Last Prophecy of Rome

Nineteen

Myles became bleary again, and only woke fully as the sky began to lighten. The bottle of steak sauce given to him by Juma had fallen onto the floor of the vehicle and broken open. The taxi driver saw it too, but didn’t seem to mind. He was opening Myles’ door. ‘Mr Munro, I leave you now,’ said the driver, patting him on the back and handing him his passport. ‘American Embassy — that way.’

The man pointed at a heavily fortified building set back some way from the road. Myles recognised it: the American consulate in Alexandria. It had been strengthened since Al Qaeda had destroyed the US embassies in Kenya and Sudan in 1998.

Myles stumbled alone on the road as the taxi drove off. One of the Egyptians guarding the consulate saw him and came over, offering a bottle of water. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the guard.

Myles nodded, acknowledging that he was dehydrated. ‘Yes, I need to report a very serious threat to America.’

Myles was soon welcomed into the consulate by the Senior Political Counsellor — a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a relaxed manner. After his passport was checked, Myles was guided along corridors and through several different secure doors into an underground debriefing room. Sparkling table water and perfectly cut sandwiches were set out for him, and he was invited to eat as he talked, even though the crumbs from his food disturbed the antiseptic atmosphere of the room.

As he recounted the events of the day before, the Counsellor used a speakerphone on the table to summon ever greater numbers of people into the room: first a security expert to hear how the Roosevelt Guardians had been hijacked at the Libyan border, then a consular official to make contact with the hostages’ families, and an expert on terrorism to take notes on Juma and Placidia. Myles had been interviewed for more than twenty minutes when a voice came back through the phone, asking to clarify a point. Only then did Myles realise even more people had been listening in to the whole of his talk.

The Senior Political Counsellor apologised. ‘Sorry, it’s Langley,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, Langley.’

Just as the Senator had predicted, the CIA men from Langley wanted the whole issue kept quiet. ‘We can’t afford this to get out,’ came the voice on the line, squelched by the telecommunications equipment which made the call impossible to intercept as it was beamed across an ocean. ‘It’ll cause panic.’

Myles shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, the Senator was very clear: the people need to know that they’re under attack.’

‘Sorry, Mr Munro,’ said the official. ‘Policy.’

Myles screwed up his face in disbelief. What did ‘Policy’ mean? It sounded just like the sort of word the CIA could use to cut off debate and justify whatever they liked.

There was a pause, and someone summoned Myles’ host out of the room.

He returned a few minutes later, frowning in concern. ‘Myles, we’re going to fly you back to the States for a full debriefing,’ explained the Counsellor. ‘We need you there as soon as possible. OK?’

Myles realised he had little choice in the matter.

He was soon being driven to a military airfield where a large C130 cargo plane awaited him. He climbed aboard, accompanied by three very tall marine guards. The plane taxied along the runway, and, minutes later, he was flying out west, back across the North African desert and the Atlantic.

Back to the States.

From the conversation in the consulate, Myles was expecting to be flown to a large military base in the US where he could be kept confined, so he would not be able to tell the world about the threat from the African migrants of Libya. So he was surprised when the C130 landed in a commercial airport. Only once the main door opened did he realise which one: it was JFK. He was back in New York.

Myles was even more surprised to see a loving face waiting to meet him. Helen ran up to him as he climbed down the steps. ‘Myles, you’re safe!’ She gave him a hug. Myles held her close. Without words, he smiled, then kissed her.

Only then, as they embraced on the tarmac, did Myles realise Helen was not the only person waiting for him.

‘Is the Senator still alive, Mr Munro?’

‘Mr Munro, how serious is the threat to America?’

Myles squinted as artificial lights were beamed into his face. Journalists.

Several New York policemen were holding back a crowd of thirty or forty media people, all scrumming for attention. Cameras flashed and microphones were pointed towards him. Myles recognised at least two famous faces amongst them — anchormen from major news channels.

‘How did they find out?’ Myles asked.

Helen looked at him, bemused. ‘The video, of course.’

‘What video?’

But before Helen could answer, a car drove up and stopped in front of them. Myles and Helen were invited to sit in the back seats. Through the window, Myles could see the journalists hunch back in disappointment — they had failed to get their interview.

Sitting beside him on the back seat, Helen eyed Myles up and down: her Englishman looked battered and weary. Then she noticed a stain on his ankle. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘Looks like you went to a barbecue — is that Steak Sauce?’ She started to pick at it, confirming that it was indeed All-American Steak Sauce.

Myles gave her a look which said, ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you…’

Shaking her head, she took out her mobile phone, retrieving a film file from its memory, and setting it to play.

Myles watched as the screen went black, then faded up to show a street scene from Arab North Africa. Two children — both obviously malnourished — were picking something from an open sewer. Then the picture changed to show a wide shot of buildings in downtown Sirte.

The voiceover began. ‘This is Sirte today.’ It was Placidia’s voice. ‘Our children die from diseases which could be cured with nickels. Gunmen destroy our homes. Oil companies from America have stolen our best farmland…’ Then Placidia herself appeared, pleading to the camera. ‘North Africa is like this because the people of America have made it this way.’

Helen looked across at Myles, gauging his reaction. Myles just kept staring at the small video screen.

The image cut to show Senator Roosevelt looking resigned and weary. Standing outside, in front of a concrete wall, the old man started reading from a sheet. His tone was rich with sarcasm, just to make absolutely clear he didn’t believe anything he was saying. ‘My name is Senator Sam Roosevelt,’ he recited. ‘And I agree that the United States is doomed like the Roman Empire. That’s why we need to change the way we behave and be true to our constitution. And that’s why we need to let the Africans trapped in Libya settle in the continental USA…’

The picture changed to show Richard Roosevelt standing loyally by his father, and looking more resolute than when Myles had left him. The younger Roosevelt read his script more seriously. ‘My father and I are now prisoners here in Libya. The people holding us have said they will inflict on America the same fate as the Roman Empire unless their people are allowed to settle in our country.’ Richard Roosevelt looked up at the camera and smiled nervously before continuing. ‘I don’t know exactly what they’re planning. Sam and I will keep trying to convince them not to do it until they kill us. So, I ask all of you…’

Richard Roosevelt paused, then turned towards someone out of shot and frowned, with a ‘Do I really have to read this?’ frown. He stalled for a moment while he heard the reply — inaudible on the video — then shook his head in refusal. He screwed up the paper in front of him and threw it at the camera in protest. Almost immediately, a rifle butt was thrust into his face and he fell to the floor. Senator Sam was bending down to help him as the picture faded to black.

A final scene appeared. This time Juma, standing with some of his gang, out in the scrubland far from the city. ‘We people of Libya have the right to bear arms, too,’ shouted Juma.

The men behind Juma held up their guns and cheered.

‘We like America and we want to be good Americans,’ chanted the Somali pirate leader.

The men cheered again.

‘But if you don’t let us in, there won’t be much of America left.’

The video panned down to the body of one of the Roosevelt Guardians murdered at the checkpoint, then froze.

Helen looked up at Myles for a reaction, but Myles was too stunned to speak.

Twenty

When he was fourteen, Richard Roosevelt had been given a copy of Winston Churchill’s autobiography, My Early Life, by his father. The Senator had intended it to be an inspiration to the teenager. Instead, it just made him feel inadequate. Dick Roosevelt dutifully read about how the young Churchill had been shot at in Cuba, dislocated his arm in India and, most sensationally of all, escaped from captivity in South Africa. Captured during the British Empire’s war with the Boers and holed up in a prison camp, Churchill had sneaked over a lavatory roof and dodged sentries to get out. Hundreds of miles behind enemy lines, the young man had first smuggled himself aboard a night train, then hidden for a week in a mining pit, before finally making it home to safety. Churchill’s African escape was headline news that established him as a daring patriot. It set up the young man for a parliamentary career.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sprinted down an alley and onto a wider street.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The motor spluttered, then started — first time.

Roosevelt looked upwards and crossed his chest, thanking God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty-One

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

Myles nodded, not sure how much he should say.

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

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

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

‘Both.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Special Forces?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Excuse me — sir?’ called the official.

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

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

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

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

‘No, they kill me if I go back…’

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

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

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

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

Twenty-Two

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

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

Helen nodded, acknowledging the point.

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

‘They will kill me if I go back.’

‘Who would kill you?’ asked Myles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yep, you’re on national TV.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swiftly a research assistant set up the phone-in lines. Just as Myles requested, two numbers appeared on the screens. By the first number, the words ‘send him back’. By the second: ‘give him a second chance’.

A TV in one of the offices nearby picked up the broadcast, and someone turned up the volume.

Helen called out from behind the camera-phone. ‘Mohammed, you’re live on national TV. Do you have anything to say to make your case?’ she asked. ‘This is your chance to try to persuade people.’

Still terrified, Mohammed took a few seconds to register what Helen was saying. Slowly, he tried to find the right words. ‘Yes, my name is Mohammed,’ he began, talking slowly. ‘I work here so my family has food. I was born in Darfur, Sudan, but when my family’s house was destroyed I moved to Libya, where my father and uncle were killed in the war which killed Colonel Gaddafi.’ Mohammed looked over to check the border officials were still some distance away before he continued. ‘And if I am sent back, I will be killed, too. I clean toilets here in America. Please let me stay to clean toilets. Don’t let them send me back. For my family, please let me stay.’

Mohammed’s sincerity came through. Myles saw the man was close to tears.

A ring of airport police had formed behind Helen and the deportation officials. Alerted to the events, they wanted to keep onlookers away. They didn’t want this situation to be interrupted.

Within the ring of policemen, for several minutes, nobody moved. Helen kept filming while Myles stayed close to the deportee. There was still a chance one of the border guards might make a rush for the man, but none of them tried. The force of phone-in TV was far more powerful than the orders of their supervisor. They understood: this was an extraordinary situation, which meant their supervisor’s instructions could wait, at least until the results of the phone-in vote.

Myles also understood: this was evidence that Placidia was right — modern America was more like ancient Rome than most people realised. Whichever way the TV phone-in went, this would be like the Roman games, where emperors decided whether a gladiator who had been defeated in combat lived or died. They indicated with gestures still used today: thumbs-up for ‘he lives’, or thumbs-down for ‘he dies’. Myles didn’t know whether modern Americans were cruel enough to deport a man like Mohammed when the fate awaiting him was death, but he was sure, like ancient Romans, they would be compelled by the spectacle.

When Susan discovered what was happening on one of the airport televisions, she marched up and ordered the ring of policemen to let her through, which they obediently did. With her back to the camera to keep her face hidden, she moved to stand between Myles and the deportee, Mohammed. ‘Enough,’ she called, her hand raised.

Myles, Helen and the border guards looked around, not sure how to react. Mohammed looked back over the rail, knowing this might be the moment when he would have to jump.

Susan turned to the man. ‘Mohammed: your case will be reviewed. I don’t care about the vote on TV. OK?’

Mohammed nodded, letting out a breath as he became slightly less terrified. Myles repeated the words loudly to make sure they were picked up by the camera-phone. ‘So his case is going to be reviewed. Thank you.’

Susan wafted her ID card towards the uniformed men, who accepted her authority and understood their new instructions: to get the man down safely. Mohammed moved away from the railing and volunteered himself into their custody.The drama was over.

Helen turned the camera-phone to herself to wrap up the live broadcast. She owed it to the viewers to summarise what had happened, and to explain how a decision on Mohammed’s life had been taken before the votes were counted. She thanked everyone who had phoned in.

As Mohammed was led away and the crowds gradually realised the situation was over, Susan turned to Myles. ‘You should come with me,’ she instructed.

Myles followed as he was led along corridors within the airport, through several sets of security doors and towards a suite of computer screens where a huddle of security experts was waiting for him.

The TV pictures from the deportation drama was nothing compared to the live video footage he was about to see.

Twenty-Three

The Chinook helicopters were in the air. Warm air blowing up from the desert was mixing with the hot blast from the engines. It was too loud for the men to talk to each other, and the preparation was all done. There was nothing to do but think.

Captain Morton remembered this time from his last mission. That had been a success: a quick flight into Lebanon to rescue a scrawny Canadian journalist, then out again before the Lebanese government could complain about the unlicensed breach of its borders. Morton hadn’t lost any of his men, but the hostage-takers had been ready with night-vision goggles.

Night-vision goggles: they used to give US Special Forces the edge. Now they were available over the internet and in half the shops on Main Street…

When the journalist — the very man they had rescued — had written about the Lebanon raid, he had warned that America was relying on its reputation. The things which used to make it the supreme fighting country were slipping away, he said. Its technology had spread to its enemies. Worst of all, it had lost its fighting spirit — a generation brought up on TV and hamburgers was no match for jihadists and radicals.

Captain Morton hadn’t liked the skinny Canadian: instead of being grateful for his release, the first thing he had done was complain. In particular, Morton remembered how the journalist had mocked America’s capacity to take casualties — ‘casualty aversion’, the generals called it. In the Second World War, the US had lost 300,000 men without blinking. In Vietnam, it had lost 68,000 and been humbled. In Iraq, according to the Canadian journalist, it had lost just 4,000 and been humiliated.

Casualty aversion was why they were sending only two Chinooks-worth of Navy Seals to rescue Senator Roosevelt. Morton had argued for more — and lost.

For all his lack of gratitude, perhaps the journalist had been right: casualty aversion was crippling the American armed forces.

‘Two minutes,’ called the flight controller.

The words were inaudible over the noise of the helicopter, but it didn’t matter. The assault team were watching for his signal, and responded when they saw it.

Backpacks were buckled on, body armour tightened and helmets checked. Captain Morton took a final sip of water from the pipe attached to his shoulder. He remembered his pre-mission briefing session. He was glad to learn that parts of the mission had been planned by Sam Roosevelt himself before he left. Morton had queried why Juma had taken the Senator away from the city. After all, a hostage rescue in a city would be far harder. His commanding officer replied bluntly. ‘Because they’re dumb, that’s why.’ As he sucked on the water tube, Morton knew he would soon find out if his commanding officer was right.

‘One minute…’

The helicopter manoeuvred down, and angled forward as it began to dive. The men held their seat-straps, ready to unbuckle them the moment the wheels touched the ground.

A blast of air rushed into the body of the Chinook, filling the interior with dust. Captain Morton could just hear the voice of the flight controller shouting, ‘Go! Go! Go!’

With the front wheels still off the ground, the men ran down the centre of the machine, out into the downdraught from the rotor blades. Into the midnight desert. There they fanned out, running from the wind behind them, until they lay on the ground. Within seconds, the Chinook had risen off again and was gone. Captain Morton and his men were alone.

Morton’s SOPs — his Standard Operating Procedures — dictated a five-minute ‘soak’ period: time when the men were meant to remain still and tune in to their surroundings. Five minutes was easy to wait during training, but this was the real thing. They were too anxious. This time they were rescuing a Senator, no less. Five minutes was far too long for them to wait. Most were twitching after two or three.

A large insect crawled onto Morton’s neck. He couldn’t see it but only feel it as it climbed onto his face. Frozen still, he tried to ignore it, but it moved towards his nose. He had no choice: in one quick motion he brushed it off, and kept at it until his face was clear. He had to jump up as he did so. Instantly the men stood up with him. Three-and-a-half minutes, and they were all eager to move. No point waiting any longer. It was time to go.

Morton’s team had been dropped off four miles from the Senator’s mobile signal. Those four miles were enough to hide the noise of the Chinooks: their arrival would be a surprise to Juma’s gang. But it meant Morton and his men had to do a little light exercise before battle.

Four miles: a thirty-minute run. They set out, careful not to run too fast.

Morton wondered what his commanding officers were making of the feed from their helmet cams — the little cameras attached to the head of every one of his team. Hope you’re enjoying the pictures, folks…

Perhaps one day he’d be able to enjoy war from a sofa, watching helmet cam pictures as he sipped a latte somewhere on the East Coast.

Something flipped Morton’s mind back to the present. He was worried about the operation. Something wasn’t right.

As he and his men ran along the single track road, he felt eyes watch him from the shacks and scrub which dotted the desert on either side. He swung round in his night-vision goggles: nothing. His team kept on running.

One of the Navy Seals tapped his GPS. The monitor glowed in the dark to show they were halfway along the track. Just two miles to go.

They passed old concrete farm shacks, one on each side of the road.

Morton’s senses were screaming at him: something was very wrong.

He looked at the buildings: why make farm shacks out of concrete? And why build farm shacks in a desert? There was no farmland here.

There were two more of the concrete huts ahead, and more in the distance. Morton and his men were surrounded by them. In the dark he could just make out slits beneath the roofs.

He held up his fist, ordering his men to stop. They obeyed instantly, and the slap of boots on the dry mud stopped with them. Silence.

The silence enabled Captain Morton to make out the unmistakeable scratching noise of a gun barrel being repositioned on concrete. Others heard it too. Instinctively, they ducked down onto the ground, readying their weapons as they did so.

But it was far too late: they were already trapped.

With heavily protected firing positions on all sides, Morton’s men were caught on flat and very open terrain. Their efforts to shoot back into the concrete huts were useless. Juma’s men — Morton knew that was who it must be — were too well guarded. Bullets whizzed over Morton’s head. He heard the muffled sound of fast metal penetrating flesh. The soldier beside him took a chest wound. His men were too professional to scream when they were hit, but it didn’t stop them dying. The blast of gunfire came from all directions. When one of the men at the back tried to escape he was cut down.

Captain Morton didn’t have time to think about how disastrously the mission had turned out, or how Juma had been able to set such a perfect ambush. His fears that the Navy Seals were living on their reputation alone were proved correct.

Then he saw a chance to escape….

Twenty-Four

The live feed from the helmet cams was streaming back to the US, and to the secure computer suite within JFK airport where Myles and Susan were watching.

It was tragic: within seconds, most of the helmet cams became still, indicating the Seal who was wearing it had ceased to move. Some of them stopped showing pictures at all, because the cameras themselves had been hit.

Susan leant forward, peering at the screens. She couldn’t believe it.

Myles watched the few screens still moving. One showed tracer rounds of outgoing fire: the Seal was firing straight into one of the concrete huts. Then he had to turn, probably to cope with fire from behind.

Another showed a Seal trying to crawl through the bodies of his comrades, looking for cover. He managed to escape the main group, into a desert bush. But some of the foliage had been set alight by tracer rounds. The Seal had to move faster to avoid the flames, which probably meant he was seen. Soon a tall Somali pirate with an AK-47 was running towards him. The Seal raised his rifle to shoot the African, but the pictures from his helmet cam tumbled until they too were still. Myles and Susan knew that this man had become another casualty.

Susan scanned the wall of images, looking for hope but shaking her head. She leant forward again. ‘Any of them still alive?’ she asked, pressing the button on a microphone as she spoke.

It took a few seconds for an electronic voice to come through — military but subordinate. ‘Yes ma’am, screen five. Er, it’s Captain Morton.’

Myles and Susan zoomed in on screen five. At first the pictures seemed as still as the others. Then they noticed the images were gradually moving — rising and falling with Morton’s breathing. Clearly the man was trying to hide amid the bodies of his men. Then, slowly, he managed to slip into a shallow ditch.

Susan pressed the microphone again. ‘We’ve got to help this guy,’ she demanded. ‘What have we got?’

There was another pause before the disembodied answer came back through the speakers. ‘We’ve got the Predator, ma’am, or we can send in the helicopters again.’

‘OK, give me the images from the Predator.’

One of the dead camera-feeds was replaced with an infrared image. The high-altitude Predator unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV, was clearly circling the scene. The gangmen wouldn’t have known it was there — it was circling with a six mile radius, and flying at 14,000 feet.

‘OK, I’ve got the pictures from the Predator,’ reported Susan. ‘It’s got Hellfires, right?

Myles suddenly became animated. ‘Hellfire missiles?’ He tried to get Susan’s attention. ‘You’re going to use Hellfires?’

Susan nodded. Clearly she didn’t share Myles’ concern. Ignoring the Englishman, she turned back to the microphone. ‘OK, let’s give Captain Morton some cover. Send Hellfires into the concrete huts.’

Myles grabbed the microphone from her. ‘Cancel that. No Hellfires.’

Susan locked eyes with Myles. She was trying to gauge the strange misfit who seemed to be causing ever increasing amounts of trouble. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to help the surviving member of our mission.’

Myles was breathless as he answered. ‘Then send in the Chinooks. Or an A130 gunship, or anything,’ he pleaded. ‘But not a Hellfire. If Juma’s men were ready for the Seals, they’ll be ready for a drone missile.’

Susan accepted Myles was sincere, but didn’t share his doubts about the technology. ‘I don’t want a debate about this. The Chinooks would take ten or fifteen minutes to get there. The Hellfire just needs seconds.’ She moved back to the microphone. She was about to give the order again when Myles touched her shoulder, more calmly this time. ‘There’s a US Senator out there,’ he reminded her. ‘And he could be being held in one of those huts. If you send in a missile…’

Myles could tell he had made Susan think. She was scratching her head, looking desperately at the screens for several seconds.

The subordinate military voice came back over the system, sounding confused. ‘Ma’am, do we have a decision on the Hellfire?’

Uncertain and now quivering slightly, Susan pressed the microphone button again. ‘OK, we’ve got to make a call on this,’ she conceded. ‘Is Richard Roosevelt listening in to this?’

There was another pause. Then Dick Roosevelt’s unmistakeable accent came through the speaker. ‘Roosevelt Junior here.’

‘Mr Roosevelt, sir, we’re ready to send a Hellfire missile into the area. It could enable our last surviving Navy Seal to escape. But, if they’re holding your father there, it could also lead to his death. Are you happy for us to go ahead, sir?’

Silence as everybody waited on Richard Roosevelt’s thinking time. Then his answer came back. ‘What are the other options?’

Unsure she was doing the right thing, Susan graciously handed the microphone to Myles.

Myles thanked her with a look, and then tried to make his case. ‘Dick, it’s Myles,’ he began. ‘The Somali gang were ready for the Navy Seals, so they’ll probably be ready for a Hellfire missile. The only way we can help this Morton guy is by sending in Chinooks. They can fire on the area and pick up any survivors, including any wounded.’

‘Good to hear your voice, Myles. How long would a Chinook take?’

Myles shook his head as he tried to answer. Susan took the microphone back. ‘Up to ten minutes for a Chinook,’ she said. ‘Less than a minute for a Hellfire, Mr Roosevelt.’

This time the pause was short. Richard Roosevelt’s voice didn’t seem troubled by the decision: he was confident in his choice. ‘Then it’s the Hellfire. We don’t have ten minutes.’

‘OK, then launch the Hellfire,’ commanded Susan. ‘Lock onto the huts.’

Susan’s instruction was relayed through the system to the Predator’s flight controller, who sat by a computer screen in Louisiana. Moments later the image from the drone’s cameras juddered upwards slightly, twice, indicating it had released two of its Hellfire missiles.

Myles and Susan stood transfixed. Even though they both had reservations, they knew this had to work.

On the screen, infrared images were slowly beginning to emerge from the concrete huts. The firefight was over. Juma’s guys were about to inspect the bodies.

‘Twenty seconds to impact…’

Once the target of a Hellfire has been chosen and the missile fired, the missile was designed to drop from aircraft and glide in mid-air for several seconds — enough time for the helicopter or jet which dropped it to move away. Only then did the main rocket ignite with a powerful flash, and the weapon accelerate towards its target.

Out in the cloud-free desert of rural Libya, Juma was ready. He had sentries watching out for anything else the Americans might send, knowing whatever they tried would probably be airborne. The bright flash of a Hellfire missile igniting was unmissable in the desert sky, and several of his men raised the alarm at the same time.

The warning went out, and Juma’s gang immediately started fleeing in all directions.

‘Ten seconds to impact…’

Susan couldn’t believe what she was seeing. ‘They’re scattering,’ she whispered. ‘Why are they scattering? What the hell…’

‘Five seconds…’

Susan grabbed the microphone again. ‘Disable the missiles,’ she called. ‘Disable them. Call them off.’

There was silence on the net. Everybody knew it was far too late to deactivate the Hellfires. All they could do was watch as the rockets drove into their targets, sending up a bright plume which blinded the infrared feed from the Predator.

Susan couldn’t wait for the image to clear. She had to know what had happened.

There was another pause — almost a minute — while technicians checked the images from Captain Morton’s helmet cam.

Then the subordinate military voice relayed the conclusion over the net. ‘Er, looks like we’ve lost Captain Morton, Ma’am.’

Susan lifted her palm to her forehead, then slammed the microphone down. The base shattered with the force. She leant forward again, ‘And all Juma’s men escaped?’

Images still coming from the Predator showed Juma’s men starting to return to the destroyed huts, and regrouping.

‘Yes, that’s right, Ma’am… And still no sign of the Senator.’

Twenty-Five

Myles could tell Susan was very shaken. She scratched her head again. ‘Was there anything I could have done? Could Morton have been saved?’

‘You did your best.’

Susan was grateful for Myles’ support. ‘OK, so what do we do now? The CIA assessment said you were exceptionally bright: do you have any ideas?’

Myles measured his words as he spoke them. ‘We need a different approach,’ he replied. ‘These guys may be primitive, but we won’t beat them with technology. We’ve got to out-think them.’

‘“Out-think” them?’ Susan said ‘out-think’ derisively, as though Myles was proposing some sort of chess competition.

Myles tried to answer. ‘I don’t mean mind games. I mean we’ve got to work out what they’re planning,’ he explained. ‘They say they’re going to inflict on us the fate of the Roman Empire. That should give us some clues.’

Susan nodded, then went back on the network. ‘OK, we’re going to form a brains trust to plot our next moves. Mr Roosevelt — we’d be grateful if you could be involved.’

Richard Roosevelt’s voice came on, surprisingly unperturbed by the Hellfire strike which could have just killed his father. ‘OK, you got me,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Susan. ‘Then I need just one man from each unit. Don’t send me the most senior. Send me your brightest — anyone you have who can think outside the box. We’ll meet in the academy in…’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Five hours.’

Only as the message confirmations came through did Myles realise just how many units had been listening on the net. Susan answered further questions, and took suggestions for people to attend the ‘brains trust’ meeting. It seemed to offer her consolation after the doomed rescue mission into Libya.

Five hours later, Myles found himself in a familiar place: at the front of a lecture hall. But this was in America’s most elite military academy. He had been driven to West Point in upstate New York, where the US trained its most promising military men and women.

If he were more sentimental, he would have revelled in the history of the place: this was the cradle of the American military spirit, the training ground for their best — and worst — military leaders over two centuries, including several past presidents. But it passed him by. History mattered much less to him now — now he was caught up in history being made, although it gave him no pride at all.

Before him were more than forty of the military’s best intelligence specialists, covert operations experts, and military PhDs. Even some of General Petraeus’s human terrain anthropologists were there, including several fresh back from the field. Richard Roosevelt sat in the front row, still glowing with relief after his daring escape. Myles shook his hand warmly.

Myles scanned the crowd — it was a very different audience to the university students he was used to teaching — and stood up to speak. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he announced. ‘Here is the situation. A gangster initially from Somalia called Juma…’

A long-distance photograph of Juma appeared on the screen behind him.

‘…has taken hostage Senator Sam Roosevelt,’ explained Myles. ‘Juma threatens to destroy America “as the Roman Empire was destroyed”. Our job is to stop Juma and his pirates bringing down America, and save the Senator.’ He saw a hand go up at the back of the hall and invited the bespectacled naval officer to speak.

‘Sir, how was the Roman Empire destroyed?’ asked the Navy man.

‘Good question,’ said Myles, nodding to accept it. ‘There are lots of theories — at least two hundred of them. Nobody’s really certain. There were probably several things which brought Rome down. But Juma’s wife, Placidia…’

A picture of Placidia taken from her recent video displaced the image of Juma.

‘…is a top scholar on the subject. Perhaps the top scholar. It’s her opinion that counts, both because she’s probably right, and because she’s got a strong influence over Juma and his gang of pirates, mercenaries and migrants. Placidia is half-American, by the way. She knows us a lot better than we know her.’

Another hand went up — a woman in army fatigues. Myles nodded at her. She moved in her seat as she spoke. ‘Sir, why Rome?’

‘Rome is the country on which the American nation was based,’ replied Myles. ‘The founding fathers deliberately modelled their experiment in government on Rome, which had, until then, led the most powerful empire the world had ever seen.’

The army woman shook her head. Myles had misunderstood. ‘Yes, I get that,’ she said. ‘But why Rome as a threat? There are lots of ways these people could have threatened us. Why threaten us with a fate nobody really understands?’

Myles acknowledged the point: the woman was right. ‘That’s something we need to find the answer to.’

In the front row, Richard Roosevelt caught Myles’ eye. Myles motioned for him to speak. ‘Myles, you’ve met Juma and Placidia,’ said Roosevelt, ‘and you know Placidia well.’

‘Knew, Richard, knew — I don’t know her now.’

‘OK, you knew Placidia. What do you think they’re trying to achieve? I mean, do they really think they can take on America and win?’ The question raised a murmur around the room. Dick Roosevelt had his father’s gift for making points which won over the crowd.

Myles recognised the sentiment and tried to give as honest an answer as he could. ‘Placidia — when I knew her at university — was amazingly bright,’ he said. ‘Probably more gifted than anyone in this room. And very idealist. So idealist she was almost naive, but determined with it. I don’t know what’s made her change, but I’m sure her husband, Juma, had something to do with it. Juma has been assessed as a psychopath.’

Dick nodded: he thought Juma was a psychopath, too.

‘So, we’re dealing with an idealistic mastermind and a madman,’ continued Myles. ‘It’s possible that neither of them have looked at this situation as we would look at it. I’m not sure they’re even trying to win. Placidia will probably have a very clever motive. Juma may have no motive at all.’

There was silence. It gave Myles an opportunity to make one last point. ‘And there’s another thing for us to consider — which is that we could concede to their demands. They want many thousands of African migrants trapped in Libya to be allowed to settle in the continental United States. Perhaps we should let them…’

The lecture theatre exploded into furious debate. Myles let it run for a few seconds. Then he shouted instructions over the noise. ‘Break into three teams, and come back here in one hour with some answers. We need to know how they’re going to attack us, what we should do about it, and anything else which might save America from the fate of Rome.’

Myles allowed the groups to disperse, most of them still arguing furiously. When the last uniform left, Myles was completely alone again.

He absorbed the silence. It helped him think. Why had Juma and Placidia threatened the US? He leant back, letting his mind muse on, trying to make progress but failing.

Myles realised: this puzzle was like an optical illusion — the more he thought he understood, the less he really knew. Placidia’s ‘last prophecy of Rome’ — that the United States would be brought down in the same way as the ancient superpower — all depended on Placidia’s unique view of history.

Everything he’d learnt about Rome he’d learnt with her, and he hadn’t focussed on the history during those lessons because he’d been too focussed on her. And now her puzzle was teasing him for it.

Images of Placidia drifted back into his mind. Emotions were displacing logic: Myles was too close.

His knowledge of Placidia, all those years ago, meant he was the worst person to work out how to stop Juma’s plans now.

Twenty-Six

After fifty-five minutes, the first team started coming back. Still discussing their conclusions, there were clearly very different views amongst them. Myles often used break-out groups in his lectures. They forced the students to think. He didn’t interrupt: he knew less thinking would be done if he interfered.

The first team was soon joined by another, this time more confident of their material. Gradually the room started to fill up with a diverse collection of uniforms, all busily taking their places and finalising their presentations.

After fifty-nine minutes the room was almost full, and as the minute hand hit the hour the last group rushed in, apologising for being late.

‘OK, let’s start,’ called Myles. ‘Who wants to go first?’

A naval lieutenant stood up, holding a large sheet of paper on which his group had scribbled out their thoughts. Myles thanked him for volunteering and invited him to the front.

Slightly awkward, the lieutenant held up the paper and tried to explain what it meant. ‘We looked at how the US could be attacked. Our nation’s key vulnerabilities.’ The navy guy pointed to a long list on the paper:

Internet attack… Dirty bomb… Terrorist attack on the transport system…

The audience nodded — they were familiar with the list. The register of US critical vulnerabilities was published every year.

‘Then we went through it and worked out which risks we shared with ancient Rome,’ explained the lieutenant.

The speaker uncapped a red marker. Then he struck through the first item on the list, and the second, and the third. The audience watched as most of the list was crossed off. ‘So that left these issues for us to focus on.’

Everybody peered at the things which remained. Just three points. The speaker used a blue marker to underline them.

Then the lieutenant explained each one. ‘For biological, we thought Juma might try to spread diseases which resist antibiotics.’ He scribbled “antibiotic resistance” next to “Biological/Viral attack/Plague”.

Next the lieutenant reminded the audience that Colonel Gaddafi recently manufactured weapons of mass destruction — mainly mustard gas. Whether or not the stocks had been destroyed, there were still technicians in the region with dangerous skills. He wrote “gas” next to the second item on the list.

Finally, the lieutenant wrote “oil” next to “Economic Attack”, as he explained that Juma might engineer a price spike. ‘Our economy is still vulnerable to oil shocks. Maybe the US relies on imported oil as the Romans depended on imported food…’

The lieutenant indicated that was as far as his team’s thinking had progressed. Myles thanked him and the naval officer returned to his seat.

The next presentation was from a woman in regulation army camouflage. She came to the front with a co-presenter who held up a flip chart. ‘OK, so in our group we looked at this problem historically,’ she began. ‘What destroyed the great Roman Empire?’

‘Good,’ said Myles. ‘If you know the answer to that I’m sure there are a lot of people who’ll be impressed.’

The woman smiled, acknowledging Myles’ point, then continued. ‘We reckon the Roman Empire was knocked down by three things. First, lead poisoning — the aristocracy used the metal in sauces for their food. But these condiments literally drove them mad because lead is toxic, and causes changes in the brain. Roman leaders made some terrible decisions. So Juma might try a similar mass poisoning strategy of some sort, perhaps targeting America’s decision-makers.’

There was a murmur of respect around the room. ‘Second, fertility levels dropped in ancient Rome just as they are dropping now in the West. Sperm counts in Europe and America are now less than half of what they were forty years ago — we wondered whether the attack might already be happening.’

The audience could tell the woman felt slightly embarrassed talking about the reduction in male fertility. But they respected her point.

‘The final issue,’ concluded the woman. ‘Economic collapse. Rome’s currency lost its value. Our dollar is vulnerable in the same way. If the dollar ceases to be the international reserve currency, then our economy will suffer big time.’

Myles thanked the woman as she returned to her seat.

The next speaker was more confident, but also seemed less thoughtful than the other two. ‘In our team, we used a classical military approach. We started with Centre of Gravity analysis,’ he declared.

Myles had often told his students about Centre of Gravity theory: the centre of gravity was the single thing which, if destroyed, would neutralise an enemy’s capacity to fight. It was a sensible concept — an idea developed by Clausewitz, the great military theorist on whom Myles was Oxford University’s leading expert. The trouble with Centre of Gravity analysis was that it invited military minds to think of physical things — buildings, people or communication networks. Often, the real Centre of Gravity of an enemy was much harder to pin down — a belief or an attitude which Western forces couldn’t reach.

‘OK, so we looked at their Centre of Gravity, and we reckon it’s their leaders: Juma and Placidia. So we recommend targeting them.’

Myles checked he had understood correctly. ‘You mean taking them out?

‘That’s right, sir. Yes.’

Myles cast around the room for a reaction. It was mixed. Most of the audience accepted that targeted assassination was more complicated than it sometimes appeared. There had to be good intelligence on where the leaders would be, an assessment of collateral damage, a consideration of the wider consequences…

There were also moral issues, and Myles knew men in uniform often relied on euphemisms: using a word like ‘targeting’ when really they meant kill. He turned to Richard Roosevelt. ‘Dick — would you be happy with assassination?’

The Senator’s son slowly shook his head. He carefully framed his words in his mind before he replied. ‘I’m with the sentiment,’ he explained. ‘But killing these suckers won’t solve our problems. Juma’s already set his plans rolling, and those plans will keep on rolling even if he’s dead.’

The enthusiastic speaker understood: killing Juma and Placidia was not enough. ‘OK,’ continued the presenter, ‘so then we did Centre of Gravity analysis for the US. We reckon our Centre of Gravity is our social cohesion — in other words, how we stand together as a nation…’

Myles was impressed: the military planner had defined a Centre of Gravity for the US which wasn’t a physical object. Centre of Gravity analysis might actually be of some use after all.

‘And if social cohesion is our Centre of Gravity,’ continued the man, ‘then it can be attacked in three ways: by getting religious groups in America to attack each other, which happened in Ancient Rome. By making people distrust their rulers and leaders, which also happened in Ancient Rome. And by removing people’s confidence in their currency, which happened in Ancient Rome, too.’

The speaker turned to Myles, asking permission to continue. Myles used his eyes to indicate the officer should talk on — this was useful. ‘So, it’s hard to see how Juma can do anything on the first two — religion in the US and distrust of rulers and leaders. Which means we reckon he’ll go for the currency. And there’s a high-level summit about the international currency system, nine days away. It’s the obvious target, because the meeting is in Rome.’

The room spontaneously applauded: the argument was persuasive. Juma must be heading for Rome.

Richard Roosevelt stood up to thank the speaker with a warm handshake, then interjected. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘As most of you know, as well as being the son of someone famous, I’m CEO of Roosevelt Guardians. What some of you may not know is that my private security firm is actually responsible for the conference. I don’t know whether to thank you for the warning or blame you for making my job more difficult.’

The room laughed at Dick Roosevelt’s humility.

‘But what I think it means, is that I need help,’ continued Roosevelt. ‘I need someone to check we’ve made the currency conference safe. Ideally, one of you guys with a brilliant mind who can out-think Juma.’

The lecture theatre was nodding in agreement: if Juma was going to attack the Rome conference then the assembled brains trust should send someone to pre-empt what he might do. But who should go?

Someone tried to encourage the woman who had given the second presentation to go, but she clearly wasn’t keen. Someone else was being talked about, but for some reason everybody decided they weren’t suitable.

Then there was a suggestion that the brightest person in the room should go. Another voice said it should be the person who got their thinking this far. They needed an expert in military theory, and also someone who had met Juma and Placidia.

It took just a few more moments for the lecture hall to come to a consensus as to who should accompany Dick Roosevelt in reviewing the arrangements. As he felt the eyes turn towards him, Myles accepted that he didn’t really have much choice.

Myles was going back to Rome.

Twenty-Seven

Paul Pasgarius the Third’s cabriolet had been washed and polished by illegal migrants while he slept — migrants he felt no obligation to pay — and now glinted in the setting Nevada sun. He swung the vehicle round the junction, and began to cruise along the boulevard.

Paul raised his shades to admire two women walking beside the road. He slowed the car. When the women glanced down at the sidewalk, deliberately ignoring him, he just put more gum in his mouth and accelerated away. Those ladies didn’t know what they were missing, he grinned to himself.

It was just a short drive to his office. He left his car with an attendant and sauntered in. His three staff were already working, monitoring screens, but not too busy. He grunted an acknowledgement to them, then strolled into his own private room, and closed the door behind him.

From the notifications on his screen, he already knew there was no unusual activity. Or at least, not an unusual amount of it. As always, a few clever novices were trying to scam the online poker, and some guys were getting lucky on the slots. It always happened at the start of the evening. But Paul Pasgarius the Third’s computer algorithm told him what was really unusual. It watched for certain tricks: special betting patterns, and evidence of card counting or accomplices on the staff. None of that was happening. The clever novices would soon find the online settings turning against them. And the lucky guys on the slots, unless they had the rare courage to quit early, would end their night with less money than they started.

It would be a quiet few hours. And that meant, for Paul, lucrative ones. He leant back in his chair, and peeled open a magazine. The headline article was about scams used by gamblers in ancient Rome, and how some of today’s most common con tricks harked back to the imperial city.

He was about to start reading when an alert flashed on the corner of the screen. He frowned, disconcerted by the words ‘Unknown Caller’. Whoever it was, they were cloaking their location. It wasn’t one of the big casinos. Probably no one in Las Vegas at all. He put on his headset and answered.

‘Er, Hello.’ Paul listened carefully, waiting for words to emerge from the static.

When the voice did come through, it was garbled. Very garbled. ‘Paul Pasgarius the Third.’

The voice was so heavily disguised, Paul couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. He also wasn’t sure whether he was being told his name or asked a question.

‘Er yes, this is Paul Pasgarius the Third,’ he replied. ‘CEO of Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated.’

More silence. Then a single word: ‘Good’.

‘How may I help you?’

‘I need certain electronic material to be loaded onto a computer.’

Paul paused, trying to understand the command. ‘Er, your computer?’

‘No,’ came the response. ‘I think we both know what we’re talking about here.’

‘Ah,’ said Paul. He put more gum in his mouth, giving him time to think. ‘Nevada Fair Play Computer Monitoring Systems Incorporated is licensed by the Nevada Gaming Control Board,’ he said, rushing the words out in case he was being tested by someone official. ‘I comply with all the state regulations and laws.’ He almost added the words, ‘And I operate according to the highest ethical standards,’ but it was too much of a lie, even for him.

‘You will not have to breach any laws or regulations — in Nevada,’ came the reply.

Paul clutched the headphones to his ears. ‘OK,’ he mused, slowly.

‘Good,’ came the reply. ‘Because that means no one will ever get to hear about…your activities.’ The voice trailed off.

Paul Pasgarius the Third gulped, wondering how the anonymous caller had learned about his misdemeanours.

‘You know what I’m talking about?’ asked the voice.

Paul thought of trying to bluff it out. Or pretending there was nothing wrong with the special ‘parties’ he went to — parties he paid to attend and where he was guaranteed a good time, usually with very young girls. But his licence was at stake. It wasn’t worth the risk. ‘Maybe I do,’ he admitted. ‘What do you have in mind?’

Then he listened while the voice gave precise details on what they wanted.

‘OK,’ concluded Pasgarius. ‘I can do that for you. Just once, you understand. And, your name — what can I call you?’

He still wondered whether he was talking to a man or a woman, and hoped the caller’s answer would settle his curiosity. But the one word response from the voice just left him even more puzzled than before.

‘Constantine.’

‘Constantine, huh?’

‘You got it.’

Paul Pasgarius the Third frowned. He swung his chair round, and gazed across at the fountains of Caesar’s Palace opposite. ‘Wasn’t there an Emperor called that?’ he asked.

But the caller had already gone.