The Senator nodded, then continued with his questions, which were fast becoming rhetorical. ‘And are the vehicles armoured to withstand the blasts?’
‘Er, don’t know. Probably not, sir.’ The Guardian wanted to be rescued from his one-man Senate inquiry. He turned to Myles for help.
Myles recognised the mines pushed under the vehicles. They were anti-tank mines, ex-Soviet stock — maybe TM-46s, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘If these vehicles have B6 level armour or less,’ explained Myles, ‘the mines underneath us would destroy them completely.’
The Roosevelt Guardian nodded — their armour was level B6.
The Senator bowed his head: the company he had created as a young man hadn’t even provided them with the right equipment. Anti-tank mines were an obvious risk, yet the Guardians had done nothing about it.
Myles could telclass="underline" the Senator understood he had to surrender. If they held out, the Senator would lose his son. If he held out some more, the gang would destroy all their vehicles. They’d be even more defenceless.
Myles saw Sam Roosevelt check the faces of the people in the car around him before he issued the instruction. ‘OK, release the doors,’ the old man grizzled.
As the doors were unlocked, Africans with guns up and down the convoy pulled on the handles. The small army of Roosevelt Guardians were taken out of all five vehicles and forced to line up beside the road. There they were disarmed, then instructed to lie face down with their hands behind their heads.
The sun was now almost directly above them.
The Senator and Myles were treated with more ceremony: given water and allowed to remain standing, while the Africans searched through all the vehicles and made sure they had all the firearms. Radios were collected, along with every other device the group possessed — a camera, some satellite phones, a homing beacon, and several GPS units. Finally, the anti-tank mines were pulled away from underneath the vehicles. Some of the Africans climbed inside and the cars were driven off.
Myles, the Senator, and their small private army were absolutely defenceless on the roadside just inside Libya.
One of the Roosevelt Guardians murmured what everybody already knew. ‘These can’t be real border guards. I don’t think they’re even from Libya…’
The African gang leader — the small man with the scar and the swagger — approached, his gun loose about his shoulder. He snorted at the Guardian, as if to say ‘who cares?’, then moved on towards his real prize: Senator Sam Roosevelt. ‘Senator, thank you for coming,’ he grinned.
‘You must be Juma.’
‘Yes, I am. And soon you’ll wish you’d never heard of me.’
Juma waved his gun at the Roosevelt Guardians lying face down on the ground. You now have a choice, Senator,’ he said, staring Sam in the eye. ‘I’m about to give you a gun. Either you kill three of your men,’ grinned Juma. ‘Or I will kill them all.’
Fourteen
The Senator looked at Juma in disgust. Was this man serious?
Juma cocked his head. He was chewing and smiling, as if he had a narcotic in his mouth.
The Senator's eyes squinted in the sun. He was trying to determine whether this psychopath had any humanity about him at all.
Juma let the Senator ponder his problem while he strolled over towards Myles. ‘And you must be the great Myles Munro. The man with the strange brain.’
Myles nodded, unconcerned by the insult.
Juma looked up at the Englishman curiously, one eye closed to keep out the sun. ‘Myles: kill three men so that ten others may live? What would you do?’
Myles let the issue tumble around in his mind, acutely aware there was no good outcome. He tried to understand Juma: small, arrogant, ruthless — and probably on qat. Juma had just triumphed over the Senator — killing one of the Americans, and forcing the rest out of their vehicles unarmed. Even though he had scored a victory, Juma wanted more.
No way to win this: Myles had to distract Juma. He glanced over to the Senator, before returning to the pirate warlord. ‘Do you still have Dick?’ he asked.
Juma nodded. He leaned over to someone behind him and gestured with his hand.
A few moments later Dick Roosevelt was led back up to the main group. His clothes were ruffled, and he looked pale and very shaken. Perhaps a bruise around his mouth. But he was safe.
The Senator opened his arms and called out to him. ‘Son.’
Dick looked fearfully at Juma before he moved. With a swagger, Juma gave his permission.
Dick Roosevelt crossed over to his father, who put his arms around him, rubbing him on the back. ‘Glad you’re safe, son.’
Dick Roosevelt said nothing. It was as if he knew his father had contemplated sacrificing him for the rest of the convoy. Then he began whimpering in his father’s arms.
BANG.
The unmistakeable sound of a gunshot cracked through the desert. Myles and the Roosevelts, father and son reunited, looked over in unison to where the sound had come from.
One of the Guardians lying face down on the ground had just been shot through the head.
Juma raised his gun up again. ‘Twelve left, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The offer stands: you kill three or I kill them all.’
The Senator shook his head in disbelief. ‘Look, punk, we came here to offer you a last chance of survival. If you want to play death games then you’re going to die so quickly…’
Juma just kept smiling. He walked over to another one of the private security men. The man was quivering in fear. Juma nuzzled the barrel of his automatic weapon into the fat on the man’s neck and grinned as he turned his face up at Myles and the Senator. He tensed his finger on the trigger.
‘Wait…’
Myles’ call made Juma raise his eyebrows in a look of mock intrigue.
But only for a moment.
BANG.
In an instant, another of the Guardians was dead. Blood from his lifeless body began seeping into the dust.
The remaining Guardians were terrified, trying to remain as still as they could, while knowing that they too could be killed at any moment.
Myles couldn’t allow this to keep happening. ‘What are you trying to do, Juma?’ he called out. ‘You’re trying to threaten America? You’re trying to get us to kill our own security guards? Why?’
Juma strolled back, still smiling. ‘I’m teaching you about American values, Mr Munro.’
The Senator pulled a face, as if to say, ‘American values? Is this guy serious?’
Juma could see the reaction. ‘You would rather let twelve men die than save nine if it meant dirtying your own hands.’
Myles hit back. ‘Juma: killing unarmed men on the ground is not “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”.’
‘No, it’s not, Mr Munro, “sir”,’ Juma mocked. ‘But Americans will happily let Africans die as long as it means you don’t get bloody yourself.’
Finally Myles and the Senator could see the point Juma was making.
Myles tried to console the Somali gang leader some more. He realised he had to offer a compromise before Juma restated his ultimatum. ‘OK, how about this: you keep these men hostage, while you take me, the Senator and his son wherever you want to take us,’ he offered. ‘We have our negotiation, then we all leave. OK?’
Juma turned the offer over in his mind. He clearly hadn’t expected it. He glanced over at Sam and Dick Roosevelt. Both had expressions on their faces saying ‘do it’.
He looked up at the sky: cloudless. Juma knew about satellites and knew he was probably being watched from several hundred miles above by high-tech hardware. Maybe by a lethal drone not so far away.
He nodded. Waving his hand again, one of his men made a call on their radio. A few minutes later a stream of battered Nissan pick-ups drove up — some had rusted bullet holes and most had machine guns mounted on the back. Armed men moved towards the Roosevelt Guardians on the ground. They bound each Guardian’s wrists together with wire, then placed blindfolds over their eyes. One by one — each Roosevelt Guardian held by two of Juma’s men — they were guided onto the beaten-up trucks. When all the men were loaded onto the vehicles, Juma gave the order and the Guardians were driven away, bouncing around in the back while dust kicked up from the worn tyres beneath them.