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.