Everyone stands up.
Throughout his years as a politician, and especially since being appointed to the cabinet, Bolger has met a lot of people – dignitaries, the occasional head of state, showbiz celebrities – but this is of a different order of magnitude.
He steps forward and extends his hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’
Vaughan, who must be in his mid-to late seventies, is a small man, stooped and quite frail-looking. But his eyes are astonishing – blue, bright, very alert.
‘So,’ he says, shaking Bolger’s hand, ‘how is the next prime minister of Ireland?’
‘Oh, well, let’s not –’
Bolger stops himself. His impulse is to dismiss this, but he holds back. He bows in acknowledgement of the question, and smiles.
‘Or what is it you guys call it again?’ Vaughan says. ‘Tee something … Tee –’
‘Taoiseach.’
‘That’s it. Means chieftain, right?’
‘Yes. Leader. It’s –’
‘Chieftain. I like that,’ Vaughan says, looking around at the others. ‘Maybe we should use that from now on, chieftain executive officer.’
Everyone laughs.
‘OK, Phil,’ Vaughan then says, turning to the burly man he came in with. ‘I think we’re all set.’ Phil nods silently and retreats. Vaughan moves over towards the sofa, but he doesn’t sit down.
‘So, Ray,’ he says, ‘what’s the deal here, we’re going to eat something?’
‘Yes,’ Ray Sullivan says, turning backwards and clicking his fingers. The young man walks over to a set of double doors on the far side of the room and opens them.
Through the doors Bolger sees what looks like a full-sized dining room. The table is set and uniformed servers are hovering about, adjusting cutlery and repositioning glasses.
‘Larry,’ Vaughan says to Bolger, beckoning him over with an outstretched arm, ‘come, come, sit with me.’
The next hour passes very quickly for Bolger. He listens with great attention as Vaughan talks – and exclusively to
him
– on a wide range of subjects, including his time as Assistant Secretary at the Treasury Department under Jack Kennedy, his famous run-in with LBJ, and how he was told on good authority
over thirty years ago
that Mark Felt was Deep Throat. One story Bolger particularly likes is about Vaughan using the expression ‘irrational exuberance’ in a private conversation with Alan Greenspan two days before the Fed Chairman used it himself in a black-tie dinner speech and caused a worldwide wobble in the markets.
As coffee is being served, Vaughan suddenly turns the conversation around. ‘So tell me, Larry. How are things down on Richmond Dock? I hear we’re making quite an impression on your skyline over there.’
‘Yes, Mr Vaughan, indeed.’ The ‘we’ isn’t lost on Bolger. With a 15 per cent stake in the building, and Amcan, which it owns, set to be the anchor tenant, Oberon – he supposes –
is
a key player in the project. ‘Aside from the usual objections about height,’ he says, ‘everything has gone pretty smoothly. I think the city is ready for this.’
‘Sure it is,’ Vaughan says, ‘
sure
it is, a city needs its symbols. And what’s so awful about height anyway? I mean, it’s just a basic expression of … ambition. It’s in the DNA. I know it’s in
my
DNA.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘Look, for an earlier generation the big idea was frontier expansion – go west, young man, that kind of thing – but for us it was go
up
, it was the great land grab in the sky.’
Bolger nods along at this, engrossed, barely aware of anyone else around the table.
‘And back then,’ Vaughan continues, ‘size mattered, too. That’s what it was about in the end, really, scale. It was all get a load of this, and get a load of that … I don’t know,
eight
miles of elevator shafts,
three thousand
tons of marble,
two and a half
million
feet of electrical cable,
ten
million bricks …’
He follows this with a story about how in the late fifties, when he was East Coast Vice-President of Wolper & Stone, he personally oversaw the construction of the firm’s new corporate headquarters in midtown Manhattan. After that, he somehow loops back to the present and to the strategic importance for Oberon of establishing a high-profile base in Europe. In the space of about five minutes, he manages to use the words ‘bridgehead,’ ‘gateway’ and ‘portal’.
But then, at around 2.30, and out of the blue, he announces that he has to go and lie down. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Larry,’ he says, ‘but I’ve got this blood condition. Doctor’s orders.’
‘Of course, please, please.’
As Vaughan gets up, everyone else at the table gets up, too. Ray Sullivan confers with the young man, who immediately takes out his mobile phone and starts making a call.
‘Walk me to the door, Larry,’ Vaughan says to Bolger, taking him by the arm.
‘I can’t tell you what an honour this has been for me, Mr Vaughan, really.’
‘Well thank you, Larry, nice of you to say so.’ He applies a little pressure to Bolger’s arm. ‘And let me just add something.’
‘Of course.’
‘No one ever knows what’s going to happen in politics, am I right?’
Bolger nods.
‘These are democratic times we live in.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It’s the people who decide.’
‘Hhmm.’
‘But from what
I’m
told, in Ireland right now,
you’re
the man to watch, so I want you to know something.’ Vaughan lowers his voice here, almost to a whisper. ‘
We’re behind you all
the way
.’
‘Well, thank
you
.’
‘
And if there’s anything we can do to help …
’
‘
Thank
you.’
When they get to the door – where the burly Phil is waiting – Vaughan releases Bolger’s arm. He turns and extends his hand. ‘Larry,’ he says, ‘it was nice meeting you.’
They shake.
‘And remember what I said.’
‘I will.’
Vaughan turns again and leaves.
Twenty minutes later, after more arm-squeezing, more handshakes, more urgent, whispered assurances of support, Bolger leaves, too. Ray Sullivan takes him back downstairs, where a car is waiting.
The driver slips across to 72nd Street and then turns left onto Fifth Avenue.
With his head still reeling, Bolger tries to interpret what has just happened.
It was an endorsement – plain and simple. Bolger is primed to take over his party. The party is a shoo-in at the next election. The Oberon Capital Group needs to maintain a US-friendly European base for its biotech, aerospace and defence contractors.
It isn’t exactly rocket science.
Nor is he under any illusions about what might be required of him. Or about how easily an endorsement from Oberon could be withdrawn.
But still, he enjoyed what just happened, and would like more of it … the naked flattery, the attention, the
access
.
He places his hand on the shiny black surface of the leather car seat and strokes it. He’s enjoying this, too – being driven at speed through the city, invisible behind the tinted windows of a limousine. On the outside, people flicker past, heads occasionally turning, but never close enough to see in any detail. Buildings, storefronts, façades – these are all insubstantial, one-dimensional, the city reduced to a celluloid, hallucinogenic rush. What it would be like to have a police escort, or to be at the head of a full motorcade – open top, waving at crowds, engines roaring all around you,
in the line of fire
– he doesn’t even want to think about, because the whole thing gives him such a tingling sense of urgency, of power, that it’s almost unbearable …
The car pulls up outside his hotel. As he waits for the driver to open the door, he takes out his mobile phone and switches it back on.
Crossing the sidewalk, he glances left at the dark windblown canyon that is 57th Street, and feels a sudden chill.
On his way into the lobby, holding his mobile out in front of him, he sees that he has six voice messages and seven texts. That volume of traffic over only a couple of hours is just a
little
heavy, even for him – so before he spots Paula approaching from the other side of the lobby, ashen-faced, shaking her head, Bolger knows that something is wrong.
‘What is it?’ he says.
Paula is still shaking her head when she speaks. ‘Ken Murphy.’
‘Jesus,’ Bolger says, ‘what?’
‘He’s working on a story for tomorrow.’
‘About
me
?’
‘Yes.’
He swallows.
Paula seems reluctant to go on. She also seems angry, or disgusted, or just weary – he isn’t sure which.
‘
And
?’
‘Well,’ she says, not looking him in the eye, ‘apparently it’s something about an affair and … unpaid gambling debts?’
‘How’s it going, love?’
Gina turns around. She’s startled but tries not to show it. She arrived early and sat in a booth opposite the bar, with a clear view of the entrance. She ordered a bottle of Corona. She waited.
Now, unexpectedly, Terry Stack has appeared from behind her.
She looks up at him. ‘Fine.’
She wonders if he was already here. She doesn’t think so, because she looked the place over before sitting down. Does that mean he has special privileges? He’s allowed to come in by the back door?
Maybe he actually owns Kennedy’s now.
Stack slides into the booth opposite Gina. He nods at the bottle of Corona in front of her and says, ‘Get us a pint there, would you?’
For a second Gina thinks he’s talking to her, but then she sees one of his hoodies sloping over to the bar. She doesn’t want to look around again, but she also suspects that the previously unoccupied booth behind her is now occupied.
More boys in hoodies?
His security detail.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ she says.
Gina is determined to be civil with Stack – and neutral, as neutral as she
can
be.
‘The pleasure’s all mine, love.’
But straightaway she’s wondering how civil or neutral it would be to tell him that her name isn’t
love
.
‘Whatever,’ she says, studying the label on her Corona bottle.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve kept in touch, because –’
‘I wasn’t
keeping in touch
,’ she interrupts. ‘Jesus. I just have a few questions I want to ask you.’
‘Right, right. Yeah. Anyway, I was going to contact
you
.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ll get to that.’
The hoodie returns. He places a pint of stout in front of Stack and then, glancing at Gina, disappears. Stack takes a sip from the pint and clears the foam from his upper lip.
‘So,’ he says, ‘how
are
you?’
‘I’m fine.’
She has no intention of elaborating. It’s none of Terry Stack’s business how she
is
.
‘I knew Noel’s ma had a few sisters,’ Stack then says, ‘but I didn’t realise –’
He stops here, searching for the right words.
‘What?’
‘That one of them’d be so young and … gorgeous-looking.’
Jesus
. ‘Well, there you go.’
She takes a sip from her bottle. He takes another sip from his pint.
‘So what do you do?’
Gina wants to scream. Is this a
date
she’s on? ‘I work in software.’
‘Oh?’
Not exactly the opening he was looking for, she expects, because what’s he going to say now?
That’s funny, I dabble in
software, too – the piracy end of things
.
‘What area?’ he says.
‘Data recovery. I work for a development company.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ She leans forward. ‘Look, Terry, I don’t want to talk about my job or about how I fucking
am
– I just want to talk about my brother and my nephew, OK?’
Civil, neutral. Nice going.
Stack smiles. He looks less like a priest in civvies today. He’s wearing a jacket and shirt but no tie. He has thick greying hair and tired brown eyes, and there’s a weird twist to his mouth when he speaks.
‘OK,’ he says, ‘fine.’
‘Right. OK.’
‘I told you I wasn’t going to let this rest, and I’m not. I’ve been making, er … let’s call them
enquiries
.’
He pauses for effect.
Eventually, Gina says, ‘And?’
‘You’re in a real fucking hurry, aren’t you?’
‘Aren’t
you
? I thought you said whoever did this was going to pay.’
‘I did. I did. And they will.’
‘
So?
’
Gina can’t believe the tack she’s adopting here. Is it nerves? Is she compensating for the fact that she’s actually terrified? Because the thing is, she got Stack’s number from Catherine, but before she rang him she trawled through a few newspaper archives on the Web, and it turns out that Stack’s gang not only infringe the Copyright Act to the tune of millions of euro every year, not only deal heroin, cocaine, ecstasy and cannabis, not only traffic young girls in from Eastern Europe, but they are widely believed to be responsible for – and she can’t discount, she supposes, possible involvement in this by young Noel – three recent and particularly vicious murders.
She’s also aware of the unorthodox uses to which Stack himself sometimes puts his training as an electrician.
So just what is it, she wonders – given that she’s pretty much spent the last ten years of her own life sitting in front of a computer screen – what is it that qualifies
her
to be so pushy and aggressive with
him
?
Stack shakes his head. ‘I’m
getting
to it. Jesus. OK, first up, there
are
feuds going on out there, right? Fuckers blowing each other away because one of them has a lip on him, or he gave the other one’s girlfriend a dart, or
whatever
, but
I
run a tight ship.’