‘Is he gone?’
The question sounded surprisingly cautious, almost hesitant. For a moment the tenor surprised the man called Bartolomeo, as Emil Durré always seemed in eminent control. Yet Bartolomeo had to remind himself that in all the years of Emil’s time on this planet, his boss had never taken the life of another, even by proxy. He could be forgiven for suffering a pause at the realisation that the three words of his question – assuming they were answered the way he expected – would forever change that.
‘So I’ve been told.’ Bartolomeo replied calmly through the tinny telephone line, his voice redolent with a practised, grief-tinged sobriety.
It was the message his boss was waiting for. Unambiguous. Arranged in advance.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ Emil answered, continuing the scripted dialogue. Whether it was relief in his voice, or anxiety, was difficult to determine. ‘I hear he was a good fellow.’
Bartolomeo knew that Emil desperately wanted to say more. He was a man of theatrical ideals, who routinely had to be talked down from the ledge of far too showy and revealing extravagances. He’d been plotting the course that led to this moment, and to everything that was to come, for months, and he wanted the actual events to have – magnitude.
This was the day it all started to come together.
But a moment later, the line went dead at Bartolomeo’s ear. They had finished their script. There was nothing more to say. There would certainly be no pleasantries or small talk. Bartolomeo’s own name had never been uttered over a phone line between them, and he would never dream of using his employer’s given name, even in person. There was a trust that emerged from that dependability, a trust Bartolomeo had no intention of diminishing.
Emil had given him one of the most important tasks in the whole of the operation. There were many players, all with significant parts to call their own. But Emil had trusted Bartolomeo with ensuring that the tablet was discovered at the right time, and that its discoverer would not survive.
For two weeks prior to its ‘unearthing’, Bartolomeo had lodged himself in the necessary surroundings, enrolling as a temporary labourer with Manuel Herrero’s civic excavation and survey unit. He’d had a background in building works before he’d gone illegitimate, so it hadn’t been a difficult role to secure, and with his credentials firmed up he’d been able to be present on the work site with Herrero day after day. Perfectly placed to slip the necessary quantity of the white, tasteless powder into his disposable coffee cup on the morning that had been set as discovery day. To take the crumpled cup with him after its contents had been drunk, shoved into a pocket and removed from the site so that it would never be found.
The pathogen, they had been told, would take only days to destroy the man’s body, and the effects would start to become apparent almost immediately. Both elements – its prompt uptake as well as the arduous torture – were part of the appeal.
Curses, after all, are never meant to be gentle.
At Emil’s direction, Bartolomeo had watched over the unfortunate man, discreetly, over the four days since. He’d ‘found’ the tablet, which had been placed at just the right point in the dig to ensure it would be located, and all had gone according to plan after. It was a rather miserable thing to have to do to another human being, yes. The pathogen ate away at his organs with fierce efficiency, causing blood to drip from his eyes and ears and foamy spittle to flow from his mouth. Cinematic really, and dreadful.
But that which was coming was so immeasurably greater than the value of his singular life, so incomprehensibly wonderful, that there could be no hesitation. The tablet had, as they’d ensured, been found. It predicted the death of its discoverer – and so there had been no other choice.
Besides, hadn’t it long ago been said that it was, from time to time, expedient that one man should die for the people?
Emil had quoted the saying to him as they’d concocted this segment of their plan. Attributed it to Jesus, or Pilate, or someone from the Bible. Bartolomeo, despite his biblical name, had never been a churchgoer and so couldn’t be sure. But he liked the saying.
He doubted it would be the last time he used it.