Bloodland: A Novel (29 page)

He flicks the notebook closed, as though he was reading from it and is now finished.

Nerves.

He looks up.

Conway is staring at him. ‘This is all unsubstantiated, it’s … it’s circumstantial.’

‘Yeah, it’s circumstantial, sure, but the circumstances keep piling up. A few days after my conversation with Larry Bolger and what happens? He drops dead. Then my apartment is broken into. Nothing of any value is taken, but the hard drive on my computer is wiped. Meanwhile I have people like Phil Sweeney telling me I’m in over my head, and to find another story. Offering me
money
.’

Conway maintains eye contact, but there’s something different about him now, about his facial expression. It’s as though a key element that was holding it in place has dropped out. Certainty, conviction.

Self-belief.

‘Who are you working for?’ he says. ‘What paper? When is this story coming out?’

Jimmy hesitates. He’s not about to throw away his advantage here by admitting he’s not working for anyone. ‘Well, probably not this Sunday, but definitely –’

‘According to Phil Sweeney you’re unemployed.’

Jimmy looks away, then back, sighs. ‘OK, maybe, but when I get this figured out, I won’t be, all right?’ He pauses. ‘I mean, do you not remember that crash?
Six
people dead? This is a big fucking story.’

Conway doesn’t say anything.

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?’

Kimbela laughs at this. It’s clear he’s lapping up Rundle’s unease, his humiliation. But as before, he stops quite abruptly. ‘Very well, my friend. The Chinese, yes? They want to build a network here, a spider’s web of railroads and highways going out from Congo through Angola and Zambia and Tanzania to ports on either side of the continent. And you know why?’ He makes a snorting sound. ‘Of course you do. So they can come here, extract every mineral they can find from under the ground and cut down every tree in every forest and ship it all back to China.’ He holds up a finger. ‘But in exchange they will give us banks and soccer stadiums. Oh, and hospitals, too, and universities. And a functioning sewage system. And they want to do it all themselves, with imported labour, Chinese engineers, Chinese technicians, all living in temporary compounds, speaking Mandarin and eating chow mein. And no talk of human rights, either. None of that paternalistic bullshit we routinely get from
you
people about political transparency and fighting corruption.’ He stops and smiles. ‘Sounds good, yeah? Sweet? Tempting?’ The smile quickly fades. ‘If you’re in Kinshasa, maybe. If you’re already
in
the fucking government. But not for someone like me. Out here. In the hills.’ He thumps his chest. ‘In this brave new world, there’s no place for someone like
me
.’

This is shouted.

Rundle flinches.

‘You Americans?’ Kimbela goes on. ‘You have no real policy for Africa. The politburo in Beijing, they’re thinking one hundred years into the future. But what are
you
doing? Setting up AFRICOM? With its headquarters in Stuttgart? Is that meant to be some kind of a joke? No, you’ve got nothing to offer us but bureaucracy and aid and inefficiency and…’ – he drags the words out – ‘
spectacular ignorance
. But you know what? It’s fine. I love it.
Plus ça change
.’

Rundle isn’t too sure what point Kimbela is trying to make here. He’s beginning to understand how J.J. felt, and it obviously shows in his face.

‘Look,’ Kimbela says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘what I’m telling you is, this
thing
, this arrangement we have.’ He waves a hand back and forth between them. ‘It suits me very well. I don’t want it to change.’ There is a long pause, during which his smile slowly returns. ‘And
that
, my friend, is what I told your brother.’

*   *   *

‘Yes, but…’ Jimmy looks around this spectral hotel lobby. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to sit. The place is empty. Are they just going to stand here? He looks back at Conway. ‘Protect you from what?’

‘My part in what happened. Not that Phil Sweeney actually knows what happened. He doesn’t. Which is something, by the way, you should get straight in your head right now.’

Jimmy nods.

Conway then seems to brace himself. He picks a spot on the dusty concrete floor to stare at, and starts talking. ‘I’d been trying to sell First Continental for years. It was one of my old man’s early companies and originally consisted of five copper mines spread out over various parts of eastern Congo, but with what was going on there, the unrest, the
war
, he lost most of the concessions and when he died there was just one left, near a place called Buenke, but even that hadn’t been operational for about five or six years. I tried to sell it, couldn’t and then more or less forgot about it.’ He looks up at Jimmy for a moment and a flicker of doubt crosses his face. ‘You do know what I’m talking about, right? My father? Conway & Co.? I’m assuming you’ve got background on all of this. You actually
are
a journalist?’

Jimmy nods. ‘Yeah, of course I am.’

Conway narrows his eyes. ‘Right. Anyway, I get this offer, out of the blue, for First Continental and the mine at Buenke. It’s from BRX and is decent enough, I suppose, but I’m thinking, they’re a huge company, interests everywhere, always expanding, maybe they’ll shell out a little more.’ He shrugs, half apologetically. ‘Look, I’m a businessman. You don’t just accept an initial offer without…’ He hesitates, then waves the point away. ‘So. It turns out that Clark Rundle, the CEO of BRX, is coming to Ireland to attend some conference and he suggests that we meet up to discuss the offer. Now at the time, I’ll be honest with you, I thought this was pretty weird. A guy like him? Of his stature? Negotiating the sale of an old copper mine?’ He pauses. ‘But what was I going to do?
Not
go?’ He pauses again. ‘It was a weekend thing, at Drumcoolie Castle in Tipperary, corporate ethics in the age of globalisation, some crap like that. Anyway, I meet Rundle on the Friday evening, with a couple of his cronies, and we get on pretty well. At first, he seems like a bit of a stuffed shirt, but then he loosens up. I’m flattered too by all the attention I’m receiving, and then doubly so – more
,
in fact – when I realise just who one of the guys with him is, an old guy, James Vaughan. Of the Oberon Capital Group. Who I’m now looking at and thinking, what’s
he
doing here? He isn’t listed as one of the delegates – I checked up on it later. Nevertheless, he seems to be paying very close attention to everything that’s happening, and in particular to the conversation Rundle and I are having. Strange thing is, as the evening progresses, and although they don’t say anything about it explicitly, I get the impression from both of them that they’re excited, giddy almost, at the prospect of acquiring this shitty little copper mine in the middle of nowhere.’ He pauses. ‘Now why would that be, I find myself asking. There’s also something arrogant about them, in their attitude to
me
, like I’m stupid and won’t notice what’s going on. Needless to say, that rankles.’ He stops and takes a deep breath. ‘Jesus. I can’t believe I’m doing this.’