Last Prophecy of Rome

Sixty-Four

Myles tried to get out of bed. His muscles were sore and he fell back. But he knew he had to get to Rome quickly. ‘Hello?’ he called out. The female nurse ran into his room. ‘I need my clothes,’ he told her. ‘I need to leave.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked the nurse, concerned.

He made clear that he was. The nurse ran out to fetch the doctor, who returned to find Myles standing beside his bed.

‘Thank you. Doctor, I need my clothes, please…’

The doctor looked rather apologetic. He explained that Myles’ clothes had been cut off his body when he was unconscious. ‘You can have your clothes, Mr Munro, sir, but if you tried to wear them in Europe you may be arrested for being underdressed.’

The nurse blushed and tried to hide a smile. She delved inside a plastic waste sack and pulled out Myles’ old clothes. With wide eyes, she held them up: they were tatters and rags.

Myles acknowledged the point. ‘OK, well do you have any other clothes I can wear?’

The doctor nodded and led Myles to one of the storerooms. He tried to gauge Myles’ height — tall for a Westerner but abnormally tall for someone from the Far East. He picked out the tallest boiler suit he had and gave it to Myles. Myles climbed into the garment. The height was right, but it was far larger — fatter — than Myles’ body and hung loosely around his waist. Myles flapped his arms.

The doctor laughed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.’

The doctor looked up at Myles’ head, which was still bandaged. He bent down to the bottom of the cupboard to pick out a grey cloth cap, which he then placed on the Westerner: Chairman Mao headgear.

Myles thanked the doctor. Although the boiler suit looked odd, they were the first fresh clothes he had worn for many days. The food and medical care at the Chinese oil rig may have saved his life. Being rescued from the desert certainly did. ‘Please pass on my thanks to everybody here,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Within minutes the deep flutter of a helicopter came into earshot. Moments later, Myles found himself blasted by the downdraught. He shielded his eyes from the sand lifted up by the rotor blades as the vehicle came to land at the helipad next to the rig’s offices.

But this was not a military helicopter — the US military and their allies no longer operated in this part of Iraq. This was a smaller, privately owned helicopter, and on the side of it were emblazoned two words in English alongside their Arabic counterparts: Roosevelt Security.

Dick had come good on his promise.

Myles pressed on, and ran towards the aircraft, whose rotors slowed but never stopped. He was soon buckled in and rising above the oil plant. The doctor and nurse waved up at him as he ascended.

Inside, the co-pilot proffered Myles some headphones. He gladly put them on. Only as he did so did he realise how loud it was inside the craft.

‘Welcome aboard, Mr Munro,’ said the co-pilot. ‘Senator Roosevelt sends his compliments. We understand you don’t have a passport with you, sir?’

Myles nodded.

‘No problem — we’ll be flying to a private airport just over the border in Turkey,’ explained the co-pilot, unfazed. ‘From there we should be able to get you a jet to Rome.’

‘Thanks — that’s great.’

‘So lay back, relax, and enjoy the flight, sir.’

Myles nodded his gratitude. The vibrations of the aircraft were making him dozy already. He felt like an exhausted child starting to fall asleep in a car seat. But he knew he still had to think. Why had Placidia bluffed about lead and plague when she was planning to bring America down like the Roman Empire? And what was Juma planning?

He looked down at the desert below him: they were flying over an area which was once known as Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilisation. Yet it was featureless. There was no sign of development at all. The civilisation which had once flourished here was completely gone.

They made a desert and called it peace.

Words from a famous Roman historian, Tacitus, explaining how the Romans subdued nations by killing anybody who resisted their rule.

Myles studied the inside of the aircraft. He saw the company’s circular logo and all the documents needed to satisfy the new Iraqi aviation authority. He kept turning the issue in his mind. How was Juma going to destroy the currency conference?

What seemed like minutes later, he was woken with a judder as the helicopter landed. He looked outside: he was at a local airfield in the mountains of south-east Turkey. A man from Roosevelt Security was soon opening the door and helping him out.

With a hand on his ducked head, Myles tried to keep his new headgear in place as he thanked the helicopter pilot over the noise. He was quickly escorted onto a small private passenger aircraft. Propeller-driven rather than a jet, it seemed more rugged than most executive jets. The pilot shouted in a thick but accomplished South African accent that the flight to Italy would take just four hours.

Myles spent the time musing over the situation.

Placidia had always been an idealist — why had she become a terrorist?

Rome had declined over generations, perhaps even centuries — how could America be brought down within a lifetime? Juma was determined to bring down the United States — but what was driving him?

The plane’s flight path circled around Syria and Lebanon. It was routed over Cyprus, then the Greek Islands, crossed into Italian airspace near Brindisi, then north-west towards Rome. Myles was finally away from warzones. The luxury was confirmed when the single member of the cabin crew brought out a fine silver plate of seafood and a glass of champagne.

Myles gladly enjoyed the hospitality. But the thoughts which warmed him most were of Helen. It was Helen who had helped clear his name, Helen who had given him the lead to Galla Security in Iraq, and Helen who had trusted him when the authorities did not. She had stuck with him when he needed her most.

And so, as the small propeller-driven plane touched down in Rome’s Ciampino airport, Myles could barely wait to remove the seat belt.

As he’d hoped, Helen was standing there, waiting beside the new Senator.

The aircraft taxied to a stop. Myles clambered down the stairs, almost tripping over himself — and his ill-fitting Chinese clothes — as he rushed to meet Helen. She ran towards him too, and they embraced, together at last on the tarmac of the airfield.

Together again in Rome.

Sixty-Five

Myles and Helen kissed. It was a long and meaningful kiss. When they were last together, each had feared the other would not survive. Now they both felt more alive than ever.

After almost a minute, Helen pulled back, smiling at Myles. She frowned theatrically as she looked up at Myles’ headgear. ‘What’s this — Chinese Communism back in style?’ She lifted off his cap as she said it, and was about to toss it away when she remembered the bandages on his scalp. Carefully, she put it back into place. ‘We’ll get you some fresh clothes when we get a chance,’ she said, tactfully.

The young Senator approached, his arm extended for a handshake. ‘Welcome back to Rome, Myles. Glad you made it out OK.’

‘Thank you, Dick’. Myles paused. ‘I’m sorry again about your father.’

Dick looked down and shook his head in respect. ‘Was it painless for him?’

‘It was quick,’ replied Myles. ‘And he took as many of them with him as he could.’

‘That’s my father, the great Sam Roosevelt,’ said Dick, making clear he wanted to change the subject. ‘Come this way. We can talk in the car.’

Dick Roosevelt had arranged for a people carrier to take them into the centre of Rome. Myles waved a thank you to his South African pilot before he climbed aboard with Dick. Helen followed.

Inside, Dick ordered the driver to go, then turned to Myles for advice. ‘You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll understand if you just want to rest. But if you do have any suggestions.’ He pointed out of the window. ‘As you can see, we’ve set up a normal security cordon. But this isn’t a normal security situation.’

Myles paused before he answered, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘The TV news reported that a shipload of refugees from Libya had reached Rome. What’s the latest?’

‘Reckoned to be about fifteen hundred of them,’ replied Helen, nodding. ‘Still claiming asylum, still wanting to become American citizens. They’re camped outside the US Embassy at the moment, on Via Veneto.’

Myles remembered Via Veneto — it was where he had made a fool of himself, thinking an Italian had hidden a bomb in a washing machine crate. He didn’t let the memory faze him.

‘And Juma?’ he asked.

‘No sign.’ Helen looked at Dick Roosevelt as she said it. Roosevelt confirmed her assessment: there was no evidence that Juma was anywhere near Italy. They had no information on the Somali pirate at all.

Myles absorbed the information. ‘OK, so we have Juma determined to destroy America while one-and-a-half thousand of his people want to enter the country.’ He looked up at the other two, inviting them to draw conclusions.

Helen turned to Roosevelt, then back to Myles. ‘You mean, something doesn’t make sense?’

‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘None of this makes sense.’

Dick frowned. ‘So?’

Myles didn’t answer. ‘Who’s coming to the currency conference?’ he asked.

The young Senator looked blank, as if to say ‘I don’t know — or at least no one important’. Slowly, Roosevelt tried to remember the list of attendees he had seen. ‘Bankers, including a few central bankers, some managers of sovereign wealth funds…’ he said, reciting from memory.

‘Any politicians?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Roosevelt’s eyes roved upwards as he tried to recall the lists. ‘Although, I suppose I’m a politician now.’

Myles accepted the answer. ‘How many guests in total?’

‘I think about one hundred and eighty — just under two hundred.’

‘Anyone who Juma might want to assassinate?’

‘A few former central bankers maybe. But I can’t see how their death would bring about the end of America.’ Roosevelt paused again. Then a thought suddenly struck him: could he be the target? His eyes asked Myles the question.

Myles raised his eyebrows, then weighed it up. ‘It’s possible. Juma’s already killed one Senator Roosevelt. He might want to kill another.’

Dick Roosevelt inhaled slowly. He was trying to remain calm when clearly he was frightened. ‘I don’t see why he would want to kill me. I hardly know the guy.’ Then he tried to shrug off the danger. He chuckled a shallow laugh.

But the faces of Myles and Helen were serious. Helen leant forward and held his wrist firmly. ‘You need to stay in a safe place, Dick,’ she suggested.

‘I can stay in the CCTV centre at the conference — it’s about the safest place there is.’

Myles agreed. But he kept pressing Roosevelt. ‘Could Juma hate the Roosevelt Guardians? Or something else you stand for?’

‘I’ve made clear that I’m a Christian,’ admitted Roosevelt. ‘As a Senator, I’m committed to bringing Christian values to America. There were battles between Christians and pagans in ancient Rome, right?’

‘Right,’ agreed Myles. ‘But if Juma wanted to strike a blow against the Church there would be lots of easier ways to do it.’

Roosevelt paused again. He was thinking it all through. ‘Well I doubt it’s anything to do with the Roosevelt Guardians,’ he said. ‘I know Juma has his own militia, but private security firms hardly compete with each other. We tend to work together as much as we can.’

Myles gazed out of the window as the people carrier passed through the city. The streets seemed much more tense than on his last visit. ‘Have we heard anything from Placidia?’ he asked.

‘Somehow she turned up in the middle of the refugees,’ answered Helen, tetchily. ‘She’s become an interview junkie — talking to all the broadcasters she can find about how bad the West has been to “her people”.’

‘So she’s not convincing, then?’ asked Myles, smiling slightly.

‘No. Ask any woman you know: that lady’s a fraud. I asked the Italian police whether they’d arrest her for terrorism. They said they were just waiting for the warrant.’

‘I’m sure she’s broken the law,’ agreed Myles, ‘but Placidia doesn’t seem to be trying to harm people. She sent us to a plague site without the plague, and tricked Juma’s men to put harmless calcium into the sauce rather than lead.’

‘Empty threats don’t make her harmless,’ huffed the Senator. ‘And if she uploaded that stuff onto the Senate computers, then she’s heartless.’

‘Maybe,’ said Myles. ‘But she’s not trying to cause harm. She said she was trying to save America and I believe her.’

‘Save America from whom?’ asked the Senator.

‘She refused to say,’ said Myles. He shook his head, still baffled, as he tried to sum up. ‘OK, so the plot to bring down America, Placidia’s “Last Prophecy of Rome”, is this: between one and two thousand malnourished Africans camped in Rome seeking asylum. Meanwhile, we expect an attack against the currency conference — a conference attended by financiers nobody’s heard of, and which is already very well protected by Roosevelt Guardians,’ he said, his tone indicating they were clearly missing something.

‘Not just my men,’ added Dick. ‘When the threat level rose, I brought in Homeland Security. Remember Susan, who used to work for my father — well she’s here. And she brought half the US military along with her.’ Dick could see the others were surprised. ‘In fact, now they’re doing most of it — Marines and Special Forces. Roosevelt Guardians are just doing the minor stuff — like the CCTV. This has become too serious for a private security firm.’

Myles and Helen were relieved. They respected the Roosevelt Guardians, but they trusted the elite US troops more. Myles was impressed that Dick Roosevelt had been sensible enough to call in support, probably missing out on profits. ‘That’s very public-spirited of you, Dick,’ he said.

‘Not really — it’s more like good business sense,’ admitted Dick. ‘If I kept this contract just for Roosevelt Guardians, and someone like Juma breaks through, the damage to our reputation would destroy the firm.’

Helen was still concentrating on the Roman angle. ‘But how can they do it? Myles: was there a single day or event which brought down the Roman Empire?’

‘Not really,’ said Myles, shaking his head. ‘The city was ransacked by barbarians a few times, but over the course of generations. Romans lost a few battles, but they often won again soon after. Rome fell slowly.’

‘So, historically, none of this makes any sense?’

Myles pulled a face. Some of it made sense, parts he couldn’t say in front of Dick and Helen…

The people carrier was slowing towards the conference centre. They passed an old Roman statue — a much-loved senator killed off by a jealous emperor — now grey with smoke accumulated over the centuries. Myles studied it as they passed it, trying to learn whatever it was willing to teach him.

‘Sometimes history makes no sense until it’s over,’ he said, thinking to himself. ‘And then it makes all the sense in the world.’

The people carrier halted in a small queue of vehicles. Several cars ahead, a roadblock was manned by Italian policemen. Roosevelt leant over to explain. ‘We’re still more than a mile from the conference centre,’ he said, apologising. ‘This is security in depth. There’s another check further up, then the US military scanning people on foot nearer the entrance.’

Myles was struck — security was much tighter than on his last visit.

‘Good, huh?’ said Helen. ‘I did a story on conference security yesterday. I really can’t see how anyone could break in.’

The people carrier crawled towards the checkpoint. As they approached, the driver folded down the sun visor. A special pass had been fastened to the underside, and when the police saw it they waved the vehicle through. Roosevelt turned to Myles for a reaction. Myles was absorbed in his thoughts. He noticed the heavy concrete blocks on the main routes as they came nearer the building. It would be very hard to drive a vehicle-borne bomb into the conference centre.

‘Have you planned for rocket-propelled grenades, too?’ asked Myles.

‘Why — does Juma have them?’

‘He does, yes. Or at least, he did have in Iraq.’

Roosevelt weighed the idea in his head. ‘Good question. It would be hard for someone to get close enough, I think. But it might be possible — just. They wouldn’t be able to do much damage, though, and they’d be caught almost as soon as they fired it.’

Myles nodded. As they came closer to the building itself, he saw increasing numbers of police, US Marines and Roosevelt Guardians patrolling key points. Men in plain clothes hung around, watching all that happened. Myles noticed they all had the same lapel badge.

The people carrier was directed towards a parking space. The driver pulled up and Roosevelt led the way out of the vehicle, closely followed by Helen and Myles.

As they walked towards the conference centre they were funnelled into lines. Myles looked ahead: everything was being scanned. The US Marines questioned everybody who went through. One man was sweating and was asked to strip down to his underwear, until the Marine was satisfied he wasn’t concealing a suicide-vest of some sort.

Helen was shocked. ‘If they ask me to do that, I’m just gonna turn around,’ she insisted.

Thankfully they didn’t ask her. But they did ask Myles why his clothes were too large for him. ‘I borrowed them,’ he replied.

‘Who from, sir?’ asked the Marine.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Try me, sir…’

Myles was willing to cooperate and was about to explain when Dick Roosevelt whipped out his ID card. The Marine bent down to inspect it, then stood back to salute. There were no more questions for them, and the trio were invited to walk into the conference building itself.

Sniffer dogs at the entrance barked as Myles approached. Myles put his hands up — he had, after all, been near explosives in Iraq. But when the dog handlers saw he was with the new Senator Roosevelt, Chief Executive of Roosevelt Guardians, he was allowed to pass.

Dick escorted them up some stairs and along a corridor. They passed a guarded door, and were soon in the control room — the room where he had been arrested on his last visit.

Helen and Myles absorbed the TV monitors, computer banks and pieces of paper dotted around the room — there were so many more than before. The people working there seemed busy and efficient. There was even a flip-chart testing out possible flaws in the security for the event.

‘This is the Situation Centre — the CCTV room,’ said Dick. He moved towards one of the monitors and invited the administrator to flick between views from different cameras. ‘We’ve got more than fifty cameras on this place,’ he explained. ‘Any terrorists who try to come would be seen long in advance.’

Roosevelt could see even Myles was impressed. But Myles couldn’t help thinking they were still missing something. How come Juma had been so sure he could get through? He tried to frame his question. ‘Do you think Juma knows about all this? Do you think he’ll still try to get close?’

He was answered by a voice behind him. A female voice. ‘He’d be mad to come. But then he probably is mad…’ It was Susan from Homeland Security. She lowered her head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Myles. When we detained you, we made a mistake.’

‘It was you?’

‘Yes. I had you arrested, and I was wrong.’

Myles nodded — apology accepted. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ said Susan. ‘And we don’t want any more mistakes, Myles. Which is why we’ve filled this place with US Marines, special forces and undercover guys…’

Helen’s mobile rang. She apologised as she answered. The call was from her producer. Myles overheard half the conversation: they wanted Helen to be down with the crowds of refugees. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be safe,’ she answered dismissively. ‘The place is surrounded by police, and the US Embassy is next door — it’s can’t be too dangerous.’ Then she jolted in shock. ‘Really? You want me to interview that bitch?’

Myles and Dick looked at each other. Both were listening in now.

‘Can I refer to her as a terrorist?’ asked Helen, then followed up with: ‘OK, but I can ask her if she’s a terrorist, yeah?’

She nodded as she concluded the call, then apologised to Myles and Dick. ‘Sorry, guys — I’m going to confront Placidia, outside the embassy.’

‘Should I come?’ asked Myles. ‘I need to speak to her. There must be a way to defuse this thing.’

‘No.’ Helen was shaking her head. ‘This is strictly journalism. She’s got a lot to answer for.’

‘OK,’ said Myles, hesitantly. ‘Stay safe down there,’ he insisted.

‘Will do. Any special questions you want me to ask her?’

Myles thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Ask her about Rome: what was the real reason it fell?’

‘That’s all? Not, “why did you try to give me the plague?” or “Any more bombs planned?” huh?’

Myles shrugged. ‘Perhaps — it would be interesting to hear her answers.’

She kissed him on the cheek, then waved with her fingers to Dick, and was gone.

‘Be careful,’ Myles shouted after her.

Dick turned to Myles. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘Just wait, I guess,’ suggested Myles. ‘Can you get CCTV pictures of the entrance — where people are being scanned?’

Roosevelt duly set the monitor to show the main entrance, then moved to get some coffee at a machine in the corner of the room.

Myles stared at the grainy computer image. He watched as the guests were scrutinised by the walk-through machine. One by one, they went through. About half set off the machine first time and were sent back to remove belts, shoes, mobiles and other items until they managed to walk through without the scanner beeping. Myles could sense the frustration of the people queuing behind: the process was slow. Perhaps they didn’t realise just how serious the threat was. Even if Juma made it through, there was no way he could get a weapon in here — surely?

Then he noticed a man in a summer suit. His face was dark and his body small and muscular. Myles stared closer.

The man walked through the machine, then stopped in reaction to something. He had set off the alarm.

Calmly he stepped backwards again. The Marines pointed towards his jacket, which the man slipped off.

‘Dick, Dick — come over,’ insisted Myles, his eyes still fixed on the moving image. The man set the machine off a second time, but this time removed a pass from his pocket. The Marines inspected it, then waved him through.

Myles pointed at the screen. ‘It’s him. It’s Juma.’

‘You sure?’

Juma was wearing glasses and his hair was different, but Myles was sure it was him. ‘Yeah. I recognise him.’

Dick Roosevelt rushed over, alert.

‘Hey — why didn’t the Marine stop him?’ asked Myles. ‘You sent out the description of Juma, right?’

‘It should have gone out, yes,’ insisted Roosevelt, resenting the accusation that he’d made a mistake. ‘Is he still there? Which camera is he on?’ he asked.

Myles tried to point the man out again, but Juma had already disappeared.

Sixty-Six

Myles ran towards the doors but Dick called him back.

‘Which one is he?’ asked Roosevelt, scrolling back through the pictures, reversing the CCTV footage on the screen.

‘That one — he’s that one,’ said Myles, pointing at the computer image, frozen as Juma lifted off his jacket with a Marine on each side of him.

‘Got it,’ said Roosevelt framing the image. ‘I’ll put out an alert.’ He turned to talk to Myles, but the Englishman had already gone.

Myles sprinted along the corridor, bumping past delegates and almost knocking over someone taking bottled water into the main conference room.

A Marine called after him as he rushed by. ‘Slow down, bud.’

‘Sorry.’ Myles’ apology was lost in the rush. He leapt down the stairs, three at a time. Stopping at the entrance, he looked around. He could see the scanner where Juma had been less than half a minute before. He scoured the crowd:

No sign of him heading into the building…

No sign of him standing around outside…

No sign of him in any of the corridors…

It didn’t make sense: how could Juma have disappeared so quickly?

Myles approached the Marine with the sniffer dogs. ‘Excuse me. Have you seen a, a, man…’ He struggled to find a description, and was out of breath from the run.

The dog handlers were smiling. ‘We’ve seen lots of men here, sir, and a few women too.’

‘I’m looking for a black man,’ said Myles, rushing out the words as fast as he could. ‘Er, Somali, small to medium height, glasses, brown jacket. Muscular, very muscular. Scar on his abdomen…’

The dog handlers looked at each other, unsure. ‘Perhaps, about five or ten minutes past. The dogs reacted a bit but he was clean.’

Myles shook his head. ‘This would have been one minute ago or less.’

‘No, then no,’ came the dog handler’s reply.

Myles put his hand on his head as he tried to think. He became aware the Marines were looking at him strangely. Then he realised the bandages were showing from underneath his Chinese cap.

‘You OK, sir?’

Myles nodded, still trying to think. ‘Which way did the man go? The man who made the dogs react. Which way?’

One of the dog handlers leant over and pointed down a corridor.

Myles ran down where the man had pointed. More crowds. Myles tried to examine all of the faces as he passed.

No sign.

People just looked at Myles as if he was odd.

Where had Juma gone?

As he reached the end of the corridor, Myles found the conference café. He tried to check the faces of everyone there too. They all looked relaxed and engrossed in their conversations. The group in the corner laughed at a shared joke. Myles tried to see around them.

Still no sign. Juma seemed to have evaporated.

For a moment Myles wondered if he had imagined it. Could it have been someone else? After all, the man didn’t look exactly like Juma. The person he’d seen was wearing glasses and had different hair. But if it wasn’t Juma, where had the innocent lookalike gone?

He looked around the café again. He was looking for someone who was agitated, but realised the most agitated person there was himself.

He searched over the heads of the delegates, peering all the way back to the corridor. He could just see towards the dog handlers at the entrance. If it was an innocent man, Myles would have found him by now. Juma must be hiding.

Myles was about to walk back up the corridor when he noticed something out of place — something nobody owned. Hanging over the back of one of the chairs was a jacket. He looked more closely: it was the jacket he had seen Juma wearing on the CCTV.

He moved towards it and picked it up.

He held it up in the air, unconcerned about making a spectacle of himself. ‘Is this anybody’s jacket?’ he called out.

Heads turned, and for a moment the earnest conversations paused. Some men queuing for coffee wearing just shirts seemed particularly interested, but soon they dismissed it and returned to what they were doing.

Myles held it high for everyone else to see. Still no one claimed it.

One delegate looked at the jacket then at Myles’ clothes and sniffed — as if Myles was asking to take something that wasn’t his. Myles ignored the man. He felt the pockets. There were things inside. Myles delved and pulled out some car keys. They seemed normal, and were attached to a remote control locking device. Then he noticed they were for a Toyota. A Toyota Corolla. Significant, or was he imagining it?

He moved the car keys into his own pocket and kept searching through the jacket. There was a pen, which he placed down on the table. Then he found a packet of pills. He examined the box: laxatives. He looked inside — several had already been popped through the foil. The pack was half-empty.

He began to question himself again: Juma didn’t seem like the sort of man who would take pills for minor ailments like constipation.

Myles spun the jacket around to check the other side. There was a large piece of paper, which he lifted out and unfolded. This was more interesting: a map of the conference venue.

Myles studied the map closely. Had He wasn’t sure whether it was standard issue for all the conference delegates been given one? Or had maps been kept from the public as a security precaution, in which case this was more significant?

Myles was just about to reach for the final thing in the jacket, which felt like a credit-card size rectangle of plastic, when he realised eyes were focussing on him.

Myles lifted his head to see US Marines closing in on him from three directions.

Without looking down again, Myles slipped the plastic rectangle into his palm.

‘Hands up, please, sir,’ came the instruction.

Myles did as he was ordered. As he lifted up his arms, the plastic card fell into his sleeve, passing his wrist towards his elbow. The US Marine patted him down, but knew it was a formality: everyone in the venue site had already been checked for weapons. The Marine queried the Toyota car keys Myles had just found, only giving them back when he was sure they were normal. Myles’ new map of the conference venue was confiscated.

‘Can you come with me, please sir?’ demanded the Marine.

Myles nodded. ‘Certainly, but something important is going on, and we need to stop it fast.’

‘There’s already a security alert out, sir, and you match the description.’

Myles shook his head. Typical. ‘Well, where are you taking me?’

‘Follow me, sir.’

Myles found himself marched through the corridors where he’d just been running. Back to the dog-handlers, back up the stairs. Something about the calm attitude of the Marines made him relax. It was obvious the Marines didn’t really think Myles was a security risk.

Then he realised where they were taking him.

Myles continued with his escort along the upper corridor. When they reached the door to the CCTV room, the leading Marine stopped and held the way open for Myles, who walked in.

There was Dick, crouched over a different image: this time it was a live television feed.

‘Sorry for calling you back like that, Myles,’ said Dick, only half apologising.

‘I was on his case — Juma…’

Dick ignored Myles’ protests. He kept watching the TV. ‘Myles, You gotta watch this…’ he said.

Sixty-Seven

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

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 shirt, 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 shoulder 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.

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

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 moment. 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

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.

Myles shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Everybody outside.’

He hoped none of them remembered the last time he gave instructions to the embassy staff, but his English accent still caused confusion: why were American diplomats being herded by a Brit?

Helen saw what was happening and backed him up, putting on a southern drawl to make sure everyone got the message. ‘Come on — everybody outta here…’

An older staff member recognised her from television and looked uncertain. Helen kept up the pretence. ‘Yes, it’s a fire alarm,’ she confirmed. ‘Everybody out. Quick.’

Gradually the embassy staff started to obey. Diplomats and officials, office staff and cleaners all started to leave the building. Once it became clear a few were going the rest followed in a rush.

Myles and Helen found themselves in a swarm of half-panicked Americans, all desperately trying to leave the building.

The receptionist, who had seen Myles slam his elbow into the alarm, tried to approach. He couldn’t make it through the crowds, but he caught Myles’ eye.

Myles knew the look. He didn’t want to be detained again. He grabbed Helen’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, too.’

Myles led Helen out again, allowing them to leave with the US Embassy workers.

Outside the embassy was chaos. US Embassy workers were flooding out, mixing with frightened refugees. Roosevelt Guardians and the few remaining journalists were caught up in the swirling crowds, just like Myles and Helen. No one could see what was happening.

Then the African refugees seemed to realise the embassy doors were open.

If they pushed through the Roosevelt Guardians they would be safe inside the embassy.

The Roosevelt Guardians were desperately trying to hold the line, but with the embassy staff breaking their line one way, it became impossible for them to hold back the refugees pushing the other. And as soon as a few African refugees were through, the push of the crowd became unstoppable. The line broke, and the refugees streamed towards the embassy doors and inside the building. Finally they had reached American soil.

The refugees were safe at last.

Journalists started to break through the outer cordon. Myles saw the Italian who had been arguing with the Roosevelt Guardian when he had vaulted his way in: she was now taking pictures of the private security men looking dejected. Helen’s own broadcast crew started to get footage of the first Africans inside the embassy, as they tried to claim asylum. Paramedics rushed to treat refugees with bullet wounds. The breach in the line meant the Roosevelt Guardians couldn’t pretend anymore: they had to let all the Africans through.

Helen frowned in confusion. ‘I still don’t get it.’

‘We’ve bought some time,’ explained Myles. ‘But that’s all. We still need to find Placidia.’

‘Bought who time, Myles?

Myles was still too distracted to answer properly. He searched around for any indication of where she could be. Nothing. He wondered whether she could have been hiding in the crowd, but it was unlikely: if she was still with the refugees someone would have seen her by now.

‘She must have gone somewhere,’ said Myles.

‘Did she escape?’ suggested Helen, trying to be helpful. ‘Or did someone call her away?’

‘Perhaps…’ said Myles, pausing. ‘Or she called someone else away…’ He remembered the mobile, and pointed to Helen’s bag.

Helen pulled it out for him. ‘I’ve already checked: there’s nothing on it,’ she shouted over the noise.

‘Not in the inbox…’ Myles went into the messages, then clicked on ‘messages sent’. There it was. The message read: ‘We need to talk. Meet me in the Pantheon. Now.’

Myles scrolled down to ‘message details’, then looked at his watch. ‘Sent fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘There’s still time.’

He passed the device back to Helen, who still looked confused. ‘Why did she give the phone to me?’

‘Because she knew you were here,’ explained Myles. ‘Maybe she knew you’d give the phone to me.’

‘Well, who’s she meeting?’

‘Dick. It’s Dick Roosevelt,’ muttered Myles.

‘Dick?’

Myles nodded as he looked ahead, trying to map out the fastest route to the Pantheon. ‘Helen, this chaos here — it’s not the most important thing. It’s not the news story,’ he tried to explain.

Helen looked around her: wounded refugees, confused embassy officials, angry security guards… ‘Looks like a story to me.’

‘No. Listen.’ Myles held her shoulders. ‘I’ve got to go. But get your production team ready for another one of those videos from Placidia.’

‘No, Myles — she’s a terrorist.’ Helen was feeling adamant now. ‘And she’s a bitch.’

‘OK. Then just believe me; these refugees are innocent.’

Helen glanced at them. She could accept that. ‘But Myles…’ She wanted to say something more to him, but Myles was already running. Within seconds he had gone. Helen couldn’t see him for all the journalists, refugees and Embassy staff. Then she caught a final image of his tall frame dodging through the crowds. He disappeared behind an Italian fire engine which had arrived on the scene, blocked in by the jam of people.

Helen moved back towards the embassy, towards her production team who were eagerly taking as much footage as they could. The camerawoman clearly wanted her to do a live broadcast, but Helen wasn’t going for it. ‘Have we had any more terrorist videos from Placidia?’ she asked.

The camerawoman shook her head and pulled a face which said she didn’t want to be disturbed. She kept filming what seemed like ideal news footage.

‘Please check,’ insisted Helen.

The camerawoman reluctantly conceded. She pulled out her internet-enabled mobile to go online. It took a few seconds to boot up and get a webpage. Then she scrolled to the site which had shown earlier broadcasts from ‘the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome’. She studied it until she was sure, then showed it to Helen. ‘Nothing new,’ she said.

‘Really?’

The camerawoman nodded as she took back the device and prepared to film Helen commentating on the crazy scenes in the embassy.

She was just about to put the internet browser away when she saw something. ‘Wait…There is something. Coming through now. It’s live.’

Helen and her camerawoman began watching the moving images. Helen recognised the ancient interior immediately. The footage was being broadcast from inside the Pantheon.

Seventy-One

It took Myles eight minutes to sprint to the Pantheon.

As he ran across the piazza outside the building he heard a loud bang. The acoustics of the Pantheon distorted the noise, but Myles recognised the sound immediately.

A gunshot.

All the tourists flinched and looked confused. But not Myles — he kept running, past Roosevelt security men standing guard outside, through the large wooden doors, and into the eerie interior of the building itself.

He began to walk forward, into the darkness, towards the centre of the ‘Church for All Gods’.

‘Anyone here?’ he called out, catching his breath.

His words echoed around the building. No response. Then he heard a weak voice call out. ‘Myles — is that you?’ It was Dick Roosevelt, lying wounded on the church floor.

Myles rushed over. Dick clearly had a bleeding wound near his left shoulder. He was grasping his upper arm with his right hand.

‘Dick — what happened?’

Myles bent down to help, unsure what he could do. He lifted Dick’s torso into a sitting position, and examined his wound. The bullet had passed through his muscle: serious but not life-threatening.

Roosevelt spoke slowly. ‘She shot me,’ he said.

‘Placidia?’

Dick nodded. His face turned towards the side of the church.

Myles followed his gaze, his eyes still adjusting. Gradually he made out a figure slumped in one of the alcoves of the church. He left Dick and moved towards it, slowly at first, then as fast as he could.

Placidia’s body was still warm. Myles lifted it — limp and heavy. He looked at her mouth, her forehead, and her cheeks…and her lifeless eyes. He tried to shake her, but there was nothing. He shouted at her face, ‘Placidia?’

No response.

He looked into her eyes again and turned her head towards the dim light inside the building: the pupils didn’t contract. He felt her neck: no pulse. Then he held her towards him, hugging her body for the last time. It had all gone so wrong.

Myles held her close, helplessly rocking her dead body in his arms.

Dick called out from behind, his voice still strained. ‘Is she dead?’

Myles didn’t need to answer Dick’s question: it was obvious she was. He cut the young Senator out of his mind and ignored his whole surroundings. Instead, he remembered the life-force which Placidia had once been: the tireless campaigner at Oxford, the beauty of their shared tutorials on the Roman Empire, the enigmatic terror behind Juma and the plot to bring down America…

Myles could admit it now: he had loved her. Somehow her spirit would never go.

He looked again at her face. It seemed stuck in an odd expression: it was as if she died in the midst of victory and defeat at the same time.

Myles surveyed the rest of her body. Her breasts were bloody and damaged: a bullet wound to the chest.

Dick’s voice called over to him again. ‘You think I might get some treatment here?’ he asked, sarcastic and pained.

Myles gently kissed Placidia’s body as he lay it back on the floor of the church. ‘Sure, Dick. I’m coming,’ he called as he moved back to the young Senator.

Dick had managed to remove his jacket and bunch it up. He was holding it as a pad against the wound. It was already starting to soak through with blood. ‘I guess I finally got her,’ he said.

‘Self-defence?’

Dick nodded, wincing with pain. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘If she had been a better shot…’

Myles examined the wound as he listened. ‘Did she say anything before she died?’

‘Not much,’ replied Roosevelt, looking around as he tried to recall. ‘I think she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”.’

‘That’s what she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Then she tried to shoot you?’

‘Yeah, but I, kinda, moved to the side,’ said Dick trying to smile. ‘And shot her back.’

Myles pressed firmly into Dick’s shoulder wound, freeing up the Senator’s other hand. ‘She didn’t make you drop your weapon first?’ asked Myles.

‘No. I guess she was an amateur terrorist.’ There was a mocking tone in Dick’s voice.

‘So she held you at gunpoint but let you keep hold of your weapon?’ said Myles.

Dick Roosevelt nodded. Then he grabbed Myles’ wrist with his free hand. He forced Myles to look him in the eye. ‘Hey, Myles. Isn’t it great? It’s finally over,’ said Dick, excitedly. ‘The plot to bring down the United States. Placidia’s “Last Prophecy of Ancient Rome”. It’s over. You and I: we saved America. We’re real heroes now.’

‘You mean, Juma dead, Placidia dead…’ said Myles, more soberly. ‘And your father: dead, too.’

The mention of Sam Roosevelt’s death knocked Dick’s mood. He started to become sullen and self-absorbed. ‘It was such a pity my father had to die,’ said Dick, almost like a confession. It seemed as though he might say more, but the American kept his words back. Roosevelt junior seemed to be thinking something through, perhaps even making a calculation.

After a silent pause Roosevelt changed the subject. ‘Well, at least my men are outside,’ he said.

‘Well, why don’t they come in?’ suggested Myles, surprised. ‘We need to get your wound treated, Senator.’

Dick didn’t really respond to the question. He winced again, then turned back to Myles. ‘So what do you think Juma had been planning?’

‘I guess he was trying to smuggle a bomb into the conference and set it off.’

‘Not a suicide bomber, then?’

‘No,’ answered Myles, shaking his head. ‘He only swallowed the bomb to get through security. He was trying to get the bomb out in the toilet when we interrupted him.’

Dick looked pensive. ‘And Placidia?’

‘I think all she wanted was asylum for her people,’ said Myles, looking over at her crumpled body. ‘It was her last campaign.’

‘Really?’ huffed Roosevelt. ‘She just tried to kill me.’

Myles didn’t react.

Dick could tell he wasn’t convinced. ‘Come on, Myles. She was a terrorist, right? She had to die.’

Myles still didn’t answer. ‘She had to die’ — one of the doctors had said that about his mother’s cancer. Then he remembered how Placidia used to be. ‘She wasn’t a terrorist when I knew her. At university she was idealistic. She believed in good things.’

‘Sure,’ accepted Roosevelt. ‘But she changed. People change. Perhaps by marrying Juma, she became a psycho. Right, Myles?’

Myles shook his head, still concentrating on Dick’s wound. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I reckon she just got caught up in something too big for her to handle.’

‘An accidental terrorist, huh, Myles?’ joked Roosevelt.

‘She wasn’t a terrorist.’

‘No? So who was?’

Myles wondered carefully about how to respond. But no response was necessary. He felt Dick’s expression change, and realised the Senator had picked up the gun with his free hand.

Dick Roosevelt lifted the weapon towards Myles, then pressed it into his abdomen.

Seventy-Two

Myles froze.

Then, very slowly, he looked down to check he really was being held at gunpoint. He returned his eyes to Dick Roosevelt’s wound, then carefully lifted his hands away. The wound didn’t seem to matter any more.

His non-reaction was not what Dick had been expecting.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not surprised, Myles?’

Myles shook his head. ‘I suspected before. It was how Juma got into the conference centre that convinced me. He had a Roosevelt Guardian ID card.’

‘Did he?’ asked Roosevelt, already knowing the answer.

‘Yes — I’ve got it,’ said Myles, immediately knowing he’d made a mistake by releasing the information.

Roosevelt grinned, his weapon still trained on Myles. ‘Then hand it to me, please, Myles.’

Myles removed from his sleeve the small plastic card he had taken from Juma’s jacket in the conference centre. He allowed it to drop on the floor.

Dick didn’t react. Instead he poked the gun into Myles’ shirt and lifted up the fabric. ‘You wired?’ he asked.

Myles frowned, confused. He made Dick spell it out.

Dick became agitated. ‘You know — a recording device,’ he explained. ‘You trying to get me to incriminate myself on tape?’

‘Surely that would be against the Fifth Amendment, Senator,’ replied Myles flatly.

Senator Roosevelt wasn’t convinced. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered.

Myles screwed up his face in disbelief.

Dick confirmed his instruction. ‘Take off your clothes and pass them to me, one by one,’ he demanded. ‘So I can check you don’t have a device on you.’

‘I’m not that smart, Senator.’

‘No, you’re not,’ conceded Roosevelt. ‘But Placidia was. She had something. A mobile phone thing. It was broadcasting onto the web. She was trying to make a secret video of me. Something she could have uploaded like all her other videos.’

‘But you got it?’ asked Myles.

The Senator nodded, then glanced over at a smashed electronic device not far away. It had been stamped on, and was very definitely broken. ‘She had managed to broadcast a few minutes’ worth, but nothing incriminating,’ he gloated.

Myles realised his last hope was gone: Placidia had failed to record a confession from Dick Roosevelt. He had no more defences left.

Myles began to remove his Chinese cap. But he knew as soon as the Senator confirmed Myles had no audio device on him, Dick Roosevelt would pull the trigger.

Myles had to play for time.

He paused as he undressed. ‘Placidia invited you here by text message,’ he said.

Roosevelt looked uneasy. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.

‘I’ve seen the text,’ explained Myles. ‘It means people will know you’ve been in contact with her.’

Roosevelt pondered for a short moment, then shrugged. ‘I’ll just say I was invited for peace talks. My father got away with talking to terrorists all the time.’

‘Maybe,’ admitted Myles. ‘But they might be able to find all your other contacts with her and Juma. If Placidia was smart enough to try to record her conversation here, you can be sure she kept evidence of your role in everything else.’

The Senator smirked. ‘I’ve been in contact with them for ages. Investigators still haven’t made the connection. They probably never will. The guy from Las Vegas I hired to do computer stuff wiped everything clean.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘And even he didn’t know it was me until a few minutes before he died. He just called me “Constantine”, like the Emperor. Isn’t that sweet?’

‘The information planted on my laptop?”

The Senator nodded.

Myles was beginning to understand it all now. ‘You must have been in contact with them since before they took your father hostage.’

‘From before the first bomb in New York,’ boasted the Senator.

‘I always thought your escape from Libya was…unlikely.’

‘“Heroic” is the official description, Englishman,’ said Roosevelt, mocking an English accent. ‘It was “heroic”.’

Myles had removed his shirt to reveal his bare chest. He wasn’t ‘wired’. Both he and the Senator were aware that Myles, standing, could easily try to tackle the wounded Senator somehow. The Senator recognised the threat and indicated Myles should move away.

‘My trousers too?’

Roosevelt nodded. ‘In America we call them “pants”. Yes please. And shoes.’

‘And socks?’ said Myles, starting to unbutton his fly.

The Senator nodded again, enjoying the control. ‘I know you’re wondering how I’m going to explain this to the forensics? It’s easy,’ he gloated. ‘Placidia, self-defence,’ he said, gesturing with his gun towards her. ‘You being naked: well, she always loved you. Perhaps she wanted to see you naked before you died.’

‘Before she killed me?’ asked Myles.

‘Yes. Before she killed you.’

Myles knew Dick Roosevelt meant what he said. The man would kill him as soon as he needed to. How could he get out of here alive? Options tumbled through his mind. Did Roosevelt have another weak spot, apart from his shoulder? He remembered Roosevelt saying his men were outside — could he get them in sooner?

Myles motioned his head towards the pistol. ‘How will you explain the shots?’ he asked.

‘The gunshots?’

‘Yes. Witnesses outside will have heard three shots, each several minutes apart. Hard to explain away as “self-defence”.’

Dick paused, then accepted the point. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That means I’ll have to muffle this next bullet.’ He moved his weight as he sat on the floor. He removed the balled-up jacket which he had been pressing into his shoulder wound and tried to hold it over the barrel of the gun. It was awkward, and the blood made it slip in his hands, but he seemed determined.

Myles only had seconds. He raised his voice. ‘Your father…your father spoke about you before he died.’

‘Yeah?’ Dick was pretending to only half-listen. He was still concentrating on using his blood-soaked jacket to muffle the imminent gunshot. ‘So, what did my father say?’

Myles looked down at the ground as he put the question back to him. ‘What do you think he said?’

Dick was about to give an instant answer. Then he paused, and became more thoughtful. ‘Did he say sorry? Sorry for passing on a third-rate private security firm? Or for failing to become President — twice?’

Myles shook his head. He looked around for any hope — anything — which might save him from the bullet. But there was nothing.

‘He didn’t say sorry,’ recounted Myles. ‘He said “this is how it ends”.’

‘“This is how it ends?” — my father’s last words?’

‘Yeah. He was talking about the Roman Empire,’ said Myles, trying to bluff. ‘He said “Civilisation collapsed because people became self-centred, and there were too many pretenders to imperial power.” Your father mentioned the emperor Constantine, the emperor who made the Roman Empire Christian. When Constantine’s own son tried to become emperor, Constantine had him murdered.’

Dick looked pensive. ‘So my father knew it was me?’

Myles nodded, bluffing again. ‘And, right before he died, he said some people had to make sacrifices for others.’

Dick looked down at his gun, smiling again. He had heard enough. ‘Well that’s true, isn’t it…’

Myles sensed he had overplayed his hand. Dick was going to shoot.

He had no other options left. He had to go for the gun.

Damn the consequences.

But he was too late.

As he lurched forward, Myles felt himself blasted backwards. He collapsed onto the marble floor of the ancient church. His body spasmed as the noise reverberated through the cavern of the church. Roosevelt’s jacket had not muffled the noise at all.

Then, in the instant between being hit by the bullet and the searing pain which followed, Myles realised it wasn’t the noise of the gunshot echoing around.

Seventy-Three

Light had broken into the church. The doors had been slammed open and silhouettes with guns were rushing in. Myles’ eyes couldn’t adjust to see who they were. His body was still in shock from the gunshot wound.

Dick turned to see them too.

Everything had changed. Dick needed to change his story. ‘Hey — thank you,’ the young Senator called out, trying to sound upbeat. ‘This man knows about the terrorist plot to bring down America like ancient Rome,’ he shouted.

There was no answer. The armed men were running to surround Myles and Dick, both now with gaping injuries to their shoulders.

Finally it became clear who the men were: Myles recognised their dark blue uniforms, their leather shoes and their accents. He even recognised the beard of the man who was approaching him and the Senator.

They were Italian Special Police. Inspector Perrotta had come to stand over Dick Roosevelt. As Myles and the Senator floundered on the floor, both losing blood from their bullet wounds, Perrotta repeated the Senator’s words back to him. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot?’ he said in his thick Italian accent. Perrotta sounded as though he believed the Senator, who nodded and looked hopeful. Roosevelt loosened his grip on his weapon — the Italians had Myles at gunpoint now.

Perrotta bent down and lifted the pistol from the Senator’s hand. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot, you say?’ Perrotta’s tone was more sarcastic this time. He made eye contact with one of his men, who in turn indicated that it was safe for paramedics to come forward.

The Senator clutched his shoulder again, playing up the pain. ‘Yes, inspector,’ winced Roosevelt, pretending to ignore the sarcasm. ‘And he shot me, and that woman.’

Perrotta nodded, unconvinced.

Myles rolled his eyes, from disbelief as much as pain. He was still on the floor and could only hear the words. He groaned at the prospect of being arrested by Perrotta — again — because the authorities were too slow and too dumb. They would follow their rules, their procedures. The police would obey their bureaucrats…

One of the Italian policemen lifted Myles’ shoulders and held his head. Something was pressed into the wound to stem the bleeding. Seconds later paramedics arrived and took over. Myles was told the bullet wound was serious, but that he’d live. ‘Please try to stay awake, Mr Munro…’ said the medic.

Myles lost consciousness a few moments later.

Both he and the Senator were stabilised — emergency measures to reduce blood loss from their wounds.

Myles sensed just a blur of medical equipment and the rush of professionals. He writhed, his naked skin soaking in blood. Only half awake, he dreamed he was paralysed. He imagined being back in the London courtroom with Dick Roosevelt accusing him while he, Myles-the-misfit, wasn’t allowed to answer.

Then he started to rise up. He realised he had been strapped to a stretcher. Brought out into the light, his awareness returned. Only then did he know the paramedic was right: he would survive.

The Piazza Rotunda outside the Pantheon was now filled with journalists, onlookers and assorted other people who had realised something interesting was happening inside and wanted to know more. A pathway to waiting ambulances had been roped off. Myles was carried through it at waist height.

Where was Helen?

He hoped — expected — her to run under the rope and greet him. To take his hand and squeeze it. But there was no sign of her.

As Senator Dick Roosevelt was brought out behind him, Myles heard the swoop of journalists shouting questions out to him. He listened out for Helen’s voice amongst them, but it wasn’t there. Was she reporting on the story from somewhere else?

‘When will you resign, Senator?’

‘Do you have a political future, Mr Roosevelt?’

‘Why did you kill Placidia when she was praying, Dick?’

Myles was confused. Why did the journalists think Placidia was praying when she was killed? And why were they interrogating Dick?

Then he realised — somehow they knew. They had worked out that Dick Roosevelt was behind it all.

But how?

The Senator, of course, didn’t answer the questions. He was wounded — the perfect excuse to avoid allegations. But the questions sounded tough.

Finally he felt his stretcher lifted into the back of an Italian ambulance. And there, waiting for him, was Helen. ‘You’re safe now,’ she smiled. She kissed him.

Myles was still confused. ‘You’re not reporting this?’

‘I already have,’ announced Helen, proud that she was ahead of him on at least one thing.

Myles discovered he’d been given medical treatment in the Pantheon until his condition stabilised, while Helen had broadcast rolling coverage. She hadn’t been allowed in to see Myles while he was being treated for his gunshot injury, but hadn’t needed to: she had seen the whole thing anyway. Live.

Helen smiled. ‘The Senator was behind the whole thing,’ she confirmed, looking at Myles’ face and his wound.

Myles was still mystified. ‘Yes, but what convinced you?’

‘Dick arranged it all with Juma in advance. The bomb in New York so he became a hero, his escape from Libya. Kidnapping and killing his father, so he could become Senator. Even the stand-off between the refugees and Roosevelt’s Guardians, so he could pretend he was protecting America. And it was Roosevelt who got the files about the Special Forces raid — both to warn Juma and for Placidia to plant on your laptop,’ said Helen, now clearly teasing Myles with all she knew.

‘Yes, it must have been. But how did you find out?’

Helen smiled again, deflecting Myles’ question. ‘So the Roosevelt Guardian corporation was linked to Juma’s own private security firm, in Iraq?’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Myles. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I think the Guardians bought out Galla Security or something. That was how they were connected.’

Helen nodded again. ‘Don’t worry. The world knows it now. All from Placidia.’

Myles winced in confusion. ‘Placidia?’

Helen explained how Placidia had offered Dick Roosevelt a deal: she wouldn’t expose him if his Roosevelt Guardians let the refugees into the embassy. ‘The tragedy, Myles, is that her people were already safe. You’d already got them into the embassy by setting off the fire alarm. She didn’t need to meet him,’ she said. ‘Placidia could have lived.’

Myles rolled his head on the stretcher. He remembered Placidia’s body on the stretcher. Perhaps if he’d been quicker, she would still be alive.

The ambulance was moving now, driving over bumpy cobbles and ancient stone roads through the streets of Rome. Helen tried to hold him steady. ‘So Myles, she was trying to do deals with that bastard right until she died.’

‘Yes, but she didn’t believe in them,’ said Myles. ‘She always said, “Do whatever saves the most lives”. She would have made the deal to protect her refugees. Once she knew they were safe, she would have exposed Dick.’

‘And break the deal?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Myles. ‘But for the best reasons. Placidia’s morality was twisted, but it was twisted in a good way.’

Helen combed her hand through Myles’ hair, careful to avoid the scar on his scalp. Paramedics had given Myles some fresh bandages.

For Myles, there was still one final puzzle. ‘So how did you know, Helen?’ he asked. ‘And why did a journalist shout out that Placidia had died praying — she didn’t even believe in God.’

Helen smiled. She pulled out her mobile, and opened a browser. It showed the inside of the Pantheon. ‘Placidia. She set up a monitoring device.’

‘A camera? I know,’ said Myles. ‘But Dick Roosevelt found it.’

Helen shook her head. ‘Placidia was ahead of him. She knew Dick would be looking for it, so she had two. She was broadcasting live images onto the net the whole time she was there,’ said Helen, sounding respectful of Placidia for probably the first time ever. ‘That’s how everybody knew. And that’s how they saw live images of her praying — praying in church — when she was shot by the Senator who pretended to believe in Christian values.’

‘She gave her life to protect America from Dick Roosevelt,’ said Myles, completing the epitaph. ‘She didn’t just die for her refugees, but to save her country, too.’

Seventy-Four

Safiq knew nothing of the drama at the Pantheon — at least, not for several hours. When he did, he felt so very sorry for the woman who had died praying. He recognised her image immediately: it was the woman who had persuaded him to board the tanker in Libya. He had assumed she was Muslim, but discovering she prayed as a Christian made no difference to his admiration for her. The half-American lady had been true to her promise: she really had done her best for him and the other refugees. Only now she was dead did Safiq discover her name, and he vowed that, were he ever to have a daughter of his own, he would name her Placidia.

The hours before Safiq saw Placidia on the satellite TV in the US Embassy had been tense and chaotic. It had taken several minutes for him and the other refugees to accept they were safe. US Marines took control — both of the building and the Roosevelt Guardians, who were disarmed and arrested. The refugees were corralled again, but this time within the embassy, which meant they were on US territory. There they were given hospitality, food, and water. For Safiq, it was an unexpected welcome. American generosity was even warmer than he had hoped.

Safiq was one of the first to claim asylum. He had expected his bid to be rejected, and that he would be shipped back to Africa again. After being fired on by the Roosevelt Guardians, part of him feared a terrible fate — like the ‘barbarian tribes’ which had sought sanctuary a century before Rome collapsed, and which that empire had treated so badly.

But several countries offered to take a share of the migrants. Refugees were resettled throughout France, Spain and Italy, in the area once ruled by the ancient civilisation. And Safiq was one of the migrants to be accepted by their first choice — by the country which had become heir to the Roman Empire.

So, within a week, Safiq was making his new life in a country he loved. Safiq was in the United States. Placidia had taken him to America after all.