Luo had noticed, of course. But the way things were in Alexandria these days, he couldn’t be sure that the bomb was meant for him. And in any event, his profession invited all manner of dangers.
Nuri spotted him striding into the station, head high, looking more like a movie star on vacation than a vital cog in an illegal weapons ring. Luo bounced through the crowd, arms and hips swinging as if he owned not only the terminal, but the continent it was built on. His slicked-back hair glowed black. His chiseled face was a magnet, drawing stares even as his smoked glasses imposed a certain distance from the common rabble.
Luo was fully aware of his looks. He’d used them since he was thirteen or fourteen, breaking the hearts of countless girls and women. Many of them could recognize his type from the distance, knowing he would use them and leave them without remorse, yet still they found themselves attracted to him, driven as if by genetic imperative. This had fanned Luo’s disdain, not just for women, but for much of the world. He was more than selfish and vain; he wanted and felt entitled to any desire that happened into his mind. Sex, of course, but lately money had become its very near rival. No corporate titan lusted after material rewards more than Luo did. And none had less regard for anyone who stood in his way.
He pulled his glasses down, scanning the wide indoor terrace of Rome’s train station. Luo had a vague notion that he was being followed. It was a notion that was always with him, a paranoia important to success in his profession. But as he scanned around he saw nothing to tip him off that he was actually being watched. He did not see Nuri, and even if he had, the tourist would not have registered as a potential threat.
Nuri, drifting behind a surge in the crowd, lamented that the Italians did not believe in take-out coffee. He didn’t have time for even an espresso.
“Subject proceeding toward western doorway,” said the Voice in his ear.
Nuri began to follow, girding himself for the inevitable squabble with the taxi driver. While in theory the fare should not have made a difference to him — he had an ample supply of euros, not to mention a stack of Egyptian and American bills — it nonetheless stung him to be cheated. And he would have to account for his expenses to the accounting department eventually. They always paid particular attention to the small items like taxi fares, which were impossible to document.
Luo turned left outside the door, ignoring the queue for the taxis, which were lined in a chaotic, Italian-style jumble at the edge of the plaza. He walked along the stone sidewalk and out along the Piazza Esquilino, more an extended bus stop than a traditional Italian piazza. For a moment it looked to Nuri that he was going into either the cinema or the five-star hotel at the corner near the Piazza della Republica; Nuri would have welcomed either stop, since he wanted a chance to get a coffee and maybe something to eat. But instead Luo continued down Via Nazionale, moving easily among the throng of tourists and local residents.
It was a clear day, pleasantly warm for March. A bright blue sky arched over the city, and the sun seemed to brush away the dust and grime from the facades and storefronts along the street. Via Nazionale had its share of hotels, but most of the shops here catered to residents, clothing and shoe stores butting up against a bookstore and the occasional tobacco store.
“Am I being followed?” Nuri asked, muttering to himself. He was wearing a pair of video bugs attached to the back of his collar, scanning the area behind him.
“Surveillance has not been detected,” replied the Voice.
Nuri’s heart began beating faster as Luo continued down the street in the general direction of the Imperial Forum. Luo wasn’t a tourist, and the course was too direct to have been plotted merely to see if he was being followed. He must be meeting someone.
Nuri quickened his pace and closed to within a half block. Luo crossed through the traffic near Villa Aldobrandini, then went down the narrow hill to a little street just above Foro di Augusto. Ruins spread out before him, Rome’s ancient past pulling itself from the dust. There were many lessons a man might draw from such a sight — the fleeting nature of wealth and power first among them. But Luo drew none, his mind far from the ruins.
Realizing he was getting too close, Nuri stopped in the middle of the parking lot near Trajan’s Column. The column was a majestic, impressive sight, undiminished by the fact that it stood in front of a building and square undergoing renovations.
“Who is that at the top of the column?” he asked.
“Trajan’s Column,” replied the Voice. “Colonna Traiana.”
“Is that Trajan at the top?”
There was a pause before the voice answered.
“St. Peter.”
“St. Peter? How’d he get there? Isn’t that a Roman column?”
This time the pause was longer.
“The answer is not immediately available,” said the Voice, indirectly announcing the limits of its network memory. “Do you wish the matter researched?”
“Negative.”
The Voice’s admission of its limitations cheered him a little, making up for his lack of caffeine. Nuri walked along the parking lot, pausing to hear the pitch from a man selling picture books. He wanted ten euros. Nuri shook his head and started to walk away.
“Five euro,” said the man, in English.
Nuri hesitated, thinking the book would be decent cover.
The man said in Italian that he was driving too hard a bargain for a wealthy American.
Nuri shrugged and started to walk away. He was a little annoyed that the man had responded in English rather than Italian; he felt his accent had been perfect.
“Four euro,
Nuri stopped and reached into his pocket for some coins. The man began telling him a story as he counted the change, explaining in English that he lived in the area. Some years before he had been a woodworker, but his hands no longer cooperated: a fact obvious from their violent shaking as he took Nuri’s money.
The man knew a great deal about the ruins, more than what was in the books. He offered himself as a guide, but Nuri merely shook his head and took the book. Turning to go, he remembered his question about St. Peter on the column.
“Ah, the pope—1587,” said the man. He pointed at the book. “The story is there. The legend — when Traianus was taken up, yes? From the vault below, his skull was there. It told the story of his release from hell.”
The explanation confused Nuri, but now Luo was getting too far away. Nuri thanked him.
“I can tell you the entire story — if you want a guide — I am here every day,” said the man, calling after him.
Up the street, Luo was nearly to the Coliseum, his pace as jaunty as ever. A long line stretched around the side of the amphitheater as visitors waited to get in. But he had a pass that allowed him to avoid the lines, and he walked through the group entrance, stepping through the metal detector without pausing to empty his pockets. The detector found nothing.
Nuri headed toward the end of the line. As he reached it, a young man with a British accent stopped him and asked if he’d like to join his tour.
“Twenty euros, and you beat the line,” said the young man. “You get right in. And you get a full tour.”
“I beat the line?”
“Yes, you come right in with me. Twenty euros.”
Nuri unfolded a twenty from his pocket. The young man grabbed it hungrily — generally he had to bargain down to ten or fifteen this close to tour time — and directed Nuri toward a short, dark-haired woman standing near the entrance. Nuri went over, starting to get a bit anxious — if Luo was meeting someone inside, he wanted to be close enough to hear what was going on, or at least see who it was.
“We can go right in?” he said to the woman.
“
Nuri started toward the gate with a dozen other tourists, a hodgepodge from Britain, Japan, and China. Tour groups were given special privileges at the Coliseum, and in fact at most of the attractions in Rome and Italy. If you were in a group, you could jump ahead of the line, entering at a prescribed time — or perhaps immediately, depending on the arrangements the group’s sponsor had made with the authorities.
