Procession of the dead tct-2 Read online

  He was serious, so I kept a straight face. But it was a struggle.

  "We don't need to sleep so much," he continued. "We can push on when we force ourselves, and we should. Imagine an extra eight hours to play with every day, fifty or so a week, two and a half thousand a year. Then imagine everybody working that way. Multiply the hours by the talents of the workforce. Think how much more we could achieve. The key to success, Mr. Raimi, lies in the controlled manipulation of sleep."

  "Maybe we should ban it," I quipped.

  "No," he said seriously. "Sleep's necessary. There has to be a place for the mind to retreat to and refresh itself. But we only need small quantities. Anything more than three hours a night is gluttony. It weakens and undermines us. There should be health warnings fixed to every headboard, like on cigarette cartons."

  "That's going a bit far," I smiled.

  "I've built an empire going too far," he snapped.

  There was no response to that, so I said nothing for a while. He let me consider his words and I got the feeling he wanted me to contradict him. If that wasn't what he wanted I was in deep shit, because Ifelt compelled to argue.

  "That line of reasoning falls down in certain cases," I said tentatively.

  "Name one."

  "Einstein. Greatest brain since who knows when. He slept a solid eight hours every night and swore blind by it."

  "Einstein was a wastrel," The Cardinal said dismissively. "How much money did he make? How much power did he wield? What did he ever do in practical terms? Where was the profit?"

  "They built the nuclear bomb based on his theories," I said.

  "Yes," he agreed. " They. Men like me, Mr. Raimi. Men with power, aims and both feet planted on the ground. Einstein made nothing from the bomb. He even warned against the dangers of it. He could have designed the A-bomb, held the world to ransom and made a fortune. But he slept too much. If ever there was a man who needed an extra eight hours a day, it was Einstein. If he'd figured out a way to use his theory of relativity to control the stock market, that would have been clever!"

  His mention of the stock market reminded me of something. "I was speaking to Y Tse Lapotaire a while back. He said I should ask about a deal you had going with shares and divination. He…"

  The Cardinal's darkening features silenced me. He raised a hand, the one with the crooked little finger, and pointed ominously. "Don't ever mention that fucking name here again. I don't acknowledge it. I knew a man named Inti Maimi once. As far as I'm concerned, he left my employ and is of no further relevance."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't be sorry!" he snapped. "Be silent!" The Cardinal moved to the window, face black, and brooded silently.

  "Inti Maimi," he sighed eventually. "A great man surrounds himself with greatness. I rule this city because I own its strongest men. Inti Maimi was the best. I had so many plans for him. I saw us ruling the world together, side by side. But he threw it away, wrecked my plans, set me back years. I'd planned to be out of here by now. I meant to exert the same control internationally that I do here, a king of countries, not just one lousy city."

  He shook his head sadly. The words would have been ridiculous coming from anyone else, but from him they were chillingly plausible. I caught my first glimpse of the empire The Cardinal hoped to build, a world of slaves under his control. He wasn't going to bother with the master race. No, The Cardinal wanted it all for himself.

  "Why didn't you kill him?" I asked.

  His jaw started to tic alarmingly and he clenched his fingers into fists. He was struggling to check his temper. That gladdened me immeasurably-The Cardinal usually didn't bother holding back.

  "Don't test my patience any further," he growled. "I told you not to mention his name. Let that be the end of it."

  "OK," I said softly. "But what about the stock market and divination?"

  He smiled and I knew I was safe. For a while. "Very well. I'll let you in on my secret. But this is for your ears only. I've been king of the market for a decade and a half. There are men who'd pay any amount you asked for my secret, bankers who'd go down on their knees for it. Inti Maimi should not have shared such a gem so carelessly. I'll have to take steps. I'd advise you not to get too close to that particular fallen angel in the near future. But now that the cat is out of the bag, why not reveal all? Wait here a few minutes. Finish your drink. I have a call to make."

  When he returned (more like a quarter of an hour later), he led the way out of the office, past his secretary and the waiting crowd, to the elevator shaft. He pressed a button and the doors slid open. "Six," he growled at the shivering attendant, and we descended.

  "Have you been to the Fridge yet?" he asked.

  "No."

  "But you know about it?"

  "Sure." The Fridge was a huge, private morgue, owned and operated by The Cardinal. Many of his friends and foes had wound up there over the years, and according to the rumors thousands of bodies were stored there still, though nobody knew why.

  "I've ordered takeout," The Cardinal said with a wink.

  Downstairs, after a short walk, we arrived at a large set of sliding doors. The Cardinal tapped a code into the console to one side. The doors opened and we entered a long room with simple benches set along opposite walls and what looked like an operating table in the middle of the floor. The Cardinal took a seat on one of the benches and told me to sit on the other.

  For about half an hour we waited, hands on laps, The Cardinal humming tunelessly. Then the doors slid open again and three Troops entered, pushing a gurney with a bagged body on top. They transferred it to the table in the center of the room, then withdrew without a word.

  The Cardinal rose and strolled toward the table, nodding for me to join him there. He unzipped the body bag and peeled it back to reveal the naked corpse of a man in his late thirties or early forties. Impossible to tell how long he'd been dead, since he'd been frozen like a turkey.

  "Simon Spanton," The Cardinal said. "A high-flying executive with a major software company until his sudden, unexpected demise. I suppose it was a stress-related heart attack or a drug overdose. Those are the killers of most execs who die young."

  The Cardinal slid open a drawer in the table which I hadn't noticed. He produced a set of scalpels. From a hook on the side he fetched a saw and other heavier instruments to slice through the dead man's breastbone and crank the two halves of his chest apart.

  "I'd never have made a good forensic scientist," he said as he set to work on the man's pale blue flesh. "I enjoy myself too much. You have to be serious for this job. I'd have forever been playing around with guts and bones, making puppets or funny shapes out of them."

  I said nothing while he sawed, gritting my teeth against the crunching sounds. I kept waiting for him to ask me to give him a hand but he was having too much fun. He wanted to do it all by himself. For which small mercy I was grateful.

  When he'd opened up the dead executive's chest, The Cardinal set his tools aside and wiped his hands on his trousers. He hadn't bothered with gloves and took no notice of the stains he'd left. His attention was focused on Simon Spanton's guts.

  "I was always interested in divination," he said softly. "The ancients swore by it. They thought they could see the secrets of the universe in a person's innards if they looked hard enough. They thought we were all connected on some level, that what was within mirrored what lay without."

  He glanced up at me. "I'm sure you recall what I said about connections when we first met. I think the ancients were right. If you know what to look for, everything is linked. It's simply a matter of knowing how to connect these"-he grabbed the corpse's guts, hauled them out of their stomach lining and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor-"with this." He waved a hand at the walls, indicating the world in general.

  The Cardinal knelt over the mound of guts and began poking through them, ripping them apart, studying the patterns they formed. I felt queasy but I bowed over him politely, as if he were a collector of bottle
caps showing me his latest finds.

  "I made a study of divination," The Cardinal huffed as he worked, "but I wasn't impressed. Most of those who'd dabbled were fools. They wanted to tie our innards to the elements, the spirits of the dead, wacky shit like that. I mean, who gives a flying fuck if you can tell what the weather's going to be like tomorrow? Carry an umbrella and sunglasses at all times if you're that worried-you'll be covered for every emergency."

  "I think they were more worried about famine or flooding, not what it was going to be like on their walk to the office," I said drolly, but The Cardinal only grunted.

  "Since most of the evidence-as such-was pretty flaky, I decided to make up my own rules and applications." He stopped to pick up a purplish morsel that looked no different from any other part of the unfortunate Simon Spanton's innards. He studied it curiously, then licked it and smacked his lips together, eyes distant. I came very close to throwing up, but I just about managed to keep my supper down.

  "I decided to connect divination to the stock market," The Cardinal said casually, as if it were no big thing. "I had the corpses of several executives from major companies delivered to me. I sliced them open, studied what I found, looked at how the patterns played when set against the fortunes of their companies before and after their deaths and took it from there."

  "I don't get it," I frowned, staring at the guts on the floor. "I don't see any patterns."

  "It's all in the eye of the beholder," The Cardinal chuckled. "Like with a Rorschach test. I look at Simon Spanton's remains and find a picture of a troubled man. He wasn't at ease when he passed. Problems at the office. He was stressed, even though he had no obvious reason to be. His company's been performing well of late, but appearances can be deceptive. I own a substantial share of their stock already and was planning to buy more. But if Spanton's guts are anything to go by, it's time to sell."

  I blinked but I still couldn't see anything. "So you're telling me this is how you determine what to buy and sell, how you trade? You study the guts of a dead exec and base your plans on what you see in his entrails?"

  "Crazy, isn't it?" The Cardinal grinned. "But it works. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe I'm just on the luckiest roll ever. But for fifteen years I've yet to make a serious wrong call. I rule markets around the world. This is how."

  "What if nobody dies?" I asked. "Executives can't be dropping like flies. How do you make a call if there aren't any company corpses?"

  The Cardinal smiled like an angel. "They say only God gives and only God takes away. But Cardinals can give and take too. If the Grim Reaper needs a helping hand from time to time…"

  As I stared at him wordlessly, he slapped my back and thrust his tools aside. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back to the office. I don't know why, having eaten just before we came down, but I feel devilishly peckish all of a sudden…"

  Back on the fifteenth floor, he ordered and wolfed down a plate of ribs. A few memo sheets were stuck to his desk. He examined them briefly as he ate. "Miss Arne tells me you're a natural salesman," he said, licking sauce from his fingers. "Already one of our best agents. Says you'll be running her office this time next year."

  I smiled. "That's nice, but bull. I make my share of sales. But I've no stomach for it. As a learning exercise it's fine, but beyond that…"

  "Yes, Mr. Raimi? What lies beyond that? "

  "I was hoping you'd tell me," I said.

  "In time," he said teasingly. "You've got a few more tricks to pick up before I think about moving you anywhere. You're learning quickly. Mr. Tasso told me how you handled our Jewish friend. Impressive. Brutal, merciless, sly. I like that. Most would have beaten the signature out of him-effective but so unstylish."

  "I did OK," I said smugly. "Better than I fared with Johnny Grace."

  He waved the matter away. "No blame there."

  "You heard about it?"

  "I hear about everything, Mr. Raimi."

  "You're not angry?"

  "Better men than you have run up against Paucar Wami. Nobody's ever come away any the stronger. I would have preferred Johnny Grace alive, but I'm not about to get into a fight with Paucar Wami over him."

  "Wami seems to be a taboo subject around here," I noted. "Nobody wants to talk about him."

  The Cardinal nodded slowly. "There are people who never worry about walking under ladders, spilling salt or stepping on a crack. Then they meet Paucar Wami and cross themselves whenever anyone mentions his name."

  "Is he as bad as that?" I asked seriously.

  "Yes." He paused. "How much do you know about him?"

  "He's a killer. Been around for thirty or forty years-though he looks much younger. He used to work for you, I think. Maybe still does."

  The Cardinal smiled. "That's more than most people ever find out." He gazed at his hands and watched his twisted little finger wiggle about. "Paucar Wami was my greatest… creation." He chose the word carefully. "I discovered him, encouraged him, set him on his way. He's a lethal killing machine. Death is his coin of choice.

  "I used him in the 70s and 80s to rid myself of troublesome opponents, those who stood in my way, who were stronger than me, too well guarded to be attacked in the usual manner. Wami's unstoppable once he starts. Nothing can deter him. He took out sixteen of the most powerful men in the city in a couple of years. Killed them in their beds, their mansions, at parties for their children." He shook his head admiringly.

  "We haven't worked so closely since," he went on. "Wami is too hot for one master to handle. He travels the world, killing for money, for fun. Whatever. He still works for me when I need him, which isn't often these days.

  "Now," he changed the subject abruptly, "what about a home? You've been in the Skylight long enough. Time we did right by you. What are you interested in? I'll pay for it. No mansion-not yet-but I'll stretch to a nice top-floor apartment in the business district. Or perhaps you're a riverfront man?"

  "Actually, I was hoping you'd let me stay on at the Skylight."

  He smiled quizzically. "What's the attraction? Do you like the food, the room service, the fact you don't have to lift a finger? I'm sure you can get a maid when you-"

  "It's not that," I blurted. "It's a… a woman."

  He laughed snidely. "I see. A femme fatale has her claws in you at last. It had to happen, an eligible bachelor like you. Enjoy her. I hope it works out. But surely she can move with you? Unless you're reluctant to commit?"

  After a brief hesitation I decided I might as well tell him about Conchita. "It's not a romance. She's sick. I'm her friend. That's all."

  "I didn't think sick people were allowed in the Skylight. I'll have to look into this-don't want people thinking I'm running a health spa."

  "Conchita's an exception. She-"

  "Conchita? " he barked, then frowned as if racking his memory. "Conchita…" He stirred in his chair and brought one hand up to rub his forehead. "…Kubelik? "

  "Kubekik," I corrected him. "You know her?" I was mildly surprised, but then again her husband had been a gangster and The Cardinal was an expert in his field. This might be my chance to learn more about Ferdinand Wain.

  "I knew her once, yes." He sounded distracted.

  "Her husband was a gangster, right? Ferdinand Wain."

  "Yes." He half-turned away from me. He looked confused for a moment, but a second later he faced me and his confusion-if it had existed at all-was a thing of the past. "Yes, I knew Ferdinand and his tragic young wife. Conchita Wain was exceptional. She used to light up a room like women do in trashy novels. Every man bent over backward to please her." He was smiling at the memory.

  "Then her disease struck." He grew somber. "A terrible thing. I tried to help. For once I acted selflessly, put Ferdinand in touch with some of the finest doctors in the country, loaned him the money to pay for their services. But they couldn't cure her. When all hope faded, I gave her a room on the top floor of the Skylight, so she could at least suffer where no one could bother her. Not many people have fo
und a soft spot in my heart."

  He stopped talking and directed his thoughts inward.

  This was an unexpected turn. The Cardinal acting like a human? Maybe he wasn't so terrible after all.

  "Was Ferdinand any relation to Neil Wain?" I asked.

  "Cousins, I think."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Dead. Long dead. Killed."

  "How?"

  "The money I loaned him to cover Conchita's medical bills? He fell behind on the repayments."

  He said nothing further and I was too shocked to break the silence. Human? The Cardinal? Not a chance.

  "Anyway," he started up again, "back to business. There's an old acquaintance I want you to visit. Cafran Reed. He owns a restaurant not too far north of here. He's an old adversary of mine. Not a foe, you understand-I like Cafran and want no harm to come to him. We're sparring partners. Every so often I send one of my agents out to him with a new insurance offer, and every time he sends it back unsigned. It's a game, an interesting little battle we've been staging for years. He's one of the few men I haven't been able to get on my side, one of the rare birds I haven't tagged."

  "Is he wealthy?" I hadn't heard of him before, and by that time I knew most of the major movers and shakers.

  "No. I don't want to snare Cafran Reed to make money. I want him because of the challenge. He doesn't want insurance or protection. He believes in taking life as it comes, dealing with crises only as they arise. If you can convince him-by fair means, let me stress again, not foul-that it would be in his benefit to take out one of our policies, I would be most impressed."

  "And if I fail?"

  He sniffed. "As I said, I've sent my best people to him before. I don't expect you to win him over. I'm more interested in the manner of your failure than the slim possibility of your success. I want to see how you handle a man like Reed, how you try to crack an impenetrable nut. There will be no penalties. Look on it as a trial test, where the experience is more important than the result.