by Iain King
The Senator continued. ‘We’ve already got a plan for this…’ The Senator outlined his ideas and Myles listened. The plan seemed simple: fly to Cairo in neighbouring Egypt, drive in US Embassy vehicles up to the Libyan border, then cross into Libya under the protection of his own Roosevelt Guardians. They would come out the way they went in. There were even back-up options, in case something went wrong.
Sam Roosevelt clearly missed the front line. Trips with the Armed Services Committee and campaign season might come close. But it was nothing like tactical planning for real. Like all politicians who had made their reputations in the military, Senator Sam Roosevelt relished the details of war-fighting. Neither Myles nor the Senator’s son were surprised as Sam went through the specifics.
Myles allowed the Senator to finish, then cocked his head to one side. ‘OK, but what if this “Juma” guy…’ Myles made eye contact with Susan and Dick to check he had Juma’s name right. ‘What if “Juma” doesn’t want to talk?’
Sam Roosevelt became enthusiastic at the question. ‘We know he wants to meet a delegation because he’s asked for one. But we don’t want namby-pamby diplomats putting this in wordy speak. So the answer will come from me.’
The Senator put out a hand as a surgeon might ask for a scalpel. Susan placed a fountain pen on his palm. Maintaining eye contact with Myles, the Senator grabbed a sheet of clear white paper from his assistant and began to scrawl.
Juma.
You have threatened the most powerful nation on earth.
One of your men has exploded a bomb here.
We will meet you to talk. We may also blast you to hell.
Sam Roosevelt
The Senator screwed the lid back on his pen and passed the paper back to Susan. ‘Make sure he gets that.’
‘Yes, Senator.’
Sam Roosevelt concentrated back on Myles. ‘Good thought, Mr Munro. We’ll work well together. So you’re in, then?’
The Senator was in full persuasion mode. His charisma was compelling. Myles could see how donors, voters and just about everyone this man met said ‘yes’. How could Myles say ‘no’? He looked at Dick and Susan – they were fully behind the Senator, encouraging Myles to come into line too. Everybody was just waiting for him to agree…
Myles faced Sam Roosevelt squarely as he answered.
‘No, Senator.’
Ten
JFK Airport, New York
Sam Roosevelt frowned, staring at Myles, but still hoping to persuade the Englishman. ‘Why won’t you come with me?’ The Senator paused, trying to size him up. ‘Money? How much do you want?’
Myles shook his head. He didn’t care about money.
‘You’re scared?’
Again, Myles shook his head.
The Senator’s frown deepened. ‘Then please explain.’
‘Well, Senator – you’ve told me how you’re going to get there and get out again, but nothing about the crucial part: the talks themselves.’
The Senator nodded respectfully. ‘OK. First, we find out whether this guy’s serious. If he is, we stop him doing whatever he has in mind.’
Myles thought before coming back. ‘And how could we stop him, Senator?’
‘Not by trying to invade Libya,’ assured the Senator. Everybody knew the Senator had been a sole voice on the Senate floor warning against America’s doomed intervention in Somalia in the early 1990s. Sending US troops into Libya, now supposedly ‘free’ after the Arab Spring, threatened to repeat the humiliation of Black Hawk Down.
The Senator indicated to Susan, who pulled some files out from under the table which were marked ‘confidential’. The Senator offered them to Myles. ‘If you want to read more, we’ve got plenty of material for you.’
Intrigued, Myles glanced at a CIA briefing on Juma. Myles picked it up and began to read:
Juma is the leader of a group of Somali pirates, now based in Libya. From his headquarters in Sirte, on the coast – a lawless city which refuses to accept Libya’s new government – he has rapidly come to dominate Libya’s underworld…
The brief explained how Juma had first caught the attention of the CIA. As an impoverished teenager in Somalia, he’d been lured to Istanbul by a criminal gang who promised to buy one of his kidneys. After the surgery, Juma had been flown back to Mogadishu with the promise there’d be someone waiting there to pay him. There wasn’t. One kidney down, and no money to show for it, the young Juma refused to be taken for a fool. He had smuggled himself on a cargo vessel back to Turkey without a visa. There, he’d tracked down the gang, killed a few of the middlemen, then threatened the gang leader. The gang leader – frightened for his own life – agreed to go back to Somalia with him, where all his money was signed over to Juma. The gang leader then disappeared, presumed dead. The cash enabled Juma to hire some local muscle in Somalia and establish a gang of his own. In 2009, Colonel Gaddafi invited Juma and his pirates to Libya. When Gaddafi’s regime began to crumble in February 2011, Juma’s men became mercenaries for the dictator. Several died fighting for him, and some were arrested when the dictator was killed in October of that year. But most escaped. They revelled in the lawlessness of ‘Free Libya’ – the Arab Spring meant they didn’t need to take orders anymore. Untouched by the new rulers of the country, Juma had become the brutal leader of a large criminal network…
The CIA’s psychological assessment was blunt: ‘Presumed Psychopathic’.
The Senator, Dick and Susan had waited silently while Myles read the paper. Dick Roosevelt broke first. ‘So you know this guy’s wife from school?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Myles. ‘Who’s his wife?’
Without words, Richard Roosevelt passed another piece of paper towards Myles, then watched the Englishman’s face.
Myles tried not to react, although when he re-read the name he found himself swallowing in shock. He hesitated before answering. ‘You’re telling me this “Juma” guy is married to Placidia?’
Dick nodded.
‘Then yes,’ Myles admitted. ‘I do know her.’
Dick leant forward. ‘How well did you know her, exactly?’ The question was snide – half accusing Myles of something, half voyeurism.
Myles ignored it. ‘She was a Rhodes scholar. We studied the history of the Roman Empire together – Placidia was my tutorial partner for a term. She was much cleverer than me.’
Dick Roosevelt had heard of the Oxford university tutorial system, where just one or two students were taught in person by a world expert in a subject. ‘And you became friends?’
‘Yes, we did. We were very good friends.’
‘Just friends. Really?’ Dick Roosevelt was trying to probe.
‘Yes. But after her year in Oxford she went back to Harvard, and I lost contact with her. I’ve not heard from her for a long time now.’
Dick checked with his father that he still had permission to ask questions. He did. ‘So, Myles, why do you think a highly educated half-American woman has hitched up with a psychopathic pirate in the third world?’
Myles raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. Only explanation I can think of is…’ He hesitated.
Dick urged him on. ‘Is…?’
‘Well, love.’
Myles’ answer disarmed Dick, who began looking through the CIA briefing pack to see if there was a sheet on the woman. He double-checked the whole file: there was nothing. As Dick leafed through his sheets, Myles glimpsed the top of a page the younger Roosevelt was trying to keep covered.
Myles Munro: Oxford University Lecturer of Military History
Exceptionally Intelligent (top 0.1%) but problems with some basic tasks…
Distrustful of bureaucrats…
Myles was curious. He pointed the sheet out to Dick. ‘Mind if I read that?’
Dick looked to his father for advice.
Sam Roosevelt shook his head, taking charge. ‘Myles, look,’ he levelled. ‘Your name was in a text message sent to the mobile of someone who planted a bomb i
n the middle of Manhattan. Don’t be surprised there’s a confidential CIA briefing on you.’
‘Well, can I read it?’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have the security clearance.’
‘And yet you still want me to go with you, to meet this madman in Libya?’ Myles was moving his body to indicate he was about to leave the room.
The Senator put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Mr Munro. America needs your help, and – hell – I need your help. Come on. Please.’
Myles didn’t respond.
The Senator knew he still hadn’t Myles won over. He paused, then hunched his shoulders a little, ready to change tack. ‘You know, Myles, your ex-girlfriend has got herself mixed up with a terrorist. I can only imagine she asked for you because she needed your help.’ He stared into Myles’ eyes. ‘Placidia needs your help, Myles.’
Myles absorbed Sam Roosevelt’s plea. He looked at Susan and Dick, whose expressions were underwriting Sam’s words – that Placidia really did need him.
He turned back to the Senator. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’
The door burst open. It was Helen, with an apologetic immigration official trailing behind her. The four people in the room were as surprised to see her as she was to see them. ‘Myles, so this is where they took you…’
She acknowledged the Senator, who responded on Myles’ behalf. ‘Ma’am, your boyfriend is about to become a hero,’ said Roosevelt senior.
Helen wasn’t buying it. ‘Senator, my “boyfriend” needs a rest.’
The Senator was about to get angry, but Myles intervened. ‘I’m still young enough to be a “boy”-friend?’ Everybody relaxed. Myles put his hands on Helen’s elbows and spoke slowly. ‘I’ve got to do this. I’ll be back soon.’
‘You’ve got to?’
‘Helen… I must.’
‘Must?’ She winced as she said the word. It was probably the most meaningless explanation Myles had ever given her.
‘Yes, Helen, I must.’
Helen surveyed the room. She wanted to fight it, but she could tell she was outnumbered and that the decision had already been made.
She turned to the Senator. ‘Senator, keep him safe. Please.’
Sam Roosevelt nodded but said nothing.
The Senator made no promise to keep Myles safe at all.
Day II
Eleven
Cairo International Airport, Egypt
Myles was woken by the noise of the wheels folding out from under the commercial airliner. A stewardess was standing over him: he needed to put on his seatbelt. The aircraft was about to land.
A wave of applause swept through the plane as it touched town with only a few bumps. The passengers – half of whom were Egyptians returning home – were glad to have landed safely.
As the plane taxied over the smooth tarmac, Myles saw the terminal buildings of Cairo’s main airport through the windows. White paint was peeling from sun-soaked walls. He saw some scaffolding not far from the runway, and an old bus probably used to transport people into passport control. Four airport workers were standing around a fuel tanker – they seemed to be lighting cigarettes.
Dick Roosevelt saw the men and winced. ‘How dangerous is that?’
Myles just smiled. Different places, different people.
A team of airport workers rolled a set of aircraft steps up to United Airlines flight 9856. The door was soon open, while the captain announced a standard greeting over the intercom. ‘Welcome to Cairo, capital of Egypt, where the temperature today will reach 105 degrees Fahrenheit…’
Myles kept looking outside: two well-built white men in suit jackets, chinos, neat blue shirts and sunglasses appeared at the bottom of the steps. With a sense of authority, they breezed up to the plane’s door as it swung open and invited themselves onto the passenger jet. Barely acknowledging the cabin staff, they were soon standing in front of Myles – and the Senator. ‘Senator, we’re from the Embassy, sir.’
Sam Roosevelt ignored the IDs offered by the two men. His body language responded as if the men’s arrival was completely normal. ‘OK, thanks guys.’ He had already taken his bag from the overhead locker and moved out to join the men.
‘Anything in baggage, sir?’
‘No. We won’t be staying here long.’
The two security men took the Senator’s jacket and bag, and guided him to the steps. With Myles and Dick behind, the five men were first to leave the plane.
Myles was struck by the air outside: colder than he had expected. But it was dawn in Cairo – the same latitude as Houston, Texas. Within an hour the sun would have risen. Everything would heat up soon.
Myles saw Dick reach for his passport, but one of the two security men gestured with his hand: he could put it away.
‘We’ve arranged a diplomatic passage for you, sir.’
Dick raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the pleasant surprise. His father didn’t react at all.
Three white SUVs drove over the runway to meet the five men at the bottom of the aircraft steps. Diplomatic plates, special antennae on the roofs, heavily tinted bulletproof-glass windows: US Embassy vehicles.
One of the security men opened the door to the middle vehicle. Sam Roosevelt climbed inside, leaving Myles and Dick to enter the same vehicle through other doors. As soon as the last security man was in the rear car, the convoy was off, soon picking up speed and driving straight out of the airport. Uniformed Egyptian guards – or soldiers, Myles couldn’t be sure – saluted the three-vehicle convoy as it passed through the exit gates.
Once free from the clutter of the airport, the convoy accelerated onto the main highway to the west. From the passing road-signs, Myles could tell they were avoiding central Cairo. Instead, they headed out to the desert, and fast. Flashing red and blue lights from the front vehicle challenged any car refusing to let the convoy overtake. The SUVs snaked in tight formation along the highway, between overgrown grass verges and kerbstones painted black and white. Myles saw shacks at the side of the road, carwashes which seemed to employ whole families, and a long line of trucks carrying goods from one end of Africa to another. But although some of the scenes were very foreign, many were also very familiar: a stall selling cans of Coke, a teenager in sneakers, and a banged-up Chevrolet. Little bits of America had reached Egypt already.
Inside the air-conditioned SUV, Dick admired the quality and design of the American Embassy vehicle, while Sam thought through their meeting with Juma. ‘Professor,’ began the Senator, turning to Myles. ‘If he comes out with any of his stuff about Rome, are you OK answering it?’
‘I’m not a professor, only a lecturer,’ admitted Myles. ‘But yes, I can deal with the history.’
The Senator nodded. ‘OK. And Dick, you don’t have a speaking part here. You understand?’
‘Understood, Senator.’
Dick called his father Senator? Myles could tell being asked to do nothing was obviously humiliating for Dick Roosevelt. Myles also guessed Dick was used to it. No son could ever shine when their father was as magnificent as Senator Sam, even when he’d just become the hero of New York.
After three hours of travel, as they passed a sign indicating they were close to the Libyan border, the convoy slowed and pulled over.
‘Time to cross-deck, Senator. This is as far as the Embassy can take you.’
Five cars were waiting for them, surrounded by more men in shades and combat vests.
Myles saw these men were more heavily armed. And unlike the Embassy guards, they made no effort to hide their weapons. Myles recognised their uniform immediately: Roosevelt Guardians.
In the rising mid-morning heat, Myles, the Senator and the Senator’s son climbed out of their official government escort. Small bottles of water were passed around amongst them while eager security men formed a protective box around their VIPs.
The Senator watched the Embassy vehicles depart, raising his water to them as a toast.
Dick spoke through a sarcastic smile. ‘Who need
s government transport when you’ve got private security which actually takes you where you want to go?’ Then he laughed to himself. ‘Hey – who needs government at all?’
His father didn’t respond. Instead, he made a move towards the car door, and the new convoy prepared to roll out.
Within minutes they were approaching the Libyan border.
There, they were greeted by a single border guard. The man stood in the middle of the road, and waved at them to pull over. He was carrying a very battered AK-47 assault rifle.
Twelve
Egypt-Libya Border
The convoy slowed to a stop, dutifully obeying the lone border guard. The guard beckoned the cars to bunch up until they were almost touching. Myles saw one of the Guardians step out of the front vehicle, lift his shades and offer a bunch of passports.
The guard took the papers, nodded, and wandered away to a hut made of concrete just out of Myles’ sight.
Several minutes passed.
Then Myles heard the driver’s radio crackle with a message for the convoy. It was from the car at the back. ‘They’ve just pulled a mine behind us,’ came the voice, unnerved. ‘We can’t reverse. Out.’
Myles turned to see African men with Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, who had appeared from nowhere, holding old Soviet-era anti-tank mines. They dropped them near the lead vehicle’s forward tyres. Nonchalant, the men pushed the mines until they were exactly in place. Then they moved away. None of the men bothered with eye contact.
The convoy could no longer drive away.
The Senator registered concern. ‘Is this normal?’
None of the Guardians knew who was meant to answer. Eventually the driver spoke. ‘No, Senator.’