Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  ‘Wollen Sie etwas kaufen?’ came a voice behind him.

  Myles turned to see the stern face of the newsagent. He didn’t understand what the man had said, but guessed it was a complaint – Myles had been reading magazines in the shop for too long without actually buying anything.

  Myles didn’t want to be noticed, so he smiled and put on an apologetic face. Then he drew out a five euro note from the money he had taken from the bus, handed it to the shopkeeper and waited for the change.

  The shopkeeper muttered a grumble. Myles pretended not to notice the comment, mainly because he didn’t understand what the man had said. If the newsagent realised he had been holding a magazine he couldn’t read for twenty minutes it might raise suspicions.

  With his change and the magazine, Myles left the shop. Immediately, he faced a row of workers leaving the building he wanted to investigate.

  Deciding it was best to be bold, Myles simply walked forward, towards the front gates. Several of the workers watched him but none seemed particularly interested. Myles could easily have had a purpose there. He looked as if he was about to meet someone finishing their shift.

  Once through the gates, Myles got a better look at the building itself. The main doors were guarded. Without breaking step, he kept walking. He passed the main door and followed the perimeter wall around on the inside. He kept on walking around the factory buildings. Through one car park, then another…

  Myles knew he had to keep walking as if he knew where he was going. To stop would arouse attention. To gauge his bearings would be very suspicious. So he just kept going, careful to duck out of view of the factory’s single CCTV camera. After the third of four sides, he wondered whether his luck was starting to fail. If he came back round to the front again, perhaps he would have to leave with the rest of the factory workers.

  But then he saw the refuse centre. Four very large bins were waiting for collection, along with other waste in plastic bags. The chance was too tempting. Myles walked straight over towards them. Then he moved behind them.

  Gambling that waste-unloading time had finished for the day, Myles spent a few minutes thinking of an excuse in case he was discovered, and wondering whether he could carry it off without speaking German.

  But the excuse was unnecessary. Myles waited until the main gates were shut and locked, then kept waiting. He had plenty to think through, and let his thoughts entertain him as he sat amongst the rubbish, caring not at all about the smell of his surroundings.

  Two hours later, he slowly emerged from his hiding place, into a half-lit area between the perimeter wall and the building itself. He watched: there seemed to be just one security guard, who loitered near the main door of the building without moving much. Myles couldn’t see the man properly, but he noted the guard looked African.

  So Myles walked round to the back of the building, testing each window he passed to find one left open. The third one he came to had a small gap. Myles nudged the frame upwards, creating more space. Then, checking around again, he climbed in and closed the window behind him.

  Myles was in an office. He hated these places. He tried to concentrate. What should he be looking for?

  As he walked from desk to desk, he saw the standard detritus of a sales office – notes and calendars, brochures, a poorly scribbled telephone number, sales cards. All the signs and paperwork were in German. But still nothing seemed out of place, or unusual in any way. He decided to try elsewhere.

  After another set of offices – equally uninteresting – he came across the main part of the factory. This was where the All-American Steak Sauce was actually made. Myles looked up in wonderment at the pipes and mixing containers. He could see where forklift trucks drove in supplies from the adjoining warehouse. He saw a giant ventilation fan.

  Then he realised where he needed to go.

  Following a yellow line on the floor, he walked through some large Perspex doors into the storehouse. This was where the main ingredients were kept. Myles walked along the shelves to see what was there. Glucose syrup, flour, concentrated tomato puree, all labelled in both German and English.

  He walked on. A water point, salt, an unnamed type of oil…

  Then he saw it and immediately he knew. Carefully, he lifted the tub from the shelf, taking a strange comfort in how heavy it was. The weight proved he was right. He put the container on the floor.

  Labelled just ‘spice’, Myles put his hand in and felt the tiny particles of lead trickle between his fingers. Dark grey, the metal was in powdered form, as fine as dust. It felt like a heavy liquid washing around his hand. He could tell why most of the workers would mistake it for a spice – how were they to know the difference?

  So it was that simple: the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome amounted to replacing a popular condiment with a toxic metal powder. Juma’s arrogance – throwing a bottle at Myles – had undermined the pirate’s own plan. Undiscovered, the doctored sauce could cause fatal lead poisoning in whoever consumed it, which he guessed was millions of Americans every day.

  Amazed at what he had found, Myles checked that he was still alone.

  He felt the burning impulse to tell someone, knowing it would be the most dangerous part of his activities for the night, but also the most important.

  Myles hurried back to the sales office and picked up the telephone receiver.

  He tried a ‘9’ for an outside line. The dialling tone changed. Then he pressed the twelve digit number he had memorised. It was the number given to him earlier in the email from ‘Dr Neil Bheel’.

  The number rang, then someone picked up. It was a familiar voice, the confident voice of an American journalist. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Hello - it’s me,’ Myles whispered. ‘Don’t say my name, please. We don’t know who might be listening in.’

  He heard Helen pause. She was surprised to hear from him. ‘Wow – er, hello,’ she said. ‘Great of you to call. I’ve just landed in Istanbul – I’ll tell you why later. You got my email then?’

  ‘Yes, I did: and “Dr Neil Bheel”, quite an inspired anagram.’

  ‘Where are you now…or don’t you want to say?’

  Myles thought before he answered, not sure how much to say. ‘Somewhere in Germany,’ he offered. ‘In a factory. It’s where American Steak Sauce is being made now, and they’ve started using fine lead particles as an ingredient.’

  ‘Lead?’ Helen sounded shocked.

  ‘Yeah – the Romans used to put lead in their sauces,’ explained Myles.

  ‘I remember,’ said Helen. ‘And it made them go mad.’

  ‘Can you wait fifteen minutes until I’m out of here, please, then tell the German police?’

  ‘Certainly. How are you doing? Are you OK? I’m worried about you.’

  Myles loved to hear Helen’s concern. It was the first consoling voice he’d heard in a long time. As he stood alone in an alien, half-lit office, on the run, he certainly needed consoling. But he also realised this probably wasn’t the place. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m OK. And you?’

  ‘I think I may have found the next source of trouble,’ revealed Helen, proud of her discovery. ‘We know Juma’s connected with Istanbul. Well there’s a plague pit here, where the Romans used to bury the victims of the disease – when an epidemic killed lots of them around the time the Empire was collapsing. I’ve discovered a new archaeological dig going on near the city walls. I’m about to check it out. It’s going under the official name of “Galla”.’

  ‘Galla?’ queried Myles.

  ‘Yes. I googled the name ‘Placidia’ online, and it came up with ‘Galla Placidia’ – the daughter of a Roman Emperor. She married the leader of the barbarian who sacked Rome, then tried to rule what was left of the Empire herself.’

  Myles was beginning to remember his history. ‘And she almost succeeded.’

  ‘Galla Security, Galla Excavations – I know it, it’s them, Myles.’

  Myles winced – she had used his name
. He was certain the line was bugged by anti-terrorism police, so now they would have a clear fix on him. He began to wonder whether the call to the German police in fifteen minutes would be necessary – they might arrive sooner.

  ‘I think they might be trying to incubate the bubonic plague,’ Helen continued. ‘They could harvest bacteria from the bodies buried there.’

  ‘Is that possible? When the victims have been dead for a millennium and a half?’

  Helen admitted she didn’t know. ‘But Juma probably doesn’t know either, which is why he might try.’

  Myles nodded silently. He listened while Helen read out the address: in the Cemetery of the Emperor Justinian. ‘Do you think you might be able to meet me here?’ she asked.

  ‘OK, I’ll go there next,’ said Myles, wondering how he was going to evade whatever traps the anti-terrorism police set for him – they’d surely know he was coming. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Stay safe, OK?’ said Helen.

  Myles was about to dismiss the worries when he became very aware of another person in the room. Someone was standing behind him.

  Slowly, he put the phone down.

  Thirty-Nine

  Bielefeld, Germany

  Myles turned: standing behind him was the security guard, a man who looked like the men he had met on his ill-fated journey into Libya with the Senator. A Somali pirate in a security guard’s uniform.

  Myles quickly tried to work out what the man knew. Was this security guard with Juma? Had the man been putting lead in the sauce? How long had he been listening to his phone call with Helen, and how much had he understood?

  The security guard seemed as afraid as Myles. Myles wondered if that was good or bad. He concluded it was probably bad, since it meant the man might do something rash.

  Immediately Myles started thinking of escape. He knew Helen would soon be calling the police. He had to be gone before they arrived. He wanted to be gone now.

  He smiled at the Somali security guard, and then picked up the phone receiver and pointed at it. ‘Hello. I’m here to clean the phones…’ he offered.

  It was a hopeless effort. Myles made for a very unusual after-hours telephone cleaner. But he could tell the Somali night guard was intimidated.

  For a brief moment, Myles wondered about throwing the phone at the man and trying to run. But then he dropped the thought. Somehow the African looked too desperate. He wasn’t like the shift-men Myles had seen clocking off earlier. This man would probably chase him and fight him.

  Myles tried to make eye contact with him, trying to befriend him. But the security guard just became more intense.

  Then the man pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at Myles. The balance of power had changed.

  Slowly Myles raised his hands. He noticed the Somali’s badge: it read ‘Galla Security’.

  The Somali used his free hand to take out a mobile phone, pressing a preset number, before swiftly returning his gaze to Myles.

  Myles remained still. He watched and waited, his hands still above his head, while the security guard had a telephone conversation with someone in a foreign dialect. The man’s guttural sounds were the same language Myles had heard spoken amongst the pirates when he was in Libya. The guard was linked to Juma.

  Soon the phone conversation was over. The security guard pressed the ‘off’ button on his phone, then put both hands to the handle of his pistol. ‘Come,’ he said in stunted English.

  His instruction, coupled with an unmistakeable pointing gesture from the gun barrel, clearly directed Myles to walk back towards the storeroom.

  Now becoming nervous, Myles obeyed. Keeping his hands above his head, he returned down the corridor.

  He peeked behind him: the security guard had him fully covered. There was no way Myles could run or duck away, or do anything to avoid a bullet. The Somali could choose to fire at any moment. Myles was within point-blank range of the security guard’s pistol.

  As Myles arrived in the main factory part of the building, he checked that the Somali still wanted him to continue. The man gestured at Myles to keep walking, and simply grunted ‘Storeroom.’

  Myles nodded, acknowledging the instruction. Soon he was passing back through the Perspex doors. Then he stood and turned where the main ingredients were kept.

  Juma’s man gestured for Myles to bend down, which Myles did.

  Then the security guard pointed at the lead particles – the ‘spice’ substitute. The man held out a hand and showed a big scooping motion to Myles. Then he moved his hand to his mouth. The security guard wanted Myles to swallow the lead powder.

  Myles pulled a face, querying the request.

  The Somali repeated it, and nodded.

  Myles shook his head, refusing.

  The guard moved closer, poking his gun into Myles’ cheek.

  Myles froze.

  The security guard pushed the pistol harder, cursing him. Then he scooped up a handful of the lead powder himself and rammed it into Myles’ mouth.

  Myles choked and coughed, trying to get out as much of the lead as he could. The guard pressed it back in, and Myles felt himself involuntarily swallowing some of the tasteless metallic powder. It made him gag.

  The Somali kept his pistol rammed against Myles’ face. Myles knew he had to swallow again, or he would die instantly: a lead bullet through the cheek if he didn’t accept lead powder through the mouth.

  Myles reeled back, and used his eyes to talk to the guard. He conceded. He would eat the lead. He just wanted the Somali to give him time. Time to swallow. Time to think…

  He gulped, and felt the dry metal powder stick in his throat, knowing some of it had gone down to poison his stomach.

  Myles tried to guess how long swallowing lead would take to kill him: several months, at least. He could get medical help. If he could escape.

  Swallowing lead wouldn’t kill him, but the security guard’s sidearm would. Myles had to play along.

  The security guard stepped back, keeping his gun firmly aimed at Myles. He allowed the Englishman a few moments for the lead to settle. Then he indicated Myles had to take more.

  Myles knew he had to think quickly now. Giving himself as much time as possible, he gradually picked up more of the grey powder.

  He checked with the Somali, who still held him at gunpoint. The guard nodded in understanding, almost in sympathy. He was confirming: yes, you should eat it, and yes it will kill you.

  Then Myles realised: the guard expected the lead to kill him quickly. It meant the Somali would wait for the poison to work, but then would get angry as Myles continued to survive. Angry enough to kill him.

  Myles moved the powder towards his mouth. As he touched it against his tongue, he sized up the security guard. Juma’s man was afraid, and clearly wary of Myles trying to launch some sort of strike against him. He was edging back, too. Now five metres away. The man could easily fire off a shot in the time it would take Myles to pounce.

  Myles looked around. There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, leading to a light switch nearby. Myles could see the turbines of a large ventilation machine – probably used to blow air through the factory in summertime.

  He wished he could blow the Somali away, but knew it couldn’t happen.

  ‘Eat!’ instructed the man, his voice raised.

  The security guard was becoming increasingly agitated as Myles pondered the lead dust in front of him.

  Slowly, Myles put another handful in his mouth. Again, he almost gagged.

  Could he wait until the police came? No. The Somali would probably kill him when he heard the sirens approach. That meant Myles had only a few minutes left.

  Myles made a play of gulping hard, as an idea gradually began to form in his mind. He guessed the Somali didn’t know the symptoms of lead poisoning.

  Roman aristocrats took several years to be made mad by lead… Myles had to convince Juma’s man the toxic metal was making him mad in minutes.

  Myles started flailing
around. In one gesture, he coughed out most of his mouthful, while pretending he had swallowed it. He clutched his stomach, mimicking great pain. He started moaning.

  The Somali just kept watching him, with the gun firmly trained at Myles. Briefly the security guard looked around to check they were still alone, which they were.

  Myles made a play of standing up but not being able to hold his balance. Without coming close to the Somali guard, he swayed around. Pretending to be grasping for something to hold on to, Myles clutched at the light hanging above him. He squeezed it so tightly that the bulb broke, exposing the filament inside and piercing Myles’ palm with shards of glass. Myles winced from his injury, while trying to make out it was less painful than the lead in his stomach. He fell to the floor.

  The security guard stepped back again. He seemed surprised how the lead was killing Myles, but happy the deadly metal was so effective.

  Gasping on the floor now, Myles tried to stand again. This time he slipped down, moving towards the ventilation machine. Pretending it was an accident, he used his elbow to hit the switch, turning it on. The turbines hummed into action, the fan blades turned, and soon huge volumes of air were bellowing out of the main tubes. The storage room was tight and confined, meaning the air swirled around, cycling and recycling like a small tornado.

  Juma’s man started to look worried. He kept his pistol pointed at Myles and became even more anxious, and put both hands on his gun. The Somali’s eyes were wide with fear. The air blasting from the ventilation machine was scaring him. He motioned again at the lead powder, and this time shouted ‘Eat’ at Myles over the noise.

  Myles nodded, but he still pretended not to be able to control his body. He heaved and rasped on the floor as he struggled towards the bag of lead powder.

  Checking his surroundings, Myles looked around for his escape route. There was a window – closed – directly behind him, next to the light switch. Then he checked again on the Somali, who looked about to pull the trigger.