by Iain King
Perrotta returned, opening the door with his back to avoid spilling the two coffees he held in his hands. Myles, his wrists still bound, held the door for the Italian until he could put the drinks down on the table.
‘Thank you, Myles,’ said Perrotta. ‘May I call you Myles?’
‘Certainly. Myles is fine.’
Myles was impressed by Perrotta’s English, even though the policeman’s accent clearly marked him out as an Italian.
‘Myles, have you lost your computer recently?’ asked the policeman.
Myles thought for a moment. He’d taken his laptop to America, and he had it with him at West Point, but had left it with Helen. He’d not brought it with him to Rome. ‘No. No, I left my computer in the United States. Why do you ask?’
Perrotta raised his eyebrows with a shrug. He gave the impression that the question didn’t really matter. ‘It’s OK. And you work in Oxford?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you worked at the university?’
‘I’ve been a lecturer there for about five years.’
‘But you also visit warzones?’ asked Perrotta, trying to clarify things.
‘Sometimes I do. History of war – it’s what I teach.’
Perrotta nodded. His style of questioning was very relaxed, more like a conversation than police questioning. Certainly not an interrogation. ‘And, in Oxford, you teach about new forms of warfare, too,’ continued the Italian. ‘Unconventional warfare.’
‘That’s right. Old-style warfare – big tank battles, infantry marching towards capital cities – doesn’t happen much anymore. Wars are different now.’
Perrotta could see Myles becoming animated. Clearly the Oxford lecturer was passionate about his subject, and probably a popular teacher, too.
‘Is that asymmetric warfare, Mr Munro?’
Myles paused before he answered. ‘Some people call it asymmetric warfare, but that’s a bad description,’ he explained, trying to be careful with his words. ‘All war is about asymmetry. An asymmetry is just a difference. All generals seek an asymmetry – more men, more force, better tactics. The ultimate asymmetry is when one side wins and the other side loses. Wars which aren’t asymmetric just become stalemates. Usually very bloody.’
Perrotta nodded respectfully. He pulled his hand over his beard as he framed his next question. ‘So you’re not an expert in terrorism?’
‘I don’t teach it, if that’s what you mean, no,’ answered Myles squarely.
Perrotta nodded again, leaning back. Myles could see him wondering whether to keep up on this topic or switch to another. ‘And you did your undergraduate degree at Oxford?’ Perrotta was changing topic again.
Myles explained how he’d read history and philosophy. It wasn’t a normal course at the university at the time, but they let him study both.
‘It must have been interesting for you, Myles.’
‘Yes. Both subjects – fascinating.’
Perrotta had got Myles relaxed again. Myles knew from his own experience as an interrogator this was good practice. It meant the questioner could register the reaction when they moved back to more sensitive questions.
‘And you knew Juma’s wife, Placidia, when you were at Oxford.’
Myles tried not to react, but he found his mood change involuntarily. ‘I did know her, yes.’
Perrotta probed further. ‘How well did you know her?’
Myles hesitated.
‘You would have liked to know her more?’ offered Perrotta.
Myles paused again. Silence. It was an answer in itself.
Perrotta moved his head to confirm he wasn’t going to press Myles on it. Instead he moved on again. ‘So, you weren’t in touch with Placidia after she left Oxford, all those years ago?’
‘No. Not until I saw her again in Libya last week.’
‘And you’ve not been in touch with her since then?’
Myles found the question disconcerting. ‘No, not at all.’ Of course he hadn’t been in touch with her. Placidia had become a terrorist.
‘You’re sure, Myles? Not at all?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Finally Myles was starting to get a little angry as he wondered where Perrotta’s questions were leading.
Perrotta remained silent, waiting for Myles to say something else. The silence invited Myles to speak. But Myles knew the tactic. He just stayed silent too.
Perrotta slowly ran a finger on his chin, onto his beard, thinking. ‘When you were in Libya,’ he posed, ‘did you wonder why you were released but Senator Roosevelt and his son were kept hostage?’
Myles just looked blank. No, he didn’t wonder. Myles had wondered about all sorts of things, but not that. ‘They sent me back so people heard about their ultimatum.’ He’d seen several bureaucratic mix-ups over the years, but this was one of the most peculiar.
Perrotta, still relaxed, took a final swig from his coffee and stood up. ‘You’ll excuse me for a minute, please.’
Myles nodded.
Perrotta left the room, leaving Myles to think back through the questions. Asking about his relationship with Placidia was reasonable, but why the quiz about his computer? And why ask about what he taught? Perrotta had known a lot about him, but had not used notes. Impressive.
It was almost ten minutes before Perrotta returned. When he did, he was as polite as ever. ‘Thank you, Myles, for all your answers today,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Thank you. Can I ask what the questions are about?’
Perrotta shook his head in apology. He seemed genuine. ‘I’m sorry, no.’
Then Perrotta tipped his head to one side to explain. He could explain a little. ‘Perhaps you’ve been working with someone in America’s Department of Homeland Security recently?’
‘Yes, Susan.’
‘You don’t know her second name – just “Susan”?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Myles still spoke like a man who thought he was innocent. Perrotta had seen it before. The Italian weighed his words before he answered. He knew they would strike Myles hard when he said them, so he tried to speak as gently as he could. ‘Well, it seems the Department – Susan – has some evidence to suggest you’ve been helping terrorists conspire against the United States.’
Thirty
Questura Centrale Police Station, Rome
Myles was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. He knew he was innocent, so how could the Department of Homeland Security have made such a mistake?
Myles remembered the people he’d interviewed in Iraq, and how they reacted when he presented them with evidence. Some were guilty, some innocent, some only half-innocent – it was usually easy to tell which were which. But it was the ones who couldn’t really engage with the accusation, because it seemed too bizarre, that Myles felt sorry for. Myles felt like that now.
Perrotta escorted Myles to a car, which drove him to a private airport. There, he accompanied Myles to a small jet plane, and Myles was signed over to some British police officers. Although Myles’ hands were bound, Perrotta still shook them as he departed. ‘Good luck, Myles,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be able to return to Italy soon.’
‘I hope so, too,’ replied Myles. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘No. You’re in British hands now. They should give you access to a lawyer.’ Perrotta’s words were directed to Myles’ new escorts as much as Myles himself. But the British policemen seemed uninterested in the suggestion – they kept Myles close but refused eye contact with him. They were acting as if Myles was some kind of terrorist mastermind. Getting legal advice for the accused came a very distant second to public safety. They really seemed to believe Myles was plotting to bring down America like ancient Rome.
Perrotta waved as he left Myles on the aircraft. Myles lifted his bound hands to return the gesture.
After the bumpy two-and-a-half hour flight, Myles was carried off the aircraft under a blanket at another small airfield. He caught a
glimpse of the weather as he disembarked. The light rain and cold confirmed he was in Britain.
Then another journey – this time in a secure police vehicle with blacked-out windows. The journey lasted almost an hour.
Myles tried making conversation, but his escorts weren’t interested. They seemed to be reasonable people, but their job – their organisation – had made them surly. It reminded him just how much he hated bureaucracies. He was back to where the bureaucrats were in charge.
When the van stopped in an anonymous garage in the dark, Myles’ watch was confiscated. Then the binding which tied his hands was cut, and he was led along a corridor from the basement garage into a police cell.
He called out to anyone who was listening, ‘Can I have a lawyer?’
No answer.
‘Can you tell me what I’ve been arrested for?’
Again, no answer.
‘Well, have I been arrested?’
Still no answer.
Myles kept asking while the prison door was closed in his face, and he was left alone in his cell.
After a few moments of standing and listening – half-hoping the whole thing was a mistake or a warped joke, and he was about to be released – he slumped down.
He ignored his bleak surroundings, and tried to think back. How could anyone even imagine he had helped terrorists? He’d only met Juma once, and only seen Placidia one time since… all those years ago.
He remembered that time. Their last lecture together on Rome – Myles’ mind drifted into his memory…
The lecturer turned to the blackboard and wrote up the word: S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y
He put down the chalk and turned back to his audience. They were all writing the word in their notes. All except one – the young woman in the front row, his star student. She was typing it. The only foreign student in the room, and she was the only one with a laptop. The lecturer was still puzzled why she carried around a heavy computer instead of a simple pen and paper.
He waited until everyone was looking up again before he continued with his talk. ‘Sanctuary was not available to the early pretenders,’ he explained. ‘The many men who aspired to be emperor – in the third century, for example – could expect execution if they failed.’ The lecturer drew his finger across his neck to make the point. ‘Their heads were sometimes shown in public – to prove they were dead and to deter others. But sanctuary became important later. As the Roman Empire officially became Christian – a process started by Emperor Constantine in the 320s, and which took about eighty years to complete – failed pretenders would seek sanctuary in churches. Some stayed there and prayed. It was thought no truly Christian emperor could kill someone praying in a church…’
The tall boy sitting next to the girl seemed to be writing a note for her.
The lecturer ignored them and continued. He lifted up a much-read copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. ‘This book,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘has much to say about Christianity and its impact on Rome – it was one of the reasons why, when the first volume came out in 1776, it was so controversial. The author, Gibbon, angered the Church establishment, because he blames part of Rome’s decline on the adoption of Christianity…’
The lecturer could see the girl unfold the boy’s note. Still talking to his audience, he peered over as the note opened and read it upside down.
Doing the right thing can sometimes be wrong.
The lecturer was confused. He tried not to be distracted. ‘And so, um, if we look at this year’s American Presidential Election,’ he continued, ‘how does it compare with the battles to become emperor in ancient Rome? It’s expensive, like Rome. Between them all, the candidates will probably spend more than a hundred million dollars before the election is over.’
The audience reacted to the figure – the thought of spending so many millions on an election campaign seemed bizarre.
‘But in Rome the expense was even greater,’ said the lecturer. ‘Rivals to become emperor employed huge private armies – often paying mercenaries from outside the Empire. When the challenger loses to the incumbent US President, he can go back to being Governor or Senator. Roman losers faced death – unless they could find sanctuary…’
His star pupil in the front row was shaking her head. She was disagreeing, which irritated the lecturer – to him, the young woman seemed ungrateful.
But the lecturer noticed the clock – it was time to conclude. ‘And that brings me to the end of my last lecture for this academic year,’ said the lecturer with a flourish. ‘Thank you for listening – if you did listen.’
There was a small ripple of laughter.
‘Good luck with your exams, and enjoy the summer,’ he concluded. ‘Thank you.’
A few students applauded, but mostly out of politeness. They all moved to leave while the lecturer went through some administrative points.
The lecturer wanted to catch the foreign woman before she left – she was one of the most gifted students he’d ever taught and was sure to have a brilliant future. But she was already at the door, walking with the boy who’d been sitting beside her. The lecturer would have to find her another time.
Outside, the boy tried to guide the young woman towards a café. She didn’t seem interested. ‘What do you mean “sometimes it’s wrong to do what’s right”?’ she snapped.
‘I’m just saying you have to think through what might happen,’ said the male student. ‘Think of what’s at stake. Think of the consequences, that’s all.’
The girl shook her head. ‘But they’ve been thinking about consequences – the authorities – which is why it’s got so bad…’ She listed off her complaints. The university authorities had invested in ‘evil companies’, like tobacco firms. They refused to cater for vegetarians. They squashed new ideas which proved they were wrong.
The boy accepted that one. ‘OK, yes,’ he said. ‘There are professors here who’ve built up their careers on a single idea, and they don’t like it when someone like you comes along and explains why they’re wrong.’
‘Especially when it’s a woman, and she’s foreign.’
‘I don’t think they’re doing it because you’re a foreign woman,’ replied the boy. ‘And you’re American, which is hardly foreign here.’
‘Half-American.’
The boy shrugged. Her nationality wasn’t the point. ‘Look, Placidia,’ he said. ‘They’ve given you this amazing chance…’
‘While they take chances away from other people?’
‘A chance to change the way people all over the world think about the Roman Empire.’
‘And what will that prove?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘If I do my doctorate here it just means they can control me.’
‘All bureaucracies do that,’ he said. ‘But Placidia, you’ve got a chance to beat the system. From the inside…’ The boy sat down on a limestone wall. He was inviting the girl to sit next to him, but she was too angry.
‘Myles, I’ve actually beaten the system already. I got them to recycle. It was a long campaign, but I managed to beat them.’
‘Yes, well done. But the consequences of what you’re planning now…’
‘Damn the consequences. I’ve got to.’
‘Placidia – they’ll expel you.’
She shrugged. ‘So?’
The young Myles paused before he answered. He said his words slowly: ‘It means we’ll be separated.’
Placidia calmly tipped her head to one side. She was squinting at Myles through the summer sunshine. ‘You could join me back in America.’
‘Do you think that would work?’
‘It’s better than me sucking up to these idiots,’ she said, flicking her head to the lecture halls. ‘I can’t stay here without trying to change them.’ After a few moments, Placidia became slightly calmer. ‘Myles, look. We can be together somehow. Oxford University must have an afterlife.’
Myles barely noticed her leave. He sat on that wall for more than an ho
ur, trying to solve the puzzle: a puzzle about people – just one person. A puzzle that he couldn’t unlock. When he finally moved away, he walked much more slowly than before.
Placidia’s stunt was splashed across all the student papers the following week. It was even picked up by the local TV news. Burning an academic offer letter to protest against the university made good pictures. And Placidia chose to do it at Oxford’s Martyrs’ Memorial, the site where dissidents had once been burnt at the stake for refusing to accept a much earlier diktat relating to Rome. University bureaucrats faced tough questions, and hostile journalists. Placidia had shamed them perfectly.
But as Myles had warned her, she was expelled the same day – charged with obstructing traffic and causing a dangerous fire. Everybody knew the accusations were false, but it was enough for them to withdraw the offer Placidia had already burned.
The university didn’t change because of what she had done. Now, two decades later, Placidia’s dramatic gesture was forgotten by everyone – everybody except Myles. To the world, it meant nothing at all.
The only consequence was that they had been separated.
Damn the consequences.
Thirty-One
Sirte Dockside, Libya
Safiq had been born on a farm in northern Chad. When the drought had struck, he had followed his family to Niger. When disease killed off his father’s goats, he moved to Algeria where he earned money by filling petrol cans. Then, as a teenager, he was drawn to Gaddafi’s Libya, to become one of the two million foreign workers doing menial jobs for menial money – although the wage was the highest Safiq had ever been paid. Over three years he managed to save eighty-two dollars. He hoped it would buy him an education, or maybe even a chance to travel to Europe.
Then the war came. The ‘Arab Spring’, people had called it. Safiq understood why the people rebelled against Gaddafi – the man had ruled like a cruel and ruthless emperor. But now everybody was missing the law and order Colonel Gaddafi had brought to the country. People had overthrown him for a better life, yet life was worse.
