it what you will – but holy God, those three years in the middle there were brilliant, golden . . . nothing like them before or since.

  Certainly not since.

  And he doesn’t want them being tampered with now, or reinterpreted, or rewritten in any way, or decon-fucking-structed because of some stupid, bloody thing he had shag-all to do with in the first place. But that’s exactly what he’s afraid is going to happen.

  It’s what has been eating him alive, from the inside out, for the last week and a half.

  ‘So,’ he says eventually, a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Where does that leave us?’

  Conway shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You said it yourself, there hasn’t been any further mention of it in the papers. Maybe there’s no cause for concern.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s bound to resurface at some point, isn’t it? At an inquest or whatever. Details. Probing. Jesus Christ.’

  Bolger can’t stand himself right now. If Dave is being aloof and somewhat enigmatic here, he’s being whiny and insecure.

  But he can’t help it.

  ‘Listen,’ Conway is saying, leaning forward again, ‘do you want to know why we’ve got nothing to worry about? And this is totally apart from the fact that there’s probably, I don’t know, dozens of bodies buried up in the Wicklow hills.’ He pauses. ‘It’s because none of us had anything to do with it. With what happened. It’s that simple. So there’s no traceability. There can’t be.’ He pauses again. ‘Are you with me?’

  Bolger nods along. ‘Yeah, I know, I get it,’ he says, ‘no traceability, and I like that, I do, but we’re not fucking rogue pig farmers here, Dave, are we? I mean are we? There’s always traceability, there’s always someone . . . some . . .’

  He trails off, his fist clenched.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Conway says, looking around as well now, ‘take it easy.’ He draws back a little and screws his eyes up, as though to focus better. ‘Are you OK, Larry?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.’

  But he isn’t, and it’s in that very moment, as the waiter approaches – silver tray held aloft, aroma of coffee wafting through the air – that Bolger realises something. As soon as he can get rid of Dave Conway here he’s going to head straight back upstairs to the apartment. He’s going to shut the door behind him. He’s going to walk over to the drinks cabinet in the corner. He’s going to take out a bottle of whiskey. He’s going to pour himself a large measure. He’s going to fucking drink it.

  *

  The voices come, a dizzying swirl of them, hectoring and ceaseless . . . it’s the incomprehensible babble, he suspects, of Irishmen and Chinamen building the transcontinental Union Pacific Railroad . . .

  He suspects?

  Rundle opens his eyes.

  Yes, he –

  The voices –

  But where he is? For a moment he’s not sure.

  Then . . . Manhattan. Of course. The Celestial.

  He struggles up and looks at the clock on the bedside table.

  4:18.

  Shit.

  He throws back the covers and climbs out o
f bed. He goes to the door and stands for a moment in the dense nighttime stillness.

  With Daisy gone to college it didn’t take long for the place to start feeling lonely, but now with Eve gone, too – even if only for a couple of weeks – it’s positively desolate.

  He should have called Nora, told her to come over, to drop whatever she was doing, whoever she was with.

  That he was in a platinum-rates frame of mind.

  She would have understood. Nora always understands.

  He walks along the corridor and goes into the living room.

  He didn’t get in until after midnight – stuck there at the Orpheus with Jimmy Vaughan and Don Ribcoff, trying to piece together what had happened, trying to come up with a strategy for dealing with it.

  Frantic about consequences, about fallout.

  Rundle especially frantic about J.J.

  He wanders over to the window and stands there, gazing out – the city below, coruscating busily. It may never sleep, but he wishes to fuck he could, even occasionally – wishes he could get a decent night’s shut-eye, and one without these stupid, scrappy dreams he keeps having. The Union Pacific Railroad? Irishmen and Chinamen?

  For Christ’s sake.

  He turns around and checks the time on one of the room’s displays.

  4:39.

  What’d that be in Paris? A quarter to eleven almost, morning-time in full swing, coffee and croissants.

  Cigarettes.

  Where’d he leave his phone?

  He’s not going to wait any longer.

  Because he should have heard from J.J. by now, even a quick reply to that text he sent last night.

  He finds his cell phone next to his keys on a counter in the kitchen and tries J.J.’s number. It rings. There’s no answer. It goes into message.

  Then he tries a number he has for Herb Felder, J.J.’s director of communications. It rings twice.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Herb. Clark Rundle.’

  ‘Oh. Mr Rundle. Hi.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Er, he’s fine, he’s fine. A little shaken. He’s going to need some surgery on his hand, but all things considered he’s fine. He’s actually sleeping right now.’