Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  ‘Well you make sure you’re ready to move those goddamn mines if we need to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘We will, Sir.’

  Myles kept watching and wondering. He knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what.

  Several more minutes passed. Myles could see the Roosevelt Guardian standing outside in the sun was beginning to sweat.

  Then, out of nowhere, a much larger group of armed men emerged. In two columns, they filed down both sides of the convoy. There they waited for several more minutes, until more men came, holding more mines. These were placed under the three middle vehicles in the convoy. Whatever armour the vehicles had underneath, Myles knew if the mines exploded, the SUVs would be obliterated.

  Suddenly, one of the border guards leant forward and pulled on the door handle next to Dick Roosevelt. It opened.

  The man tugged at Dick Roosevelt’s arm, and quickly dragged him out of the vehicle. Before he knew what had happened, Dick Roosevelt stood confused and blinking in the sun.

  The open car door was swiftly closed again, and a message flickered over the convoy’s radios. ‘Lockdown – Lockdown!’

  The cars locked their doors in unison. The men with guns heard the mechanisms clunk and reacted by pulling on the door handles. None opened.

  The man holding Dick Roosevelt pointed his gun under the American’s chin. Myles saw a disfiguring scar across the man’s abdomen, and witnessed how casually he handled his weapon.

  The Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside waiting for the passports moved over. He raised his shades, hoping for eye contact with the man holding the younger Roosevelt. ‘Can you release him, please?’ The Roosevelt Guardian made his point as politely as he could.

  But the man smiled like he didn’t care. Myles could see his teeth were rotten. ‘We have to search the vehicles,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but can you release this man first, please?’

  ‘We have to search the vehicles,’ repeated the man.

  The Guardian pressed the radio mic clipped to his collar. ‘They say they need to search the vehicles before they release the Secondary Principal.’

  There was a pause, then a reply came over the system. ‘OK, release the doors.’

  The Senator slammed his fist against one of the seats. ‘No. That’s bad procedure. We sit tight.’

  The driver quickly relayed his instruction back over the radio. ‘Negative: we do NOT release the doors,’ he shouted into the mic. ‘Repeat, do NOT release the doors. Sit tight. Out.’

  The Senator checked that his order was being obeyed before he started muttering to Myles. ‘What sort of security business has this become? We can’t release the doors just because some pirate waves a gun around…’

  The African man with the scar soon realised what had happened: the Americans were playing hardball…

  He waited for a few moments to check they weren’t going to change their minds. Then he poked the gun barrel further into Dick Roosevelt’s chin. Dick Roosevelt called out, words which could only just be heard through the vehicles’ thick bulletproof glass. ‘Dad? They want you to open the doors,’ pleaded the younger Roosevelt. ‘Father?’

  The Senator didn’t blink. His face simply said ‘America can’t give in to terrorists’.

  Myles saw Dick Roosevelt trying to catch his father’s attention, but Sam Roosevelt refused to even turn his head.

  Then the African nodded to one of his men, who took Dick Roosevelt from him and led him away, towards a concrete hut and out of sight of the main convoy. The hero of the Wall Street bomb looked terrified.

  The gang leader called over the sole Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside, unprotected. ‘Hey, you. Do you smoke?’ He asked his question casually.

  ‘Sometimes, yes,’ admitted the American private security man, trying to be helpful. He was a tall man with shades hanging round his neck. ‘Do you want a cigarette?’ He delved in his back pocket, reaching for a packet of smokes. Several of the Africans cocked their guns towards him, wary that he might be reaching for a weapon. But they relaxed when the man’s hand reappeared, armed only with a box of twenty. The Roosevelt Guardian held out the pack, offering them to the border guard.

  The African waved them away. ‘No thanks. You ought to give that up.’

  ‘No use – I’ve tried,’ said the security man, trying to joke. ‘It’s not so easy.’

  With an arrogant smile, the gang leader with the scar leaned back and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s very easy. I can stop you ever smoking again.’

  The crack of a single gunshot rang out and the Roosevelt Guardian collapsed into the dirt, still holding his packet of cigarettes. Myles saw dark blood ooze out from beneath the Guardian’s body, soaking into the dust beside him.

  Thirteen

  Egypt-Libya Border

  The Roosevelt Guardians inside the vehicles stared in horror at the murder. One moved to jump out, desperate to offer life support to their fallen friend.

  The Senator stopped him. ‘Stay inside. He’s dead – nothing you can do for him.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Myles watched as the border guards ambled around the body. One of them kicked the Roosevelt Guardian to check he had been killed. Another searched his pockets, pretending it was an official check but really just looking for things to steal. They allowed several more minutes to pass, making sure the impact of the murder sunk in.

  Then their leader moved forward, his face right up against the bulletproof glass nearest to Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator,’ he hissed. ‘Open up your convoy so we can search your vehicles…’ He spoke his words coldly, then twisted his face on the glass and grinned. ‘Or we kill your son.’

  The Senator lifted his palm to his forehead. Myles could tell what he was thinking: How had it come to this?

  Sam Roosevelt had started his ‘Guardians’ when he was fresh out of Vietnam. By professionalising his private security company back in the seventies, Sam Roosevelt had made his Guardians the market leader. It took more than a decade for his methods to become the industry standard. By then he had captured most of the contracts. Roosevelt Guardians had become a brand. It gave Sam a claim to leadership even greater than the family name. How had Dick let the standards collapse?

  Myles had seen the mistakes, too. Dick Roosevelt’s door should have been locked. They shouldn’t have let the guard with the passports leave the vehicle. The drivers shouldn’t have parked so close – they’d allowed the convoy to be boxed in.

  These weren’t single accidents. They pointed to systematic failure. Under Dick Roosevelt, the Roosevelt Guardians had lost their discipline.

  Myles heard the Senator curse himself. ‘Resting on our damn laurels...’ the old man muttered. It was a phrase from Ancient Rome. Myles guessed Sam Roosevelt probably knew laurels were awarded for military glory – past glory.

  One of the Guardians turned to the Senator for guidance. ‘Sir? We need to answer.’

  ‘Well, what do your damn protocols say?’

  The security man paused. He had no ready answer.

  The Senator thumped the seat with his fist. ‘What has this firm become? You should have this worked out in advance. OK, what are your choices?’

  ‘Well, sit tight or let them search the vehicles, sir.’

  ‘OK, so what happens in each case?’ quizzed the Senator.

  ‘Well, if we sit tight, they’ll probably kill the Secondary Principal – your son, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  The security guard was shocked by how easily the Senator could contemplate his son’s death. ‘Sir, after that, if we still sit tight, they’ll use the road mines to blow up our vehicles.’

  The Senator nodded, then continued with his questions, which were fast becoming rhetorical. ‘And are the vehicles armoured to withstand the blasts?’

  ‘Er, don’t know. Probably not, sir.’ The Guardian wanted to be rescued from his one-man Senate inquiry. He turned to Myles for help.

  Myles recognised the mines pushed
under the vehicles. They were anti-tank mines, ex-Soviet stock – maybe TM-46s, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘If these vehicles have B6 level armour or less,’ explained Myles, ‘the mines underneath us would destroy them completely.’

  The Roosevelt Guardian nodded – their armour was level B6.

  The Senator bowed his head: the company he had created as a young man hadn’t even provided them with the right equipment. Anti-tank mines were an obvious risk, yet the Guardians had done nothing about it.

  Myles could tell: the Senator understood he had to surrender. If they held out, the Senator would lose his son. If he held out some more, the gang would destroy all their vehicles. They’d be even more defenceless.

  Myles saw Sam Roosevelt check the faces of the people in the car around him before he issued the instruction. ‘OK, release the doors,’ the old man grizzled.

  As the doors were unlocked, Africans with guns up and down the convoy pulled on the handles. The small army of Roosevelt Guardians were taken out of all five vehicles and forced to line up beside the road. There they were disarmed, then instructed to lie face down with their hands behind their heads.

  The sun was now almost directly above them.

  The Senator and Myles were treated with more ceremony: given water and allowed to remain standing, while the Africans searched through all the vehicles and made sure they had all the firearms. Radios were collected, along with every other device the group possessed – a camera, some satellite phones, a homing beacon, and several GPS units. Finally, the anti-tank mines were pulled away from underneath the vehicles. Some of the Africans climbed inside and the cars were driven off.

  Myles, the Senator, and their small private army were absolutely defenceless on the roadside just inside Libya.

  One of the Roosevelt Guardians murmured what everybody already knew. ‘These can’t be real border guards. I don’t think they’re even from Libya…’

  The African gang leader – the small man with the scar and the swagger – approached, his gun loose about his shoulder. He snorted at the Guardian, as if to say ‘who cares?’, then moved on towards his real prize: Senator Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator, thank you for coming,’ he grinned.

  ‘You must be Juma.’

  ‘Yes, I am. And soon you’ll wish you’d never heard of me.’

  Juma waved his gun at the Roosevelt Guardians lying face down on the ground. You now have a choice, Senator,’ he said, staring Sam in the eye. ‘I’m about to give you a gun. Either you kill three of your men,’ grinned Juma. ‘Or I will kill them all.’

  Fourteen

  Egypt-Libya Border

  The Senator looked at Juma in disgust. Was this man serious?

  Juma cocked his head. He was chewing and smiling, as if he had a narcotic in his mouth.

  The Senator's eyes squinted in the sun. He was trying to determine whether this psychopath had any humanity about him at all.

  Juma let the Senator ponder his problem while he strolled over towards Myles. ‘And you must be the great Myles Munro. The man with the strange brain.’

  Myles nodded, unconcerned by the insult.

  Juma looked up at the Englishman curiously, one eye closed to keep out the sun. ‘Myles: kill three men so that ten others may live? What would you do?’

  Myles let the issue tumble around in his mind, acutely aware there was no good outcome. He tried to understand Juma: small, arrogant, ruthless – and probably on qat. Juma had just triumphed over the Senator – killing one of the Americans, and forcing the rest out of their vehicles unarmed. Even though he had scored a victory, Juma wanted more.

  No way to win this: Myles had to distract Juma. He glanced over to the Senator, before returning to the pirate warlord. ‘Do you still have Dick?’ he asked.

  Juma nodded. He leaned over to someone behind him and gestured with his hand.

  A few moments later Dick Roosevelt was led back up to the main group. His clothes were ruffled, and he looked pale and very shaken. Perhaps a bruise around his mouth. But he was safe.

  The Senator opened his arms and called out to him. ‘Son.’

  Dick looked fearfully at Juma before he moved. With a swagger, Juma gave his permission.

  Dick Roosevelt crossed over to his father, who put his arms around him, rubbing him on the back. ‘Glad you’re safe, son.’

  Dick Roosevelt said nothing. It was as if he knew his father had contemplated sacrificing him for the rest of the convoy. Then he began whimpering in his father’s arms.

  BANG.

  The unmistakeable sound of a gunshot cracked through the desert. Myles and the Roosevelts, father and son reunited, looked over in unison to where the sound had come from.

  One of the Guardians lying face down on the ground had just been shot through the head.

  Juma raised his gun up again. ‘Twelve left, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The offer stands: you kill three or I kill them all.’

  The Senator shook his head in disbelief. ‘Look, punk, we came here to offer you a last chance of survival. If you want to play death games then you’re going to die so quickly…’

  Juma just kept smiling. He walked over to another one of the private security men. The man was quivering in fear. Juma nuzzled the barrel of his automatic weapon into the fat on the man’s neck and grinned as he turned his face up at Myles and the Senator. He tensed his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Wait…’

  Myles’ call made Juma raise his eyebrows in a look of mock intrigue.

  But only for a moment.

  BANG.

  In an instant, another of the Guardians was dead. Blood from his lifeless body began seeping into the dust.

  The remaining Guardians were terrified, trying to remain as still as they could, while knowing that they too could be killed at any moment.

  Myles couldn’t allow this to keep happening. ‘What are you trying to do, Juma?’ he called out. ‘You’re trying to threaten America? You’re trying to get us to kill our own security guards? Why?’

  Juma strolled back, still smiling. ‘I’m teaching you about American values, Mr Munro.’

  The Senator pulled a face, as if to say, ‘American values? Is this guy serious?’

  Juma could see the reaction. ‘You would rather let twelve men die than save nine if it meant dirtying your own hands.’

  Myles hit back. ‘Juma: killing unarmed men on the ground is not “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”.’

  ‘No, it’s not, Mr Munro, “sir”,’ Juma mocked. ‘But Americans will happily let Africans die as long as it means you don’t get bloody yourself.’

  Finally Myles and the Senator could see the point Juma was making.

  Myles tried to console the Somali gang leader some more. He realised he had to offer a compromise before Juma restated his ultimatum. ‘OK, how about this: you keep these men hostage, while you take me, the Senator and his son wherever you want to take us,’ he offered. ‘We have our negotiation, then we all leave. OK?’

  Juma turned the offer over in his mind. He clearly hadn’t expected it. He glanced over at Sam and Dick Roosevelt. Both had expressions on their faces saying ‘do it’.

  He looked up at the sky: cloudless. Juma knew about satellites and knew he was probably being watched from several hundred miles above by high-tech hardware. Maybe by a lethal drone not so far away.

  He nodded. Waving his hand again, one of his men made a call on their radio. A few minutes later a stream of battered Nissan pick-ups drove up – some had rusted bullet holes and most had machine guns mounted on the back. Armed men moved towards the Roosevelt Guardians on the ground. They bound each Guardian’s wrists together with wire, then placed blindfolds over their eyes. One by one – each Roosevelt Guardian held by two of Juma’s men – they were guided onto the beaten-up trucks. When all the men were loaded onto the vehicles, Juma gave the order and the Guardians were driven away, bouncing around in the back while dust kicked up from the worn tyres beneath them.

  Two pick-
ups remained, along with Juma and five of his men. Myles, Sam and Dick looked at each other as if to say ‘what next?’

  Juma, still smiling, flicked his head to one side to indicate the three men should climb into the back of one of the pick-ups. The Senator led the way, followed by Myles and Dick, who was still shaking with fear.

  Once all three were aboard, Juma jumped in to join them. Then he bashed the side of the vehicle to indicate the two pick-ups could move off. ‘Now it’s time for some serious negotiations, gentlemen,’ he bragged.

  The last two pick-ups drove away from the border, leaving behind three dead Roosevelt Guardians and some scuffled dirt on the roadside.

  As Myles saw the last of Egypt disappear from view behind him, he wondered how they could ever escape from the mad pirate leader who was taking them into the unknown interior of Libya.

  Fifteen

  Great Libyan Desert, Eastern Libya

  When Myles taught military history to his students back at Oxford University, he often spoke about Libya. The North Africa desert war, 1941-43, had given Britain its first proper chance to fight back against the Nazis. The Nazis had won initially. The Germans rolled along the coast road to Egypt. They even threatened the Suez Canal. There was a sense of ‘every man for himself’ as Hitler’s war machine swept the British troops away. Some feared the Brits had lost their will to fight. But somehow, the British Army had rediscovered its strength. Some said it was codebreakers, which allowed German supply lines to be intercepted. Some said it was equipment from America. Others argued it was the new troop commander, General Montgomery. But Myles lectured that it was something else, something innate. The Brits stopped losing when they rediscovered their sense of duty.

  As the battered pick-ups swayed and rolled along desert tracks, Myles caught the faces of people in some of the villages. They were not Libyans but African migrants. Most had been drafted into the country by the dictator Gaddafi and now abandoned. A few had fled here more recently – Myles guessed from Mali, after Al Qaeda had been kicked out of the country by Western troops. Some seemed hostile, some bemused. One or two failed to realise that the three foreigners in the back of the technical were being driven under duress. But most gave a gesture to indicate they were pleased that Juma and his gang had taken in some rich Westerners. Juma puffed himself up at their reaction. He was the local hero.