The thug in black sparked a cascade of what-ifs in Jim’s mind. At least Cardini was there. McCloud couldn’t have planned anything too drastic with the English professor as audience and witness; that would be a shade too crazy even for McCloud.
It wasn’t long before he found out how the cards would fall.
52
‘Pretty amazing place you’ve got down here,’ called Jim, jumping off the Segway and trotting up to them.
McCloud was furious and agitated. ‘Had a good look, have you?’ he said aggressively.
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Jim, and saw McCloud give the thug a nod. It was one of those nods that meant trouble.
The thug moved his hand, like a cowboy bringing his hand up to the pistol handle on his holster. There was no hip holster but the initial movement was the same, even though the hand was travelling inside his jacket for the pistol under his arm. He was watching for McCloud’s signal, and McCloud was clearly enjoying commanding his executioner to step into action. Only Cardini was watching Jim, his eyes cold and his face impassive.
Jim had learnt never to hesitate at such an instant. You had to strike first and without warning. You did not entertain doubt; you did not take a second thought. If there was a chance that a fight would start, you had to finish it before it began.
The thug saw the first blow coming and just got a block in, instinctively reeling back to avoid the next. This was already on its way and landed a split second later, as did the third and fourth. Jim shot five punches into his stomach in the next second, four more to his head in a blur of fists that made even Cardini step back.
The thug collapsed as if he’d been shot. Jim straightened up, suddenly surprised at himself and the savagery of his attack. The man was shaking on the ground, a sickening croak rasping from his mouth.
‘Swallowed his tongue, no doubt,’ observed Cardini, stiffly, as Jim gazed down at the convulsing body.
Jim bent to help the stricken figure – and a blow to his temple sent him skidding to one side. He spun round bent double, his vision blurred, his head pulsing. He took a guard and squinted at McCloud coming forwards at him. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said, ‘help that guy, he’s choking to death.’
‘I’m going to beat the crap out of you,’ hissed McCloud.
Cardini was bending down to the quivering figure, whose croaks were dying away.
‘Then I’m going to kill you.’
Cardini wasn’t helping the thug: he was feeling inside his jacket.
‘Then I’m going to burn your body and piss on your ashes.’
Jim was backing away, buying time for his head to clear. His eyes were getting their focus again. A primitive desire to say something bubbled inside him, but he bottled it up and focused yet more tightly on McCloud.
‘Stop this,’ called Cardini, suddenly, flourishing a revolver he had extracted from the prostrate man.
‘Put it down, Chris,’ spat McCloud, moving towards Jim. ‘You ain’t going to shoot either of us.’
McCloud was no longer the infirm old man Jim had met just a few hours ago. Now he was all puffed up and red, like a weight-lifter posing for a competition. His angry face seemed swollen and distorted, veins standing out on his skull.
‘This is madness,’ shouted Cardini. ‘Stop it immediately.’
Jim stood still.
McCloud eyed him with a wicked smile. He stepped forward and swung a right. Jim blocked it with his left and drove his right fist onto the point of McCloud’s chin. The old man’s head snapped back and before Jim’s next blow had arrived his body was already falling backwards, his head twisted to one side at an unnatural angle. It hit the concrete with an ugly crack.
Jim looked down at the lifeless McCloud, then at Cardini, who trained the pistol on him. ‘You’ve killed him,’ Cardini said. He looked at the thug. ‘You’ve killed them both.’ Fear flickered in his eyes.
‘You could have saved that guy.’
‘Yes, I could,’ said Cardini. ‘But to what purpose?’ He pointed at McCloud. ‘That fool, on the other hand, had his uses.’ He strode to McCloud’s body, still training the pistol on Jim, and rolled the head from side to side. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as I guessed. The body of a forty-year-old held up by the skeleton of a ninety-year-old. You snapped his neck.’
Jim didn’t seem shocked, and a shiver of panic shot through Cardini. He tightened his aim.
Jim took a step towards him. ‘Give me the gun, Professor.’
Cardini drew himself to his full height.
‘Don’t make me have to take it.’
‘Stop,’ commanded Cardini.
‘It’s on safety, you idiot,’ said Jim, darting forward and wrenching it from Cardini’s grasp.
Cardini gasped in pain and hugged his arm to his chest. ‘I wouldn’t have shot you,’ he said, noticing how familiarly Jim handled the firearm.
‘I know,’ said Jim, ‘but guns are dangerous, especially in the hands of someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ And it wasn’t on safety. He flicked a switch on the pistol, then looked down at the thug. He imagined the agony of choking to death on his own tongue. It must be a most horrible way to die.
‘You could have saved that guy,’ he said again.
Cardini didn’t reply.
‘You’re on your own,’ said Jim. He trotted back to the Segway and jumped on, heading for the lift. His DNA would be all over the scene but so would a lot of other people’s. The bottom line was, he had several friends where it counted and if anyone put him on the spot he would simply tell the truth. The set-up would speak for itself.
The lift closed, and as it rose, he thought about the Humvees. They must be able to drive out of the underground complex. The chances were that one of the floors near ground level would lead out of the building. He looked at the lift panel again. ‘G’ appeared just below ‘1’. He hit the button. Was that G for ‘Ground’ or ‘Garage’?
The space beyond was dark. As he stepped out, the lights tripped on. It was indeed a garage, empty but for a dozen black Town Cars. He hopped on to the Segway and drove over to the vehicles. There was a metal box on the wall with a clipboard below, the paper attached to it half filled with logs. Inside the box, the keys were neatly lined up and identified. No need for petty security inside a castle, he thought.
He matched a bunch of keys with a black limo and walked quickly over to it. He got in and turned the key without starting the engine. The petrol gauge flicked up and floated to ‘full’. He took the pistol from his pocket and dropped it onto the front passenger seat, fired up the big engine and pulled out of the parking space, checking the armrest for a gate key. There was a black box in the visor – the key? He drove round the garage, following the tyre marks left by others on the smooth concrete, to the up ramp and a barrier. He edged forward.
It didn’t open.
He stopped. There was a post with a grey device on it. He took the black box from the visor and waved it frantically at the device, then flipped it over and waved it some more. A green light went on and the barrier rose. He sighed with relief, the prospect of Segwaying miles into the dark banished. He accelerated up the ramp and out of a portal in the side of the massive building.
He wondered how far he would have to go before he had a mobile signal he could use. As soon as he was connected to the world he would be so much safer. He drove along the winding road that led to the highway. It seemed interminably long. At the end of it, he remembered, there was a gatehouse. Somehow he had to get past it. He could stick the gun into the guard’s face, of course, but he’d save that for a last resort. Perhaps the transmitter in the car that he had used in the garage would open the gatehouse barrier. After all, the gatehouse was to stop people entering, not leaving. Anyone inside was already trusted. He shook his head. He had to be ready for more problems.
He wondered if he was heading in the right direction. He had been driving for what seemed like a very long time. Perhaps he was on his way further into McCloud’s wilderne
ss rather than back to the highway. He kept going. As long as the road stayed perfect he would carry on down it.
He came round a hilly bend and let out a little cry of relief. There was the gatehouse.
The transmitter didn’t seem to work and the guard was opening his window. Jim buzzed down his. ‘Going out for cigarettes,’ he said. ‘Your boss doesn’t keep my brand.’
‘Sure,’ said the guard. ‘Let me call the house.’
‘At this fucking time?’ snapped Jim. ‘You want to piss me and everyone else off?’ He gave the guard the hairy eyeball. ‘I’m in a hurry to get my fix, so press the fucking button.’ He was thinking about the exact position of the pistol. His hand flew out of the window and he was pointing something at the guard. The guard recoiled, then saw what Jim was holding: a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Take it and do us all a favour.’
The guard said, ‘No problem, Mr Evans, that’s not necessary.’ The barrier went up.
‘That’s OK,’ said Jim. ‘Have it anyway.’
The guard took it from him. ‘That’s mighty generous of you, sir. The freakin’ control centre ain’t answering, as usual. Bozos!’
Jim acknowledged him with a grin then, buzzing up his window, drove under the raised barrier.
53
Will hadn’t spent many months in his own bed: his work with the US military took him from one place to another. Sometimes it was a hotspot, sometimes it was a backwater but wherever it was he would know he’d be on his way somewhere else in a few months.
Since his posting back to Virginia he had got used to the pleasures of home and family. He absolutely did not miss the action or excitement. On Sundays when the family went to church, he actually prayed he would never again be called away from home. It was a possible outcome and he did all he could to make it happen.
At home he let very little disturb him and his mobile took few calls after midnight. Only a dozen people jumped past silent mode and Jim Evans was one of them. In certain circles the Brit had become a legend and he was just the kind of close connection to make Will’s presence in Langley that little bit more sustainable. As he answered his mobile he hoped Jim wasn’t going to ask him about Jane.
‘Will, I’m in a bit of deep shit,’ came Jim’s voice. ‘I need your help. I take it I’ve still got plenty of good karma with you.’
‘A shedload.’
‘Good, because Howard McCloud, the satellite guy, is dead in his compound in South Carolina. He’s lying in about a million square feet of his own personal military arsenal – mortars, small artillery, machine-guns, Humvees, the lot. There’s more hardware under his mansion than it’d take to invade Cuba.’
Jim was talking fast and Will had to concentrate hard to understand his thick London accent.
‘OK,’ Jim went on, ‘so I’m exaggerating a little bit but not too much. His whole estate is some kind of survivalist wet dream.’
‘OK,’ said Will. ‘And?’
‘Well, you guys should get down there fast because McCloud’s got all sorts of connections and his set-up is going to make a lot of important people extremely embarrassed. No way is his shit legal. You might want to tidy it all up very fast.’
‘What’s your story?’
‘Let’s just say I’m alive while McCloud and one of his goons are brown bread.’
‘Brown bread?’
‘Brown bread, dead.’
Will was sat upright in bed, his wife turning restlessly next to him. ‘So what’s the narrative on this?’
‘Will,’ said Jim, suddenly sounding exhausted. ‘Get your people down there. If or when you need more from me, just call.’
‘You OK, Jim?’
‘In the circumstances I’d say very well indeed. Got to drive.’
Jim hung up. His next call was to Stafford. ‘Got to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I need to get back to the UK quick.’
54
Renton sat hunched forward, looking intently into the glass case. Catching a mosquito was no easy matter, even if it was feeding on a rat that he was holding down with his other hand. The blue rubber gloves, the gateway into the cage, were very thick and made the job yet more difficult, but the thick latex layer was what stood between him and the little flying syringes that, given the opportunity, would land on him and stick their feeding hoses through his skin.
Not that he would mind being fed on by a mosquito. It didn’t hurt and he had watched it many times on himself with a kind of fascination. Under magnification it was exciting to see his own blood being drawn up into the tiny mindless creature. These mosquitoes, though, were feeding on a reservoir of rat blood infected with disease. Each insect was a little bio-weapon, primed with a terrible payload. In this case the disease was Ebola, a haemorrhagic fever that killed at least half of all those infected.
He was looking forward now to when they were freed, to swarm and breed, infect and multiply, then pick up other blood-borne diseases that they would spread onwards wherever they flew. The range was important: there was no point in him and Cardini killing everyone, including themselves, with their creation. These mosquitoes would be unable to travel beyond the current malaria belt, leaving the northern world untouched. It would be the hot primitive lands of the developing world that were struck. They would again become the fallow lands of Earth, the lungs of the planet. These once pristine continents so nearly destroyed by man would return to nature, leaving the north the benefit of a cleansed environment, with three-quarters of humanity gone from the disfigured face of the globe.
The mosquito was crushed by the tweezers. Renton groaned in annoyance. He shifted his grip on the almost lifeless rat and lined up the tweezers to pluck another insect from its hairless pink skin. His hand trembled slightly as he grasped the specimen.
They were all males, engineered to be ferocious in their reproduction. They were bigger and stronger, selected from hundreds of generations for their reproductive proclivities, then engineered yet further to dominate their species. But on top of this, he and Cardini had laid a flaw, the weakness that made them the first horseman: a broken digestion. Cardini had copied the vector that had slain half the world in the Middle Ages, the mechanism of the Black Death.
The vomit of insects was pestilential.
The Mongol hordes had brought the Black Death from Mongolia. The marmots there had carried the disease from the beginning of time and fleas had jumped from animal to man, killing him with the sickness they carried. Unprepared for the Mongol or the Black Death, medieval Europe had reeled. The flea, sick itself with bubonic bacteria, regurgitated its last meal as it tried to feed and hence infected its host. In a world that was covered with a layer of filth, the fleas became tiny angels of death.
Cardini had applied that lesson to the mosquito, an animal with a defined range, yet unstoppable where it still lived. In a few short years it would leave the world a place worth living in, a planet with a future.
Renton slipped the insect into the square container with the other specimens. When he had thirteen in the box, he would stow it and move on to the other cases: glass tanks that contained rats infected with newly prepared West Nile virus and equine encephalitis, commonly known as sleeping sickness.
He smiled to himself. In a way, loading the mosquitoes was unnecessary: without the prepared diseases, they would pick up and spread all those that they and their offspring drank. Yet the more sparks there were on the haystack of humanity, the faster the blaze would take hold and the higher the inferno would flame.
55
If Jim could have seen himself pacing around the gate area of the small landing strip in North Carolina he would have advised himself to sit down and look less suspicious. His jet was heading towards the airstrip. No matter how agitated he got, it was not going to arrive a minute earlier.
On the one hand he wanted to stay behind and sort the situation out, but on the other, the prospect of sitting for months in a US jail while facts were untangled was unthinkable. He had enough friends in high places, but it
was clear that he would be better off explaining what had to be explained from the UK side of the Atlantic.
Will hadn’t called him back and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. His phone was on, so if Will wanted him picked up, his guys would know exactly where Jim was. That was enough for him not to feel too bad about getting directly out of Dodge: they could grab him if they wanted to.
Whenever he heard a vehicle, he expected a posse of police cars to sweep into sight and someone like Will to get out and arrest him. But they didn’t appear. Occasional light aircraft came and went, maintenance trucks mooched around on their day-to-day business, and that was all.
The sight of his G5 coming in to land was a huge relief, but he wouldn’t be happy until he was aboard. Even then he’d still be dreading the thought of what was to follow. At the very least there would be months or even years of trouble, a cycle of legal worries churning on without a conclusion in sight.
The choking rasp of the guy he had felled echoed in his head. He could feel McCloud shattering at the end of his fist. Those sounds and sensations would take a long time to fade.
He watched the jet taxi on the apron. What the hell had the fiasco been about? What was Cardini doing now? What had McCloud planned to do to him? Kill him? Why? Because Jim was a threat to his supply of TRT?
He walked smartly towards the plane as the stairs dropped down. He heard footsteps behind him, trotting quickly towards him. He turned sharply, but it was only airport staff getting up to speed on the arrival. ‘Get her refuelled as fast as possible,’ he said to the captain, who met him at the top of the steps. ‘We’ve got to be on our way, pronto.’
‘Roger,’ said the captain, flashing his oversized smile. ‘We can refuel in the British Virgin Islands if you like.’
First Horseman, The Page 15
