He hoped this trip to Rome would help him unlock the puzzles. But he also knew there was a fourth puzzle, one to which he didn’t want the answer: his feelings for Placidia. The thought of her still stopped him from thinking. And he needed to think, he told himself, if he was to stop whatever Placidia and Juma had planned.
Dick Roosevelt helped Myles with his bags at Rome’s Ciampino airport. There was also a Roosevelt Guardian car waiting for them, ready to take them to the conference venue in the city centre — a short drive. As they had been trained, the private security men treated Myles as a VIP — opening doors for him, calling him ‘sir’, and making sure newspapers and other material were ready for him inside. Although Myles found it more amusing than flattering, he could see how seductive it could be. ‘This is how you treat all your guests?’ he asked.
‘All part of the Roosevelt Guardian service, Myles,’ replied Roosevelt junior. ‘All part of the service.’
Myles and Richard Roosevelt relaxed in the back seats of the firm’s armoured limousine as the vehicle swished towards the centre of Rome. Through heavily tinted windows, Myles could see Italian daily life, and wondered how much had changed since imperial times. A mother disciplined her child, old men chatted at an outside table, and a trader stacked boxes of fruits for market. As they drove further, Myles saw foreigners from all over Europe and America who had come to see the city sights for themselves — just as people from all over the Empire travelled to Rome in its heyday. It could all have happened two thousand years ago.
As they neared the city centre, Myles saw more of the historic architecture: paving stones, statues and arches, all worn down by two millennia of weather and events. Famous columns to honour senators and nobles, the central forum, a victory statue… The car passed the famous Victor Emmanuel monument — not two thousand years old but barely one hundred, completed to celebrate the unification of Italy and lauded by the Italian dictator Mussolini in his doomed attempt to create an imperial legacy of his own. It was another reminder that Rome had gone through some tragic episodes since its most glorious days.
Myles saw huge churches — this city was the epicentre of the Catholic faith.
When they turned down a narrow medieval street, Myles saw buildings which had probably been built in the Renaissance. Tourists threw coins into a fountain, smiling as they made a wish.
Rome was a place of beauty and charm, forged by its history. The city’s past was dominated by its Empire. And that imperial legacy was always shaded by one fact: that it fell.
He tried to remember his tutorials — his lessons with Placidia… How did she think the Roman Empire fell?
He was still wondering as they arrived in the forecourt of the conference centre.
Myles’ car door was opened for him. ‘Welcome to the Barberini Conference Centre,’ said a woman in uniform.
Myles stepped out, and looked up at the building in front of them. It was modern and impressive, but built within a much older stone frame — thoughtful architecture.
The Barberini Hotel in Rome was an obvious choice for a conference. Its central location meant delegates could spend time between sessions visiting the city’s famous sites. It already had an extensive CCTV system, making security easier. And, by being in the middle of small and winding streets, terrorists hoping to ram the building with a car or truck bomb would not be able to build up much speed.
The main entrance to the hotel opened out onto a piazza. Currently a car park, the area would be cleared of vehicles before the conference was held.
‘We’ll have an outside screening point — you know, a walk-through scanner, like in airports,’ explained Roosevelt. ‘Then another check when people actually get inside.’ He detailed how he’d double up the safeguards. Myles was encouraged.
Once inside the building, Roosevelt showed Myles the corridors which led off to the left — to a café and toilets — and right, with stairs ahead of them. There were also lifts to the upper floor. ‘Let me show you to the CCTV room. The nerve centre…’ offered Roosevelt.
Richard galloped up the stairs then along an upper-level corridor. Myles followed. They approached a normal-looking door, which the young Roosevelt held open for the Englishman. ‘Hope you’re impressed.’
Myles was. Roosevelt Guardians had managed to fill the room with computer equipment of all sorts. There were TV screens on the walls, phones, whiteboards and communications kit. The two men already there — a Roosevelt Guardian drinking a coffee and a technician making final changes — immediately recognised their CEO and jumped to attention. Roosevelt barely noticed them. Instead, he extended his arm and wafted it across the room, showing it off to Myles.
‘And we’ve connected all the CCTV feeds through to here, too,’ said Roosevelt, picking up a computer keyboard. He started flipping through the images from different viewpoints around the building. Myles found himself absorbed in the pictures.
Then something caught his eye. The CCTV image from the main entrance showed two Italian police vans pulling up in the piazza. The doors opened and uniformed men started climbing out. Some were armed.
‘Is that normal?’ asked Myles.
Richard Roosevelt squinted at the grainy computer image. The Guardians at the entrance were reacting as though the Italian police were unexpected.
Richard Roosevelt asked his employee what was happening.
‘Don’t know, sir,’ came the reply.
Roosevelt changed the feed and switched to a different camera. The central staircase came into view, distorted by the fish-eye camera lens. Within moments the Italian police were there, running up the stairs as Myles and Roosevelt had just minutes earlier. Several of the policemen stood guard. For whatever reason, they seemed determined that no one leave the conference centre.
‘What do they want?’ asked Roosevelt.
‘Don’t know, sir.’
Richard Roosevelt turned to Myles. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
Myles shook his head. He was as confused as his host.
Moments later a group of Carabinieri burst into the room. They had automatic guns, which they deliberately pointed at the floor. Four of them fanned out, cocking their weapons and making sure no one moved.
The Roosevelt Guardian and the technician froze. Myles stayed still, too. Only Richard Roosevelt reacted. He looked angry and confronted the Italians. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You must be Richard Roosevelt,’ replied one of the men, obviously in charge of the special Italian police and smiling from behind a beard.
‘Yes I am. And who are you?’
The policeman looked relaxed, and gestured to his men to ease their posture. ‘Captain Perrotta. Italian Special Police.’
‘Where’s your ID?’
Perrotta had the look of a family man: when he made an effort to retrieve a plastic card from his inside pocket, Myles half expected him to pull out a confiscated toy. Roosevelt held out his hand, demanding to inspect Perrotta’s credentials.
After a few seconds Roosevelt handed the card back. ‘OK, so you are Carabinieri,’ accepted Roosevelt. ‘I have to check — you know, in post-invasion Iraq there were lots of armed gangs pretending to be policemen…’
But Perrotta had already lost interest in the American. With his plastic ID card safely stowed back in his jacket, he gently brushed Roosevelt aside. He was walking past him.
Richard Roosevelt was incensed. He didn’t know how to react.
Then it became clear who the Carabinieri were really after.
‘And, sir, are you Mr Myles Munro?’ asked Perrotta.
Myles confirmed that he was.