Last Prophecy of Rome

Eleven

Myles was woken by the noise of the wheels folding out from under the commercial airliner. A stewardess was standing over him: he needed to put on his seatbelt. The aircraft was about to land.

A wave of applause swept through the plane as it touched town with only a few bumps. The passengers — half of whom were Egyptians returning home — were glad to have landed safely.

As the plane taxied over the smooth tarmac, Myles saw the terminal buildings of Cairo’s main airport through the windows. White paint was peeling from sun-soaked walls. He saw some scaffolding not far from the runway, and an old bus probably used to transport people into passport control. Four airport workers were standing around a fuel tanker — they seemed to be lighting cigarettes.

Dick Roosevelt saw the men and winced. ‘How dangerous is that?’

Myles just smiled. Different places, different people.

A team of airport workers rolled a set of aircraft steps up to United Airlines flight 9856. The door was soon open, while the captain announced a standard greeting over the intercom. ‘Welcome to Cairo, capital of Egypt, where the temperature today will reach 105 degrees Fahrenheit…’

Myles kept looking outside: two well-built white men in suit jackets, chinos, neat blue shirts and sunglasses appeared at the bottom of the steps. With a sense of authority, they breezed up to the plane’s door as it swung open and invited themselves onto the passenger jet. Barely acknowledging the cabin staff, they were soon standing in front of Myles — and the Senator. ‘Senator, we’re from the Embassy, sir.’

Sam Roosevelt ignored the IDs offered by the two men. His body language responded as if the men’s arrival was completely normal. ‘OK, thanks guys.’ He had already taken his bag from the overhead locker and moved out to join the men.

‘Anything in baggage, sir?’

‘No. We won’t be staying here long.’

The two security men took the Senator’s jacket and bag, and guided him to the steps. With Myles and Dick behind, the five men were first to leave the plane.

Myles was struck by the air outside: colder than he had expected. But it was dawn in Cairo — the same latitude as Houston, Texas. Within an hour the sun would have risen. Everything would heat up soon.

Myles saw Dick reach for his passport, but one of the two security men gestured with his hand: he could put it away.

‘We’ve arranged a diplomatic passage for you, sir.’

Dick raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the pleasant surprise. His father didn’t react at all.

Three white SUVs drove over the runway to meet the five men at the bottom of the aircraft steps. Diplomatic plates, special antennae on the roofs, heavily tinted bulletproof-glass windows: US Embassy vehicles.

One of the security men opened the door to the middle vehicle. Sam Roosevelt climbed inside, leaving Myles and Dick to enter the same vehicle through other doors. As soon as the last security man was in the rear car, the convoy was off, soon picking up speed and driving straight out of the airport. Uniformed Egyptian guards — or soldiers, Myles couldn’t be sure — saluted the three-vehicle convoy as it passed through the exit gates.

Once free from the clutter of the airport, the convoy accelerated onto the main highway to the west. From the passing road-signs, Myles could tell they were avoiding central Cairo. Instead, they headed out to the desert, and fast. Flashing red and blue lights from the front vehicle challenged any car refusing to let the convoy overtake. The SUVs snaked in tight formation along the highway, between overgrown grass verges and kerbstones painted black and white. Myles saw shacks at the side of the road, carwashes which seemed to employ whole families, and a long line of trucks carrying goods from one end of Africa to another. But although some of the scenes were very foreign, many were also very familiar: a stall selling cans of Coke, a teenager in sneakers, and a banged-up Chevrolet. Little bits of America had reached Egypt already.

Inside the air-conditioned SUV, Dick admired the quality and design of the American Embassy vehicle, while Sam thought through their meeting with Juma. ‘Professor,’ began the Senator, turning to Myles. ‘If he comes out with any of his stuff about Rome, are you OK answering it?’

‘I’m not a professor, only a lecturer,’ admitted Myles. ‘But yes, I can deal with the history.’

The Senator nodded. ‘OK. And Dick, you don’t have a speaking part here. You understand?’

‘Understood, Senator.’

Dick called his father Senator? Myles could tell being asked to do nothing was obviously humiliating for Dick Roosevelt. Myles also guessed Dick was used to it. No son could ever shine when their father was as magnificent as Senator Sam, even when he’d just become the hero of New York.

After three hours of travel, as they passed a sign indicating they were close to the Libyan border, the convoy slowed and pulled over.

‘Time to cross-deck, Senator. This is as far as the Embassy can take you.’

Five cars were waiting for them, surrounded by more men in shades and combat vests.

Myles saw these men were more heavily armed. And unlike the Embassy guards, they made no effort to hide their weapons. Myles recognised their uniform immediately: Roosevelt Guardians.

In the rising mid-morning heat, Myles, the Senator and the Senator’s son climbed out of their official government escort. Small bottles of water were passed around amongst them while eager security men formed a protective box around their VIPs.

The Senator watched the Embassy vehicles depart, raising his water to them as a toast.

Dick spoke through a sarcastic smile. ‘Who needs government transport when you’ve got private security which actually takes you where you want to go?’ Then he laughed to himself. ‘Hey — who needs government at all?’

His father didn’t respond. Instead, he made a move towards the car door, and the new convoy prepared to roll out.

Within minutes they were approaching the Libyan border.

There, they were greeted by a single border guard. The man stood in the middle of the road, and waved at them to pull over. He was carrying a very battered AK-47 assault rifle.

Twelve

The convoy slowed to a stop, dutifully obeying the lone border guard. The guard beckoned the cars to bunch up until they were almost touching. Myles saw one of the Guardians step out of the front vehicle, lift his shades and offer a bunch of passports.

The guard took the papers, nodded, and wandered away to a hut made of concrete just out of Myles’ sight.

Several minutes passed.

Then Myles heard the driver’s radio crackle with a message for the convoy. It was from the car at the back. ‘They’ve just pulled a mine behind us,’ came the voice, unnerved. ‘We can’t reverse. Out.’

Myles turned to see African men with Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, who had appeared from nowhere, holding old Soviet-era anti-tank mines. They dropped them near the lead vehicle’s forward tyres. Nonchalant, the men pushed the mines until they were exactly in place. Then they moved away. None of the men bothered with eye contact.

The convoy could no longer drive away.

The Senator registered concern. ‘Is this normal?’

None of the Guardians knew who was meant to answer. Eventually the driver spoke. ‘No, Senator.’

‘Well you make sure you’re ready to move those goddamn mines if we need to leave in a hurry.’

‘We will, Sir.’

Myles kept watching and wondering. He knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what.

Several more minutes passed. Myles could see the Roosevelt Guardian standing outside in the sun was beginning to sweat.

Then, out of nowhere, a much larger group of armed men emerged. In two columns, they filed down both sides of the convoy. There they waited for several more minutes, until more men came, holding more mines. These were placed under the three middle vehicles in the convoy. Whatever armour the vehicles had underneath, Myles knew if the mines exploded, the SUVs would be obliterated.

Suddenly, one of the border guards leant forward and pulled on the door handle next to Dick Roosevelt. It opened.

The man tugged at Dick Roosevelt’s arm, and quickly dragged him out of the vehicle. Before he knew what had happened, Dick Roosevelt stood confused and blinking in the sun.

The open car door was swiftly closed again, and a message flickered over the convoy’s radios. ‘Lockdown — Lockdown!’

The cars locked their doors in unison. The men with guns heard the mechanisms clunk and reacted by pulling on the door handles. None opened.

The man holding Dick Roosevelt pointed his gun under the American’s chin. Myles saw a disfiguring scar across the man’s abdomen, and witnessed how casually he handled his weapon.

The Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside waiting for the passports moved over. He raised his shades, hoping for eye contact with the man holding the younger Roosevelt. ‘Can you release him, please?’ The Roosevelt Guardian made his point as politely as he could.

But the man smiled like he didn’t care. Myles could see his teeth were rotten. ‘We have to search the vehicles,’ he said.

‘Yes, but can you release this man first, please?’

‘We have to search the vehicles,’ repeated the man.

The Guardian pressed the radio mic clipped to his collar. ‘They say they need to search the vehicles before they release the Secondary Principal.’

There was a pause, then a reply came over the system. ‘OK, release the doors.’

The Senator slammed his fist against one of the seats. ‘No. That’s bad procedure. We sit tight.’

The driver quickly relayed his instruction back over the radio. ‘Negative: we do NOT release the doors,’ he shouted into the mic. ‘Repeat, do NOT release the doors. Sit tight. Out.’

The Senator checked that his order was being obeyed before he started muttering to Myles. ‘What sort of security business has this become? We can’t release the doors just because some pirate waves a gun around…’

The African man with the scar soon realised what had happened: the Americans were playing hardball…

He waited for a few moments to check they weren’t going to change their minds. Then he poked the gun barrel further into Dick Roosevelt’s chin. Dick Roosevelt called out, words which could only just be heard through the vehicles’ thick bulletproof glass. ‘Dad? They want you to open the doors,’ pleaded the younger Roosevelt. ‘Father?’

The Senator didn’t blink. His face simply said ‘America can’t give in to terrorists’.

Myles saw Dick Roosevelt trying to catch his father’s attention, but Sam Roosevelt refused to even turn his head.

Then the African nodded to one of his men, who took Dick Roosevelt from him and led him away, towards a concrete hut and out of sight of the main convoy. The hero of the Wall Street bomb looked terrified.

The gang leader called over the sole Roosevelt Guardian who was standing outside, unprotected. ‘Hey, you. Do you smoke?’ He asked his question casually.

‘Sometimes, yes,’ admitted the American private security man, trying to be helpful. He was a tall man with shades hanging round his neck. ‘Do you want a cigarette?’ He delved in his back pocket, reaching for a packet of smokes. Several of the Africans cocked their guns towards him, wary that he might be reaching for a weapon. But they relaxed when the man’s hand reappeared, armed only with a box of twenty. The Roosevelt Guardian held out the pack, offering them to the border guard.

The African waved them away. ‘No thanks. You ought to give that up.’

‘No use — I’ve tried,’ said the security man, trying to joke. ‘It’s not so easy.’

With an arrogant smile, the gang leader with the scar leaned back and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s very easy. I can stop you ever smoking again.’

The crack of a single gunshot rang out and the Roosevelt Guardian collapsed into the dirt, still holding his packet of cigarettes. Myles saw dark blood ooze out from beneath the Guardian’s body, soaking into the dust beside him.

Thirteen

The Roosevelt Guardians inside the vehicles stared in horror at the murder. One moved to jump out, desperate to offer life support to their fallen friend.

The Senator stopped him. ‘Stay inside. He’s dead — nothing you can do for him.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Myles watched as the border guards ambled around the body. One of them kicked the Roosevelt Guardian to check he had been killed. Another searched his pockets, pretending it was an official check but really just looking for things to steal. They allowed several more minutes to pass, making sure the impact of the murder sunk in.

Then their leader moved forward, his face right up against the bulletproof glass nearest to Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator,’ he hissed. ‘Open up your convoy so we can search your vehicles…’ He spoke his words coldly, then twisted his face on the glass and grinned. ‘Or we kill your son.’

The Senator lifted his palm to his forehead. Myles could tell what he was thinking: How had it come to this?

Sam Roosevelt had started his ‘Guardians’ when he was fresh out of Vietnam. By professionalising his private security company back in the seventies, Sam Roosevelt had made his Guardians the market leader. It took more than a decade for his methods to become the industry standard. By then he had captured most of the contracts. Roosevelt Guardians had become a brand. It gave Sam a claim to leadership even greater than the family name. How had Dick let the standards collapse?

Myles had seen the mistakes, too. Dick Roosevelt’s door should have been locked. They shouldn’t have let the guard with the passports leave the vehicle. The drivers shouldn’t have parked so close — they’d allowed the convoy to be boxed in.

These weren’t single accidents. They pointed to systematic failure. Under Dick Roosevelt, the Roosevelt Guardians had lost their discipline.

Myles heard the Senator curse himself. ‘Resting on our damn laurels…’ the old man muttered. It was a phrase from Ancient Rome. Myles guessed Sam Roosevelt probably knew laurels were awarded for military glory — past glory.

One of the Guardians turned to the Senator for guidance. ‘Sir? We need to answer.’

‘Well, what do your damn protocols say?’

The security man paused. He had no ready answer.

The Senator thumped the seat with his fist. ‘What has this firm become? You should have this worked out in advance. OK, what are your choices?’

‘Well, sit tight or let them search the vehicles, sir.’

‘OK, so what happens in each case?’ quizzed the Senator.

‘Well, if we sit tight, they’ll probably kill the Secondary Principal — your son, sir.’

‘And?’

The security guard was shocked by how easily the Senator could contemplate his son’s death. ‘Sir, after that, if we still sit tight, they’ll use the road mines to blow up our vehicles.’

The Senator nodded, then continued with his questions, which were fast becoming rhetorical. ‘And are the vehicles armoured to withstand the blasts?’

‘Er, don’t know. Probably not, sir.’ The Guardian wanted to be rescued from his one-man Senate inquiry. He turned to Myles for help.

Myles recognised the mines pushed under the vehicles. They were anti-tank mines, ex-Soviet stock — maybe TM-46s, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘If these vehicles have B6 level armour or less,’ explained Myles, ‘the mines underneath us would destroy them completely.’

The Roosevelt Guardian nodded — their armour was level B6.

The Senator bowed his head: the company he had created as a young man hadn’t even provided them with the right equipment. Anti-tank mines were an obvious risk, yet the Guardians had done nothing about it.

Myles could tell: the Senator understood he had to surrender. If they held out, the Senator would lose his son. If he held out some more, the gang would destroy all their vehicles. They’d be even more defenceless.

Myles saw Sam Roosevelt check the faces of the people in the car around him before he issued the instruction. ‘OK, release the doors,’ the old man grizzled.

As the doors were unlocked, Africans with guns up and down the convoy pulled on the handles. The small army of Roosevelt Guardians were taken out of all five vehicles and forced to line up beside the road. There they were disarmed, then instructed to lie face down with their hands behind their heads.

The sun was now almost directly above them.

The Senator and Myles were treated with more ceremony: given water and allowed to remain standing, while the Africans searched through all the vehicles and made sure they had all the firearms. Radios were collected, along with every other device the group possessed — a camera, some satellite phones, a homing beacon, and several GPS units. Finally, the anti-tank mines were pulled away from underneath the vehicles. Some of the Africans climbed inside and the cars were driven off.

Myles, the Senator, and their small private army were absolutely defenceless on the roadside just inside Libya.

One of the Roosevelt Guardians murmured what everybody already knew. ‘These can’t be real border guards. I don’t think they’re even from Libya…’

The African gang leader — the small man with the scar and the swagger — approached, his gun loose about his shoulder. He snorted at the Guardian, as if to say ‘who cares?’, then moved on towards his real prize: Senator Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator, thank you for coming,’ he grinned.

‘You must be Juma.’

‘Yes, I am. And soon you’ll wish you’d never heard of me.’

Juma waved his gun at the Roosevelt Guardians lying face down on the ground. You now have a choice, Senator,’ he said, staring Sam in the eye. ‘I’m about to give you a gun. Either you kill three of your men,’ grinned Juma. ‘Or I will kill them all.’

Fourteen

The Senator looked at Juma in disgust. Was this man serious?

Juma cocked his head. He was chewing and smiling, as if he had a narcotic in his mouth.

The Senator's eyes squinted in the sun. He was trying to determine whether this psychopath had any humanity about him at all.

Juma let the Senator ponder his problem while he strolled over towards Myles. ‘And you must be the great Myles Munro. The man with the strange brain.’

Myles nodded, unconcerned by the insult.

Juma looked up at the Englishman curiously, one eye closed to keep out the sun. ‘Myles: kill three men so that ten others may live? What would you do?’

Myles let the issue tumble around in his mind, acutely aware there was no good outcome. He tried to understand Juma: small, arrogant, ruthless — and probably on qat. Juma had just triumphed over the Senator — killing one of the Americans, and forcing the rest out of their vehicles unarmed. Even though he had scored a victory, Juma wanted more.

No way to win this: Myles had to distract Juma. He glanced over to the Senator, before returning to the pirate warlord. ‘Do you still have Dick?’ he asked.

Juma nodded. He leaned over to someone behind him and gestured with his hand.

A few moments later Dick Roosevelt was led back up to the main group. His clothes were ruffled, and he looked pale and very shaken. Perhaps a bruise around his mouth. But he was safe.

The Senator opened his arms and called out to him. ‘Son.’

Dick looked fearfully at Juma before he moved. With a swagger, Juma gave his permission.

Dick Roosevelt crossed over to his father, who put his arms around him, rubbing him on the back. ‘Glad you’re safe, son.’

Dick Roosevelt said nothing. It was as if he knew his father had contemplated sacrificing him for the rest of the convoy. Then he began whimpering in his father’s arms.

BANG.

The unmistakeable sound of a gunshot cracked through the desert. Myles and the Roosevelts, father and son reunited, looked over in unison to where the sound had come from.

One of the Guardians lying face down on the ground had just been shot through the head.

Juma raised his gun up again. ‘Twelve left, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The offer stands: you kill three or I kill them all.’

The Senator shook his head in disbelief. ‘Look, punk, we came here to offer you a last chance of survival. If you want to play death games then you’re going to die so quickly…’

Juma just kept smiling. He walked over to another one of the private security men. The man was quivering in fear. Juma nuzzled the barrel of his automatic weapon into the fat on the man’s neck and grinned as he turned his face up at Myles and the Senator. He tensed his finger on the trigger.

‘Wait…’

Myles’ call made Juma raise his eyebrows in a look of mock intrigue.

But only for a moment.

BANG.

In an instant, another of the Guardians was dead. Blood from his lifeless body began seeping into the dust.

The remaining Guardians were terrified, trying to remain as still as they could, while knowing that they too could be killed at any moment.

Myles couldn’t allow this to keep happening. ‘What are you trying to do, Juma?’ he called out. ‘You’re trying to threaten America? You’re trying to get us to kill our own security guards? Why?’

Juma strolled back, still smiling. ‘I’m teaching you about American values, Mr Munro.’

The Senator pulled a face, as if to say, ‘American values? Is this guy serious?’

Juma could see the reaction. ‘You would rather let twelve men die than save nine if it meant dirtying your own hands.’

Myles hit back. ‘Juma: killing unarmed men on the ground is not “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”.’

‘No, it’s not, Mr Munro, “sir”,’ Juma mocked. ‘But Americans will happily let Africans die as long as it means you don’t get bloody yourself.’

Finally Myles and the Senator could see the point Juma was making.

Myles tried to console the Somali gang leader some more. He realised he had to offer a compromise before Juma restated his ultimatum. ‘OK, how about this: you keep these men hostage, while you take me, the Senator and his son wherever you want to take us,’ he offered. ‘We have our negotiation, then we all leave. OK?’

Juma turned the offer over in his mind. He clearly hadn’t expected it. He glanced over at Sam and Dick Roosevelt. Both had expressions on their faces saying ‘do it’.

He looked up at the sky: cloudless. Juma knew about satellites and knew he was probably being watched from several hundred miles above by high-tech hardware. Maybe by a lethal drone not so far away.

He nodded. Waving his hand again, one of his men made a call on their radio. A few minutes later a stream of battered Nissan pick-ups drove up — some had rusted bullet holes and most had machine guns mounted on the back. Armed men moved towards the Roosevelt Guardians on the ground. They bound each Guardian’s wrists together with wire, then placed blindfolds over their eyes. One by one — each Roosevelt Guardian held by two of Juma’s men — they were guided onto the beaten-up trucks. When all the men were loaded onto the vehicles, Juma gave the order and the Guardians were driven away, bouncing around in the back while dust kicked up from the worn tyres beneath them.

Two pick-ups remained, along with Juma and five of his men. Myles, Sam and Dick looked at each other as if to say ‘what next?’

Juma, still smiling, flicked his head to one side to indicate the three men should climb into the back of one of the pick-ups. The Senator led the way, followed by Myles and Dick, who was still shaking with fear.

Once all three were aboard, Juma jumped in to join them. Then he bashed the side of the vehicle to indicate the two pick-ups could move off. ‘Now it’s time for some serious negotiations, gentlemen,’ he bragged.

The last two pick-ups drove away from the border, leaving behind three dead Roosevelt Guardians and some scuffled dirt on the roadside.

As Myles saw the last of Egypt disappear from view behind him, he wondered how they could ever escape from the mad pirate leader who was taking them into the unknown interior of Libya.

Fifteen

When Myles taught military history to his students back at Oxford University, he often spoke about Libya. The North Africa desert war, 1941-43, had given Britain its first proper chance to fight back against the Nazis. The Nazis had won initially. The Germans rolled along the coast road to Egypt. They even threatened the Suez Canal. There was a sense of ‘every man for himself’ as Hitler’s war machine swept the British troops away. Some feared the Brits had lost their will to fight. But somehow, the British Army had rediscovered its strength. Some said it was codebreakers, which allowed German supply lines to be intercepted. Some said it was equipment from America. Others argued it was the new troop commander, General Montgomery. But Myles lectured that it was something else, something innate. The Brits stopped losing when they rediscovered their sense of duty.

As the battered pick-ups swayed and rolled along desert tracks, Myles caught the faces of people in some of the villages. They were not Libyans but African migrants. Most had been drafted into the country by the dictator Gaddafi and now abandoned. A few had fled here more recently — Myles guessed from Mali, after Al Qaeda had been kicked out of the country by Western troops. Some seemed hostile, some bemused. One or two failed to realise that the three foreigners in the back of the technical were being driven under duress. But most gave a gesture to indicate they were pleased that Juma and his gang had taken in some rich Westerners. Juma puffed himself up at their reaction. He was the local hero.

The vehicle started to manoeuvre down backstreets. They were in Sirte — the coastal town which remained loyal to Gaddafi until his bloody end, and home to a tribe which still rejected the new government in Tripoli. This was the heart of lawless Libya, the place Juma had made his base, and where the years since the Arab Spring had allowed him to make millions through extortion and racketeering.

The vehicle pulled up in a walled courtyard. They had reached their destination.

The journey had probably taken three hours, and the sixty-nine-year-old Senator was looking dehydrated. The old man eyed both Myles and his son. Without words, he confirmed he was still in charge, and that he would lead the negotiations, which were sure to start soon.

Several more armed men approached. Most wore headscarves, some were dressed in old army uniforms, and a few had cheap Western clothes which fitted poorly. Only their weapons — they all carried AK-47s — identified the group as a single militia.

Juma jumped down and shouted orders in a dialect Myles couldn’t understand. The Somalis started to unload their three hostages. The Senator tried to brush them away, annoyed at their rough treatment, but was eventually pulled off. Dick and Myles accepted it was time to be led off the vehicle.

When all three men were standing on the dirt, they were ordered to form a line. Then Juma took a headscarf handed to him by one of his men. It took him more than a minute to put it on.

Why does he take so long with his headscarf? Myles wondered.

With his headgear in place, Juma guided them down an alley, around a corner, and into the side entrance of a large concrete building. Myles saw the old bullet holes in the wall and guessed this was a former oil ministry office block, probably built by the Gaddafi regime many years ago. The offices had long ceased to function.

The men were directed up rough concrete stairs to the second level. There, Juma ordered them to sit cross-legged on the floor. Then the armed Libyans stepped back, keeping their guns poised and ready, to leave just their leader sitting next to the three Westerners.

‘Welcome to Libya, gentlemen!’ Juma said the words with a flourish, and showed his yellow teeth as he grinned at the three men.

The Senator wasn’t fazed. ‘OK, Mr Juma,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Tell us what you want, so I can say “no” and you can shoot us.’

Juma laughed, but it was clear that the Senator was serious. Myles saw Dick Roosevelt gulp, afraid that his father’s firm line in negotiations was shortening his life expectancy.

Juma said nothing for several moments. Then he raised his hand. Somewhere behind Myles’ back there was movement, and several plates of food were brought out. Dried fish, flat bread and an unfamiliar green vegetable were laid out before them. There followed metal dishes, water and some cups. A bowl was passed around, and the three men were invited to wash their hands in it, before drying them on a dirty rag. Still without speaking, Juma started to eat the food, eventually followed by Dick, Myles and, after much protest, the Senator. Silence lasted throughout most of the meal, broken only by the occasional request to pass something or the chink of metal on the concrete floor.

Finally, Juma spoke, still looking down at his food. ‘What I want, gentlemen, is this: I want your assistance.’

Senator Sam Roosevelt spluttered on his food. He had been expecting demands — probably something ideological. Something he would have to refuse. But assistance? This was something new. ‘You want assistance? You kill three of my guards and drive us here to ask for assistance?’ He hissed the word through his teeth, as if the idea was as ridiculous as it was offensive.

‘Yes, Senator.’

The Senator shook his head in disbelief, looking back down at the food in front of him. ‘Well, what sort of assistance do you want?’

Juma’s face acknowledged the question. He had anticipated it. He pulled out some paper from inside his shirt, which he unfolded and placed beside him. Myles saw notes were written on it in Arabic. Something about the loopy handwriting made Myles think it had been written by a woman.

Juma started talking from his notes. ‘Gentlemen, you know why my people have come to need assistance from America?’

The Senator humoured him. ‘Tell us.’

‘First, because we have run out of food. The land here grows no more grain.’

The Senator looked dreary: hard-luck stories from people in his state were the worst part of his job. He’d had voters complain about their cars breaking down, their pets dying and their wives running off. Some old Joe trying to make him responsible for their misfortune. When he met these people, he would try to make plain that acts of God were beyond his remit. Juma was just the same. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your grain, but I’m not responsible for…’

‘Senator,’ interrupted Juma. ‘You are responsible.’

‘How am I responsible for grain in Libya, thousands of miles away from my home?’

‘Because, Senator, our best farmland was taken over by big oil companies. And the oil companies are all linked to America.’

The Senator was knocked back again. He hadn’t expected that. ‘So you’re asking for food aid?’

‘Yes, Senator,’ nodded Juma.

‘That’s all — just food aid?’

‘No.’ Juma looked down again at his piece of paper. ‘Senator, you know we were all in Gaddafi’s militia?’

‘Yes, he paid you, right?’ teased Sam Roosevelt.

‘That’s right. But we had no choice,’ asserted Juma, justifying his actions without accepting he needed to. ‘Me and the people you’ve seen here and in the villages: we’re not Libyans. We’re from all over Africa. Poor places, like Somalia and Niger. Most of us were invited here by Gaddafi, then we had to become mercenaries for him.’

‘OK,’ acknowledged the Senator, saying it as though he wanted Juma to continue but not to suggest he had sympathy.

‘Well, Senator, I need your help to stop the reprisals.’

‘Reprisals?’

‘Yes. The Libyans, when they find out we were mercenaries, try to kill us. We need the rule of law.’

The Senator looked Juma in the eye. Was he serious? ‘Mr Juma, the rule of law will certainly reach you very soon…’

Juma held the Senator’s gaze for a bit, then adjusted the headscarf around his ears before looking back down at his plate.

The Senator levelled up to him. ‘OK, Juma, let’s assume you’re serious. How do you want the rule of law, exactly?’

Juma tugged at his ear again. He paused before he replied. ‘Senator, I want American troops on the streets. I want Libya to become safe for my people again. I want all of Africa to become more like America.’

The Senator smiled, then slowly shook his head. Sending US troops to Libya was doomed. It would be just like Iraq or Somalia. Libya would become another costly quagmire. Another Afghanistan. ‘If we sent US soldiers onto the streets of Sirte, they’d just become targets,’ he explained. ‘All the Libyan people would rally against them — just as the people of America would rise up if we had African troops in Kansas.’

Juma paused again. He moved his head to one side, letting his ear rest unnaturally on his hand. ‘So that’s a “no”, then?’

‘Correct, that’s a no: we can’t send US troops into Libya. When we tried something similar where you pirates come from, we got our asses kicked. But we might be able to help you in other ways…’ As the Senator was speaking he became increasingly aware that Juma wasn’t really listening. Instead, the warlord was trying to fix something to do with his ear and his scarf.

Then the Senator saw it. And in one swift movement — too fast for Juma to respond — he leant forward and brushed off the Somali’s headgear.

Juma’s guards, who had been standing passively at the back through most of the exchange, suddenly moved forward. Guns clicked. Dick Roosevelt covered his head, expecting bullets to fly.

But Juma just raised his hand.

His militia men, who had been standing guard, slowed up. Gradually they lowered their weapons. As Juma looked at them, they understood, and walked back to where they had been.

Juma raising his hand was more than a gesture of calm. It was also an admission.

It showed to Myles and Dick that, fitted to the left side of head, previously hidden by his headscarf, was an earpiece.

The Senator slowly plucked out the device and held it in front of all their faces.

Despite the old American holding up evidence that Juma was not the leading man he claimed to be, the pirate leader refused to look ashamed. ‘Yes, Senator. I have been receiving advice,’ he admitted.

‘Advice or instructions, Juma?’

Juma didn’t respond, as if he didn’t have permission to answer.

The Senator smirked, proud to have got one over on his captor. ‘Then, Mr Juma, you had better tell us who’s really making decisions here.’

Juma said nothing.

The Senator started to get annoyed. ‘Who wrote that note?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘Who’s on the other end of this wire?’

Still Juma said nothing. Myles sensed growing tension in the room: this was more than an impasse. If Juma kept refusing to answer, the situation would turn nasty.

Dick Roosevelt was looking scared. ‘What my father is trying to say, is…’ he offered, trying to mediate.

‘Shut up, Dick,’ shouted the Senator, his eyes fixed on Juma. ‘Come on, Mr Pirate, tell us who’s in charge here.’

Myles heard a quiet metallic click from behind him: somewhere a safety catch was being turned off.

Juma looked down at his own AK-47. It was still beside him and within reach.

Dick Roosevelt’s eyes darted around, checking out escape routes.

Then a door opened behind Juma. Sunlight burst through, making it hard for the four men sitting on the floor to see more than a silhouette walking through it.

The Senator squinted in disbelief: to him, the person approaching didn’t look human. Just a mass of flowing cloth, like a dark ghost emerging from a halo of light.

Then he realised: it was a woman, dressed in full Islamic dress. The woman approached, until she stood above Juma. Then she carefully sat down, and lifted her hijab.

Myles recognised her face immediately.

The Senator nodded, as if the woman’s appearance confirmed his expectations. He couldn’t resist the chance to humiliate Juma one more time. ‘So the old saying is almost true,’ he mocked. ‘Behind every strong man, there’s not a strong woman, but a wrong one.’

Sixteen

Placidia looked just as Myles imagined she would. Her eyes still beamed a fierce intelligence, her face was still determined. The two decades since they had last met had given her dignity. Unlike other beautiful woman Myles had known at university, Placidia had not grown wide-hipped or flabby. Instead, she looked poised, athletic even. Her skin was taut, perhaps too taut, as if the battles she had continually been fighting with the world were finally starting to wear on her.

Myles remembered how radical she used to be. Placidia had led student marches against the massacres in Bosnia in the early nineties, blaming Britain for not doing enough to stop the killing. She had become a vegetarian at university, and led a campaign to make sure the college canteens always offered a non-meat option. She had been a feminist, an anti-poverty campaigner, even an eco-warrior. But unlike most of the students who took up trendy causes, Placidia had followed her convictions through to the end, even when they led to unpleasant places.

Myles and Placidia had not seen each other since those distant days. Their eyes connected, and he remembered the confusing mixture of emotions she had inspired in him half-a-lifetime ago. Even now he felt his pulse quicken. ‘Placidia…’

‘Myles, hello.’ She said his name without any emotion at all.

Myles wasn’t sure how to respond. Talking in the presence of Placidia’s husband limited what Myles could say — he knew Juma could carry out whatever he was threatening against the USA at any time. ‘This is where you live?’ he asked.

‘Yes. You’ve met my husband. He and I are determined to do whatever we can to help these people from all over Africa, trapped here in Libya.’ Placidia talked as though she was making a speech. ‘We want to bring them all the things they should have — all the things to which an American, like me, is entitled.’

The Senator scoffed. ‘Ma’am, you may be American, or half-American, or whatever you are. But nobody’s entitled to anything unless they make it themselves. Not even Americans.’

Placidia confronted him directly. ‘Senator. Americans are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Do you know what sort of life most Africans are entitled to?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Most are lucky if they survive childhood. Adult men get sucked into war, where they die. Adult women die giving birth.’

The Senator raised his eyebrows, unsure what to say.

Placidia didn’t relent. ‘And do you know what sort of liberty most African migrants enjoy?’ She barely waited for the Senator to reply. ‘None, Senator. There is no liberty of the mind because there is no proper education here. Not for migrants. There is no liberty of the soul because of the war and poverty. The new democratic regime of Libya talks about liberty, but really they just want us to obey them…’

‘OK, OK.’ The Senator waved his hand dismissively as he cut her off. ‘So Libya’s a shit place. We can agree on that. What do you want me to do about it?’

Placidia composed herself, reining back her anger. ‘Senator, you know when the US constitution was first written, it counted black men as worth only three-fifths of a white man?’

The Senator nodded. Although it was often brushed over in praiseful accounts of the founding fathers, Placidia was referring to a historical truth: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and the others had signed up to the ‘three-fifths’ compromise so that southern states weren’t over-represented in Congress. The paragraph was only removed from the constitution after the US Civil War, by the fourteenth amendment. ‘Correct, lady. And American women had no vote at all until 1920. So?’

‘So, Senator, you’ll agree with me, that everybody should count as one, and nobody as more than one?’ said Placidia, her face open, as if to pretend there was no trick in her words.

The Senator was sceptical, but didn’t want to argue the point. ‘Go on.’

‘So if an African migrant here in Libya dies, it’s just as much of a tragedy as if an American dies. If you can help these landless people, then you have a duty to, sir.’

The Senator looked down, paused for a moment, then shook his head. He sympathised with Placidia’s situation. He cared for the African migrants trapped in Libya, as he cared for people all around the world. But he couldn’t do much to help them. ‘Placidia, we can’t send US troops here. It wouldn’t work.’

She began quoting him. ‘“The laws of the land should reach beyond the sea” — your words, Senator.’

‘They are my words, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But that doesn’t mean we can help.’

‘I thought you’d say that,’ replied Placidia. ‘Which is why the only way for our people — these hard-working migrants — to get the life, liberty and happiness they deserve is…’ She paused before the punchline, making sure she held the Senator’s gaze as she delivered it. ‘Senator, for you to let them settle in the continental United States.’

The Senator raised his hands, as if to gesture what a ridiculous idea it was.

Myles, Dick and Juma all turned to Placidia, wondering how she would react.

Placidia faked a smile. ‘So that’s a “no”, then, Senator?’

‘Goddamn right it’s a “no”,’ confirmed Roosevelt. ‘The voters in the US would never allow it. Any elected official who proposed mass immigration into America would be kicked straight out of Congress.’ The Senator was half-laughing at the idea as he spoke.

Placidia nodded. She had anticipated this, too. ‘Then the US will have to be forced to live up to its duties, and to the Constitution of which it is so proud.’

‘Lady, you can’t force the United States to do anything.’

‘Yes I can. I will bring down the United States as the Roman Empire was brought down. Call it the last prophecy of Rome if you like: that the American Empire will share its fate.’

The Senator sat stunned.

Placidia rammed home her ultimatum. ‘Last chance: let our people settle in the continental USA, or your country is doomed.’

Seventeen

The Senator squinted in disbelief. He was becoming increasingly certain he was dealing with a crackpot. The only question was whether he should humour her or tell her straight. Being Sam Roosevelt, he had to tell her straight. ‘Lady, you’re mad.’

Placidia had obviously prepared for such a response. ‘Really, Senator? You accept that America was created with the Roman Republic in mind? That’s why the rule of law — a very Roman invention — was placed at the centre of the US Constitution. That’s why you sit in the Senate, modelled on the Roman Senate. That’s why you have the Capitol building, like the Roman Capitol, and a President who controls the armed forces like the Roman Emperor. That’s why you offer US citizenship as a prize, just as the Romans offered citizenship to the bravest foreign slaves and soldiers. That’s why you cleared the Native Americans from their land, like the Romans wiped out local tribes…’

‘Enough.’ The Senator raised his hand. He had met women like Placidia before. He hated their self-righteousness. ‘Nobody disputes that America was based on Rome,’ he acknowledged. ‘What makes you mad, ma’am, is that you think you can bring America down.’

‘You don’t think we can bring America down, Senator?’

‘No, I don’t. I reckon you could bring down some of our passenger jets. You might smuggle a few bombs into our country and kill some ordinary folks who are going about their business. That’s what terrorists like you do. But it barely scratches us. We lose more people in road accidents every single week than we have in all the terrorist attacks since — and including — 9/11.’

Placidia exhaled dismissively. The Senator clearly hadn’t got it. ‘I’m not talking about small bombs, or even big ones, Senator.’ This wasn’t terrorism, she explained. It was about making the United States stay true to its principles. Then she looked him squarely in the eye. ‘America is in decline.’

Sam Roosevelt jerked back his face. He raised an eyebrow, accepting that she may be half-right. He allowed her to continue.

‘You know America’s in decline, Senator. And the American people are starting to realise it too: most of them are working harder than their parents did just to get by. Many know their children will have less than they had. Just like Rome before it fell. So, to help America help itself, I’m threatening to speed up that decline until the United States stays true to its constitution.’

Myles shook his head. This was a different Placidia to the idealist young woman he had known at university. ‘You’re threatening to kill Americans if you don’t get your way?’ he said, trying to hide the disbelief from his voice.

‘Don’t you see, Myles: I’m trying to save people. I’m trying to save these poor people from Chad, Somalia, Sudan — all over Africa — so they can live peacefully in the US. And I’m trying to save Americans, too, to stop the country going the way of the Romans.’

‘And you’re doing that by threatening to kill people?’

Placidia’s face showed she was disappointed with Myles. ‘Don’t you remember what we learned together about the Roman Empire? Have you forgotten everything in The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire? Everything you need to know about Rome is in that book — and if you want to save America, you should look at it again…’

Calmly, the Senator gestured to Myles that he should be quiet. Sam Roosevelt decided that if Placidia wanted to give a history lesson, he should let her. He invited her to speak.

Placidia told the story of Rome. From a humble village in a country on the western edge of the known world, it grew in size and strength until it challenged the great powers of the day. Just as the US had faced down the Soviets, the Romans defeated the once-mighty empire of Carthage. Just as America emerged from the British Empire, adopted much of their culture and then overtook it, the Romans did the same to ancient Greece. Rome, like America, was proud to be a republic, led by free men and slave-owners. It became the world’s first superpower.

At its height, the Romans controlled the whole of civilisation, since beyond its huge borders lived only primitive tribes and marauders who couldn’t hope to match the quality of life enjoyed within the Empire. A system of roads, laws and taxes brought peace. For many centuries, Roman society was the most prosperous the world had ever known. ‘Just like twentieth-century America,’ explained Placidia.

‘But in the year 376, war in the east drove a group of Goths and Huns from their land, and the refugees sought sanctuary in the Roman Empire. The Romans put them in what today would be called concentration camps, where they froze. They were denied shelter or food,’ she recounted. ‘Some of the Roman soldiers sold dog meat to the starving refugees in exchange for their girls, who became personal slaves.’

Myles nodded. He knew what happened next, and listened to Placidia complete the story. ‘So the Goths and Huns made a mass escape, and started fighting the Romans from inside the Empire’s borders. Within fifty years they had raided Rome itself, and within a century the Empire was gone.’

Dick Roosevelt shook his head. ‘OK, Placidia. Your people have it tough,’ he accepted. ‘But nobody’s demanding they sell their children to get a Green Card.’

Placidia’s voice became firmer as she addressed her captives. ‘Senator Roosevelt, Richard Roosevelt and Myles: you all need to understand why the Roman Empire fell, because otherwise the United States will fall in the same way. But the real reason the Roman Empire collapsed has become a secret. Powerful people have hidden it, and given us the official verdict of history, which is untrue.’

The Senator tried to ridicule her. ‘Well, missy, can you give us a clue why Rome fell?’

‘Yes, here’s a clue, Senator: Emperor Valerian,’ announced Placidia. ‘Valerian went into battle in the Middle East in 260AD but was taken hostage. Rome found a new emperor, and Valerian never returned. He died as a prisoner.’

The Senator guessed what was coming next. ‘So you’re taking me prisoner?’

‘Yes, Senator. You and your son are the closest thing there is to America’s imperial blood.’

The Senator wasn’t fazed. He just asked: ‘And Myles?’

‘Just as Valerian’s advisors were sent back to the Empire with the terrible news,’ said Placidia, ‘Myles will be sent back to America to tell them of our ultimatum.’

Eighteen

Juma poked his gun into Myles’ ribs, forcing him up.

Myles obeyed. He bent down to shake hands with the Senator and his son, unsure whether either would survive. ‘Good luck, Dick,’ he said to Richard Roosevelt, who replied with a thin smile but no words. The young hero of New York had much on his mind.

Myles turned to Sam Roosevelt. ‘Anything you want me to tell people back in the US?’

‘Yeah,’ huffed the Senator. ‘Some of the suits in Langley will try to keep this quiet. Don’t let them: the people of America need to know they’re under attack.’

He said the words looking straight at Placidia. Placidia nodded — she had no plans to keep this secret, either.

Myles was escorted from the room by Juma and two of his militiamen. He caught sight of Placidia as he left. She glanced at him with a confident look, as if to say ‘we’ll meet again soon’. Myles was too stunned and confused to respond.

Outside, the sun was about to set. Myles had to step carefully down the uneven stairs from the building which led to the ground. There Juma punched his thigh, indicating he should get into a bashed-up taxi which was waiting for him.

It was as Myles was climbing in that Juma demanded he take something with him. ‘This is for the people back home…’ laughed the Somali pirate as he handed it over, then turned his back on Myles and swaggered away.

Myles looked down at what he’d been given: a bottle of All-American Steak Sauce. He checked the bottle was normal — it was — then shook his head in bemusement: Juma was clearly mad.

One of the militiamen sat down beside Myles and the taxi driver was waved off. Myles was being driven away.

The swift dusk soon gave way to the full dark of the night. By then, Myles was well on to the open roads and being driven east, back to the safety of Egypt. It was a long journey, but there was no time for sleep. He had too many questions.

Myles still couldn’t understand Placidia. She had always seemed so idealistic, naively so. So how could she threaten to bring down America? It would mean thousands, probably millions of deaths. Where was the idealism in that?

And how had Placidia become married to the psychopath, Juma? Myles tried to separate the question from his own feelings for the woman. It was true: he had liked her very much at university. He had hoped their friendship would become romantic — properly romantic. Physical. He remembered once inviting her for a coffee after their tutorial together. Myles had wanted it to lead somewhere, but she had been too involved in her latest student protest. Despite the obvious, almost electric attraction, they had never been able to engage at an emotional level. Myles wondered if Placidia could relate to anyone in the normal way. She was always too driven, too motivated, too determined to save the world.

Then there was the biggest issue: the threat itself. What would Placidia and Juma do to America? Clearly they thought they didn’t need to carry out much of their threat to make America concede. But, on this, Myles thought they had made a serious misjudgement. America was not the sort of country to be bowed by threats. The opposite was true: the more America was bullied to do something, the less likely it was to do it. Surely Placidia could see that? Myles knew Placidia was astonishingly intelligent. How could she have made such a mistake?

Myles tried to remember his history. What had brought down the Roman Empire? He stared up at the stars as the taxi drove along the desert highway. Vague memories wafted through his mind. Why had Rome collapsed?

He was startled by the door of the taxi slamming shut: the militiaman who had accompanied him had jumped out on a dark corner just before the Egyptian border. This was a different border post to the one Myles had passed through on his way into the country.

The taxi driver already had Myles’ passport, and showed it to the official border guard as they left Libya, and again to the police as they crossed into Egypt. Myles watched the signposts on the road: he was being driven to Alexandria.