by Iain King
Myles and Juma kept watching as the footage switched away from the interview to the refugees. The bottom of the screen showed the words ‘Breaking News – Terrorist incident at Rome Currency Conference’.
Then Placidia appeared. She was standing in front of her people, her arms out, trying to stop any more of the refugees being shot. The audio didn’t pick up her voice, but it was clear she was pleading with the Roosevelt Guardians holding rifles.
Myles could see Juma’s face – whether it was Placidia or the shooting, he was enthralled. Myles used the distraction to reach inside his pocket. Subtly, he moved his fingers towards the car keys he had taken from Juma’s jacket. He clutched them in his hand.
On the screen, Placidia refused to cower. With her arms outstretched, she stood like a crucifix. People behind her flinched as another shot was fired, but she remained in place – defiant.
‘You can’t protect her, Juma,’ said Myles. He sensed Juma’s mind switch back to his present situation.
‘She can protect herself,’ huffed Juma proudly.
Myles knew Juma was wondering what to do next – where to go, where to escape.
If Myles was going to distract Juma, the time to do it was now. ‘Juma, you know what Placidia told me?’ he said.
‘What, Englishman?’
‘She told me I was better.’
Almost instantly Myles felt the hand on his collar thrust him forward. Myles was being thrown down the stairs. Juma’s voice called out behind him as he tumbled – a single word. ‘Die…’
Myles saw the warlord’s forearm stretch out. He pointed his weapon down at Myles.
Myles closed his eyes and pressed the button.
Sixty-Nine
Barberini Conference Centre, Rome
There was just a flicker of recognition on Juma’s face before the bomb detonated inside him. His body erupted, and an enormous force burst out from his abdomen. The Somali pirate chief’s body was torn apart in an instant. His legs were shot in opposite directions, while one arm and most of his torso spun in the air. Juma’s head was blasted away to a distant part of the conference centre, while his gun ricocheted off the steps.
For half a second, a red mist hung in the air, then seemed to disappear. Juma, and all that he threatened, was blown away.
Myles barely noticed blood from the pirate’s body spray towards him. The explosion had blasted him towards the bottom of the stairs, and left him convulsed by the shock wave.
Myles still clutched the remote control in his hand, half disbelieving that something so small could have an impact so huge. Then he looked up at the remnants of the man who had terrorised America. Juma was dead.
It was hard to believe the pirate leader, the man who had caused such misery, was finally gone. Myles exhaled, still amazed he had survived.
The Marine at the bottom of the stairs was the first to his feet. He rushed over to Myles, very confused about what had happened. ‘What the hell was that?’ he asked.
Myles was still catching his breath. ‘Juma had swallowed a bomb,’ he explained. ‘He was going to plant it somewhere, then leave before it went off.’
‘But he didn’t get the chance?’
Myles nodded in confirmation, still staring at Juma’s remains.
Other delegates around the entrance to the conference centre began to stand up. The Marines and Roosevelt Guardians who had been near the café were running over, guns in hand.
Myles looked again at the live feed from CNN. The ‘Breaking News’ message on the screen now declared: US Marines fail to contain terrorism at conference.
Myles shook his head in disbelief at the headline. This wasn’t about the Marines…
Then he understood. He turned to the Marine beside him. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘America could still share the “fate of Rome” – I’ve got to run.’
The Marine frowned, as if to ask what it was all about. But Myles was already gone, leaving the confused security men to clean up the mess and work out what had happened.
The noise of the blast had been heard outside and several Marines and Italian policemen were running to assist. Myles sprinted out of the building against the flow of people. He tried to weave through them, apologising for bumping into them as he went. He had to get to the US Embassy.
Some of the people he passed saw him running and thought there was still danger in the conference centre. Others stared at him and his odd clothes, and wondered whether he was guilty. But Myles just tried to move through them as fast as he could.
Sweating in the sunshine, he approached the security perimeter of the conference. Here he had to slow. A Marine manning one of the scanners held out his hand to indicate ‘stop’.
Myles pointed backwards with his thumb. ‘There’s a bomb just gone off in there,’ he called to the Marine. The Marine saw Myles’ sweat and assumed – wrongly – that Myles was worried about another bomb in the conference centre. He let Myles pass.
Myles sprinted off again. He hurdled over a concrete road barrier designed to protect against vehicle-borne bombs, ran through the twisty narrow streets, passed tourists and cars and jogged up the steps. Myles knew the route – he had gone this way when he was on holiday with Helen. Now he had to reach her.
As he reached Via Veneto, near the US Embassy, he confronted the next security line. This one was made of Roosevelt Guardians. An outer cordon: to protect the backs of the Guardians who were watching the African refugees.
Myles stopped again. He tried to size up the private security men controlling the way ahead. They looked stern. A pretty Italian journalist was arguing with one of them – she’d just been expelled from the scene and the Roosevelt Guardians weren’t going to let her back in.
Myles tried to peer through. He could just see some of the refugees through the lines of men. They were still holding out, still just outside the US Embassy. He had to reach them.
He tried to calm his breathing and wiped the sweat from his face as he walked up to the Roosevelt Guardian who seemed to be in charge. ‘I need to go in, please,’ he asked, trying to sound polite and respectful, even though he was obviously in a hurry.
‘No, sir. No one goes in.’
‘Please, it’s important,’ Myles insisted. ‘Lives are at stake.’
‘Sorry, sir. Orders,’ came the reply, cold and certain. ‘No one else in.’
Myles clenched his fist in frustration, but knew a punch would only get him detained.
He looked at the Roosevelt Guardian’s face again, trying to judge him. Myles realised telling him about the plot to bring down America wouldn’t convince him – the man was just following orders.
Myles tried to speak to him in a chatty tone. ‘So you’re clearing out the journalists from around the embassy?’
The man didn’t answer, but his non-reaction confirmed Myles was right.
Myles nodded knowingly. ‘I’m a friend of Dick Roosevelt. The Senator said I should get through.’
‘Sorry, sir. No one goes in.’
‘Check with Dick Roosevelt,’ urged Myles, pressing his point. ‘You don’t want to countermand his order. Check with him.’
The Roosevelt Guardian looked unsure. He clearly didn’t want to annoy a friend of the Chief Executive. But then could Myles really be a friend of someone as senior as the new Senator Roosevelt? The Guardian eyed Myles’ ill-fitting Chinese suit with suspicion.
Myles pushed his point home. ‘Get on your radio and check with him. Now – it’s urgent. Tell him Myles Munro is here and is ready to go through.’
Reluctantly the private security man used his radio. ‘Outer cordon control point for Chief Exec’s office,’ he said. ‘Message. Over.’
There was a pause, then a crackle of static and ‘Send.’
‘We have a Mr Munro here, claims to have permission to enter from the Chief Exec. Can you confirm?’
Another pause, before a radio squelch followed by the words, ‘The Chief Exec is unavailable at the momen
t. Please hold.’
Myles knew if they made him wait too long his chance would be lost. He had to get through. ‘Dick Roosevelt is unavailable because he’s in great danger,’ lied Myles. ‘Either that, or everything he’s worked on is about to be destroyed.’
The Roosevelt Guardian just looked bemused. What was this Englishman talking about?
Myles could see the Guardian was about to react again, when he decided to take the chance: quickly, he vaulted over the barrier. ‘You’ll thank me later,’ he called, hoping his words would confuse the private security guards, as he sprinted on again, this time towards the inner cordon.
The Roosevelt Guardians didn’t know how to react. Myles left them standing. The Italian journalist saw what had happened and tried to push through after him. The Roosevelt Guardians stopped her, but it meant they couldn’t chase after Myles. They had to let him go.
The men in the cordon in front of him didn’t expect him. They didn’t even see him – Myles came from behind. He ducked under their line and ran forward.
Before the Roosevelt Guardians could act, Myles was with the refugees.
He quickly took his bearings. He could see Helen and her crew. He could see Roosevelt Guardians manhandling other journalists. And he could see the line of Guardians themselves, now behind him: the inner cordon. They had their weapons ready, and they were about to fire.
Myles was in the thick of the crowd. The Africans had been cornered, and they knew it. Some were trying to move, at least half aware there was nowhere to go. Others were panicking, some terrified. Most looked hungry and desperate.
The Roosevelt Guardians were about to shoot into the crowd…
Myles tried to make his way through. A mother was sitting on the ground, breastfeeding her infant. Myles carefully tried to step over her. He passed an angry teenager shouting back at the Roosevelt Guardians. Some older refugees were sitting down, unsure what to do. But there was no sign of Placidia.
Myles kept trying to pass through. He had to make it over to Helen, who was about to broadcast again. She had her finger on her earpiece and was holding a microphone. Turning to check the image behind her, she paused for a gesture from the cameraman, then started reporting on the scene.
Another journalist was trying to film not far from her. The Roosevelt Guardians were jostling with the cameraman. A scuffle, which Myles made his way around.
Eventually Helen saw him approaching. She indicated to someone that they needed to stop filming, then moved through the crowd towards him. Myles tried to wade towards her.
Finally, their hands touched over the people. They pulled each other in and embraced. ‘Myles, you’re safe,’ she enthused.
‘Where’s Placidia?’
It wasn’t the question Helen had been hoping for. She made plain she didn’t know.
But Myles was insistent. ‘Quick, where is she?’ He looked round again, desperately searching through the crowds. Still no sign.
Helen finally picked up on Myles’ urgency. ‘Myles, what’s happened?’ she asked.
‘The plot to bring down America like ancient Rome – it’s gone wrong,’ he explained.
Helen looked confused. ‘But…but that’s good, isn’t it?’
Myles shook his head sceptically. ‘There was never a proper plot,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain later. But where’s Placidia? We need to find her. Now.’
Helen tried to look around with Myles. Both were taller than most of the crowd around them, but it was still hard to see everybody. ‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘She was close by a few minutes ago.’
Helen and Myles were knocked by some of the panicked refugees, who were desperately looking for shelter. Many were shouting or screaming, fearing more bullets would be aimed at them. Helen was almost brought to the ground.
Myles grabbed her, turned her towards him and spoke directly to her face. ‘Helen. We need to get into the Embassy,’ he insisted.
‘The US Embassy?’
‘Yes, inside.’
Helen was now doubly confused. ‘Placidia won’t be in there.’
Myles nodded. ‘This isn’t for Placidia.’
Helen turned to the building just behind them, still baffled. Myles seemed convinced. She knew she would have to trust him.
Helen beckoned over to her camera crew, who acknowledged Helen’s lead and started to follow. She indicated to Myles that they were ready to move.
Myles and Helen started to push through the crowd of Africans. Most of the refugees were already bunched up – they had tried to move as far away from the Roosevelt Guardians as they could.
Helen waved her way through. As the crowd started to realise she and Myles were not a threat, their route to the embassy became easier.
Soon they were approaching the Roosevelt Guardians keeping the African refugees out of the embassy grounds – the line which marked the start of US territory.
Helen tried to shout to Myles over the noise. ‘Why the embassy?’
‘To protect America,’ was Myles’ response.
Helen made clear she didn’t understand. But she kept moving forward until finally they had passed through all the refugees. She waited for Myles and her two-person production team to join her. Then she faced up to the wall of Roosevelt Guardians.
The Roosevelt Guardians were still blocking the entrance into the embassy. They acknowledged Helen’s presence, but refused to move.
Helen turned to Myles. ‘What now?’
‘We need to get in.’
‘But these guys won’t let us in,’ said Helen, frustrated.
‘They have to. You’re American,’ insisted Myles. ‘Show them your passport.’
The Roosevelt Guardians overheard Myles’ explanation to Helen. They waited while Helen searched for her passport. Eventually she found it.
She pulled it out and waved it at the Roosevelt Guardians. Her production crew did the same.
The private security men looked unsure. They hadn’t been given orders about Americans.
Helen pressed her point. ‘C’mon, guys. It’s Americans like me you’re here to protect…’
Still unsure, one of the Guardians turned to someone for advice. It was enough for Helen to push her way through. Myles and her production team followed. The private security men realised the decision had been made for them and allowed the four to go inside. They quickly closed the line up again. Some refugees tried to push on them, but the line of security men wasn’t going to move any more. The Africans were still trapped.
Just as they were leaving the crowd behind them a voice called out. ‘Mrs Helen. Mrs Helen.’ Myles and Helen turned to see a young African woman, who neither of them knew, holding something out for them. Helen went back to see what it was. The Roosevelt Guardians were reluctant to let the young woman reach over to her, fearing she was going to break through into the embassy. But it was clear the woman had something she wanted to give Helen. She was holding it up, trying to pass it to Helen over the security guards.
Helen tried to reach for it. Her hand was knocked. The young African woman was being moved away by the crowd.
‘Throw it to me!’ called Helen.
The African woman tossed it as she was pushed away. Helen managed to catch it in the air, and grabbed it firmly. It was an old-style mobile phone.
The young woman called out to her. ‘It’s from Placidia,’ she said. ‘Placidia said you’d need it.’
Helen nodded to indicate she had heard, although she didn’t understand the message.
She looked at the phone, bemused. Briefly she wondered whether it was dangerous: would it blow up? Helen turned quizzically to Myles.
He took the phone and quickly pressed the ‘last dialled’ button. Nothing. Then he looked at the messages – the inbox. Again, nothing.
Myles knew he’d missed something. What was Placidia doing?
He frowned in frustration. Another of Placidia’s puzzles, or had he forgotten something?
He didn’t have time to work it
out now. He looked back at the refugees, now in full panic as they realised the Roosevelt Guardians were preparing to fire at them.
Some of the Africans were crying, others shouting. Some jeered at the Roosevelt Guardians, even as the security men raised their rifles. The migrants felt betrayed. They were trapped in a square with no escape. People who were about to be slaughtered like animals…
One of the young men given a gun on the ship raised his weapon to fire in the air. A Roosevelt Guardian sniper hit him almost immediately, also shooting the two women standing beside him. All three collapsed in an instant.
Myles moved over to Helen. ‘Come on,’ he shouted to her over the noise. ‘We’ve got to get inside the building.’
Helen and Myles moved in through the entrance door of the building. Myles desperately looked around inside. He knew there would be one here…
His eyes scanned the walls as Helen spoke to the worried man on reception. Then Myles saw what he was looking for. He moved over towards it, apologising to the receptionist as he did so. ‘Sorry…’
The man wondered what he was about to do. But Myles had already raised his arm.
Myles took aim, then slammed his elbow into the fire alarm.
Seventy
US Embassy, Rome
The square of glass in the fire alarm shattered. Instantly a deafening siren rang throughout the building. The doors automatically flung themselves open.
Helen frowned at Myles. ‘What have you done?’ she tried to shout over the noise of the alarm.
Myles tried to shout back, but realised the fire signal was too loud. He could only give her a one word explanation. ‘Sanctuary,’ he mouthed.
Helen still didn’t understand.
Within a few seconds US Embassy workers started to appear from corridors and stairways. Some in suits, others in chinos or jeans. They began to gather near the doors, wondering whether it was a drill or a real fire.