Perfiditas Read online

  Back in the locker room, I abandoned my uniform. I stowed my gold eagle badge in my pants pocket. I needed it to clear security at the exit. I sauntered down the corridors as casually as I could manage, my heart in my stomach. Normally three and a half minutes from locker room to exit, each second seemed ten times longer. I was sweating as I approached the security gate – the last barrier. My heart thumping, I put my hand and eye up to the readers and waited for the take-down.

  Nothing. The reader pinged and I was out.

  ‘Hold a moment, Captain,’ the security guard called. She was porting a bullpup and stood two metres away.

  I took a breath, and forced myself to turn back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You forgot your side arm.’ She stretched out her hand with my Glock.

  ‘Thanks.’ I stuffed it in my leather jacket pocket as casually as I could manage, hoping she couldn’t hear how loud my heart was pumping. ‘Sorry, it’s my daughter’s birthday today, and my mind was off on a trip.’

  ‘No problem, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Got my own.’ She smiled. ‘Hope it goes well.’

  I faked an answering smile, collected my bike from the garage and, piling on the revs through the security gate, fled the barracks.

  Part II: Pulcheria Redux

  XIII

  I found the nearest parking garage, slipped into its blind spot and changed. I dug out a long curly wig from my backpack. It wasn’t wonderful, but enough to deceive the passing eye and, more importantly, the public CCTV. I unclipped the surface panels off my bike and threw them under the trader’s van in the next bay. Levering the false tooth containing my mic took a minute or two. I could hardly see in the bike mirror in the poor light, but I felt the stab of pain as it came away. I wiped away the blood dribbling down my chin. The earpiece was easier to extract. I stuffed them, my cell and my gold eagle badge – all trackable – into a digital franked mailer addressed to the PGSF office and threw it into the first mailbox I found. I’d buy a day or two as it went through the automated mail system.

  I barrelled along the inner ring road to a suburban post office. In their private box room, I collected the contents of my safe box: four thousand solidi in cash, a special cellphone made by Brown Industries in Eastern America, and a thin metallic mesh cloth which I carefully pinned in place under my tee to shield my left shoulder and upper arm. I raced back to the city centre to a second post office and deposited the unwanted items in another lock box. By now, my bike was too exposed and, regretfully, I dumped it in a parking lot in the middle of the Dec Max.

  I trembled with the tension rippling through me as I completed each step of my escape route, but enjoyed a guilty frisson of excitement at playing hooky. Maybe Lurio was right that I’d been born to be either a great counterspy or a great criminal. Both had their attractions.

  Filled with numbers the scarabs would love to have, my BI supermobile was now recharged from the bike. BI – Brown Industries – was the specialist defence electronics firm I’d inherited from my father, something that had triggered me running for cover in Roma Nova seven years ago. As majority shareholder, I had full access to the candy store, and I’d taken my pick. After the deep cover operation a few years ago finished, I’d packed my handset in a shielded bag and hidden it in the safe deposit drawer. I’d deactivated the network but, being paranoid, I’d kept the ultimate control key. This was not something I had shared with either the DJ or PGSF when I transferred in. I had to hope the encryption level was still good. I breathed out as the screen showed “Activated” when I entered the key code. It had been seven years. I dialled.

  ‘Salve, Pollius. How’s your knife?’

  Silence. A cough.

  ‘Pulcheria?’ A voice croaked.

  Was he having a heart attack?

  ‘Live and kicking.’

  ‘Gods! What can I do for you?’

  ‘Can I come over now? I need a small procedure done, urgently.’

  ‘Now? Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes and yes. Problem?’

  ‘No. Just surprised.’

  At his door, I repressed the instinct to turn my head and scan for watchers. I just trusted my peripheral vision which was pretty near 180 degrees. Besides, I had changed my appearance yet again and now wore a red leather jacket, taupe chinos and a scarf bandeaued around my head.

  Pollius came to greet me himself. ‘Delighted to see you again,’ he gushed, faking it. He instructed the bored receptionist to hold all calls and ushered me into his ultra-chic consulting room.

  ‘Pulcheria,’ he stated simply. The smile dropped off his face.

  ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’

  ‘I was told they’d put you away for good.’

  ‘Hmph, it sometimes felt like it!’

  His deep-set eyes didn’t hide his curiosity, but I knew he was too cautious to push it.

  ‘I’m not going to disrupt your new life,’ I said, careful to reassure him. ‘I’m pleased to see you’re prospering, though.’ I panned around his room.

  ‘Your severance payment was very generous.’ He showed me his office with mini-operating room attached. ‘I do small surgery, fine cosmetic work mostly – it’s very lucrative.’ He smiled, gradually relaxing. How many patients had sat at the Italian grained oak desk in his elegant office, wondering how much their consultation would cost? Did they know Pollius was expert at digging bullets out of bleeding bodies?

  ‘I need a small favour. Can you extract a tracker?’

  He tensed. ‘Not a penal one?’

  ‘No, personal security.’

  ‘Let me see the site.’ He slid into medical mode as I stripped off my jacket and white tee. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the mesh. I quickly slid it into my jacket pocket.

  ‘In the fold under the shoulder joint.’

  He had me lie down on the operating table, found the tiny tracker with his scanner, and daubed the area with an incredibly cold liquid. I felt the scalpel slice my flesh, but with no pain, followed by a sucking sound. He gel-sealed the wound, padded the area and we were done. Ten minutes flat.

  ‘I’ve never seen one of these,’ he commented as he cleaned and bagged the tiny thing before handing it over.

  ‘Yes, well, forget you ever did,’ I replied. ‘Do you have a protective mailer I could have and a plain envelope to put it in?’

  I thanked him and left. I had been under twenty minutes. I walked three blocks and posted the tracker back to Domus Mitelarum. How easy it had been to slip back into that efficient camaraderie with Pollius. All he said when I went was ‘Go carefully’, our old valediction.

  I made my way to the Onyx, Conrad’s and my favourite restaurant, where I’d told him to meet. I walked past on the opposite side of the street, then dove down a side alleyway but stayed in line of sight of the restaurant’s large plate glass window. Using the scope from my pack at nearly max focus, I could see into the restaurant. Nobody apart from the server. I leaned back against the plasterwork. No message on my cell from Conrad even to tell me I was wrong. Had he received my text? If he had, he would have been here or at least called or messaged. Although I’d sent the text from my other cell, the one I’d mailed back, the system was cloud-based. I would have received his reply. Just to be sure, I double-checked I’d reconfigured the supermobile correctly, but I knew I had.

  I didn’t dare phone the PGSF building, even with the reactivated supermobile. Who knew if the encryption was still unbreakable after seven years? Unlikely. They’d track me within minutes. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t two hours since I’d left. It could hardly be classed as desertion. Yet.

  This was a trap, I was sure; a really clever one where somebody had gone to a heap of trouble to make sure it was well-sprung.

  I had to find somewhere safe and contact Nonna. She would protect the children. She would let Olympus collapse before letting them come in harm’s way.

  I found Dania, in her bar just off the Via Nova. I raised my brows at its new look: stylish indigo and silver decor,
with beautiful glass and ceramic mosaics. She must have given in and taken professional advice. The bar area was starting to fill up now the sun had set. I wandered up to the marble counter, perched on a stool and ordered a dry white wine. I heard a few foreign accents: tourists soaking up the Roman atmosphere. No sign of security or scarabs.

  After a few sips, I made my way to the back, pretending to look for the bathroom but I snuck upstairs. I passed the rooms, looking for the office. Red LEDs on old-fashioned swipelocks showed some were occupied. Ah, a codelocked door. I knocked and smiled at the spyhole.

  The door opened two centimetres to show part of an elaborately dressed blonde head.

  ‘Salve, Dania.’

  ‘Venus’s tits! Pulcheria!’ Dania’s jaw dropped open so far I thought I’d have to apply first aid.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She flung open the door, grabbed my arm and pulled me into a welcoming hug. Unlike the cautious Pollius, she beamed with genuine pleasure to see me. Thank Juno. But then, Dania knew exactly who I was.

  ‘I need a place to hide out for a bit. Do you think—’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ she replied, cutting me off. ‘What have you done now?’

  My narrow room at the end of the corridor was painted in a nauseous shade of pink with pictures that would have made an old Imperial Roman blush, but it had a unique advantage – it gave onto the fire escape at the back.

  After Dania closed the door, I threw my pack on the chair and dropped down onto the bed. I didn’t stop shaking for some time. The adrenalin had worn off and I was cold, tired and hungry. But I couldn’t face the risk of going down to the kitchens to forage for something. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes.

  In the pitch-black of the night, I woke in a sweat exactly twelve hours after I’d left Conrad’s office. I replayed every detail in my mind. The frown on his face had been so deep, almost stamped into his skin when he’d heard my DSA results. Surely he’d had my message. Why hadn’t he joined me at the Onyx? We could have worked this thing out and cleared it up together. Half of me wanted to slink back and take the harsh consequences, but the other half hoped to the depth of all Hades that I’d been right to run.

  The next morning, I’d patched my split self together. I went down to breakfast and caught an odd look or two. None of the girls and neither of the two live-in male staff said anything beyond salve. They carried on reaching for food, drinking coffee and swapping dubious remarks. I took only coffee – my stomach was still sore from worry acid.

  Dania had found me a plain tunic and skirt; my newly-dyed hair fell loose on my shoulders. She announced with a casual wave of her hand that I was her cousin from the country who would be staying a while, but not joining the team. I endeavoured to sound innocent and unworldly. I helped clear breakfast away, trying to blend in as grateful poor country mouse happy to do domestic work for richer, more glamorous cousin.

  I stayed hidden upstairs for the rest of the day, logging on via Dania’s system, scouring the newscasts, blogs and public portals for the custodes and PGSF. I sent one innocuous-seeming email fixing to have coffee with a friend. As I hit send, I sat back, hoping it would still work. In desperation, I then sent an email to Conrad’s personal account from a web-based encrypted account. I didn’t dare risk it being tracked back to Dania, but I had no reply. I hardly slept that night.

  The next morning, I murmured I was going to look at the market and did she want anything? Dania raised an eyebrow, but said, ‘Go carefully.’

  At the Macellum, I browsed one or two stalls in the outside market, bought a cheap scarf, a linen bag and another pair of sandals. A scruffy market porter leered at me from between two booths. I responded with a nervous smile – he was just perfect. He beckoned, and I slipped in to join him. He squeezed my waist and pulled me into a room at the back, looking for all the world intent on a quickie.

  ‘Really, Flavius, you don’t have to look as if you’re enjoying it so much.’

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ he said. ‘It has to look authentic.’

  ‘Just behave,’ I warned and pulled myself away. ‘You have no idea how relieved I am that the fallback system still works.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point of the coffee messages?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Sure, but still... Okay, report.’

  ‘When you hopped it two days ago, the legate said you must have gone home. When you didn’t turn up the next morning, you were posted AWOL.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Too quick.’ I frowned at him.

  ‘Well, they’ve ramped the alert level up to red plus. They all came out the emergency senior staff meeting with thunderous faces yesterday. Petronax is crowing like the arse-ache he is. He took over because your going AWOL was classed as a massive internal security breach. The legate has a personal guard tagging along with him everywhere at Petronax’s insistence. One of the internal security lot I’ve never seen before. Sepunia’s people are working under the direction of Petronax’s tribe and nobody’s happy.’

  Gods! Was Conrad under suspicion? I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth. ‘What’s happening on the investigation?’

  ‘Nothing that I can find out. There are no leaks, no gossip. Nobody from the legate’s or Major Stern’s response teams is on the investigation and your ART has been dispersed and reallocated. Paula’s been posted to the palace guard, and I’ve been put on standard guard detail.’

  Again, that was fast, like it was planned. Twenty-plus of the most effective guards were excluded. Tainted by association?

  ‘Isn’t there anybody we could pressure?’

  ‘No, I’ve been through them all in my mind. C’mon, be serious, you know they won’t leak. You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘Okay.’ I sighed. ‘We’ll have to do it the traditional way.’

  I rubbed my face to heighten the colour, mussed up my hair a little and stumbled into the street and back to Dania’s.

  Back in my horrible little room, I worked at correlating the past twenty-four hours with my deep scan analysis.

  Fact number one: I’d been ambushed by the photos and letter obviously planted at Sextus’s house – a trap designed to throw me off the investigation, discredit and immobilise me, preferably in an uncomfortable jail like the Transulium.

  Fact number two: it had worked to a certain extent. I was on the outside but, on the plus side, I was free.

  Fact number three: I’d had to reactivate some of the old Pulcheria network. The suspicion entered my mind that maybe this was the objective so it could be exposed. Not very likely, but I kept it on the table.

  Fact number four: three of the best teams had been taken out of the loop, including my own ART which had successfully caught Sextus and Martinus Caeco. That was beyond bizarre.

  Fact number five: my analysis had projected a threat to the imperatrix, not just personally but in her function. And Conrad would soon be in the frame. Was he under guard or protection?

  Although I should, I didn’t follow the political trends closely. Voting in the Representatives and Senate elections was the extent of my political activity. But one thing I did know was that the military was subordinate to the civilian administration – that went back centuries. Sure, there are always whiners and moaners, people with unrealistic aims or non-orthodox views – that was normal and, I guess, healthy – but nothing had shown up on the security screen before I’d left to point to any movement to overthrow our political structure.

  Gods, I could use talking to Nonna, but not just for her political input. Desperate to reassure her and worried for my children, I’d dashed off a text to her from the supermobile. All she’d replied was “Mitela protects its own”. Was I still included in that?

  I chewed another nail down to the quick. I was conscious of hovering on the edge of a dark void. Normally, I relished the buzz of going undercover on an operation. But no adrenalin raced through my body now. I had no doubt I’d been on the brink of being arrested as a conspirator; I’d bee
n trapped into deserting my post so would be pursued; I was cut off from my family, my children and my love. A cold wave washed through me. Deep down, I had never felt so alone.

  XIV

  But I had no time for the luxury of feeling sorry for myself. I had to clear my head and think logically. Aside from finding out who and what were after me, I needed to know why. Martinus Caeco was the only lead I had. Too bad I couldn’t access Somna’s file on him.

  My last sighting of him was at Hirenses Associates office, so next morning I took up position on a bench across the way to see if anybody came snooping around. I drew a magazine out of my bag and pretended to read it. My companions were a black cat sniffing around the flower bed and a couple of older guys on another bench, talking in a desultory manner.

  Before I’d left, Caeco hadn’t figured on any database we had; and the model citizen hadn’t jumped up on the DJ system either, nor his el-fit given any image result. I imagined Sepunia had some unlucky staffer pull an all-nighter and slog her way through PopBase. Maybe she’d find more than I did.

  After half an hour’s reading, looking as if I was waiting for somebody, I couldn’t drag it out any longer. Maybe I was more than usually sensitive, but I was sure there were more custodes on the street. Two pairs had passed in the last twenty minutes; one custos with his nightstick in his hand instead of buckled on his belt. If one of them got bored and started ID checks, I’d be in trouble.

  I trudged off around the corner, quickly darted into a doorway. Fortuna was smiling on me – it was a thrift shop. My eye was drawn immediately to colourful tees and shorts for kids, just about the twins’ size. I swallowed hard and forced myself to search the adult rails. I grabbed a dark hoodie top with a worn overprint design and a pair of frayed jeans from the rail, and picked a pair of plastic sneakers from the rack. The startled sales assistant took my tunic and some solidi in exchange.

  Slouching like a teenager, my hair down and tied back, I wandered back along Aidan’s street, browsing the shop windows. I went in a mom-and-pop electrics store and bought a budget music player, dropping the packaging on the grass. The two seniors chewed me out, but I ignored them. I sat on the bench, bouncing my head back and forward, pretending to listen to music and talked into my cellphone once. After nearly an hour, I shambled off, mumbling about “the aged”.