by Iain King
Someone tried to encourage the woman who had given the second presentation to go, but she clearly wasn’t keen. Someone else was being talked about, but for some reason everybody decided they weren’t suitable.
Then there was a suggestion that the brightest person in the room should go. Another voice said it should be the person who got their thinking this far. They needed an expert in military theory, and also someone who had met Juma and Placidia.
It took just a few more moments for the lecture hall to come to a consensus as to who should accompany Dick Roosevelt in reviewing the arrangements. As he felt the eyes turn towards him, Myles accepted that he didn’t really have much choice.
Myles was going back to Rome.
Twenty-Seven
Las Vegas, USA
Paul Pasgarius the Third’s cabriolet had been washed and polished by illegal migrants while he slept – migrants he felt no obligation to pay – and now glinted in the setting Nevada sun. He swung the vehicle round the junction, and began to cruise along the boulevard.
Paul raised his shades to admire two women walking beside the road. He slowed the car. When the women glanced down at the sidewalk, deliberately ignoring him, he just put more gum in his mouth and accelerated away. Those ladies didn’t know what they were missing, he grinned to himself.
It was just a short drive to his office. He left his car with an attendant and sauntered in. His three staff were already working, monitoring screens, but not too busy. He grunted an acknowledgement to them, then strolled into his own private room, and closed the door behind him.
From the notifications on his screen, he already knew there was no unusual activity. Or at least, not an unusual amount of it. As always, a few clever novices were trying to scam the online poker, and some guys were getting lucky on the slots. It always happened at the start of the evening. But Paul Pasgarius the Third’s computer algorithm told him what was really unusual. It watched for certain tricks: special betting patterns, and evidence of card counting or accomplices on the staff. None of that was happening. The clever novices would soon find the online settings turning against them. And the lucky guys on the slots, unless they had the rare courage to quit early, would end their night with less money than they started.
It would be a quiet few hours. And that meant, for Paul, lucrative ones. He leant back in his chair, and peeled open a magazine. The headline article was about scams used by gamblers in ancient Rome, and how some of today’s most common con tricks harked back to the imperial city.
He was about to start reading when an alert flashed on the corner of the screen. He frowned, disconcerted by the words ‘Unknown Caller’. Whoever it was, they were cloaking their location. It wasn’t one of the big casinos. Probably no one in Las Vegas at all. He put on his headset and answered.
‘Er, Hello.’ Paul listened carefully, waiting for words to emerge from the static.
When the voice did come through, it was garbled. Very garbled. ‘Paul Pasgarius the Third.’
The voice was so heavily disguised, Paul couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. He also wasn’t sure whether he was being told his name or asked a question.
‘Er yes, this is Paul Pasgarius the Third,’ he replied. ‘CEO of Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated.’
More silence. Then a single word: ‘Good’.
‘How may I help you?’
‘I need certain electronic material to be loaded onto a computer.’
Paul paused, trying to understand the command. ‘Er, your computer?’
‘No,’ came the response. ‘I think we both know what we’re talking about here.’
‘Ah,’ said Paul. He put more gum in his mouth, giving him time to think. ‘Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated is licensed by the Nevada Gaming Control Board,’ he said, rushing the words out in case he was being tested by someone official. ‘I comply with all the state regulations and laws.’ He almost added the words, ‘And I operate according to the highest ethical standards,’ but it was too much of a lie, even for him.
‘You will not have to breach any laws or regulations – in Nevada,’ came the reply.
Paul clutched the headphones to his ears. ‘OK,’ he mused, slowly.
‘Good,’ came the reply. ‘Because that means no one will ever get to hear about…your activities.’ The voice trailed off.
Paul Pasgarius the Third gulped, wondering how the anonymous caller had learned about his misdemeanours.
‘You know what I’m talking about?’ asked the voice.
Paul thought of trying to bluff it out. Or pretending there was nothing wrong with the special ‘parties’ he went to – parties he paid to attend and where he was guaranteed a good time, usually with very young girls. But his licence was at stake. It wasn’t worth the risk. ‘Maybe I do,’ he admitted. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Then he listened while the voice gave precise details on what they wanted.
‘OK,’ concluded Pasgarius. ‘I can do that for you. Just once, you understand. And, your name – what can I call you?’
He still wondered whether he was talking to a man or a woman, and hoped the caller’s answer would settle his curiosity. But the one word response from the voice just left him even more puzzled than before.
‘Constantine.’
‘Constantine, huh?’
‘You got it.’
Paul Pasgarius the Third frowned. He swung his chair round, and gazed across at the fountains of Caesar’s Palace opposite. ‘Wasn’t there an Emperor called that?’ he asked.
But the caller had already gone.
Day IV
Twenty-Eight
JFK Airport, New York
Helen managed to say goodbye to Myles in the airport’s secure departures area – there was no time for them to enjoy each other’s company properly. ‘Myles, it feels funny you going back to Rome without me,’ she said.
‘I wish you were coming along…’
The final call for Myles’ flight came over the tannoy. Myles felt Helen’s fingers intertwine with his. He pulled her close, then kissed her. He could tell she was nervous.
Helen gripped his hand tightly, and leant back so she could inspect his face. ‘Call me – every day – OK?’ she asked.
‘I will. And you call me if I forget – right?’
‘You got it.’ She let him go, and kept waving at him until he had disappeared from view.
Myles wasn’t sure what he had become involved in, but he felt duty-bound to see it through. Especially with the Senator still held hostage. But he also knew he had only seen part of the problem so far. In particular, there were three things he still couldn’t understand:
Why was Placidia trying to destroy America?
How had the idealistic young woman he knew at university become a terrorist?
And could she really make the US fall like the Roman Empire?
He hoped this trip to Rome would help him unlock the puzzles. But he also knew there was a fourth puzzle, one to which he didn’t want the answer: his feelings for Placidia. The thought of her still stopped him from thinking. And he needed to think, he told himself, if he was to stop whatever Placidia and Juma had planned.
Dick Roosevelt helped Myles with his bags at Rome’s Ciampino airport. There was also a Roosevelt Guardian car waiting for them, ready to take them to the conference venue in the city centre – a short drive. As they had been trained, the private security men treated Myles as a VIP – opening doors for him, calling him ‘sir’, and making sure newspapers and other material were ready for him inside. Although Myles found it more amusing than flattering, he could see how seductive it could be. ‘This is how you treat all your guests?’ he asked.
‘All part of the Roosevelt Guardian service, Myles,’ replied Roosevelt junior. ‘All part of the service.’
Myles and Richard Roosevelt relaxed in the back seats of the firm’s armoured limousine as the vehicle swished towards the centre of Rom
e. Through heavily tinted windows, Myles could see Italian daily life, and wondered how much had changed since imperial times. A mother disciplined her child, old men chatted at an outside table, and a trader stacked boxes of fruits for market. As they drove further, Myles saw foreigners from all over Europe and America who had come to see the city sights for themselves – just as people from all over the Empire travelled to Rome in its heyday. It could all have happened two thousand years ago.
As they neared the city centre, Myles saw more of the historic architecture: paving stones, statues and arches, all worn down by two millennia of weather and events. Famous columns to honour senators and nobles, the central forum, a victory statue… The car passed the famous Victor Emmanuel monument – not two thousand years old but barely one hundred, completed to celebrate the unification of Italy and lauded by the Italian dictator Mussolini in his doomed attempt to create an imperial legacy of his own. It was another reminder that Rome had gone through some tragic episodes since its most glorious days.
Myles saw huge churches – this city was the epicentre of the Catholic faith.
When they turned down a narrow medieval street, Myles saw buildings which had probably been built in the Renaissance. Tourists threw coins into a fountain, smiling as they made a wish.
Rome was a place of beauty and charm, forged by its history. The city’s past was dominated by its Empire. And that imperial legacy was always shaded by one fact: that it fell.
He tried to remember his tutorials – his lessons with Placidia… How did she think the Roman Empire fell?
He was still wondering as they arrived in the forecourt of the conference centre.
Myles’ car door was opened for him. ‘Welcome to the Barberini Conference Centre,’ said a woman in uniform.
Myles stepped out, and looked up at the building in front of them. It was modern and impressive, but built within a much older stone frame – thoughtful architecture.
The Barberini Hotel in Rome was an obvious choice for a conference. Its central location meant delegates could spend time between sessions visiting the city’s famous sites. It already had an extensive CCTV system, making security easier. And, by being in the middle of small and winding streets, terrorists hoping to ram the building with a car or truck bomb would not be able to build up much speed.
The main entrance to the hotel opened out onto a piazza. Currently a car park, the area would be cleared of vehicles before the conference was held.
‘We’ll have an outside screening point – you know, a walk-through scanner, like in airports,’ explained Roosevelt. ‘Then another check when people actually get inside.’ He detailed how he’d double up the safeguards. Myles was encouraged.
Once inside the building, Roosevelt showed Myles the corridors which led off to the left – to a café and toilets – and right, with stairs ahead of them. There were also lifts to the upper floor. ‘Let me show you to the CCTV room. The nerve centre…’ offered Roosevelt.
Richard galloped up the stairs then along an upper-level corridor. Myles followed. They approached a normal-looking door, which the young Roosevelt held open for the Englishman. ‘Hope you’re impressed.’
Myles was. Roosevelt Guardians had managed to fill the room with computer equipment of all sorts. There were TV screens on the walls, phones, whiteboards and communications kit. The two men already there – a Roosevelt Guardian drinking a coffee and a technician making final changes – immediately recognised their CEO and jumped to attention. Roosevelt barely noticed them. Instead, he extended his arm and wafted it across the room, showing it off to Myles.
‘And we’ve connected all the CCTV feeds through to here, too,’ said Roosevelt, picking up a computer keyboard. He started flipping through the images from different viewpoints around the building. Myles found himself absorbed in the pictures.
Then something caught his eye. The CCTV image from the main entrance showed two Italian police vans pulling up in the piazza. The doors opened and uniformed men started climbing out. Some were armed.
‘Is that normal?’ asked Myles.
Richard Roosevelt squinted at the grainy computer image. The Guardians at the entrance were reacting as though the Italian police were unexpected.
Richard Roosevelt asked his employee what was happening.
‘Don’t know, sir,’ came the reply.
Roosevelt changed the feed and switched to a different camera. The central staircase came into view, distorted by the fish-eye camera lens. Within moments the Italian police were there, running up the stairs as Myles and Roosevelt had just minutes earlier. Several of the policemen stood guard. For whatever reason, they seemed determined that no one leave the conference centre.
‘What do they want?’ asked Roosevelt.
‘Don’t know, sir.’
Richard Roosevelt turned to Myles. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
Myles shook his head. He was as confused as his host.
Moments later a group of Carabinieri burst into the room. They had automatic guns, which they deliberately pointed at the floor. Four of them fanned out, cocking their weapons and making sure no one moved.
The Roosevelt Guardian and the technician froze. Myles stayed still, too. Only Richard Roosevelt reacted. He looked angry and confronted the Italians. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You must be Richard Roosevelt,’ replied one of the men, obviously in charge of the special Italian police and smiling from behind a beard.
‘Yes I am. And who are you?’
The policeman looked relaxed, and gestured to his men to ease their posture. ‘Captain Perrotta. Italian Special Police.’
‘Where’s your ID?’
Perrotta had the look of a family man: when he made an effort to retrieve a plastic card from his inside pocket, Myles half expected him to pull out a confiscated toy. Roosevelt held out his hand, demanding to inspect Perrotta’s credentials.
After a few seconds Roosevelt handed the card back. ‘OK, so you are Carabinieri,’ accepted Roosevelt. ‘I have to check – you know, in post-invasion Iraq there were lots of armed gangs pretending to be policemen…’
But Perrotta had already lost interest in the American. With his plastic ID card safely stowed back in his jacket, he gently brushed Roosevelt aside. He was walking past him.
Richard Roosevelt was incensed. He didn’t know how to react.
Then it became clear who the Carabinieri were really after.
‘And, sir, are you Mr Myles Munro?’ asked Perrotta.
Myles confirmed that he was.
‘Then, Mr Munro,’ said Perrotta, his head slightly bowed, ‘you are to come with me.’
Myles was shocked. He made eye contact with Roosevelt, who looked like he was about to explode.
Roosevelt put himself between Perrotta and Myles. ‘Do you have a warrant to arrest this man?’
Perrotta’s expression said he didn’t care.
Suddenly Myles and Roosevelt felt their wrists being pulled from behind. Roosevelt was just held in place while Myles was handcuffed with a plastic snare.
Roosevelt was only released once Myles had been marched out of the room and along the corridor. Myles heard the American shout as he was led away by the policemen. ‘I’ll get you a lawyer, Myles. The police will have to release you soon…’
Myles tried to call out a ‘thank you’ back to him, but he was halfway down the stairs when he said it. Roosevelt probably didn’t hear him.
‘Can you say why you’re taking me?’ asked Myles, as they walked outside.
Perrotta just shook his head.
Although Myles was baffled by his arrest, he wasn’t worried. He knew he hadn’t committed any sort of crime, and he assumed that as soon as the Italian policemen realised that fact, he would be released. Even when he was being led into the Carabinieri police van he assumed he’d be treated properly.
He hadn’t expected what was to come.
Twenty-Nine
Rome
Myles was transported in a police van from the conference venue along the crowded streets of Rome. It was scenic, even pleasant. Perrotta, sitting next to him, pointed out some of the city’s landmarks as they passed: the National Gallery of Ancient Art, the San Paolo ‘within the walls’ church, the Opera House, the National Museum of Rome… If his hands hadn’t been bound, Myles could have imagined he was being given a guided tour.
After a few minutes the vehicle pulled into the modern courtyard of an office building. Perrotta made sure Myles could climb out safely, helping him with his balance, and Myles was led inside: a police station. After being signed in by Perrotta, Myles was guided through two sets of secure doors, and finally into an interrogation suite. ‘We have some English teabags. Would you like a cup?’ offered Perrotta.
‘That’s kind. Thank you. I’d prefer coffee if you have any.’
Perrotta nodded respectfully and departed. Myles was left alone in the room.
He took in his surroundings. Natural light was coming in from a skylight in the ceiling. There were small posters and notices on the walls. Myles tried to decode the Italian and guessed they were advertising events in the city. He even had a comfortable chair. It was a room for polite questioning – not interrogation.
Myles had experience of interrogation from his short time in the military – from the other side of the table. He guessed Perrotta would ask what he had to ask, find out what he needed, then probably let him go free. Myles had nothing to hide, so he assumed it made sense to talk freely – to clear up the confusion which had led to his arrest, and get back to stopping Juma.
He studied the room some more. The only thing which marked it out as a place of questioning was a camera above the door.
Myles stared at it. Nothing happened. Was someone watching him, or was it just recording?
Myles stood up and moved to the side of the room. When the camera swung sideways with him, he knew he was being watched.
