Below was a massive pink building, part modern glass holiday resort and part fantasy cartoon fortress. It was built in the shape of a triangle, like a big hotel, and at the end of each spur there was a pink Disneyesque castle. It looked like a collaboration between a futuristic architect and a three-year-old with a pack of crayons.
Jim was grinning. ‘What the fuck?’
‘What indeed?’ said Cardini. ‘Only great wealth can create such true art.’ A crooked smile crept over his lips.
Jim strained to see more of the building as the car swept around the bend and the trees quickly obscured the view. ‘Why is it pink?’
‘Ah,’ said Cardini. ‘That would be because it was McCloud’s late wife’s favourite colour.’
‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘Why not?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll look it up on the net when I get back.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to,’ said Cardini. ‘McCloud made his money from satellites and, oddly enough, there are no pictures of this area on any public satellite images.’
‘Impressive,’ said Jim. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to see it if it was mine either.’ He sat back again, wondering whether all his money would drive him bonkers one day too.
35
Renton sat in his office, deep in thought. He felt weak and ill. He had thought the wound below his chest was trivial, but now he could tell he had sustained more than a flesh wound. He had taken off his shirt and put on a clean white lab coat to cover himself.
He cast his eye over the glass vial on his desk top. Just two-thirds of the contents remained.
He would put a drop of the serum on his tongue, then read the work of great mathematicians. Under the influence of just a tiny drop, the meaning of obscure works unfurled in his mind. What was impenetrable to him in normal circumstances was suddenly revealed. Ideas that seemed isolated in their relevance seemed joined together in a tapestry of revelation. He saved these moments for special times and rationed the priceless elixir with which Cardini had bought his undying devotion.
Now he would resort to the serum to repair his wound. He peeled off the plaster, lips pursed against the pain of the adhesive tearing out his body hair. There was a congealed scab, a bruise around the wound and an ugly swelling that was growing steadily.
He had to get the samples back. The girl was irrelevant. The samples were everything.
He took the hypodermic and filled it with half of the vial’s contents. He injected the wound with half of the measure and the rest into a vein in his forearm. He felt the warmth rush through his body immediately and a sudden exhilaration in his mind. He would allow himself an hour for healing, then set off again to the house where the girl had taken the samples.
He picked up his copy of Godel’s On Formally Undecidable Propositions of Principia Mathematica and Related Systems and set the slideshow of his favourite pictures running on his twenty-eight-inch monitor.
The face of a man whose brains had been ejected by a large-calibre bullet through the side of his skull filled the screen. Renton smiled to himself and opened the book.
36
Kate looked at the long table, laid at the end just for her. ‘Can I eat somewhere less formal?’ she asked sheepishly.
‘Where would you like to be?’ said Stafford.
‘The kitchen?’
‘The kitchen,’ said Stafford, not quite as a question but as if eating in there would provide him with some logistical problem. ‘Of course,’ he said, after the shortest of pauses. Jim often had dinner in the kitchen. He smiled. ‘Come along then. It’s downstairs.’
The kitchen was a large red-brick cavern furnished with the latest equipment. A giant table in light wood stood in the centre. It was clearly the focus for the preparation of giant meals, and its surfaces carried the scars of many years’ service. Behind it was a huge Aga, in scale with the table. It, too, looked as if it had been specified to cook in bulk.
Stafford pulled out one of the chairs and offered it to Kate. She sat down. ‘Would you care for a glass of wine?’ he asked.
‘Thank you.’
‘Red or white?’ he queried.
‘White, please,’ she replied.
‘I have a nice Pouilly-Fuissé,’ said Stafford.
‘Lovely,’ she said, not knowing what kind of wine it was. ‘Did you speak to Jim?’ she dared to ask.
‘Yes,’ said Stafford, stripping the lead foil from the bottle. ‘He sends his regards.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Great.’
He twisted in the corkscrew. ‘He didn’t say when he’d be back. It might be a few days.’
‘I don’t mind waiting,’ she said, ‘if that’s OK.’
The cork came out with a sharp pop. ‘Of course,’ said Stafford. ‘I’m sure that will be fine.’ He sniffed the cork, then poured the glass and brought it to her.
‘Aren’t you having one?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps when I retire,’ he said, ‘if there’s any left.’
‘I won’t drink a whole bottle,’ she said, laughing.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Would you care for a starter?’
37
The entrance to McCloud’s house was like the reception area of a large office complex. It was a white marble space accessed by two revolving doors. A party of three, two security men and a tall, thin, sandy-haired man of about thirty, was waiting for them.
‘Professor,’ the young man greeted him, throwing a concerned look at Jim. ‘We’ve been waiting keenly. Who is this?’ There was a hint of disapproval in his tone.
‘My assistant, Dr Jim Evans.’
‘We weren’t anticipating another guest.’
‘My apologies,’ boomed Cardini, ‘but you gave me insufficient notice to inform you.’
‘This is not within the protocol,’ the man said, his voice rising in pitch as he cast another glance at Jim.
Jim stared back at him steadily.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cardini. ‘You must clear it with Mr McCloud or we shall leave.’
‘Mr McCloud is in no condition to clear anything,’ the sandy-haired guy said sharply, bristling with annoyance.
‘Then,’ said Cardini, straightening to his full height, ‘we shall leave.’
The man seemed to sag. He shook himself. ‘No, no,’ he said, as if the idea was silly. He stepped forward quickly to offer Jim his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, of course, Dr Evans. I’m Joe Marius.’
Jim shook his hand and Marius stepped back.
‘Come, Professor,’ he said, pouting at Cardini. ‘Let’s lose no more time. Mr McCloud is in sore need of your attention.’
‘Lead on,’ replied Cardini.
Marius spun on his heels and strode ahead in fast staccato steps, the click of his soles sharp on the marble surface.
There was a picture of water-lilies on the wall. Jim wondered whether it was a real Monet or a fake; he couldn’t tell. He’d only be able to judge if there was a price tag on it. If the first number was trailed by seven zeros it would be genuine – or, at least, sold as such. Artworks, he had learnt, were the most valuable objects by weight in the world. A few pounds of Impressionist made the equivalent in gold seem pretty worthless.
Jim had thought about buying some Van Goghs after seeing the old movie with Kirk Douglas. All the experts had assured him of his great taste, but when he discovered that Van Gogh had painted a thousand pictures in ten years he was left wondering how the hell a crazy, poverty-stricken drunk could have made a fantastic picture every three days for a decade. It seemed unlikely that a sane hard-working artist could have made two masterpieces a week so he concluded that many, perhaps most, of the thousand paintings must be fake. Jim lined up dozens of them on his computer screen, courtesy of Google images, and it seemed to him that, from the styles, at least three painters had been involved. However, none of the experts who fawned over him seemed to see that so he had dropped the idea of becoming an art collector.
He was trying hard not to be a member of the stupid rich. T
he stupid rich were a small but powerful group. It didn’t take brains or class to be rich, just skill or perhaps luck. A soccer star was as easily conned by an art dealer as any little old lady by a boiler-room stock-pumping spiv. A Russian oligarch might rearrange your anatomy if you crossed him, but was just as likely to fall for a good salesman flogging crap as any country bumpkin. Jim tried to avoid stepping into the many traps laid for ‘new money’ but he wasn’t completely sure he’d managed it.
He caught up with Marius and Cardini.
They entered a lift, one in a bank of three. They went up to the fourth floor and exited into what looked like a hospital.
Is this all for McCloud? he wondered.
They walked down a long hallway and Jim tried to work out what was behind the doors, all numbered. Across from Room 4 there was a double door. ‘Operating Theatre 1’, said a silver plate on the wall next to it.
Marius opened the door at the end of the corridor. Cardini walked in past him and Jim followed. Medical equipment was neatly lined up around the room, all on racks and trolleys. Two nurses sitting by the door rose and hurried out of the room.
A bed stood by the window and in it lay a slight figure whose outline barely made its presence felt.
‘Good afternoon, Howard,’ said Cardini.
Jim stayed back. The old man in the bed was clearly very frail. The lifeless pallor of his skin, his motionlessness form, underlined how close to death he was.
Cardini opened his bag and prepared a hypodermic. He injected McCloud in his forearm, then put a plastic tip on the needle and replaced it in his bag. He turned to Marius. ‘For now our work is done.’ To Jim, he said, ‘Come, we will return later this evening.’
Jim’s room felt distinctly like a hotel room. It had the kind of sterility of a planned space rather than the warm haphazardness of a personal area. He showered and changed. It would be midnight back in London and he was starting to feel the hour, even though the sun was only just falling to the horizon here.
38
Renton took the Google Earth printout from the passenger seat again. Although he had memorised every inch of it under the influence of the elixir, the effects were wearing off fast and his detailed recall was fading rapidly.
The plan was simple. He would drive slowly up to the house. Ring the doorbell. Overpower the old man or whoever who came to the door, cut their throat. Find the girl, kill her and take the samples. If anyone else was there he would kill them too. He would then take all the horsemen back to the lab. Prepare the final batches and flee. The tickets to Mumbai, Lagos and Washington were booked. Nothing could stop him.
He blinked. Now that the TRT’s effect was wearing off, it seemed so much more of a daunting challenge. Even minutes ago the prospect of driving to the door of the great mansion had seemed trivial, the slitting of the old man’s throat no more than the termination of a lab rat. That clinical perspective was draining away and a sensation of panic was welling in his stomach.
He screwed up his face in anger. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the vial. It contained a few drops, leftovers that represented a weekend of heavenly bliss and flights of genius across a limitless horizon of mental clarity. There would be so much more for him once he had executed the plan, he thought. He would have such pleasure whenever he wished it and for ever.
By the faint beam of the light above his rear-view mirror, he sucked up the drops into the hypodermic, then injected them into his neck. ‘Argh,’ he gasped, rolling his eyes. A hot sensation flooded his brain, like a wasabi rush in the nose. He stretched his neck left, then right, and felt a satisfying pop where his skull met his spine. He started the engine. How could it be anything but easy to destroy these people when they did not even close their gate at night?
The car pulled across the road and on to the gravel of the drive, which crunched and crackled as he drove slowly along. He glanced down at the handle of the hunting knife that poked out from between the pages of a road map. He imagined it at the throat of the old man who had chased him off. He imagined the blade biting into the neck; he could see it slicing into skin, flesh and windpipe. He thrilled with anticipation. About two hundred yards ahead, the house stood, dark and brooding, looming up beyond the bushes and trees.
He was grinning to himself.
Stafford sat up in bed. When his iPhone vibrated like that, droning inside its rubber bumper, it always meant something bad was afoot. He grabbed it and his glasses. A car was coming up the drive.
DISARM??? flashed the screen of the iPhone, as the infrared image of the blue-grey car approached.
He couldn’t see who was behind the wheel of the Polo but it seemed to be moving at quite the wrong speed.
He waited for the action to start.
There was a blinding flash and Renton slammed on the brakes. The whole house and driveway were suddenly lit up like a night-time football match. Metal bollards had appeared from the ground in front of him, their caps flashing blue, their lengths red. TURN BACK, said two signs that had appeared from nowhere.
Renton steadied himself and switched off the engine. He picked up the map, pushing the knife’s handle inside the main fold to hide it, and got out of the car. He walked slowly towards the house.
*
Stafford put on his dressing-gown and saw on the screen that a man, looking rather similar to the fellow who had parked outside that afternoon, was making his way to the front door. He left his room and walked swiftly down the stairs. As he entered the main hall there was a shriek. His hand went instinctively to the right pocket of his silk dressing-gown as he spun round.
It was Kate. ‘Don’t answer the door,’ she said, running towards him on the landing. ‘Please listen to me, don’t open the door.’
He looked at her searchingly. ‘What is this about?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she said, ‘but please don’t open the door to that man.’
‘Should I call the police?’ said Stafford, leaning slightly forward and fixing her with an owl-like stare.
She looked yet more panicked. Her mouth opened and she stared at him as if a fishbone was stuck in her throat. ‘No,’ she said finally.
‘Somehow I thought you might say that,’ said Stafford. ‘Go to your room and lock the door. I’ll deal with this.’ He trotted off.
Renton looked up at the house. The lights had come on inside. He could feel a new strength in his muscles as they pumped themselves up with fresh vigour. As soon as the door was opened to him, he would tell the old man that he was lost, his GPS had broken, and ask for help with the map. Then he would push himself inside the house and strike. The excitement was invigorating.
He reached the worn red-brick steps that led up to the door. He paused, feeling the knife through the crisp paper of the map.
He placed his left foot on the first step and put on his friendliest smile.
There was a quiet rustling behind him and a tinkling sound. He turned.
The old man was standing twenty feet behind him, a Rottweiler sitting on either side. The left one was shaking its head, its nametag ringing and rattling. The old man supported himself lightly on a heavy, gnarled shillelagh, the other hand in the pocket of his burgundy silk dressing-gown. ‘How may I help you at this unearthly hour?’ he said. The dogs got up.
Renton noted that they weren’t on a leash. He turned to the old man and took two steps forward.
The dogs stepped forward too.
Renton looked uncomfortably at them. They were a little too purposeful to be pets.
‘Don’t I recognise you?’ said the old man, sounding slightly angry. The dogs stood stiffly to attention and stared at Renton as if they knew exactly what he had come for.
‘No,’ said Renton. ‘I’m looking for the Porterfield Country Hotel,’ he said, shuffling to one side, away from the house. ‘This isn’t it, is it?’ he said, in a friendly but rather scared way.
‘No, it isn’t.’
Renton was wheeling around now, the old man an
d the dogs moving accordingly.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ barked the old man.
‘No, we’ve never met. Sorry to have bothered you,’ he said, manoeuvring himself so that he had a clear route back down the drive.
The dogs were gambolling slowly after him as he walked past the old man and away. They were humiliating him, driving him like a wayward sheep. He could turn and stab them, then go for the man, who might try to hit him with the stick, but he felt incredibly strong as the TRT pumped through his mind and body. He could take them all on and win with ease.
He stopped, grabbed the hilt of the knife in his right fist and turned.
As soon as the dogs saw the blade, they charged. Renton raised it to strike, but the first Rottweiler clamped his wrist with its open jaws, while the second crashed into his chest and flattened him.
Renton was pinned to the ground, stunned.
The second dog had his throat in its jaws. He could feel the teeth pressing down on his flesh, just short of tearing into his gullet. If the dog chose it could sever his windpipe. The knife was out of reach, on the gravel, and he lay transfixed. The second dog was only a command away from ripping him to pieces, like a brought-down stag.
The dogs made no sound. They waited motionless and throbbing above him. He could feel their heat.
The old man looked down at Renton, holding a hunting knife in his right hand. ‘The next time I see you will be the last,’ he said, fixing Renton with a beady stare.
Eventually he turned away and walked up the drive. ‘Come on, boys,’ he said.
With that, the dogs released their grip and ran to his side.
The old man turned to watch Renton run down the drive. His throat was covered with foamy dog slobber but he didn’t dare stop to wipe it off.
Stafford looked up at the house. Kate was standing in the window looking down at him.
First Horseman, The Page 11
