Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  Now Richard Roosevelt understood: this was his chance to make his own African escape, and become a Churchill himself.

  The second full day of their captivity was drawing to a close. Since the video had been taken the day before, Richard Roosevelt and his father had been left with just two armed guards in the same second-floor room of the ministry building in which they had met Placidia. The food was poor: chicken stewed in oil and tomatoes, with rice and flatbread. It had given Senator Sam diarrhoea. Dick knew that he too would be weakened soon. If he was going to escape, he had to escape quickly. But how?

  He confided in his father. Instead of being impressed, the Senator just shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ huffed Sam Roosevelt. ‘Your chances are no lower than if you stay here with me, enjoying the Sirte Hilton…’

  After more muttering – out of earshot of the guards, at least one of whom understood English – Sam Roosevelt agreed to help.

  That evening the Senator confessed to a numbness in his left arm. It was an odd sensation – part pain, part painlessness. It had been building up over several days. Now it demanded attention.

  When he told the guards they did nothing. He hadn’t expected any more from them.

  Then, suddenly, the Senator clutched his chest. He fell back on the floor, screeching in pain.

  Dick Roosevelt bent over him and tried to issue first aid, pumping his father’s heart.

  It took a few moments for Juma’s guards to react. They weren’t sure what to do at first. One came over, then the other, and Dick was pulled away. Both gunmen looked down at the Senator and tried to work out what to do.

  It was while the guards were arguing with each other in a foreign language that Dick Roosevelt took his chance. Calmly, he moved towards one of the glassless windows. He climbed through it and stood on the ledge. Still unnoticed, he glanced back at his father writhing on the ground, then gauged the distance down to the ground, and jumped.

  The drop could easily have caused an injury, but Dick Roosevelt was lucky: below him was a taxi. He landed with both feet squarely on the roof of the vehicle, which crumpled safely but loudly as it took his weight.

  The noise alerted the gunmen to his escape. They moved over to the window and saw their former captive scrambling away.

  One of the men fired off some bullets, but Dick Roosevelt was already round the corner. The other guard tried to jump onto the taxi roof, but landed with a twist. His ankle was gone.

  Dick Roosevelt found himself running through an unfamiliar city, trying to find his bearings as the evening light faded. He knew the guards would alert more gang members soon. He didn’t have much time.

  He sprinted down an alley and onto a wider street.

  Gasping, he barely had time to think which way to go, how to escape, what to do…

  The few people on the street were all local: he was white and dressed very differently. They were already looking at him. There was no way he could blend in.

  He surveyed the street: all the buildings were made of concrete, some decorated with bullet marks. He might be able to hide for a while, but not for long. He would soon need water and food. He’d have to contact local people, and he couldn’t trust them: they’d sell him back to Juma’s gang. What could he do?

  Then he saw a seagull, and realised: he was close to the Mediterranean shoreline. He could even smell it. And where there was sea there would be a boat. Given that he didn’t have any other options, it was worth a try.

  Above him was an old street sign, punctured with bullet holes, which pointed toward the harbour. He ran, and within half-a-mile, he was there. Thankfully, still out of sight of his pursuers…

  Now, drenched in sweat, and with the daylight disappearing by the minute, he looked around for a seaworthy vessel.

  And there it was: an open skiff, empty except for a high-powered motor on the back. Dick smiled: it had probably just been used by someone. A prize escape.

  Exhausted, he jogged towards it and checked nobody was watching before he slipped in.

  The tank was full, the engine was ready, and there was even bread and water on board. All Dick needed to do was pull the cord.

  Then he saw one of the Nissan technicals screeching along the harbour road. The headlights were on, and the back loaded with gunmen. They were after him.

  Dick ducked, and tugged the cord as hard as he could.

  The motor spluttered, then started – first time.

  Roosevelt looked upwards and crossed his chest, thanking God.

  But the engine noise had alerted the gang members: they knew which boat he was in.

  Dick Roosevelt moved his body as low as he could while bullets flew above him. Some hit the skiff, rattling the whole structure. He felt shards of wood fly off just above him. He covered his head in his hands, desperate to remain safe.

  It took just one minute for his boat to speed out of range of the guns. Juma’s gang would need another skiff to chase him now.

  But Dick was lucky. Out on the dark sea, there was no way they could chase him. All he had to do was steer his stolen pirate skiff a few miles out to sea, then turn east and hope he made it to Egypt.

  Shaken by the boat bouncing over the waves, he began to feel a little sick. But he ploughed on through the night, and by morning guessed – correctly – that he was now in Egyptian coastal waters.

  He actually came ashore on a beach full of tourists. His face pockmarked by the splinters and his shirt ragged, he struggled to climb out of the skiff. Several beachgoers used their phones to capture what would become iconic images: Dick Roosevelt, hero of New York, completing his escape from terrorists in Africa amid sunbathers and beach balls.

  He found someone who worked for a hotel, and told them to fetch the police.

  Within minutes he was on his way to the American Embassy just outside Cairo. Within an hour he was being debriefed by friendly Embassy staff. And by the end of the day, the story of his astonishing escape was exploding through news broadcasts all over the world – aided by the social media videos of Dick Roosevelt emerging onto the beach. He was lauded as a brave hero for the second time in a week.

  And his father was beaten hard by Juma’s guards when they discovered he had feigned his heart attack like a professional actor.

  Twenty-One

  JFK Airport, New York

  Helen watched Myles’ reaction to Placidia’s terror video. She realised that, to him, this was more than just an attack on the United States. ‘The woman in the video,’ she asked. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

  Myles nodded, not sure how much he should say.

  Helen digested her partner’s reaction. ‘So, the woman you used to “know” at university is now a terrorist mastermind?’ She said the word ‘know’ as if Myles’ knowledge was carnal.

  ‘It’s more complicated than that,’ admitted Myles.

  ‘What’s more complicated: your knowledge of this woman, or her being a terrorist mastermind?’

  ‘Both.’

  Their car pulled up near a windowless building within the airport complex. The driver climbed out, ready to open the door for Myles and his partner.

  Myles and Helen were led inside, where they were met by three young officials – two men and a woman, all with fixed smiles.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Munro,’ said one of the men. They seemed to have been trained in being courteous.

  Myles acknowledged the greeting as he looked around at the perfect furnishings. Small table lamps provided neutral lighting. Superficial artworks hung on the off-white walls. It was the sort of place he hated.

  ‘Mr Munro,’ continued the man. ‘We’re here to make sure you can relax, and recover completely from what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Why? What do you think I’ve been through?’

  The officials giggled as if Myles had told a brilliant joke. ‘Very good, Mr Munro. And of course, your partner’s welcome to stay here, too.’

  Helen was just as uncertain as Myles. ‘If I want to stay here,’ she
said. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s the rest and recovery suite, madam. A special lounge offered for situations, well, just like this.’

  Myles was already inspecting the sign on the door. It read ‘Deportation and Recovery suite’. ‘Two-way traffic, then?’ he asked.

  The officials nodded nervously as they confirmed the room was also used to expel people from the USA.

  Myles’ eyes were drawn to the twenty-four-hour rolling news coverage on a TV in the corner. A food factory in Kentucky had just blown up as flour – or some other powder, the authorities didn’t yet know – had been fanned around the inside of the building. It made a very explosive mix, apparently. Junk TV.

  Myles came to the point. ‘Look, I don’t need to recover,’ he explained. ‘I need to pass on what I know so this whole “Roman Empire” business…’

  Myles was still searching for words when a woman in a suit entered. It was Susan – the Department of Homeland Security secondee to the Senator’s office. She seemed more confident than the first time Myles had met her. ‘All in hand, Mr Munro,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a team just about to go in and rescue the Senator.’

  ‘Special Forces?’

  Susan nodded but her eyes were wide – she was scolding Myles for revealing classified information, and imploring him not to say more.

  Myles shook his head. ‘Don’t send them in. It’s a mistake.’

  ‘I think that’s for the experts to judge, don’t you, Mr Munro?’

  Susan moved away before Myles could reply. Helen put her hand on Myles’ back to remind him to calm down. Myles tried to put his point more softly. ‘Look, a Special Forces raid is just what these people are expecting,’ he warned. ‘In the backstreets of Sirte…’

  ‘The Senator’s not in Sirte, Mr Munro,’ said Sarah without looking at him. ‘We traced the Senator’s mobile phone signal,’ she explained, keeping her voice hushed and looking round to check they weren’t being overheard, ‘to a rural area several miles in from the coast.’

  Myles nodded. ‘And you think the Senator’s still with his phone?’

  ‘We have another source to verify that, yes, Mr Munro. Dick Roosevelt overheard the gang members planning, while he was their prisoner. And you saw the pictures in the video, Mr Munro,’ Susan continued. ‘We think we’ve matched the background behind Mr Juma and his gang to a particular point, which is where our Special Forces team are heading.’

  Myles was impressed but still unconvinced. ‘You don’t think this is another trap?’

  Susan laughed. ‘No. We trust our source and we trust our technology.’ She was looking him in the eye again. ‘Now we just have to trust our Navy Seals. The Senator planned this raid before he left, in case anything went wrong. He’ll take pride in being rescued by his old unit.’

  Myles realised why she was more relaxed than before: it was because the Senator was elsewhere. Susan was able to take charge in his absence. Able to be competent.

  He accepted a cup of coffee brought over with great care and handed to him by one of the three young officials. ‘So if you’ll wait here, sir,’ said the professional greeter, ‘we’ll bring you news of the Senator’s release as soon as we have it.’

  But Myles wasn’t listening. He was watching Helen as she began wandering down the corridor. It was the journalist in her: she always wanted to explore. Myles looked again at the room around him and decided he would rather be with Helen than with the officials. He followed her, the young official chasing after him.

  ‘Excuse me – sir?’ called the official.

  Myles just turned and handed back the coffee. The officials stood bemused, mystified that someone might turn down their perfect hospitality.

  Helen had found the deportation section. As Myles joined her, they both overheard an exchange from somewhere above. One man’s voice, clearly American, was trying to calm the other, who was terrified and spoke English poorly.

  ‘No, I cannot go back. They kill me,’ said the foreign accent.

  ‘Please return to your seat, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘No, they kill me if I go back…’

  Helen and Myles moved closer to where the conversation was coming from.

  ‘I not go back. Force me, then I die here,’ intoned the accent, sounding afraid. ‘Better to die here than the Libyans killing me.’

  Myles and Helen started running to where the voice was coming from.

  They discovered an African man at the top of the stairwell, three floors above them. He was holding on to the rail with just one hand and threatening to jump.

  Twenty-Two

  JFK Airport, New York

  Myles and Helen ran up towards the man who was threatening to jump. As they approached, they saw a group of uniformed men and women edging towards the deportee. None of them seemed to know what to do.

  The American border official who seemed to be in charge looked unnerved to see Myles and Helen in the out-of-bounds area. Then he recognised Helen from TV. He felt he had to explain himself. ‘He’s an illegal,’ said the official, apologetically. ‘We were going to fly him back home but….’

  Helen nodded, acknowledging the point.

  Myles decided to approach closer. Holding his hands out, palms down so it was clear he wasn’t carrying anything, he shouted over to the distressed man. ‘Why don’t you want to go back?’

  ‘They will kill me if I go back.’

  ‘Who would kill you?’ asked Myles.

  ‘The militia, the gangs, the tribes – any of them. Even the new government,’ pleaded the man, sweat forming on his malnourished skin. ‘It was safe when we had the dictator. Now law and order has gone. No one is safe...’ The man explained how he had fled with his family from the violence in Darfur to the relative peace of Libya. But now it was dangerous even there. All of Africa seemed lethal to him.

  Myles locked his eyes on the man, telling him without words that he didn’t need to explain any further. But eye contact was all he had to offer. Myles nodded to the man while he tried to think.

  Myles looked around: there was no way the border officials would let this man go. Whether the African jumped or was sent back, the man would surely die. Then Myles had an idea…

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the African deportee, Myles called over his shoulder. ‘Helen, can your phone get footage of this?’

  Helen paused before answering, unclear why Myles had asked. ‘If you need it,’ she replied.

  Myles could sense the uncertainty in her voice. But when he turned round he was glad to see her pulling her smartphone from her bag. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And can you get the pictures of this through to some of your producer friends?’

  Helen nodded, pressing a pre-dial button while she kept filming.

  Myles returned his focus to the desperate man. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mohammed,’ came the reply. ‘My name’s Mohammed.’

  Myles nodded again, trying to reassure the man. ‘And do you have a family, Mohammed?’

  Mohammed nodded. ‘Yes, three children, and my wife.’

  ‘And what do you do for work, Mohammed?’

  ‘I clean toilets. In the mall, I clean toilets.’ The man’s eyes were flipping around him, unsure why the strange Englishman was asking him questions. Myles could tell Mohammed was wondering whether he had said the right thing: should he have admitted to being a toilet cleaner?

  Myles saw one of the border guards move behind him. Quickly he turned round. ‘Stay back,’ he insisted.

  The border guards froze again, his eyes still fixed on the deportee.

  ‘We’re going to do this properly,’ Myles explained. He called over to Helen. ‘OK, Helen, is this live?’

  ‘Yep, you’re on national TV.’

  Briefly Myles imagined the millions of viewers in homes across America whose daily programmes he was interrupting. He tried not to let it distract him as he turned to speak into the camera-phone. ‘OK, people,’ he began. ‘Some of you are proud of your cou
ntry, some of you less proud. This man is so desperate to work here and help his family, he cleans toilets in the mall.’

  Myles paused, trying not to freeze on national TV, and wondering whether his British accent would make it hard for him to appeal to the American spirit. He turned to Mohammed, looking for inspiration. Then he turned back to the camera. ‘Some of you think there are too many foreigners in America. Some of you might think that America needs people like Mohammed to keep your toilets clean. Some of you might be happy for Mohammed to be sent back to Africa, where he could die.’

  Myles looked to Helen, just behind the camera, for permission. Helen nodded. ‘So, viewers, this is your chance. In a few moments two telephone numbers will appear on your screen. Call the first number if you think Mohammed should be sent back to Libya. Call the second number if you want his case to be reviewed by an appeals panel.’

  Then Myles spelt it out as clearly as he could: ‘Call the first number if you want Mohammed to die. Call the second number if you want him to live.’

  Helen kept the images flowing, holding the camera as still as she could. On TV screens across the country, the pictures were accompanied by the caption:

  Live: Incident at JFK airport, New York. Man fights deportation back to Africa.