by Iain King
The vehicle started to manoeuvre down backstreets. They were in Sirte – the coastal town which remained loyal to Gaddafi until his bloody end, and home to a tribe which still rejected the new government in Tripoli. This was the heart of lawless Libya, the place Juma had made his base, and where the years since the Arab Spring had allowed him to make millions through extortion and racketeering.
The vehicle pulled up in a walled courtyard. They had reached their destination.
The journey had probably taken three hours, and the sixty-nine-year-old Senator was looking dehydrated. The old man eyed both Myles and his son. Without words, he confirmed he was still in charge, and that he would lead the negotiations, which were sure to start soon.
Several more armed men approached. Most wore headscarves, some were dressed in old army uniforms, and a few had cheap Western clothes which fitted poorly. Only their weapons – they all carried AK-47s –identified the group as a single militia.
Juma jumped down and shouted orders in a dialect Myles couldn’t understand. The Somalis started to unload their three hostages. The Senator tried to brush them away, annoyed at their rough treatment, but was eventually pulled off. Dick and Myles accepted it was time to be led off the vehicle.
When all three men were standing on the dirt, they were ordered to form a line. Then Juma took a headscarf handed to him by one of his men. It took him more than a minute to put it on.
Why does he take so long with his headscarf? Myles wondered.
With his headgear in place, Juma guided them down an alley, around a corner, and into the side entrance of a large concrete building. Myles saw the old bullet holes in the wall and guessed this was a former oil ministry office block, probably built by the Gaddafi regime many years ago. The offices had long ceased to function.
The men were directed up rough concrete stairs to the second level. There, Juma ordered them to sit cross-legged on the floor. Then the armed Libyans stepped back, keeping their guns poised and ready, to leave just their leader sitting next to the three Westerners.
‘Welcome to Libya, gentlemen!’ Juma said the words with a flourish, and showed his yellow teeth as he grinned at the three men.
The Senator wasn’t fazed. ‘OK, Mr Juma,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Tell us what you want, so I can say “no” and you can shoot us.’
Juma laughed, but it was clear that the Senator was serious. Myles saw Dick Roosevelt gulp, afraid that his father’s firm line in negotiations was shortening his life expectancy.
Juma said nothing for several moments. Then he raised his hand. Somewhere behind Myles’ back there was movement, and several plates of food were brought out. Dried fish, flat bread and an unfamiliar green vegetable were laid out before them. There followed metal dishes, water and some cups. A bowl was passed around, and the three men were invited to wash their hands in it, before drying them on a dirty rag. Still without speaking, Juma started to eat the food, eventually followed by Dick, Myles and, after much protest, the Senator. Silence lasted throughout most of the meal, broken only by the occasional request to pass something or the chink of metal on the concrete floor.
Finally, Juma spoke, still looking down at his food. ‘What I want, gentlemen, is this: I want your assistance.’
Senator Sam Roosevelt spluttered on his food. He had been expecting demands – probably something ideological. Something he would have to refuse. But assistance? This was something new. ‘You want assistance? You kill three of my guards and drive us here to ask for assistance?’ He hissed the word through his teeth, as if the idea was as ridiculous as it was offensive.
‘Yes, Senator.’
The Senator shook his head in disbelief, looking back down at the food in front of him. ‘Well, what sort of assistance do you want?’
Juma’s face acknowledged the question. He had anticipated it. He pulled out some paper from inside his shirt, which he unfolded and placed beside him. Myles saw notes were written on it in Arabic. Something about the loopy handwriting made Myles think it had been written by a woman.
Juma started talking from his notes. ‘Gentlemen, you know why my people have come to need assistance from America?’
The Senator humoured him. ‘Tell us.’
‘First, because we have run out of food. The land here grows no more grain.’
The Senator looked dreary: hard-luck stories from people in his state were the worst part of his job. He’d had voters complain about their cars breaking down, their pets dying and their wives running off. Some old Joe trying to make him responsible for their misfortune. When he met these people, he would try to make plain that acts of God were beyond his remit. Juma was just the same. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your grain, but I’m not responsible for…’
‘Senator,’ interrupted Juma. ‘You are responsible.’
‘How am I responsible for grain in Libya, thousands of miles away from my home?’
‘Because, Senator, our best farmland was taken over by big oil companies. And the oil companies are all linked to America.’
The Senator was knocked back again. He hadn’t expected that. ‘So you’re asking for food aid?’
‘Yes, Senator,’ nodded Juma.
‘That’s all – just food aid?’
‘No.’ Juma looked down again at his piece of paper. ‘Senator, you know we were all in Gaddafi’s militia?’
‘Yes, he paid you, right?’ teased Sam Roosevelt.
‘That’s right. But we had no choice,’ asserted Juma, justifying his actions without accepting he needed to. ‘Me and the people you’ve seen here and in the villages: we’re not Libyans. We’re from all over Africa. Poor places, like Somalia and Niger. Most of us were invited here by Gaddafi, then we had to become mercenaries for him.’
‘OK,’ acknowledged the Senator, saying it as though he wanted Juma to continue but not to suggest he had sympathy.
‘Well, Senator, I need your help to stop the reprisals.’
‘Reprisals?’
‘Yes. The Libyans, when they find out we were mercenaries, try to kill us. We need the rule of law.’
The Senator looked Juma in the eye. Was he serious? ‘Mr Juma, the rule of law will certainly reach you very soon…’
Juma held the Senator’s gaze for a bit, then adjusted the headscarf around his ears before looking back down at his plate.
The Senator levelled up to him. ‘OK, Juma, let’s assume you’re serious. How do you want the rule of law, exactly?’
Juma tugged at his ear again. He paused before he replied. ‘Senator, I want American troops on the streets. I want Libya to become safe for my people again. I want all of Africa to become more like America.’
The Senator smiled, then slowly shook his head. Sending US troops to Libya was doomed. It would be just like Iraq or Somalia. Libya would become another costly quagmire. Another Afghanistan. ‘If we sent US soldiers onto the streets of Sirte, they’d just become targets,’ he explained. ‘All the Libyan people would rally against them – just as the people of America would rise up if we had African troops in Kansas.’
Juma paused again. He moved his head to one side, letting his ear rest unnaturally on his hand. ‘So that’s a “no”, then?’
‘Correct, that’s a no: we can’t send US troops into Libya. When we tried something similar where you pirates come from, we got our asses kicked. But we might be able to help you in other ways…’ As the Senator was speaking he became increasingly aware that Juma wasn’t really listening. Instead, the warlord was trying to fix something to do with his ear and his scarf.
Then the Senator saw it. And in one swift movement – too fast for Juma to respond – he leant forward and brushed off the Somali’s headgear.
Juma’s guards, who had been standing passively at the back through most of the exchange, suddenly moved forward. Guns clicked. Dick Roosevelt covered his head, expecting bullets to fly.
But Juma just raised his hand.
His militia men, who had been standing guard, slowed
up. Gradually they lowered their weapons. As Juma looked at them, they understood, and walked back to where they had been.
Juma raising his hand was more than a gesture of calm. It was also an admission.
It showed to Myles and Dick that, fitted to the left side of head, previously hidden by his headscarf, was an earpiece.
The Senator slowly plucked out the device and held it in front of all their faces.
Despite the old American holding up evidence that Juma was not the leading man he claimed to be, the pirate leader refused to look ashamed. ‘Yes, Senator. I have been receiving advice,’ he admitted.
‘Advice or instructions, Juma?’
Juma didn’t respond, as if he didn’t have permission to answer.
The Senator smirked, proud to have got one over on his captor. ‘Then, Mr Juma, you had better tell us who’s really making decisions here.’
Juma said nothing.
The Senator started to get annoyed. ‘Who wrote that note?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘Who’s on the other end of this wire?’
Still Juma said nothing. Myles sensed growing tension in the room: this was more than an impasse. If Juma kept refusing to answer, the situation would turn nasty.
Dick Roosevelt was looking scared. ‘What my father is trying to say, is…’ he offered, trying to mediate.
‘Shut up, Dick,’ shouted the Senator, his eyes fixed on Juma. ‘Come on, Mr Pirate, tell us who’s in charge here.’
Myles heard a quiet metallic click from behind him: somewhere a safety catch was being turned off.
Juma looked down at his own AK-47. It was still beside him and within reach.
Dick Roosevelt’s eyes darted around, checking out escape routes.
Then a door opened behind Juma. Sunlight burst through, making it hard for the four men sitting on the floor to see more than a silhouette walking through it.
The Senator squinted in disbelief: to him, the person approaching didn’t look human. Just a mass of flowing cloth, like a dark ghost emerging from a halo of light.
Then he realised: it was a woman, dressed in full Islamic dress. The woman approached, until she stood above Juma. Then she carefully sat down, and lifted her hijab.
Myles recognised her face immediately.
The Senator nodded, as if the woman’s appearance confirmed his expectations. He couldn’t resist the chance to humiliate Juma one more time. ‘So the old saying is almost true,’ he mocked. ‘Behind every strong man, there’s not a strong woman, but a wrong one.’
Sixteen
Sirte, Libya
Placidia looked just as Myles imagined she would. Her eyes still beamed a fierce intelligence, her face was still determined. The two decades since they had last met had given her dignity. Unlike other beautiful woman Myles had known at university, Placidia had not grown wide-hipped or flabby. Instead, she looked poised, athletic even. Her skin was taut, perhaps too taut, as if the battles she had continually been fighting with the world were finally starting to wear on her.
Myles remembered how radical she used to be. Placidia had led student marches against the massacres in Bosnia in the early nineties, blaming Britain for not doing enough to stop the killing. She had become a vegetarian at university, and led a campaign to make sure the college canteens always offered a non-meat option. She had been a feminist, an anti-poverty campaigner, even an eco-warrior. But unlike most of the students who took up trendy causes, Placidia had followed her convictions through to the end, even when they led to unpleasant places.
Myles and Placidia had not seen each other since those distant days. Their eyes connected, and he remembered the confusing mixture of emotions she had inspired in him half-a-lifetime ago. Even now he felt his pulse quicken. ‘Placidia...’
‘Myles, hello.’ She said his name without any emotion at all.
Myles wasn’t sure how to respond. Talking in the presence of Placidia’s husband limited what Myles could say – he knew Juma could carry out whatever he was threatening against the USA at any time. ‘This is where you live?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You’ve met my husband. He and I are determined to do whatever we can to help these people from all over Africa, trapped here in Libya.’ Placidia talked as though she was making a speech. ‘We want to bring them all the things they should have – all the things to which an American, like me, is entitled.’
The Senator scoffed. ‘Ma’am, you may be American, or half-American, or whatever you are. But nobody’s entitled to anything unless they make it themselves. Not even Americans.’
Placidia confronted him directly. ‘Senator. Americans are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Do you know what sort of life most Africans are entitled to?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Most are lucky if they survive childhood. Adult men get sucked into war, where they die. Adult women die giving birth.’
The Senator raised his eyebrows, unsure what to say.
Placidia didn’t relent. ‘And do you know what sort of liberty most African migrants enjoy?’ She barely waited for the Senator to reply. ‘None, Senator. There is no liberty of the mind because there is no proper education here. Not for migrants. There is no liberty of the soul because of the war and poverty. The new democratic regime of Libya talks about liberty, but really they just want us to obey them…’
‘OK, OK.’ The Senator waved his hand dismissively as he cut her off. ‘So Libya’s a shit place. We can agree on that. What do you want me to do about it?’
Placidia composed herself, reining back her anger. ‘Senator, you know when the US constitution was first written, it counted black men as worth only three-fifths of a white man?’
The Senator nodded. Although it was often brushed over in praiseful accounts of the founding fathers, Placidia was referring to a historical truth: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and the others had signed up to the ‘three-fifths’ compromise so that southern states weren’t over-represented in Congress. The paragraph was only removed from the constitution after the US Civil War, by the fourteenth amendment. ‘Correct, lady. And American women had no vote at all until 1920. So?’
‘So, Senator, you’ll agree with me, that everybody should count as one, and nobody as more than one?’ said Placidia, her face open, as if to pretend there was no trick in her words.
The Senator was sceptical, but didn’t want to argue the point. ‘Go on.’
‘So if an African migrant here in Libya dies, it’s just as much of a tragedy as if an American dies. If you can help these landless people, then you have a duty to, sir.’
The Senator looked down, paused for a moment, then shook his head. He sympathised with Placidia’s situation. He cared for the African migrants trapped in Libya, as he cared for people all around the world. But he couldn’t do much to help them. ‘Placidia, we can’t send US troops here. It wouldn’t work.’
She began quoting him. ‘“The laws of the land should reach beyond the sea” – your words, Senator.’
‘They are my words, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But that doesn’t mean we can help.’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ replied Placidia. ‘Which is why the only way for our people – these hard-working migrants – to get the life, liberty and happiness they deserve is…’ She paused before the punchline, making sure she held the Senator’s gaze as she delivered it. ‘Senator, for you to let them settle in the continental United States.’
The Senator raised his hands, as if to gesture what a ridiculous idea it was.
Myles, Dick and Juma all turned to Placidia, wondering how she would react.
Placidia faked a smile. ‘So that’s a “no”, then, Senator?’
‘Goddamn right it’s a “no”,’ confirmed Roosevelt. ‘The voters in the US would never allow it. Any elected official who proposed mass immigration into America would be kicked straight out of Congress.’ The Senator was half-laughing at the idea as he spoke.
Placidia nodded. She had anticipated this, too. �
��Then the US will have to be forced to live up to its duties, and to the Constitution of which it is so proud.’
‘Lady, you can’t force the United States to do anything.’
‘Yes I can. I will bring down the United States as the Roman Empire was brought down. Call it the last prophecy of Rome if you like: that the American Empire will share its fate.’
The Senator sat stunned.
Placidia rammed home her ultimatum. ‘Last chance: let our people settle in the continental USA, or your country is doomed.’
Seventeen
Sirte, Libya
The Senator squinted in disbelief. He was becoming increasingly certain he was dealing with a crackpot. The only question was whether he should humour her or tell her straight. Being Sam Roosevelt, he had to tell her straight. ‘Lady, you’re mad.’
Placidia had obviously prepared for such a response. ‘Really, Senator? You accept that America was created with the Roman Republic in mind? That’s why the rule of law – a very Roman invention – was placed at the centre of the US Constitution. That’s why you sit in the Senate, modelled on the Roman Senate. That’s why you have the Capitol building, like the Roman Capitol, and a President who controls the armed forces like the Roman Emperor. That’s why you offer US citizenship as a prize, just as the Romans offered citizenship to the bravest foreign slaves and soldiers. That’s why you cleared the Native Americans from their land, like the Romans wiped out local tribes…’
‘Enough.’ The Senator raised his hand. He had met women like Placidia before. He hated their self-righteousness. ‘Nobody disputes that America was based on Rome,’ he acknowledged. ‘What makes you mad, ma’am, is that you think you can bring America down.’
