‘Senator,’ interrupted Juma. ‘You are responsible.’
‘How am I responsible for grain in Libya, thousands of miles away from my home?’
‘Because, Senator, our best farmland was taken over by big oil companies. And the oil companies are all linked to America.’
The Senator was knocked back again. He hadn’t expected that. ‘So you’re asking for food aid?’
‘Yes, Senator,’ nodded Juma.
‘That’s all — just food aid?’
‘No.’ Juma looked down again at his piece of paper. ‘Senator, you know we were all in Gaddafi’s militia?’
‘Yes, he paid you, right?’ teased Sam Roosevelt.
‘That’s right. But we had no choice,’ asserted Juma, justifying his actions without accepting he needed to. ‘Me and the people you’ve seen here and in the villages: we’re not Libyans. We’re from all over Africa. Poor places, like Somalia and Niger. Most of us were invited here by Gaddafi, then we had to become mercenaries for him.’
‘OK,’ acknowledged the Senator, saying it as though he wanted Juma to continue but not to suggest he had sympathy.
‘Well, Senator, I need your help to stop the reprisals.’
‘Reprisals?’
‘Yes. The Libyans, when they find out we were mercenaries, try to kill us. We need the rule of law.’
The Senator looked Juma in the eye. Was he serious? ‘Mr Juma, the rule of law will certainly reach you very soon…’
Juma held the Senator’s gaze for a bit, then adjusted the headscarf around his ears before looking back down at his plate.
The Senator levelled up to him. ‘OK, Juma, let’s assume you’re serious. How do you want the rule of law, exactly?’
Juma tugged at his ear again. He paused before he replied. ‘Senator, I want American troops on the streets. I want Libya to become safe for my people again. I want all of Africa to become more like America.’
The Senator smiled, then slowly shook his head. Sending US troops to Libya was doomed. It would be just like Iraq or Somalia. Libya would become another costly quagmire. Another Afghanistan. ‘If we sent US soldiers onto the streets of Sirte, they’d just become targets,’ he explained. ‘All the Libyan people would rally against them — just as the people of America would rise up if we had African troops in Kansas.’
Juma paused again. He moved his head to one side, letting his ear rest unnaturally on his hand. ‘So that’s a “no”, then?’
‘Correct, that’s a no: we can’t send US troops into Libya. When we tried something similar where you pirates come from, we got our asses kicked. But we might be able to help you in other ways…’ As the Senator was speaking he became increasingly aware that Juma wasn’t really listening. Instead, the warlord was trying to fix something to do with his ear and his scarf.
Then the Senator saw it. And in one swift movement — too fast for Juma to respond — he leant forward and brushed off the Somali’s headgear.
Juma’s guards, who had been standing passively at the back through most of the exchange, suddenly moved forward. Guns clicked. Dick Roosevelt covered his head, expecting bullets to fly.
But Juma just raised his hand.
His militia men, who had been standing guard, slowed up. Gradually they lowered their weapons. As Juma looked at them, they understood, and walked back to where they had been.
Juma raising his hand was more than a gesture of calm. It was also an admission.
It showed to Myles and Dick that, fitted to the left side of head, previously hidden by his headscarf, was an earpiece.
The Senator slowly plucked out the device and held it in front of all their faces.
Despite the old American holding up evidence that Juma was not the leading man he claimed to be, the pirate leader refused to look ashamed. ‘Yes, Senator. I have been receiving advice,’ he admitted.
‘Advice or instructions, Juma?’
Juma didn’t respond, as if he didn’t have permission to answer.
The Senator smirked, proud to have got one over on his captor. ‘Then, Mr Juma, you had better tell us who’s really making decisions here.’
Juma said nothing.
The Senator started to get annoyed. ‘Who wrote that note?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘Who’s on the other end of this wire?’
Still Juma said nothing. Myles sensed growing tension in the room: this was more than an impasse. If Juma kept refusing to answer, the situation would turn nasty.
Dick Roosevelt was looking scared. ‘What my father is trying to say, is…’ he offered, trying to mediate.
‘Shut up, Dick,’ shouted the Senator, his eyes fixed on Juma. ‘Come on, Mr Pirate, tell us who’s in charge here.’
Myles heard a quiet metallic click from behind him: somewhere a safety catch was being turned off.
Juma looked down at his own AK-47. It was still beside him and within reach.
Dick Roosevelt’s eyes darted around, checking out escape routes.
Then a door opened behind Juma. Sunlight burst through, making it hard for the four men sitting on the floor to see more than a silhouette walking through it.
The Senator squinted in disbelief: to him, the person approaching didn’t look human. Just a mass of flowing cloth, like a dark ghost emerging from a halo of light.
Then he realised: it was a woman, dressed in full Islamic dress. The woman approached, until she stood above Juma. Then she carefully sat down, and lifted her hijab.
Myles recognised her face immediately.
The Senator nodded, as if the woman’s appearance confirmed his expectations. He couldn’t resist the chance to humiliate Juma one more time. ‘So the old saying is almost true,’ he mocked. ‘Behind every strong man, there’s not a strong woman, but a wrong one.’
Sixteen
Placidia looked just as Myles imagined she would. Her eyes still beamed a fierce intelligence, her face was still determined. The two decades since they had last met had given her dignity. Unlike other beautiful woman Myles had known at university, Placidia had not grown wide-hipped or flabby. Instead, she looked poised, athletic even. Her skin was taut, perhaps too taut, as if the battles she had continually been fighting with the world were finally starting to wear on her.
Myles remembered how radical she used to be. Placidia had led student marches against the massacres in Bosnia in the early nineties, blaming Britain for not doing enough to stop the killing. She had become a vegetarian at university, and led a campaign to make sure the college canteens always offered a non-meat option. She had been a feminist, an anti-poverty campaigner, even an eco-warrior. But unlike most of the students who took up trendy causes, Placidia had followed her convictions through to the end, even when they led to unpleasant places.
Myles and Placidia had not seen each other since those distant days. Their eyes connected, and he remembered the confusing mixture of emotions she had inspired in him half-a-lifetime ago. Even now he felt his pulse quicken. ‘Placidia…’
‘Myles, hello.’ She said his name without any emotion at all.
Myles wasn’t sure how to respond. Talking in the presence of Placidia’s husband limited what Myles could say — he knew Juma could carry out whatever he was threatening against the USA at any time. ‘This is where you live?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You’ve met my husband. He and I are determined to do whatever we can to help these people from all over Africa, trapped here in Libya.’ Placidia talked as though she was making a speech. ‘We want to bring them all the things they should have — all the things to which an American, like me, is entitled.’