Bloodland: A Novel (6 page)

‘Yeah, Don,’ he says, putting the magazine under his arm, ‘what’s up?’

‘Clark, I need five minutes. Are you around?’

Rundle looks at his watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, Don. I’m leaving the building. It’s been a long day.’ He’s also had this copy of
Vanity Fair
in his possession since lunchtime, and has managed to hold off opening it until now. He resents the intrusion.

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Not really, Clark, no. Where are you headed? Let me meet you there.’

‘I’m going to the Orpheus Room. I’m meeting Jimmy Vaughan for a drink.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘Look, why don’t you join us?’

‘Twenty minutes?’

‘Fine.’

Rundle closes the phone. The elevator door hums open and he steps out into the lobby area.

Seems he’s not the only one leaving the building.

As he walks through the crowds, Rundle keeps the
Vanity Fair
under his arm, with the cover concealed. It’s absurd, but he feels a little self-conscious. He’s been interviewed before, many times, but usually under controlled conditions and not until multiple confidentiality clauses have been agreed to and signed.

None of which applied with
Vanity Fair
, of course.

Rundle didn’t mind, though. He was doing it for J.J., for this campaign he might be running. Plus, he finds there’s a certain cachet to being profiled in
VF
that even
he
isn’t immune to.

He’ll read the article in the car.

Out on Fifth it is warm. The air is still heavy and the evening sun is struggling to break through the haze.

He crosses the sidewalk. His driver holds open the door of the waiting limo and he gets in. As far as Rundle is concerned, the interior of a car like this, with its tinted windows and chilled hum, is a refuge, one of the modern world’s few remaining private spaces. Advances in telecommunications haven’t helped much in this regard, but he still tries his best. Phone-time is kept to a minimum, and e-mails are ignored.

Settling in now, he places the magazine in his lap and looks at the cover. It shows an actress he doesn’t recognise. She is pale and blonde, with icy blue eyes. She’s got blood-red lipstick on and is wearing a mantilla.

Pastiche forties.

A Veronica Lake wannabe. A Veronica Lake-alike. She’s pretty cute, though.

Her name, apparently, is Brandi Klugmann and she’s in some new blockbuster franchise.

He scans the rest of the cover for article titles. He finds what he’s looking for at the bottom.

The Rundle Supremacy. How brothers Senator John Rundle and BRX chairman Clark Rundle are taking on the world … and winning.

He reads this over a couple of times and nods, as though in agreement with someone sitting in front of him. He then lifts the magazine and gives a preliminary riffle through its glossy, scented pages, catching a rush of images, ads mostly, promissory shards of the erotic and the streamlined.

Perfume, watches, banks, celebs, real estate porn.

He looks up and out of the window for a moment. Traffic is light and flowing easily. They’ll be at the Orpheus Room sooner than he expected.

He goes back to the magazine and quickly locates the article.

It opens with a two-page spread of photos, some colour, some black and white – he and J.J. at various stages in their lives, together and apart … grainy images, weird clothes and, of course,
hair
, from the seventies, suits thereafter, and less hair … J.J. with Karl Rove, J.J. on
Meet the Press
 … Clark looking inscrutable at some charity ball, Clark in the cabin of his G-V.

He scans the text.

It actually
is
something of a puff piece – the Rundle brothers, John, 50, and Clark, 48, sons of the legendary Henry C. Rundle, each on a trajectory to stellar success, one in politics, setting his sights on the White House, and the other in business, steering long-held family concern, mining and engineering giant BRX, to global domination. The ‘narrative’ in the article is how close the brothers are, no sibling rivalry, just mutual support, the kind of bond you’d expect from identical twins sort of thing, with anecdotes emanating from the usual sources, how J.J. ceded control of his part of the company to Clark against all legal advice, and how Clark chose to withdraw his name for consideration as commerce secretary under Bush so as not to steal J.J.’s thunder.

He closes the magazine and puts it on the seat beside him.

It’s strange reading about yourself. The material usually feels diluted and one-dimensional. By the same token there’s nothing in the article here he needs to call his lawyers about. It’s accurate enough, he supposes, and will achieve what it was intended to achieve – at least as far as J.J.’s press office is concerned – and that is to help pave the way for this possible nomination.

Rundle wonders if J.J. has seen it yet. He’s on a foreign trip at the moment – doing Clark a favour, as it happens – so it’s unlikely.

But then again the article is probably available online.

In which case, knowing J.J., he’ll definitely have seen it.

And will be in touch about it the first chance he gets.

The limo pulls up outside the Orpheus Room on Fifty-fourth Street. Rundle waits for the driver to open the door and then gets out. As he straightens his jacket he glances at the passing traffic down a bit on Park and something occurs to him. It’s easy to forget this, but it’s true what was in the article. There
is
no rivalry between them, none, and they genuinely do root for each other. In taking BRX Mining & Engineering to new levels of success, Clark has remained largely anonymous, and that’s been fine. J.J. was always the attention-seeker anyway, the approval junkie. But if that’s what his brother wants, a shot at the presidency – which until now, being honest about it, Clark hasn’t really taken that seriously – then why not? And why shouldn’t Clark do everything in his considerable power to help make it happen?

Add ‘kingmaker’ to his list of achievements.

Stick it one more time to the old man.

Fuck, yeah.

He heads in under the sidewalk canopy.

Realigning his headspace.

Inside, Jimmy Vaughan is sitting at his regular table, nursing what looks like a fruit juice.

Rundle approaches the table with his hand outstretched. ‘Jimmy, how are you?’

Vaughan looks up. He shakes Rundle’s hand and indicates for him to sit down. ‘How
am
I? I’m eighty-two years old, Clark, what do you want me to tell you?’

Rundle laughs at this and sits down. ‘Well, if I could look half as good as you do, Jimmy, and I mean
now
, let alone when I’m eighty-two, I’d be a happy man.’

This is bullshit, of course, palaver, but on one level he actually means it. Vaughan is extraordinary for his age, his steely blue eyes displaying an undimmed and ferocious intelligence. As chairman of private equity firm the Oberon Capital Group – as well as sitting member of the Council on Foreign Relations and the Trilateral Commission – Vaughan is something of an
éminence grise
around these parts.

A waiter appears at Rundle’s side. ‘Your usual, sir?’

Rundle nods.

A gimlet. For his sins.

He looks at Vaughan. ‘How’s Meredith?’

Vaughan waves a hand over the table. ‘She’s …
well
.’

Meredith is Vaughan’s umpteenth wife. They got married about four years ago, and she’s at least forty-five years his junior. Which maybe explains a lot.

She’s even younger than Rundle’s own wife.

‘And Eve?’

‘She’s good. She’s in England at the moment, Oxford. Checking up on Daisy.’

Vaughan smiles.

Wives, daughters, whatever.

‘Listen,’ he says, leaning forward, getting down to business, ‘this thing with the Chinese?’

Rundle nods.

‘It isn’t going to go away, Clark. I mean, let’s say our friend the colonel turns down their offer, yeah? Let’s say we pull that off. It just means they’ll come back with a bigger offer. That’s the kicker in all of this, it isn’t
about
money.’ Vaughan makes a puffing sound and throws his hands up. ‘It’s like we have to learn a whole new language.’

Rundle is all too aware of this, but hearing Vaughan articulate it, hearing him sound even vaguely defeatist –
that’s
a little unnerving.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘or maybe we have to
re
learn a language we once knew, but have forgotten.’

Vaughan looks at him for a moment. Then he reaches over and pats him on the arm. ‘Oh lord, Clark,’ he says. ‘That’s a bit subtle, even for me.’ He laughs. ‘Or … or what’s that other word … inscrutable?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t –’

‘Gentlemen.’

They both look up.

It’s Don Ribcoff. He has arrived at the table in what seems like a frantic rush. He sits down, nods at Vaughan, but then faces Rundle.

‘Forgive me, Clark,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t normally barge in on you like this, but I thought it’d be better not to talk over the phone.’

Rundle nods, wondering what this is about – the urgency, the not talking on the phone. Especially the not talking on the phone. But also thinking who’d be a better judge of something like that than the CEO of Gideon Global?

He turns to Vaughan. ‘I didn’t mention it to you, Jimmy, but I spoke to Don earlier and asked him to join us.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Vaughan says, and makes an inclusive gesture with his hand. ‘Don, what are you drinking?’

Ribcoff bites his lip. ‘Er, water, please.’

Vaughan raises a finger and a waiter seems to materialise out of thin air. Instructions are given, two chilled 330 ml bottles of Veen, one velvet, one effervescent. Almost immediately a second waiter appears with the gimlet and as the drink is being transferred from the tray to the table Rundle takes a moment to study Don Ribcoff.

He seems uncharacteristically ruffled. Still only in his mid-thirties, Ribcoff is a hugely capable young man, good-looking, fit, and incredibly focused when it comes to his business. He also provides an invaluable service to people like Rundle, Vaughan and many others. The privatisation of the security and intelligence industries has been nothing short of revolutionary and the Don Ribcoffs of this world, who have spearheaded that revolution, are men to be cherished and nurtured.

Which is why it’s disturbing to see him like this.

As soon as the waiter withdraws, Rundle reaches for his gimlet.

Gin and lime juice.

Who could ask for anything more?

He takes a sip.

And then it strikes him that the reason Ribcoff is agitated is because he wants to talk to
him
.

He refocuses.

Vaughan and Ribcoff are looking in his direction.

‘What?’

Ribcoff clears his throat, shifts his weight in the chair and then says, ‘Look, er, this trip the Senator is on? It’s run into a little trouble. I’m afraid we might have to think things over.’

Rundle immediately says, ‘What things?’

And then adds, after a beat, ‘
What trouble?
’

2

A
S THEY CROSS THE LOBBY
, various people greet Larry Bolger by name. He’s been living in the hotel for over a year now, in one of the penthouse suites, but his presence down here, or in the bar, will still cause a stir.

How’s it going, Larry?
they’ll say
. Would you not fancy your old job back? The country needs you.

Stuff like that.

He only wishes Irish people weren’t so bloody informal. Bill still gets called Mister President wherever he goes, Bolger has seen it. Not that he wants
that
particularly, a title or anything, grovelling. Just a little respect.

Mister Bolger mightn’t be a bad place to start.

‘How are Mary and the girls?’ Dave Conway asks, keeping up the small talk until they get settled at a table.

‘They’re grand, thanks, yeah. Lisa’s just got her MBA.’

‘Another Bolger out of the traps, eh?’

‘I’m telling you, I don’t know where she got it from, her mother maybe, but she’s got it.’

They take a table at the back. It’s early and the dining room next door is crowded, breakfast in full swing, but there’s almost no one in here, in the Avondale Lounge. It’s eerily quiet, with at least half of the room – the half they’ve chosen to sit in – still in semi-darkness.

‘So,’ Bolger says, and shifts his weight in the chair. ‘How are things with
you
?’

Why is he so nervous?

‘Yeah, not too bad, Larry, I suppose. We’ve managed to avoid the worst of it. So far, anyway.’

Dave Conway is one of the canniest businessmen Bolger has ever met and for a while there he was a trusted member of the inner circle, of the kitchen cabinet. It was Dave, in fact, who persuaded Bolger to go to Drumcoolie Castle in the first place.

To that corporate ethics conference.

Bolger hadn’t wanted to go.

Of course. Story of his bloody life.

A waiter approaches the table, an older guy with a dickie-bow and a silver tray under one arm. Bolger squints at him for a second and scrolls through his mental database.

‘Sean,’ he then says, ‘how are you? A pot of coffee will do us fine here, thanks.’

The waiter nods in acknowledgement and retreats.

Bolger turns back.

‘So,’ Conway says, ‘how are the memoirs coming along?’

‘Oh God.’ Bolger groans. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid. What’s that old song? “I Can’t Get Started”?’

‘Really? I thought –’

‘Writing’s not my strong suit, Dave. I don’t know why I ever agreed to do the damn thing. I sit there for hours and nothing happens. It’s a total waste of time.’

‘Do you have a deadline?’

‘Yeah, but that’s become a bit of a moveable feast. It was supposed to be due two months ago.’ He shrugs. ‘Now … I don’t know.’

Conway nods, but doesn’t say anything.

Bolger thinks Dave looks a little peaky this morning, tired, not his usual self. Bolger has noticed this quite a bit recently. People he runs into from the old days aren’t as healthy-looking as they used to be.