Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  Holding his stomach as if he was very ill, Myles picked up the whole bag of lead dust. He made out he was going to pour it all into his mouth, but he missed.

  The powder rained down near the ventilation machine, which whipped it aloft. Within moments the inside of the storage room was thick with the airborne lead.

  The Somali protected his eyes. But he could still see Myles through the dust and levelled his pistol at him. Very close range: he couldn’t miss. An easy kill. The dust hadn’t blinded the man. Instead, he was about to fire.

  Myles caught the man’s eyes through the swirling cloud and knew this was it.

  He dived towards the light switch as the guard squeezed the trigger.

  Forty

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Helen imagined how Myles would have used the fifteen minutes since they had spoken. It was enough time to clear a scene of fingerprints and make a good escape. She pictured him, tall and strong, calmly walking away from the American sauce factory in Germany.

  She took her second phone out again and dialled the code for Germany, +49, followed by 110 – the number for the emergency services in the country.

  ‘Emergency services – police, please,’ she said. ‘I’d like to report a major crime.’

  Helen explained: the crime was being committed in the American Steak Sauce factory, which was somewhere in Germany but she didn’t have the address. Then she explained how lead powder was being added to the ingredients, and that stockpiles of the poisonous metal could be found in the food storage room.

  ‘Can I take your name, please?’ asked the anonymous voice on the line.

  ‘No, you cannot,’ said Helen. She didn’t want the tip-off traced to her too quickly. Using a pay-as-you-go phone in Turkey which wasn’t registered in her name would make it hard for the police to know it was her. But she knew all emergency calls were recorded. When the recording was played back there was a good chance her voice would be recognised. She was, after all, a frequent contributor to international news broadcasts. Once she was identified, they would ask how she found out about the sauce factory, and that could implicate Myles. In time, it would help the authorities catch him.

  As the phone call ended, Helen wondered whether the police would actually investigate. Probably, she thought. And if not, she could find a German newspaper or magazine who would be very interested in the story. Either way, the sauce poisoning operation would soon be closed down.

  But Helen wasn’t satisfied. Placidia’s ‘Last Prophecy of Rome’ was about more than lead poisoning. After all, nobody thought toxic metal was the main reason why the Roman Empire collapsed. She had to uncover the rest of it. That meant she had to imagine what Placidia had imagined. She had to put herself in the mind of a woman she hated.

  Helen also realised she had a deeper, more personal motive for her investigation. She guessed something had happened between Myles and Placidia at university, probably something romantic. She could forgive Myles his past. But something about his involvement with Placidia meant he still had deep respect for the woman – despite what she was doing now. Helen wanted to prove to Myles that the woman was a terrorist, and that she was doing terrible things.

  Helen needed Myles to abandon his feelings for the woman completely. That was why she had come here – to Istanbul.

  She looked up at the majestic Roman walls which once defended the city. Orange floodlights illuminated the structure while modern roads and buildings overlooked much of the ancient brickwork. Once this had been Constantinople: the second most important place in the Roman world and the eastern capital when the Empire split. This city led a successor empire for a thousand years after Rome fell. Now, Constantinople had become Istanbul, the most advanced city in a country trying to join the European Union. Roman ruins were being overtaken by modern architecture.

  If Placidia tried to come here she would surely be arrested. But Placidia could send others, and it was those people Helen had to find.

  She walked on, knowing she was now close to the new excavation site. The huge city walls may have kept out the hordes from the east, but they could not keep out the plague. She tried to imagine how the Roman inhabitants had panicked as their population succumbed to the disease. Helen remembered her research – how the Romans had first given dignified burials to the victims, then been forced to place the bodies in mass graves just outside the city walls. Bubonic plague had struck several times. One wave of the illness, in 541 and 542, had wiped out half the population.

  Then Helen saw the large canvas tent which was covering the earthwork. The excavation site was exactly where it was meant to be, indicating the paperwork filed in the municipal records office was correct. She watched for several minutes before she approached, pushing her hair behind her ear to listen.

  Nothing was happening. It was near midnight and nobody seemed to be working on the site. Perhaps it meant the excavation was genuine, but Helen’s journalistic instincts kept her sceptical. She waited for several more minutes, until she found herself distracted by thoughts of Myles. Then she decided to approach.

  The entrance to the tent around the excavations was sealed with thin rope. Looking round behind her to check nobody was watching, Helen carefully untied the main knot and unthreaded the cord until the door was open.

  She peered inside. It was dark, but she could see a large hole in the middle of the tent, which looked deep. Scaffolding had been placed inside, and an aluminium ladder led down. Also in the tent she saw some benches and clear plastic bags, which seemed to be full of soil, although it was too dark to be certain.

  Helen took out her unregistered mobile phone and pressed on the keypad. It glowed and she tried to direct the light towards the interior of the tent. The plastic bags did contain samples of soil.

  Then she saw what looked like a large chest, connected to a cable which led back outside the tent. Helen was new to archaeology, but the chest didn’t seem like it belonged at the site. It looked too scientific: there were dials and buttons on the front.

  Suddenly Helen felt herself grabbed from behind. She tried to wrench herself free, but she was held too tightly. Her mobile phone fell to the floor, and she glimpsed it being kicked into the large hole in the middle of the tent.

  Instinctively she slammed a fist backwards, aiming for the genitals of whoever was holding her. She could tell her hit had registered. The grip on her slackened. But it wasn’t enough. There were more of them behind her.

  She felt something being placed over her head, cutting out what little light there was. She tried to scream, but a hand was placed on her mouth, muffling her cries. She tried to kick, but felt her legs being held then bound with a cord.

  She heard voices speaking a foreign language. There was more than one assailant, probably three or four. She kept trying to wriggle, but soon she was tied up – her arms, her legs, and a gag across her mouth.

  Then her nostrils caught a terrible smell: something foul had just been exposed to the air. Helen didn’t dare imagine what it was. She heard more scurrying and debate between the people who were holding her. It took a minute for their voices to settle. They had decided what they were going to do.

  Only then did she feel her right arm being tied at the upper elbow. Moments later she sensed a pain pierce her wrist, as she felt a cold fluid being injected into her vein.

  Forty-One

  South-eastern Mediterranean

  The supertanker had edged along the Libyan coast for almost twenty-four hours. Its human cargo was far lighter than the oil it would usually carry, meaning it floated much higher in the water. This allowed Juma to stick to the shallows, always keeping sight of land as he sailed east.

  Juma had hugged the coast for a reason: he didn’t want the ship to be challenged. He knew the European Union anti-migration police used satellites to monitor Libya’s ports, and that well-armed patrol boats were ready to intercept any vessel which entered international waters – agreed by law to begin twelve nautical miles from land. Juma
knew he had to stay less than this distance from the coast. He was ready to fight, but didn’t want to fight yet.

  He’d been intercepted once before, several years ago. He was a pirate then, directing a container ship from the Red Sea back to Somalia. It was an American Navy boat which had stopped him. But all they had done was confiscate his bounty. Once they had secured the merchant vessel, they had let Juma and his men go. They hadn’t even humiliated him. What sort of superpower did they think they were?

  He smiled at the memory. Those pathetic Americans.

  His wife, Placidia, was the only American he knew who wasn’t pathetic. But then she was only half-American. It was because of her that he had kept men on the bows, scanning the water for deadly, floating bombs, as the supertanker passed along the coast of Libya. The men had long poles to push any mines away, and radios to warn the ship’s bridge and engine room if any got near. Placidia had insisted they protect the refugees below decks, and Juma knew he had to obey.

  But the ship had not been harmed. The explosives laid by Colonel Gaddafi to guard his main ports had been cleared long ago. And by the time they reached Egyptian waters they knew they were safe.

  Now the ship was near Alexandria. Juma sent out a coded radio signal, which his onshore team heard and responded to. Within minutes, a fast-moving skiff was speeding out from the Egyptian coast to meet them. The small boat docked alongside the oil tanker.

  Juma and Placidia looked at each other. Without words, they confirmed what they were about to do. Then Juma left the bridge, handing the controls to one of the pirates he had brought with him from Somalia.

  Not far away, along a corridor and with a view of the sea, sat Senator Roosevelt. Still in chains, he already accepted he wouldn’t be able to escape as his son had done.

  He could still fight, but only with words. ‘Juma – you haven’t drowned yet,’ he said. ‘Pity.’

  ‘I hope you’re enjoying the cruise, Senator.’

  ‘I never knew how sickened I could become on a calm sea…’

  Juma ordered the Senator’s chains to be removed, and watched as his captive rubbed his skin where the metal had been. ‘Time to go ashore, Senator,’ he ordered.

  ‘So you’re going to kill me now?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Juma with a grin. ‘Probably later.’

  The Senator nodded reluctantly. He shuffled along, knowing Juma’s gun was behind him, and acknowledging Placidia as she joined them. ‘Down there?’

  Juma nodded, pointing to the rope ladder with his gun. The Senator peered down to the skiff, then manoeuvred his body over the edge of the tanker. Slowly, he began the long climb down. When he reached the bottom, he was helped aboard the smaller vessel by two young Somalis who made sure the Senator was comfortable but could not escape.

  Then it was Juma’s turn. When he was halfway down, Placidia repeated her orders to the crew left behind. ‘Not a word to the refugees, OK?’

  The crew indicated they understood.

  She had been absolutely clear: the human cargo mustn’t find out Juma, Placidia and their high-value Senator had left the ship. They didn’t need to know they were being abandoned by the man and woman who had persuaded them aboard. It would frighten them. The information might even make them do something silly, something which would stop them reaching America. She had promised them America, and she meant it. Keeping her promise to them meant keeping secrets from them, too.

  She quickly followed her husband down, and soon joined him and the Senator. Silently, the smaller vessel was untied. Juma allowed it to drift off for several minutes, until it was well clear of the tanker. Then he restarted the engine and headed towards the Egyptian coastline, where a small convoy of SUVs was waiting to take them much further east by land. He didn’t want the unmistakeable spluttering of the engine to alert the refugees.

  But below deck, Safiq soon knew. He had heard the small engine of a skiff draw close, then stop, then start up again much more quietly a few minutes later. He felt the tanker steer round to the north soon after. And he noticed Juma’s crew had become much more relaxed, and suspected – correctly – that it was because the big man had gone.

  Even though he knew, there was nothing Safiq or any of the other passengers could do about it. They remained under their polyester blankets, trying to stay warm near the air vents to the outside – the only source of oxygen not infected by the smell of gasoline which stank throughout the ship.

  Whether Juma and Placidia were with them or not, Safiq still trusted the couple who had persuaded him aboard.

  He still had hope.

  And he still believed that staying below the decks of the supertanker was the best way for him to reach a new, much better life in America.

  Forty-Two

  Bielefeld, Germany

  As Myles slammed his fist against the light switch, electricity surged into the exposed filament in the broken light bulb. The coil of metal burnt out in an instant, surrounded by the highly combustible swirling cloud of lead powder. The mixture of fine dust and air ignited with a flash, filling the space between Myles and the Somali security guard with a fireball. The explosion roared, creating a shock wave far larger than Myles could ever have imagined.

  Myles felt the blast lift and hurl him through the window. Broken glass flew with him, sparkling like glitter. Rolling through the night air, he tried to place his feet on the ground, but ended up skidding on the concrete car park. Large fragments of glass were stuck in his torso and left arm.

  Deafened, blinded and stunned, Myles quickly tried to look back to the factory and the Somali security guard. From where he had stopped on the car park, some ten metres away, it was too dark to peer inside. The lead dust had all burnt out instantly, leaving only smoke and a few flames where other things had caught fire.

  Myles imagined the blast must have at least knocked his adversary unconscious. He had been near a window which blew out to release the force of the explosion, but the Somali was right in the middle of it, and would have had much worse.

  It was no time to wonder. Helen would have contacted the police, and the whole neighbourhood would be calling the emergency services after the explosion: he had to get out quickly.

  Myles sprinted towards the locked gates, where he stopped to check no one was watching. Then he climbed up and over, and walked away from the factory as calmly as he could.

  Within seconds Myles could hear the scream of approaching police cars. He had to lose himself in suburbia.

  He crossed over the road, towards the newsagents, then followed a small unlit path which led directly away from the factory. He wanted to rest, and briefly considered waiting there. But he knew the area would soon be full of policemen, then inquisitive local residents, then journalists. He had to get much further away.

  Myles kept walking through the town’s streets, staying away from main roads wherever possible. He was careful to keep the factory behind him – he didn’t want to walk round in a loop and end up back where he had begun.

  After more than a mile he came across a children’s playground which had been squeezed into the housing estate, accessible only through footpaths and hidden from the main roads. He looked around to confirm it was deserted. It was. Then he hopped over the small perimeter fence and went to sit on one of the benches. Here he could gather his breath and his thoughts.

  Myles ran through what he had just witnessed: a German factory which added lead powder to their recipe for an American sauce. Thousands of people could have been poisoned – mainly Americans. Most of the people at the factory seemed to be innocent – he was sure of that now - although the night guard was clearly involved.

  Myles guessed he hadn’t consumed enough of the lead to have been poisoned. He’d managed to spit most of it out. But he decided that, to be sure, he would have to make himself sick.

  Checking again that he was alone, Myles locked his jaw open and put two fingers onto the back of his tongue. He wretched, vomiting onto the ground between his feet.
Spitting until he had cleared out his mouth, Myles breathed deeply to try to settle his stomach.

  He waited a few minutes, then put his fingers into his throat again. This time the reflex yielded much less. Myles found himself coughing. Stomach acid seared the route up to his mouth.

  He looked around once more. Still alone. Could anybody have known he had visited the factory?

  Whoever the Somali security guard had called would have known.

  The CIA back in the States may have intercepted Myles’ call to Helen. But they wouldn’t trace him here. He looked down at the vomit he had left. That was perfectly anonymous: whoever saw it in the morning would imagine a teenager had broken into the playground and been drinking alcohol.

  But he had left one big clue behind: his six volumes of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It was a clear link with Juma’s threat to bring down America. And if they doubted the books were his, they’d soon see the library sheets inside and realise they had been stolen from the Bodleian in Oxford. He might as well have left a signed note with his name on it.

  Myles cursed himself – not just for leaving behind something so incriminating, but for having left the book itself. What lessons about Rome had Myles just lost?

  A serious setback. More than ever, he needed to understand not just how the Empire collapsed, but how Placidia thought it had collapsed. Her words still haunted him: ‘Everything you need to know about Rome is in that book – and if you want to save America, you should look at it again…’

  He checked his palm for fragments of glass from the light bulb, and eased out two thin slices stuck from the base of his thumb. Pulling them out drew blood. On inspection, he realised the cut was still bleeding. So he raised his hand into the air, where he held it for several minutes, until the bleeding stopped.