by John Kelly
On the European networks questions will fly about who exactly was behind it. Is there a history of any organized group in Ireland likely to assassinate an American president? What of the reports that the assassin, a former cleric, was actually dressed as a priest when he fired the shot? Has the Vatican commented yet? Is it some kind of extremist Catholic thing? And then theories, one as wild as the other, will be offered and rejected as American accents of booming authority attempt to clear the way towards a global consensus. Claude Butler was crazy, Claude Butler was writing insane letters to the White House and Claude Butler killed the President of the United States because Claude Butler was nuts. No further questions.
And eventually Schroeder will recall the letter. The letter. I will be there at the end of the month. For a FUNCTION. I arrive on the 27th. And he will realise that this letter is something which can connect him directly to what happened and a total panic will set in as, naked and wrecked, he will search his own house for that handwritten invitation to meet the assassin just days before the hit, but he will not find it anywhere. And then he will slump again as Claude’s face appears once more on the screen and there’s news that a search of his flat in Liverpool has uncovered Bibles and guns and small explosives and it will get worse by the minute and Schroeder will need to talk to someone. He will need somebody to make sense of it, someone to somehow straighten everything out, get him re-tuned and re-balanced, fixed and reassured. He will need a sober-headed saviour to make everything alright again. A redeemer. And a large brandy. And yet another special slumber-cocktail of pills, like the one he discovered by chance on St. Patrick’s Day last. A green one, a white one and an orange one.
But the only person who can really look after him simply cannot intervene. This protocol is sacrosanct but I will be ready even so. There when he awakes and there, after a fashion, when he finds dozens more messages on the answering machine and something similar in his email. I will urge him on as he deletes them all with an angry cluster-chord of keys, and I will sigh along with him when the instant he clears them another bunch slots in to take their place. And I will console him as he glances through the last batch quickly and, one by one, makes them disappear. Delete. Delete. Delete. Until, that is, he gets to the very last one and I am powerless again. This message he will never delete. It’s from the desk of Paula Viola. She will call him again once the funeral is over. She is up to her neck right now but meanwhile he is not to talk to anyone else. She wants an exclusive. And she will make it worth his while.
SIXTEEN
WITH THE SQUARE-JAWED ANCHOR now planted in a baking Washington park, Paula Viola is behind the desk in the studios of NB1. It’s her very first time as anchor and she’s taking full advantage in a blue silk top which has already popped its buttons. Schroeder, tipping away at the vodka, gazes at her like a dog, his head at an angle, his breathing slow and deliberate. At this stage the coverage has mostly been reruns of interviews with Cascade and Gibbon, intercut with the odd vox-pop from desolate Americans amazed to be on Pennsylvania Avenue, temporarily open for the first time since the last big funeral. Paula has been doing really well. Unflustered. Unhurried. The tone just right. Not much mention is made of Claude Butler today, out of respect for people’s sensitivities no doubt, although they’ll all return to him soon enough. Father Assassin. The Killer Padre. The Bloody Priest. But yes, she’s doing really well.
– And now I hand you back to Washington …
I’m getting tired of the same shots. The Capitol Rotunda. King’s casket lying on a catafalque of pine boards. And I find myself repeating the word to myself. Catafalque. Catafalque. So too is Schroeder, for whom the images of the day are already becoming disordered. Such a great word, catafalque. The pine boards. The black cloth. The bier made up so hurriedly for Abraham Lincoln in 1865. Of course I’ve seen all this before but Schroeder will learn several new words today, as well as something of the disrupted geography and ancient ways of Washington. A caisson drawn by six black horses with three riders, while a section chief from the Old Guard Caisson Platoon rides another. The casket transferred at Pennsylvania Avenue and then a caparisoned horse – riderless with boots reversed in the stirrups – from the days of Genghis Khan. Or even before that. Buddha. Afghanistan perhaps. Not a patch on the funeral of Lord Clare when the good people of Dublin lined the streets and flung dead cats at the hearse.
The Irish contingent in Washington led by An t-Uachtarán O’Connor, who seems to have lost about three stone in the space of a week. More than likely he hasn’t eaten since that lamb dish at Dublin Castle and he probably didn’t manage very much that night either. Beside him, Domhnach of the Cloven Head and Gibbon of the Clenching Sphincter look like they have been kidnapped. They have the demeanour of two men who are getting the blame for the whole thing. Nobody nods in their direction, nobody shakes their hands and most just look at them crooked, like they’re planning to swat them once the funeral is over. The First Lady seems particularly flammable and Princess, bored by the looks of it, is chewing a miniscule piece of gum and looking good in a black cloche hat. Sophisticated. She looks as if she’s running late for class and doesn’t especially care.
Schroeder watches closely as all manner of crooks and villains come strolling in. An American commentator with a voice like an ad for Budweiser is naming their names out loud. Presidents, prime ministers, kings, queens, sheikhs, dukes, princes, judges, generals, ambassadors, movie stars, dictators and admirals. And then a tsunami of dignitaries in suits of jet black, their creases sharp, their ties perfect, the order of it all interrupted by bright regalia from Africa, Arabia, Libya, Jordan and by those deluded European characters typically overdressed on occasions like these – people with medals and sashes, swords and epaulettes – like that Groucho Marx clown from the Commission. Just one big suicide belt, thinks Schroeder, and it would finish the whole thing off. Strapped around some startled archbishop perhaps and the whole caboodle could all be finished in a flash. Novis ordo seclorum.
Swallowing a handful of pills, he sets the bottle on the floor at his feet and before long he’s not really sure what he’s looking at. What is live and what is recorded, what is happening now, what has already happened and what might well be happening tomorrow. And to think that little Claude is the cause of it all. The boy most likely to be beaten up has somehow managed to stop the entire planet. And still the mourners wander in.
The phone buzzes. Schroeder downs his drink and checks the number. Chantal.
– Ms Lynch. Thought perhaps you’d vanished.
– You been drinking?
– How dare you.
– The press still outside?
– Not as many.
– Have you spoken to anyone?
– I have nothing to say and I’m not saying it.
– Are you drunk?
– That’s entirely possible.
Schroeder hears Chantal sigh long and hard into his ear. Very intimate. An unexpected erotic bonus.
– We need to talk.
– OK. So what are you wearing?
– Listen carefully, Schroeder. Meet me in half an hour. Seapoint. The DART car-park.
– So it’s dagger now as well as cloak?
– I know why I’ve been following you.
– Is it good?
– Half an hour.
In the corner of the room, Washington hands back to Paula, who looks like she’s planning on unzipping the cameraman. Then she hands back to Washington again and a striking close-up of Princess King, and Schroeder sinks a couple of coffees. He washes his face, exits at speed and the scattered journos jump on him immediately.
– Just going to get milk. Be back in five minutes. I’ll make a statement then. Five minutes.
They seem satisfied and start calling their editors.
No trains are running, Seapoint is deserted and crows wander at their ease. Schroeder stands in the shade waiting for Chantal’s bicycle to sweep down the slope, but half an hour passes and still no bic
ycle. He’s just about to phone when a gleaming blue car turns in from the road and circles once, and then again. It’s some kind of Lexus, sleek and sinister, and as it begins its third circuit of the car-park, Schroeder pulls the Glock from his pocket and steps back against a tree. When the car finally comes to a stop beside him, the window steadily descending, Schroeder finds himself pointing the gun directly at the profile of a woman he has never seen before. A blonde in shades. She’s a total mystery to him. Until, that is, he catches the sly burlesque smile.
– Get in, Anton.
Schroeder leans over and stares in wonder. Chantal looks good as a blonde in a trouser suit. Nothing of the Bohemian in her now and not a hint of the chanteuse behind those impenetrable shades. Not a sniff of the girl on the bicycle. And her legs look so long in the trousers, it’s as if she now possesses a different body as well as a different passport.
– What are you doing? What’s with the hair? With the wheels?
– Get in.
But Schroeder keeps staring and it’s not until she tells him to put the gun away before he hurts himself that he even begins to understand. It’s her voice. Her accent. No Galway in it now. Not a trace of it. She sounds like an American.
– Why are you talking like an American?
– Because I am a goddamn American. Get in the fucking car.
Schroeder pockets the Glock, gets in and waits to be spoken to as she takes the old coast road towards Sandycove. Out in the harbour Schroeder can see the Barry and a marina full of yachts all barred from sailing while it’s there. He aims an accusing finger but Chantal doesn’t react. With most people watching the funeral, the roads are quiet and the car glides southwards unmolested. The world seems somehow suspended. King will be in the ground soon and the new man – Flame – is no doubt already swinging around some new global bag of cats by which he might, in turn, be remembered when his end comes but such matters don’t concern Schroeder for now. He’s just trying to work out who exactly is driving the car. Finally, as they near Dalkey and still look dead ahead, she speaks.
– So Schroeder. We need to discuss a few things.
– I think we probably do.
– I know this must seem a little strange.
– So you’re American?
– You betcha.
– You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.
– Schroeder, why exactly do you carry that gun?
– It’s for decoration.
– Neat.
– Neat? Jesus. You really are American.
Schroeder’s head starts to hurt and he rubs his temples hard.
– There’s water in the glove compartment.
There’s also a gun in the glove compartment and Schroeder recoils.
– Standard issue, Schroeder. And I’m not planning on using it.
– So who are you? UIA?
– My name is Taylor Copland and I’m not UIA.
– Taylor?
– Taylor Mary-Kate Copland, as in Fanfare for the Common Man.
– And this is your real accent?
– Sure is.
The car turns left at Sorrento Terrace and begins to climb the Vico Road, named, as I could tell her, whoever she is, for Giambattista Vico – he of the cyclic theory. The sky seems huge over the glittering sea and kites circle high above the mansions and piles. Naval vessels bead the horizon and a sudden chopper angles low along the cliffs.
– You like the beach, Schroeder?
On the crunching radioactive pebbles of Killiney Beach, Schroeder and Taylor Copland look just like any other couple, walking thoughtfully, passing the time of day in each others’ company – the woman classy and sophisticated, the man scruffy and awkward in the open air. She’s doing most of the talking and he’s stopping occasionally and waving his hands around. To passing joggers and dog-walkers they might be talking about the movies or home decor, or discussing some minor romantic dispute which the gentle waves will surely resolve.
– Your name just kept cropping up, she says. Schroeder. Schroeder. Schroeder. But nothing ever made any sense because we could see that you were no threat to anything. And yet somehow it seemed that for some reason you were being watched.
– I was being watched! I had a tout living next door! Not to mention J. Edgar fucking Hoover out pissing in his garden.
– Forget about him.
– And what about Walton?
– A low-level informer is all. Internet surveillance mostly. He was just another rat searching for dirt on anybody he knew. For blackmail purposes probably. And for him it was just something he could do all day long. Speculative but easy work. The net’s just one giant honeytrap after all. Which of course is why they haven’t shut it down.
– And Roark? What about him?
– Someone like him would have no idea what the big picture was.
– And the big picture is what exactly?
– Well I’ll admit, we had no idea until the wild card showed up.
– Claude.
– Yep. It seems that your friend was the actual mark. That’s who they were really watching. And so you were a sort of subsection of the operation. These people are always thorough. They cover all bases. And that meant that you were somehow in the picture.
– And who exactly are these people?
– I’m only authorized to tell you a certain amount.
– Yadda yadda yadda …
– Someone else will fill you in on the rest. But I can tell you this. Claude Butler did not kill President King.
– Of course he fucking did! People saw him do it!
– He didn’t kill him and they know it. Why do you think you weren’t even questioned in the Park? There was no need. They already know all there is to know.
– But he was writing mad letters to the White House. He was a basket case. His flat was full of guns and explosives. And Bibles.
– Officially yes, the assassin is Claude. But trust me, he didn’t do it. And anyway it can’t be done. Not like that. Think about it. Numquam perit solus Caesar.
Schroeder grips the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Taylor Copland does exactly the same thing.
– Look Schroeder, the official line is that the President was assassinated by Claude Butler and that he acted alone. At first this was all pretty straightforward, but then a certain mailman showed up and reported seeing a letter in which Butler asked to meet you just a few days before it happened.
– The skinhead.
– That was problematic. One of those loose ends that make these people very jumpy. That letter should never have reached you. But of course these are always the things that get missed. Something as simple as a letter. It was unfortunate because you were never part of the plan.
– What fucking plan? Are you saying that I’m part of some plan now? A conspiracy, is that it? Is that what this is all about? That the letter makes me part of it?
Taylor Copland looks out towards the Sugar Loaf. She takes her time, as if rehearsing every word in advance.
– They never saw that letter because it was destroyed before they could find it.
– But that letter was at my place. Nobody had any access to it. Who could possibly have destroyed it?
Taylor glances skywards and Schroeder hears her reply just a split second before she actually says it.
– Francesca.
Schroeder stops dead. Taylor Copland doesn’t blink.
– She took it before she left and she burned it.
– Why would she do that?
– Because she knew it would implicate you.
– In what for fucksake?
– The assassination.
– But how? It hadn’t happened yet!
Taylor Copland plays with her watch.
– Schroeder. Listen to me carefully. Francesca is not exactly in public relations. Yes, she works for your government but it’s not in PR. And that’s the reason she left you. I know she dressed it up, fed you a story and gave you reasons
and made excuses about meeting someone – but there was nobody. It wasn’t like that at all. It was more a case of a sudden and unexpected conflict of interest and, well, she chose her career. Destroying that letter was probably some kind of parting gift.
– What career?
– Schroeder, she’s intelligence.
– Not a chance. If Francesca was involved in anything like that I would have known about it.
– Actually, Schroeder, you wouldn’t have known about it. And you didn’t.
– This is bullshit.
– She was recruited a year ago. By your own government at first. But the thing is, I think she might be working for more than one government. Or perhaps no government at all.
Schroeder waves a warning finger.
– No. Not a chance. No fucking way!
– I know this is hard to believe.
– UIA?
Taylor Copland nods.
– You sure we’re talking about the same person?
She nods again.
– Chantal or Taylor or Margaret or whoever-the-fuck you are … you’re out of your fucking mind!
– She’s in Beijing as we speak.
– No, she’s not in fucking Beijing. I happen to know that she’s not.
– She’s in Beijing, Schroeder. Nobody learns Mandarin for nothing.
Schroeder recalls Francesca sitting on a bollard outside that Blackrock restaurant. T-shirt and jeans. And how whenever they kissed in front of the bathroom mirror, he would watch her as if they were in a movie of their very own, because he had always preferred to believe that she existed only to a certain extent and that she was, in fact, as virtual as any Jakki Jack. It was one of his favourite theories after all – that she might be no more than a crucial, erotic and beautiful vision. That she was the fabulous Francesca Maldini – curious, fascinating, attentive, sensitive and understanding. And yet, throughout all the time they were together, it had always been her realness that he had skirted around. While some men unpacked their virtual lovers from boxes or fondled lap dancers on worn velvet seats, Schroeder had to himself a real, live, actual woman and yet he had preserved the conceit that she was otherwise. Could it have been possible that all this time she was flying back and forwards to China doing God knows what?