by Alan Glynn
A moment later the elevator door hums open.
Two men in suits emerge, one tall and thin with grey hair, the other one short, stocky and with a buzz cut. The first weird thing that Bolger notices is that neither of them looks directly at him. The tall, grey-haired one makes eye contact with Lund and seems to be trying to communicate something to him. The stocky one just keeps his head down. He also remains at the elevator, holding the door open with his arm.
That’s the second weird thing that Bolger notices.
But for sheer, unalloyed weirdness it is nothing compared to what happens over the next few seconds.
Bernard Lund glances over his shoulder at the still-empty corridor and turns back. Then, as Bolger is about to say something, to ask him what the hell is going on, Lund makes a sudden forward movement, pushes up against him, arms outstretched as though about to lock him in sort of a bear hug. Pushing against him in the same way, but from behind, is the tall, grey-haired man, who proceeds to restrain Bolger by putting an arm around his neck.
What the –
Bolger struggles, splutters, unable to speak. He is helpless, sandwiched between these two bodies. But then, for a fleeting moment – force and resistance in perfect balance – everything is still. He can hear them breathing. He can smell their cologne. He just can’t move.
Or understand.
Or think.
He feels a sudden extra stab of pressure in his lower back and a second later is released, the two men stepping away, peering around them, breathing heavily.
Bolger looks down at the carpet, shakes his head, says nothing. He doesn’t know what it is, but something makes him realise there’s nothing to say.
There’ll be no talking here.
Or eye contact.
Besides, he’s feeling dizzy now, and doesn’t want to talk.
He looks up, and around.
Lund and the tall, grey-haired man are already halfway along the corridor. The short stocky man with the buzz cut is still at the elevator. He holds out his free hand to Bolger and beckons him over.
Bolger feels dopey all of a sudden, and sluggish, a bit stupid even. He complies, steps over. The man with the buzz cut takes him by the elbow and guides him into the elevator car. The man then reaches in, presses a button and withdraws.
Bolger turns and stands gazing out. The now empty hotel corridor stretches off, it seems, to infinity, and as the elevator door closes, cutting off his view, he starts to feel a tremendous weight bearing in on his chest.
*
It turns out that the most recent stuff on the website Francesca shows Jimmy is at least two years old, and that any references he came across over the weekend on other websites were merely rehashed versions of what’s on this one. With a bit of gentle prodding, he also finds out from Francesca that today is the first time in over a year, possibly longer, that she and Pina have talked to anyone about the circumstances surrounding Gianni’s death – which maybe explains why they’re so eager to talk about it now. After the crash, there was a flurry of activity, people online and in the mainstream media speculating, theorising, asking questions, but a combination of the brick wall in Dublin and a battening down of the corporate hatches generally meant that no answers were ever forthcoming. Then the questions started to peter out. They finally stopped altogether and this long period of silence followed.
The stuff that is on the website relates mainly to a report Gianni wrote about three pharmaceutical companies – only one of which, as far as Jimmy can remember, was represented at the conference in Drumcoolie Castle. And the one that was there – from what he understands after a cursory glance at the report – would have been the least culpable in terms of any criticisms Gianni had made, and therefore the least likely to have wanted or needed to silence him.
When Jimmy points this out, Francesca makes the entirely reasonable point that neither of the other two companies, if they’d been intent on assassinating Gianni, would have necessarily had to have an official presence at the conference.
Indeed.
Except that it’s not a reasonable point at all. It’s more of a tipping point in fact, one between evidence-based supposition and classic paranoid theorising. Because there simply isn’t enough evidence here. Nor is Jimmy convinced of the basic premise anyway, that corporations go around assassinating people who criticise them. ‘And since the report was already out,’ he says, hammering the point home, ‘wouldn’t it have been too late anyway, a case of closing the stable door . . .’ Francesca looks at him, brow furrowed. ‘. . . after the horse has bolted.’
He then starts to explain the phrase, but she quickly nods, yes, yes, yes, and after a moment says what he takes to be its equivalent in Italian.
But now, having traded idioms, they fall into an awkward silence. Because with remarkable ease, he has undermined the basis of their suspicions and also more or less debunked what he himself came here hoping to find out in the first place.
The awkwardness continues as they move over to the table and start dinner.
When Francesca fills her mother in on what she and Jimmy have been saying, Pina shrugs and seems unfazed.
Francesca argues with her, making gestures, rolling her eyes. Pina responds in kind. It gets heated.
Jimmy puts his head down, and concentrates on the plate of pasta in front of him, spaghetti with mussels and clams. If he was looking for a distraction, he has certainly found one, because this is delicious. He wants to compliment Pina on it but the moment doesn’t seem right.
After a while, Francesca turns to him. She sighs dramatically. ‘Look, Pina is not so much concerned about a . . . what is that expression, a smoking gun?’
Jimmy nods.
‘Because she knows Gianni, knew Gianni, and is in no doubt that he was in danger in Ireland. His death only confirmed this.’
‘How does she know –’ Jimmy stops and turns to Pina. ‘How do you know that he was in danger?’
‘Because he told me.’
He looks at her, fork suspended over his plate. ‘Told you how?’
‘On the phone. We spoke. Every day.’
Jimmy waits. ‘And?’
Pina hesitates. She and Francesca exchange a look. Then Francesca turns to Jimmy. ‘The day before the crash Gianni said that he had discovered something. He was excited about it, but also angry. He said that just knowing what he knew put him in a very dangerous position.’
She takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly.
Again, Jimmy waits for more. ‘So? What was it?’
‘We don’t know. He didn’t say. He didn’t want to be specific over the phone.’
Jimmy puts his fork down. ‘There’s no mention of this anywhere, Francesca, at least not that I’ve seen. Not on that website, or in any of the reports.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She shrugs. ‘We did tell the police, here and in Ireland, again and again, but they ignored it, they said it wasn’t relevant. Gianni died in a crash, an accident, along with five others. And what we were saying, what we were implying, according to them, was ridiculous. They didn’t investigate anything.’
There is silence for a while. Then Pina says something to Francesca. She speaks quietly, and takes her time about it. After another silence Francesca turns to Jimmy. ‘My mother says she’s not a conspiracy theorist, she’s not obsessed with this, she’s not crazy. She just believes what her husband told her . . . and from everything she has seen and heard over the years, she also believes that none of this is implausible.’
Jimmy nods along, feeling a sudden weight of responsibility. ‘Of course. Of course.’
‘But I’m different,’ Francesca continues. ‘I am a little crazy, as you can see. I want to know the truth.’
‘That’s not crazy,’ Jimmy says, and pauses. ‘I want to know the truth, as well.’
But do they have anything? Not really. Pina’s conviction, based on . . . what? Love, trust, experience? And the claims of a drunken fool based on he doesn’t know what. Guilt? Ma
ybe, but that’s not enough.
A smoking gun is precisely what they do need.
So far Jimmy has been very circumspect here about anything he might know – he hasn’t mentioned Larry Bolger, for instance, and isn’t going to – but he decides now to throw out at least some of what he’s got.
He turns to Pina. ‘Did Gianni mention any names when he spoke to you? People he was meeting. Clark Rundle, for instance?’
Pina considers this, but shakes her head.
‘Don Ribcoff?’
‘No.’
Francesca cuts in, ‘Who are these people?’
‘Just other delegates, at the conference, people he –’
‘Wait,’ Pina says. ‘Maybe. Say those names again.’
He repeats them.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘On a business card, perhaps. Clark Rundle. It’s a strange name. Funny.’ She turns to Francesca again and talks in Italian. When Francesca is ready she turns back to Jimmy.
‘Gianni’s briefcase, and some clothes. That’s all we have left of my father, from Ireland. In the briefcase he had some documents, and business cards. He always had so many.’ She nods back at Pina. ‘Maybe she saw that name on one of those.’ She pauses. ‘But who is this person?’
Jimmy ignores the question. ‘Do you still have the briefcase?’
‘Of course.’
He leans forward. ‘Can I see it?’
Francesca and Pina look at each other.
The briefcase is quite small, a black leather doctor’s bag. Pina handles it with great care. She carries it across the room and places it on the free end of the table and opens it. From the main compartment she takes out a sheaf of documents. At a glance, Jimmy sees that they are on UN-headed paper and are in Italian. From a smaller front compartment, she takes out a handful of business cards and puts them down in front of him.
He picks them up and starts flicking through them.
‘The police looked at this stuff,’ Francesca says, ‘but it was . . . two minutes. They didn’t care. They didn’t see any point.’
‘What about his cell phone?’ Jimmy asks, flicking through more cards. ‘His laptop?’
‘No. They were . . . the police said they must have been destroyed in the crash.’
Jimmy stops, holds up a card. ‘Clark Rundle.’
He studies it. Chairman and CEO of BRX Mining & Engineering Corporation.
He flips it over.
There is something handwritten on the back of it.
Jimmy tries to make out what it says, but can’t. The handwriting is illegible. Francesca takes the card from him and looks at it. She shakes her head.
‘Can you make it out?’
‘Yes,’ she says, staring at the card. ‘I think it’s a name.’ She pauses. ‘Dave . . . Conway?’
*
As the elevator descends, Larry Bolger presses his hands very hard against his chest to try and relieve the pain.
It doesn’t work.
He’s in shock.
Fuck.
Did . . .?
Where is he again? London. Why London? Oh yeah, that inter . . . international regulatory . . . something . . .
But –
In his stomach now too, there’s an intense . . . sensation. He looks up . . . the numbers . . .
Falling, sinking . . . into . . .
2008.
The top job, at last, seal of office, seal of approval, two fingers to all his critics down through the years, nothing like it.
Falling, sinking.
1999.
First time in cabinet, though not ready for it, not ready at all, no, drowning in a sea of whiskey and self-pity, and what’s-her-name, Avril Byrne.
Falling.
1983.
How many was it . . . over six thousand first-preference votes, elected on the first count, hoisted up in the air, to deafening cheers . . . but he was only three months back from Boston at that point, still in a tailspin over Frank, and still clutching at the straws of what he’d been forced to leave behind, that other life, with all its golden possibilities, unfulfilled now, and unfulfillable . . . dimming, dimmed, his lost trajectory . . .
Falling . . .
1968.
Brother Cornelius, looming in a dank, musty corridor, chalk dust on his soutane and a leather strap hiding in his pocket, waiting to be whipped out, like a dark, brooding, permanent erection . . .
Sinking . . .
1964.
At a match in Croke Park with Frank and the old man, but feeling left out, excluded, unable to join in any of the conversation, and not tall enough either to see a fucking thing, first time he properly remembers that sensation, though not the last . . .
His stomach, plummeting . . .
But then it stops.
And the door slides open. He staggers forward, out into the lobby, hands still pressing at his chest, holy Jesus, the pain . . . and the people, pointing, standing aside and murmuring . . . their plummy voices, I say, look, look . . .
1957.
Dadda, mamma . . . brudder . . .
Falling.
1954.
D.O.B.
*
When Dave Conway pulls into the driveway and sees that Ruth’s car is there he leans forward and rests his head on the steering wheel.
Damn.
He managed to avoid Martin Boyle after the meeting by going down the stairs and slipping out a side exit of the building, but given the choice now – an hour or two with his lawyer or the next ten minutes with his wife – he’d happily head back into the arms of his lawyer.
Ruth knew the meeting with the Black Vine people was important, but she didn’t know it was critical. Now Conway is going to have to explain to her both that it was critical and that he blew it.
And that consequently . . .
He doesn’t know.
He straightens up. He gets out of the car.
Ruth isn’t stupid, she’s just never paid that much attention to her husband’s financial affairs. When they met, he was already running several successful businesses and she never felt the need to interrogate him about it. So she’ll understand.
But the thing is, she won’t forgive him.
Ruth always took it on trust that Conway knew what he was doing. The big deal he negotiated a few years back with BRX confirmed this for her. Not only that, but it also set the bar for her expectations, and set it pretty high. Because as far as Ruth was concerned – is concerned – there’s no debate about the direction this thing is going in. It’s only a matter of time, she believes, recession notwithstanding, before Conway pulls off another spectacular and they move up to the next level.
However, with this Black Vine catastrophe – self-inflicted or not, it doesn’t really matter – they’ve pretty much lost everything.
How does he break that to her?
And how does he break it to her that it might even be a lot worse? That the BRX deal itself is in danger of coming apart, of unspooling, and all the way back to that long, wet, complicated summer of three years ago . . .
As he approaches the front door, rummaging for his key, he wonders how he’s going to be able to face this now, with the kids pulling at him and screaming for attention.
What he’d like to do is turn around and get back in the car, but where would he go? He has to face Ruth sooner or later.
He puts his key in the door.
Where does he even begin? Does he explain to her that while he might be responsible for the financial mess they’re in, his old friend and political patron, Larry Bolger, is now a direct threat to their security, to everything they hold dear? That if the man can’t keep his mouth shut, Conway and others might actually end up going to prison?
When he gets inside the door he hears sounds coming from the playroom to the right. They’re watching something on TV. He doesn’t go in. He walks straight on towards the kitchen at the back.
Ruth is sitting at the counter, alone, gazing up at the small wall-moun
ted TV over the fridge.
‘Hi,’ he says.
She turns to look at him. He is alarmed at the expression on her face. Does she know already? Has Martin Boyle phoned?
‘What’s wrong?’ No response. ‘Ruth?’
She shakes her head slightly. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘What?’ Panic now. ‘No. Heard what?’
She points up at the TV screen. It’s tuned to Sky News. At first he doesn’t understand, it’s just a newscaster, saying something about a Lib Dem by-election candidate . . .
But then he sees it.
The crawl.
Running across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: FORMER IRISH PRIME MINISTER LARRY BOLGER DIES SUDDENLY IN LONDON . . . BREAKING NEWS: FORMER IRISH PRIME MINISTER LARRY BOLGER DIES SUDDENLY . . .
*
The elevator door opens onto the underground car park of the BRX Building and Clark Rundle steps out. His car is waiting, but directly behind it is another car, door open, engine running. Don Ribcoff gets out and walks over.
‘Sorry, Clark, this won’t take a minute.’
Ribcoff had phoned just as Rundle was leaving for an appointment and he wanted to see him in person. Since Ribcoff doesn’t place much trust in electronic forms of communication, most of his business is conducted in this way.
Rundle is slightly agitated. He’s en route to the Wilson Hotel, to see Nora. ‘What is it?’ he says.
‘That potential situation we had overseas, with the politician? I’ve just heard it’s been put to bed.’ Even with all his security measures in place, Ribcoff still occasionally has a habit of delivering updates in language like this, coded, bleached of specifics.
Rundle finds it strange.
He makes a face. ‘That was fast.’
‘Well, the old man was pretty adamant.’ Ribcoff shrugs. ‘It was rushed, that’s for sure, and they nearly botched it, but it’s fine.’
‘What about the . . .’ Rundle is about to say ‘journalist’, but stops himself. Might be a bit specific for Ribcoff’s taste. ‘What about the young guy, the, er . . .’ He’s not good at this. ‘The young guy that the older guy, the politician, talked to?’