Jimmy waits a beat. ‘So. I take it you’re the one Phil Sweeney is trying to protect. Is that right?’
Conway takes a deep breath. He holds it in for a few seconds before releasing it as a slow, shuddering sigh. He stares at Jimmy for another few seconds. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’
‘No.’
Conway sighs again, in the same way. ‘Well then,’ he says, his voice weary, defeated. ‘I suppose the answer to your question is yes.’
Jimmy swallows. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your question. About Phil Sweeney and who he’s trying to protect. The answer to it. It’s yes.’
It quickly becomes clear to Rundle why sending his brother down here was such a miscalculation. Kimbela didn’t take J.J. seriously. He didn’t think he was expected to.
For his part, Rundle had thought he was being clever.
Because who wouldn’t be flattered by the attentions of a US senator, one who comes thousands of miles to pay you a visit, and at your convenience?
Arnold Kimbela, apparently.
It turns out that J.J. is a mere politician, not the sort of person – not round here anyway – who commands much respect. Politicians are a joke. They kiss babies and smile for the cameras. They do what they are told. Clark, on the other hand, is a businessman, and one with an international profile. He is – there’s an expression for it – a mover and a shaker. He gets things done.
It’s on the tip of Rundle’s tongue to say, well, what about Mobutu? But he knows what the answer would most likely be. Mobutu wasn’t a politician. Are you crazy? He was Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku wa za Banga, the king, the all-powerful warrior who goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake.
OK. Fine.
Rundle is tired.
They’ve been sitting in this room now for over an hour, sipping tea from china cups and shooting what could only loosely be called the breeze. The heat is so overpowering that Rundle feels he might be close to hallucinating. They’ve had the tea ceremony with the little zombie girl, who turns out to be family – Kimbela’s niece or daughter, or maybe even his wife, Rundle isn’t quite sure. Possibly all three. They’ve discussed Lost, which Kimbela has watched on box sets. They’ve argued over the new LudeX 3 games console, its place in the market and whether or not it will achieve full spectrum dominance.
And all the time, in the background, soldiers and contractors stand around, smoking, whispering, some obviously bored, others trying to listen in on the conversation.
But at a certain point, Rundle has had enough.
‘So, Colonel,’ he says, ‘we have business to discuss.’
‘We do?’ Kimbela seems puzzled.
Rundle isn’t in the mood for games. ‘Our ongoing relationship, the contract situation. BRX is very anxious to continue at Buenke, and to help in any way we can, but we do realise that there’s competition.’ He glances over his shoulder, sees Ribcoff, then looks back at the colonel. ‘A rival bid. From the Chinese.’
Kimbela still looks puzzled. ‘But I thought…’ He leans forward. ‘I thought I’d discussed this with your brother. I instructed him to inform you of my position. Isn’t that why he came? To deliver a message?’
Rundle suppresses a groan. ‘Yes, but…’ There’s no finessing this. ‘Look, I didn’t get the message, OK? Between one thing and another, what happened here, his injury, he got confused.’
‘Aaaaahh,’ Kimbela says, drawing it out. ‘And look at me, thinking my old friend Clark has come on a social visit. To pay his respects.’
‘Oh, but I have, too, I -’
Kimbela bursts out laughing, and even slaps his thigh. ‘Of course you have, of course you have.’ He wipes a tear from his cheek. ‘But seeing as how you are here, no? Maybe we can clear the matter up, is that it?’ He goes on laughing.
Rundle finds this really annoying, and wonders what Ribcoff is making of it all. ‘Well, I do need to know what you said to J.J.’ He’s whispering. ‘Because, as you can imagine, a lot is riding on it.’
Kimbela nods, all serious again. He shifts his considerable weight in the chair, which looks as if it could snap under him at any second. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘These Chinese? Scary people. They want everything, and they want it now. And not just in Congo, in all of Africa.’ He sighs, and shakes his head.
Naturally, Rundle is aware of this. Even in the three years since BRX bought the mine at Buenke, the Chinese presence in Africa has increased exponentially. And BRX, with substantial oil and mining interests in Angola, Mozambique and Equatorial Guinea, has seen this growth at first hand.
‘They send people over,’ Kimbela continues, ‘who will live in huts and survive on a bowl of rice a day. You people?’ He gives another of his short, loud bursts of laughter. ‘You people have to have hot dogs and sodas and Taco Bell and reality TV shows and every kind of shit. So the result is, you are being left behind.’ He pauses. ‘You have…’ He clicks his fingers. ‘Yes, fallen asleep at the wheel.’
Rundle isn’t sure what Kimbela is getting at here. Could it actually be the big kiss-off? No reason why not. Because the fact is, like it or lump it, China is going through an accelerated industrial revolution at the moment and has unlimited cash to feed its voracious appetite for natural resources – the kind of cash that the US these days can only dream of.
Highest bidder wins.
But what made the Buenke deal a little different, Rundle thinks, and where BRX were ahead of the curve, was that no one really knew what they were after. People assumed it was copper, and while Buenke certainly had some copper, there were better locations elsewhere – farther south, for example – that the Chinese would have been more likely to favour.
Rundle remembers the negotiations the way you might remember a particularly awful root canal procedure. First you had that stupid conference in Ireland, with Gianni Bonacci poking his nose in and Dave Conway pushing for more money. Then, after that whole mess was resolved, you had the meeting in Paris with Kimbela and the elaborate sham of pretending they were signing an actual, legally binding contract.
But it suited both parties at the time, and the arrangement has worked perfectly well ever since. That is, until the goddamn Chinese started poking their noses in, looking to hoover up a few more mining concessions.
Putting ideas in people’s heads.
The problem is, BRX can’t just up sticks and go somewhere else. This is site-specific shit here. ‘You know,’ he says, fixing his gaze at a point on the floor, ‘asleep at the wheel, I’m not sure about that. But maybe… maybe we haven’t been keeping our eye on the ball.’
‘As you like,’ Kimbela says. ‘Though tell me, who is this we? The Americans? The West in general?’ He pauses. ‘Because now, it seems, it’s the turn of the East.’
Rundle looks up. Kimbela is staring at him.
This could be awkward.
Without some sort of local support, BRX would have to leave the region, no question about it. Without the colonel, however, you could perhaps negotiate some deal with a rival militia group. But that would be a very long shot indeed, and not the outcome from all of this that Jimmy Vaughan wants to hear about.
Nor is it a card that Rundle can play right now, sitting in front of Kimbela, looking him straight in the eye.
Hey fatso, how’d ya like a bullet in the brain?
Rundle leans forward. He’s beyond tired at this point. ‘Colonel,’ he says, ‘stop fucking with me, OK? I need to know.’ He holds his hands out in surrender. ‘What was the message?’