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.