The room laughed at Dick Roosevelt’s humility.
‘But what I think it means, is that I need help,’ continued Roosevelt. ‘I need someone to check we’ve made the currency conference safe. Ideally, one of you guys with a brilliant mind who can out-think Juma.’
The lecture theatre was nodding in agreement: if Juma was going to attack the Rome conference then the assembled brains trust should send someone to pre-empt what he might do. But who should go?
Someone tried to encourage the woman who had given the second presentation to go, but she clearly wasn’t keen. Someone else was being talked about, but for some reason everybody decided they weren’t suitable.
Then there was a suggestion that the brightest person in the room should go. Another voice said it should be the person who got their thinking this far. They needed an expert in military theory, and also someone who had met Juma and Placidia.
It took just a few more moments for the lecture hall to come to a consensus as to who should accompany Dick Roosevelt in reviewing the arrangements. As he felt the eyes turn towards him, Myles accepted that he didn’t really have much choice.
Myles was going back to Rome.
Twenty-Seven
Paul Pasgarius the Third’s cabriolet had been washed and polished by illegal migrants while he slept — migrants he felt no obligation to pay — and now glinted in the setting Nevada sun. He swung the vehicle round the junction, and began to cruise along the boulevard.
Paul raised his shades to admire two women walking beside the road. He slowed the car. When the women glanced down at the sidewalk, deliberately ignoring him, he just put more gum in his mouth and accelerated away. Those ladies didn’t know what they were missing, he grinned to himself.
It was just a short drive to his office. He left his car with an attendant and sauntered in. His three staff were already working, monitoring screens, but not too busy. He grunted an acknowledgement to them, then strolled into his own private room, and closed the door behind him.
From the notifications on his screen, he already knew there was no unusual activity. Or at least, not an unusual amount of it. As always, a few clever novices were trying to scam the online poker, and some guys were getting lucky on the slots. It always happened at the start of the evening. But Paul Pasgarius the Third’s computer algorithm told him what was really unusual. It watched for certain tricks: special betting patterns, and evidence of card counting or accomplices on the staff. None of that was happening. The clever novices would soon find the online settings turning against them. And the lucky guys on the slots, unless they had the rare courage to quit early, would end their night with less money than they started.
It would be a quiet few hours. And that meant, for Paul, lucrative ones. He leant back in his chair, and peeled open a magazine. The headline article was about scams used by gamblers in ancient Rome, and how some of today’s most common con tricks harked back to the imperial city.
He was about to start reading when an alert flashed on the corner of the screen. He frowned, disconcerted by the words ‘Unknown Caller’. Whoever it was, they were cloaking their location. It wasn’t one of the big casinos. Probably no one in Las Vegas at all. He put on his headset and answered.
‘Er, Hello.’ Paul listened carefully, waiting for words to emerge from the static.
When the voice did come through, it was garbled. Very garbled. ‘Paul Pasgarius the Third.’
The voice was so heavily disguised, Paul couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. He also wasn’t sure whether he was being told his name or asked a question.
‘Er yes, this is Paul Pasgarius the Third,’ he replied. ‘CEO of Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated.’
More silence. Then a single word: ‘Good’.
‘How may I help you?’
‘I need certain electronic material to be loaded onto a computer.’
Paul paused, trying to understand the command. ‘Er, your computer?’
‘No,’ came the response. ‘I think we both know what we’re talking about here.’
‘Ah,’ said Paul. He put more gum in his mouth, giving him time to think. ‘Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated is licensed by the Nevada Gaming Control Board,’ he said, rushing the words out in case he was being tested by someone official. ‘I comply with all the state regulations and laws.’ He almost added the words, ‘And I operate according to the highest ethical standards,’ but it was too much of a lie, even for him.
‘You will not have to breach any laws or regulations — in Nevada,’ came the reply.
Paul clutched the headphones to his ears. ‘OK,’ he mused, slowly.
‘Good,’ came the reply. ‘Because that means no one will ever get to hear about…your activities.’ The voice trailed off.
Paul Pasgarius the Third gulped, wondering how the anonymous caller had learned about his misdemeanours.
‘You know what I’m talking about?’ asked the voice.
Paul thought of trying to bluff it out. Or pretending there was nothing wrong with the special ‘parties’ he went to — parties he paid to attend and where he was guaranteed a good time, usually with very young girls. But his licence was at stake. It wasn’t worth the risk. ‘Maybe I do,’ he admitted. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Then he listened while the voice gave precise details on what they wanted.
‘OK,’ concluded Pasgarius. ‘I can do that for you. Just once, you understand. And, your name — what can I call you?’
He still wondered whether he was talking to a man or a woman, and hoped the caller’s answer would settle his curiosity. But the one word response from the voice just left him even more puzzled than before.
‘Constantine.’
‘Constantine, huh?’
‘You got it.’
Paul Pasgarius the Third frowned. He swung his chair round, and gazed across at the fountains of Caesar’s Palace opposite. ‘Wasn’t there an Emperor called that?’ he asked.
But the caller had already gone.
Day IV
Twenty-Eight
Helen managed to say goodbye to Myles in the airport’s secure departures area — there was no time for them to enjoy each other’s company properly. ‘Myles, it feels funny you going back to Rome without me,’ she said.
‘I wish you were coming along…’
The final call for Myles’ flight came over the tannoy. Myles felt Helen’s fingers intertwine with his. He pulled her close, then kissed her. He could tell she was nervous.
Helen gripped his hand tightly, and leant back so she could inspect his face. ‘Call me — every day — OK?’ she asked.
‘I will. And you call me if I forget — right?’
‘You got it.’ She let him go, and kept waving at him until he had disappeared from view.
Myles wasn’t sure what he had become involved in, but he felt duty-bound to see it through. Especially with the Senator still held hostage. But he also knew he had only seen part of the problem so far. In particular, there were three things he still couldn’t understand:
Why was Placidia trying to destroy America?
How had the idealistic young woman he knew at university become a terrorist?
And could she really make the US fall like the Roman Empire?