Helen paused before answering, unclear why Myles had asked. ‘If you need it,’ she replied.
Myles could sense the uncertainty in her voice. But when he turned round he was glad to see her pulling her smartphone from her bag. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And can you get the pictures of this through to some of your producer friends?’
Helen nodded, pressing a pre-dial button while she kept filming.
Myles returned his focus to the desperate man. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mohammed,’ came the reply. ‘My name’s Mohammed.’
Myles nodded again, trying to reassure the man. ‘And do you have a family, Mohammed?’
Mohammed nodded. ‘Yes, three children, and my wife.’
‘And what do you do for work, Mohammed?’
‘I clean toilets. In the mall, I clean toilets.’ The man’s eyes were flipping around him, unsure why the strange Englishman was asking him questions. Myles could tell Mohammed was wondering whether he had said the right thing: should he have admitted to being a toilet cleaner?
Myles saw one of the border guards move behind him. Quickly he turned round. ‘Stay back,’ he insisted.
The border guards froze again, his eyes still fixed on the deportee.
‘We’re going to do this properly,’ Myles explained. He called over to Helen. ‘OK, Helen, is this live?’
‘Yep, you’re on national TV.’
Briefly Myles imagined the millions of viewers in homes across America whose daily programmes he was interrupting. He tried not to let it distract him as he turned to speak into the camera-phone. ‘OK, people,’ he began. ‘Some of you are proud of your country, some of you less proud. This man is so desperate to work here and help his family, he cleans toilets in the mall.’
Myles paused, trying not to freeze on national TV, and wondering whether his British accent would make it hard for him to appeal to the American spirit. He turned to Mohammed, looking for inspiration. Then he turned back to the camera. ‘Some of you think there are too many foreigners in America. Some of you might think that America needs people like Mohammed to keep your toilets clean. Some of you might be happy for Mohammed to be sent back to Africa, where he could die.’
Myles looked to Helen, just behind the camera, for permission. Helen nodded. ‘So, viewers, this is your chance. In a few moments two telephone numbers will appear on your screen. Call the first number if you think Mohammed should be sent back to Libya. Call the second number if you want his case to be reviewed by an appeals panel.’
Then Myles spelt it out as clearly as he could: ‘Call the first number if you want Mohammed to die. Call the second number if you want him to live.’
Helen kept the images flowing, holding the camera as still as she could. On TV screens across the country, the pictures were accompanied by the caption:
Live: Incident at JFK airport, New York. Man fights deportation back to Africa.
Swiftly a research assistant set up the phone-in lines. Just as Myles requested, two numbers appeared on the screens. By the first number, the words ‘send him back’. By the second: ‘give him a second chance’.
A TV in one of the offices nearby picked up the broadcast, and someone turned up the volume.
Helen called out from behind the camera-phone. ‘Mohammed, you’re live on national TV. Do you have anything to say to make your case?’ she asked. ‘This is your chance to try to persuade people.’
Still terrified, Mohammed took a few seconds to register what Helen was saying. Slowly, he tried to find the right words. ‘Yes, my name is Mohammed,’ he began, talking slowly. ‘I work here so my family has food. I was born in Darfur, Sudan, but when my family’s house was destroyed I moved to Libya, where my father and uncle were killed in the war which killed Colonel Gaddafi.’ Mohammed looked over to check the border officials were still some distance away before he continued. ‘And if I am sent back, I will be killed, too. I clean toilets here in America. Please let me stay to clean toilets. Don’t let them send me back. For my family, please let me stay.’
Mohammed’s sincerity came through. Myles saw the man was close to tears.
A ring of airport police had formed behind Helen and the deportation officials. Alerted to the events, they wanted to keep onlookers away. They didn’t want this situation to be interrupted.
Within the ring of policemen, for several minutes, nobody moved. Helen kept filming while Myles stayed close to the deportee. There was still a chance one of the border guards might make a rush for the man, but none of them tried. The force of phone-in TV was far more powerful than the orders of their supervisor. They understood: this was an extraordinary situation, which meant their supervisor’s instructions could wait, at least until the results of the phone-in vote.
Myles also understood: this was evidence that Placidia was right — modern America was more like ancient Rome than most people realised. Whichever way the TV phone-in went, this would be like the Roman games, where emperors decided whether a gladiator who had been defeated in combat lived or died. They indicated with gestures still used today: thumbs-up for ‘he lives’, or thumbs-down for ‘he dies’. Myles didn’t know whether modern Americans were cruel enough to deport a man like Mohammed when the fate awaiting him was death, but he was sure, like ancient Romans, they would be compelled by the spectacle.
When Susan discovered what was happening on one of the airport televisions, she marched up and ordered the ring of policemen to let her through, which they obediently did. With her back to the camera to keep her face hidden, she moved to stand between Myles and the deportee, Mohammed. ‘Enough,’ she called, her hand raised.
Myles, Helen and the border guards looked around, not sure how to react. Mohammed looked back over the rail, knowing this might be the moment when he would have to jump.
Susan turned to the man. ‘Mohammed: your case will be reviewed. I don’t care about the vote on TV. OK?’
Mohammed nodded, letting out a breath as he became slightly less terrified. Myles repeated the words loudly to make sure they were picked up by the camera-phone. ‘So his case is going to be reviewed. Thank you.’
Susan wafted her ID card towards the uniformed men, who accepted her authority and understood their new instructions: to get the man down safely. Mohammed moved away from the railing and volunteered himself into their custody.The drama was over.
Helen turned the camera-phone to herself to wrap up the live broadcast. She owed it to the viewers to summarise what had happened, and to explain how a decision on Mohammed’s life had been taken before the votes were counted. She thanked everyone who had phoned in.
As Mohammed was led away and the crowds gradually realised the situation was over, Susan turned to Myles. ‘You should come with me,’ she instructed.
Myles followed as he was led along corridors within the airport, through several sets of security doors and towards a suite of computer screens where a huddle of security experts was waiting for him.
The TV pictures from the deportation drama was nothing compared to the live video footage he was about to see.
Twenty-Three
The Chinook helicopters were in the air. Warm air blowing up from the desert was mixing with the hot blast from the engines. It was too loud for the men to talk to each other, and the preparation was all done. There was nothing to do but think.
Captain Morton remembered this time from his last mission. That had been a success: a quick flight into Lebanon to rescue a scrawny Canadian journalist, then out again before the Lebanese government could complain about the unlicensed breach of its borders. Morton hadn’t lost any of his men, but the hostage-takers had been ready with night-vision goggles.