Then Francesca stands up as well. ‘Wait here a moment,’ she says. ‘I will get my laptop.’
Sitting across from Dave Conway are three pink-faced little pricks in expensive suits and sober ties. Spread out before them on the glass table are BlackBerrys and bottles of water, though no laptops – that’s because there won’t be any third degree here today, no advanced interrogation techniques. It’s all meant to be informal and getting-to-know-you. Black Vine Partners is a Philadelphia-based private equity fund and these boys – which is what they are – have flown in to ‘scope out’ Conway Holdings.
It’s just that Dave Conway is in no mood this afternoon to be scoped out.
Hollowed out is more how he feels.
That whiskey he drank last night after Phil Sweeney left – the three original shots followed by another four or five – certainly took their toll. When he got up this morning he felt like shit and the feeling hasn’t really lifted.
All day, too, he’s been trying to calculate the cost of pissing Phil Sweeney off. Traditionally, Sweeney has been the great buffer zone between bad things happening, and how, when or even if those bad things show up in the news cycle – so he’s not someone you want to have outside of your tent, unzipping his fly.
But then again, in his hungover state, Conway can no longer even be sure there is a tent.
Across the table, Black Vine’s Director of Investor Relations, the pink-faced little prick in the middle, is delivering a tedious monologue on the European debt crisis.
Conway is only half listening. His sense of things falling apart is too acute now for any of this to matter. Even if he manages to get the investment money from these guys, which is doubtful, it won’t stem the tide. Susie Monaghan is out there, Larry Bolger is out there, this Jimmy Gilroy is out there… not to mention all the lies and misinformation, all the suspicion and paranoia.
He closes his eyes.
Everyone running for cover. It’s been building for days. And what was his solution? In the circumstances? It was only a two-minute phone call, but the more he replays it in his head, the less it makes sense to him.
‘Mr Conway?’
Because what did he imagine it was going to achieve? In fact, what on earth was he thinking?
‘Mr Conway?’
And what on earth – for that matter – was he thinking three years ago when he last spoke to Don Ribcoff?
‘Mr Conway?’
‘Yeah.’ He opens his eyes. ‘What?’
The Director of Investor Relations is smiling at him, but it’s a smile of bewilderment. ‘We were wondering,’ he says, reaching for his bottle of water, ‘if you could tell us something about the sale of First Continental Resources to BRX?’
Conway looks at him, and then at the others. These guys are at it now, too? Martin Boyle had warned him that they’d want to talk about this, but suddenly their interest seems a little pointed. What do they want to know? And why?
He shrugs. ‘It was… a straightforward deal. Nothing special.’
‘Oh come now, Mr Conway, a hundred million dollars for a disused copper mine?’ He half turns, for support, to the guy on his left. ‘There must be an interesting story behind that.’
Oh come now? This irritates the shit out of Conway and he can feel any sense of perspective he’s supposed to have slipping away. He’s just glad that Martin Boyle isn’t in the room. ‘Well, if there is,’ he says, ‘you’re not going to hear it.’
‘Excuse me?’
Where would he begin in any case? It’s not something that easily lends itself to being told as an anecdote – which was true from the start, even long before that interfering little bastard Gianni Bonacci entered the equation.
‘It’s not something I wish to discuss.’
‘It’s not -’ The Director of Investor Relations leans forward, barely able to conceal his disbelief. ‘Can you explain that? I don’t understand.’
Conway leans forward to meet him. ‘There’s nothing to understand. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Oh.’
The three little pricks turn to each other, muttering and pulling confused faces.
‘But Mr Conway,’ the one on the right then says, ‘this is your party piece. Nothing else you’ve got distinguishes you in any way. If we don’t hear this’ – he clicks his tongue – ‘we’re not hearing anything.’
Conway nods his head in silence for a while. ‘Right,’ he says eventually, ‘I guess this meeting is over then.’
As Bolger opens the door of the hotel room and steps out into the corridor, he feels a certain measure of relief. This is uncharted territory here and it’d be very easy to make a mistake, to rush into something he’d later regret. On reflection, what he should have done was play a longer game, more hardball, make it so that he was calling the shots. He should have asked for details, the terms and conditions, got them to sweat for a bit.
Another couple of days at least.
In any case, this messing around, the waiting – it has helped him to make up his mind.
And it’s fine.
Though as he walks along the corridor, his irritation increases.
Shortly.
What was he, waiting at the dentist’s? After all, he’s a former prime minister, a retired national leader. Isn’t that deserving of a little respect? Not that he means this in an arrogant way, or that he’s brimming over with self-belief or anything. In fact, he has as much of a store of self-loathing and Catholic guilt as the next man – the next Irishman, at any rate – but these Adelphi people wouldn’t know that. They wouldn’t be aware of his personal failings, or of the torment he’s been suffering recently.
So there’s no reason he can’t just look them in the eye and tell them where to get off.
He arrives at the elevator and is about to press the button when he hears someone calling his name.
He turns around.
It’s Bernard Lund, walking towards him.
‘Wait, please.’
Where did he come from?
‘What is it?’ Bolger says, and looks at his watch. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Please, Mr Bolger. You must accept my apologies.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve been sitting in that bloody room for half an hour.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry, but -’ He turns away, holding one hand up and pressing the other to his ear, the one with the wireless device in it. ‘I’m just… yes.’ He turns back. ‘Our representative is arriving now.’
Bolger sighs. ‘This is unacceptable, you know.’
‘Yes, and I apologise, but there has been some delay with traffic. An accident, I believe.’ He nods his head at the elevator. ‘They’re coming now.’
Bolger turns and sees the pulsating green light.
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.