Deciding it was best to be bold, Myles simply walked forward, towards the front gates. Several of the workers watched him but none seemed particularly interested. Myles could easily have had a purpose there. He looked as if he was about to meet someone finishing their shift.
Once through the gates, Myles got a better look at the building itself. The main doors were guarded. Without breaking step, he kept walking. He passed the main door and followed the perimeter wall around on the inside. He kept on walking around the factory buildings. Through one car park, then another…
Myles knew he had to keep walking as if he knew where he was going. To stop would arouse attention. To gauge his bearings would be very suspicious. So he just kept going, careful to duck out of view of the factory’s single CCTV camera. After the third of four sides, he wondered whether his luck was starting to fail. If he came back round to the front again, perhaps he would have to leave with the rest of the factory workers.
But then he saw the refuse centre. Four very large bins were waiting for collection, along with other waste in plastic bags. The chance was too tempting. Myles walked straight over towards them. Then he moved behind them.
Gambling that waste-unloading time had finished for the day, Myles spent a few minutes thinking of an excuse in case he was discovered, and wondering whether he could carry it off without speaking German.
But the excuse was unnecessary. Myles waited until the main gates were shut and locked, then kept waiting. He had plenty to think through, and let his thoughts entertain him as he sat amongst the rubbish, caring not at all about the smell of his surroundings.
Two hours later, he slowly emerged from his hiding place, into a half-lit area between the perimeter wall and the building itself. He watched: there seemed to be just one security guard, who loitered near the main door of the building without moving much. Myles couldn’t see the man properly, but he noted the guard looked African.
So Myles walked round to the back of the building, testing each window he passed to find one left open. The third one he came to had a small gap. Myles nudged the frame upwards, creating more space. Then, checking around again, he climbed in and closed the window behind him.
Myles was in an office. He hated these places. He tried to concentrate. What should he be looking for?
As he walked from desk to desk, he saw the standard detritus of a sales office — notes and calendars, brochures, a poorly scribbled telephone number, sales cards. All the signs and paperwork were in German. But still nothing seemed out of place, or unusual in any way. He decided to try elsewhere.
After another set of offices — equally uninteresting — he came across the main part of the factory. This was where the All-American Steak Sauce was actually made. Myles looked up in wonderment at the pipes and mixing containers. He could see where forklift trucks drove in supplies from the adjoining warehouse. He saw a giant ventilation fan.
Then he realised where he needed to go.
Following a yellow line on the floor, he walked through some large Perspex doors into the storehouse. This was where the main ingredients were kept. Myles walked along the shelves to see what was there. Glucose syrup, flour, concentrated tomato puree, all labelled in both German and English.
He walked on. A water point, salt, an unnamed type of oil…
Then he saw it and immediately he knew. Carefully, he lifted the tub from the shelf, taking a strange comfort in how heavy it was. The weight proved he was right. He put the container on the floor.
Labelled just ‘spice’, Myles put his hand in and felt the tiny particles of lead trickle between his fingers. Dark grey, the metal was in powdered form, as fine as dust. It felt like a heavy liquid washing around his hand. He could tell why most of the workers would mistake it for a spice — how were they to know the difference?
So it was that simple: the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome amounted to replacing a popular condiment with a toxic metal powder. Juma’s arrogance — throwing a bottle at Myles — had undermined the pirate’s own plan. Undiscovered, the doctored sauce could cause fatal lead poisoning in whoever consumed it, which he guessed was millions of Americans every day.
Amazed at what he had found, Myles checked that he was still alone.
He felt the burning impulse to tell someone, knowing it would be the most dangerous part of his activities for the night, but also the most important.
Myles hurried back to the sales office and picked up the telephone receiver.
He tried a ‘9’ for an outside line. The dialling tone changed. Then he pressed the twelve digit number he had memorised. It was the number given to him earlier in the email from ‘Dr Neil Bheel’.
The number rang, then someone picked up. It was a familiar voice, the confident voice of an American journalist. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello — it’s me,’ Myles whispered. ‘Don’t say my name, please. We don’t know who might be listening in.’
He heard Helen pause. She was surprised to hear from him. ‘Wow — er, hello,’ she said. ‘Great of you to call. I’ve just landed in Istanbul — I’ll tell you why later. You got my email then?’
‘Yes, I did: and “Dr Neil Bheel”, quite an inspired anagram.’
‘Where are you now…or don’t you want to say?’
Myles thought before he answered, not sure how much to say. ‘Somewhere in Germany,’ he offered. ‘In a factory. It’s where American Steak Sauce is being made now, and they’ve started using fine lead particles as an ingredient.’
‘Lead?’ Helen sounded shocked.
‘Yeah — the Romans used to put lead in their sauces,’ explained Myles.
‘I remember,’ said Helen. ‘And it made them go mad.’
‘Can you wait fifteen minutes until I’m out of here, please, then tell the German police?’
‘Certainly. How are you doing? Are you OK? I’m worried about you.’
Myles loved to hear Helen’s concern. It was the first consoling voice he’d heard in a long time. As he stood alone in an alien, half-lit office, on the run, he certainly needed consoling. But he also realised this probably wasn’t the place. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m OK. And you?’
‘I think I may have found the next source of trouble,’ revealed Helen, proud of her discovery. ‘We know Juma’s connected with Istanbul. Well there’s a plague pit here, where the Romans used to bury the victims of the disease — when an epidemic killed lots of them around the time the Empire was collapsing. I’ve discovered a new archaeological dig going on near the city walls. I’m about to check it out. It’s going under the official name of “Galla”.’
‘Galla?’ queried Myles.
‘Yes. I googled the name ‘Placidia’ online, and it came up with ‘Galla Placidia’ — the daughter of a Roman Emperor. She married the leader of the barbarian who sacked Rome, then tried to rule what was left of the Empire herself.’
Myles was beginning to remember his history. ‘And she almost succeeded.’
‘Galla Security, Galla Excavations — I know it, it’s them, Myles.’
Myles winced — she had used his name. He was certain the line was bugged by anti-terrorism police, so now they would have a clear fix on him. He began to wonder whether the call to the German police in fifteen minutes would be necessary — they might arrive sooner.
‘I think they might be trying to incubate the bubonic plague,’ Helen continued. ‘They could harvest bacteria from the bodies buried there.’
‘Is that possible? When the victims have been dead for a millennium and a half?’
Helen admitted she didn’t know. ‘But Juma probably doesn’t know either, which is why he might try.’
Myles nodded silently. He listened while Helen read out the address: in the Cemetery of the Emperor Justinian. ‘Do you think you might be able to meet me here?’ she asked.