Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  Myles shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Everybody outside.’

  He hoped none of them remembered the last time he gave instructions to the embassy staff, but his English accent still caused confusion: why were American diplomats being herded by a Brit?

  Helen saw what was happening and backed him up, putting on a southern drawl to make sure everyone got the message. ‘Come on – everybody outta here…’

  An older staff member recognised her from television and looked uncertain. Helen kept up the pretence. ‘Yes, it’s a fire alarm,’ she confirmed. ‘Everybody out. Quick.’

  Gradually the embassy staff started to obey. Diplomats and officials, office staff and cleaners all started to leave the building. Once it became clear a few were going the rest followed in a rush.

  Myles and Helen found themselves in a swarm of half-panicked Americans, all desperately trying to leave the building.

  The receptionist, who had seen Myles slam his elbow into the alarm, tried to approach. He couldn’t make it through the crowds, but he caught Myles’ eye.

  Myles knew the look. He didn’t want to be detained again. He grabbed Helen’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, too.’

  Myles led Helen out again, allowing them to leave with the US Embassy workers.

  Outside the embassy was chaos. US Embassy workers were flooding out, mixing with frightened refugees. Roosevelt Guardians and the few remaining journalists were caught up in the swirling crowds, just like Myles and Helen. No one could see what was happening.

  Then the African refugees seemed to realise the embassy doors were open.

  If they pushed through the Roosevelt Guardians they would be safe inside the embassy.

  The Roosevelt Guardians were desperately trying to hold the line, but with the embassy staff breaking their line one way, it became impossible for them to hold back the refugees pushing the other. And as soon as a few African refugees were through, the push of the crowd became unstoppable. The line broke, and the refugees streamed towards the embassy doors and inside the building. Finally they had reached American soil.

  The refugees were safe at last.

  Journalists started to break through the outer cordon. Myles saw the Italian who had been arguing with the Roosevelt Guardian when he had vaulted his way in: she was now taking pictures of the private security men looking dejected. Helen’s own broadcast crew started to get footage of the first Africans inside the embassy, as they tried to claim asylum. Paramedics rushed to treat refugees with bullet wounds. The breach in the line meant the Roosevelt Guardians couldn’t pretend anymore: they had to let all the Africans through.

  Helen frowned in confusion. ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘We’ve bought some time,’ explained Myles. ‘But that’s all. We still need to find Placidia.’

  ‘Bought who time, Myles?

  Myles was still too distracted to answer properly. He searched around for any indication of where she could be. Nothing. He wondered whether she could have been hiding in the crowd, but it was unlikely: if she was still with the refugees someone would have seen her by now.

  ‘She must have gone somewhere,’ said Myles.

  ‘Did she escape?’ suggested Helen, trying to be helpful. ‘Or did someone call her away?’

  ‘Perhaps…’ said Myles, pausing. ‘Or she called someone else away…’ He remembered the mobile, and pointed to Helen’s bag.

  Helen pulled it out for him. ‘I’ve already checked: there’s nothing on it,’ she shouted over the noise.

  ‘Not in the inbox…’ Myles went into the messages, then clicked on ‘messages sent’. There it was. The message read: ‘We need to talk. Meet me in the Pantheon. Now.’

  Myles scrolled down to ‘message details’, then looked at his watch. ‘Sent fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘There’s still time.’

  He passed the device back to Helen, who still looked confused. ‘Why did she give the phone to me?’

  ‘Because she knew you were here,’ explained Myles. ‘Maybe she knew you’d give the phone to me.’

  ‘Well, who’s she meeting?’

  ‘Dick. It’s Dick Roosevelt,’ muttered Myles.

  ‘Dick?’

  Myles nodded as he looked ahead, trying to map out the fastest route to the Pantheon. ‘Helen, this chaos here – it’s not the most important thing. It’s not the news story,’ he tried to explain.

  Helen looked around her: wounded refugees, confused embassy officials, angry security guards... ‘Looks like a story to me.’

  ‘No. Listen.’ Myles held her shoulders. ‘I’ve got to go. But get your production team ready for another one of those videos from Placidia.’

  ‘No, Myles – she’s a terrorist.’ Helen was feeling adamant now. ‘And she’s a bitch.’

  ‘OK. Then just believe me; these refugees are innocent.’

  Helen glanced at them. She could accept that. ‘But Myles…’ She wanted to say something more to him, but Myles was already running. Within seconds he had gone. Helen couldn’t see him for all the journalists, refugees and Embassy staff. Then she caught a final image of his tall frame dodging through the crowds. He disappeared behind an Italian fire engine which had arrived on the scene, blocked in by the jam of people.

  Helen moved back towards the embassy, towards her production team who were eagerly taking as much footage as they could. The camerawoman clearly wanted her to do a live broadcast, but Helen wasn’t going for it. ‘Have we had any more terrorist videos from Placidia?’ she asked.

  The camerawoman shook her head and pulled a face which said she didn’t want to be disturbed. She kept filming what seemed like ideal news footage.

  ‘Please check,’ insisted Helen.

  The camerawoman reluctantly conceded. She pulled out her internet-enabled mobile to go online. It took a few seconds to boot up and get a webpage. Then she scrolled to the site which had shown earlier broadcasts from ‘the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome’. She studied it until she was sure, then showed it to Helen. ‘Nothing new,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  The camerawoman nodded as she took back the device and prepared to film Helen commentating on the crazy scenes in the embassy.

  She was just about to put the internet browser away when she saw something. ‘Wait…There is something. Coming through now. It’s live.’

  Helen and her camerawoman began watching the moving images. Helen recognised the ancient interior immediately. The footage was being broadcast from inside the Pantheon.

  Seventy-One

  Pantheon, Rome

  It took Myles eight minutes to sprint to the Pantheon.

  As he ran across the piazza outside the building he heard a loud bang. The acoustics of the Pantheon distorted the noise, but Myles recognised the sound immediately.

  A gunshot.

  All the tourists flinched and looked confused. But not Myles – he kept running, past Roosevelt security men standing guard outside, through the large wooden doors, and into the eerie interior of the building itself.

  He began to walk forward, into the darkness, towards the centre of the ‘Church for All Gods’.

  ‘Anyone here?’ he called out, catching his breath.

  His words echoed around the building. No response. Then he heard a weak voice call out. ‘Myles – is that you?’ It was Dick Roosevelt, lying wounded on the church floor.

  Myles rushed over. Dick clearly had a bleeding wound near his left shoulder. He was grasping his upper arm with his right hand.

  ‘Dick – what happened?’

  Myles bent down to help, unsure what he could do. He lifted Dick’s torso into a sitting position, and examined his wound. The bullet had passed through his muscle: serious but not life-threatening.

  Roosevelt spoke slowly. ‘She shot me,’ he said.

  ‘Placidia?’

  Dick nodded. His face turned towards the side of the church.

  Myles followed his
gaze, his eyes still adjusting. Gradually he made out a figure slumped in one of the alcoves of the church. He left Dick and moved towards it, slowly at first, then as fast as he could.

  Placidia’s body was still warm. Myles lifted it – limp and heavy. He looked at her mouth, her forehead, and her cheeks…and her lifeless eyes. He tried to shake her, but there was nothing. He shouted at her face, ‘Placidia?’

  No response.

  He looked into her eyes again and turned her head towards the dim light inside the building: the pupils didn’t contract. He felt her neck: no pulse. Then he held her towards him, hugging her body for the last time. It had all gone so wrong.

  Myles held her close, helplessly rocking her dead body in his arms.

  Dick called out from behind, his voice still strained. ‘Is she dead?’

  Myles didn’t need to answer Dick’s question: it was obvious she was. He cut the young Senator out of his mind and ignored his whole surroundings. Instead, he remembered the life-force which Placidia had once been: the tireless campaigner at Oxford, the beauty of their shared tutorials on the Roman Empire, the enigmatic terror behind Juma and the plot to bring down America…

  Myles could admit it now: he had loved her. Somehow her spirit would never go.

  He looked again at her face. It seemed stuck in an odd expression: it was as if she died in the midst of victory and defeat at the same time.

  Myles surveyed the rest of her body. Her breasts were bloody and damaged: a bullet wound to the chest.

  Dick’s voice called over to him again. ‘You think I might get some treatment here?’ he asked, sarcastic and pained.

  Myles gently kissed Placidia’s body as he lay it back on the floor of the church. ‘Sure, Dick. I’m coming,’ he called as he moved back to the young Senator.

  Dick had managed to remove his jacket and bunch it up. He was holding it as a pad against the wound. It was already starting to soak through with blood. ‘I guess I finally got her,’ he said.

  ‘Self-defence?’

  Dick nodded, wincing with pain. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘If she had been a better shot...’

  Myles examined the wound as he listened. ‘Did she say anything before she died?’

  ‘Not much,’ replied Roosevelt, looking around as he tried to recall. ‘I think she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”.’

  ‘That’s what she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Then she tried to shoot you?’

  ‘Yeah, but I, kinda, moved to the side,’ said Dick trying to smile. ‘And shot her back.’

  Myles pressed firmly into Dick’s shoulder wound, freeing up the Senator’s other hand. ‘She didn’t make you drop your weapon first?’ asked Myles.

  ‘No. I guess she was an amateur terrorist.’ There was a mocking tone in Dick’s voice.

  ‘So she held you at gunpoint but let you keep hold of your weapon?’ said Myles.

  Dick Roosevelt nodded. Then he grabbed Myles’ wrist with his free hand. He forced Myles to look him in the eye. ‘Hey, Myles. Isn’t it great? It’s finally over,’ said Dick, excitedly. ‘The plot to bring down the United States. Placidia’s “Last Prophecy of Ancient Rome”. It’s over. You and I: we saved America. We’re real heroes now.’

  ‘You mean, Juma dead, Placidia dead…’ said Myles, more soberly. ‘And your father: dead, too.’

  The mention of Sam Roosevelt’s death knocked Dick’s mood. He started to become sullen and self-absorbed. ‘It was such a pity my father had to die,’ said Dick, almost like a confession. It seemed as though he might say more, but the American kept his words back. Roosevelt junior seemed to be thinking something through, perhaps even making a calculation.

  After a silent pause Roosevelt changed the subject. ‘Well, at least my men are outside,’ he said.

  ‘Well, why don’t they come in?’ suggested Myles, surprised. ‘We need to get your wound treated, Senator.’

  Dick didn’t really respond to the question. He winced again, then turned back to Myles. ‘So what do you think Juma had been planning?’

  ‘I guess he was trying to smuggle a bomb into the conference and set it off.’

  ‘Not a suicide bomber, then?’

  ‘No,’ answered Myles, shaking his head. ‘He only swallowed the bomb to get through security. He was trying to get the bomb out in the toilet when we interrupted him.’

  Dick looked pensive. ‘And Placidia?’

  ‘I think all she wanted was asylum for her people,’ said Myles, looking over at her crumpled body. ‘It was her last campaign.’

  ‘Really?’ huffed Roosevelt. ‘She just tried to kill me.’

  Myles didn’t react.

  Dick could tell he wasn’t convinced. ‘Come on, Myles. She was a terrorist, right? She had to die.’

  Myles still didn’t answer. ‘She had to die’ – one of the doctors had said that about his mother’s cancer. Then he remembered how Placidia used to be. ‘She wasn’t a terrorist when I knew her. At university she was idealistic. She believed in good things.’

  ‘Sure,’ accepted Roosevelt. ‘But she changed. People change. Perhaps by marrying Juma, she became a psycho. Right, Myles?’

  Myles shook his head, still concentrating on Dick’s wound. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I reckon she just got caught up in something too big for her to handle.’

  ‘An accidental terrorist, huh, Myles?’ joked Roosevelt.

  ‘She wasn’t a terrorist.’

  ‘No? So who was?’

  Myles wondered carefully about how to respond. But no response was necessary. He felt Dick’s expression change, and realised the Senator had picked up the gun with his free hand.

  Dick Roosevelt lifted the weapon towards Myles, then pressed it into his abdomen.

  Seventy-Two

  Pantheon, Rome

  Myles froze.

  Then, very slowly, he looked down to check he really was being held at gunpoint. He returned his eyes to Dick Roosevelt’s wound, then carefully lifted his hands away. The wound didn’t seem to matter any more.

  His non-reaction was not what Dick had been expecting.

  Dick’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not surprised, Myles?’

  Myles shook his head. ‘I suspected before. It was how Juma got into the conference centre that convinced me. He had a Roosevelt Guardian ID card.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Roosevelt, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Yes – I’ve got it,’ said Myles, immediately knowing he’d made a mistake by releasing the information.

  Roosevelt grinned, his weapon still trained on Myles. ‘Then hand it to me, please, Myles.’

  Myles removed from his sleeve the small plastic card he had taken from Juma’s jacket in the conference centre. He allowed it to drop on the floor.

  Dick didn’t react. Instead he poked the gun into Myles’ shirt and lifted up the fabric. ‘You wired?’ he asked.

  Myles frowned, confused. He made Dick spell it out.

  Dick became agitated. ‘You know - a recording device,’ he explained. ‘You trying to get me to incriminate myself on tape?’

  ‘Surely that would be against the Fifth Amendment, Senator,’ replied Myles flatly.

  Senator Roosevelt wasn’t convinced. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered.

  Myles screwed up his face in disbelief.

  Dick confirmed his instruction. ‘Take off your clothes and pass them to me, one by one,’ he demanded. ‘So I can check you don’t have a device on you.’

  ‘I’m not that smart, Senator.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ conceded Roosevelt. ‘But Placidia was. She had something. A mobile phone thing. It was broadcasting onto the web. She was trying to make a secret video of me. Something she could have uploaded like all her other videos.’

  ‘But you got it?’ asked Myles.

  The Senator nodded, then glanced over at a smashed electronic device not far away. It had been stamped
on, and was very definitely broken. ‘She had managed to broadcast a few minutes’ worth, but nothing incriminating,’ he gloated.

  Myles realised his last hope was gone: Placidia had failed to record a confession from Dick Roosevelt. He had no more defences left.

  Myles began to remove his Chinese cap. But he knew as soon as the Senator confirmed Myles had no audio device on him, Dick Roosevelt would pull the trigger.

  Myles had to play for time.

  He paused as he undressed. ‘Placidia invited you here by text message,’ he said.

  Roosevelt looked uneasy. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve seen the text,’ explained Myles. ‘It means people will know you’ve been in contact with her.’

  Roosevelt pondered for a short moment, then shrugged. ‘I’ll just say I was invited for peace talks. My father got away with talking to terrorists all the time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ admitted Myles. ‘But they might be able to find all your other contacts with her and Juma. If Placidia was smart enough to try to record her conversation here, you can be sure she kept evidence of your role in everything else.’

  The Senator smirked. ‘I’ve been in contact with them for ages. Investigators still haven’t made the connection. They probably never will. The guy from Las Vegas I hired to do computer stuff wiped everything clean.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘And even he didn’t know it was me until a few minutes before he died. He just called me “Constantine”, like the Emperor. Isn’t that sweet?’

  ‘The information planted on my laptop?”

  The Senator nodded.

  Myles was beginning to understand it all now. ‘You must have been in contact with them since before they took your father hostage.’

  ‘From before the first bomb in New York,’ boasted the Senator.

  ‘I always thought your escape from Libya was…unlikely.’

  ‘“Heroic” is the official description, Englishman,’ said Roosevelt, mocking an English accent. ‘It was “heroic”.’

  Myles had removed his shirt to reveal his bare chest. He wasn’t ‘wired’. Both he and the Senator were aware that Myles, standing, could easily try to tackle the wounded Senator somehow. The Senator recognised the threat and indicated Myles should move away.