Zero Alternative (28 page)

Breathing hard, he slid against one of the pillars, attempting to remain in its shadow. He scanned the square below and saw the shorter thug standing near a group of teenagers, under a tall streetlight. He was staring at a smartphone but immediately looked up at the second Ring, almost straight at Walker’s hiding place. He shrank back into the tunnel, wondering how they seemed to be tracking him, and where the other man was.

His phone beeped and he swore.
Fuck
. They must have traced his number when he’d called Luigi’s house. He grabbed the handset and flung it at the square below, aiming for the thug. Hurried footsteps echoed from the direction of the stairs and Walker looked around, trying to decide what to do. He needed to find another way out of the monument.

He crossed the tunnel and poked his head through to the inside of the Colosseum. The new wooden flooring – replicating part of the old surface where gladiators used to fight – covered about a third of the interior of the building, right below him. Further out, the labyrinth of the old Roman service passages still gleamed under the spotlights, a maze of ancient arches and tunnels that crisscrossed the underground of the arena.

The steps were getting closer.

Walker slid down the side of the second Ring, dangling from his hands as he tried to reach one of the old buttresses that used to hold up the spectators’ bleachers. He let himself drop a few feet, almost slipping on the grass that covered the age-old bricks, then made his way down the slope onto the first Ring.

A few tourists ambling about the replica floor stared at him but he ignored them, jumping down with a thud. He looked back and saw the taller man had already followed, and was about to reach the same buttress. Glancing around, he noticed a crowd of people trying to leave by the main exit. Too slow.

He rushed to the edge of the wooden area and looked below to see what supported the platform – a network of metal scaffolding sparkled rustily in the half-light and he reached over the edge, grabbing the nearest pole and climbing down into the bowels of the Colosseum.

As soon as he touched the floor he spun, diving into one of the tunnels away from the platform. He took a couple of random turns, trying to remain in the shadows at all times and looking for the lower level. A few voices echoed eerily around the ancient pillars and he stuck to the darkest passages, not knowing where he was going. A little side door beckoned, half-open, and he entered it, sliding it shut behind him. Dim light bulbs illuminated a more modern corridor that descended lower, before turning into a grotto filled with stone cisterns.

On his left a few more rooms were blocked by wrought-iron bars and he ignored them, following the corridor’s twists and turns for about a hundred yards. Something clattered ahead, and footsteps grew nearer. Walker glanced around and hid behind a pile of creaky metal chairs, waiting.

His heartbeat was so loud it felt as if it could give him away and he held his breath, preparing to jump from his hiding spot. A shadow turned the corner and shuffled closer, then stopped.

Walker sprang forward, ready to throw a punch, and a thin old man shrieked, stumbling back and falling awkwardly. His shouts of fear filled the narrow space and Walker cursed, rushing ahead to where the old man had come from. The corridor split and he hesitated, trying to figure out which way the centre of the Colosseum lay. Undecided, he shrugged and sprinted left, and after a dozen paces glimpsed the ghost of a green light.
Better lucky than good, I guess
.

Hoping the emergency exit wasn’t alarmed, he stepped forward and pushed on the bars, emerging into the shadows near the Constantine Arch, on the other side from the Colosseum entrance. A few taxis waited under a street-lamp and he hurried to the nearest one, slamming the door shut just as the shorter thug appeared on the far edge of the small plaza.

‘Let’s go, fast,’ he croaked in Italian to the driver.

The cabbie glanced at him and sighed, then he turned left into traffic, back towards the Roman Forum. ‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere. Just get me away from here, now.’ Walker slid lower in the seat, studying the side-mirrors. The second thug had arrived, but both men were still checking the area near the Arch. He saw them studying the crowds, then approach a policeman.

‘Lady trouble?’ The driver shifted gears, accelerating past a wide roundabout.

‘Yeah,’ Walker took a deep breath, trying to calm down. ‘Angry boyfriend – it was just a kiss…’

The driver chuckled. ‘Must be the romantic ruins.’

‘I guess.’

‘Of course. I used to go after pretty tourists all the time…’

Walker let the cabbie ramble on about his amorous past and considered what to do. They drove past a few ministries, heading towards the Tiber and across one of the old bridges near the Vatican. The lights shone on the majestic dome of St. Peter’s and Walker wondered whether Layla was okay. But she was not as dumb as him, and would probably be on a plane by now.

‘So where are we going, then?’ the driver asked.

‘The airport.’

‘Fiumicino or Ciampino?’ Rome had two airports, the smaller one mainly for domestic flights.

‘Naples.’

The cabbie turned sharply, staring at him. ‘What? That’s a three-hour drive.’

Walker rummaged in his backpack, pulled out a few large banknotes and pushed them into the man’s hand. ‘This should cover it. And I need to borrow your phone.’

‘Sure.’ The driver sniggered. ‘That must have been one pissed-off boyfriend.’

‘You have no idea.’

Chapter Sixteen

Back to Basics

All airports look the same
. Walker tried to shrug off the feeling of foreboding that haunted him, and glanced around. The ticketing office was supposed to open at 6 a.m. but a fat woman had groped her way into her cubicle twenty-seven minutes late, and she hadn’t pulled up the window grate yet. Some early travellers were sipping coffee at the counter down in the far corner, and a couple of bored Carabinieri shuffled through the empty spaces, submachine guns dangling from their necks. Nobody had glanced at him for hours, it seemed. He tried to look like part of the furniture, another bored guy waiting for his flight.

He had spent the night on a narrow bench, thin metal tubes digging into his back and thighs. Capodichino Airport was small, the departures lounge empty but for the janitors cleaning shiny surfaces and sharp angles. Empty had been perfect. He had needed time to think and sleep would have been impossible anyway. As a result he looked somewhat like a tramp: unshaven, stinky, hair plastered back as he had tried to wash up in the lounge’s toilet. Not that he cared, as long as he could get away with it unnoticed. As long as he could get onto a plane.

The fastest way from Naples to LA was via London, of all places. He had known this since his taxi trip, but still hadn’t decided what to do about it. It might have been the tiredness, but Mira’s words were starting to ring a little more hollow as his mind spun through disaster scenarios and unlikely possibilities. Why did he have to go all the way to LA, and couldn’t she have shown him more proof down in Rome? Who was this Old Man, and what was he really after?

DeepShare, of course. Like everyone else.

Like Friedman. Maybe.

Unless it was another lie that he couldn’t see through. He had been a step behind the game since the beginning, and just as he felt he was catching up something else had been thrown his way. He needed certainty before he could decide how to move forward. He needed to know if Hackernym had been telling him the truth. And there was only one person who could answer the question for him.

A squeaky noise, metal on metal. The ticketing office lit up, the window yawning open. Walker stood up and approached the fat woman, a fake smile plastered on his face. She squared a telephone and glanced at him. ‘Yes?’

‘One way to London, grazie.’

She nodded and typed something on her computer. ‘Flight is full. Waiting list or Business Class?’

‘Business.’
What kind, though?

One hour later Walker joined the queue for passport control. Two lines of people, approximately a dozen travellers in each. He chose the one to the left, behind a young family: mother father, little boy. Up ahead was the plastic cubicle, two windows, one opening to the left, one to the right. Two policemen, full uniforms, glancing at faces. Blank expressions. Scanning passports. Letting an old lady with a small trolley through.

The left-hand guard was older, mid-fifties. Out of shape, cheeks sagging. He looked bored, tired, like he had been working through the night. That was why Walker had chosen left. Younger could mean an extra fussiness, a deeper check. Old and counting minutes before it was time to go home meant better odds.

The queue slid forward and he followed, fingering his passport. The Sicilians had seemed scarily good, but he wondered what type of effort had been expended on him. The forgery felt perfect, but he had no idea if it really was up to scratch. Especially in Italy, the country that was supposed to have issued it. He sighed, trying not to fidget. Sweat trickled down his back as another couple was let through. The policeman was only yards away now, behind a plexiglass frame.

A quick scan, a better check on the good-looking girl’s arse. Time for the small family. Walker shuffled forward again: just a few paces to go.

The border policeman sat up and craned his neck, trying to see below his white sill. The mother whispered something and the little boy stood on tiptoes, the top of his head barely reaching the plexiglass. A bored smile. Passports back, all through. Walker reached the window, trying not to blink.

The policeman offered his hand, palm up. The passport looked good and Walker handed it over,
then glanced beyond, to the boarding gates. Four of them, about twenty yards away. He could sprint there in three seconds flat, he guessed. Not that it would help. He rested his hand on the sill, waiting. The policeman was staring at something, shuffling through the passport. Two pages forward, then five. One back. He looked up, a small sparkle in eyes as saggy as his cheeks. Walker sucked some air into his nose, fighting the urge to move his hand from the sill. His feet felt rooted to the ground and he glanced at the back of the monitor in the cubicle, trying to stare through black plastic.

The policeman grunted and slid the passport out of view, hands dragging side to side, slowly. A scanner of some kind, faint red light bouncing off the fiberglass counter into the man’s face. His eyes tracked down, then up, then back to the screen. Walker felt a droplet of sweat trickle down his temple, waited.

Seconds ticked by. Too many. He reckoned he was busted. The policeman in front of him swivelled, glanced back at his younger colleague. Not a great pick, after all. Then back, quick taps on the keyboard, a shaking of the mouse. The eyes focused, fixed on Walker. Rechecking his face, back down to the passport, back to Walker’s face again. Then fingers forward, up to the last page in the booklet. Walker wondered if the guards had a panic button hidden underneath the sill, or a pedal somewhere to call for reinforcements. A lady behind coughed, complained about wasting time.

The policeman grunted again, annoyed at something. Walker tried to breathe, finally blinked. The passport headed back towards him and he lifted his hand, took it. The policeman nodded, gestured forward with his head. To the departure gates.

Walker stepped sideways, half-turned and slipped towards a row of chairs. His calves ached with tension and he exhaled. He had always hated airports, and he guessed it wasn’t going to get better any time soon.

Walker readjusted the hood on the ‘Love England’ sweatshirt he had picked up at London City Airport and sipped his coffee, leaning against a wall on the small side-street opening onto Broadgate Circle. The day was cold and wet, the grey sky overcast with low clouds. Dozens of people were streaming out of the banks and law offices around the plaza, dispersing in cafes and
food kiosks, hunting for lunch. He sighed and tried to shrink deeper into a small nook, worried about someone recognising him.
This has been a really bad idea
. Most people just hurried past, though, rushing to whatever takeaway place they fancied for the day before getting back to their screens.

Walker kept his eyes trained on the Dorfmann side exit that he knew Friedman used when he popped out for food, counting down the minutes. It was almost midday and the Englishman was due – like most traders, he liked to get his lunch early, before the US data started coming out around one o’clock. Fighting the urge to light a cigarette, Walker buried his hands in the heavy jumper and fingered the carving knife he had bought on the way. The blade was cold against his skin, the edge keen. He forced his breathing slower and focused, embracing the adrenaline thrumming in his veins. He had to stay sharp, but cool. It was time for some answers, and he wondered if they would be what he expected. His guts believed that the young woman in Rome had been telling the truth, but he needed to look into Friedman’s eyes now. He needed to be sure. The side exit opened and a vaguely familiar face stepped through – some bigshot on the Fixed Income floor – followed by a couple of guys Walker had never seen before. Clients, maybe.

Taking a deep breath, Walker pushed off the wall and paced back and forth, trying to get his circulation going before leaning back into his original position. His watch beeped: midday. He needed to be back at the airport in a little over one hour to make the flight for Las Vegas. This was taking too long, and what the hell did he think he was going to…

The side exit yawned open again and Beano Friedman marched past the security guard, heading to his left towards a smaller alley that wound back to Liverpool Street Station.
Perfect
. Walker felt his mouth go dry, counted to five and followed the big man wrapped in a cashmere coat, eyes focused on the broad shoulders. When he saw the CEO turning into the narrow street he accelerated and shot past the corner, bumping him from behind and pushing the knife against his lower back. He leaned into him just as Friedman was starting to turn, and hissed, ‘I’ll kill you right now if you don’t do as I say.’