Most of the nearby containers were occupied, their doors tagged and hung with accompanying files. Alongside the usual statistics — gender, height, weight, address, next of kin — were details of how they died, when they were admitted and by whom, and what was to be done with the body. Very little of the information was censored since none but The Cardinal’s own was ever admitted.

Vincent located an internal communicator and pressed a button.

“Dr. Sines will be with you presently, Mr. Carell,” a woman informed him before he had a chance to speak. “Please remain where you are. Refreshments will be provided if requested.”

Vincent looked at me and grinned. “Hungry, Algiers?”

“I couldn’t eat in here if I was starving.”

“Chickenshit,” Vincent laughed, but he ordered nothing either.

I climbed up a couple of flights and went walkabout while we were waiting, checking the roll call of the dead, examining their testimonies. Men, women, children, cops, gangsters, priests — all were represented. Vincent joined me after a couple of impatient minutes and we padded along quietly, one after the other. It was supposed to be good luck to find the final resting place of someone you knew.

“This is where we’ll wind up,” Vincent said quietly. “A couple of coins over our eyes, jellylike blood, blue skin and a slab for a bed.”

“I’d rather burn than freeze in here,” I said.

“That’s what hell’s for, Algiers.”

We moved up another flight and I finally stumbled upon a name I recognized.

“I remember this guy,” I said. “I was there when we took him out.”