‘Quite a serious claim you’re making there,’ he says eventually.
Szymanski nods. ‘For sure. And that’s not all there is.’
No, of course not.
Jimmy is beginning to wonder now if this isn’t another of those conversations he’s been having recently that subsequently evaporates – unrecorded, uncorroborated, unconfirmed.
‘So,’ he says, a little wearily, ‘tell me more.’
‘I will. But first I want to know something from you. Tell me about this helicopter crash you were talking about and what it has to do with the mine at Buenke.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jimmy says, and launches into it. It’s like a party piece now, each time modified to suit whoever he’s talking to. In this version he holds back on certain specifics, Gianni Bonacci’s name, any mention of thanaxite, some other stuff.
As he’s talking someone enters the coffee shop, a business-looking guy in a suit, with a newspaper under his arm. He nods at the waitress and takes a seat in a booth by the side window, two down from the one where Jimmy and Szymanski are sitting.
Jimmy can see him over Szymanski’s shoulder.
The guy orders coffee and starts reading his paper.
Jimmy and Szymanski exchange looks, each thinking the same thing, but then Jimmy continues, huddling in a bit, lowering his voice, speeding it up.
He wants to hear what Tom Szymanski has to say.
He wants to get that far, at least.
‘… so this TV actress, the fact that she was there too basically sucked all the oxygen out of the story and meant that the real target, the UN inspector, hardly got a mention. Whether this was intentional or not, I don’t know, but from their point of view, it couldn’t have worked out better.’
Rundle is staring in disbelief at Ribcoff’s screen. The image is grainy and a little shaky, but it’s fine – the back of one guy’s head, and a partial view of the other guy’s face. The sound is what counts, though, and that’s very good. According to Ribcoff, it travels from inside the coffee shop to Gideon’s fusion centre in New Jersey – where it gets a quick ‘bath’, for interference – and then shoots back here to his laptop, and with only something like a five-second delay.
Otherwise, he says, it might be too hard to make out.
But it’s like Ribcoff is showing off, excited about how cool his equipment is – when all Rundle can think about is what they’re hearing.
‘… and you’re telling me this shit was to cover up their involvement in the mine?’
‘Apparently.’
There is a pause, then a whistling sound followed by, ‘Fuck me.’
‘And remember, according to my source, this comes direct from the top. Sitting at that table was Clark Rundle himself. As well as Don Ribcoff, and some other guy, I can’t remember his name.’
‘Yeah, but man, those two motherfuckers? Jesus Christ.’
Rundle and Ribcoff exchange a quick look, each registering the horror on the other’s face.
Then Rundle’s phone rings. He fumbles for it.
Shit.
It’s Vaughan.
‘What’s going on, Clark? I expected to hear from you by now. Tell me this situation has been contained.’
Rundle closes his eyes. Vaughan was there, too, outside the hotel, in the third limo, but Rundle wasn’t sure if what happened registered with him.
He should have known that nothing escapes James Vaughan.
‘We’re working on it,’ Rundle says, realising how lame that sounds.
‘Oh, I hope so, son, because you know what? Your brother scored big time this morning. A lot of people are talking already. I mean, in respect of fundraising? There’s an avalanche of money there, just waiting to be released. So don’t fuck it up.’ He pauses. ‘But Clark?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If you do?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re on your own.’
Click.
Rundle opens his eyes.
Putting his phone away, he sees that his hand is shaking.
He turns to Ribcoff. ‘Don…’
‘OK, OK.’ Hand on ear, clacking keys, another window opening up on his screen. ‘This is the plan. We’ve got… we’ve got to separate them, or wait till they come out and go in different directions, then we can act -’
‘Act?’
‘Yeah, we can grab Szymanski, that won’t be a problem, and we can dispose of him pretty easily. He’s more or less off the grid anyway, as far as we can tell. No contact’s been made with anyone in Cleveland since he got back, that’s where he’s from, and he doesn’t seem to have any pressing commitments. So we can chalk him up to Congo, put him on our casualty list, MIA, whatever. Gilroy’s a little harder, though, with this link to Ellen Dorsey. But if the circumstances are right we could arrange something, an accident maybe. Afterwards we bleach him, phones, laptop, then Dorsey’s got nothing.’
Rundle nods along. ‘Right, right.’ It all sounds so easy.
‘But first thing,’ Ribcoff says, hitting a key and pointing at the screen, ‘we’ve got to get them out of there, we’ve got to separate them, and we’ve got to do it fast.’
Rundle has a stabbing pain in his stomach.
Indigestion? Anxiety? Cancer?
He looks at the screen again. Tom Szymanski is hunched forward. ‘So, Irish,’ he’s saying, ‘let me tell you about our next president, yeah, and how he really fucked up that hand of his.’
‘… unpaid leave, effective immediately, which in a PMC like Gideon is code for, you know, go fuck yourself and don’t come back.’
Jimmy’s mind is reeling.
All along he’s been focused on the story of the helicopter crash – which is huge in itself, if only he could crack it – but suddenly he’s got this on his plate? It’s essentially the same story, of course, except that it’s an upgrade, and one with a much wider application. Instead of a UN inspector and a faked accident, it’s got a village massacre and a presidential candidate.
But the people involved are the same, and the motivation is the same.
As a journalist, Jimmy recognises this for what it is – the opportunity of a lifetime. He also knows from experience how easy it would be to let it slip through his fingers.
So he’s got to be careful.
But maybe – glancing around now – maybe they’ve gone beyond careful.
He looks back at Szymanski.
‘Then?’
‘Then they flew me to JFK.’ He shrugs. ‘After that I was on my own. If I hadn’t seen Rundle on TV peddling this bullshit about an accident in Paris, I don’t know, maybe I’d have gone home and forgotten the whole thing.’
Jimmy exhales. ‘Yeah, but… here we are.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what next?’
‘What next?’
‘Yeah.’
Szymanski lowers his head and shakes it into his chest for a moment. Then he looks up again. ‘Jimmy, do you… do you have any idea what kind of shit we’re in right now, the two of us, sitting here?’
‘I’ve been putting off thinking about it.’
Szymanski laughs. ‘Yeah, well, this is your chance, bro, because let me tell you… my fucking peripheral vision is clogging up on me. There’s a black SUV parked over there on the far side of Third. Don’t look. Then there’s this car just across the street here with the tinted windows. You see it? And.’ He throws his head backwards. ‘Even money, this prick sitting behind me,’ – Jimmy swallows – ‘who, chances are, has got a tiny camera concealed on him somewhere and a fucking mic that’s probably powerful enough to pick up your heartbeat. Though wait.’ He holds up a finger. ‘I think I can hear that myself.’
Jimmy makes a face, nervous.
Up to now being under surveillance has been almost academic. They were invisible. It was something he took on faith. But with Tom Szymanski talking like this, all of a sudden it seems very real.