Last Prophecy of Rome

Thirty-Two

Myles believed it was now a whole day since he had been handcuffed in Rome, although he couldn’t be sure. Twenty-four hours was just a guess. And nobody had told him anything since he’d left the British police van.

Myles knew from his time questioning suspects in Iraq: when people are left alone, sooner or later they start to think about the worst that could happen to them. Solitary confinement was one of the most powerful forms of pressure there was.

Myles studied the inside of his police cell. He imagined the stories of the people who had been in the cell before him.

His bed was built into the room: a single, body-size concrete step with a dark green plastic mattress on top. The white walls had recently been cleaned — probably disinfected. The strip-light in the ceiling was encased in plastic and protected behind a metal grille. Even if he could reach it, it would not help him at all.

The only way out was through the tall, metallic, painted black door. He gently leant on it and felt his weight rest against the lock. He pressed harder, but the door barely registered his presence. There was no way he was going to barge his way out. He tried to look through the double-glazed peephole, but there was a cover on the other side blocking his view.

Myles realised that he was now completely at the mercy of whoever was holding him. Whoever it was, he had to communicate with them.

He looked around for a camera. Surely they’d be watching him in the cell?

Nothing.

Or, at least, that’s what he first thought.

Then he saw, beside the light, a little stud in the ceiling. He stood on the concrete bed to get closer, and realised the stud housed a tiny lens.

He pushed his face towards it, realising that whoever was watching the pictures would probably be seeing a distorted image of his nose.

‘Hello?’ he called into the lens. ‘Can you hear me?’

He watched and waited, but as he expected, there was no response. ‘Can you tell my partner, Helen Bridle, that I’m here.’ Half-jokingly, he added a ‘please’ to the end of the request. But there was still no sign of a reaction.

Myles looked around him again. He stepped back down. He didn’t want to remain stuck in the cell forever. Surely that couldn’t happen.

He remembered Habeas Corpus — one of Britain’s oldest laws, the name of which hailed from the language of ancient Rome, Latin. Habeas Corpus was a command to see the body — his right to appear in court.

But if he was being detained under anti-terrorist legislation, would Habeas Corpus still stand? Myles didn’t know.

Then he thought of something. Deprive them of information as they deprive me.

Myles looked back down at the mattress and lifted it up. Underneath, the plastic cover was only loosely glued on to the foam. He picked at the seam and managed to peel off an edge of the dark green. It was what he needed.

He bent down, placed his teeth around the plastic, and bit. The small incision was enough for him to tear it. He pulled and the plastic ripped along a straight line. With another bite, Myles was able to remove a small strip of the material. He held it in his fingers, then bit it a final time, tearing it into two halves.

Standing on the mattress, he licked the back of one of the plastic strips and stuck it onto the lens stud in the ceiling. Climbing down, he put the other on the inside of the peephole in the door. If they weren’t going to answer, he wasn’t going to let them watch.

Myles knew it was a tiny victory, but it satisfied him. It proved he had at least some control over his situation. He lay down on the slightly damaged mattress as he wondered how the authorities would react.

It took just four minutes for the cell door to be unlocked.

Myles was ordered to stand up. His hands were bound again. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked.

One of the prison officials frowned sarcastically, as if to say ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Myles also detected a sense of disgust: clearly the warden looked down on him as some sort of lowlife. ‘It’s time to see the judge, Mr Munro,’ said the guard. ‘It’s your time in court.’

Myles wondered how they could have arranged a judge so fast. Usually it would take several days, or at least hours. Then he realised: they must have been about to take him to see a judge anyway. His trick with the camera lens had made no difference at all. But he was glad to have confounded whoever was spying on him.

Myles was guided through the cell door. The police wardens were careful to make sure he didn’t scrape himself on any part of the lock or door frame. It was as though they were saving Myles for a punishment far greater and far more deserving than a scratch.

In the corridor, Myles got a sense that he was not in a normal police cell. His was the only prison room in sight. His cell was reserved for something special.

Around a corner there were some wide stairs. Still no natural light, though. He was about to climb up when one of his escorts stopped him. ‘This way, sir. We’re taking the lift.’

As instructed, Myles walked in. Only as he entered and saw they were on floor ‘SB’ — sub-basement — did he realise he had been kept below ground all this time.

The warden pressed the button for floor three, and the lift started to rise.

Myles tried to make eye contact but the warden looked away.

When the lift stopped and the door opened, Myles was confronted with a sign — stark white letters etched into black plastic: Paddington Green Magistrates Court. Below it was an arrow pointing to the left attached to a different sign with a single word: Defendants.

So that’s where he was. Myles had heard of Paddington Green Police Station before. It was near the centre of London. The place that high-profile suspects were often taken for their first appearance — most terrorism cases were tried here.

Myles was taken in the direction of the arrow, through a door and into an oak-panelled waiting room. There he was encouraged to sit down on a wooden bench while one of the court wardens sat beside him. Once more, his wrists were released.

After just a couple of minutes, a second door opened. A policeman on the other side, his hand still on the door handle, leaned in. His posture indicated Myles should come through, and the wardens nodded to confirm that Myles should go. So Myles stood up and walked towards the door.

He was in the dock of Paddington Green Magistrate’s court.

Myles turned to his left, to an audience which had clearly reacted to his appearance. It was the public gallery: journalists were frantically scribbling in notebooks, and a few others were scowling in contempt. One looked like he was from East Africa, a middle-aged gentleman whose expressions made clear he despised Myles.

Then Myles saw Helen. She waved, desperate to make contact with him. Myles raised his hand in return. From her face, Myles could tell she still believed he was innocent. He wished he could hug her, but the policeman standing beside him and a solid partition made it impossible.

Helen silently mouthed the words: ‘I love you!’

Myles smiled back, relieved she stood by him.

The judge sitting directly in front of Myles cleared her throat. The dignified wrinkles on her face frowned and her eyes turned down to her desk. It was an indication that Myles’ attitude — smiling and nodding to people in the public gallery — was not acceptable. Myles was too relaxed.

He tried to look serious. He straightened his back, and prepared himself for the judge’s word. ‘Mr Munro, this is a magistrates’ court,’ explained the judge, labouring her words. ‘You have been brought here because a crime has occurred and there is important evidence to indicate you were involved.’

The judge paused to see if Myles would react. Myles remained still. He let the judge continue. ‘Therefore, for the purposes of this hearing, I would like you to confirm for me your name: are you Myles Adlai Munro?’

Myles rocked his head forward in confirmation.

‘Mr Munro, if you wish to confirm your name, please say “yes” or “yes, I am”.’

‘Yes, I am Myles Adlai Munro.’

The judge looked down at the papers on her desk before continuing. ‘And do you live in Pembroke Street, Oxford?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied Myles, trying to comply.

‘Accommodation which I believe belongs to the university?’ She raised her voice at the end, turning the statement into a question.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Thank you, Mr Munro.’ The magistrate paused again. The court paused with her. It hung on her words.

After half a minute of silence, the judge leant forward and spoke directly to Myles. ‘Mr Munro, you are being held under the 2006 Anti-Terrorism Act. Under the terms of that legislation, you may be held for up to fourteen days without being charged. So far you have been held for only one day. That means you may be held for a further thirteen days before a formal charge is brought…’

Myles could see Helen fuming with fury: the woman magistrate was describing Myles’ detention nightmare as if it were a matter of arithmetic.

Myles saw the rest of the public gallery react too. The journalists were wondering what was going to happen next, while the middle-aged African seemed to be bent double in some form of hysteria.

The judge addressed Myles again and he sensed his court appearance was already coming towards its end. ‘And so, Mr Munro, I recommend that you be held in further custody while the evidence against you is investigated in greater depth.’

Myles spoke back. ‘Can I know what the evidence is?’

The judge checked her answer with an official before she gave it. ‘I can assure you, Mr Munro, that the evidence is significant. At the appropriate time, you will be told more about the evidence against you. But under the terms of the legislation, the investigating authority is not required to divulge its evidence before charges have been brought and an arrest made. You, Mr Munro, have not yet been arrested.’

‘So, I’m not under arrest?’

‘No, Mr Munro. You have been detained.’

Myles was about to query the distinction between arrest and detention, but he was distracted by Helen. She mouthed the word ‘lawyer’ to him. Myles picked it up. ‘And will I be allowed a lawyer?’ he asked.

The female magistrate consulted with her official again, this time in more detail.

Myles was turning back towards Helen to thank her for the cue when he saw the middle-aged African man had pulled a long, thin bag from the floor and was lifting it towards him.

Something about the man’s face scared Myles. Something was wrong.

It was then Myles realised the man was holding an automatic rifle, and was about to fire.

Thirty-Three

The officials couldn’t believe what was happening. Men in legal gowns stared at the weapon, wondering whether it was real. Journalists in the public gallery froze, completely unsure how to react. Even the men responsible for security in the courtroom were too surprised to respond properly. Was it really a gun?

Hardly anyone in the room had seen a real-life weapon fired before, and only one of them had had a gun pointed at him. That man was Myles.

The sight of the rifle triggered a deep instinctive reaction which bypassed the slow but rational thought processes in Myles’ mind. Myles’ muscles automatically pulled down his head, just as a loud burst of bullets flew towards him. His time in warzones may have cursed him with some peculiar form of post-traumatic stress disorder. But they had also imprinted a reflexive response to danger. That instant reaction had just saved his life.

The first volley of bullets embedded in the defendant’s dock above him, showering splinters and other debris. Myles cowered while the tatters of wood burst down.

As soon as the gunfire stopped, the courtroom was filled with screams and panic. Chairs were kicked over in a stampede to escape. People began shouting. Confusion clattered all around. Myles immediately thought of Helen, and hoped she would be able to find a safe way out.

But Myles also understood he was the target. The second volley of fire hit the defendant’s stand where Myles was crouching. Its thick wood warped and holes appeared as bullets flew through. The policeman beside Myles was hit — and immediately slumped to the ground.

Myles pushed the policeman’s limp body away and rolled through the door behind him, out into the waiting room where he had been just a few minutes before. There he moved past the lift, keeping his head and torso low in case the gunman had a clear line of sight.

Myles had half a second to contemplate what next before another burst of gunfire removed the choice.

Instinctively, he ran down the corridor, following it fast, wherever it led. He turned a corner to find himself moving into another part of the building.

Myles could only wonder what was happening in the courtroom. An alert had been sounded. Myles guessed it was the alarm for an escaped prisoner, since the court couldn’t have a pre-assigned signal for a gun in the public gallery.

The security officials in the magistrate’s hearing had not been armed. Their large physical presence was meant to be sufficient deterrent against the usual disturbances. But size and weight would mean nothing against this gunman. And if nobody in the building had a gun, how would the man be stopped?

Myles continued sprinting along the corridor. He bumped into a policeman who was emerging, confused, from his office. He ran on, towards two court officials who were blocking his way, too scared to move. ‘Let me through…’ he shouted as he ran.

The officials flattened themselves against the wall and Myles was clear to run between the two men. It was Myles who the gunman was after. The court officials knew it too.

Screams behind Myles confirmed his fears: the gunman was close. Myles imagined the man jumping from the seats in the public gallery, across the courtroom and into the defendant’s dock. The man would have gone through the wooden door and into the corridor just seconds behind him. How could Myles escape?

He realised his chances were slim. As he rounded more corners, he knew the corridors in the building could not go on forever. Soon they would end, and he would be trapped by the man with the gun. A man determined to kill him.

Should he look for the public exit? Myles could hear the crowds moving not far from him and guessed they were being escorted to safety. But crowds meant delay. And trying to hide among them meant putting them in danger. Myles would get caught in the jam. Bullets would kill members of the public, then Myles.

Myles scoured the corridor for something else.

Quickly he pulled one of the doors in the corridor. It was locked. He grabbed the next handle along. This time the door swung open. Myles rushed inside.

He knew he had only seconds. He surveyed the room.

A man with glasses sat behind a desk full of papers. Behind him was a large window with a third-floor view over the city.

The administrator stood up, reacting to Myles’ presence — half furious, half shocked.

Myles moved towards him, then edged him aside so he could reach the man’s executive chair. He picked it up. ‘Sorry…’ he said, as he heaved it onto his shoulder. Then he hurled it forward: into the window.

Instantly the glass shattered. Broken fragments followed the chair outside in a long arc to the ground. Myles used his elbow to widen the hole, bashing out the shards.

The administrator started saying something, but became speechless as Myles climbed onto his desk, brushing his papers onto the floor. He was even more shocked when the tall intruder started clambering towards the broken window.

Myles nodded and smiled a ‘thank you’ to the stunned official as he lifted one foot onto the window shelf. Then he swung his other foot through the hole in the glass and placed it on the outside ledge, kicking glass away until he had a steady footing. He bent down and squeezed his body to move himself outside, holding on tightly with his hands. Finally he brought his second foot through behind him.

Myles was now on the outside ledge of the third floor of Paddington Green Police Station. As he felt the fresh wind brush against him, and looked down to see where the executive chair had landed below, he knew it was too far to jump. He knew the fall would hurt and hurt badly. But as he heard the commotion catching up behind him, he also knew he had no choice.

Myles managed to hurl himself sideways as he jumped off. It meant he didn’t go straight down, but instead landed on a small adjoining roof. It was angled — he couldn’t land there. But it was enough to break his fall. When he bounced off he wasn’t travelling so fast towards the ground.

With his two legs firmly together and his knees bent, Myles hit the concrete hard. He rolled onto the ground, half-winded and with a pain in his feet. It took him a second to gather his bearings, but he wasn’t hurt. Not even a sprained ankle. Myles realised how lucky he was, and tried to move off, away from the building.

Policemen and women were busily hurrying around the public entrance to the court. News of the gunman had spread and Myles could hear a wail of emergency sirens approaching. A confused gaggle from the public gallery was being escorted onto the streets close by, while people from the underground station opposite were stopping to watch, although no one seemed to have spotted him yet.

Briefly Myles considered handing himself in to the police. But could they keep him safe? Not with the gunman still close behind him.

Myles knew he had to get as far away as he could. He looked around him and saw a road ahead. He decided he had to get across, and rushed towards it, hoping to dodge the cars driving fast along it.

There was a burst of gunfire behind him. Myles turned to see. He couldn’t make out the gunman, but from the faces of the panicked public he could tell that the assassin was already at ground level.

Myles darted between the traffic and sprinted onto the pavement. He began to run as fast as he could.

Then he realised where he was: this was Edgware Road, one of London’s major transport arteries. It had been laid down by the Romans — a cultural legacy which had lasted two millennia. Myles knew he was about to become a victim of the Romans again, since they had made all their routes as straight as possible. Running along a straight road with a gunman behind him was madness: there would be no cover, the gunman would get a clean shot.

So Myles darted off down the first side street he saw, desperately trying to keep up his speed while he turned the corner. He knew the gunman could not be far behind.

Too much running: he was beginning to tire and become breathless. Myles contemplated hiding in the buildings he passed: a launderette, a Lebanese restaurant, a small supermarket… The thought of a rest was tempting. But then he heard a scream behind him and realised the gunman was too close for him to stop.

On Myles ran, sprinting for his life. He turned a second corner until he was running parallel to the Edgware Road.

He passed a Roman-looking church — St John’s — and panted while he considered hiding in it. Then he dismissed the idea: this assassin had no respect for a courtroom, and would have no qualms about killing him in a church. Religious places could provide no sanctuary for him. There was probably no sanctuary at all.

Myles kept on moving, now desperately short of energy and stamina. He had run too fast for too long. His legs ached, but far worse his heart and lungs were screaming with exhaustion. He knew he had to stop soon. He was running out of everything he had.

He stumbled on to find himself in a place he vaguely recognised: this pleasant square had been on television. The smart Georgian houses seemed familiar. It evoked a sense of power in retreat. Myles remembered cameras here, come to mock a man who once had near-imperial authority.

This was Connaught Square, hidden behind the junction where Edgware road met Marble Arch. This square housed a former Prime Minister. It was also one of the very few places in the capital where the police routinely carry firearms. Only here was the terrorist threat considered high enough to deserve it.

Myles looked over. The guards outside the former premier’s London residence were on alert — probably warned about the drama less than a mile away at the magistrate’s court. They had their guns ready.

Myles sprinted on. He didn’t acknowledge the police. Nor did he want to. He looked towards the far end of the square, hoping he might find some safety ahead.

Then there was a burst of gunfire behind him.

Myles heard the armed police he had just passed shout a single word very clearly: ‘STOP’.

But Myles was running too fast to stop. He couldn’t stop. He knew that if he stopped he would die. So he just ran on. He was close to cover. Very close. Close enough…

Then there was a very different burst of gunfire behind him. Several bursts from several guns. This time the bullets had hit their mark.

Thirty-Four

The Diplomatic Protection Corp assigned to the former Prime Minister had a drill for exactly this sort of event. Three of them remained as they were, their weapons poised. They were watching for the next surprise, ready in case any further threats emerged. Another was on his radio, reporting what had happened to an information hub. Since the former Prime Minister’s family wasn’t home, they didn’t need to escort or protect anyone. That released two men to advance, with their Heckler & Koch G36C semi-automatic carbines held tightly to their shoulders. Carefully, they approached the body.

Fairly soon they decided the man lying face-down on the bloodied concrete surface was not a threat.

The first policeman approached. He kicked the man’s foot. ‘Armed police,’ he announced, following his drill.

No response. With his colleague keeping guard, the policeman bent down to check for signs of life. Putting his fingers on the man’s neck, he detected only a faint pulse.

The policeman indicated to his colleague that the body he was examining was only just alive. Death was likely. The colleague understood, and eased his posture slightly. The threat was reduced.

Half-reluctantly, and still wary in case the man suddenly came back to life, the policeman started to pump the man’s chest — a half-hearted attempt to keep him alive.

It took just a few more seconds for paramedics to reach the scene. Their ambulance pulled up and first responders jumped out. They rushed to the body and immediately undertook their own tests. They too thought the man would probably die.

The policemen looked at each other. They knew there’d be an inquiry. Questions. An investigation.

But they knew they’d followed policy. The dying man had fired a weapon in the designated area. His gun had landed several feet from his body, and had been guarded — but not touched — since the man fell. They’d issued a warning. They’d not hit anybody innocent.

The policemen relaxed while they waited for a rapid response team. They felt confident.

But Myles didn’t feel confident. He’d just seen his would-be assassin gunned down behind him. The anti-terrorism police hadn’t shot at Myles, but Myles still didn’t trust them.

He knew he had to get further away.

There were probably just two or three minutes before the area was flooded with police. That would mean he would be trapped, caught and returned to custody.

He had to make his decision quickly. Escape or surrender?

He kept running while he tried to decide. Even though his lungs were screaming and his legs worn out, he knew that to stop now was to accept capture.

Myles ran on, out to where Edgware road met Marble Arch. He remembered this site: he was on the last route taken by condemned men. Following Roman tradition, this route used to be lined with voyeurs. Captives were paraded here before they were executed.

Myles lowered his head and immersed himself in the crowds of tourists and shoppers. When the traffic lights changed, he crossed the road with a horde of pedestrians. Walking seemed a better way to pass unnoticed than running.

He couldn’t have ran any more, even if he’d wanted to. He bent double, his hands resting on his knees until he caught his breath. He checked behind him: nobody had followed him there, not even any of the Diplomatic Protection Corps, although some of the tourists were still looking at him oddly. He heard the police helicopter — still somewhere above him, but probably assigned to the drama in Connaught Square, where the body of the African gunman was being examined in forensic detail.

Myles was careful not to look up: the police helicopter might have a camera with face-recognition software. Instead he looked around, trying to look like a tourist, still trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate.

He had reached Hyde Park’s Speakers’ Corner. Free speech was protected here, although the right to answer back was equally cherished. The verbal jousting was entertaining and attracted many spectators.

While he pondered what to do, Myles wandered through the crowds listening to the speakers. One man was extolling communism. An American in the small audience was answering back, pointing out how the Soviet state locked up dissidents. From what Myles could tell, the American was winning the argument. Myles moved on.

Another speaker was reading from the Bible. Not far away someone else was preaching from the Koran. Myles listened as he passed, wondering why the two men were not addressing each other. The religious freedom they both enjoyed seemed to mean there was no dispute between them.

Would Myles be able to make his voice heard if he gave himself up to the police? He hadn’t when they’d detained him in Rome the day before…

Myles thought again of the Senator, and he remembered Juma’s threat to America. Could he stop America suffering the fate of Rome if he gave himself in? Could he save America if he escaped?

Then he looked towards the edge of the park, to a bus stop. He often passed this way: it was where the main bus route between Oxford and London offloaded passengers. Myles thought of jumping on one of the buses and taking the ninety-minute journey home: to Helen, to his flat, to his low-stress job at the university — and to where the police would be waiting to catch him.

Myles turned back towards Marble Arch. A small group of policemen were emerging, looking around. They were hunting for Myles.

Myles hid his face. He didn’t trust the police. Not at all.

He knew that now he had to decide.

Myles looked again at the bus stop to Oxford, where a bus was about to finish taking on passengers, stowing the last of the baggage into the underside of the vehicle.

He had made his decision.

Thirty-Five

Huddled under polyester blankets and protected from the wind by sea containers, for many days they waited. Those with passports had already had them stamped — the rumour was that an exit stamp from Libya would make it easier to enter Europe. But most knew that the continent was still very hard to get into. It was almost impossible: all sea-going vessels were being stopped and searched for illegal migrants.

Like Safiq, many had tried to make the journey before. All had failed. They could trade stories on their failures — the lucky ones had been rewarded with a warm meal before they were sent back, the less fortunate ones had faced abuse. Several, like Safiq, had almost drowned. Escaping to a better life in Italy or France was an impossible dream, just as the better life in oil-rich Libya was a mirage.

But now they had hope. So much hope that this time they made sure their families were with them at the dockside. And the hope came from a single rumour — that Juma, the pirate chief from Somalia, had an escape plan.

Safiq saw Juma’s convoy of technicals and armoured SUVs sweep into the dockside. He peered to get a look, as the man and the woman beside him were soon surrounded by eager Africans. Juma’s militia kept the fans away.

Juma jumped up on a sea crate, trying to make himself look taller. He let his gun hang down from his shoulder as he shouted to the crowds around him. ‘My people,’ he declared.

The migrants murmured in response. They didn’t know what to expect.

‘Thank you for being here,’ Juma called to the crowd. ‘I know that Libya has not been good to you. Africa has not been good to you. And for those of you who have tried to reach it, even Europe has not been good to you…’

Safiq found himself nodding. The audience were listening eagerly. They all agreed, too.

‘Well, my friends, I can offer you something better. Much better. I can get you to America!’

Safiq watched while Juma paused. The pirate chief was expecting the masses to cheer. But Safiq and the rest of the people were just confused. The only way to get to America was to fly. How could Juma get planes for so many people? Would the Americans even let them land? He was losing confidence…

Juma pressed on. ‘People, all I need to know is which of the young men on this dockside have been trained to fire weapons.’

Safiq recoiled. Whatever this mad Somali was planning, he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to fight because he didn’t want to die. Safiq wanted to live. He saw Juma stare at young men in the crowd. Older family members were holding them back, telling them not to volunteer.

Safiq realised Juma was losing his audience. The Somali reached for his weapon. But then the woman next to him grabbed his hand. Safiq didn’t know who she was, but he saw her give Juma a stare and shake her head: no weapons.

Then the woman jumped up on the crate beside him. ‘People, my fellow Africans,’ she shouted. ‘I have made it to America, and you can too.’ She had to raise her voice even louder, over the crowd’s reaction. ‘There will be no fighting. No guns will be fired. You will all be safe, and soon you will all be free.’

Arguments were breaking out amongst the people in front of Safiq. The woman at the front strained to listen to them, cupping her ear to keep out the wind. ‘You ask “how?” Let me tell you how: we will travel in a ship that the rich European immigration police will let through,’ she shouted. ‘It is not a ferry for people. It is not a container ship. People, we will travel in an oil tanker.’

The people around Safiq were listening now.

‘And to get through the blockade, we will not travel straight to Italy,’ the woman explained, shaking her head. ‘Many of you have tried that, and we all know what happens. No — to reach the West, first we will go east. We will reach the shores of the New World through the capital of the Old World: Rome.

A middle-aged man in the crowd raised his voice in reply. ‘But how will we sail to America?’

Safiq laughed and nodded. It was a fair question.

The woman tried to laugh too. ‘America is too far to sail. Our oil tanker will not sail over the Atlantic. But we have another way to reach America. How we will reach America from Rome must though, for now, remain secret.’

She had them intrigued, hopeful even.

‘But I promise you, if you come with me to Rome, I will get you into the United States,’ she vowed. Then she closed the deal. ‘And even Rome is far, far better than this dockside.’

Safiq was persuaded. Within minutes, he was part of a jostling queue eager to board the Al-Afrique oil tanker. It took more than an hour for the guest workers and their families to embark. Conditions inside the empty supertanker were no better — or worse — than the dockside. Now, though, Safiq and all the other migrants were going somewhere. They had hope, and that hope was leading them to freedom.

The one man who was not free was taken on last. Juma mocked him as he boarded. ‘Come on, Senator — I thought you wanted to go home.’

‘Be pleased I’m not getting the other things I want,’ retorted Sam Roosevelt.

‘Like?’

‘Like, you dead, Juma.’

Juma tried to laugh. He kicked the Senator to make the point, then ordered that Sam Roosevelt was frogmarched with him onto the bridge.

Juma nodded to his crew, and they radioed to the tugboat in the harbour. The anchor was raised and the moorings released.

Slowly, gracefully, the supertanker full of human cargo, driven by a pirate captain from the slums of Somalia, was hauled out of port into the Mediterranean Sea.

Below deck, Safiq felt the movement of the ship and knew: his journey to America had begun.

Thirty-Six

The police spread through Speakers’ Corner. Some jogged to the edge of the crowd, others tried to seal off the area. The helicopter above radioed down their assessment: the escapee could not have got far.

Then everybody was checked. Policemen systematically filtered through all the tourists, passers-by and families. They even made sure a woman in a hijab wasn’t really Myles in disguise. One man complained when his hood was pulled down. A policewoman had to apologise.

Initially they found nothing. So more police cars came, with more officers inside them. Myles, they assumed, had gone to ground, which meant the police had to be efficient. They would check everywhere, looking in every possible hiding place. It was still just a few minutes since their man had been positively identified in Connaught Square — by the anti-terrorism police who had shot the African gunman. So they knew Myles could not be far. Myles would not be able to escape their cordon…

But he already had.

As the police were spreading out through Speakers’ Corner, Myles was walking behind the London-to-Oxford coach. As the driver finished stowing the baggage from the pavement side of the vehicle, Myles opened the roadside compartment. He bent down, slipped in, and closed the luggage door behind him. The driver had returned to his seat and started the bus moving while the police were still checking faces in Hyde Park.

Myles escaped just before the cordon was set up.

He wondered whether any of the traffic had seen him sneak aboard. He had stepped in front of a taxi to climb into the underbelly of the coach. But unless the police set up an instant roadblock, it would probably be several hours before the information trickled back. And by that time, Myles would be far away.

Myles felt the vehicle move off, and heard the sounds of London traffic passing by. He used the journey to plan his next moves. He needed to tell Helen he was safe, and for that he would send an email. But he couldn’t use his own email account — the police would be watching that. So, when he got to Oxford, he would set up a fresh account at an internet café and contact her through an alias.

He wouldn’t be able to go back to his flat — too dangerous. That meant he needed to get clothes, money and food. Since he had an hour and a half in the coach’s luggage compartment, he was able to look through some of the bags. In the half-light, Myles was lucky enough to find a fresh shirt and a coat which almost matched his tall frame. Getting dressed in the confines of the moving compartment took longer than he wanted it to — he was jolted and thrown as the bus turned corners — but he managed. He also found a small purple backpack, a cigarette lighter, some sandwiches and some money — euros. He took them all, promising to himself that his actions in the coming days would justify this small act of theft.

Myles realised that leaving the bus might be harder than getting on board. And having rummaged through much of the luggage on board, he had to exit before people collected their bags. So he waited until the bus was starting to drive more slowly, indicating it had reached the busy city streets of Oxford, then opened the compartment. He looked at the streets and saw he had timed it right: he was in his hometown. And when the vehicle was travelling slowly enough, he rolled out onto his feet, stumbled, and fell onto the pavement. He was soon up again and tried walking along the street as if nothing had happened.

No one had seen him disembark, although watching the bus as it drove off, the storage compartment door still open, Myles knew he would be tracked soon. He had to be fast.

First, he went into an internet café frequented by students in the city. There he created a new email account and typed out a quick message:

He left the message unsigned, knowing Helen would look up the word ‘cursus’ and, when she found out it was the Roman postal system, guess the email came from him. It was cryptic, but Myles hoped she would understand: they needed a code which would allow them to communicate in secret. He knew the police would probably understand the message too, but he had faith that Helen would think of a way to evade their eavesdropping. He pressed ‘send’.

Then Myles went to the Bodleian Library, Oxford University’s central library. In case the librarian at the door knew he was on the run and might report him, Myles entered through an open fire escape, ducking his head in case the entrance was monitored by CCTV. He made his way to the Politics, Philosophy and Economics Reading Room, where he hunted down the one book he needed most. He scanned along the shelves until he found it — The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire — and carried it to one of the desks.

The first instalment of the book had been published in 1776 — making it exactly the same age as the United States — and had been reprinted several times since. He opened it carefully, then read from the old-fashioned text at the first page he saw.

The fabric of a mighty state, which has been reared by the labours of successive ages, could not be overturned by the misfortune of a single day…

He soon realised he didn’t have enough time to get the information he needed from it now. Even Placidia, perhaps the brightest person he’d ever known, had taken months to get through this book. Myles would need more time with it.

So he nudged each of the six volumes off the desk, and caught them with his purple backpack. Stealing library books was bad. Taking them from the Bodleian would cost him his lectureship. But he knew he had no choice. Casually he slung the backpack over his shoulder and moved back towards the fire exit, unplugging the walk-through scanner which detected stolen books before he passed through.

As he came out onto the street, he saw two of his students. Worried that they might make contact, he walked the other way, where a bus was about to pick up passengers. Instinctively, Myles jumped aboard, even though he didn’t know where the bus would take him.

By now he had been in the city for almost an hour, and it was two and a half hours since his unexpected escape from the courtroom. People had already seen him in Oxford — the manhunt would reach him soon. He had to keep moving.

Myles thought through his options: to stay in Oxford would be very dangerous. Even staying in Britain could be risky. But how could he travel abroad? And how could he prove his innocence? Most important of all, how could he stop the plot to bring down America? The problems ticked through his mind without any sort of solution emerging.

The bus had moved out of the centre of Oxford onto one of the main routes feeding the city. It passed through suburbs and grassy areas. Myles decided to get out at the next stop. He rang the bell, and stepped down as the doors opened.

He was alone again. As the bus drove off, he noticed a small café servicing lorry drivers — their vehicles were parked up next to it, having just come off the motorway nearby.

Recognising it could be his last chance to eat before he was properly on the run, Myles decided to go inside and sit at one of the tables. He was wondering where to go next when he saw a bottle of All-American Steak Sauce. He looked on the label: Made in the Teutoburg Forest, Germany.

Teutoburg Forest: where a huge Roman army had been wiped out by barbarians. The imperial army had been tricked then ambushed — the defeat was a complete surprise. It was when Rome was still growing, and ruled by its first emperor, Emperor Augustus. Teutoburg Forest — the forest that defeated the Empire.

Myles remembered how Juma had thrown a bottle of the sauce at him in the taxi in Libya. He remembered Juma’s cocky expression, like it was a private joke — a ‘You’ll find out soon enough’ kind of joke.

He knew where he was going next.

Like most students, Myles’ time as an undergraduate had been about more than just academic study. University had also taught him about the world, and about himself. It was during one of the three — and-a-half-month summer breaks that Myles had decided to explore Europe. Not by train, like most of the other young adults enjoying their time at Oxford — Myles never had the money for one of the ‘Eurorail’ passes which enabled the bearer to travel on almost any rail service on the continental mainland. Instead, Myles had moved around without paying any money at all. He had procured rides from car drivers all over the continent, right from Bergen in Norway to Spain and Gibraltar.

Hitch-hiking, Myles had discovered, required skills similar to those of an old-school maritime navigator: travelling on winds blowing in all sorts of directions, strong and weak, to reach a particular destination. It meant understanding how traffic flowed over long distances. Better to ask a driver for a major town than somewhere none of the drivers would know. Vehicles using more minor routes tended to be less useful that those travelling on motorways. Motorway service stations were the best place to pick up new rides.

Myles memorised the address label on the steak sauce bottle, then stepped outside and walked along the row of lorries parked there. The number plates gave him the information he needed: there was a German vehicle, but the plate started with the letter M, indicating it was from Munich. Slightly better was a Polish vehicle from Warsaw. That was likely to take a more northerly route through Germany, taking him closer to where he needed to go.

Double-checking he was on the eastbound carriageway — he didn’t want to take a lorry the wrong way — Myles bent down to tie his shoelace while he checked no one was watching.

All clear.

Then he quietly hauled his bag on to the Polish lorry and climbed up after it. He took a minute to make room for himself amongst the cargo: boxes of empty beer bottles being taken back for cleaning and refilling. Myles only needed to wait a few minutes more before the driver, who had taken a short toilet break, rejoined his lorry, put it into gear and drove off.

Travelling this way was more uncomfortable than on the bus to Oxford. Myles was also less sure of the route. He thought through what he should do at Dover: should he try to disembark before the truck boarded the ferry? Or should he stay on board and hope no one searched through the cargo? Whatever he did would be risky. Since he wanted to leave the country, he reasoned travelling unnoticed on a Polish cargo lorry was probably one of the best ways to do it. He might as well stay where he was.

Free from the stress of custody and the escape, and despite knowing police and other authorities were searching for him, Myles found himself finally relaxing. Lulled by the movement of the lorry, soon he was asleep. He slept through the last miles of the journey to Dover. He even slept as the vehicle boarded the ferry. He would have been caught if any of the border and immigration officials at the main port scrutinised the vehicles travelling out of Britain as closely as those travelling into it. The modern-day migration crisis was the distraction which let Myles slip away.