by Iain King
‘Persia – that’s modern Iran, right?’
‘Yes, and they fought over where Syria and Iraq are today. The theory goes that there were simply too many attacks for the Roman army to cope with. The Empire was overwhelmed.’
‘So, multiple attacks from the Middle East, huh? What’s the second theory, Mr Munro?’
‘Well that has to do with migration. For centuries, when it was on the rise, Rome welcomed new tribes into the Empire – including people they’d conquered. But when thousands of refugees, who’d been forced from their lands by war in the East, tried to settle in Europe, Rome treated them very differently. It was cruel to them. The refugees became enemies, and it was a migrant tribe, the Vandals, who eventually broke into Rome and destroyed the city.’
‘And that’s where we get the word “vandalise” from?’
‘That’s right. Rome’s last big military operation was against the Vandals, and their new base in Libya. It was a disaster, and it left the Empire bankrupt.’
‘A refugee crisis. Very interesting. OK, so the third theory…’ There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then, ‘Sorry, Mr Munro, we’re going to have to wait on that third theory on why the Roman Empire fell. We’re about to go live to a press conference with Dick Roosevelt, son of Senator Sam Roosevelt, who drove the bomb away in those live television pictures we saw earlier and thwarted a major terrorist attack that would have ripped through the heart of New York and claimed thousands of lives…’
Seven
Via Veneto, Rome
The phone line went dead. Myles gave the handset back to Helen.
Helen was still curious. ‘Why do you think a bomber in New York cited the Roman Empire?’
Myles turned his head to one side – he was trying to make an educated guess. ‘Could be because the US was founded with the Roman Empire in mind. Your Senate, Capitol Hill, the eagle as a national symbol, even the rule of law – they all came from ancient Rome.’
‘But America doesn’t have an empire?’
‘Not a normal empire, no. But, like Rome, you dominate the known world. Some people resent you for it.’
Helen nodded, accepting Myles had a point.
The phone rang again. Helen looked at the screen and frowned: an unknown number from Washington DC. ‘Hello, Helen Bridle speaking.’
‘Sam Roosevelt, Senator. I understand you’re with that British historian, Myles something.’
Helen was shocked. As a television journalist she often met powerful people. But a call from Senator Sam Roosevelt was quite a surprise, even to her. ‘Er, yes, Senator.’
‘Well, I want to speak to him,’ growled the voice. ‘Put him on.’
The Senator’s voice gave commands naturally. Something about his tone made them hard to disobey. Helen handed the phone over to Myles again, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Myles Munro speaking.’
‘Mr Munro, its Senator Sam Roosevelt here. You may have heard of me.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of you. I think most people have heard of you, Senator.’
‘You know about this “Roman Empire” thing?’
Myles paused, and scratched his head. ‘The threat, Senator?’
‘Yes, and it is a threat. It’s a threat to the whole United States…’
The Senator raised his voice to emphasise points and spat out the important words. Myles could tell he wouldn’t like to spend much time with the man.
‘Mr Munro, we’ve got intelligence which says this threat is blackmail.’
‘Blackmail, Senator?’
‘Yes. Someone is trying to hold the whole USA to ransom.’
Myles paused before he asked the obvious question. ‘Do you know who it is?’
‘Yes we do,’ came the reply, confident and instant.
‘Well, can you tell me?’
‘No I can’t, Munro.’
Myles was more bemused than angry. ‘So, how do you want me to help you?’
‘Mr Munro, I need you to come with me to sort this out.’
To Myles, the request seemed absurd. He thought, then answered carefully. ‘Why me, Senator?’
‘Because I’ve just heard you on TV, Myles, and you know the Roman Empire.’
Myles let out a frustrated wheeze of breath. Whatever the Senator was planning, it had the makings of a fiasco. ‘Senator, I don’t know the Roman Empire. I don’t know who’s blackmailing you, and I’m not American. You’ll be able to find someone much better.’
There was the sound of shock at the other end of the line: the Senator was not used to people saying ‘no’ to him. Myles could hear the Senator exhaling very deliberately. ‘Munro, there is also another reason.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘It’s a reason I can’t explain over an open phone line. Few people get a chance to serve their country like this.’
Myles refused the bait. ‘Senator, I’ve just served my country, in Afghanistan. I’ve got nothing against Americans – I’m even dating one…’ He saw Helen smile. ‘And there will be lots of Americans far better than me for what you have in mind.’
Myles was about to offer help finding someone else. But the Senator had already ended the phone call.
Eight
Washington DC, USA
The Senator was furious. He pushed the phone across his desk, away from him. ‘You said this guy understood the military,’ he boomed. ‘He should know why some things can’t be said over the phone.’
Susan hadn’t yet learned that the Senator was not to be corrected. ‘I said he gave lectures about the military, Senator.’
‘I read the brief. It said he’d worked closely with Military Intelligence,’ huffed the Senator. ‘Is this what the British call “intelligence”?’ Senator Roosevelt tossed the thin briefing folder in the air.
Papers fluttered down all over the office. Susan tried to read them as she gathered them up. She soon realised the Senator was right and she was wrong.
The Senator put his head in his hands, scratching his scalp through his white hair. ‘Don’t we have any Americans with a long-lost connection to this Juma guy or his Ivy-League wife?’
The words ‘Ivy-League’ were said with a sneer. Susan, a Harvard-alum herself, tried not to take the bait. ‘No, Senator,’ she answered, squarely.
The Senator picked up a photo which had fallen onto the floor. He held it close to his face as he studied it, looking at the man eye-to-eye. ‘So this is Juma,’ he mused. Roosevelt had seen many photos like this when he was chair of the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee. It had obviously been taken with a long-distance lens, which meant either spooks or Special Forces. Juma was someone they couldn’t get close to. Sam Roosevelt ignored the man’s muscular physique. He registered the way Juma held his gun, but it was the expression on his face which struck him most: Juma had a recklessness about him, as though he didn’t care about anything. ‘This is the pirate who thinks he can send a bomber to the Big Apple…’
‘Through his wife, Senator – Homeland said the messages sent to the bomber were all from Juma’s wife, not Juma himself.’
‘OK. So Juma – or his wife – sends a bomber to New York. They write ransom demands on little bits of paper and think people will listen because they put the confetti in a bomb. Then the bomb goes off in a different place to where it’s supposed to and the bomber gets caught.’
‘Yes, Senator.’
‘And they still send a text message to his phone? After he’s been caught?’
‘That’s right. Even though their bomb was foiled, they still made the demand.’
The Senator paused and thought. Text messages and a bomb plot which went wrong. It seemed very amateurish. ‘Read me out the text message again.’
Susan checked her paper and read from it. ‘It said: “If you don’t want America to suffer the same fate as Rome, then send a delegation to meet me, and I will set out my terms. I will only talk with Senator Roosevelt. He should bring a representative from his ol
d firm, the Roosevelt Guardians, and the Oxford University historian, Myles Munro. No one else.”’
The Senator absorbed the information again. ‘Who does this pot-chewing pirate from Libya think he is?’
‘Er, it’s called “Qat”, Senator. And he is from Somalia. He’s only been in Libya for a few years.’
The Senator looked confused, a facial expression that demanded an explanation from Susan.
‘Qat, Sir. It’s the drug they chew. Not pot, Senator, Qat.’ Susan smiled quietly to herself.
The Senator let her small victory pass. ‘OK. But why did Juma move from Somalia to Libya?’
Susan had read up on this. ‘In 2009, the Libyan dictator Colonel Gaddafi tried to develop a navy, so he invited in a whole bunch of Somali pirates,’ she explained. ‘Juma was one of them. Later, Gaddafi paid them to fight for him as mercenaries. But when Gaddafi was killed in 2011, the mercenaries were abandoned. Some left Libya, but many stayed and turned to crime.’
‘Was this guy Juma involved in murdering our Ambassador Stevens and his staff in the Benghazi consulate attack on September 11th, 2012?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Susan replied. ‘He may have been complicit.’
Senator Roosevelt frowned at her – not knowing was bad, and speculating was worse. ‘Just stick with the facts, missy. Do we know whether Juma still leads a bunch of Somali pirates?’
‘More than that, Senator. Juma leads one of the militias which rival the defence forces in the New Libya,’ she explained. ‘Juma’s got many of the Africans who came to Libya to work for the oil firms.’
‘Migrant workers, you mean?’
‘If they can find work. Many try to escape to Europe – every few days a boatload of them sinks in the Mediterranean. And if they make it to Italy they just get sent back. Juma doesn’t need to offer them much to bring them into his gang.’
‘So Juma’s leading a band of slaves, huh?’ Senator Roosevelt nodded to himself. ‘A real modern-day Spartacus…’
‘He’d like to think so, sir. The new authorities in Libya – the guys elected after Gaddafi – have tried to round them up but failed. And no one knows where Juma lives.’
Senator Roosevelt didn’t notice Susan agreeing with his assessment. He began thinking aloud. Susan took it as a good sign – it meant he trusted her. ‘OK, so our first choice is: do we let Juma dictate who’s on our team?’
‘Sir, if we do, we need to handle the media on it,’ insisted Susan. ‘It would mean both negotiating with terrorists and giving in to their first demand before we’d even started.’
‘Agreed.’ Then the Senator waved his hand. ‘But I’ve talked with all sorts of crazies over the years. If we try to send a different team, then he’ll refuse to meet us and do something stupid. For the media, just say it was an old man doing peace talks. Something like that.’
‘OK, Senator.’
‘Next, Juma’s gonna let us bring a Roosevelt Guardian along. But which one should I take?’
Susan nodded. Her expressions made clear that she was very keen to accompany him.
‘I suppose you want to come along.’
‘Yes, Senator. Although I’m from Homeland, I’m on your staff. I could count as a Roosevelt Guardian.’
The Senator pulled a thinking face. Then he smiled like a father about to disappoint. ‘No. I’m sorry. Two reasons. You’re too official – if this goes wrong, it’s got to look like the independent peace mission of a has-been hero.’
‘I could resign from Homeland Security, and just work for you, sir.’
‘If you resign from Homeland then you’re no good to me.’
Susan pretended to ignore the insult. ‘And the second reason, Senator?’
‘You’re a woman.’
Susan tried to hide her astonishment. Could anybody really be that sexist anymore? Then she remembered who she was talking to. Sam Roosevelt had no trouble at all being sexist.
The Senator tried to console her. ‘It’s not me. I know you could do it,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s them. The terrorists. They won’t take you seriously.’
Susan didn’t look convinced. The Senator rammed the point home. ‘We’ve got to remember our mission: we’re not going to enlighten them about gender equality. We’re going to stop them killing Americans.’
Susan had to accept the logic. ‘So who will you take?’
The Senator looked at the photographs on his wall: faded pictures of himself as a young football star, a Marine, a Junior Senator in Iowa where he came close to winning his party’s presidential nomination… Then he settled on a family picture. ‘Dick. I’ll take Dick. He’s become a five-minute hero in New York. If he’s going to inherit my Senate seat he needs foreign affairs experience.’
Then the Senator smiled like a gambler about to play the same bet twice. ‘And don’t think I’ve given up on this British guy…’
Nine
JFK Airport, New York
Together, Myles and Helen collected their bags and walked off the plane. Through the arrivals corridor of Terminal One, they followed the other passengers until they reached passport control. There the corridor split: one way for US citizens, another for aliens. Myles waved off Helen as they joined different queues.
‘Meet you at the other side,’ she called, blowing him a kiss as she left.
He smiled back to her, then approached his own line. Soon he was giving his landing card to the female immigration official and allowing his iris to be scanned.
‘Do you intend to stay long in the United States, Mr Munro?’ asked the American official.
‘Er, no, not really.’
The border officer smiled at his English accent while she swiped his passport. ‘You travelled to Afghanistan recently?’
Myles nodded.
‘Military?’
‘No, but with the military. I study war.’
The official accepted his answer, then waited for her computer to give the all-clear. But something flagged up. She frowned. ‘Mr Munro – there’s a special message for you. You need to report to that room over there.’ She pointed to one of the interview rooms at the back.
‘That one?’
‘Yeah.’
Myles thought of asking what it was, but realised he might as well find out for himself.
An American woman with an ID badge around her neck introduced herself with a handshake. ‘Susan from Homeland Security,’ she said, welcoming him into the room. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Munro.’
Myles took in the room around him: no windows, just white walls.
Susan invited him to take a seat. ‘Would you like a drink?’ She was wrestling a plastic cup from a dispenser, which she filled from a water cooler in the corner of the room, then brought it to him.
‘Thank you. Will I be here long?’
Susan didn’t answer. Instead she reacted as if to say ‘you’ll find out soon enough’.
Then the door opened again.
In walked an ageing but very fit-looking man. Smaller than Myles had expected, but with a face he recognised immediately. Sam Roosevelt.
Myles remembered Sam Roosevelt’s bids to be President – and his famous campaign slogan: ‘We’re all going bust if we ain’t got trust.’
Roosevelt had stood out in the crowd of political wannabes. In one of the Presidential TV debates, he’d famously distinguished himself by daring to agree with Bill Clinton’s line on Bosnia. Other candidates had tried to call him a coward for it, but the charge could never stick: Senator Roosevelt’s personal story was far too glorious for that. As a marine, he’d won the Congressional Medal of Honor in Vietnam for rescuing a small army of American POWs from the Vietcong. He had led a team of only five men to take on more than twenty. Roosevelt, then only a junior officer, had planned the audacious assault on the position himself. His actions that day in 1971 were still studied at West Point as an example of tactical brilliance. Myles had even referred to them in his Oxford University lectures.
Myles st
ood up to offer a handshake. The Senator motioned to a chair, directing Myles to sit back down again. Myles obeyed.
As he sat down, a younger man entered the room behind the Senator. The two men plus Susan were squaring up to him like an interview panel. Sam Roosevelt waited until everyone was seated before he started at Myles. ‘So you’re the guy who said “no” to me on the phone, huh?’ he said.
Myles refused to be intimidated. ‘Correct, Senator. But I can help you find…’
‘No.’ The Senator had cut him off, then paused, sizing Myles up before he offered more. ‘Mr Munro, America needs you.’
Sam Roosevelt explained what he couldn’t say over the phone: the threat that ‘America will be brought down like the Roman Empire’ had come from Libya. From a Somali pirate based there called ‘Juma’. And Myles knew his wife. ‘You studied history with her – when you were an undergraduate at Oxford University.’
‘So you want me to help because I once knew his wife – when I was a student?’
The Senator shook his head. Myles wasn’t getting it. ‘No, Munro. The pirate sent a bomber to New York. The bomber was caught, and my son, here, drove the bomb away from Wall Street.’
Roosevelt waved his hand in the direction of the young man sitting beside him. Dick Roosevelt was about to introduce himself formally but his father ignored him and continued. ‘Then they sent their demands,’ said Sam. ‘After their bomber had been caught. And they demanded that the negotiation team include...’ The Senator poked Myles with his finger as he completed his sentence ‘…you’.
Myles looked to Dick and Susan for a reaction. There was none. They were watching for his.
Myles offered a response. ‘So you’re going to talk with this man?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’ The Senator answered without hesitation. He had no doubts at all. Myles could tell Dick Roosevelt was less sure: negotiating with terrorists made the young man uneasy.