Jimmy turns around and faces the room.
So what’s he saying? All of a sudden this is plausible? It’s thinkable? But wouldn’t that have to apply – logically, sooner or later – to most things? Including, he’d have to suppose, various forms of damage limitation? Damage caused, say, by someone who couldn’t keep his mouth shut? And then, in turn, by whoever that someone might have been talking to?
Jimmy is tired and losing perspective. He feels like having that drink now and wonders if it’s not too late to head back out.
He goes and sits on the edge of the bed.
Maybe he could find that bar again, the one he passed earlier.
He reaches over for the laptop, pulls it towards him. Before he logs off, he clicks onto the Irish Times website.
Force of habit.
It’s the first item he sees.
Larry Bolger dead.
One phrase. Three words. No room for ambiguity.
He stares at the headline in shock. Then he clicks onto the main story. It says Bolger died of a heart attack. In the lobby of a London hotel.
Jesus Christ.
But what was he doing in London in the first place? Who was he with? Who was he seeing?
It takes Jimmy a while to understand something here. As he’s staring at the screen, scanning the article, it creeps up on him. He realises he’s taking it for granted that this isn’t what it seems. Based on what? Absolutely nothing. But he’s convinced he’s right.
He’s convinced, too, that it won’t – can’t – end there.
At which point his phone rings. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he reaches over and picks it up.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hi, Jimmy, how’s it going? It’s Finbarr.’
Jimmy stops, looks up, confused. ‘Who?’
‘Finbarr. From across the hall.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Hi. I… I was just reading about Larry Bolger.’
‘Right. I know. Weird, isn’t it? But come here, listen.’
‘Yeah?’
Something about his tone.
Jimmy braces himself.
‘Sorry to lay this on you when you’re away and all, but there was a break-in this evening, in the building. Your place got done over. I’m afraid, it’s pretty bad.’
THREE
TUBE STEADIES HIMSELF with a couple of deep, measured breaths, replaces the revolver in his holster and steps away. Behind him now, the package is screaming, but what can he do? Venus and Scratch from the lead car were right behind him so they’ll be on it.
Kicking the door closed was dumb, and unnecessary, he could have just gone around it, or through the open window – but he had to feel like he was in a scene from a fucking movie, didn’t he? It’s the perennial temptation, the age-old problem – which comes first, the war or the stories? Put a gun in your hand and who are you?
He turns around.
Sweet Lord.
Venus looks at him.
Tube nods at the lead car.
‘Sir,’ he then says to the package, loudly, clearly, and with enough firmness to command the poor bastard’s attention, ‘these men will escort you to the airstrip. There you will receive immediate medical attention.’ He pauses. ‘Do you understand?’
The package nods. He’s pale, terrified, in agony.
Venus and Scratch take him away, quickly, out of the car and around the body. They shield him as best they can from what’s up ahead as well, and bundle him into the other car.
Tube just stands there. In theory, they could be vulnerable to attack here, some kind of retaliation, return fire, but it’s highly unlikely. Gideon controls this whole area, the airstrip, the mine, its immediate environs. Once you get near the compound, OK, things are a little different – the painted kids with bloodshot eyes take over… but they’re all still on the same side.
Except…
He looks around.
Except – you’d think - when something like this happens.
The lead car starts up, veers right, moves along the edge of the road for a bit and then speeds off.
Spokane, the driver of the middle car, opens his door and gets out, radio in hand.
He looks over at Tube. ‘Support on the way, sir.’
Tube nods.
Support. Clean up. Bags. At least one bag, anyway.
He shakes his head.
What a mess.
A few feet away is Deep Six. He’s just standing there, too, looking around.
Guess they’re both a little shell-shocked.
The silence now is the strangest thing.
Fuck.
No one moaning, no one crying, nothing.
Crazy, efficient motherfucker.
If anyone had asked him, Tube would have opted for Deep Six here, not Ashes, on the basis that it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for – and Ashes was anything but quiet, fool couldn’t keep still for a second, slave to his ADHD or whatever he had, though he never seemed that disturbed, just a little weird, stupid actually. And that’s another thing, it usually isn’t the stupid ones who end up doing this kind of thing – for whatever reason it’s the smart ones, like Deep Six… who at any rate seems smart, but maybe he isn’t, maybe he’s as dumb as he lets on. And who knows, go figure, maybe Ray Kroner was smart after all. Doesn’t matter now, though, he’s gone to the bosom of the Lord and he sure as shit ain’t coming back.
Tube looks down at the body.
He didn’t like having to do it, not least because it was his first time at such close range, but it was a split second thing anyway, he acted on reflex, and if he hadn’t, if Ashes had shot the package – it’s just occurring to him now – the fallout would’ve been…
Unimaginable.
There’d be no containing it. Which begs the question – what the hell is Senator John Rundle doing down here anyway? Whatever the strategy is supposed to be, it’s a damn risky one. A Beltway insider like Rundle? Coming to the Congo? For a sit-down with Arnold Kimbela?
He guesses the stakes must be pretty high.
Not that it’s Tube’s job, or his place, to be speculating on such shit, but you can’t help it.
He looks over at Deep Six again.
‘Hell of a thing,’ he says. And that’s when he notices the look on Tom Szymanski’s face. It’s a scowl, brooding, almost baleful. ‘What?’
Szymanski shrugs, seemingly unable to speak.
Tube steps over to him. ‘I didn’t have a choice. That was a US senator, for Christ’s sake.’ He’s whispering this. ‘Ashes was going to shoot him.’
Szymanski looks up. ‘A senator?’
‘Yeah, John Rundle. Big family.’ He raises an arm and sweeps it around. ‘His brother actually owns all of this, the mine, the airstrip. You know, BRX.’ He pauses. ‘They write the cheques. So I’m sorry, but Ashes picked the wrong fucking day to go crazy.’
Szymanski considers this, seems to anyway.
‘Yeah,’ he says eventually, under his breath. ‘The wrong fucking day.’ It’s barely audible.
He walks away.
Tube watches him.