“We’ve found a mole in our supply lines,” Whelan replied. The operations chief let the news sink in slowly. “A man carrying a message to an agent Harris supposedly has right here, in New Pompeii.”
Nick felt his throat wobble. “An agent?”
“Yes.”
“And what did the message say?”
Whelan roared with laughter, and the tense atmosphere was suddenly broken. “You think I would tell you?”
Nick felt his cheeks turn crimson. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Whelan continued to chuckle. “At least we’ve established you’re no Ace of Spies.”
“So when can I go?”
Whelan smirked. “We’ve delayed the next shipment to give us time to check the remaining staff at the supply depot,” he said. “The next helicopter will arrive in a few days. Then we’ll get you out of here. Though I’d hope to see you back, once you’ve had time to consider things.”
Nick shook his head. He didn’t want to go back to the town. Not after what had happened. No, he just wanted to go home. Back to his father, and his teaching. But there was something he did need to know. “What happened to Patrick?” he said, swallowing hard.
Whelan hesitated, but his voice didn’t waver. “He’s no longer here.”
“He’s dead? If you’d arrived a minute sooner…”
“I mean he was transported, Nick. Him and most of the men holding him down. I saw them all sucked out of existence. He’s been taken at least thirty years into the future.”
Nick didn’t reply. Deep in the villa, the baby continued to scream. NovusPart had transported Patrick?
“But…?”
“I can’t answer your question, Nick. Maybe there was some glitch.” Whelan paused, his expression betraying his own frustration at not knowing. “The only thing we know for certain is that you’ll have to wait thirty years to get your answer. And there are no witnesses to it from the town. We killed everyone who wasn’t transported.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Apart from you, that is.”
52
“RONNIE!”
Nick hurried out of the flat and moved down the steps at speed. How much of his conversation with Whelan had Ronnie overheard?
When he opened the front door, he realised he’d made a mistake. There was a man waiting on the pavement. No, there were three. And Ronnie wasn’t among them.
Nick’s foot started to tap. It was his only release valve. At the desk in front of him sat the man who’d met him on the pavement outside Ronnie’s flat. A man wearing round horn-rimmed spectacles.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, Nick felt the urge to swear. To let out his anger, even though he knew it would all be directed inward. After all, he’d let them take him so damn quietly. But that didn’t stop him running through the incident in his mind. Thinking about what he could have done differently. But as soon as he’d realised what was going on, it was too late. He’d been taken to a black four-by-four, and then driven deep into the city. Now he was seated at a bare desk in a sterile office.
The two goons who’d acted as his escort had both gone, but probably not far. The occasional shadow moved back and forth behind the frosted glass that made up the interior wall of the office. Opposite him the man with the horn-rimmed spectacles just kept staring.
“Mr Houghton,” said the man. His voice was soft. He looked like an accountant, and sounded like one. The men outside: they were something different. “Two nights ago, you met with Harold McMahon and Mark Whelan.”
Nick felt his cheeks burn. Fortunately, enough of his brain remained engaged for him to keep silent. After all, speaking didn’t make much sense when he didn’t know who he was speaking to, or where he’d been taken. He felt the first push of pressure across his right eyeball. He needed to parry.
“You ate smoked salmon, followed by chicken.”
Nick didn’t say anything. His hands remained still, but only because they’d been shaking so much in the car. His foot continued its incessant tapping. He couldn’t keep it under control.
“We’re presuming they offered you a position at Novus Particles,” the man continued. “Possibly at their new attraction: this New Pompeii?”
Nick felt his lips part just enough to let his interrogator know he’d hit the right spot. The man slid a piece of paper across the desk. The hard black type of the title drew his attention: NOVUS PARTICLES UK LLP ANNOUNCES NEW PROJECT.
“Go ahead,” said the man, nodding at the paper.
Nick hesitated and then let his eyes fall to the page. It was a press release.
Continuing its strategy of identifying new ways of using its Temporal Technology, Novus Particles has announced a new facility to be known as New Pompeii.
New Pompeii will operate as a closed entity. It has been operating for several months under appropriate local and national governance and supervision, and constitutes a working replica of the Roman town of Pompeii. Using the latest NovusPart Temporal Technology, the population of ancient Pompeii have been moved to the site and are now living happily in their new home.
There are two principal purposes to New Pompeii. The first is to allow primary research into the life of a Roman town. This work is being led by Professor Eric Samson (formerly of Durham University). Results will be published on a not-for-profit basis for the benefit of museums and universities across the world.
The second is the export of unique Roman products including, but not limited to, wine, pottery, art and foodstuffs. There may also be opportunity to televise authentic gladiatorial combat and Roman theatre.
“New Pompeii reflects the full potential of our Temporal Technology and demonstrates a world-class research proposition,” said Harold McMahon, Chief Executive Officer of NovusPart. “For our investors, value will be leveraged across multiple platforms to generate sustained growth and drive significant long-term value. This will include film, television, interactive media, live entertainment, and consumer products.”
Driven by technology developed at Cambridge University, NovusPart is looking to diversify away from power generation. The New Pompeii franchise is well suited to this strategy and is in strong alignment with NovusPart’s existing strategic priorities for continued long-term growth.
Nick pushed the paper back across the desk. At least that gave him something: he could talk about what was written on it. He just needed to concentrate. Make sure he didn’t say anything stupid. He rubbed at his temples, and felt the first drill of pain shoot down into his neck.
“Interesting that they’re calling it a ‘closed entity’,” the man said. “I’d have thought they’d have made a killing if they’d opened it up to the paying public.”
Nick felt his brow rise. “A tourist attraction?”
“You disagree?”
“I don’t think it could work that way.”
“Really?”
“Most people still struggle with Mickey la souris,” he said. “You think they’d cope if everyone spoke Latin or ancient Greek?”
“Still…”
“And how would people react to seeing wives as young as ten or twelve, or young boys being openly, and legally, courted for sex?”
The man considered. “A closed entity then. Which begs the question: what exactly are they doing there?”
Nick motioned towards the press release. “It all seems pretty clear.”
“You don’t see anything wrong with televised gladiatorial combat? You don’t think the networks would object?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re effectively talking about looking through a portal into the past. If they have gladiators, then yes, people will watch in their millions and I doubt any TV network would have a moral problem with that. It is, after all, what they do.”
The man tilted his head to one side. “It would be awkward to grant them modern civil rights, wouldn’t it?”
Nick shrugged. He looked back towards the frosted glass. Saw a shadow pass behind it. “So am I under arrest?”
> For a second, the man’s eyes seemed to flicker. But only for the briefest of seconds. “You may find it difficult to leave,” he said.
“On what basis are you keeping me here?”
“Your association with a known drug dealer is not a secret, Mr Houghton.”
Nick hesitated. Ronnie? “What have you done with him?”
The man didn’t respond, and Nick closed his eyes. Remembered the broken glass of his friend’s front door, and the empty bed. Had he simply been messed around, or was something else going on? He looked back at the man, and then glanced down at the press release. “Go on,” he said.
“Let’s start with basics. What do you know about NovusPart?”
“They’re a power company.”
“Really? I would suggest they lost interest in that quite quickly. The moment they figured out they could use their tech for something far more interesting, in fact.”
Nick didn’t say anything.
“So you think there’s nothing wrong with it? A private company able to manipulate the past?”
“You tell me.”
“You don’t think they should be stopped?”
“Why should they?”
“If you look at all the opinion polls, they’ll tell you that a majority of the public want NovusPart closed down. They share the same view as your father, that it’s too risky to let a corporation have control over the timeline.”
Nick didn’t say anything.
“So why do you think the politicians ignore it? Why isn’t it an issue? Okay, let me put it another way.” The man paused. The rattle of Nick’s foot grew louder. “How did Tiberius become emperor of Rome?”
Nick’s mind blanked. “I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do; it’s an easy enough question.”
Parry. “He was chosen heir of Augustus.”
“Interesting,” said the man. “Then Tiberius must have been Augustus’ son?”
“No,” said Nick. “He was his stepson. But I can see where you’re going with this…”
“Enlighten me.”
“Augustus had no sons. Tiberius only became emperor because everyone else…”
“Yes?”
“They all died,” said Nick, trying to keep his voice neutral. Academic. “Marcellus, the first in line, and then Augustus’ grandchildren: Lucius, Gaius and Posthumus. Oh, and Tiberius’ brother, Drusus.”
For a moment the man didn’t say anything. He just nodded. Looked down at the press release. Looked back across the table. “That’s a lot of bad luck,” he said. “And the next emperor? Didn’t Caligula have any older brothers?”
“Yes,” said Nick. “But they died before Tiberius.”
“But I’m confused: Caligula inherited the empire jointly with a young man called Gemellus, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Nick.
“And what happened to him?”
“He died.”
“And Nero took over after the Emperor Claudius. But Nero was an adopted son, whereas Claudius also had a biological son called Britannicus.”
“Yes,” said Nick.
“And what happened to Britannicus?”
“He died.”
The man sitting opposite gave a satisfied smile. “You see how easy it is to pluck the strings of power? It’s just, back then, they controlled the future by taking action in the present. Now, NovusPart controls the present by manipulating the past.”
Nick thought of Ronnie. Thought of all the conspiracy theories he’d spouted. “You can’t be serious,” he said.
“Why not? Why do you think every previous generation has had its political titans, and yet we’re run by a bunch of timid sheep? Where are the people who bestride our stage? Where is our Disraeli? Our Churchill? Our Thatcher? Why have they suddenly all gone missing?”
Despite himself, Nick chuckled. Some of the tension left him. His foot came to a sudden rest. “Missing people, eh?”
“No,” said the guy. His eyes had narrowed to small points of black. “Not missing. Taken.”
Nick looked towards the door. Was this all so much bullshit? Was he actually under arrest? Or had he just been taken by the same fruitcakes who’d hatched the plot to kill the young man at the British Museum? “I don’t buy into conspiracy theories.”
“Well you should do,” replied the guy. “Because you’re in one.”
Nick felt his grin subside. The flicker was back in the man’s eyes. Dancing back and forth. But this time not excited. Just angry. “I was just five years old when I saw my brother transported,” the man said. “Five. But I can still see him reaching out to me as he was sucked from existence. He was something of a prodigy. And he didn’t want to be a pilot, or an astronaut, or a fireman. He wanted to be prime minister. Maybe he made it. But maybe he also made an enemy of NovusPart. And maybe they changed how things turned out.”
The guy was serious. He believed it. This wasn’t idle chatter. The threat was real. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to accept their job offer.”
“I already have.”
“Good.”
“But you need to understand,” said Nick. “The position is… there’s a six-week trial period.”
“Then you’d better impress them,” said the man. “Keep your nose clean, wait for me to contact you, and then maybe together we can find out what they’re really doing in New Pompeii.”
Nick nodded. But the man hadn’t finished. “There’s one other question,” he said. “One I can’t believe you haven’t asked yourself.”
“The others at the British Museum…”
“That’s right. A team tried to kill Whelan’s son.”
Nick gasped. He hadn’t known who the “young man” was. “I was something of a patsy.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied the man. “All the others were transported. Sucked into the future, along with Whelan’s son. But not you.”
“I told you, I was there by mistake.”
“Not really a problem for NovusPart though, right? You were part of the problem. The solution was simple enough. They should have taken you along with all the others. You were a threat that should have been eliminated.”
“So why didn’t they take me?”
“NovusPart can’t perform near-past transports. They have to wait thirty years. So the decision wasn’t taken on the night of the Peking Man exhibition. It’s going to be taken in the future, not the present. So at some point between now and then, you must affect the timeline in some way that means you can’t be moved.”
“Like what?”
“That’s the mystery. And the interesting thing is: they don’t know themselves. Not yet. And maybe not for a long time. But it’s clear you’re no longer a pawn. You have value. And so they pull you close, Mr Houghton. Somewhere where they can keep an eye on you.”
Mr Houghton. Nick hesitated. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said.
“Everyone just calls me Harris.”
53
THEY HADN’T TRANSPORTED him.
They hadn’t transported him from the British Museum when they’d taken all the others. Nick thought back to Ronnie’s empty bed. The steaming cup of coffee. Had they taken him as well? Just like they’d taken Patrick and the men who had attacked them at the bathhouse?
The bathhouse. Nick squirmed. He’d not been transported from there either. Maybe Harris was right, and he was too important to the timeline. The puzzle remained though: what was he expected to do? And did Whelan or McMahon have any idea?
He shook his head. A few days. Whatever was expected of him, it would almost certainly happen in the next few days. Before the helicopter came. Before he left New Pompeii. Because whatever he was going to end up doing, it surely wouldn’t happen in the control villa. No. At some point soon, he’d be heading back into town.
He needed to think. Needed to work out the punchline before the joke was told. Or else just let the events unfold and risk finding himself expendable. Beca
use even though Harris had told him he was no longer a pawn, the most valuable chess piece could find itself sacrificed if the situation was right. And whatever had happened to him in the last few days, he certainly didn’t want to die.
Perhaps the thought of his own death should have made him flinch, but this time it didn’t. He reached for the tablet. The machine had been placed back by his bed while he’d been sleeping. He was simultaneously annoyed that he’d not managed to break it, and also glad that he hadn’t. Because although he couldn’t see all the facets of his situation, there was one big question that formed part of the puzzle: what had happened to Professor Samson?
The answer might not be relevant – but for the time being it was his only way forward. Unfortunately, Samson’s notes continued to be an unyielding and frustrating read. It was as if Samson had just wandered around the town scribbling down anything that caught his eye. Worse were the tangents; there was a long entry concerning what would have happened if Hitler had been killed prior to 1933. Several pages were dedicated to potential outcomes. Almost as if he’d started to research a new TV show. Which might have made sense, if it wasn’t such a well-worn topic. He skimmed several more pages, then stopped when a line caught his eye.
[[CHECK HANDWRITING]]
Nick focused on the tablet’s screen. In the paragraph below the line a German word had been spelt incorrectly, and the sentences around it didn’t make sense.
[[CHECK HANDWRITING]]
He smiled. Samson’s notes had been typed up by someone. Someone who was having trouble reading the originals.
That made sense. From what he’d seen, NovusPart didn’t wave their hi-tech gadgets around in front of the locals. The smoke and mirrors was all low-tech stuff; maybe so they could keep upping the ante. Which meant Samson’s notes had probably been first written on paper – or maybe even wax tablet.
Somewhere, therefore, were the original notes. Perhaps they would make more sense than the version on the tablet. Perhaps they contained information that didn’t make the official cut.
There was a sharp knock at the door. It opened and a man wearing a white coat entered.
New Pompeii Page 22
