by Iain King
‘It was deliberate?’ queried Myles, confused.
Placidia nodded as she confronted him. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ Her eyes were wide, like a teenager desperately trying to be believed. ‘Look, America is in serious danger. Really, it is. Believe me, I can’t tell you exactly why, but if you don’t help me…’ She leant forwards, about to make a gesture to Myles. She put her hand on his cheek. Myles wondered whether she was about to kiss him.
Then they were disturbed…
Fifty-Two
Galla Security HQ, Iraq
Myles and Placidia turned to see Juma swagger in with a grin on his face and an AK-47 in his hands. Juma made a point of leaving armed guards at the door, which he closed behind him. ‘Hello, ladies,’ he mocked.
Both Myles and Placidia nodded respectfully, acknowledging his presence.
He turned to his wife, looking cocky. ‘So, has your history-professor man agreed?’
Placidia’s eyes turned down as she shook her head. ‘I’ve not asked him yet,’ she said.
Myles checked both of their faces. ‘Asked me what?’
Placidia paused before she explained herself. ‘Myles, you know that Rome was besieged before it was first ransacked in 410. The Goths who stormed the city that year just wanted a homeland, like us. They surrounded Rome for almost two years, stopping food going in and people going out. As the city began to starve, the Senate of Rome agreed to pay off the Goths in return for them lifting the siege. But the Senate couldn’t raise the funds because the rich people in the city just hid their gold and silver, so there was no wealth to collect. Most of them buried it.’
Myles found himself nodding. ‘That’s why archaeologists still find treasure buried in central Rome.’ He saw Placidia nodding, and began to imagine what she had in mind. ‘But Placidia, people have paper money now, and stocks and shares. You can’t bury that in the ground.’
Placidia was about to reply when Juma interrupted her. ‘It’s like this,’ he declared. ‘I’ve got hundreds of people who need to be paid off. This private security company, for a start.’
‘Your mercenaries, you mean?’ asked Myles.
Juma smiled and started speaking more slowly. ‘Placidia’s already given me my own personal history lesson. She told me that the great Roman military which won an empire was gradually replaced by mercenaries, but they eventually lost it.’
‘Paying for mercenaries pretty much bankrupted ancient Rome,’ confirmed Placidia, underwriting Juma’s words and nodding as she spoke.
Juma began to grin. ‘See – it was private security companies like mine which came to rule the Roman Empire.’ He poked a finger towards Myles’ face, then slowly dragged it across his chin. Myles’ chin was covered in hair and stubble. He hadn’t shaved for several days. ‘So Myles, I need you to become our fundraiser.’
Myles didn’t answer with words, although his body language was responding with a very clear ‘no’.
Juma turned to Placidia, mocking surprise. ‘The professor doesn’t like the idea?’ he said. Then he caressed Myles’ jaw again, slowly rolling his fingers around Myles’ face. Suddenly, he grabbed it firmly, and thrust his face towards Myles. ‘Would you prefer a bullet in that beautiful head of yours?’
Myles took Juma’s hand away, then tried to defuse the situation with his humour. ‘I’d be a hopeless fundraiser – I can’t even get myself a pay rise.’
Juma grinned, exposing his rotten teeth.
Placidia stepped in, more serious than ever. ‘Myles, the stakes are high here.’
Myles remembered what she had just told him: Juma wants you dead. The stakes were very high.
Juma started lecturing him. ‘Myles, as the Roman Empire weakened, the imperial mint started putting less and less gold in their “gold” coins. A few emperors tried to stop it, like bringing in fixed prices for basic foodstuffs or decreeing how much gold there had to be in the coins. But it didn’t work. The Romans had to establish what’s called a “fiat” currency – a currency which only had value because the government said it did…’
Myles could tell Juma was just reciting what Placidia had taught him, but he didn’t want to interrupt.
‘Well, America is like that now,’ said Juma. ‘Forty years ago the dollar stopped being exchangeable for gold. Now they just keep printing dollar bills. Congress can’t raise taxes, and they can’t afford to spend less on the military or other federal programmes, so the deficit just keeps growing.’
Placidia was nodding along. ‘It’s even worse than in ancient Rome,’ she explained. ‘In Rome, only the Emperor could mint coins. But in modern America, the banks create money and they’ve bought off the government. The system’s already out of control.’
Juma grinned again. ‘And we just need them to print a little more for us. Easy.’
Myles shrugged in resignation. ‘You know, ever since the Boston tea party, the Americans have taken badly to Englishmen asking them for money.’ He squared up to Juma. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said.
Placidia interrupted before Juma could answer. ‘Myles, you don’t have to do much. There’s the big currency conference coming up. You just need to explain the history of Rome. Tell the rich bankers and the governments to offer up some cash. Make them do what the Roman Senate and the Emperor failed to do and put the future of civilisation before themselves. Please, Myles.’
‘You want me to help blackmail the world economy?’ said Myles. He shook his head. Whatever was at stake, he just couldn’t do it.
Juma smiled – the Englishman was as straight-talking as he was. Then the Somali pirate grabbed a tuft of Myles’ hair and pulled it sharply to one side. ‘That’s OK, Myles,’ he said. ‘That’s what we thought you’d say. I can deal with the currency conference without you. I’ll go there alone. It’s not a problem.’
Placidia glared at Myles, desperately urging him to reconsider. ‘Myles, think about what you’re saying. Could we reach a compromise on this?’
But Juma had already swung his gun into Myles’ ribs.
Myles bent over and stumbled, almost falling to the floor.
Juma cocked his weapon. ‘It’s OK, Placidia. Time for me to give this man a history lesson of my own.’
Juma quickly lifted his gun onto his shoulder, then grabbed Myles’ shirt. Myles felt himself flung against the wall.
Placidia tugged on Juma’s arm. ‘Let him go,’ she pleaded.
Juma shook his head.
Placidia tried again. ‘If you kill him, they’ll try to kill us.’
‘They’ll try to kill us anyway,’ replied Juma. He whipped his hand over Myles’ face. Then, with Placidia watching in shock, he kicked Myles – a high kick, in the stomach.
Myles bent double, then felt himself flung out of the room. He caught a last glimpse of Placidia – she was almost tearful – only the second time ever that Myles had seen her show real emotions. Myles could tell: Placidia really believed his life was in danger.
Juma slammed the door behind him, then stood over Myles. Three of Juma’s men came in, clearly knowing what was going to happen. Myles heard them boasting to each other in their African dialect, taking pride in what they were about to do. Juma took command. ‘Stand up, Englishman,’ he bellowed.
Half frog-marched, half jostled, Myles was taken through the remaining offices of Galla Security towards an exit at the back. The door opened out onto a bright car park. Juma directed him towards a white Toyota Corolla. ‘Sit,’ he commanded, as if Myles were a dog.
He was manoeuvred into the back section of the vehicle, where grinning Somali gunmen sat either side of him, with a third opposite. Juma took the driver’s seat and turned on the engine.
Myles sized up the men around him. One of them offered qat leaves around. Myles declined, but the other men gladly grabbed some. Tiny pieces of half-reduced leaves stuck to their teeth. They showed decaying gums when they grinned. Qat, Myles knew, took two hours to have maximum effect. In two hours, these men would want to demonstra
te their machismo. He had just two hours to escape.
The Toyota Corolla drove through a back entrance in the breeze-block perimeter wall, leaving Galla Security behind. The vehicle bumped the passengers as it started to accelerate, making its way onto the highway.
Myles was surprised when, after less than half a mile, the vehicle turned off the main route. The gap in the kerbstones led to a vague side road. Soon they were completely off-road. No more buildings from here. Juma was taking Myles into the desert.
Myles could not react and began to wonder if he was there at all. It was a sensation he had read about: an out-of-body experience. As danger increases, people begin to imagine themselves from a distance. The mind detaches from a frightening situation, trying to take the body with it. Myles was mentally removing himself from the car now.
Snap out of it, he thought. But he couldn’t snap out of it. He sensed the bravado of the men beside and opposite him. He looked at one of them, who grinned back.
The men leant and lurched as the Corolla started to reel over the uneven ground. When the front wheels impacted against a bar of half-dirt, half-sand, Juma’s men whooped in delight. For them it was like a fairground ride, or a hunting expedition. A hunting expedition with a guaranteed kill.
Myles tried to focus on what could well be his demise. How could he save himself? He knew that, because he was cooperating, they weren’t guarding him as tightly as they might. He kept trying to think through his situation. If he tried to escape and failed, he wouldn’t get a second chance.
He would have to play along until a good chance came. To stay obedient until he knew he could escape.
Was there any chance to fight back? No. Was Juma going to try to kill him? Probably, but it wasn’t certain. What could Myles say which would make Juma think twice?
After a couple of minutes where the track had become rougher, the Toyota halted. Myles heard the engine stop and the vibrations cease. Juma was instantly out of the door, standing close to where Myles was sitting. He dropped the back flap of the vehicle.
‘Down,’ instructed Juma.
The Somali gang men obeyed instantly, and jumped down. Myles had no choice but to follow.
He was poked in the back by the barrel of a gun, and found himself led towards a slight slope in the desert. He tried briefly to look around: nothing but dirt and sand in all directions.
‘On your knees,’ barked Juma.
Myles turned to Juma and tried to talk. ‘I can help you achieve what you’re trying to achieve,’ he offered.
Juma rocked his head back, laughing. ‘I know, Mr Munro. You’re about to. Down.’
‘Juma…’
‘Down.’ Juma’s instruction was absolutely clear. Myles started opening his mouth to offer more but was immediately deafened by a burst of automatic gunfire. Bullets drilled into the ground in front of him, spitting dirt onto Myles’ shins.
Juma leant close to Myles, and looked at him wide-eyed. Then he slowly mouthed the word again. ‘D-O-W-N.’
Reluctantly, Myles started to put his knees on the slope. He tried to kneel facing Juma and his three accomplices, but Juma made clear he wanted Myles to be facing away. Myles swung himself around until he was looking at the sand.
There were a few moments of silence. Then Myles felt the nuzzle of a gun barrel pressing on the back of his neck. It was pushing his head down. He duly lowered his face, until his nose and chin were firmly against the slope in the desert.
Then Myles felt the pressure of the nuzzle pull away. He understood he was expected to stay in position. He’d been lucky so far – could he be lucky again?
Some distance behind him, he heard quiet words being exchanged between the four Somalis.
The discussion stopped, followed by almost ten seconds of silence.
Very slowly, Myles tried to lift his face from the slope. Deep down he hoped the men might have departed. Perhaps he had been left alone in the desert.
He turned to look. He wasn’t alone.
Juma’s gun was raised to his shoulder, and Myles was looking down the barrel.
He saw a flash leave the end of the metal tube, and sensed a huge noise as a bullet shot towards him.
The last thing he felt was the pressure from the pulse of air which accompanied the bullet as it left Juma’s gun. He never felt the bullet hit. Instead, he slumped lifelessly into the dirt slope.
Fifty-Three
Capitol Hill, Washington DC
As a journalist, Helen used to keep away from press conferences whenever she could. It was a statement of independence: she didn’t like being summoned by a public figure, and she hated to help them promote themselves. Press conferences were old-fashioned and pompous. They were for losers.
But now her lover’s reputation was at stake. He had saved her life in Istanbul. She had to do all she could for him.
Myles needed her. Even though press conferences were for losers, it was better to be a loser than to lose him, she thought.
And so, through a contact, she booked a meeting room in the Senate. She called her colleagues in the press corps, and prepared all the information a journalist would want to cover the story.
When her friends arrived, they were given a pack of evidence: the material found on Myles’ computer, an affidavit from a respected Silicon Valley tech firm saying how the files had been planted, and details on exactly where in Iraq the files had been sent from.
She knew it was a good story – if she were a journalist, she would have covered it. Except, she was a journalist, and she couldn’t cover it because she was part of it. That was why it felt so odd to walk into a room full of her colleagues and sit in front of them. It made her less of a journalist than she used to be.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ she began. ‘You know, I used to avoid press conferences like the plague. But since I almost caught the plague recently, I thought I’d give press conferences a go, too…’
There was a little laughter around the room. ‘You better not be contagious anymore!’ heckled one of her friends.
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Helen, accepting the joke. ‘Actually, it turned out to be a blood infection, and I’d like to express my respect and gratitude to the highly professional doctors and nurses in Turkey, who gave me such excellent medical treatment.’
She began going through the evidence in the information packs, holding up each piece of paper in turn. ‘Myles Munro has been trying to save America, not destroy it,’ she explained. ‘He’s done all he can and he’s not even from this country…’
Hands went up. She picked someone from the front row. ‘Helen, who do you blame for all this?’ came the question.
‘Well, it looks like someone in the Department for Homeland Security made the wrong conclusion about the information on Myles’ computer,’ said Helen, trying to be fair.
‘So you blame Homeland Security?’
‘This isn’t about blame. It’s about tackling threats to America. For that, Myles Munro needs to be able to work with the authorities. He shouldn’t have to run from them.’
Several journalists shouted at once. Helen chose a woman reporter from a rival network. ‘Do you think Homeland is doing enough to stop Juma’s plot?’ asked the woman.
Helen nodded. ‘I think the plot is real. Juma is ruthless – we know that. And his wife is absolutely crazy. She may be clever, but it’s an evil sort of cleverness. She’s an expert on ancient Rome. Perhaps she’s the greatest threat here.’
‘But do you think Homeland is doing enough?’ repeated the questioner.
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know what Homeland’s doing,’ she admitted. ‘Apart from keeping Myles Munro on the run.’
The rival reporter looked down to write notes. Her face was dismissive.
‘Where is Myles Munro now?’ asked a print journalist.
‘I don’t know that. I’m sorry,’ said Helen.
‘But you were with him in Istanbul…’
‘Yes, he saved my life there,’ acknowledg
ed Helen. ‘He may have been heading to Iraq. But I don’t know whether he reached the country.’
‘So he could be working with Islamic extremists in Iraq?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘And the headline which called him a “Runaway Terrorist” is about as wrong as it could be.’
She was beginning to feel outnumbered. Even though she knew many of the journalists, it didn’t stop them asking nasty questions.
Then a tall frame entered at the back of the room. Helen saw him first and smiled as if she had just been saved. The press pack saw she was distracted and turned to see who it was.
The man strode towards the front of the room, bypassing cameras, careful not to knock any of the broadcast equipment. He wore cowboy boots and an open-neck shirt.
If this press conference wasn’t news already, it was now.
Helen welcomed him to the front. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ she announced, the relief obvious in her voice. ‘The Chief Executive of the Roosevelt Guardians and son of the Senator in whose name this room is booked. Dick Roosevelt.’
Roosevelt junior knew how to make the best of theatre. He held his hands up in a ‘you got me’ gesture as the media shouted out to him.
‘Any news on your father, Richard?’
‘Do you agree with Ms Bridle about Myles Munro, sir?’
‘Your Roosevelt Guardians are managing security at the currency conference in Rome – will it be attacked?’
‘How safe is America, Dick?’
Instead of answering the questions, Dick Roosevelt just let them come. He had a natural ability to relax in the spotlight – just like his father. It’s the picture that matters.
He made a point of allowing each person in the room to speak, pointing at them in turn. Only once the press conference had exhausted itself of questions did he volunteer some words of his own. ‘More questions than I ever got in school,’ he quipped. ‘I’ll try to give you more right answers than I gave my teachers.’
