by Iain King
‘I was on his case – Juma…’
Dick ignored Myles’ protests. He kept watching the TV. ‘Myles, You gotta watch this…’ he said.
Sixty-Seven
Barberini Conference Centre, Rome
Dick was transfixed by the live feed from CNN. Myles and the Marines escorting him were immediately hypnotised by the images, too.
They showed hundreds of African refugees gathered in Rome, not far from the conference centre. They all looked tired, many desperate. One was shouting in anger about something, his face covered in sweat. The refugees were trying to get into the US Embassy, which was now protected by a single ring of Roosevelt Guardian security men. The private security guards, massively outnumbered, had their guns ready. Their message was clear: if the refugees tried to push their way into the embassy – which international law regarded as American soil – the security men would shoot.
Dick shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is wrong,’ he muttered to himself. ‘This is so wrong.
Myles tried to console him. ‘Surely the Roosevelt Guardians have been trained well enough. They’re not going to fire, are they? They’ll just keep it under control – surely…?’
‘I don’t know, Myles, I don’t know…’ He turned to Myles. ‘I’m in charge, I’m responsible. I’ve got to get down there.’
Myles could see the fear on Roosevelt’s face. ‘Can’t you just radio through? It’d be quicker – just tell them to back off?’
‘It wouldn’t work, Myles. I’ve got to be there.’
‘Then stay safe,’ conceded Myles.
Roosevelt registered the comment but his mind was already thinking ahead. The young Senator ran towards the door, clearly determined to resolve the chaos on the streets of Rome. That left only Myles to track down Juma.
Myles still couldn’t work out how Juma had managed to escape so quickly. Within a minute of seeing him at the scanner, Myles had run down to confront Juma at the entrance. But in that minute Juma had somehow made it into the conference centre, past the sniffer dogs, along the corridor and into the café, where he’d left his jacket, then disappeared. Myles had to find him. And fast.
He turned back to the computer screen showing the CCTV feed. ‘Anyone know how you play back images on this?’ he called out to the room.
Susan came over. ‘Yes, press control-delete on the computer to get the controls up, then use the cursors.’
Myles nodded his thanks then followed her instructions, concentrating on the screen. Instantly a time-stamp appeared at the bottom of the image.
Susan squinted at it, then looked up at a clock on the wall. The times didn’t match. She seemed puzzled. ‘Our clock’s fast,’ she said, frowning.
Myles wondered too, then he understood. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘The images are slow. Five minutes slow.’
They hadn’t been watching a live feed, but a delayed image with a five-minute lag. Myles had reached the entrance within a minute of seeing Juma at the scanner, but that was really almost six minutes after Juma was there – plenty of time to escape. ‘Can you get me a feed from other cameras?’ he asked.
Susan pressed something which brought a rectangle up on the screen. It contained three columns with four images in each. She pointed at them to show how Myles could click on each one to enlarge it, then use the cursor keys to fast forward or rewind.
Myles selected the image for the main entrance. He fast-forwarded until Juma appeared in his summer suit, then played it. It was definitely him. The dogs reacted to him, and one of the Marines made him take off his jacket. The low-quality images showed the Somali being padded down by the soldiers.
The soldiers seemed to find nothing. Then Juma asked them a question, got directions, and went out of shot towards the café – now carrying his jacket...
Myles clicked on the image of the café. The chair where Juma had left his jacket was clearly visible in the left-hand side of the screen. He rewinded the image, then played it when he saw himself. He was going through the pockets of the jacket, then the Marines approached him.
Myles went back further. It showed him arriving, looking around, then seeing the jacket.
He scrolled back two more minutes. The jacket wasn’t there. He fast-forwarded until he saw Juma enter, then pressed ‘play’. The Somali leader still looked calm. He scanned around, peering at the coffee queue. Then he put his jacket on the chair. He took out the pills – laxatives – and popped several of them into his palm, knocking them back into his mouth. Juma put the half-empty packet of pills back, and looked around some more.
Suddenly Juma reacted to something. It was his phone. He pulled it from his pocket and answered it. Someone had warned him. Quickly, Juma jumped to look down the corridor. Then he ran away from view, towards the toilets.
Seconds later Myles appeared in the image, searching for him.
Myles thanked Susan. ‘You need to get a message out: they need to seal off that café area,’ he said. ‘Tell them to look out for this man.’
Susan understood and moved towards the radios.
Myles turned to one of his Marine escorts – a tall man who looked more intelligent than the others. ‘And you need to come with me,’ said Myles.
The Marine nodded, and Myles and the Marine darted out of the room. For the second time, Myles ran along the corridor, trying to bump into as few people as he could, but this time with a US Marine closely behind him. Down the stairs, past the entrance and the dog handlers, along the second corridor, to the café.
The Marine stayed close. Already the message had got out, and other Marines were alert and on duty, actively guarding the café.
Myles and the Marine stopped opposite the door to the toilets. Checking they were both ready, Myles silently pressed on the door. It swung open. Myles held it for the Marine, who used hand signals to instruct his colleagues: they were to guard the entrance.
Then the Marine followed Myles in.
Inside, an elderly delegate was washing his hands. The man realised Myles and the Marine were looking for something. Myles put his finger to his lips, indicating the man should be quiet. The man understood, exiting with his hands still wet.
Myles and the Marine inspected the cubicles. Only one was in use. Locked.
The Marine bent down to see a pair of shoes on the floor. He nodded to Myles. Myles peered down and saw the same thing.
Silently, the Marine pointed at his boot then at the door. Myles indicated that he agreed.
Taking only a moment to prepare himself, the Marine suddenly gave the door a huge kick.
The door flipped back on its hinges, the broken lock flying against the wall.
Before the Marine could see what was inside, he was knocked straight down, onto the toilet floor.
He had been shot.
A man with a bare torso barged out, jumping over the body of the Marine.
It was Juma.
Sixty-Eight
Barberini Conference Centre, Rome
Myles bent down to check on the Marine. Juma’s bullet had hit the body armour on his chest, knocking him to the floor and winding him.
The Marine was moving his head around as if he was dazed. Myles hauled him up until he was sitting on the floor.
Then Myles felt a terrifying presence standing above him. Juma hadn’t left the toilets. Instead, he was holding his pistol just a few inches from Myles’ nose. ‘My Mr Englishman,’ sneered the Somali pirate. ‘Looks like you just can’t get enough of my bullets, can you.’
Myles didn’t reply immediately. Instead he made eye contact with the Marine. He could tell the soldier, still sitting on the ground, was thinking of making a move. Grabbing Juma’s legs, perhaps.
Quietly Myles shook his head. He knew Juma: the man would kill them both on a whim. The Marine understood and stayed where he was.
Slowly Myles lifted his eyes. Juma’s face was sweating and his smile was not as confident as it once had been. As well as his jacket, Juma had taken off his sh
irt, revealing the scar on his abdomen where his kidney had been stolen as a teenager. His muscles were glistening as though he was feverish. ‘Juma. So you made it here,’ said Myles.
Juma was breathless. ‘I did, Mr Munro. And now I’m going to do what I said I’d do.’
‘Bring down America like the Roman Empire? You know this is Rome, not America, don’t you?’
Juma pretended to laugh, but he was clearly in some pain. He put his free arm on his stomach. ‘Englishman, stand up,’ he ordered.
Myles obeyed. Juma indicated to the Marine. ‘You, too.’
The Marine came to his feet as Juma walked back, creating extra distance between him and the two men. Myles kept questioning him. ‘So come on, Juma, what’s your plan?’ he asked. ‘How are you going to destroy America?’
Juma took the question straight on. ‘I’m going to destroy this conference, which will help destroy the dollar,’ he said.
Myles shook his head. ‘Rome didn’t collapse because they devalued their coins – it was the other way around. They devalued their coins because the Empire was falling apart.’
Juma pretended to chuckle again. ‘Thanks for the history lesson, Mr Professor. You’ll be history yourself soon.’ He motioned his gun in a circle. He wanted the two men to face away from him. ‘Hands on your heads, please. Both of you walk towards the door.’
Myles raised his hands, but refused to be humbled. ‘Which of the conference delegates do you want to kill, Juma?’
‘That’s easy, Englishman: all of them.’
‘But they’re all fat, middle-aged bankers. There aren’t even a lot of them – America loses more men in road accidents every day than there are here,’ said Myles.
‘They hold the key to America’s economy.’
‘Who told you that, Juma?’ taunted Myles. ‘It’s nonsense. They all have deputies ready to replace them, anyway.’
Juma gestured with his gun as Myles and the Marine walked forward, reaching the toilet door. ‘And through you go,’ he ordered. ‘Hands still on your heads.’
As the door opened, Myles saw a crowd of Marines eagerly watching him. Their barrels were all pointed at him – Myles felt the laser beams and gun-sights zero in. All were poised to shoot.
Myles and the Marine beside him couldn’t talk. They made faces to indicate they were under duress. The firing squad clearly understood.
Then Myles felt Juma’s sweat-soaked hand grab his collar from behind. The Somali gang leader twisted it and pulled. He called out to the crowd, his mouth just inches from Myles’ ear. ‘Guns down please, gentlemen. All guns down.’ It was the voice of a man well used to command.
Juma waited, still only half through the toilet door. Myles could see the security men in front of him were unsure what to do. Several kept their eyes on Juma. Myles could tell some of them were contemplating taking a shot.
Juma shouted again, agitated this time. ‘Guns down. Now.’
Silence. Nobody moved. The only noise came from large TV monitors above the café. It was CNN coverage: a live feed from the refugees near the US Embassy, not far away.
Finally an authoritative American voice called out from somewhere – one of the Marine commanders. ‘Lower weapons. Everyone lower their weapons…’
The Marines obeyed almost immediately, gradually and more reluctantly followed by the Roosevelt Guardians. As their guns started to drop down, Myles saw the crowd ease up slightly. They would not be firing in the next few moments. The stand-off might be resolved.
Juma called out again. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Now, I want the men standing by the corridor to move to the sides,’ he insisted. ‘Move.’
This time the men with guns obeyed more quickly. A few weapons clattered as they shuffled their positions. The firing squad in front of Myles had become an armed human corridor.
Juma twisted Myles’ collar more tightly, grabbing it firmly in his hand. Myles felt his shirt squeeze around his neck.
For several seconds, silence began to settle throughout the conference building. Then suddenly the noise of gunfire – a burst from somewhere high. Everyone looked up to trace it. It was the CNN feed on the conference TV. Myles heard Helen’s voice, broadcasting live. ‘Some shots have been fired at the refugees in the square here. Panic is starting to break out. We don’t know exactly what’s happening…’
The pictures jogged around – the cameraman filming them was taking cover – until they fixed on a wounded African woman lying on a grass verge. The men trying to treat her were ducking their heads.
Juma whispered in Myles’ ear. ‘We’re about to start running together, Englishman.’ Aggression hissed through his voice. ‘Before you try something, just remember how much I enjoy killing.’
Myles nodded.
Juma called to the Marine. ‘You. I want you to run ahead. Go towards the entrance and tell them to drop all their weapons. Go.’
The Marine understood. With all eyes looking at him, he started to jog. Clearly relieved to be away from Juma, he waved his palms down to the floor, making eye contact with people all along the corridor. Everywhere, weapons were lowered and placed on the floor. A few unarmed conference delegates, accidently caught up in the situation, began to press themselves against the wall, terrified.
Soon the Marine had cleared the route ahead. He slowed, then turned back to face Juma, his job done.
Myles could sense Juma was about to move. He braced himself, desperately trying to think of a way of saving the situation.
But he knew Juma was even more desperate than him, and that made the pirate warlord more dangerous than ever. Would a sharpshooter try to kill Juma?
Myles felt Juma push on his collar. He started moving.
Juma began pushing him faster. Myles tried to jog, but found it impossible with his collar held.
Then Juma started to turn Myles around. He was trying to spin, to make it hard for any of the Marines or security men to take a shot without hitting Myles – the hostage.
‘Run,’ shouted Juma. Myles felt himself pushed and pulled along as they rushed down the corridor. He caught the eyes of the people watching him. They kept their guns lowered, all too afraid to shoot.
‘Keep going,’ ordered Juma.
Myles and Juma had spun halfway along the corridor. The café was behind them and the entrance to the centre just up ahead.
Myles saw Juma’s pistol: a standard-issue security weapon. The sort of gun used by security guards. It pressed into his ribs. He thought about trying to knock it to the ground, but Juma was grabbing him too tightly.
Juma was growing confident again. None of the men around him dared to fire. He started joking into Myles’ ear. ‘You like waltzing, Mr Englishman?’
Before Myles could answer, Juma had yanked him around as they approached the entrance. Suddenly they stopped spinning and Myles became a human shield in front of the pirate.
The Somali warlord pointed his gun in front of him and shouted at the people ahead. ‘Down.’
The dog handlers and conference delegates froze. Many had been about to leave the centre. Now they realised they’d been caught.
‘Down!’ called Juma again. He glared at them with wide eyes and the face of a maniac. As they caught his stare, the bankers, security men and assistants realised they had no choice but to obey. They started lying down. Juma stared at the Marine who had ran ahead, ordering him to do the same.
Juma turned to the last few who resisted his order, and jerked his gun towards them. Quickly, they copied the others. Soon everyone was on the floor.
Juma checked again behind him, then pushed Myles forward and advanced.
Myles kept thinking: has he only got a gun? He knew that if Juma fired he would instantly be torn down by all the security men. But that would leave Myles dead too. Sacrificing himself like Sam Roosevelt wasn’t enough. He already knew the plot to bring down America was about more than just the Somali pirate warlord. Far more. Myles needed to survive.
He called over his s
houlder to Juma. ‘You can’t kill the all the bankers with just one gun.’
Juma laughed. ‘Up the stairs,’ he ordered.
Myles felt his neck being pointed at the steps, and walked around a terrified conference delegate who looked up at him from the ground. Juma followed on behind.
Juma checked behind him again. Everyone remained on the floor. The Somali pirate started calling out again. ‘Where’s my Marine? Marine!’
The Marine who had run ahead to clear the way lifted his head from the floor.
‘Get up,’ shouted Juma. The Marine jumped to his feet. ‘Go up those stairs,’ continued the Somali, ‘and tell the people up there to lie on the floor.’
The Marine nodded then ran up in front of Myles and Juma. On the upper level, he did as Juma had instructed. The delegates started to lie down.
Myles and Juma climbed the steps.
‘You’ve been abandoned, Juma,’ said Myles, trying to distract him.
Juma didn’t reply. He was watching the upper-level corridors as he led his hostage to the top of the stairs.
A few delegates were lying on the floor in one direction. The way towards the CCTV room was clear. There was no one with a gun who could do anything to help Myles.
Juma grinned. ‘I’d say you’ve been abandoned, Englishman – all the security men are downstairs.’
But Myles could sense Juma was disappointed. Whatever Juma’s plan was, it seemed to have gone wrong.
They were both distracted by the largest TV monitor in the centre. Helen was questioning Dick Roosevelt on camera.
‘Why have your men started firing at these civilians?’ shouted Helen over the chaos.
‘They opened fire in self-defence, Helen,’ countered Dick.
‘But these aren’t terrorists, Senator. They’re unarmed civilians.’
‘These people are complicit in terrorism. We’ve just heard of a terrorist attack at the currency conference…’
The Senator’s revelation had clearly caught Helen by surprise. She didn’t have the next question ready, and seemed unsure whether to ask about the incident or press Dick Roosevelt more on his claim about the African migrants.