Rundle nods along, fork suspended over his plate.
‘Anyway, a few years ago Jack Drury at Paloma Electronics was contracted by the Pentagon to get something into development – along with almost everyone else in the industry, let it be said. They’re all at it now, lining up at the drawing board to strut their stuff.’ He pauses. ‘But what Jack’s guys have come up with?’ A smile steals over his face. ‘Knocks it out of the park. This thing they have, it’s a multipurpose combat UGV, lasers, sensors, antitank rockets, thousand rounds of ammunition, it’s amazing. They’re calling it the BellumBot. Gives new meaning to the phrase killer app.’
Rundle, listening carefully, puts his fork down.
‘But that’s not all.’ Vaughan’s smile has become a beam now. ‘Because get this. They’re also designing the damn things to think for themselves.’
Rundle leans forward. ‘Think?’
‘That’s right, Clark. Battlefield management systems that can operate autonomously. They’ve developed a range of algorithms using game theory and probability models that enable data to be collected in the field, processed and then actually shared. We’re talking about the holy grail of robotics here. I mean picture it, swarms of units out there collaborating, making decisions, optimising uncertain combat scenarios. And no egos in the mix, no sentiment, no interference. It’s beautiful.’
‘Holy shit.’
‘Yeah, and Paloma have just received a billion-dollar contract to put the first run into production, five, six hundred of them by Christmas.’ He lets that sink in. ‘And it’s just the start, Clark. In terms of where this is going? We’re only at the Model T stage.’
Rundle is almost speechless. ‘And… you’ve been… helping them? On the supply side?’
‘We’ve been helping them, Clark. BRX has. Gideon, too. Thanaxite is essential to the success of this. It allows capacitors to operate at low power levels but extremely high temperatures, which is apparently an unusual combination and criticial for advanced weapons systems. For connectivity and… speed. I don’t know.’ He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Look, I’m not going to pretend I understand the technical side of this, I’m eighty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. Talk to Jack Drury about it. But one thing I do know, that grey powder gives us a serious competitive edge.’
Rundle sits back in his chair and makes a whistling sound. Then he leans forward again, as something occurs to him. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’
Vaughan sucks his teeth. ‘Different reasons. I appreciate your continuing loyalty. Your discretion, as well. And your willingness to take on the Kimbela situation. The timing is also right, with this production deal going through. And now, maybe’ – he looks Rundle directly in the eye – ‘with J.J. stepping into the ring, I mean, who knows? It might work out. It certainly couldn’t hurt.’
Rundle stares at Vaughan. ‘J.J.?’
‘Yeah, you can’t have too many friends in high places, if you know what I mean, when it comes to… certain matters, policy matters, awarding contracts, that kind of thing.’ He pauses. ‘And by the same token, I’m sure he could use some solid backing.’
‘Sure, but…’
‘What? I know I’ve been critical of him in the past, but he’s made quite an impression recently. I mean, did you see him this morning, on Face the Nation? Man.’
Rundle nods. He saw it all right and J.J. was indeed impressive, with something new about him, a look in his eyes, a touch almost of rapture.
‘He’s a perfectly credible candidate, Clark.’
Almost as though he’d been the one who was bitten.
‘I know. He is.’
But not crazy or anything, not hysterical, just the right side of that.
‘And if you want to tell him I said so, go ahead. Consider it an endorsement. Tell him I might even show up on Wednesday.’
Rundle is taken aback by this, but he nods vigorously and says thanks.
A little later on, in the back of his car, he tries to get everything into perspective. On one level, Jimmy Vaughan’s gall, his ego, is breathtaking. From his Park Avenue apartment, in his old man diapers, he seems to believe he’s personally directing the flow of thanaxite out of Congo and all the way along the supply chain to a privately contracted military robotics programme in Connecticut. He also seems to believe he can personally engineer the process of nominating a presidential candidate for the next election.
And yet…
He’s Jimmy fucking Vaughan.
The man is a legend.
And Oberon does own Paloma Electronics. It doesn’t own him, BRX, but that hardly matters, Rundle has been in thrall to Vaughan since he was a kid and would do anything for the man. As for political influence, that’s hard to quantify, but suffice it to say the chairman of the Oberon Capital Group has been at or near the centre of power in Washington, in one capacity or another, for the best part of fifty years.
And a quick glance at Oberon’s current and past board members reveals a dizzying array of luminaries, including former presidents, secretaries of state, secretaries of the treasury, other cabinet members, five-star generals, prime ministers, Nobel laureates and media barons. Manna to conspiracy theorists, the Group was founded in the early 1970s and since then has woven itself into the very fabric of the economic, social and political life of the country. With hundreds of defence, aerospace, telecom and health care companies in its portfolio, Oberon is supposedly responsible for everything from the price of jellybeans to largely shaping US foreign policy over the last thirty-five years.
The car pulls up at the foot of the Celestial.
All of a sudden, Rundle is excited.
He has always craved a closer working relationship with Vaughan and now this is stepping things up several notches. It may well be his last chance, too. Because Jimmy is old and has a slew of medical conditions, all under control, fine, but any one of which, at any time, could flare up and kill him.
Rundle gets out of the car and strolls across the plaza.
The BellumBot.
Fucking incredible.
Jimmy gets into JFK a little after two o’clock local time on Monday afternoon. He takes a cab into the city, to the West Village, and checks into his hotel, the Stanley. Even though it’s small and a little dingy, the Stanley is pretty expensive, and Jimmy can’t really afford it. In fact, this whole trip, along with the one last week to Italy, is being paid for out of the remaining half of the advance he got to write the Susie Monaghan bio – an advance he’ll be expected to return in full when his editor finds out he’s no longer actually writing the book.
But Jimmy was in a hurry, rooms were available and the West Village is a part of the city he’s familiar with, having once shared an apartment there for a couple of months when he was a student.
He arranged the whole thing online in about ten minutes flat. But that was the easy part.
Now that he’s here he has no clear idea what to do.
Phil Sweeney gave him some numbers to call, so that should probably be his first task, but for some reason he’s reluctant to get started. He’s not sure what it is, a lack of confidence maybe, or a fear of being found out? When he expressed doubts like these on Saturday evening, Phil Sweeney told him to feck off, that all he had to do was say he was a freelance journalist working for the Irish Times or the Guardian.