Rundle nods. The nightmare scenario here would be disclosure, some kind of inquiry, prosecution even. It would be in no one’s interests – not BRX’s, not Gideon’s. And if J.J.’s presence at the scene were to become public knowledge the consequences would be unimaginable.
But Don appears to be on top of things.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘What about Kimbela?’
‘That’s not so straightforward. He’s a hard man to pin down. He won’t use a phone, as you know. He plays video games online, but he won’t do e-mail.’ Ribcoff makes a face. ‘Plus, he’s always on the move. Our man on the ground over there is doing his best to make direct contact, but it could be a day or two, and you know how cagey he is, even at the best of times.’
‘Yeah.’
Rundle gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. Sending J.J. down there on a lightning trip from Paris to suss out the colonel’s position vis-à-vis the Chinese seemed like a good idea at the time – sprinkle a little political stardust into the mix, play to the man’s vanity – but it doesn’t feel like such a smart move now.
Inevitably, Rundle will to have to go and see Vaughan later on, to give him an update, but his plan is to have cornered J.J. by then and extracted an account of the meeting.
He and Kimbela sat down together for over an hour.
He has to remember something.
Rundle shifts in his chair. ‘Don,’ he says, ‘what time does the flight get in from Paris?’
Ribcoff looks up from his papers and then checks his watch.
‘Around midday. Twelve fifteen, I think.’
‘Don’t let him out of your sight. I want a piece of him before he starts talking to CNN and Fox.’
Ribcoff nods. He shuffles his papers together and stands up. ‘I’ll keep you posted, Clark.’
Rundle watches as Ribcoff crosses the office and leaves. Then he swivels his chair around and sits for a while staring out of the window.
It’s late in the afternoon before Jimmy starts to slow down. He remembers at one point that he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast and goes over to the kitchen to make a sandwich. As he is drizzling olive oil over mozzarella, he runs a reconstruction of the morning’s events through his head.
This is maybe the hundredth time he has done this.
There are variations, but each time it’s essentially the same.
He arrived at the hotel as arranged and met Larry Bolger. They started talking. It quickly became apparent that Bolger was drunk. Bolger then dropped this incredible bombshell.
And after that, it was pretty much downhill.
Jimmy tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but it didn’t really work. Bolger knew he’d said something he shouldn’t have, and though he seemed to be a little confused about what that was exactly, it didn’t take him long to turn the tables and start accusing Jimmy of having tricked him.
Jimmy said he hadn’t tricked anyone, that they were just talking.
Bolger grunted and sidled over towards the corner of the room.
Jimmy did his best to get the conversation back on track, thinking that maybe in a while he could broach the subject again, but within minutes Bolger was pointing at the door and shouting at him, ‘Get out, you bowsie.’
Jimmy left without protest.
On the way down in the elevator he was too stunned to think of writing anything in his notebook. But then outside, walking along Merrion Road, his heart pounding, something would come to him that he didn’t want to forget – a name or a phrase Bolger had used – and he’d stop to jot it down.
When he got back to the apartment he took his notebook out and got straight to work. Names: Clark Rundle, Don Ribcoff. Who were these people? Phrases: collateral damage; a nice piece of misdirection; not the only one. Could these really mean what he thought they meant?
He’s been hard at it ever since, rearranging all the material on his desk, but factoring Susie out this time, trying to reconfigure the narrative, to find a new pattern, an alternative meaning.
Because…
He takes his sandwich and a bottle of water back across the room.
Because Bolger implied – fuck it, he more or less said – that the helicopter crash three years ago hadn’t been an accident. Bolger was drunk, at least as far as Jimmy could tell, and the conversation was off the record, fine, so he can’t prove Bolger said it.
But -
The thing is, if it somehow turns out to be true, then it won’t matter that Bolger said it. It won’t matter who said it. Who said it won’t be the story.
If it’s true.
But how does he prove that?
Jimmy eats the sandwich, barely aware of its taste or texture. He chews, swallows, takes occasional sips of water, at the same time casting his eye over various open notebooks, printouts, the computer screen.
His phone.
From which, to his surprise, there hasn’t been a peep all afternoon. There will be, though. He knows that. Because it’s inconceivable that Phil Sweeney hasn’t already been alerted and fully briefed. Inconceivable that there won’t be significant fallout from this.
He finishes the sandwich, brings the plate back over to the kitchen and puts on some coffee. As he’s waiting for the water to heat up, he stares at the wall.
And if it is true, of course, he’ll have to alert and fully brief Maria.
Which he’d be more than happy to do.
But then he thinks… this is insane, he’s insane. Larry Bolger was drunk and barely coherent. Why would anyone think for a second that a claim like the one he made even might be true? In vino veritas, sure, but also a lot of the time in vino bullshit. In vino paranoia and delusion. Because if the claim is true, if the crash wasn’t an accident, then what was it? Some sort of a conspiracy? Involving who? These names that were mentioned? And why? Something to do with one of the other passengers?
Suddenly, it all seems a bit far-fetched.
As he makes the coffee, Jimmy considers the possibility that what has happened here is pretty simple: he has just blown a good job prospect.
Maybe Larry Bolger likes to tie one on in the mornings and tell stories. So fucking what? Winston Churchill used to have champagne for breakfast. And anyway, wouldn’t that have made the job – and the book – infinitely more interesting?
Or maybe it’s just that Bolger was testing him, seeing how he’d react.
Like an idiot, as it turns out.
He brings his coffee back over to the desk.
On the screen he has pulled up an article from the most recent online edition of Vanity Fair. It’s about one of the people Bolger mentioned, Clark Rundle, CEO of something-or-other, and his brother, a US senator.
Jimmy starts reading, but gives up after a few paragraphs.
Some bloke out of Vanity Fair?
Fuck off.
He’s tired now, and cranky, this sense creeping up on him that he’s been mugged somehow – by circumstance, by coincidence, by his own stupidity.
He takes a sip of coffee.
His phone rings.
He shakes his head, and picks it up.
By the time he gets to the hotel, Dave Conway is exhausted. He has spent most of the afternoon with Martin Boyle discussing how best to make his pitch to the Black Vine people on Monday and although his concentration mightn’t have been great to start with, the call from Larry Bolger threw him off completely. Dave’s not even sure he fully understood what Bolger was on about – something to do with the young journalist. But the easiest way to get him off the phone was to promise he’d call around and see him later on. Conway then tried Phil Sweeney, but Phil was in a meeting, so he had to leave a message – a message that he found was becoming, in the course of leaving it, increasingly urgent.