by Alan Glynn
And there must be a reason for it.
He swivels his chair around, looks across the room at his bookshelves.
Mustn’t there?
Or is even posing this question a first and dangerous step into the delusional, self-perpetuating fog that is the mindset of the conspiracy theorist?
He swivels back around.
It doesn’t matter, though. It’s fine. Someone else’s perception of the truth – however outlandish or irrational – is a valid starting point for any investigation.
He sets up a reply to Francesca’s e-mail. He thinks about what to say. He starts typing. But when he is half a sentence in, his buzzer sounds.
Damn.
He gets up and goes over to the intercom, presses the button. ‘Yeah. Who is it?’
‘Hi, Jimmy. It’s Phil Sweeney.’
Jimmy closes his eyes for a second. He turns away from the intercom. He groans.
Why didn’t he just leave it?
*
Rundle gets up at six and puts on some coffee. He takes a shower and then spends at least twenty minutes in the walk-in closet choosing which of his fifty or sixty suits to wear. There is no real reason for him to do this. He doesn’t have any particular thing on today. But he finds it relaxes him, the ritual of it, moving down the line, checking out the different fabrics, feeling the subtle variations in texture . . . vicuna, merino, cashmere, silk.
It’s distracting. It keeps his mind occupied.
Though admitting this fact sort of defeats the purpose.
So he eventually just picks one out at random – a charcoal grey William Fioravanti.
He goes back to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.
The thing is, he doesn’t mind travelling to the Congo – in a way he’s looking forward to it, taking the reins, settling this thing once and for all – but what he does resent is being told to go. It’s the attitude he has a problem with, the tone. Rundle is well used to Vaughan’s quasi-imperial style – he grew up with it, and most of the time he even enjoys it – but last night was simply too much. The contempt Vaughan displayed for Rundle, and right there in front of Don Ribcoff, was . . .
Well, it was unacceptable.
And it wasn’t only the offhand manner, or the business of the ten-minute ‘audience’. No, Vaughan had said earlier he was having some people around, but it soon became clear that these weren’t just any people. Crossing the foyer on his way out, Rundle caught a glimpse through the door of the main reception room, which was ajar, and he’s pretty sure he recognised Dick Cheney standing there talking to the CEO of Chipco and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Nice little get-together. And what, all of them casually over for canapés and a glass of white wine? A quick tour of the walk-in humidor?
Rundle could care less about Vaughan’s social life, but he has taken to seeing himself – at some level – in the role of Vaughan’s protégé. He also knows that Vaughan has come to depend on him for certain things – that the Buenke project, for example, always significant, has assumed an even-greater urgency of late. So why, Rundle wonders, would Vaughan exclude him from such a high-level gathering of luminaries and policy-makers? Why would he have him scuttled in and out of the apartment as though he were no more than an errand boy?
Rundle doesn’t wish to be unkind, but he half suspects that James Vaughan may be succumbing to a mild form of dementia, a strain of clinical paranoia perhaps, and one that is specifically associated with old age. Vaughan settles in his mind that he can no longer fulfil his ambitions unaided, that he is now dependent on this younger man – and he kicks out in rebellion, as though to ward off death, to deny its proximity.
One day he lionises the younger man, the next day he humiliates him.
Rundle considers himself a student of human nature and can understand the dynamic at play here – not that he enjoys being on the receiving end of it. Nail this Congo thing, however, and maybe the game changes. Maybe he’ll have Vaughan exactly where he wants him.
Until then he can put up with the mood swings and the abuse.
Rundle finishes his coffee and gets moving.
Outside, his car is waiting.
On the way to the office, Thirty-fourth Street flitting past, he makes some notes. If this really is to be a game changer, he’ll need to be heading down there with some serious leverage under his arm. J.J. wasn’t authorised to make any offers; he was just supposed to listen. But the time for that has passed.
He pencils in a few calls for the morning.
Then, of course, he’ll have to discuss travel and security arrangements with Don Ribcoff.
*
Phil Sweeney arrives at the open door and gives it a little tap.
Jimmy is at his computer, pretending to be absorbed in something. He waits a couple of seconds before looking up from the screen. ‘Phil, how’s it going?’
‘Not bad, Jimmy, not bad.’
‘Come in, sit down.’
Phil Sweeney has aged quite a bit since Jimmy last saw him. As usual, he’s wearing a very expensive suit, and he’s got the shoes, the watch, the cologne. But he’s also lost weight, and it doesn’t look like the kind you lose because you’re eating better and taking care of yourself. He is tall and imposing, no change there, but definitely more stooped than Jimmy remembers.
‘So,’ Sweeney says, not sitting down. ‘You know why I’m here.’
Jimmy stands up. ‘You want some coffee?’
‘Yeah, that’s why I’m here, Jimmy, I want some coffee.’
Jimmy sighs, sits back down. ‘Tell you the truth, Phil, I don’t know why you’re here. Unless you’ve got something new you want to talk about.’
‘Don’t get smart, Jimmy. This is serious shit and you’re in over your head.’
‘If it’s as serious as you say, Phil, then I think everyone’s in over their head.’
That sounds clever, but Jimmy isn’t really sure what it means.
‘Listen to me,’ Sweeney says, palms forward, switching gears. ‘Let’s back up here for a minute, yeah? Larry Bolger is not a well man. It’s pretty obvious he’s got a drink problem. There’s depression there, too. Adjustment issues. All I was trying to do was help him out.’
Jimmy says nothing, nods along.
‘So when he starts mouthing on about this or that, the past, making bizarre statements, like he did today, I think we can safely assume it’s the bottle talking, yeah? And to be honest with you, I didn’t realise he was that far gone.’
Looking at Sweeney, Jimmy feels a little strange. When he was younger, and the old man was still alive, Jimmy was in awe of Phil Sweeney, afraid of him even. When the old man was dying, and for a while afterwards, Sweeney was a big man in his life, a commanding presence. He exuded confidence and authority. You listened to him. You didn’t cross him.
Now Sweeney is stooped, tired-looking, maybe a little sick himself.
Now someone is about to cross him.
‘Phil,’ Jimmy says quietly, ‘we’ve been over it. On the phone. This isn’t about Larry Bolger. I’m not interested in Larry Bolger. I just want to look into what he said, check it out, see if there’s anything to it.’
Sweeney hesitates, then explodes. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jimmy, do you not get it? How many different ways do I have to say it? Back off. Leave it alone.’ He leans forward. ‘This isn’t for you.’
Jimmy stares at him in disbelief. ‘Don’t you see that telling me that only makes it worse?’
‘I’m warning you, Jimmy. For the last time. Jesus Christ.’ Sweeney is shouting now, pointing his finger. ‘And don’t forget something, you owe me.’
Jimmy stands up. ‘I do, yeah, but not this, Phil, I don’t owe you this. You helped me along, fine, and I’m grateful –’
‘Damn sure I helped you along, Jimmy. But I also played you like a fucking fiddle. Every story I fed you had an agenda, my agenda.’ Sweeney makes a sound here, a laugh, but it’s hard, mirthless. ‘And you were so easy. You were so eager to
get ahead.’
Jimmy swallows. He’ll need a little time to process that one. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘for all the good it did me.’
‘Oh, and what, that’s my fault? Take some responsibility for yourself, would you?’ Sweeney glances around the room. ‘I mean, look at where you live. It’s a shithole. What do you think your old man would make of this?’
Jimmy stiffens. He doesn’t answer.
‘What do you think he’d make of you, now, today?’ Sweeney shakes his head. ‘Dec Gilroy. I’m telling you, there was a man who knew how to play the game, knew when to speak up and when to shut up.’
Jimmy takes a step forward. ‘Shut up about what, though? Something like this? I don’t think so, Phil. In fact, it was playing the game, playing your game, that made him sick in the first place, shutting up about stuff . . . but it was the small stuff, the tawdry stuff, the personal stuff, not anything like this.’ He pauses. ‘And tell me Phil, do you actually know what this is, what we’re talking about here?’
Phil Sweeney stares back at him. He doesn’t answer.
‘A helicopter crash, six people dead, but not an accident? That’s the allegation that came out of Larry Bolger’s mouth. And that’s what you want me to shut up about? That’s what you think Dec Gilroy would shut up about?’
‘Yeah, but come on, it’s ridiculous –’
‘Is it? I don’t know, Phil. I’ve already peeled away a layer or two and I’m not so sure.’ He pauses. ‘And how can you be so sure?’
‘Because –’
‘Who are you representing anyway? Not Larry Bolger surely, not directly. And I doubt that it’s Ted Walker’s family, so –’
‘Shut up.’
Jimmy is taken aback at this, but to his surprise he does shut up.
He turns around and goes back to the desk. He sits down.
There is silence for a while. Phil Sweeney remains standing in the middle of the room, swaying gently, almost imperceptibly, like a tall building.
Jimmy closes his eyes. An image comes to him, of the old man lying in his bed, gaunt, reduced, getting weaker by the day, diminishing, but never diminished . . .
Eventually, in a quiet voice, Phil Sweeney says, ‘What layers, Jimmy? Peeled away what layers? What have you . . .’
Jimmy opens his eyes, looks up, meets his gaze. ‘Just stuff, Phil. Leads.’ He lays a hand on some papers on the desk.
Phil Sweeney stares at him for a moment, then exhales loudly. He turns and heads for the door, slamming it shut as he leaves.
Jimmy moves his hand from the papers on the desk to the keyboard. He straightens up. He clicks a few keys and within seconds is on the Ryanair website checking out prices and times for a flight to Verona.
*
All through the function – the annual Leinster Vintners Society lunch – Larry Bolger feels horribly queasy. He’d forgotten that he promised to attend this and when Mary reminded him of it earlier he immediately started looking for a reason to cancel. But she was having none of it. He attends very few events these days, only the occasional dinner or speaking engagement, and Mary’s feeling is that he needs to get out more – especially after what happened yesterday, and especially if he wants to get back in the game, as he keeps saying.
But Bolger doesn’t understand why kick-starting this get-out-more policy has to coincide with his first hangover in a decade. Or is it his second already? A thick, extended hangover it is anyway, one laced with shame, anxiety, dread, and one that, just possibly, it’s beginning to feel, might never end. He doesn’t have to speak today, which is a gargantuan mercy, but he does have to smile and chat and act like he’s on the brink of staging a military coup in order to get this benighted country back on its feet.
He has to shake a lot of hands, and the comments come thick and fast.
You can’t beat Bolger.
Go on, you good thing.
But he gets through it, even managing to crack the odd joke himself.
The queasiness never lifts, though – and whenever the details of this bloody mess he’s created for himself pop into his head, which is about once every ten minutes, it actually intensifies. Talking to the young journalist was bad enough, but leaving that message for James Vaughan was insane. It remains to be seen what the consequences of any of this will be, but it’s hard to imagine that they won’t be extreme.
On the return journey, alone in the back of the state car – which is provided to him for life by the Irish taxpayer – Bolger reacquaints himself with that purest form of melancholy, the brittle, unforgiving, all-pervading kind that comes with an acute hangover. As he gazes out at the passing city, his city, he sees no route forward anymore, no plausible future for himself, nothing new beyond what he’s got, which is retirement and anonymity, and a curdling sense of his own worth.
Because his last act as a political animal may well prove to be that pathetic phone call to James Vaughan. Silence and exile maybe, but certainly not cunning.
I want a job . . . or else . . .
Vaughan isn’t going to take a threat like that seriously. He isn’t even going to dignify it with a response. But it also means that Bolger has effectively disqualified himself from consideration for any future employment opportunities – proper ones, at any rate. International ones. The only kind he’s interested in.
At the hotel, things are quiet and he manages to get across the lobby and into an elevator without having to engage with any staff members or random, excitable guests. On the way up it occurs to him that his hangover might actually be far enough along now for him to be in danger of . . . a little bit of . . .
Temptation.
A little bit of recidivism.
Very sweet, and very welcome.
Because frankly, what difference would it make?
Walking along the corridor, he feels his body chemistry stirring.
It would make a difference to Mary, he supposes, but maybe Mary is just going to have to get used to it.
Anyway, she’s out at the moment.
He gets to the door of the apartment and as he’s opening it he hears the phone ringing.
Shit.
He gets inside and grabs the cordless unit from the table.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Bolger?’
‘Speaking.’
He doesn’t recognise the voice. Not many people have this number.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bolger, my name is Bernard Lund from Adelphi Solutions in London.’
An accent. Australian, or maybe South African.
‘Who? Adel—’
‘Adelphi Solutions. We are an affiliate of the Jordan Group.’
The name’s vaguely familiar. He glances over at the drinks cabinet. ‘OK, Mr Lund.’
‘I am calling on behalf of a private client –’
Bolger’s eyes widen. ‘Sorry, what . . . private?’
‘Yes.’
There is brief silence.
‘And?’
‘Well, we were wondering if you would you be available to present for an interview on Monday of next week? In London?’
‘An interview?’
‘Yes, Mr Bolger. I am not at liberty to be more specific over the phone, as I’m sure you will appreciate, but our client is looking to promote a suitable candidate for a high-level position in a leading international regulatory agency.’
*
Ruth groans. ‘Not again.’
‘I got it,’ Conway says, and rolls out of the bed.
He was wide awake in any case.
Stomach jumping, head racing.
He wanders down the corridor and into Jack’s room, the small night lamp by the cot illuminating this cyclorama of Pooh and Piglet and Tigger.
Tiny face looking up.
Wide awake, too.
And displaying something like smug satisfaction. No sign of the distress he was clearly faking half a minute earlier.
Conway reaches down and pulls him up, rests his head on his shoulder.
Mo
lly and Danny were always good sleepers. From day one, Jack was a nightmare.
Conway brings him downstairs. He heads towards the kitchen, but stops at the door, hesitates. It’s not a bottle Jack wants, it’s company, body heat, someone else’s pulse and rhythm.
He turns back. They go into the big reception room at the front.
Over to the window.
Conway looks out at the darkness, which is tinged now with the merest hint of blue. The tall trees beyond the lawn are swaying in the wind.
He can hear Jack breathing, a tiny whistle, back to sleep already.
So.
Where was he? Larry Bolger. Don Ribcoff. Susie Monaghan.
Fuck.
Couple out walking their dog.
Fuck.
Black Vine people on Monday, and a big part of what they want to talk about, apparently, is the First Continental deal.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’s all going round in circles.
And he can’t make it stop.
He turns, wanders over to the sofa.
The jumping in his stomach won’t stop either. Which means he’s not going to get any sleep. A drink would smother it, but only for a while. Then he’d have to have another. And another.
It wouldn’t work.
Besides, it’s too late. Too close to morning.
In a way, he’d prefer to have a headache, because with a headache, you can’t think straight. It drowns everything out, blurs everything. With this, it’s different. What you’re thinking is what you’re feeling – in an objective correlative sort of way, each stabbing sensation a specific reminder of some awful fact or memory.
He sits down in the semi-darkness, settles Jack in his arms.
Swallows.
Earlier Ruth asked, in passing, why it was so long since they’d been to Guilbaud’s.
Conway laughed at her.
Doesn’t she get it?
The house here? The stables? This little bastard? His inheritance? Any sense of entitlement he might be expected to feel growing up? Let alone one more dinner at Guilbaud’s for Mum and Dad?
It’s all gone. It’s over.
Effectively.