First Horseman, The (28 page)

McCloud had been right: the world was more complex than even Cardini could have calculated. McCloud had thought that for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. Of course, that was childish physics, but he had believed it applied to human action as much as it did to a rock floating in space. He had felt Cardini’s plan would magically conjure an opposing force and that only by extremely careful planning could this human cosmic mumbo-jumbo be overcome.

Cardini had thought it superstitious nonsense yet now the paranoid McCloud’s preparations were proving necessary. It was ridiculous, of course: McCloud had been right for the wrong reason. Such were the outcomes of luck.

He headed for the store room, entered his code and pulled the door open. In racks before him lay container after container of TRT, ten tonnes in total, two million treatments. He held the key to a million cures for a thousand terrible diseases in his hands, like a butterfly he would pin to a card. Everyone who died – and they died at every moment – had had a life that he had taken because it was in his power to save them. He smiled at the rows of white containers. Now he would remove enough for his purposes, destroy what remained and be gone.

He walked to the rear of the store and typed a code into a panel. It asked for another, then a third, followed by the number five. He had five minutes to be clear of the building, which was more than enough.

He grabbed a heavy bottle from the shelf, his other hand still holding the infected needle: life in one hand, death in the other.

Jim was scrubbing his hands and face in the washbasin. He had hopped, skipped and jumped down the corridor and thought he had avoided Renton’s bloody trail. Then he had spotted the toilets in Reception. If there was a trace on him it was best that he tried to wash it away. He washed, rinsed and dried himself again and again. Then he grabbed some towels and headed for the front door. He would open it with the towels and get clear of the building. He wouldn’t relax until he had reached the car.

He’d call his butler. Stafford would know what to do next.

First, though, he had to get clear.

Cardini was walking swiftly towards the back entrance. He wondered if Jim would be there waiting for him. But why would he? He would surely head away as far and as fast as he could. He might have got out without infecting himself but, even if he had, any sensible person would head for a hospital and wait out the incubation period there.

If Jim was still out front Cardini would simply get into his car and drive off. The needle would keep Jim away: it was the ultimate weapon.

He swung open the rear door, the fresh air hitting him. It was an invigorating blast. The canister of TRT was enough to buy off the world, a blank cheque from a hundred megalomaniacs, dictators, oligarchs and other men of destiny. This time he would sacrifice a few years of comfort for the smooth execution of his plans. A few carefully chosen people had an inkling of what he could do for their health; they had been given a hint that he could add a few years of life expectancy to an ageing person. They had seen how robust he was for his age and would contact him with offers of fabulously well-paid work. It was yet another ploy, another safety net for his master plan.

If Marius did not succeed in his takeover of the McCloud Foundation he would turn to the others and quickly release a new set of the first horseman. This time he would have no interference from someone like McCloud, distracting him with constant demands. This time he would be unleashed.

Cardini rounded the building and balked. Jim was sitting on the bonnet of a sports car, holding something. Cardini stepped forward, putting the canister down. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a container. He held the top between his teeth and bit it off, then spat it out and sucked at the open end as he broke off the other. The TRT shot into his mouth. Jim approached him, the tyre iron in his hand.

‘Drop the needle, Cardini, or I’m going to brain you with this.’ He waved the metal bar at him.

In a moment the TRT would kick in and he would take on the younger man.

‘Jim, you do realise you are also as mad as I?’ He laughed. ‘What exactly are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to take you to the police. You’ve made bio-weapons, for fuck’s sake. You have to be stopped.’

Cardini laughed long and loud. ‘Stopped? By you? I’ve offered you the world and in return you want to destroy me. Don’t you think that’s mad?’

‘Drop the needle, Cardini.’

Cardini was feeling the TRT flood his body with power. This was the sensation McCloud had craved, of going back to a time when the energy and vigour of the body were more than they had ever been. He felt as if he was growing, his muscles blowing up like balloons.

Jim watched Cardini. He seemed to grow: his posture straightened, first his back and then his neck. He looked a good two inches taller than he had a few seconds earlier.

‘Jim, don’t make me infect you. Don’t make me take your life. This is all so unnecessary.’

‘Drop the syringe. It’s all over for you. There’s nowhere for you to go.’

Cardini took a step forward. ‘Get into your car, Jim, and drive home to your beautiful life. Go now if you want to live.’

A calm had come over Cardini that gave Jim a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The syringe in the man’s hand would be lethal with just the slightest prick. A knife could cut, scrape, gouge and still not be lethal, but one touch of that needle and he would be infected, his death just a matter of time.

Jim moved between Cardini and his black Mercedes.

‘It seems that you really are going to make me fight you. You are beyond foolish.’ Cardini squared up to him, out of the range of the tyre iron.

‘Drop it, Cardini. This is your last chance.’

‘No, Jim, this is your last chance. Stop this insanity and join me instead; together—’

‘Forget it, Cardini. Let’s get this over with.’

Cardini was a big target, but the needle was out in front. A miss would leave Jim open for a fatal counterattack.

Jim had no idea how fast Cardini was, pumped up with the serum. He was younger than McCloud, who had been pretty fast, but much older than Renton, who had been almost too quick to handle.

He would go for the obvious shot: to knock the syringe out of Cardini’s hand.

They were sizing each other up, swaying slightly from side to side. Cardini certainly wasn’t moving like an old man: he was as limber as anyone Jim had fought.

Jim chose his moment and swung for Cardini’s right hand. Cardini drew it back, and as Jim pulled the bar away, Cardini caught it with his left hand. He swung the needle towards Jim’s exposed forearm.

Jim let go of the bar instantly and jumped back. ‘You can go now,’ said Cardini. ‘I set you free.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.’

‘So, you are going to force me to kill you,’ said Cardini. ‘Very well. You have received all the mercy in me. I will show you no more.’

Cardini stepped forward and slashed the tyre iron at Jim’s head. Jim ducked under it and danced to one side. Cardini changed hands with the weapons, giving Jim no time to rush him. Cardini nodded to himself. ‘It looks as if it is I who will brain
you
, Jim,’ he said, with relish in his voice. He swung again, this time with his best arm, and Jim jumped back just far enough for it to miss the side of his skull.

It was going to be very difficult to get inside the arc of the iron bar to strike Cardini, yet be out of the way of a blow from the syringe. He turned away so that as Cardini advanced he wouldn’t get pinned with his back to the Veyron.

There was a sudden roar and Cardini started. His eyes darted to the building and he shielded himself from the sudden heat of the blast.

The rupture did not break Jim’s concentration: it had been like a soft, unexpected punch, not distraction enough for him to take his eyes off his opponent. He saw Cardini flinch. He pushed off from his back foot, the left heading straight for Cardini’s right kneecap. It made contact and Cardini’s leg, which was braced, providing the push-off he needed to spring away from the arc of the professor’s reach.

Cardini’s kneecap spun under the force of the kick and fractured, the joint shattering. Cardini fell to one side and Jim sprang away from him. He ran to the plastic container Cardini had been carrying and swept it up. He unscrewed the top and began to pour the contents on to the ground.

‘No!’ cried Cardini, trying and failing to get up. ‘No!’ He dropped the syringe. ‘No! Don’t do that! Don’t waste it.’

The heat of the blaze was baking Jim’s back as he poured the pear-smelling liquid along the road and on to the grass verge.

Cardini was weeping helplessly. ‘Please.’

Jim walked around him, picked up the tyre iron, and threw the container into the shattered front door of the lab, flames billowing towards him. He smashed the driver’s side window of the Mercedes and climbed inside to riffle the glove compartment. He popped the boot and took out Cardini’s bag, which he opened.

‘Don’t!’ screamed Cardini, as Jim lobbed the bag through the fiery doorway. He rolled over and snatched up the syringe.

‘Drop it!’

Cardini held it, defiant.

Jim gritted his teeth. Then, with a brutal blow, he smashed it out of the professor’s hand.

Cardini screamed as the syringe flew across the forecourt. Jim bent down and rummaged through his pockets. He stood up with a vial of TRT, threw it on to the ground and crunched it under his foot.

Cardini was sobbing, a desolate wail.

‘You don’t have any more, do you?’

Cardini stared up at him with hatred.

Jim smiled. That had told him all he wanted to know. There was no more TRT. He turned and walked to the Veyron. It was hot inside the car. He reversed, looking across at the black Mercedes, which was now smouldering. He turned the car and drove around Cardini, who was crawling towards the puddle of TRT that remained. Make the most of it, thought Jim, looking up as a raindrop struck his ash-covered windscreen.

It began to pour, and as he headed towards the road he put on his wipers; they smeared the black detritus across the glass.

He rang Smith.

Stafford came into the study. ‘You called.’

‘Yes, Stafford,’ said Jim, who was scanning the gardens.

Stafford waited. ‘How may I help?’ he asked finally.

Jim turned away from the window. ‘I’ve found something I want you to have.’ He pulled it out of his pocket.

Stafford raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Yes.’

‘The serum.’

‘Yes. It’s the only one left. I don’t think a single dose turns you into a maniac.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘No,’ said Jim, ‘but I’ve had some and it didn’t turn me into a loony.’

‘You should keep it.’

‘It needs to be destroyed and you may as well take advantage of it instead.’

Stafford let out a little cough and opened his mouth as if to say something. He checked himself. ‘As you will,’ he said. ‘How can I refuse?’ He smiled.

Jim held out the vial to him. After a moment’s hesitation Stafford took it. He unscrewed the top and gave another little cough. ‘Just drink it?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Jim.

Stafford sipped, then braced himself and poured the rest into his mouth.

He stood stiffly, concentrating on the effect, if any. ‘I can’t say I’m noticing much,’ he said, with a hint of disappointment. ‘No, nothing.’

‘Really?’ said Jim. ‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing.’

Jim shrugged. ‘Sorry. It must have gone off.’

‘Gorn off?’ said Stafford, suddenly laughing. ‘Gorn off? You must be joking, old chap. My whole body’s on fire. Why, it’s amazing.’ He ran his hands down his sides. ‘Are you sure this is safe? My insides feel quite peculiar – as if I’m filling up with hot chocolate fondue.’ His face had gone red and he was beaming. ‘I think, if you don’t mind,’ said Stafford, ‘I’ll go to my quarters and have a lie-down – no, perhaps a walk in the grounds. This is quite extraordinary.’ He took off his glasses and squinted at Jim. ‘By George, I can actually see you,’ he said. He put his glasses back on, then took them off again. ‘This is remarkable, quite remarkable. If I suddenly turn into a power-crazed maniac, promise you’ll shoot me.’

‘I promise.’

‘I think I need to experience this in private,’ Stafford said, ‘or I might die of shame later.’ He put the empty bottle on Jim’s desk and walked out of the room.

Jim dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

There was a man on the ha-ha but she couldn’t make out who it was. Perhaps it was the mysterious Mr Evans. She was glad she was on the shire. It was a giant and made her look small and frail, rather than slightly too strapping, which her mother had told her was her fatal flaw. ‘Men don’t like tall women,’ she had been informed, as if that would somehow curtail her growth.

Arabella saw that he was getting up as she approached. He was going to do more than wave as she walked past: he was going to engage her in conversation. She wondered whether Stafford would appear. That would be nicer than chatting with this stranger, even if it was the mystery man. She had got used to the daily acknowledgement, the smile, the few passing words, the relaxed but long gazes.

The man looked like Stafford, like a younger brother, a son, even. He was particularly handsome, in a way Stafford must have been twenty years earlier when she had been running through head-high wheat in that same field.

‘Good day,’ called the man.

She raised her hand to him, riding his way. ‘Good day,’ she said, when they were close enough.

A tartan rug lay on the grass with a hamper on it, a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne. Next to it there was an extraordinarily large dish of caviar.

‘I’ve been told that the most beautiful gal in the whole of the Home Counties rides this way each day,’ the man said, smiling up at her. He was undoubtedly Stafford’s son. ‘And, by George, it’s true.’

‘Surely he didn’t mean me,’ she said, smiling down at him, taken completely off guard by such extravagant flattery.