First Horseman, The (25 page)

He dried himself, peed again – another vast amount – then rubbed his hot face with a damp flannel. The serum was still burning through him, although the mental acceleration had all but left him. His mind felt numb and stultified.

He went into the bedroom, dressed, collected his suitcase and went outside, bouncing determinedly along the corridor past Cardini’s suite and down the stairs. He would wait outside in the fresh early-morning air for the cab. The heat racing through his body was making him feel uncomfortable.

Cardini sat up a little straighter in bed when he heard Renton’s footsteps coming down the hall. He dropped his iPad on to his lap and listened as they passed his door and faded. He picked up the tablet and sent the email to the lab technicians not to come to work today. They were all on twenty-four-hour call so the chance of them missing the message was remote. Of course, he mused, if it had been an instruction to do some work it would not have been universally received, but as it was an invitation to indolence it would be acted upon by all.

He got out of bed and adjusted his cotton pyjamas, his great hands trembling. The clumsiness was rising quickly in him, his fingers heavy and fumbling. He sat down on the bed and dipped his head in thought.

Tonight would bring the optimal moment at which to administer his treatment. A second too early, and his overall life span would be shortened; too late, and he would live as though he were much older. He had begun the treatment far later than would be truly effective for him, but far earlier than McCloud, who had started after his human span was already past.

Yet, like McCloud and Renton, Cardini too was now gambling with the elixir to buy himself more than just time. He had formulated a simple plan that revolved around Evans. The strange young man was the simple solution to all of his concerns, if only Cardini could convince him.

Yet there was a serious risk. Evans was dangerous, unpredictable and strangely hard to read. Cardini had dealt with many rich men but none as young or as mysterious. The super-rich were normally either born into it, lucky or a decadent mix of smart, brazen criminality. Jim Evans didn’t fit into any of these categories.

Cardini would treat himself and use the temporary acceleration of the TRT to bend Evans to his will. It would be but a tiny sacrifice to his optimum lifespan but it had to be done. He took the vial from his bag. Was it truly worth swapping a whole day of his life just to feel strong enough to deal with a young man of the same age as his worshipping students?

He broke the end off the glass ampoule.

Jim woke up. The sun was shining through the mullioned windows, throwing a glowing dusty light across the bedroom. Kate was dressed, putting her shoes on. ‘What’s up?’ he said sleepily.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Go where?’

‘My folks,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen them in ages.’

‘Do you have to go now?’

‘Yes,’ she said, not looking at him.

‘OK.’ He watched her put on her second shoe with an almost balletic grace. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

She turned and gave him a shy smile. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Then why not stay a bit longer?’

‘I need to get myself together,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get back to something real.’ She smiled at him again, as if she was about to say sorry for the umpteenth time.

‘I was hoping I was real enough.’

‘Nothing feels real to me right now, not this, not yesterday, not anything.’

He didn’t reply, just watched her looking at him.

‘You know?’ she said.

‘Not really.’

‘Give me some time. I’ll work everything out.’

‘OK,’ said Jim, wanting to ask what exactly she had to work out.

‘Can Stafford help me?’ she said, glancing at the door.

‘Sure,’ said Jim. ‘You go down. I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, heading to the door. It clunked shut behind her.

He dropped back on to the pillow and stared up at the moulded ceiling, its plaster flowers in the grasp of happy cherubs. Wasn’t he meant to be the most eligible billionaire bachelor in Europe? Hadn’t he just saved her from a fate worse than death by fighting a knife-wielding fiend in an underground cavern? What exactly did he have to do to win a girl’s heart?

He threw off the sheets and climbed out of bed, went to the window and gazed out over the grounds. Maybe she did just need time to decompress. She must be in shock. He grimaced. There was no point in trying to understand women. They weren’t from Venus: they were from another galaxy altogether.

Stafford seemed even more crestfallen than Jim. ‘I shall accompany Kate and her car to her flat. When she has her things and is on her way again, I will drive with her until she is on the motorway.’ Stafford had a reproving look on his face as if he was scolding Jim silently.

‘What?’ said Jim, in slight irritation.

‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I’m not sure I understand you.’

‘You’re giving me a funny look,’ said Jim, pulling a face back at Stafford.

‘You’re mistaken, I’m sure,’ said Stafford, his eyebrows busier than usual. ‘You perhaps take my sadness at Kate leaving for some other emotion.’

‘I’m gutted too,’ said Jim, the fan on his computer rig kicking in as it booted.

‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ said Stafford.

‘I’m going to nail that ridiculous fucking Italian retail chain,’ he said, watching his trading screens open. ‘It’s been riding high in Fantasy Land long enough. Today it’s going to go off the cliff with my boot up its backside.’

Stafford looked back. ‘There is terrible unemployment in Italy,’ he said.

Jim threw himself back in his chair and gave Stafford a gimlet stare. ‘I know, I know.’ He stood up and threw his wireless mouse towards Stafford in a gentle arc. ‘You’d better take this with you.’

Stafford brought it back to the desk. ‘I’m almost certain I won’t need it for the journey,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Jim took the mouse and sat down again. Emporio-mundo wasn’t in a business that the man in the street would recognise. It had long since stopped making profits from selling people stuff they needed at a commercial price. It was like so many modern businesses, a derivative enterprise of a derivative of the business it had once been. It didn’t make much money on selling things off the shelf. Instead it made a bomb from selling the store-card debt it created to banks, and from property, which always seemed to go up whatever the economic environment. It wasn’t a collection of stores buying cheap and selling dear: it was a huge sack of debt, finely encrusted with a layer of respectable commerce, a thin gloss of brand and the smoky dry-ice effects of frantic PR.

On the apparently highly regulated stage of a European stock market, the investment audience couldn’t care less about how the chain made its money, as long as it was part of a major European index. As an index constituent, it became just another of the many financial instruments that made up the multi-correlated world of global market trading.

If a Bloomberg terminal said it correlated with the yen, then people would buy and sell the shares of this Italian store chain to hedge their yen. If the yen was correlated to oil’s rise against the dollar, then millions of euros a day of Emporio-mundo would trade because, down the line of causality, something was happening to the dollar. As a result, Emporio-mundo was a way of insuring some Arab sovereign wealth fund against a change in price of a tanker of Liquid Petroleum Gas heading from the US west coast to Japan. Yet go through the door into the Emporio-mundo store in Rome’s main shopping drag, Via Condotti, and the fact it could sell Chanel shoes at roughly the price of manufacture would not be linked to the volatility of dollar, yen and oil. Emporio-mundo was financed by a world in which finance had become so complex that only a very few knew how all the linkages fitted together or cared that, although the correlations might be real, the business of the company was not.

The ‘new lira’ would swing violently from day to day and the media would ascribe it to one piece of news or another, but the truth was, no one knew why the market moved as it did, any more than ancient astrologers understood why empires fell or floods rose. Even Jim didn’t know why things moved as they did. All he could see was that they would move, by how much and when.

Jim looked at the Emporio-mundo stock chart: the company’s price hung in mid-air, like a ball at the apex of its flight. It couldn’t stay airborne for much longer, and when it fell, it would plummet, perhaps, all the way into bankruptcy. He could easily make $200 million shorting it. He could ring up his prime broker and borrow five to ten per cent of the company’s stock, then sell it in the market over a number of days. In the process of selling the borrowed shares, the price would tumble. The rumour mill would begin to turn, and if any skeletons were hidden – and they most certainly were – they would pirouette out of the closet to land on the front pages of the financial media. The whole world would start to sell, which would highlight the hollow balance sheet of a company held up purely by the sort of fiction that had recently brought the developed world to the brink of financial extinction.

All he had to do was click his mouse and the end of one of Italy’s best-known companies would begin. He would chop down a rotten old tree and make space for a healthy new one. The human misery would be short-lived. Within a few years Emporio-mundo would be just another almost-forgotten historical brand, its retail locations long since repopulated by other stores. It was how the market worked. It had no fear, it had no remorse and it never slept.

His hand hovered over the mouse.

His mobile rang. ‘Argh.’ He pushed the mouse aside. ‘Let some other fucker have the trade.’

He picked up the phone.

‘Jim,’ said the deep voice he immediately recognised as Cardini’s. ‘I would like to talk with you.’

‘What about?’ snapped Jim.

‘Matters.’

‘Matters?’

‘We never came to a final conclusion.’

‘We didn’t?’

‘No, we didn’t.’

‘Let me think about it,’ he said, although it must have been clear to Cardini that he would not.

‘Please come and see me this morning.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Jim.

‘If you do not come this morning I will no longer be reachable, ever.’

Good job, thought Jim. He nearly said it too. ‘Where’s your psycho assistant?’

‘Renton?’

‘How many do you have?’

‘He has disappeared. Apparently he has created a panic on the campus. I have not been back there, so I have no further information.’

‘Where do you think we should meet?’

‘At my lab outside Cambridge.’

‘Will Renton be there?’ said Jim.

‘No,’ said Cardini. ‘As I said, he has disappeared.’

‘Pity,’ said Jim. ‘I could have wrung his neck.’

‘If I see him I shall immediately inform the authorities.’

‘Did you inform the American authorities about McCloud?’

‘That is one of the things I need to discuss with you.’

‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘What else?’

‘The project.’

‘The TRT drug?’

‘Yes.’

‘The drug that turns old men and lab assistants into psychopathic nut jobs?’

‘It does no such thing.’

‘It seems pretty obvious to me that it does. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, that both McCloud and Renton are psychotic?’ said Jim.

‘Nevertheless, will you come?’

Jim’s eyes turned to the samurai sword on display above the fireplace. He got up and walked over to it.

‘Jim?’

‘I’m thinking,’ said Jim, running his hand along the length of the scabbard. His eyes narrowed. ‘OK, I’ll come straight away.’ He hung up and took the sword down. He drew it, the blade flashing blue and red. It was a savage blade, a killer, its iridescent steel surface forged in ancient times and tempered in blood. He fancied taking it with him but that would make him as crackers as Renton. He slid the blade into the scabbard and put it back on its ebony stand on the marble mantel. He turned and headed upstairs to get the Glock pistol from his bedside table.

Jim looked down the long line of supercars. Their number plates might as well have been replaced by a sign that said, ‘Arrest me.’ He peered hard at the Veyron, then took the Glock out of his pocket and examined it. If the police pulled him over and came across it that would be the end of his day for sure. Stafford had undoubtedly filed all the licences in their proper place but he had no idea where or how he was meant to carry the firearm. And if he was stopped with it, bulging in his pocket, he might never get to confront Cardini or Renton.

He looked at the gun. He didn’t need it against either of them. He laid it on the wall beside the nose of the Bugatti, then got into the Veyron. It was his favourite car, even if it did attract trouble.

Renton was sweating heavily. He lowered the window and let the air flood him. He wondered whether this was like a drug come-down. Perhaps his body was going into some kind of withdrawal after such a huge dose of the serum. The symptoms were very uncomfortable. His nose was blocked and the back of his mouth was sore. He was starting to grumble out a dry cough, struggling to clear something from the top of his windpipe. He wondered how long the effect would last.

He was feeling depressed and tired. He shifted in the back seat and rested his head on his fist, which he supported on the arm rest. A sleep would be the best thing all round, he thought, trying to get comfortable. In a couple of hours he would be taking off for Egypt, and soon after he landed he would let the horseman fly into the night skies of Cairo.

The motion of the car was making him nauseous, which was unusual. The TRT had clearly taken its toll, which was hardly surprising: it had jammed his cellular time clock back a decade. It was lucky that he’d stopped pissing like a horse – the trip would have been a nightmare if they’d had to stop every fifteen minutes. In fact, he was thirsty. The bottles of water in the back were tempting but he thought the liquid might go straight through him. He’d go without till at least they were in sight of the airport.