First Horseman, The (4 page)

His ability to trade the global financial markets and never lose seemed harmless but it had terrifying consequences. When others tried to make money in the markets, they found it hard to be right 51 per cent of the time; when he traded he was 99 per cent correct.

The outcome of this was his immense wealth. He lived in a world without the normal financial gravity that pinned everyone else to the ground. Enormous wealth changed everything, and for Jim it made the world a very dangerous place. However surreal his situation felt, it was as solid as a punch on the nose. While dreams couldn’t hurt, the real world seemed intent on wreaking his comeuppance.

Millions of people try to make a living from speculation, but only a few are successful, and even the fortunate few probably win through luck. The law of the efficient market levelled all players, from huge banks to the smallest retail investors. Efficient markets made them into little more than desperate gamblers doomed by the laws of probability to fail in the end. Sometimes the gambles paid off, sometimes they didn’t, but in the long run even the mightiest ran out of luck and money. Banks blew fortunes as surely as the smallest private investor blew their savings.

Jim suffered no such levelling. He traded and he won. He read financial charts like a navigator could plot a route on a map. It was a blessing and a curse. Perhaps Fortune was trying to get even, he thought. Perhaps it needed to wreak a counterbalancing loss to even out his bloated success. And that loss would have to be catastrophic. Which was how things seemed to develop for him: one potential disaster followed another. Sometimes he felt like a bug in a piece of software, a glitch that needed deleting. There had been too much craziness in his life.

Pierre was opening the bowling. That’s a bloody long run-up, thought Jim. Pierre set off. He was running very fast when he let fly. Jim whistled as the ball pitched up short and the young batsman flinched back as it hissed past his head. A youth by the boundary just managed to stop it and save four byes.

‘How fast was that?’ muttered Jim. Too fast by half, he thought. Good job the kids were wearing helmets. They were going to need them.

The ball came back to Pierre, who studied it as he returned to his mark. He scratched the spot with his boot, so he could find it again and charge from the same place. The batsman was banging the crease as if there was some kind of defensive magic in digging a small divot in front of the middle stump.

Pierre set off with a little kick. The batsman started to bob up and down. Pierre let fly.

Jim winced as the ball flew past the batsman at shoulder height. The wicket-keeper, ten yards back, tried to catch it but it was too fast, rocketing over the boundary for four byes.

The umpire said something to Pierre, who nodded.

Jim had no idea about cricket and wondered if dialogue with the umpire was good or bad. It looked like a cautionary word and that seemed sensible. If he was the umpire he’d tell Pierre to slow down – but wasn’t bowling like that the point of the game?

Pierre looked over at Jim, gestured at his eye and then at him, smiling happily. Pierre meant him to watch closely. Jim nodded. Pierre turned away, rubbing the ball hard on his whites as he returned to his mark. He stood still for a moment, steeling himself for the sprint. He set off and by the time he reached the wicket he was running flat out.

Jim didn’t see the ball fly, just heard a thud at the batsman’s end and saw a stump fly backwards out of the ground.

Pierre took off vertically, spinning around with his arms in the air. There was a chorus of shouts from his team mates.

This was going to be a short game, thought Jim.

Pierre swung into the passenger seat. ‘Nice car, Jim,’ he said. ‘All my friends are well jealous of me.’

Jim smiled and started the Bugatti Veyron. ‘It was Stafford’s idea,’ he said. ‘He says I should have this kind of car. It’s suitable for a man of my standing, so he reckons.’

Pierre laughed.

Jim reversed out between the two parental Range Rovers. ‘You played bloody well,’ he said, checking to make sure he wasn’t going to hit anything as he pulled away.

‘Thanks,’ said Pierre. ‘I love cricket – it’s like friendly fighting.’

‘I’m not sure the other team would agree about the friendly bit,’ he said, nursing the car forwards.

‘Only bruises,’ said Pierre, ‘no blood.’ He waved out of the window at a friend.

Jim glanced at the historic school building, then at the uniformed children watching him pass. He scratched his head, ruffling his short black hair. It was a world he had no understanding of. He slowed to a crawl as he took a tight turn.

‘How’s Jane?’ asked Pierre, swivelling in his bucket seat and lowering the window. He waved again, then poked his head out and shouted to another boy, laughing.

Jim didn’t reply.

Pierre pulled his head in. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ said Jim. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’

‘Oh,’ said Pierre. ‘That’s not good.’ He closed the window and screwed himself into the seat. ‘Does this car go fast?’

‘Like shit off a shiny shovel.’

‘You going to show me?’

‘Probably not,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve not really got the hang of it yet.’ He grinned. ‘But if we can get a stretch of clear, straight road, I might give it a go.’

‘Wicked!’

Jim was finally out of the obstacle course of the school precinct, pleased to be on a proper road. He pushed the accelerator a little and the car surged away. He eased off and settled at the speed limit. ‘Nought to a driving ban in three and a half seconds,’ he said, laughing.

‘OK!’ said Pierre. ‘Go ahead!’

‘Maybe later,’ said Jim. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘So how about you come back to the DRC with me today?’

‘No can do,’ said Jim. ‘Got to see a man about some mosquitoes.’

‘Mosquitoes?’ said Pierre. ‘You can see plenty back home.’

‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘But this is different. There’s a professor in Cambridge who’s trying to find a way of stopping mosquitoes spreading malaria. I’m thinking of funding him.’

‘You giving your money away again, Uncle?’

‘Uncle?’

‘Kind Uncle, gives his money away to all the girls.’ Pierre was laughing again.

‘It was your idea, remember?’ said Jim.

‘No,’ said Pierre.

‘You told me mosquitoes were to blame for so many deaths.’

‘I might have.’

‘It set me thinking and you’re right. The fucking mozzies are, like, the worst thing on earth. Little flying bastards spreading death.’

‘But all this money you keep giving away, you’ll run out of it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jim. ‘Anyway, if I do, I’ll make some more.’

‘Good plan. How’s the professor going to kill the mosquitoes?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll find out tomorrow.’

Pierre put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘Can’t you go faster?’

‘No,’ said Jim, ‘not yet.’

Pierre groaned. ‘Jim, you’re so boring.’ He laughed. ‘But that’s OK.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jim.

‘I’ll probably be boring too when I’m old and twenty-five like you.’

An image of Pierre at fifteen, in his worn green irregular army uniform, a battered Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, flipped into Jim’s mind. Now the boy, once named Man Bites Dog, was just a teenager watching the world go by. Jim grinned. ‘Let’s hope so.’

‘So what’s happened to Jane? Please nothing bad.’

‘Nothing bad,’ said Jim.

‘Go on.’

‘Nothing bad.’

‘You can tell me, Jim.’

Jim stamped on the accelerator and the Veyron shot forwards.

‘Whoah!’ said Pierre. ‘This is great!’

Jim looked into his rear-view mirror. Was that the flash of a speed camera?

A broad smile slowly spread over Professor Cardini’s face. He slapped the side of his right leg with his giant gnarled hand. ‘Ha.’ He laughed, in a single deep rumble. ‘Plucky,’ he said, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Dear Kate,

I appreciate your honesty in the matter. Over the years I, too, have had my reservations.

If you can come to my office at eleven thirty tomorrow I have something I would like to share with you.

I hope that will be a convenient time as my schedule is very tight.

Sincerely,

Cardini

Kate sat in front of her Notebook, holding a cup of tomato soup, which she put down – she was worried that when she read Cardini’s email she might drop it.

‘Oh,’ she said. She sagged in her chair with relief. Thank goodness he’s cool, she thought. Perhaps he wasn’t such a horrible man, after all. She remembered the look he had given her as she’d left the laboratory and shivered, then picked up the soup and sipped.

Dear Professor,

See you at eleven thirty tomorrow.

Kate

Jim threw the presentation down in disgust on the distressed gilded-leather-covered desk top. He looked up at Stafford, his butler, who sat on a delicate eighteenth-century chair opposite him. ‘How can this be so hard?’ he said, his voice tinged with despair. ‘If I dig a well, people might get poisoned by arsenic in the ground water, or some local guy’ll start charging for access. If I hand over money to someone else to give away, they drive around in an SUV lording it over starving people. If I pay five hundred dollars to ten thousand families, the money leaks away, and before you know it, they’re depending on me to keep paying. What am I supposed to do? How can you give money away without polluting everything?’

‘As you say, it’s not easy,’ said Stafford, quietly.

‘Most of these projects,’ said Jim, springing up, ‘are just filling in for evil governments who go around stealing all their people’s stuff.’ He threw his hands into the air. ‘Rather than funding boatloads of food, I’d be better off sponsoring an invasion to kick bastards like that out.’

‘It’s been attempted,’ observed Stafford.

‘Well, I’m trying to give my money to charity, not start another United Nations.’

‘Quite.’

‘So what’s the answer?’ wailed Jim.

‘Determination?’ suggested Stafford, with a hint of irony.

‘Well, this thing tomorrow better not be another British middle-class lifestyle sponsorship plan playing at being a charity.’

Stafford stiffened a little. ‘It’s a research group and it looks very interesting.’

‘Mosquitoes,’ growled Jim. ‘I hate them.’ Then he smiled. ‘If the professor drives a Merc, I’m not putting in a single penny.’

‘Professors are allowed nice cars, you know. You’re funding a scientist not a saint, are you not?’

Jim wrinkled his nose, as if there were a very smelly piece of cheese under it.

Stafford rose. ‘Would you like some lunch?’

‘It’s OK,’ said Jim. ‘I’m going out – I’m dying for a Big Mac.’

Stafford tried not to look aghast, but failed.

The real-tennis court echoed to the grunts of Jim’s physical exertion and the thumping of staccato steps on the floor mats. His fists made slapping, squeaking sounds on the receiving gloves of his coach. He was sweating profusely.

‘Stop,’ said the coach.

Jim straightened.

‘Very good, you showed a lot of speed there.’

Jim grimaced. ‘Trouble is, Pat, I don’t feel I’m making any progress.’

‘You’re doing fine. You learn fast.’

‘But it’s not real, it’s just play-fighting.’

Pat pursed his lips. ‘It’s close enough.’

‘I need to do it without this head guard on, under real conditions.’

Pat drew a breath. ‘But you’ll get hurt.’

‘Pat, I’m not doing this to look cool. I’m doing it for my own protection.’

‘I know. You said.’

‘I’d have you punch the lights out of me but I can’t take it to the side. I’m all screwed up there.’

‘I remember you telling me so.’

‘But I have to be able to react in a real situation, against real blows, under real pain. I need to be able to respond properly if I get into trouble. I need to practise on something that’s as real as possible.’

Pat was blanking him. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, smiling gently.

‘Look!’ said Jim, pulling up his shirt in frustration. ‘I can’t afford to get any more messed up.’

He watched his coach recoil. His right side might have been chewed up by some large and ferocious animal. He dropped his shirt, bowed and parted his hair, showing a long scar across his scalp. ‘I’ve been in a fair amount of trouble,’ he said, ‘and next time I don’t want to rely on luck to keep me alive.’

Next time?
Pat had looked Jim up on the Internet: he was some kind of retired super-rich, boy-genius banker – but something had messed him up good and proper.

‘You don’t have to kill me,’ said Jim. ‘You can pull your punches a little.’

Pat started to take off his focus pads. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but don’t ever say you didn’t ask me nicely to beat you senseless.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Jim.

Pat looked doubtful. ‘I’ll be putting my head guard on and you’ll be keeping your gloves.’

‘Sure,’ said Jim.

Pat returned with his head guard in place and a pair of practice boxing gloves on. ‘I’m not messing up my knuckles on your face,’ he said, waving his right hand at Jim.

Jim smiled. ‘OK,’ he said, and put in a mouth guard.

‘Are you ready?’ said Pat, sounding reluctant.

Jim nodded, crouched, and began to weave.

Pat kicked his legs out from under him, then towered over him ready to land a punch.

Jim rolled away and up. In that moment he had felt what it was like to stand up against a world-class fighter. Pat’s speed was breathtaking. And Jim was paying to be trained by the best. ‘You should have hit me,’ he said. ‘Punish my mistakes … Well, punish them a bit, OK?’

Pat moved towards him. Jim could see he was going for a grapple, so he fended off the grab with his left hand and tried to land a punch with his right. Pat’s head seemed to fall out of the way of his blow and Jim hopped off.

Jim’s concentration was intense, adrenalin coursing through his body. In a split second he saw Pat consider several moves. He was going to fire a shot at Jim’s temple so Jim shot a blow to his stomach. He felt it was the wrong move as it went off, so he twisted to avoid Pat’s jab, which seemed to come in slow. Jim’s punch was heavy, given extra energy by his turn. It was a contact that scored hard. With better poise he could have fired off another shot, but he needed to hop back into balance first.