Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  ‘Maybe,’ said Myles. ‘But she’s not trying to cause harm. She said she was trying to save America and I believe her.’

  ‘Save America from whom?’ asked the Senator.

  ‘She refused to say,’ said Myles. He shook his head, still baffled, as he tried to sum up. ‘OK, so the plot to bring down America, Placidia’s “Last Prophecy of Rome”, is this: between one and two thousand malnourished Africans camped in Rome seeking asylum. Meanwhile, we expect an attack against the currency conference – a conference attended by financiers nobody’s heard of, and which is already very well protected by Roosevelt Guardians,’ he said, his tone indicating they were clearly missing something.

  ‘Not just my men,’ added Dick. ‘When the threat level rose, I brought in Homeland Security. Remember Susan, who used to work for my father – well she’s here. And she brought half the US military along with her.’ Dick could see the others were surprised. ‘In fact, now they’re doing most of it – Marines and Special Forces. Roosevelt Guardians are just doing the minor stuff – like the CCTV. This has become too serious for a private security firm.’

  Myles and Helen were relieved. They respected the Roosevelt Guardians, but they trusted the elite US troops more. Myles was impressed that Dick Roosevelt had been sensible enough to call in support, probably missing out on profits. ‘That’s very public-spirited of you, Dick,’ he said.

  ‘Not really – it’s more like good business sense,’ admitted Dick. ‘If I kept this contract just for Roosevelt Guardians, and someone like Juma breaks through, the damage to our reputation would destroy the firm.’

  Helen was still concentrating on the Roman angle. ‘But how can they do it? Myles: was there a single day or event which brought down the Roman Empire?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Myles, shaking his head. ‘The city was ransacked by barbarians a few times, but over the course of generations. Romans lost a few battles, but they often won again soon after. Rome fell slowly.’

  ‘So, historically, none of this makes any sense?’

  Myles pulled a face. Some of it made sense, parts he couldn’t say in front of Dick and Helen…

  The people carrier was slowing towards the conference centre. They passed an old Roman statue – a much-loved senator killed off by a jealous emperor – now grey with smoke accumulated over the centuries. Myles studied it as they passed it, trying to learn whatever it was willing to teach him.

  ‘Sometimes history makes no sense until it’s over,’ he said, thinking to himself. ‘And then it makes all the sense in the world.’

  The people carrier halted in a small queue of vehicles. Several cars ahead, a roadblock was manned by Italian policemen. Roosevelt leant over to explain. ‘We’re still more than a mile from the conference centre,’ he said, apologising. ‘This is security in depth. There’s another check further up, then the US military scanning people on foot nearer the entrance.’

  Myles was struck – security was much tighter than on his last visit.

  ‘Good, huh?’ said Helen. ‘I did a story on conference security yesterday. I really can’t see how anyone could break in.’

  The people carrier crawled towards the checkpoint. As they approached, the driver folded down the sun visor. A special pass had been fastened to the underside, and when the police saw it they waved the vehicle through. Roosevelt turned to Myles for a reaction. Myles was absorbed in his thoughts. He noticed the heavy concrete blocks on the main routes as they came nearer the building. It would be very hard to drive a vehicle-borne bomb into the conference centre.

  ‘Have you planned for rocket-propelled grenades, too?’ asked Myles.

  ‘Why – does Juma have them?’

  ‘He does, yes. Or at least, he did have in Iraq.’

  Roosevelt weighed the idea in his head. ‘Good question. It would be hard for someone to get close enough, I think. But it might be possible – just. They wouldn’t be able to do much damage, though, and they’d be caught almost as soon as they fired it.’

  Myles nodded. As they came closer to the building itself, he saw increasing numbers of police, US Marines and Roosevelt Guardians patrolling key points. Men in plain clothes hung around, watching all that happened. Myles noticed they all had the same lapel badge.

  The people carrier was directed towards a parking space. The driver pulled up and Roosevelt led the way out of the vehicle, closely followed by Helen and Myles.

  As they walked towards the conference centre they were funnelled into lines. Myles looked ahead: everything was being scanned. The US Marines questioned everybody who went through. One man was sweating and was asked to strip down to his underwear, until the Marine was satisfied he wasn’t concealing a suicide-vest of some sort.

  Helen was shocked. ‘If they ask me to do that, I’m just gonna turn around,’ she insisted.

  Thankfully they didn’t ask her. But they did ask Myles why his clothes were too large for him. ‘I borrowed them,’ he replied.

  ‘Who from, sir?’ asked the Marine.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Try me, sir…’

  Myles was willing to cooperate and was about to explain when Dick Roosevelt whipped out his ID card. The Marine bent down to inspect it, then stood back to salute. There were no more questions for them, and the trio were invited to walk into the conference building itself.

  Sniffer dogs at the entrance barked as Myles approached. Myles put his hands up – he had, after all, been near explosives in Iraq. But when the dog handlers saw he was with the new Senator Roosevelt, Chief Executive of Roosevelt Guardians, he was allowed to pass.

  Dick escorted them up some stairs and along a corridor. They passed a guarded door, and were soon in the control room – the room where he had been arrested on his last visit.

  Helen and Myles absorbed the TV monitors, computer banks and pieces of paper dotted around the room – there were so many more than before. The people working there seemed busy and efficient. There was even a flip-chart testing out possible flaws in the security for the event.

  ‘This is the Situation Centre – the CCTV room,’ said Dick. He moved towards one of the monitors and invited the administrator to flick between views from different cameras. ‘We’ve got more than fifty cameras on this place,’ he explained. ‘Any terrorists who try to come would be seen long in advance.’

  Roosevelt could see even Myles was impressed. But Myles couldn’t help thinking they were still missing something. How come Juma had been so sure he could get through? He tried to frame his question. ‘Do you think Juma knows about all this? Do you think he’ll still try to get close?’

  He was answered by a voice behind him. A female voice. ‘He’d be mad to come. But then he probably is mad…’ It was Susan from Homeland Security. She lowered her head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Myles. When we detained you, we made a mistake.’

  ‘It was you?’

  ‘Yes. I had you arrested, and I was wrong.’

  Myles nodded – apology accepted. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ said Susan. ‘And we don’t want any more mistakes, Myles. Which is why we’ve filled this place with US Marines, special forces and undercover guys…’

  Helen’s mobile rang. She apologised as she answered. The call was from her producer. Myles overheard half the conversation: they wanted Helen to be down with the crowds of refugees. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be safe,’ she answered dismissively. ‘The place is surrounded by police, and the US Embassy is next door – it’s can’t be too dangerous.’ Then she jolted in shock. ‘Really? You want me to interview that bitch?’

  Myles and Dick looked at each other. Both were listening in now.

  ‘Can I refer to her as a terrorist?’ asked Helen, then followed up with: ‘OK, but I can ask her if she’s a terrorist, yeah?’

  She nodded as she concluded the call, then apologised to Myles and Dick. ‘Sorry, guys – I’m going to confront Placidia, outside the embassy.’

  ‘
Should I come?’ asked Myles. ‘I need to speak to her. There must be a way to defuse this thing.’

  ‘No.’ Helen was shaking her head. ‘This is strictly journalism. She’s got a lot to answer for.’

  ‘OK,’ said Myles, hesitantly. ‘Stay safe down there,’ he insisted.

  ‘Will do. Any special questions you want me to ask her?’

  Myles thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Ask her about Rome: what was the real reason it fell?’

  ‘That’s all? Not, “why did you try to give me the plague?” or “Any more bombs planned?” huh?’

  Myles shrugged. ‘Perhaps – it would be interesting to hear her answers.’

  She kissed him on the cheek, then waved with her fingers to Dick, and was gone.

  ‘Be careful,’ Myles shouted after her.

  Dick turned to Myles. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Just wait, I guess,’ suggested Myles. ‘Can you get CCTV pictures of the entrance – where people are being scanned?’

  Roosevelt duly set the monitor to show the main entrance, then moved to get some coffee at a machine in the corner of the room.

  Myles stared at the grainy computer image. He watched as the guests were scrutinised by the walk-through machine. One by one, they went through. About half set off the machine first time and were sent back to remove belts, shoes, mobiles and other items until they managed to walk through without the scanner beeping. Myles could sense the frustration of the people queuing behind: the process was slow. Perhaps they didn’t realise just how serious the threat was. Even if Juma made it through, there was no way he could get a weapon in here – surely?

  Then he noticed a man in a summer suit. His face was dark and his body small and muscular. Myles stared closer.

  The man walked through the machine, then stopped in reaction to something. He had set off the alarm.

  Calmly he stepped backwards again. The Marines pointed towards his jacket, which the man slipped off.

  ‘Dick, Dick – come over,’ insisted Myles, his eyes still fixed on the moving image. The man set the machine off a second time, but this time removed a pass from his pocket. The Marines inspected it, then waved him through.

  Myles pointed at the screen. ‘It’s him. It’s Juma.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Juma was wearing glasses and his hair was different, but Myles was sure it was him. ‘Yeah. I recognise him.’

  Dick Roosevelt rushed over, alert.

  ‘Hey – why didn’t the Marine stop him?’ asked Myles. ‘You sent out the description of Juma, right?’

  ‘It should have gone out, yes,’ insisted Roosevelt, resenting the accusation that he’d made a mistake. ‘Is he still there? Which camera is he on?’ he asked.

  Myles tried to point the man out again, but Juma had already disappeared.

  Sixty-Six

  Barberini Conference Centre, Rome

  Myles ran towards the doors but Dick called him back.

  ‘Which one is he?’ asked Roosevelt, scrolling back through the pictures, reversing the CCTV footage on the screen.

  ‘That one – he’s that one,’ said Myles, pointing at the computer image, frozen as Juma lifted off his jacket with a Marine on each side of him.

  ‘Got it,’ said Roosevelt framing the image. ‘I’ll put out an alert.’ He turned to talk to Myles, but the Englishman had already gone.

  Myles sprinted along the corridor, bumping past delegates and almost knocking over someone taking bottled water into the main conference room.

  A Marine called after him as he rushed by. ‘Slow down, bud.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Myles’ apology was lost in the rush. He leapt down the stairs, three at a time. Stopping at the entrance, he looked around. He could see the scanner where Juma had been less than half a minute before. He scoured the crowd:

  No sign of him heading into the building…

  No sign of him standing around outside…

  No sign of him in any of the corridors…

  It didn’t make sense: how could Juma have disappeared so quickly?

  Myles approached the Marine with the sniffer dogs. ‘Excuse me. Have you seen a, a, man…’ He struggled to find a description, and was out of breath from the run.

  The dog handlers were smiling. ‘We’ve seen lots of men here, sir, and a few women too.’

  ‘I’m looking for a black man,’ said Myles, rushing out the words as fast as he could. ‘Er, Somali, small to medium height, glasses, brown jacket. Muscular, very muscular. Scar on his abdomen…’

  The dog handlers looked at each other, unsure. ‘Perhaps, about five or ten minutes past. The dogs reacted a bit but he was clean.’

  Myles shook his head. ‘This would have been one minute ago or less.’

  ‘No, then no,’ came the dog handler’s reply.

  Myles put his hand on his head as he tried to think. He became aware the Marines were looking at him strangely. Then he realised the bandages were showing from underneath his Chinese cap.

  ‘You OK, sir?’

  Myles nodded, still trying to think. ‘Which way did the man go? The man who made the dogs react. Which way?’

  One of the dog handlers leant over and pointed down a corridor.

  Myles ran down where the man had pointed. More crowds. Myles tried to examine all of the faces as he passed.

  No sign.

  People just looked at Myles as if he was odd.

  Where had Juma gone?

  As he reached the end of the corridor, Myles found the conference café. He tried to check the faces of everyone there too. They all looked relaxed and engrossed in their conversations. The group in the corner laughed at a shared joke. Myles tried to see around them.

  Still no sign. Juma seemed to have evaporated.

  For a moment Myles wondered if he had imagined it. Could it have been someone else? After all, the man didn’t look exactly like Juma. The person he’d seen was wearing glasses and had different hair. But if it wasn’t Juma, where had the innocent lookalike gone?

  He looked around the café again. He was looking for someone who was agitated, but realised the most agitated person there was himself.

  He searched over the heads of the delegates, peering all the way back to the corridor. He could just see towards the dog handlers at the entrance. If it was an innocent man, Myles would have found him by now. Juma must be hiding.

  Myles was about to walk back up the corridor when he noticed something out of place – something nobody owned. Hanging over the back of one of the chairs was a jacket. He looked more closely: it was the jacket he had seen Juma wearing on the CCTV.

  He moved towards it and picked it up.

  He held it up in the air, unconcerned about making a spectacle of himself. ‘Is this anybody’s jacket?’ he called out.

  Heads turned, and for a moment the earnest conversations paused. Some men queuing for coffee wearing just shirts seemed particularly interested, but soon they dismissed it and returned to what they were doing.

  Myles held it high for everyone else to see. Still no one claimed it.

  One delegate looked at the jacket then at Myles’ clothes and sniffed – as if Myles was asking to take something that wasn’t his. Myles ignored the man. He felt the pockets. There were things inside. Myles delved and pulled out some car keys. They seemed normal, and were attached to a remote control locking device. Then he noticed they were for a Toyota. A Toyota Corolla. Significant, or was he imagining it?

  He moved the car keys into his own pocket and kept searching through the jacket. There was a pen, which he placed down on the table. Then he found a packet of pills. He examined the box: laxatives. He looked inside – several had already been popped through the foil. The pack was half-empty.

  He began to question himself again: Juma didn’t seem like the sort of man who would take pills for minor ailments like constipation.

  Myles spun the jacket around to check the other side. There was a large piece of paper, which he lifted out and unfolded
. This was more interesting: a map of the conference venue.

  Myles studied the map closely. Had He wasn’t sure whether it was standard issue for all the conference delegates been given one? Or had maps been kept from the public as a security precaution, in which case this was more significant?

  Myles was just about to reach for the final thing in the jacket, which felt like a credit-card size rectangle of plastic, when he realised eyes were focussing on him.

  Myles lifted his head to see US Marines closing in on him from three directions.

  Without looking down again, Myles slipped the plastic rectangle into his palm.

  ‘Hands up, please, sir,’ came the instruction.

  Myles did as he was ordered. As he lifted up his arms, the plastic card fell into his sleeve, passing his wrist towards his elbow. The US Marine patted him down, but knew it was a formality: everyone in the venue site had already been checked for weapons. The Marine queried the Toyota car keys Myles had just found, only giving them back when he was sure they were normal. Myles’ new map of the conference venue was confiscated.

  ‘Can you come with me, please sir?’ demanded the Marine.

  Myles nodded. ‘Certainly, but something important is going on, and we need to stop it fast.’

  ‘There’s already a security alert out, sir, and you match the description.’

  Myles shook his head. Typical. ‘Well, where are you taking me?’

  ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Myles found himself marched through the corridors where he’d just been running. Back to the dog-handlers, back up the stairs. Something about the calm attitude of the Marines made him relax. It was obvious the Marines didn’t really think Myles was a security risk.

  Then he realised where they were taking him.

  Myles continued with his escort along the upper corridor. When they reached the door to the CCTV room, the leading Marine stopped and held the way open for Myles, who walked in.

  There was Dick, crouched over a different image: this time it was a live television feed.

  ‘Sorry for calling you back like that, Myles,’ said Dick, only half apologising.