Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  ‘You sure, Myles?’

  ‘I think so. Look – they gave me the scan to prove it.’ Myles held up the picture from his brain scan.

  Helen twisted her head to see it more clearly, but, like Myles, she soon concluded it only showed a brain. Without expert knowledge it could mean anything. Myles waved it away, agreeing the scan picture didn’t help.

  He became aware someone was sitting next to Helen. Dick Roosevelt leant into view, and towards the video-conferencing camera. It made him slightly out of focus.

  ‘Dick Roosevelt here,’ he said. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sure, Dick. And you?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, I’m OK,’ he said. ‘Bearing up.’ Dick was still shocked from the death of his father.

  ‘I’m sorry about your father, Dick. If it’s any consolation, he died as bravely as he lived,’ reported Myles, remembering Sam’s last moments. ‘He gave his life to save others.’

  Dick Roosevelt nodded thoughtfully. ‘Juma killed him?’

  Myles felt uneasy about giving too many details to a son still so obviously in shock. ‘I’ll give you the full story later,’ he said. ‘But yes, Juma was to blame.’

  Helen started speaking again. ‘Myles, in case you’re still wondering, you’ve been cleared. Homeland Security have accepted those terrorist plans were planted on your computer. They know you’re innocent.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  ‘Internet tracks. Computer forensics told them you were set up. They knew the classified information was planted via the IP address in Iraq, although they still haven’t traced how the people in Iraq got the files.’

  To Myles, it all seemed so long ago. It took him a while to understand the implications of it all. ‘So I’m welcome back in civilisation again?’

  ‘Yes, Myles. And we need to take a really big holiday together.’

  No longer being on the run was a huge relief, but Myles knew it was too early for a break. ‘We can’t take a holiday yet, even though I’d love to. Juma’s still dangerous and he’s still out there.’

  Dick shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t worry about him, Myles. We’re wise to the threat he poses, and we reckon we’re safe.’

  ‘He’s a psychopath,’ warned Myles. ‘Don’t underestimate him. He’s committed to bringing America down like Rome, and he’s the sort of person that does what he says he’s going to do – no matter how crazy.’

  Helen sensed Myles and Dick Roosevelt were sparring a little. She tried to calm them down. ‘Myles, don’t forget Juma bluffs, too. It wasn’t bubonic plague in Constantinople, only smallpox. And in Germany, it wasn’t lead.’

  ‘I know – calcium, right?’

  Helen and Dick both nodded.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean the threat’s over,’ said Myles. ‘The plague and the lead – that was Placidia, not Juma.’

  Helen noticeably tensed up. She still reacted negatively to any mention of Placidia.

  Dick tried to unpick Myles’ thinking. ‘You’re saying Placidia and Juma, even though they’re husband and wife, are working to different agendas? Why?’

  Myles wasn’t quite sure. ‘Placidia’s very, very intelligent,’ he explained. ‘She’s the expert on ancient Rome, and she’s the one who always wants to minimise death.’

  Helen reacted with sarcasm. ‘By threatening to kill people, right?’

  ‘Threatening to kill, but not actually killing them,’ said Myles. ‘Hence the calcium and smallpox, rather than lead and plague.’

  Dick was nodding now. ‘And Juma?’

  ‘Juma actually enjoys causing suffering,’ explained Myles. ‘And I’m sure he’s going to blow up the currency conference in Rome.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  Myles shrugged. ‘Because he told me he would.’

  Dick still looked sceptical. ‘You know, it would be very difficult for Mr Juma to bring any harm at all to the conference in Rome,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen some of the security plan for the event. It’s even stronger now.’

  The new Senator waited for Myles to reply, but the Englishman remained silent.

  Helen moved towards the microphone. ‘Myles, I want to be with you. I want to be with you right now.’

  ‘I want to be with you, too, Helen.’

  Dick Roosevelt looked slightly embarrassed at the couple’s show of affection. ‘You two, if you want to meet up, I can arrange for you to get together in Rome. Myles, if you’re still worried about security at the conference, you’re welcome see more of it. I’ll show you around myself, and I won’t let the Italian police interrupt you this time.’

  Both Helen and Myles soon found themselves nodding.

  ‘OK, then. That’s agreed,’ concluded Dick. ‘I’ll get you flown out of there and we can all meet in Rome in a day or two.’

  Helen blew Myles a kiss. ‘I love you, Myles,’ she said.

  ‘Love you too.’

  Then Dick leant forward to press a button on the screen. For a moment his jacket shrouded the camera, dark and out of focus, before the picture went black.

  Myles felt alive again: he’d been cleared by the authorities and he had spoken with Helen. Soon he’d have his vitality and he would be returning to civilisation… If he could stop Juma destroying it.

  Day XII

  Sixty-Four

  Western Desert, Iraq

  Myles tried to get out of bed. His muscles were sore and he fell back. But he knew he had to get to Rome quickly. ‘Hello?’ he called out. The female nurse ran into his room. ‘I need my clothes,’ he told her. ‘I need to leave.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the nurse, concerned.

  He made clear that he was. The nurse ran out to fetch the doctor, who returned to find Myles standing beside his bed.

  ‘Thank you. Doctor, I need my clothes, please…’

  The doctor looked rather apologetic. He explained that Myles’ clothes had been cut off his body when he was unconscious. ‘You can have your clothes, Mr Munro, sir, but if you tried to wear them in Europe you may be arrested for being underdressed.’

  The nurse blushed and tried to hide a smile. She delved inside a plastic waste sack and pulled out Myles’ old clothes. With wide eyes, she held them up: they were tatters and rags.

  Myles acknowledged the point. ‘OK, well do you have any other clothes I can wear?’

  The doctor nodded and led Myles to one of the storerooms. He tried to gauge Myles’ height – tall for a Westerner but abnormally tall for someone from the Far East. He picked out the tallest boiler suit he had and gave it to Myles. Myles climbed into the garment. The height was right, but it was far larger – fatter – than Myles’ body and hung loosely around his waist. Myles flapped his arms.

  The doctor laughed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.’

  The doctor looked up at Myles’ head, which was still bandaged. He bent down to the bottom of the cupboard to pick out a grey cloth cap, which he then placed on the Westerner: Chairman Mao headgear.

  Myles thanked the doctor. Although the boiler suit looked odd, they were the first fresh clothes he had worn for many days. The food and medical care at the Chinese oil rig may have saved his life. Being rescued from the desert certainly did. ‘Please pass on my thanks to everybody here,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Within minutes the deep flutter of a helicopter came into earshot. Moments later, Myles found himself blasted by the downdraught. He shielded his eyes from the sand lifted up by the rotor blades as the vehicle came to land at the helipad next to the rig’s offices.

  But this was not a military helicopter – the US military and their allies no longer operated in this part of Iraq. This was a smaller, privately owned helicopter, and on the side of it were emblazoned two words in English alongside their Arabic counterparts: Roosevelt Security.

  Dick had come good on his promise.

  Myles pressed on, and ran towards the aircraft, whose rotors slowed but never stopped. He was soon buckled in an
d rising above the oil plant. The doctor and nurse waved up at him as he ascended.

  Inside, the co-pilot proffered Myles some headphones. He gladly put them on. Only as he did so did he realise how loud it was inside the craft.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Munro,’ said the co-pilot. ‘Senator Roosevelt sends his compliments. We understand you don’t have a passport with you, sir?’

  Myles nodded.

  ‘No problem – we’ll be flying to a private airport just over the border in Turkey,’ explained the co-pilot, unfazed. ‘From there we should be able to get you a jet to Rome.’

  ‘Thanks – that’s great.’

  ‘So lay back, relax, and enjoy the flight, sir.’

  Myles nodded his gratitude. The vibrations of the aircraft were making him dozy already. He felt like an exhausted child starting to fall asleep in a car seat. But he knew he still had to think. Why had Placidia bluffed about lead and plague when she was planning to bring America down like the Roman Empire? And what was Juma planning?

  He looked down at the desert below him: they were flying over an area which was once known as Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilisation. Yet it was featureless. There was no sign of development at all. The civilisation which had once flourished here was completely gone.

  They made a desert and called it peace.

  Words from a famous Roman historian, Tacitus, explaining how the Romans subdued nations by killing anybody who resisted their rule.

  Myles studied the inside of the aircraft. He saw the company’s circular logo and all the documents needed to satisfy the new Iraqi aviation authority. He kept turning the issue in his mind. How was Juma going to destroy the currency conference?

  What seemed like minutes later, he was woken with a judder as the helicopter landed. He looked outside: he was at a local airfield in the mountains of south-east Turkey. A man from Roosevelt Security was soon opening the door and helping him out.

  With a hand on his ducked head, Myles tried to keep his new headgear in place as he thanked the helicopter pilot over the noise. He was quickly escorted onto a small private passenger aircraft. Propeller-driven rather than a jet, it seemed more rugged than most executive jets. The pilot shouted in a thick but accomplished South African accent that the flight to Italy would take just four hours.

  Myles spent the time musing over the situation.

  Placidia had always been an idealist – why had she become a terrorist?

  Rome had declined over generations, perhaps even centuries – how could America be brought down within a lifetime? Juma was determined to bring down the United States – but what was driving him?

  The plane’s flight path circled around Syria and Lebanon. It was routed over Cyprus, then the Greek Islands, crossed into Italian airspace near Brindisi, then north-west towards Rome. Myles was finally away from warzones. The luxury was confirmed when the single member of the cabin crew brought out a fine silver plate of seafood and a glass of champagne.

  Myles gladly enjoyed the hospitality. But the thoughts which warmed him most were of Helen. It was Helen who had helped clear his name, Helen who had given him the lead to Galla Security in Iraq, and Helen who had trusted him when the authorities did not. She had stuck with him when he needed her most.

  And so, as the small propeller-driven plane touched down in Rome’s Ciampino airport, Myles could barely wait to remove the seat belt.

  As he’d hoped, Helen was standing there, waiting beside the new Senator.

  The aircraft taxied to a stop. Myles clambered down the stairs, almost tripping over himself – and his ill-fitting Chinese clothes – as he rushed to meet Helen. She ran towards him too, and they embraced, together at last on the tarmac of the airfield.

  Together again in Rome.

  Sixty-Five

  Rome

  Myles and Helen kissed. It was a long and meaningful kiss. When they were last together, each had feared the other would not survive. Now they both felt more alive than ever.

  After almost a minute, Helen pulled back, smiling at Myles. She frowned theatrically as she looked up at Myles’ headgear. ‘What’s this – Chinese Communism back in style?’ She lifted off his cap as she said it, and was about to toss it away when she remembered the bandages on his scalp. Carefully, she put it back into place. ‘We’ll get you some fresh clothes when we get a chance,’ she said, tactfully.

  The young Senator approached, his arm extended for a handshake. ‘Welcome back to Rome, Myles. Glad you made it out OK.’

  ‘Thank you, Dick’. Myles paused. ‘I’m sorry again about your father.’

  Dick looked down and shook his head in respect. ‘Was it painless for him?’

  ‘It was quick,’ replied Myles. ‘And he took as many of them with him as he could.’

  ‘That’s my father, the great Sam Roosevelt,’ said Dick, making clear he wanted to change the subject. ‘Come this way. We can talk in the car.’

  Dick Roosevelt had arranged for a people carrier to take them into the centre of Rome. Myles waved a thank you to his South African pilot before he climbed aboard with Dick. Helen followed.

  Inside, Dick ordered the driver to go, then turned to Myles for advice. ‘You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll understand if you just want to rest. But if you do have any suggestions.’ He pointed out of the window. ‘As you can see, we’ve set up a normal security cordon. But this isn’t a normal security situation.’

  Myles paused before he answered, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘The TV news reported that a shipload of refugees from Libya had reached Rome. What’s the latest?’

  ‘Reckoned to be about fifteen hundred of them,’ replied Helen, nodding. ‘Still claiming asylum, still wanting to become American citizens. They’re camped outside the US Embassy at the moment, on Via Veneto.’

  Myles remembered Via Veneto – it was where he had made a fool of himself, thinking an Italian had hidden a bomb in a washing machine crate. He didn’t let the memory faze him.

  ‘And Juma?’ he asked.

  ‘No sign.’ Helen looked at Dick Roosevelt as she said it. Roosevelt confirmed her assessment: there was no evidence that Juma was anywhere near Italy. They had no information on the Somali pirate at all.

  Myles absorbed the information. ‘OK, so we have Juma determined to destroy America while one-and-a-half thousand of his people want to enter the country.’ He looked up at the other two, inviting them to draw conclusions.

  Helen turned to Roosevelt, then back to Myles. ‘You mean, something doesn’t make sense?’

  ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘None of this makes sense.’

  Dick frowned. ‘So?’

  Myles didn’t answer. ‘Who’s coming to the currency conference?’ he asked.

  The young Senator looked blank, as if to say ‘I don’t know – or at least no one important’. Slowly, Roosevelt tried to remember the list of attendees he had seen. ‘Bankers, including a few central bankers, some managers of sovereign wealth funds...’ he said, reciting from memory.

  ‘Any politicians?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Roosevelt’s eyes roved upwards as he tried to recall the lists. ‘Although, I suppose I’m a politician now.’

  Myles accepted the answer. ‘How many guests in total?’

  ‘I think about one hundred and eighty – just under two hundred.’

  ‘Anyone who Juma might want to assassinate?’

  ‘A few former central bankers maybe. But I can’t see how their death would bring about the end of America.’ Roosevelt paused again. Then a thought suddenly struck him: could he be the target? His eyes asked Myles the question.

  Myles raised his eyebrows, then weighed it up. ‘It’s possible. Juma’s already killed one Senator Roosevelt. He might want to kill another.’

  Dick Roosevelt inhaled slowly. He was trying to remain calm when clearly he was frightened. ‘I don’t see why he would want to kill me. I hardly know the guy.’ Then he tried to shrug off the danger. He chuckled a shallow laugh.
<
br />   But the faces of Myles and Helen were serious. Helen leant forward and held his wrist firmly. ‘You need to stay in a safe place, Dick,’ she suggested.

  ‘I can stay in the CCTV centre at the conference – it’s about the safest place there is.’

  Myles agreed. But he kept pressing Roosevelt. ‘Could Juma hate the Roosevelt Guardians? Or something else you stand for?’

  ‘I’ve made clear that I’m a Christian,’ admitted Roosevelt. ‘As a Senator, I’m committed to bringing Christian values to America. There were battles between Christians and pagans in ancient Rome, right?’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Myles. ‘But if Juma wanted to strike a blow against the Church there would be lots of easier ways to do it.’

  Roosevelt paused again. He was thinking it all through. ‘Well I doubt it’s anything to do with the Roosevelt Guardians,’ he said. ‘I know Juma has his own militia, but private security firms hardly compete with each other. We tend to work together as much as we can.’

  Myles gazed out of the window as the people carrier passed through the city. The streets seemed much more tense than on his last visit. ‘Have we heard anything from Placidia?’ he asked.

  ‘Somehow she turned up in the middle of the refugees,’ answered Helen, tetchily. ‘She’s become an interview junkie – talking to all the broadcasters she can find about how bad the West has been to “her people”.’

  ‘So she’s not convincing, then?’ asked Myles, smiling slightly.

  ‘No. Ask any woman you know: that lady’s a fraud. I asked the Italian police whether they’d arrest her for terrorism. They said they were just waiting for the warrant.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s broken the law,’ agreed Myles, ‘but Placidia doesn’t seem to be trying to harm people. She sent us to a plague site without the plague, and tricked Juma’s men to put harmless calcium into the sauce rather than lead.’

  ‘Empty threats don’t make her harmless,’ huffed the Senator. ‘And if she uploaded that stuff onto the Senate computers, then she’s heartless.’