The First Apostle

“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 cafe 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.”

16

I

A little after six, Jeremy Goldman walked out of the museum gates and glanced in both directions before heading east along Great Russell Street. Angela’s telephone call had bothered him more than he liked to admit and his feeling of unease had been increased by the incident with the Frenchman.

Earlier that afternoon, in response to a call from one of the reception staff, he’d gone down to meet a French archaeologist named Jean-Paul Pannetier who apparently knew him. The name hadn’t been familiar to Goldman, but he’d worked all over the world with specialists from a number of disciplines, and such unannounced visits weren’t that unusual.

But when he’d introduced himself to the visitor, the Frenchman had appeared confused and explained that he