First Horseman, The (17 page)

McCloud let out what might have been a laugh. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, suddenly looking certain about something and pleased.

‘Howard has a baseball team,’ interjected Cardini. ‘Do you follow baseball, Jim?’

Jim was bemused by the sudden change of subject. ‘Hell, no,’ he said, influenced by all the Americans he had ever spoken with.

‘Pity,’ said McCloud. ‘It’s the greatest game.’

Thank Heaven, thought Jim. Maybe they’d cheer up now.

Renton sat by the glass case and watched the bald rat shivering in the far corner. The mosquitoes were all over it and drinking. Others, having fed, had taken to their perches and hung there upside-down, red and bloated. He loved watching them feed. Eat, reproduce, die – that was all they did. Now that pointless cycle had a bigger purpose, to clear the world’s tropical realms of a much larger parasite, which, like the mosquito, would mindlessly kill its host.

The mosquito’s proboscis was an object of enchantment to him. He got an almost sexual buzz as it penetrated the white flesh of the rodent. It was like watching a thousand tiny deaths inflicted by innumerable miniature stilettos. The insect was so beautiful, so perfectly designed for its purpose of feeding on the mighty, draining and poisoning them.

He had been sitting there for two hours watching the tiny spectacle, the beginning of the end for five billion people. He was loading the insects with Ebola, something to kick off the initial plague, an accelerator for the process, a mathematical guarantor of epidemic. The true killer, however, was the breeding aggression of these engineered mosquitoes. They were male, irresistible to females, and carried all the genes necessary to reproduce their breeding proclivities as well as their flaw: the regurgitation of their last meal, the poisoned blood of their hosts.

Just like the dirty hypodermic syringes that had done for so many in the past, the mosquito would spread disease to all it bit. Its release would be the tiny spark on the dry haystack of mankind, a vast tinderbox. His action would turn the desert back into virgin jungle, savannah and plain.

He would soon be a god, a dark Ajax who would deliver the scourging message of pestilence. Where there was malaria, there would soon be plagues untold. Into all of the hideous places where man heaved in heat and filth, the first horseman would ride unchecked and scythe them down. Then the northern people would be left to a pristine world released from inevitable ecological collapse that would otherwise destroy civilisation.

His palms were sweaty as he watched, and he bobbed up and down on the raised stool.

They sat in a corner of a huge bar area by the window. Jim marvelled that, although it was staffed with a barman and a waitress, and they were clearly the only customers in a hundred square miles, the service was still slow even though the owner was sitting beside them.

When their drinks arrived, McCloud got up. ‘Got to make a call,’ he said.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Jim sat forward. ‘Does your TRT make people paranoid and depressed?’

‘No,’ said Cardini. ‘At least, not to my knowledge.’

‘Is Howard always like that? You know, it’s the end of the world.’

‘Ever since I’ve known him,’ said Cardini, quietly. ‘He has two people collecting evidence of imminent collapse. Of course, if you search far and wide for evidence that fits your world view, you’ll find enough to entrench yourself in your hypothesis. Then again, he may be correct. Humanity has ebbed and flowed many times in its short history but never before has it put such strain on the resources of its environment. As you know, I am not optimistic about the outcome if things are left unchecked. ’

‘Have you seen his evidence?’ asked Jim ‘You’re a scientist so you’d know if it hung together.’

‘Newspaper articles,’ said Cardini, frowning. ‘Popular science clippings, YouTube videos …’ He made YouTube sound like a six-syllable word. ‘People always agree with data that is aligned with their own belief, whatever the source. However, bad science and even delusion is no guarantee that the outcome of a flawed hypothesis will not be as its adherents suggest.’

‘So what do you believe?’

‘I believe, Jim, in my work. Environmental collapse will come unless something is done, and I am confident that progress will be achieved through population control.’

‘So you don’t believe in a runaway climate event.’

‘I think over the next few years mankind will come up with a solution to the world’s population crisis.’ He smiled. ‘It may be unorthodox but I’m hopeful it will strike …’ he let the word hang in the air ‘… the right balance.’

McCloud was striding towards them. ‘Got so much catching up to do,’ he said. ‘You lie on ya death bed for too long and all the work starts to build up.’

‘I hope you are duly impressed by my results,’ said Cardini.

‘Yes,’ said Jim.

‘Impressed by what?’ said McCloud.

‘Your recovery.’

‘You know something, Cardini,’ said McCloud, ‘now you’ve got Jimbo to fund you, I need to renegotiate what I’m laying out to you. I want to cut that by half.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t do,’ said Cardini, ‘unless you want to lower your consumption of the serum by half.’

‘How about some economies of scale here?’ protested McCloud.

‘There are none,’ said Cardini, flatly. ‘The whole point is to use Jim’s investment for yet further research. Without significant strides, the future remains uncertain. For instance, I know you wish to be thirty again. It may take me a century to achieve such results. With luck, Jim’s investment will allow me to push back your core age by ten years, which in itself would be an important step, most of all for you.’

‘You’re smooth, Cardini, but I’m not falling for ya silver tongue.’

‘Howard, why are you trying to negotiate?’ asked Jim. ‘Aren’t you just happy to be alive?’

‘No, son,’ said McCloud, shaking his head. ‘Never have been and never will be.’

‘It’s getting pretty late for me,’ said Jim. ‘I’m five hours ahead so it’s like three in the morning in my head.’ He got up. ‘I’m going to crash.’

‘You know where to go?’ asked McCloud.

‘I think I can find it,’ said Jim. ‘It’s kind of back there, around the corner and down that way …’ He was waving his hand around as he spoke.

‘That should get you there.’

Jim got up. ‘Night,’ he said.

A helicopter was droning over Jim’s head. Was he asleep in the jungle? Was he heading towards a volcano?

He sat up in the huge bed in total darkness. Which way up was he? Where was the door? Where was he? He struggled for what seemed a long time and then remembered. He reached across the bed and switched on the light. A helicopter was doing something outside – landing, he thought.

Jim was suddenly very awake.

McCloud met Dario straight off the landing pad. The helicopter was lifting off before they were even inside the mansion. ‘Thanks for coming out on such short notice, my friend,’ he said, patting the man on the back.

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you,’ said Dario. ‘How you been?’

‘Getting back into shape,’ said McCloud.

‘You’re looking great.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked Dario up and down as they walked. ‘I can see you’ve been packing it on.’

‘Pure muscle,’ said Dario, his New Jersey accent jarring to McCloud’s Southern ear.

‘How are the kids?’

‘Good, you know, growing up. The youngest is getting so tall, she’s looking down at me now.’

‘Hey, that’s cool, isn’t it?’

‘So, what problem can I solve for you tonight?’

‘Let’s get to my office so we can talk.’

‘Sure thing.’

McCloud’s office was small in comparison to the grotesque size of everything else in his palace. It was a compact and cosy room, with a shelf of show books, a window behind his desk with a view of the mountains and two walls of photos showing McCloud with just about every important American on the A-list of rich, famous and/or powerful over the preceding forty years. His favourite was of him towering over Martin Luther King, shaking his hand. It had been a pure fluke that it had happened but it had opened many doors. He could have collected stamps or racehorses; instead he collected Impressionist paintings and famous people. He hung both on his walls.

As far as he was concerned, those people were there to drive his passion for autographs, not on photos or in books but on contracts. He had built his fortune by getting ink at the end of important documents and for that he had to know everyone of power and talent in all walks of life, from the arts, sport, politics and science. He had made it his priority in business. That was how he had discovered Cardini and stayed alive long past his normal span. It was how he had become a friend of Dario and how he had found a way to make the really difficult people in his life simply disappear.

‘You smoke, don’t you, Dario?’ he said, lifting a heavy ashtray from its place on the bookshelf.

‘Sorry to say I do.’

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said McCloud. ‘This is an old-fashioned establishment.’ He put the ashtray on the coffee-table, and sat in the single armchair next to the other man.

Dario snapped open the gold lighter with a click and inhaled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It was a long flight.’ He shook his head. ‘For a smoker like me, anyways.’

‘I have a problem guest upstairs and I want him checked out.’

Dario took a long puff. ‘Now I could take that either of three ways, Mr McCloud, and I always like to be clear. “Checked out” could mean “asked to leave”, “looked into” or …’ he took a quick puff ‘… “killed”. I don’t want to kill a guest of yours if all you want me to do is investigate him.’

McCloud nodded. ‘I understand. By “checked out”, I mean as in a ticket attached to his big toe in the morgue. Let’s just say he’s a competitor who’s a threat to one of my monopolies. You know how I hate competition.’

‘OK,’ said Dario, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette.

‘And I’m coming with you. I want to see the look on his face when he knows he’s finished. Then I want to see him beg. Then I want to see him die.’

‘OK,’ said Dario, getting up, not the slightest bit perturbed.

‘Once we’re done we can throw his body in the bio-gas generator. We’re real eco-friendly here.’

‘OK,’ said Dario. ‘I’ll follow you.’

‘First we need to pick up another friend.’

At a knock, Cardini opened the door to his suite a crack. It was McCloud. Cardini looked at him questioningly for a moment.

‘Put your pants on, Chris. We’ve got a meeting to attend.’ The door flew wide and a small, strong, thuggish man pushed into Cardini’s room.

McCloud followed. ‘While you’re getting dressed, Chris, I got to tell you I need another shot of that medicine before we go any further.’

‘No,’ said Cardini. ‘I have told you many times before, overdose will later set your core age forwards. You burn the candle at both ends and you will suffer accordingly.’

‘I need more.’

Cardini fastened his trousers and reached for his shirt, which was neatly folded on a table by the window.

‘I’ll ask Dario here to help me,’ added McCloud.

Dario pulled out a small revolver from under his arm.

‘You’re not going to shoot me,’ boomed Cardini. ‘I keep you alive. Not even you are that mad.’

‘I don’t have to shoot you,’ said Dario, slightly put off by the authority in Cardini’s statement. ‘Do you know how many bones there are in a human body?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Cardini. ‘I am fully aware of how many bones there are in the human body.’

‘Well, unless you give Mr McCloud what he wants I’ll start cracking some.’

Cardini looked down his nose at the short Italian. The TRT regenerated the body’s tissues but not the bones to the same extent. Underneath the vigorous organs, the muscle and nerves, they remained weak and vulnerable. ‘Very well,’ he said, putting on his shirt. ‘But you have been warned, Howard, and the consequences when they occur will be on your head and on yours alone.’ He rummaged in his bag and took out an ampoule. ‘This is all I have.’

McCloud took the glass capsule and flicked the end off it. He put the open end in his mouth and sucked in the juice. ‘Argh.’ He sat on the end of the bed and stared at the floor.

Cardini was putting on his jacket. ‘What now?’ he said.

‘Just give me a minute,’ said McCloud.

‘Is he OK?’ asked Dario.

Cardini didn’t reply.

McCloud jumped up. ‘OK, let’s do this. Let’s go down the hall and pay the punk a visit.’ He took a swipe card from his pocket with a grin on his lined face. ‘Trick or treat!’

‘What do you plan to do?’

‘Just shut up and watch.’

McCloud strode off, the others following. When they came to the door of Jim’s room, he stuck the card into the lock mechanism. There was a twitter and a green LED flashed. Dario opened the door with his left hand, the pistol in his right. He hit the light and charged in. He veered off to the bathroom and barged in. ‘Damn,’ he said, coming out.

McCloud was looking around. ‘Check the wardrobes and the balcony.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘Nothing. Wherever he is, he isn’t here.’

‘Well, I know how we can find him.’

Jim looked at the double doors that separated the front office from the back stage of the huge building. Like a hotel, casino or restaurant, portals separated the consumer from the service areas. Doors segregated the plush from the Spartan, the idle from the functional, the spotless from the grubby, the loved from the loathed. He wanted to know what made this place tick.

He walked through the doors and saw three parked Segways. He fired one up and began to ride down the hallways setting off the lighting units one by one. The building was cavernous, its corridors monotonous and empty.

He came across a great lift, stopped and summoned it. When its doors opened, it was big enough to take a small truck. The floor rattled metallically as he rolled inside. He looked at the control panel. ‘This place goes down nine levels,’ he muttered. ‘Wow. Well, let’s start at the bottom and work our way up.’

The lift began to descend. What would you keep nine storeys below ground? Perhaps he’d find a giant swimming-pool or even a bowling alley. Why not a shooting range? With so many gun nuts in the US, what could be a more natural feature for a man like McCloud? He was rich enough to have his own personal baseball pitch down there. For a moment Jim imagined a skating rink. Or the world’s biggest train set, a scale reproduction of all the railways in America laid out like some Disney attraction on steroids.