Rogue Empire

by William Tyree

  But the fear of falling overtook Carver. He heard no sound. He could not feel his hands. He was paralyzed.

  Then he was suddenly propelled, as if a great puppet master were making him fly. He had the sickening sensation of free falling for an instant before feeling the jerk of the parachute. He plunged in darkness toward the cold desert floor of Afghanistan.

  His legs dangled below him. His left boot was gone. His sock was gone. His foot shivered in the void, a hopeful signal that at least the flesh remained.

  Only the sporadic click-clack of small arms fire proved that the earth awaited him below. He heard someone shout in the sea of black, although the direction of the disembodied voice eluded him. Then the chopper exploded, distant enough that his chute didn’t catch fire, but close enough that he still felt heat on his face.

  Something large and sharp whizzed by him in the night, slicing his left pant leg. A rivulet of blood opened up below his knee, down his ankle, his foot, and dripping from his big toe into the never ending black.

  Now Carver collapsed, half in the elevator, half out. The elevator door closed on his gray suit, growling and jittering in place as the LED indicator blinked the number 40 over and over again.

  A woman appeared. Or was he hallucinating? She was a vision straight out of ancient Rome, clad in a sleeveless white linen stola that covered the entirety of her legs, the hem brushing the tops of her sandals. A woven wool belt encircled her waist, and another strapped her breasts firmly in place. Her hair was a spectacular assemblage of tight brunette curls.

  This isn’t a memory. I must be hallucinating.

  The woman grabbed Carver by the arms and dragged him out onto the 40th floor landing. She tried lifting him into one of the armchairs overlooking the view, but he was more substantial, more muscular than he looked underneath the finely tailored suit.

  In an enormous glass pitcher, alongside an arrangement of autumn flowers, sliced cucumbers floated in ice water. She took a plastic cup from the stack, filled it with the cold water, dipped her fingers into it, and gently applied it to Carver’s forehead. In his half-consciousness, he heard her baby-talking him in a language that he had never heard before. His eyes darted to the elevator doors. And then to the view of the Vegas strip that had started the torrent in the first place.

  This might be really happening.

  Now she spoke in English. “That was quite an episode, Agent Carver. Can you walk?”

  She knows my name.

  “I think so. Who are you?”

  “Octavia the Younger. You can call me Octavia.”

  Carver laughed. “As in Marc Antony’s wife? I think you might be lost, Octavia. Caesars Palace is a little further down the strip.”

  She held her hand out to him. He touched it. It seemed real enough. “Come with me. Nico is expecting you.”

  He got to his feet and followed her to the northwest corner of the floor, suite 40404. A series of locks unfastened rather loudly, one at a time. He stepped onto a marble floor and into a fully enclosed foyer facing yet another intimidating set of locks.

  Octavia came in behind him, shutting the outer door.

  “Empty your pockets,” she said pointing to a white steel box. “Place your belongings in that safe, including your weapon.”

  Carver chuckled. “There’s been some misunderstanding. I’m –“

  “Blake Carver. I know. If you want to see Nico, you’ll leave your personal belongings here. So what’s it going to be?”

  Then the door before him opened. A second brunette entered the foyer. Like Octavia, this one was dressed like it was a balmy day in Rome circa 100 B.C.

  “If I had known this was a costume party,” Carver said, “I would have at least worn a bed sheet.”

  The second woman spoke in a voice that was like black velvet, deep and distinctly southern. “Hello Blake.”

  He knew that voice. A new flood of memories unleashed. Madge? Yes. Madge Howland. The North Carolina programmer who had become engaged to Nico during his time in prison. The last time Carver had seen her, they had been in South Africa. Carver had traveled to their hideout in a tiny hamlet on the Western Cape to offer them a deal. Nico was to assist in a sensitive operation in exchange for the forgiveness of his domestic crimes. In addition, Madge would not be prosecuted for aiding a fugitive. But it seemed that Madge wasn’t in a trusting mood, as he soon found himself looking down the barrel of a sawed-off 12-gauge. Carver had managed to disarm her, but he had taken his lumps in the process. Madge was incredibly strong, and not in a muscular, I’ve-been-pumping-iron kind of way. Rather she was blessed with the kind of inexplicable strength that strikes like lightning, enabling grandmothers to suddenly lift cars and manic-depressives to overwhelm cops twice their size.

  Now Carver noted the Taser gun she held in her left hand. “Is there a problem?” He had no desire to tangle with Madge again.

  “It’s nice to see you, Madge.” He emptied his pockets, unable to get over Madge’s transformation. She had once been downright frumpy. Slovenly, even, with bad skin. Now her T-zone was spotless and tan. Gold ringlets encircled her toned, muscular upper arms. Even her toenails looked freshly manicured. “Who’s your friend?”

  “My sister.”

  Octavia knelt to frisk him, starting with the ankles, and moving up both pant legs. In front, Madge began probing him with some sort of wand.

  “He’s clean,” Madge soon declared. She opened the double doors that led into the suite, which was lit entirely by ancient looking gas lamps. “Leave your shoes here.”

  Carver slipped out of his loafers and entered the suite wide-eyed. Immediately before him was an enormous white statue depicting Pan – the half-man, half-goat god of the wild – copulating with a she-goat.

  Okay. Now I know I’m dreaming.

  The next voice Carver heard was a familiar one: “Has our guest arrived?” Nico Gold stepped into the room barefoot, clad in a toga. He sported a curly beard and a Roman-era Afro. The superstar hacker had always been eccentric, as well as a chameleon, but this was an unprecedented level of reinvention. When Carver had first met him, he had been an imprisoned activist who seemed quite content to be martyred for his cyber crimes, which he considered noble. A year later, he had transformed into a deeply religious and reclusive fugitive. Carver wasn’t quite sure what to make of this latest incarnation of Nico Gold.

  The hacker embraced him in a bear hug. “My dear Agent Carver, I watched the entire episode at the elevators over my surveillance cameras! Are you quite all right?”

  “Fine,” Carver said pulling away from Nico and his massive perm.

  “You’re lucky those Ukrainian peasants didn’t rob you. This hotel has plenty of charm, but the riff raff still manages to get in.”

  In Rome last year, Nico had escaped from Carver by digging a tracking chip out of his arm. He later appeared at Carver’s D.C. condo to throw himself upon the mercy of the federal government. It had come as no surprise that Nico’s DIY surgery had left him with nerve damage, but the fact that Nico had voluntarily surrendered was still a shock. “This nerve thing is making me sloppy,” he had explained. “The Saudis almost had me last week. They want to cut off my hands! Then my head!”

  After two surgeries at Bethesda Naval Hospital and several weeks of rehab, Nico made a full recovery. Meanwhile, Speers, who had given his blessing for Carver to solicit Nico’s unique talents in two prior operations with dire security implications, was able to persuade the president to grant him a non-public pardon for his longstanding crimes. There had been just three conditions for his freedom: that he remain in the United States, stay out of trouble, and that the Guardian be aware of his whereabouts at all times. The last condition wouldn’t be a problem so long as the new tracking chip remained in his body.

  Carver only wished that they had set a fourth condition: owning a phone. Communicating with Nico required an in-person meeting, arranged in advance via a set of complex security protocols.

  Now Nico stepped
behind the statue, mugging, holding his face alongside Pan’s. “What do you think of my new trophy?”

  “You do realize that possessing stolen antiquities would violate the terms of your pardon?”

  “Stolen? Please! Pan is legitimately mine. A few months ago, some gentlemen from the Italian government came to me with a very serious security threat. They said if I solved their problem, I could name my price.”

  “And your price was a priceless work of art?”

  “You know how people are when they learn about my particular set of talents. They feed the crocodile in hopes that he will eat them last.”

  Octavia and Madge took up positions on a pair of oversized recliners, watching him like birds of prey.

  Nico seemed to float to the bar. “What are you drinking, friend?”

  “Nothing, Nico. I’m here on business.”

  The hacker’s face was suddenly serious. “Oh. Weren’t you told? I’m not going by Nico right now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I will answer only to Titus.”

  “Titus?”

  “Yes. As in the Roman emperor Titus. Only I have given it an American twist. Written, it is spelled T-I-T-U-$. That was Madge’s idea. Because if Titus were alive today, he would certainly be a celebrity.”

  There was no point in arguing. Besides, Carver reminded himself, I’m here to beg for Nico’s help. If he wants to be Titus, let him be Titus.

  “So, Titus, are you going to tell me what’s up with the Roman theme, or do I have to guess?”

  Nico’s face brightened. “Yes! Terrific idea! I’ve told Octavia here how brilliant you are. Go ahead, Agent Carver. Show your stuff.”

  Carver pretended to be irritated, but he was in fact pleased. It was rare that he had the opportunity to flex his substantial intellect with others. “If memory serves,” he said, “when we met at Lee Federal Penitentiary, you were studying Cornish, Muskogee, Aramaic and Coptic. All dead languages. And when I came in tonight, I couldn’t help but notice several sheets of handwritten paper in a script that I had never seen before. Therefore, I’m going to guess that you have sequestered yourself here for some sort of language immersion exercise. A very dead Roman language immersion, to be precise.”

  His three hosts clapped. “Bingo on the linguam immersionis,” Nico said. “But can you deduce what dead Roman language we are in fact studying?”

  “Hmmm. Despite the fact that you just used Latin, it’s far too pedestrian for your taste.”

  Nico threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “Guilty as charged! Go on!”

  “Hellenistic Greek would technically fall under the geography of the Roman Empire, but again, being a stickler for languages that are truly dead, not just sort of dead, you would disqualify it since it is still used as the liturgical language of the Greek Orthodox Church.”

  “Correct. And yes, it’s really more of a zombie language than a truly dead one.”

  “And if I know you, you’re also going to snub most languages from lands that the Romans conquered and occupied, such as Coptic, or Biblical Hebrew. If you go Roman, you’re going to go all the way.”

  At this, Octavia applauded. “Are you psychic? I proposed that we study Coptic, and that is exactly what Titus said to me!”

  Carver acknowledged her with a slight bow before returning his gaze to Nico, who now hung on Carver’s every word. “For the sake of authenticity, you’re going to use a language that was purportedly developed in what became the Roman heartland before the birth of Christ. For example, Oscan was an indigenous tribal language near what became the capital city, Rome, last spoken around 100 AD.

  Nico grinned. “You’re getting warm. Go on...”

  “So Oscan would have been tempting. But since it was not as widely spoken as other languages, opportunities for study material would not be as plentiful as, say, Etruscan. The Etruscan civilization occupied what is now Tuscany and Umbria, and was absorbed into the Roman Empire around the 4th century B.C.”

  Nico whooped and turned to the ladies. “Bing! See? I told you. Agent Carver is nothing less than a walking Wikipedia!”

  The ladies clapped once again. Carver bowed theatrically, then turned to Nico. “Now then, is there somewhere we can talk business?”

  His host turned to the ladies and asked in what he presumed was Etruscan if they would clear the room. They rose, disappearing to one of the suite’s rear bedrooms. Nico reclined on a flat cream-colored couch with gilded legs.

  “You look at home here in Vegas,” Carver said.

  “Where God has his church, the devil has his chapel.”

  “Does the devil’s chapel have television?”

  “No. While TV is wonderful for garden-variety language immersion, it is counterproductive to dead language immersion. Still, I have been following your little crisis on the Internet, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “It is.”

  “I see no logical reason why the U.S. would attack the Chinese embassy, though of course logic does not always prevail in matters of war. And although I find the conspiracy theorists entertaining, I don’t buy for a second that the Chinese bombed their own embassy.”

  Carver nodded. “I’m with you, but there are certain people in Washington who feel otherwise.”

  “And how is Eva holding up these days?”

  “The president is extremely concerned, of course. She told me to express her thanks in advance for your help.”

  “Balderdash. It was you and Julian who convinced her to give me a pardon. Eva wants nothing more to do with me, although I imagine she might be quite desperate right now. At any rate, now it comes out. What is it that you want from me?”

  “Some of the evidence suggests the bombing was the work of a hardline group inside the Chinese government. The theory is that they did this to force President Kang to move more aggressively against the U.S.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  Carver reached into his coat pocket and removed a small flash drive. He handed it to Nico. “That contains everything we know. You’ll find a leaked proposal to dump American debt on the open market and tank the economy. There are also dossiers on four key Chinese government officials who may have knowledge of it. Home and office street addresses. Digital addresses and handles. Known associates and family members. Organizations they belong to. Online accounts.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to do with all that?”

  “We need to know what they’re thinking.”

  Nico laughed. “Oh, you just want me to read their minds?”

  “You know what I mean. Get inside their phones. Their computers. Their offices. Surely you’ve got an application that can analyze speech and text.”

  “That’s the NSA’s job. And one that they seem to do quite well, I might add.”

  “That was before Edward Snowden exposed their bag of tricks. Look, Nico – “

  “Titus!”

  “Whatever. The reality is, if you don’t help me, we could all be speaking Mandarin by this time next year.”

  “I might actually prefer that. It’s a gorgeous language.”

  Nico stood and went to a corner table, picked up a bottle of Roman wine, and poured it into a glass. Then he reached into an earthen bowl and pulled out several green grapes. “I suppose the head of China’s Technical Reconnaissance Bureau is one of the four people on your list.”

  Carver nodded. “Yes. His name is Li Wu. And there’s also someone above him.”

  “Naturally. Let me guess. President Kang.”

  “Kang is easily the most powerful figure in China since Mao. Not content to be president of a mere billion people, he had also managed to appoint himself the General Secretary of the Communist Party and the head of the country’s Central Military Commission.”

  “Oh, so you just want me to spy on the leader of the world’s largest country. And you want it done yesterday.”

  “In the name of preventing a third world war. Yes.”

  “We
ll that won’t be easy.”

  “You owe me.”

  “Oh please! I earned that presidential pardon. The terms don’t include working for free.”

  “All right. So you want to be paid. How much?”

  “Well, let’s see what we know about the federal contracting pay scale. During the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, the CIA paid its torture gurus $80 million to teach the CIA how to waterboard prisoners.”

  “That was a fluke, and you know it.”

  “Perhaps, but it was paid. Would you say that preventing war with China is at least as valuable as teaching the CIA how to waterboard prisoners?”

  Only a fool would answer that question directly. And yet Carver couldn’t afford to turn him down. Not now. He would agree to whatever he needed to, and deal with the consequences later.

  “If it’s money you want, I can make sure you’re well paid for this. But you’d have to deliver proof positive the United States is not responsible for the embassy bombing. Something so bulletproof that the president can present it before the United Nations, and the entire world will believe her.”

  Nico pushed a button. The fresco on the wall glided upward, revealing an enormous screen. A photograph of an enormous ancient goblet appeared on the screen. Engraved on the goblet was a bearded man entangled in grapevines.

  “You’re looking at an artifact known as the Lycurgus Cup. It’s an ancient Roman goblet estimated to be 1600 years old. That man immortalized in the artwork is King Lycurgus. He’s being attacked by nature for evil acts committed against Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. Isn’t it amazing?”

  “Get to the point.”

  “This isn’t just any goblet. It’s an ancient chameleon. It appears jade green when lit from the front, but it turns blood-red when lit from behind.”