Helen looked up at Myles for a reaction, but Myles was too stunned to speak.
Twenty
When he was fourteen, Richard Roosevelt had been given a copy of Winston Churchill’s autobiography, My Early Life, by his father. The Senator had intended it to be an inspiration to the teenager. Instead, it just made him feel inadequate. Dick Roosevelt dutifully read about how the young Churchill had been shot at in Cuba, dislocated his arm in India and, most sensationally of all, escaped from captivity in South Africa. Captured during the British Empire’s war with the Boers and holed up in a prison camp, Churchill had sneaked over a lavatory roof and dodged sentries to get out. Hundreds of miles behind enemy lines, the young man had first smuggled himself aboard a night train, then hidden for a week in a mining pit, before finally making it home to safety. Churchill’s African escape was headline news that established him as a daring patriot. It set up the young man for a parliamentary career.
Now Richard Roosevelt understood: this was his chance to make his own African escape, and become a Churchill himself.
The second full day of their captivity was drawing to a close. Since the video had been taken the day before, Richard Roosevelt and his father had been left with just two armed guards in the same second-floor room of the ministry building in which they had met Placidia. The food was poor: chicken stewed in oil and tomatoes, with rice and flatbread. It had given Senator Sam diarrhoea. Dick knew that he too would be weakened soon. If he was going to escape, he had to escape quickly. But how?
He confided in his father. Instead of being impressed, the Senator just shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ huffed Sam Roosevelt. ‘Your chances are no lower than if you stay here with me, enjoying the Sirte Hilton…’
After more muttering — out of earshot of the guards, at least one of whom understood English — Sam Roosevelt agreed to help.
That evening the Senator confessed to a numbness in his left arm. It was an odd sensation — part pain, part painlessness. It had been building up over several days. Now it demanded attention.
When he told the guards they did nothing. He hadn’t expected any more from them.
Then, suddenly, the Senator clutched his chest. He fell back on the floor, screeching in pain.
Dick Roosevelt bent over him and tried to issue first aid, pumping his father’s heart.
It took a few moments for Juma’s guards to react. They weren’t sure what to do at first. One came over, then the other, and Dick was pulled away. Both gunmen looked down at the Senator and tried to work out what to do.
It was while the guards were arguing with each other in a foreign language that Dick Roosevelt took his chance. Calmly, he moved towards one of the glassless windows. He climbed through it and stood on the ledge. Still unnoticed, he glanced back at his father writhing on the ground, then gauged the distance down to the ground, and jumped.
The drop could easily have caused an injury, but Dick Roosevelt was lucky: below him was a taxi. He landed with both feet squarely on the roof of the vehicle, which crumpled safely but loudly as it took his weight.
The noise alerted the gunmen to his escape. They moved over to the window and saw their former captive scrambling away.
One of the men fired off some bullets, but Dick Roosevelt was already round the corner. The other guard tried to jump onto the taxi roof, but landed with a twist. His ankle was gone.
Dick Roosevelt found himself running through an unfamiliar city, trying to find his bearings as the evening light faded. He knew the guards would alert more gang members soon. He didn’t have much time.
He sprinted down an alley and onto a wider street.
Gasping, he barely had time to think which way to go, how to escape, what to do…
The few people on the street were all locaclass="underline" he was white and dressed very differently. They were already looking at him. There was no way he could blend in.
He surveyed the street: all the buildings were made of concrete, some decorated with bullet marks. He might be able to hide for a while, but not for long. He would soon need water and food. He’d have to contact local people, and he couldn’t trust them: they’d sell him back to Juma’s gang. What could he do?
Then he saw a seagull, and realised: he was close to the Mediterranean shoreline. He could even smell it. And where there was sea there would be a boat. Given that he didn’t have any other options, it was worth a try.
Above him was an old street sign, punctured with bullet holes, which pointed toward the harbour. He ran, and within half-a-mile, he was there. Thankfully, still out of sight of his pursuers…
Now, drenched in sweat, and with the daylight disappearing by the minute, he looked around for a seaworthy vessel.
And there it was: an open skiff, empty except for a high-powered motor on the back. Dick smiled: it had probably just been used by someone. A prize escape.
Exhausted, he jogged towards it and checked nobody was watching before he slipped in.
The tank was full, the engine was ready, and there was even bread and water on board. All Dick needed to do was pull the cord.
Then he saw one of the Nissan technicals screeching along the harbour road. The headlights were on, and the back loaded with gunmen. They were after him.
Dick ducked, and tugged the cord as hard as he could.
The motor spluttered, then started — first time.
Roosevelt looked upwards and crossed his chest, thanking God.
But the engine noise had alerted the gang members: they knew which boat he was in.
Dick Roosevelt moved his body as low as he could while bullets flew above him. Some hit the skiff, rattling the whole structure. He felt shards of wood fly off just above him. He covered his head in his hands, desperate to remain safe.
It took just one minute for his boat to speed out of range of the guns. Juma’s gang would need another skiff to chase him now.
But Dick was lucky. Out on the dark sea, there was no way they could chase him. All he had to do was steer his stolen pirate skiff a few miles out to sea, then turn east and hope he made it to Egypt.
Shaken by the boat bouncing over the waves, he began to feel a little sick. But he ploughed on through the night, and by morning guessed — correctly — that he was now in Egyptian coastal waters.
He actually came ashore on a beach full of tourists. His face pockmarked by the splinters and his shirt ragged, he struggled to climb out of the skiff. Several beachgoers used their phones to capture what would become iconic images: Dick Roosevelt, hero of New York, completing his escape from terrorists in Africa amid sunbathers and beach balls.
He found someone who worked for a hotel, and told them to fetch the police.
Within minutes he was on his way to the American Embassy just outside Cairo. Within an hour he was being debriefed by friendly Embassy staff. And by the end of the day, the story of his astonishing escape was exploding through news broadcasts all over the world — aided by the social media videos of Dick Roosevelt emerging onto the beach. He was lauded as a brave hero for the second time in a week.
And his father was beaten hard by Juma’s guards when they discovered he had feigned his heart attack like a professional actor.
Twenty-One
Helen watched Myles’ reaction to Placidia’s terror video. She realised that, to him, this was more than just an attack on the United States. ‘The woman in the video,’ she asked. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
Myles nodded, not sure how much he should say.