Helen digested her partner’s reaction. ‘So, the woman you used to “know” at university is now a terrorist mastermind?’ She said the word ‘know’ as if Myles’ knowledge was carnal.
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ admitted Myles.
‘What’s more complicated: your knowledge of this woman, or her being a terrorist mastermind?’
‘Both.’
Their car pulled up near a windowless building within the airport complex. The driver climbed out, ready to open the door for Myles and his partner.
Myles and Helen were led inside, where they were met by three young officials — two men and a woman, all with fixed smiles.
‘Good morning, Mr Munro,’ said one of the men. They seemed to have been trained in being courteous.
Myles acknowledged the greeting as he looked around at the perfect furnishings. Small table lamps provided neutral lighting. Superficial artworks hung on the off-white walls. It was the sort of place he hated.
‘Mr Munro,’ continued the man. ‘We’re here to make sure you can relax, and recover completely from what you’ve been through.’
‘Why? What do you think I’ve been through?’
The officials giggled as if Myles had told a brilliant joke. ‘Very good, Mr Munro. And of course, your partner’s welcome to stay here, too.’
Helen was just as uncertain as Myles. ‘If I want to stay here,’ she said. ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s the rest and recovery suite, madam. A special lounge offered for situations, well, just like this.’
Myles was already inspecting the sign on the door. It read ‘Deportation and Recovery suite’. ‘Two-way traffic, then?’ he asked.
The officials nodded nervously as they confirmed the room was also used to expel people from the USA.
Myles’ eyes were drawn to the twenty-four-hour rolling news coverage on a TV in the corner. A food factory in Kentucky had just blown up as flour — or some other powder, the authorities didn’t yet know — had been fanned around the inside of the building. It made a very explosive mix, apparently. Junk TV.
Myles came to the point. ‘Look, I don’t need to recover,’ he explained. ‘I need to pass on what I know so this whole “Roman Empire” business…’
Myles was still searching for words when a woman in a suit entered. It was Susan — the Department of Homeland Security secondee to the Senator’s office. She seemed more confident than the first time Myles had met her. ‘All in hand, Mr Munro,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a team just about to go in and rescue the Senator.’
‘Special Forces?’
Susan nodded but her eyes were wide — she was scolding Myles for revealing classified information, and imploring him not to say more.
Myles shook his head. ‘Don’t send them in. It’s a mistake.’
‘I think that’s for the experts to judge, don’t you, Mr Munro?’
Susan moved away before Myles could reply. Helen put her hand on Myles’ back to remind him to calm down. Myles tried to put his point more softly. ‘Look, a Special Forces raid is just what these people are expecting,’ he warned. ‘In the backstreets of Sirte…’
‘The Senator’s not in Sirte, Mr Munro,’ said Sarah without looking at him. ‘We traced the Senator’s mobile phone signal,’ she explained, keeping her voice hushed and looking round to check they weren’t being overheard, ‘to a rural area several miles in from the coast.’
Myles nodded. ‘And you think the Senator’s still with his phone?’
‘We have another source to verify that, yes, Mr Munro. Dick Roosevelt overheard the gang members planning, while he was their prisoner. And you saw the pictures in the video, Mr Munro,’ Susan continued. ‘We think we’ve matched the background behind Mr Juma and his gang to a particular point, which is where our Special Forces team are heading.’
Myles was impressed but still unconvinced. ‘You don’t think this is another trap?’
Susan laughed. ‘No. We trust our source and we trust our technology.’ She was looking him in the eye again. ‘Now we just have to trust our Navy Seals. The Senator planned this raid before he left, in case anything went wrong. He’ll take pride in being rescued by his old unit.’
Myles realised why she was more relaxed than before: it was because the Senator was elsewhere. Susan was able to take charge in his absence. Able to be competent.
He accepted a cup of coffee brought over with great care and handed to him by one of the three young officials. ‘So if you’ll wait here, sir,’ said the professional greeter, ‘we’ll bring you news of the Senator’s release as soon as we have it.’
But Myles wasn’t listening. He was watching Helen as she began wandering down the corridor. It was the journalist in her: she always wanted to explore. Myles looked again at the room around him and decided he would rather be with Helen than with the officials. He followed her, the young official chasing after him.
‘Excuse me — sir?’ called the official.
Myles just turned and handed back the coffee. The officials stood bemused, mystified that someone might turn down their perfect hospitality.
Helen had found the deportation section. As Myles joined her, they both overheard an exchange from somewhere above. One man’s voice, clearly American, was trying to calm the other, who was terrified and spoke English poorly.
‘No, I cannot go back. They kill me,’ said the foreign accent.
‘Please return to your seat, sir,’ came the reply.
‘No, they kill me if I go back…’
Helen and Myles moved closer to where the conversation was coming from.
‘I not go back. Force me, then I die here,’ intoned the accent, sounding afraid. ‘Better to die here than the Libyans killing me.’
Myles and Helen started running to where the voice was coming from.
They discovered an African man at the top of the stairwell, three floors above them. He was holding on to the rail with just one hand and threatening to jump.
Twenty-Two
Myles and Helen ran up towards the man who was threatening to jump. As they approached, they saw a group of uniformed men and women edging towards the deportee. None of them seemed to know what to do.
The American border official who seemed to be in charge looked unnerved to see Myles and Helen in the out-of-bounds area. Then he recognised Helen from TV. He felt he had to explain himself. ‘He’s an illegal,’ said the official, apologetically. ‘We were going to fly him back home but….’
Helen nodded, acknowledging the point.
Myles decided to approach closer. Holding his hands out, palms down so it was clear he wasn’t carrying anything, he shouted over to the distressed man. ‘Why don’t you want to go back?’
‘They will kill me if I go back.’
‘Who would kill you?’ asked Myles.
‘The militia, the gangs, the tribes — any of them. Even the new government,’ pleaded the man, sweat forming on his malnourished skin. ‘It was safe when we had the dictator. Now law and order has gone. No one is safe…’ The man explained how he had fled with his family from the violence in Darfur to the relative peace of Libya. But now it was dangerous even there. All of Africa seemed lethal to him.
Myles locked his eyes on the man, telling him without words that he didn’t need to explain any further. But eye contact was all he had to offer. Myles nodded to the man while he tried to think.
Myles looked around: there was no way the border officials would let this man go. Whether the African jumped or was sent back, the man would surely die. Then Myles had an idea…
Keeping his eyes fixed on the African deportee, Myles called over his shoulder. ‘Helen, can your phone get footage of this?’