Two pick-ups remained, along with Juma and five of his men. Myles, Sam and Dick looked at each other as if to say ‘what next?’
Juma, still smiling, flicked his head to one side to indicate the three men should climb into the back of one of the pick-ups. The Senator led the way, followed by Myles and Dick, who was still shaking with fear.
Once all three were aboard, Juma jumped in to join them. Then he bashed the side of the vehicle to indicate the two pick-ups could move off. ‘Now it’s time for some serious negotiations, gentlemen,’ he bragged.
The last two pick-ups drove away from the border, leaving behind three dead Roosevelt Guardians and some scuffled dirt on the roadside.
As Myles saw the last of Egypt disappear from view behind him, he wondered how they could ever escape from the mad pirate leader who was taking them into the unknown interior of Libya.
Fifteen
When Myles taught military history to his students back at Oxford University, he often spoke about Libya. The North Africa desert war, 1941-43, had given Britain its first proper chance to fight back against the Nazis. The Nazis had won initially. The Germans rolled along the coast road to Egypt. They even threatened the Suez Canal. There was a sense of ‘every man for himself’ as Hitler’s war machine swept the British troops away. Some feared the Brits had lost their will to fight. But somehow, the British Army had rediscovered its strength. Some said it was codebreakers, which allowed German supply lines to be intercepted. Some said it was equipment from America. Others argued it was the new troop commander, General Montgomery. But Myles lectured that it was something else, something innate. The Brits stopped losing when they rediscovered their sense of duty.
As the battered pick-ups swayed and rolled along desert tracks, Myles caught the faces of people in some of the villages. They were not Libyans but African migrants. Most had been drafted into the country by the dictator Gaddafi and now abandoned. A few had fled here more recently — Myles guessed from Mali, after Al Qaeda had been kicked out of the country by Western troops. Some seemed hostile, some bemused. One or two failed to realise that the three foreigners in the back of the technical were being driven under duress. But most gave a gesture to indicate they were pleased that Juma and his gang had taken in some rich Westerners. Juma puffed himself up at their reaction. He was the local hero.
The vehicle started to manoeuvre down backstreets. They were in Sirte — the coastal town which remained loyal to Gaddafi until his bloody end, and home to a tribe which still rejected the new government in Tripoli. This was the heart of lawless Libya, the place Juma had made his base, and where the years since the Arab Spring had allowed him to make millions through extortion and racketeering.
The vehicle pulled up in a walled courtyard. They had reached their destination.
The journey had probably taken three hours, and the sixty-nine-year-old Senator was looking dehydrated. The old man eyed both Myles and his son. Without words, he confirmed he was still in charge, and that he would lead the negotiations, which were sure to start soon.
Several more armed men approached. Most wore headscarves, some were dressed in old army uniforms, and a few had cheap Western clothes which fitted poorly. Only their weapons — they all carried AK-47s — identified the group as a single militia.
Juma jumped down and shouted orders in a dialect Myles couldn’t understand. The Somalis started to unload their three hostages. The Senator tried to brush them away, annoyed at their rough treatment, but was eventually pulled off. Dick and Myles accepted it was time to be led off the vehicle.
When all three men were standing on the dirt, they were ordered to form a line. Then Juma took a headscarf handed to him by one of his men. It took him more than a minute to put it on.
Why does he take so long with his headscarf? Myles wondered.
With his headgear in place, Juma guided them down an alley, around a corner, and into the side entrance of a large concrete building. Myles saw the old bullet holes in the wall and guessed this was a former oil ministry office block, probably built by the Gaddafi regime many years ago. The offices had long ceased to function.
The men were directed up rough concrete stairs to the second level. There, Juma ordered them to sit cross-legged on the floor. Then the armed Libyans stepped back, keeping their guns poised and ready, to leave just their leader sitting next to the three Westerners.
‘Welcome to Libya, gentlemen!’ Juma said the words with a flourish, and showed his yellow teeth as he grinned at the three men.
The Senator wasn’t fazed. ‘OK, Mr Juma,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Tell us what you want, so I can say “no” and you can shoot us.’
Juma laughed, but it was clear that the Senator was serious. Myles saw Dick Roosevelt gulp, afraid that his father’s firm line in negotiations was shortening his life expectancy.
Juma said nothing for several moments. Then he raised his hand. Somewhere behind Myles’ back there was movement, and several plates of food were brought out. Dried fish, flat bread and an unfamiliar green vegetable were laid out before them. There followed metal dishes, water and some cups. A bowl was passed around, and the three men were invited to wash their hands in it, before drying them on a dirty rag. Still without speaking, Juma started to eat the food, eventually followed by Dick, Myles and, after much protest, the Senator. Silence lasted throughout most of the meal, broken only by the occasional request to pass something or the chink of metal on the concrete floor.
Finally, Juma spoke, still looking down at his food. ‘What I want, gentlemen, is this: I want your assistance.’
Senator Sam Roosevelt spluttered on his food. He had been expecting demands — probably something ideological. Something he would have to refuse. But assistance? This was something new. ‘You want assistance? You kill three of my guards and drive us here to ask for assistance?’ He hissed the word through his teeth, as if the idea was as ridiculous as it was offensive.
‘Yes, Senator.’
The Senator shook his head in disbelief, looking back down at the food in front of him. ‘Well, what sort of assistance do you want?’
Juma’s face acknowledged the question. He had anticipated it. He pulled out some paper from inside his shirt, which he unfolded and placed beside him. Myles saw notes were written on it in Arabic. Something about the loopy handwriting made Myles think it had been written by a woman.
Juma started talking from his notes. ‘Gentlemen, you know why my people have come to need assistance from America?’
The Senator humoured him. ‘Tell us.’
‘First, because we have run out of food. The land here grows no more grain.’
The Senator looked dreary: hard-luck stories from people in his state were the worst part of his job. He’d had voters complain about their cars breaking down, their pets dying and their wives running off. Some old Joe trying to make him responsible for their misfortune. When he met these people, he would try to make plain that acts of God were beyond his remit. Juma was just the same. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your grain, but I’m not responsible for…’