by Iain King
Quickly he pulled one of the doors in the corridor. It was locked. He grabbed the next handle along. This time the door swung open. Myles rushed inside.
He knew he had only seconds. He surveyed the room.
A man with glasses sat behind a desk full of papers. Behind him was a large window with a third-floor view over the city.
The administrator stood up, reacting to Myles’ presence – half furious, half shocked.
Myles moved towards him, then edged him aside so he could reach the man’s executive chair. He picked it up. ‘Sorry…’ he said, as he heaved it onto his shoulder. Then he hurled it forward: into the window.
Instantly the glass shattered. Broken fragments followed the chair outside in a long arc to the ground. Myles used his elbow to widen the hole, bashing out the shards.
The administrator started saying something, but became speechless as Myles climbed onto his desk, brushing his papers onto the floor. He was even more shocked when the tall intruder started clambering towards the broken window.
Myles nodded and smiled a ‘thank you’ to the stunned official as he lifted one foot onto the window shelf. Then he swung his other foot through the hole in the glass and placed it on the outside ledge, kicking glass away until he had a steady footing. He bent down and squeezed his body to move himself outside, holding on tightly with his hands. Finally he brought his second foot through behind him.
Myles was now on the outside ledge of the third floor of Paddington Green Police Station. As he felt the fresh wind brush against him, and looked down to see where the executive chair had landed below, he knew it was too far to jump. He knew the fall would hurt and hurt badly. But as he heard the commotion catching up behind him, he also knew he had no choice.
Myles managed to hurl himself sideways as he jumped off. It meant he didn’t go straight down, but instead landed on a small adjoining roof. It was angled – he couldn’t land there. But it was enough to break his fall. When he bounced off he wasn’t travelling so fast towards the ground.
With his two legs firmly together and his knees bent, Myles hit the concrete hard. He rolled onto the ground, half-winded and with a pain in his feet. It took him a second to gather his bearings, but he wasn’t hurt. Not even a sprained ankle. Myles realised how lucky he was, and tried to move off, away from the building.
Policemen and women were busily hurrying around the public entrance to the court. News of the gunman had spread and Myles could hear a wail of emergency sirens approaching. A confused gaggle from the public gallery was being escorted onto the streets close by, while people from the underground station opposite were stopping to watch, although no one seemed to have spotted him yet.
Briefly Myles considered handing himself in to the police. But could they keep him safe? Not with the gunman still close behind him.
Myles knew he had to get as far away as he could. He looked around him and saw a road ahead. He decided he had to get across, and rushed towards it, hoping to dodge the cars driving fast along it.
There was a burst of gunfire behind him. Myles turned to see. He couldn’t make out the gunman, but from the faces of the panicked public he could tell that the assassin was already at ground level.
Myles darted between the traffic and sprinted onto the pavement. He began to run as fast as he could.
Then he realised where he was: this was Edgware Road, one of London’s major transport arteries. It had been laid down by the Romans – a cultural legacy which had lasted two millennia. Myles knew he was about to become a victim of the Romans again, since they had made all their routes as straight as possible. Running along a straight road with a gunman behind him was madness: there would be no cover, the gunman would get a clean shot.
So Myles darted off down the first side street he saw, desperately trying to keep up his speed while he turned the corner. He knew the gunman could not be far behind.
Too much running: he was beginning to tire and become breathless. Myles contemplated hiding in the buildings he passed: a launderette, a Lebanese restaurant, a small supermarket… The thought of a rest was tempting. But then he heard a scream behind him and realised the gunman was too close for him to stop.
On Myles ran, sprinting for his life. He turned a second corner until he was running parallel to the Edgware Road.
He passed a Roman-looking church – St John’s – and panted while he considered hiding in it. Then he dismissed the idea: this assassin had no respect for a courtroom, and would have no qualms about killing him in a church. Religious places could provide no sanctuary for him. There was probably no sanctuary at all.
Myles kept on moving, now desperately short of energy and stamina. He had run too fast for too long. His legs ached, but far worse his heart and lungs were screaming with exhaustion. He knew he had to stop soon. He was running out of everything he had.
He stumbled on to find himself in a place he vaguely recognised: this pleasant square had been on television. The smart Georgian houses seemed familiar. It evoked a sense of power in retreat. Myles remembered cameras here, come to mock a man who once had near-imperial authority.
This was Connaught Square, hidden behind the junction where Edgware road met Marble Arch. This square housed a former Prime Minister. It was also one of the very few places in the capital where the police routinely carry firearms. Only here was the terrorist threat considered high enough to deserve it.
Myles looked over. The guards outside the former premier’s London residence were on alert – probably warned about the drama less than a mile away at the magistrate’s court. They had their guns ready.
Myles sprinted on. He didn’t acknowledge the police. Nor did he want to. He looked towards the far end of the square, hoping he might find some safety ahead.
Then there was a burst of gunfire behind him.
Myles heard the armed police he had just passed shout a single word very clearly: ‘STOP’.
But Myles was running too fast to stop. He couldn’t stop. He knew that if he stopped he would die. So he just ran on. He was close to cover. Very close. Close enough…
Then there was a very different burst of gunfire behind him. Several bursts from several guns. This time the bullets had hit their mark.
Thirty-Four
Connaught Square, Central London
The Diplomatic Protection Corp assigned to the former Prime Minister had a drill for exactly this sort of event. Three of them remained as they were, their weapons poised. They were watching for the next surprise, ready in case any further threats emerged. Another was on his radio, reporting what had happened to an information hub. Since the former Prime Minister’s family wasn’t home, they didn’t need to escort or protect anyone. That released two men to advance, with their Heckler & Koch G36C semi-automatic carbines held tightly to their shoulders. Carefully, they approached the body.
Fairly soon they decided the man lying face-down on the bloodied concrete surface was not a threat.
The first policeman approached. He kicked the man’s foot. ‘Armed police,’ he announced, following his drill.
No response. With his colleague keeping guard, the policeman bent down to check for signs of life. Putting his fingers on the man’s neck, he detected only a faint pulse.
The policeman indicated to his colleague that the body he was examining was only just alive. Death was likely. The colleague understood, and eased his posture slightly. The threat was reduced.
Half-reluctantly, and still wary in case the man suddenly came back to life, the policeman started to pump the man’s chest – a half-hearted attempt to keep him alive.
It took just a few more seconds for paramedics to reach the scene. Their ambulance pulled up and first responders jumped out. They rushed to the body and immediately undertook their own tests. They too thought the man would probably die.
The policemen looked at each other. They knew there’d be an inquiry. Questions. An investigation.
But they knew they’d followed policy. The dying man had fired a weapon
in the designated area. His gun had landed several feet from his body, and had been guarded – but not touched – since the man fell. They’d issued a warning. They’d not hit anybody innocent.
The policemen relaxed while they waited for a rapid response team. They felt confident.
But Myles didn’t feel confident. He’d just seen his would-be assassin gunned down behind him. The anti-terrorism police hadn’t shot at Myles, but Myles still didn’t trust them.
He knew he had to get further away.
There were probably just two or three minutes before the area was flooded with police. That would mean he would be trapped, caught and returned to custody.
He had to make his decision quickly. Escape or surrender?
He kept running while he tried to decide. Even though his lungs were screaming and his legs worn out, he knew that to stop now was to accept capture.
Myles ran on, out to where Edgware road met Marble Arch. He remembered this site: he was on the last route taken by condemned men. Following Roman tradition, this route used to be lined with voyeurs. Captives were paraded here before they were executed.
Myles lowered his head and immersed himself in the crowds of tourists and shoppers. When the traffic lights changed, he crossed the road with a horde of pedestrians. Walking seemed a better way to pass unnoticed than running.
He couldn’t have ran any more, even if he’d wanted to. He bent double, his hands resting on his knees until he caught his breath. He checked behind him: nobody had followed him there, not even any of the Diplomatic Protection Corps, although some of the tourists were still looking at him oddly. He heard the police helicopter – still somewhere above him, but probably assigned to the drama in Connaught Square, where the body of the African gunman was being examined in forensic detail.
Myles was careful not to look up: the police helicopter might have a camera with face-recognition software. Instead he looked around, trying to look like a tourist, still trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate.
He had reached Hyde Park’s Speakers’ Corner. Free speech was protected here, although the right to answer back was equally cherished. The verbal jousting was entertaining and attracted many spectators.
While he pondered what to do, Myles wandered through the crowds listening to the speakers. One man was extolling communism. An American in the small audience was answering back, pointing out how the Soviet state locked up dissidents. From what Myles could tell, the American was winning the argument. Myles moved on.
Another speaker was reading from the Bible. Not far away someone else was preaching from the Koran. Myles listened as he passed, wondering why the two men were not addressing each other. The religious freedom they both enjoyed seemed to mean there was no dispute between them.
Would Myles be able to make his voice heard if he gave himself up to the police? He hadn’t when they’d detained him in Rome the day before…
Myles thought again of the Senator, and he remembered Juma’s threat to America. Could he stop America suffering the fate of Rome if he gave himself in? Could he save America if he escaped?
Then he looked towards the edge of the park, to a bus stop. He often passed this way: it was where the main bus route between Oxford and London offloaded passengers. Myles thought of jumping on one of the buses and taking the ninety-minute journey home: to Helen, to his flat, to his low-stress job at the university – and to where the police would be waiting to catch him.
Myles turned back towards Marble Arch. A small group of policemen were emerging, looking around. They were hunting for Myles.
Myles hid his face. He didn’t trust the police. Not at all.
He knew that now he had to decide.
Myles looked again at the bus stop to Oxford, where a bus was about to finish taking on passengers, stowing the last of the baggage into the underside of the vehicle.
He had made his decision.
Thirty-Five
Sirte Dockside, Libya
Huddled under polyester blankets and protected from the wind by sea containers, for many days they waited. Those with passports had already had them stamped – the rumour was that an exit stamp from Libya would make it easier to enter Europe. But most knew that the continent was still very hard to get into. It was almost impossible: all sea-going vessels were being stopped and searched for illegal migrants.
Like Safiq, many had tried to make the journey before. All had failed. They could trade stories on their failures – the lucky ones had been rewarded with a warm meal before they were sent back, the less fortunate ones had faced abuse. Several, like Safiq, had almost drowned. Escaping to a better life in Italy or France was an impossible dream, just as the better life in oil-rich Libya was a mirage.
But now they had hope. So much hope that this time they made sure their families were with them at the dockside. And the hope came from a single rumour – that Juma, the pirate chief from Somalia, had an escape plan.
Safiq saw Juma’s convoy of technicals and armoured SUVs sweep into the dockside. He peered to get a look, as the man and the woman beside him were soon surrounded by eager Africans. Juma’s militia kept the fans away.
Juma jumped up on a sea crate, trying to make himself look taller. He let his gun hang down from his shoulder as he shouted to the crowds around him. ‘My people,’ he declared.
The migrants murmured in response. They didn’t know what to expect.
‘Thank you for being here,’ Juma called to the crowd. ‘I know that Libya has not been good to you. Africa has not been good to you. And for those of you who have tried to reach it, even Europe has not been good to you…’
Safiq found himself nodding. The audience were listening eagerly. They all agreed, too.
‘Well, my friends, I can offer you something better. Much better. I can get you to America!’
Safiq watched while Juma paused. The pirate chief was expecting the masses to cheer. But Safiq and the rest of the people were just confused. The only way to get to America was to fly. How could Juma get planes for so many people? Would the Americans even let them land? He was losing confidence…
Juma pressed on. ‘People, all I need to know is which of the young men on this dockside have been trained to fire weapons.’
Safiq recoiled. Whatever this mad Somali was planning, he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to fight because he didn’t want to die. Safiq wanted to live. He saw Juma stare at young men in the crowd. Older family members were holding them back, telling them not to volunteer.
Safiq realised Juma was losing his audience. The Somali reached for his weapon. But then the woman next to him grabbed his hand. Safiq didn’t know who she was, but he saw her give Juma a stare and shake her head: no weapons.
Then the woman jumped up on the crate beside him. ‘People, my fellow Africans,’ she shouted. ‘I have made it to America, and you can too.’ She had to raise her voice even louder, over the crowd’s reaction. ‘There will be no fighting. No guns will be fired. You will all be safe, and soon you will all be free.’
Arguments were breaking out amongst the people in front of Safiq. The woman at the front strained to listen to them, cupping her ear to keep out the wind. ‘You ask “how?” Let me tell you how: we will travel in a ship that the rich European immigration police will let through,’ she shouted. ‘It is not a ferry for people. It is not a container ship. People, we will travel in an oil tanker.’
The people around Safiq were listening now.
‘And to get through the blockade, we will not travel straight to Italy,’ the woman explained, shaking her head. ‘Many of you have tried that, and we all know what happens. No – to reach the West, first we will go east. We will reach the shores of the New World through the capital of the Old World: Rome.
A middle-aged man in the crowd raised his voice in reply. ‘But how will we sail to America?’
Safiq laughed and nodded. It was a fair question.
The woman tried to laugh too. ‘America is too far to sail. Our o
il tanker will not sail over the Atlantic. But we have another way to reach America. How we will reach America from Rome must though, for now, remain secret.’
She had them intrigued, hopeful even.
‘But I promise you, if you come with me to Rome, I will get you into the United States,’ she vowed. Then she closed the deal. ‘And even Rome is far, far better than this dockside.’
Safiq was persuaded. Within minutes, he was part of a jostling queue eager to board the Al-Afrique oil tanker. It took more than an hour for the guest workers and their families to embark. Conditions inside the empty supertanker were no better – or worse – than the dockside. Now, though, Safiq and all the other migrants were going somewhere. They had hope, and that hope was leading them to freedom.
The one man who was not free was taken on last. Juma mocked him as he boarded. ‘Come on, Senator – I thought you wanted to go home.’
‘Be pleased I’m not getting the other things I want,’ retorted Sam Roosevelt.
‘Like?’
‘Like, you dead, Juma.’
Juma tried to laugh. He kicked the Senator to make the point, then ordered that Sam Roosevelt was frogmarched with him onto the bridge.
Juma nodded to his crew, and they radioed to the tugboat in the harbour. The anchor was raised and the moorings released.
Slowly, gracefully, the supertanker full of human cargo, driven by a pirate captain from the slums of Somalia, was hauled out of port into the Mediterranean Sea.
Below deck, Safiq felt the movement of the ship and knew: his journey to America had begun.
Thirty-Six
Hyde Park Corner, Central London
The police spread through Speakers’ Corner. Some jogged to the edge of the crowd, others tried to seal off the area. The helicopter above radioed down their assessment: the escapee could not have got far.
Then everybody was checked. Policemen systematically filtered through all the tourists, passers-by and families. They even made sure a woman in a hijab wasn’t really Myles in disguise. One man complained when his hood was pulled down. A policewoman had to apologise.
