by Iain King
‘My trousers too?’
Roosevelt nodded. ‘In America we call them “pants”. Yes please. And shoes.’
‘And socks?’ said Myles, starting to unbutton his fly.
The Senator nodded again, enjoying the control. ‘I know you’re wondering how I’m going to explain this to the forensics? It’s easy,’ he gloated. ‘Placidia, self-defence,’ he said, gesturing with his gun towards her. ‘You being naked: well, she always loved you. Perhaps she wanted to see you naked before you died.’
‘Before she killed me?’ asked Myles.
‘Yes. Before she killed you.’
Myles knew Dick Roosevelt meant what he said. The man would kill him as soon as he needed to. How could he get out of here alive? Options tumbled through his mind. Did Roosevelt have another weak spot, apart from his shoulder? He remembered Roosevelt saying his men were outside – could he get them in sooner?
Myles motioned his head towards the pistol. ‘How will you explain the shots?’ he asked.
‘The gunshots?’
‘Yes. Witnesses outside will have heard three shots, each several minutes apart. Hard to explain away as “self-defence”.’
Dick paused, then accepted the point. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That means I’ll have to muffle this next bullet.’ He moved his weight as he sat on the floor. He removed the balled-up jacket which he had been pressing into his shoulder wound and tried to hold it over the barrel of the gun. It was awkward, and the blood made it slip in his hands, but he seemed determined.
Myles only had seconds. He raised his voice. ‘Your father…your father spoke about you before he died.’
‘Yeah?’ Dick was pretending to only half-listen. He was still concentrating on using his blood-soaked jacket to muffle the imminent gunshot. ‘So, what did my father say?’
Myles looked down at the ground as he put the question back to him. ‘What do you think he said?’
Dick was about to give an instant answer. Then he paused, and became more thoughtful. ‘Did he say sorry? Sorry for passing on a third-rate private security firm? Or for failing to become President - twice?’
Myles shook his head. He looked around for any hope – anything – which might save him from the bullet. But there was nothing.
‘He didn’t say sorry,’ recounted Myles. ‘He said “this is how it ends”.’
‘“This is how it ends?” – my father’s last words?’
‘Yeah. He was talking about the Roman Empire,’ said Myles, trying to bluff. ‘He said “Civilisation collapsed because people became self-centred, and there were too many pretenders to imperial power.” Your father mentioned the emperor Constantine, the emperor who made the Roman Empire Christian. When Constantine’s own son tried to become emperor, Constantine had him murdered.’
Dick looked pensive. ‘So my father knew it was me?’
Myles nodded, bluffing again. ‘And, right before he died, he said some people had to make sacrifices for others.’
Dick looked down at his gun, smiling again. He had heard enough. ‘Well that’s true, isn’t it…’
Myles sensed he had overplayed his hand. Dick was going to shoot.
He had no other options left. He had to go for the gun.
Damn the consequences.
But he was too late.
As he lurched forward, Myles felt himself blasted backwards. He collapsed onto the marble floor of the ancient church. His body spasmed as the noise reverberated through the cavern of the church. Roosevelt’s jacket had not muffled the noise at all.
Then, in the instant between being hit by the bullet and the searing pain which followed, Myles realised it wasn’t the noise of the gunshot echoing around.
Seventy-Three
Pantheon, Rome
Light had broken into the church. The doors had been slammed open and silhouettes with guns were rushing in. Myles’ eyes couldn’t adjust to see who they were. His body was still in shock from the gunshot wound.
Dick turned to see them too.
Everything had changed. Dick needed to change his story. ‘Hey – thank you,’ the young Senator called out, trying to sound upbeat. ‘This man knows about the terrorist plot to bring down America like ancient Rome,’ he shouted.
There was no answer. The armed men were running to surround Myles and Dick, both now with gaping injuries to their shoulders.
Finally it became clear who the men were: Myles recognised their dark blue uniforms, their leather shoes and their accents. He even recognised the beard of the man who was approaching him and the Senator.
They were Italian Special Police. Inspector Perrotta had come to stand over Dick Roosevelt. As Myles and the Senator floundered on the floor, both losing blood from their bullet wounds, Perrotta repeated the Senator’s words back to him. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot?’ he said in his thick Italian accent. Perrotta sounded as though he believed the Senator, who nodded and looked hopeful. Roosevelt loosened his grip on his weapon – the Italians had Myles at gunpoint now.
Perrotta bent down and lifted the pistol from the Senator’s hand. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot, you say?’ Perrotta’s tone was more sarcastic this time. He made eye contact with one of his men, who in turn indicated that it was safe for paramedics to come forward.
The Senator clutched his shoulder again, playing up the pain. ‘Yes, inspector,’ winced Roosevelt, pretending to ignore the sarcasm. ‘And he shot me, and that woman.’
Perrotta nodded, unconvinced.
Myles rolled his eyes, from disbelief as much as pain. He was still on the floor and could only hear the words. He groaned at the prospect of being arrested by Perrotta – again – because the authorities were too slow and too dumb. They would follow their rules, their procedures. The police would obey their bureaucrats…
One of the Italian policemen lifted Myles’ shoulders and held his head. Something was pressed into the wound to stem the bleeding. Seconds later paramedics arrived and took over. Myles was told the bullet wound was serious, but that he’d live. ‘Please try to stay awake, Mr Munro…’ said the medic.
Myles lost consciousness a few moments later.
Both he and the Senator were stabilised – emergency measures to reduce blood loss from their wounds.
Myles sensed just a blur of medical equipment and the rush of professionals. He writhed, his naked skin soaking in blood. Only half awake, he dreamed he was paralysed. He imagined being back in the London courtroom with Dick Roosevelt accusing him while he, Myles-the-misfit, wasn’t allowed to answer.
Then he started to rise up. He realised he had been strapped to a stretcher. Brought out into the light, his awareness returned. Only then did he know the paramedic was right: he would survive.
The Piazza Rotunda outside the Pantheon was now filled with journalists, onlookers and assorted other people who had realised something interesting was happening inside and wanted to know more. A pathway to waiting ambulances had been roped off. Myles was carried through it at waist height.
Where was Helen?
He hoped – expected – her to run under the rope and greet him. To take his hand and squeeze it. But there was no sign of her.
As Senator Dick Roosevelt was brought out behind him, Myles heard the swoop of journalists shouting questions out to him. He listened out for Helen’s voice amongst them, but it wasn’t there. Was she reporting on the story from somewhere else?
‘When will you resign, Senator?’
‘Do you have a political future, Mr Roosevelt?’
‘Why did you kill Placidia when she was praying, Dick?’
Myles was confused. Why did the journalists think Placidia was praying when she was killed? And why were they interrogating Dick?
Then he realised – somehow they knew. They had worked out that Dick Roosevelt was behind it all.
But how?
The Senator, of course, didn’t answer the questions. He was wounded – the perfect excuse to avoid allegations. But the questions soun
ded tough.
Finally he felt his stretcher lifted into the back of an Italian ambulance. And there, waiting for him, was Helen. ‘You’re safe now,’ she smiled. She kissed him.
Myles was still confused. ‘You’re not reporting this?’
‘I already have,’ announced Helen, proud that she was ahead of him on at least one thing.
Myles discovered he’d been given medical treatment in the Pantheon until his condition stabilised, while Helen had broadcast rolling coverage. She hadn’t been allowed in to see Myles while he was being treated for his gunshot injury, but hadn’t needed to: she had seen the whole thing anyway. Live.
Helen smiled. ‘The Senator was behind the whole thing,’ she confirmed, looking at Myles’ face and his wound.
Myles was still mystified. ‘Yes, but what convinced you?’
‘Dick arranged it all with Juma in advance. The bomb in New York so he became a hero, his escape from Libya. Kidnapping and killing his father, so he could become Senator. Even the stand-off between the refugees and Roosevelt’s Guardians, so he could pretend he was protecting America. And it was Roosevelt who got the files about the Special Forces raid – both to warn Juma and for Placidia to plant on your laptop,’ said Helen, now clearly teasing Myles with all she knew.
‘Yes, it must have been. But how did you find out?’
Helen smiled again, deflecting Myles’ question. ‘So the Roosevelt Guardian corporation was linked to Juma’s own private security firm, in Iraq?’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Myles. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I think the Guardians bought out Galla Security or something. That was how they were connected.’
Helen nodded again. ‘Don’t worry. The world knows it now. All from Placidia.’
Myles winced in confusion. ‘Placidia?’
Helen explained how Placidia had offered Dick Roosevelt a deal: she wouldn’t expose him if his Roosevelt Guardians let the refugees into the embassy. ‘The tragedy, Myles, is that her people were already safe. You’d already got them into the embassy by setting off the fire alarm. She didn’t need to meet him,’ she said. ‘Placidia could have lived.’
Myles rolled his head on the stretcher. He remembered Placidia’s body on the stretcher. Perhaps if he’d been quicker, she would still be alive.
The ambulance was moving now, driving over bumpy cobbles and ancient stone roads through the streets of Rome. Helen tried to hold him steady. ‘So Myles, she was trying to do deals with that bastard right until she died.’
‘Yes, but she didn’t believe in them,’ said Myles. ‘She always said, “Do whatever saves the most lives”. She would have made the deal to protect her refugees. Once she knew they were safe, she would have exposed Dick.’
‘And break the deal?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Myles. ‘But for the best reasons. Placidia’s morality was twisted, but it was twisted in a good way.’
Helen combed her hand through Myles’ hair, careful to avoid the scar on his scalp. Paramedics had given Myles some fresh bandages.
For Myles, there was still one final puzzle. ‘So how did you know, Helen?’ he asked. ‘And why did a journalist shout out that Placidia had died praying – she didn’t even believe in God.’
Helen smiled. She pulled out her mobile, and opened a browser. It showed the inside of the Pantheon. ‘Placidia. She set up a monitoring device.’
‘A camera? I know,’ said Myles. ‘But Dick Roosevelt found it.’
Helen shook her head. ‘Placidia was ahead of him. She knew Dick would be looking for it, so she had two. She was broadcasting live images onto the net the whole time she was there,’ said Helen, sounding respectful of Placidia for probably the first time ever. ‘That’s how everybody knew. And that’s how they saw live images of her praying – praying in church – when she was shot by the Senator who pretended to believe in Christian values.’
‘She gave her life to protect America from Dick Roosevelt,’ said Myles, completing the epitaph. ‘She didn’t just die for her refugees, but to save her country, too.’
Seventy-Four
US Embassy, Rome
Safiq knew nothing of the drama at the Pantheon – at least, not for several hours. When he did, he felt so very sorry for the woman who had died praying. He recognised her image immediately: it was the woman who had persuaded him to board the tanker in Libya. He had assumed she was Muslim, but discovering she prayed as a Christian made no difference to his admiration for her. The half-American lady had been true to her promise: she really had done her best for him and the other refugees. Only now she was dead did Safiq discover her name, and he vowed that, were he ever to have a daughter of his own, he would name her Placidia.
The hours before Safiq saw Placidia on the satellite TV in the US Embassy had been tense and chaotic. It had taken several minutes for him and the other refugees to accept they were safe. US Marines took control – both of the building and the Roosevelt Guardians, who were disarmed and arrested. The refugees were corralled again, but this time within the embassy, which meant they were on US territory. There they were given hospitality, food, and water. For Safiq, it was an unexpected welcome. American generosity was even warmer than he had hoped.
Safiq was one of the first to claim asylum. He had expected his bid to be rejected, and that he would be shipped back to Africa again. After being fired on by the Roosevelt Guardians, part of him feared a terrible fate – like the ‘barbarian tribes’ which had sought sanctuary a century before Rome collapsed, and which that empire had treated so badly.
But several countries offered to take a share of the migrants. Refugees were resettled throughout France, Spain and Italy, in the area once ruled by the ancient civilisation. And Safiq was one of the migrants to be accepted by their first choice – by the country which had become heir to the Roman Empire.
So, within a week, Safiq was making his new life in a country he loved. Safiq was in the United States. Placidia had taken him to America after all.
Day XIII
Seventy-Five
Agostino Gemelli Hospital, Rome
X-rays on Myles’ shoulder confirmed his wound was not life-threatening. The bullet had broken through his shoulder blade near the joint. Fragments of bone would have to be aligned so they could heal and Myles’ underarm muscles, ripped apart by the exit wound, would take several months to regain their strength. But Myles had been lucky: the shot struck him just a few inches above his heart. Lunging at Dick Roosevelt may have saved his life after all.
The first two weeks of his recovery, confined to a hospital bed, frustrated Myles. He wanted to get out. To see Rome and Italy, and to explore. But daily visits from Helen, which often ran on well beyond the hours dictated by the hospital bureaucrats, made things much easier. It was not the sort of relaxing time in Rome the couple had initially planned, but it was what they both needed.
Myles was also consoled by the rolling news coverage of the story. Although not many new facts emerged, there were several follow-up stories which all got good coverage. It took six days before news channels found a lead item more interesting than the story of the disgraced Senator and the conclusion of Placidia’s ‘Last Prophecy of Rome’.
Dick Roosevelt recovered from his self-inflicted shoulder wound quickly. It meant, after ten days, he was fit enough to appear in handcuffs, unshaven and in an orange jumpsuit. Cameras flashed and the videos rolled: he had an image of defeat on his face. Even his confidence was finally exhausted. The evidence against him was overwhelming – he had been filmed shooting someone who posed no threat, passed classified documents to Juma, and conspired in an act of terror against the United States. The final irony was that a federal law brought in by his father – the Roosevelt-Wilson Act – would be used in his trial. His father’s legislation meant crimes committed abroad, like Dick’s, were tried as if they had been committed in the continental USA.
The political demise of the young Senator Roosevelt had become inevitable ever since the world l
ogged on to the videostream being broadcast from the Pantheon. Since people now realised how dangerous Dick’s firm, the Roosevelt Guardians, had become – a danger to American democracy itself – they had to be disbanded. Other private security firms would soon face strict controls. Myles smiled as he saw Susan, who had been seconded to Sam Roosevelt’s office, now back with the Department for Homeland Security, interviewed on the rolling news. She made the point very well: ‘Private’ had to be taken from ‘security’, since security was always a public matter…
New private security legislation was championed with the slogan ‘Driving standards up to drive the bad boys out’. There was even a cross-party consensus in the US Senate on the issue. It would have made Sam Roosevelt proud.
The Senators were also pleased to be able – finally – to dispel the continuing rumours about pornography on their computers. Once seen as the most innocent amongst them, Senator Dick Roosevelt was now the most guilty. In time, his name would become a byword for sharp practices and behaviour which threatened the constitution of the United States.
After two weeks in Rome, Myles was fit enough to take a flight. He and Helen flew back to the United States together, where he could convalesce in her New England home. Even though they tried to keep the details secret, it didn’t stop him being treated as a hero by reporters and well-wishers as he passed – again – through JFK airport.
Myles didn’t answer any of their questions. He had already promised his one-and-only interview about the whole affair to a single journalist: Helen.
She interviewed him seated in an armchair, in her own house. He still wore a sling, but didn’t need the head bandages anymore, and looked relaxed.
‘So, Myles,’ she asked, framing the question with poise. ‘Many people have said you saved America. Are they right?’
