15

Angela stepped out of the cramped shower cubicle, wrapped a towel around her and walked across to the sink. As she dried her hair, she stared at herself critically in the small mirror and again wondered just what the hell she was doing.

In the last twenty-four hours her world had been turned completely upside-down. Before, her life had been ordered and predictable. Now, one of her best friends had been killed and her ex-husband was apparently the prime suspect, and she was on the run with him, trying to avoid both the police and a gang of Italian killers.

But, strangely, she was beginning to enjoy herself. Despite the failure of their marriage, she still liked Chris, and enjoyed being in his company. And, though she would never admit it to anyone else, she found his dark good looks just as attractive now as when she’d first met him. It still gave her a thrill inside when he walked into a room, instantly commanding attention.

Perhaps, she reflected as she dressed, that was part of the problem. Chris was attractive, and perhaps that had clouded her judgment when he’d proposed. Maybe if she’d looked at him more carefully she’d have realized that his real affection was directed elsewhere, at the unattainable Jackie. It would have saved her a lot of heartache if she’d deduced that at the time.

She jumped slightly at the knock on the door.

“Good morning,” Chris said. “Have you had breakfast yet? Because we need to get to work.”

“I’ll grab something later,” Angela replied. “I’ll go and make the calls, and take a look around. You stay here until I get back.”

Outside the hotel, she walked briskly down the street until she found a working public telephone, fed a phone card into the slot and dialed the number of her immediate superior at the British Museum.

“It’s Angela,” she croaked. “I’m afraid I’m going down with something, Roger. Flu or something. I’m going to have to take a couple of days off.”

“God, you sound like death. Don’t you dare come anywhere near here until you’re better. Seriously, is there anything you need—food, medicine, anything like that?”

“No, thanks. I’m just going to stay in bed until it’s gone.”

Angela and Bronson had discussed their plan on the train to Cambridge the previous evening. She was using a public phone because that left no trace—Bronson knew that switching on their cell phones would locate them to the nearest few yards immediately, so both of their Nokias were in his overnight bag, their batteries removed as a precaution.

Angela made one more call, then she walked back along East Road, stopping at the bakery along the way.

“Here,” she said, as she walked into Bronson’s hotel room and passed him a small paper bag. “I bought a couple of pastries to keep us going until lunch.”

“Thanks. You made the calls?” Bronson asked.

Angela nodded. “Roger will be fine. He’s paranoid about any kind of cold or flu.”

“And Jeremy?”

“Well, I called him and passed on the message. I explained about Mark and that we think his death had something to do with the inscriptions. I warned him he might be a target too but he laughed it off. He still thinks that the verses are meaningless to anyone in this century.”

Bronson frowned. “I wish I could believe he’s right,” he said. “Well, you did your best.”

“Right,” Angela said, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Let’s get started. Have you had any thoughts?”

“Not really. The problem with the Occitan verses is that they seem tantalizingly clear in what they say, but I’ve got no idea about their actual meaning. So I did just wonder if our best option was to start with the Latin inscription—or rather with the initials below it—and see if we can identify the man who ordered the stone to be carved.”

“That makes sense,” Angela said. “There are a couple of cybercafés not far from here, full of unshaven, scruffy students probably accessing high-quality porn sites.” She paused and looked critically at him. “You’ll fit right in.”

Bronson had opted for a rudimentary disguise. He’d stopped shaving, though it would take a couple of days before his beard became really noticeable, and had discarded his usual collar and tie for a sloppy T-shirt, jeans and trainers.

Ten minutes later they entered the first of the Internet cafés Angela had identified. Three machines were available, so they ordered two coffees and started trawling the Web.

“Are you happy with Jeremy’s suggestion about the ‘PO’ standing for per ordo?” Angela asked.

“Yes. I think we should just take that as established and try and find out who ‘LDA’ was. The other thing he suggested was that the carving was probably first century A.D. And, Angela, we have to be quick. After what happened to Jackie, I’m only staying on this machine for an hour. Whether or not we’ve found anything by then, we get up and leave. OK?”

Angela nodded her agreement. “Let’s start the simple way,” she said, typed “LDA” into Google, pressed the return key and leaned forward expectantly.

The result didn’t surprise them: almost one and a half million hits, but as far as they could see from a quick scan, none of any use unless you were searching for the London Development Agency or the Learning Disabilities Association.

“That would have been too easy,” Bronson muttered. “Let’s refine the search. Try and find a list of Roman senators and see if any of them fit the bill.”

That was easier said than done, and by the end of the hour Bronson had allotted, they’d found details about the lives of numerous individual senators but no list they could peruse.

“OK,” Bronson said, with a quick glance at his watch. “One last try. Put ‘Roman senate LDA’ and see what comes up.”

Angela input the phrase and they waited for the search engine to deliver its results.

“Nothing,” Angela said, scrolling down the page.

“Wait,” Bronson said. “What’s that?” He pointed at an entry entitled “Pax Romana” that included a reference to “LDA and Aurora.” “Try that,” he said.

Angela clicked on it. On the left-hand side was a long list of Roman names, below the title “Regular members.”

“What the hell is this?” Bronson wondered aloud.

“Oh, I know,” Angela said, scrolling up and down. “I’ve heard of this. It’s a kind of online novel about ancient Rome. You can read it, or write material for it, if you want. You can even learn quite a bit.”

Bronson ran his eyes down the list of names, then stopped. “I’ll be damned. Look—is that serendipity or what?” And he pointed at the name “Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus” about three-quarters of the way down. “The contributors must be using the names of real historical Romans.”

Angela copied the name and input it into Google.

“He certainly was real,” she said, looking at the screen, “and he was a consul in sixteen B.C. Maybe Jeremy was wrong about the age of the inscription. It could have been fifty or so years older.”

Bronson leaned over and clicked the mouse. “It might be even simpler than that,” he said. “It seems this was a fairly common family name. On this list there are nine people all called Domitius Ahenobarbus, five of them with the first name Gnaeus, and the other four Lucius. Three of the four named Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus were consuls: the one you found in sixteen B.C., plus two others, in ninety-four B.C. and fifty-four B.C.”

“What about the fourth Lucius?”

Bronson clicked another link. “Here he is—but he looks a bit different. ‘Like the others, this man was born Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, but his full name was Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, also known as Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus. Just to complicate things, when he ascended the imperial throne in fifty-four A.D., he took the name Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus.’ ”

He scrolled down, then chuckled. “But he’s better known to us as the emperor who fiddled while Rome burned.”

“Nero? You think that inscription might refer to Nero?”

Bronson shook his head. “I doubt it, though that does fit better with Jeremy’s estimated date. He suggested that the initials probably referred to a consul or senator. Just say for a moment that the inscription was prepared on Nero’s orders—wouldn’t it be more likely to read ‘PO NCCD,’ to reflect his imperial name?”

“Perhaps the inscription was carved before he became emperor?” Angela suggested. “Or maybe it was intended to be personal, to emphasize that whoever had carved the stone knew a lot about Nero, and maybe was even related to him.”

“We’re out of here,” Bronson said, looking at his watch and standing up to leave. “So you reckon Nero’s worth another look?”

“Absolutely,” Angela agreed. “Let’s find another cybercafé. ”

They walked the quarter mile or so to the second cybercafe’ Angela had located earlier. This one was almost empty, presumably due to the time of day, and they sat down at the PC at the end of the line, closest to the back wall of the cafe’.

“So where do we go from here?” Angela asked.

“Bloody good question. I’m still not convinced we’re even on the right track, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Look, forget ‘LDA’ for the moment. Jeremy suggested that the other letters on the stone—‘MAM’—were probably those of the mason who carved it. But what if there’s another explanation?”

“I’m listening.”

“This is a bit tenuous, so bear with me. Assume that the ‘PO LDA’ does mean ‘by the order of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus,’ and that we are talking about Nero himself. Jeremy guessed that meant the stone was inscribed on Nero’s instructions. But let’s suppose it wasn’t. Maybe Nero ordered something completely different to be done—some other action—and another person, someone with the initials ‘MAM,’ decided that this event should be recorded.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“Take a present-day example. You’ll quite often see monuments and inscribed stones in Britain commemorating some event: the names of local residents who died in a war, or details of a building that once stood on the spot, that kind of thing. Sometimes there’s a note at the end explaining that the stone, or whatever, was paid for by the Rotary Club or some other group. The point is that the people who paid for the stone had nothing to do with the event the inscription described. They just arranged for the memorial to be erected. Maybe this is something similar.”

“You mean that Nero did something that could be described by the expression ‘here lie the liars,’ but someone else—‘MAM’—ordered the stone to be prepared as a record of what Nero had done?”

“Exactly. And that suggests that whatever Nero did might have been illegal or private, nothing to do with his position as emperor. So what we have to do is find out if he was connected to anyone with the initials ‘MAM.’ If he was, we might have something. If he wasn’t, it’s back to the drawing board.”

That search took very little time. Within a few minutes they had a possible match.

“This guy might fit the bill,” Angela said. “His name was Marcus Asinius Marcellus, and he was a senator during the reigns of both Claudius and Nero. What’s most interesting is that he should have been executed in A.D. sixty because of his involvement in a plot to forge a will. All his accomplices were put to the sword, but Nero spared his life. I wonder why?”

“That’s worth chasing.”

Angela scrolled down the page. “Ah, here we are. Marcellus was distantly related to the Emperor. That’s probably why Nero gave him a break.”

“Yes, that could be the link.”

“I’m not following you.”

Bronson paused for a moment to order his thoughts. “Suppose the Emperor saved Marcellus because he was a relative, certainly, but also for some other reason. Nero wasn’t known for his compassion. He was one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty of all the Roman emperors—if my memory serves me correctly, he even had his own mother executed—so I don’t think killing a fifth cousin or whatever Marcellus was would have made him lose any sleep.

“But suppose Nero wanted the services of someone who owed him a debt of allegiance, someone whom he could trust completely. In that case, this inscription makes more sense. Nero had ordered something done, something private or illegal or both, and Marcellus had been told to carry it out, maybe against his will. And it’s that action which the inscription on the stone has recorded.”

“You’re quite right—it is tenuous. But what orders did Nero give?”

“I haven’t got the faintest idea.” Bronson stood up and stretched. It had been a long morning. “And there’s something else. How would you describe the inscription we found on that stone—the three Latin words?”

“Cryptic, probably.”

“Exactly. Assuming we’re right about this, why did Marcellus feel the need to have a cryptic inscription prepared? Why didn’t he carve something that explained the situation? Or was that exactly what he did on the missing lower section of the stone? Maybe that Latin phrase we found was just the title of the inscription?”

He paused and looked at Angela. “We need to do a lot more research.”

Two hours later, Angela was in Bronson’s room surrounded by books on the Roman Empire. They now knew a great deal more about Nero, but information on Marcellus was tantalizingly sparse. He seemed an extremely shadowy figure, and they found almost nothing about him that they hadn’t already known. And they still had not the slightest idea what the Latin inscription might refer to.

“We’re really not getting anywhere with this,” Angela said, closing one of the reference books with an irritated snap. “I’m going to start looking at the second inscription.” She stood up and reached for her coat. “I’ll be in the third cafe’ on our list, if you need me.”

“Right,” Bronson replied. “I’m going to keep flogging away at these for a while. Be careful out there.”

“I will, but don’t forget nobody’s looking for me, at least as far as I know.”

Angela had been working at the machine for only about twenty minutes when the door of the cafe’ opened. A police constable entered and walked across to the girl manning the counter.

“Good afternoon, miss,” the officer said. “We’re looking for a man who we believe was in this area earlier today using cybercafe’s, and we wonder if you remember seeing him in here.”

He produced a photograph from a folder he was carrying and placed it on the counter. As he did so, Angela caught a glimpse of the face in the picture and realized in a single heart-stopping moment that it showed Chris.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, “I only started my shift here a couple of hours ago, and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been in this afternoon. You could try asking the customers.” She waved her hand to encompass the twenty or so computers in the café and the dozen people using them. “Some of them are regulars. What’s he done, anyway?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid,” the officer said. He walked across to the first occupied terminal and repeated his question. By the time he’d got to the third computer, all the people in the cafe’ were clustered around him, staring at the picture. Angela realized that if she didn’t go and look, that would appear suspicious in itself. So, on legs that weren’t quite steady, she walked across the room and peered at the photograph of the man she knew better than anyone else in the world.

“And you, miss?” the constable asked, looking directly at her.

Angela shook her head: “No, I’ve never seen him before. Quite good-looking, though, isn’t he?”

A couple of girls in the group giggled, but the policeman seemed unamused. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, and turned to leave.

“This bloke,” the girl behind the counter asked, “if he does come in, what should I do? Run away and hide in the loo, or make him a drink? I mean, is he dangerous, or what?”

The constable considered the question for a few moments. “We don’t think he’d pose any risk to you personally, miss, but you should telephone the Park-side station as soon as possible. In case you need it, the number’s 358966.”

Angela returned to her computer and forced herself to remain at the machine for several more minutes, then stood up.

“Find what you were looking for, love?” the girl behind the till asked.

Angela shook her head. “I’ve never found exactly what I’m looking for,” she replied, with a slight smile, thinking about her taste in men.

“The bloody police are looking for you, Chris,” Angela announced, the moment she’d closed the hotel room door behind her. Quickly, she outlined what had happened in the cafe’.

“So they knew I’d been using the Internet?” Bronson said.

“Yes, I told you. They even had your photograph, and they said you’d been in the area this morning.”

“Jesus, these guys are good,” Bronson muttered. “They even have the police doing their dirty work for them. They’re a lot more dangerous than we thought.”

“I can understand that the police are looking for you because of Mark’s death, but how can they possibly know you’ve been using cybercafe’s?”

“I thought from the start that these Italians had an Internet-monitoring system running—that’s why Jackie died. They must have a contact in the British police and be feeding him details of the searches we’re running, which means we must be on the right track. We’re going to have to get away from here, and quickly.”

“Where to?” Angela asked.

“The answer must lie in Italy, where all this started.”

“But don’t you think that if the police are already looking for you in cybercafe’s, they’ll be checking the ports and airports as well?”

“Yes, of course,” Bronson said, “but I made sure I left my passport inside the house, and I’ve no doubt that by now they’ll have got inside and seen it. They might have a token watch in place at the ports, but without a passport, they won’t be expecting me to try to leave the country.” He grinned suddenly. “Which is exactly what we’re going to do. It’ll be a lot harder for them to find us in Europe.”

“I thought Interpol helped international cooperation between police forces.”

“Dream on. Interpol is a wonderful concept, but it’s also a huge system. To get anything useful out of it, you’ve got to fill in the right forms and talk to the right people, and even then it will take time to get the information disseminated. Anyway, it’s not that difficult to get in or out of Britain without being detected, if you know how. You have got your driving license and passport with you?”

Angela nodded.

“Good. Now, what I need you to do is take this money”—he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a wad of notes and counted out a sum on the table—“that’s just over fifteen hundred pounds. Use that as a deposit and go out and buy an old minivan. A Chrysler Voyager, Renault Espace, even a Transit van as a last resort, in your name, and get it insured for driving on the Continent.”

“Then what?”

“And then,” Bronson replied, grinning again, “we’re going shopping for a new bathroom.”