Perrotta slowly ran a finger on his chin, onto his beard, thinking. ‘When you were in Libya,’ he posed, ‘did you wonder why you were released but Senator Roosevelt and his son were kept hostage?’
Myles just looked blank. No, he didn’t wonder. Myles had wondered about all sorts of things, but not that. ‘They sent me back so people heard about their ultimatum.’ He’d seen several bureaucratic mix-ups over the years, but this was one of the most peculiar.
Perrotta, still relaxed, took a final swig from his coffee and stood up. ‘You’ll excuse me for a minute, please.’
Myles nodded.
Perrotta left the room, leaving Myles to think back through the questions. Asking about his relationship with Placidia was reasonable, but why the quiz about his computer? And why ask about what he taught? Perrotta had known a lot about him, but had not used notes. Impressive.
It was almost ten minutes before Perrotta returned. When he did, he was as polite as ever. ‘Thank you, Myles, for all your answers today,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Thank you. Can I ask what the questions are about?’
Perrotta shook his head in apology. He seemed genuine. ‘I’m sorry, no.’
Then Perrotta tipped his head to one side to explain. He could explain a little. ‘Perhaps you’ve been working with someone in America’s Department of Homeland Security recently?’
‘Yes, Susan.’
‘You don’t know her second name — just “Susan”?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Myles still spoke like a man who thought he was innocent. Perrotta had seen it before. The Italian weighed his words before he answered. He knew they would strike Myles hard when he said them, so he tried to speak as gently as he could. ‘Well, it seems the Department — Susan — has some evidence to suggest you’ve been helping terrorists conspire against the United States.’
Thirty
Myles was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. He knew he was innocent, so how could the Department of Homeland Security have made such a mistake?
Myles remembered the people he’d interviewed in Iraq, and how they reacted when he presented them with evidence. Some were guilty, some innocent, some only half-innocent — it was usually easy to tell which were which. But it was the ones who couldn’t really engage with the accusation, because it seemed too bizarre, that Myles felt sorry for. Myles felt like that now.
Perrotta escorted Myles to a car, which drove him to a private airport. There, he accompanied Myles to a small jet plane, and Myles was signed over to some British police officers. Although Myles’ hands were bound, Perrotta still shook them as he departed. ‘Good luck, Myles,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be able to return to Italy soon.’
‘I hope so, too,’ replied Myles. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘No. You’re in British hands now. They should give you access to a lawyer.’ Perrotta’s words were directed to Myles’ new escorts as much as Myles himself. But the British policemen seemed uninterested in the suggestion — they kept Myles close but refused eye contact with him. They were acting as if Myles was some kind of terrorist mastermind. Getting legal advice for the accused came a very distant second to public safety. They really seemed to believe Myles was plotting to bring down America like ancient Rome.
Perrotta waved as he left Myles on the aircraft. Myles lifted his bound hands to return the gesture.
After the bumpy two-and-a-half hour flight, Myles was carried off the aircraft under a blanket at another small airfield. He caught a glimpse of the weather as he disembarked. The light rain and cold confirmed he was in Britain.
Then another journey — this time in a secure police vehicle with blacked-out windows. The journey lasted almost an hour.
Myles tried making conversation, but his escorts weren’t interested. They seemed to be reasonable people, but their job — their organisation — had made them surly. It reminded him just how much he hated bureaucracies. He was back to where the bureaucrats were in charge.
When the van stopped in an anonymous garage in the dark, Myles’ watch was confiscated. Then the binding which tied his hands was cut, and he was led along a corridor from the basement garage into a police cell.
He called out to anyone who was listening, ‘Can I have a lawyer?’
No answer.
‘Can you tell me what I’ve been arrested for?’
Again, no answer.
‘Well, have I been arrested?’
Still no answer.
Myles kept asking while the prison door was closed in his face, and he was left alone in his cell.
After a few moments of standing and listening — half-hoping the whole thing was a mistake or a warped joke, and he was about to be released — he slumped down.
He ignored his bleak surroundings, and tried to think back. How could anyone even imagine he had helped terrorists? He’d only met Juma once, and only seen Placidia one time since… all those years ago.
He remembered that time. Their last lecture together on Rome — Myles’ mind drifted into his memory…
The lecturer turned to the blackboard and wrote up the word: S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y
He put down the chalk and turned back to his audience. They were all writing the word in their notes. All except one — the young woman in the front row, his star student. She was typing it. The only foreign student in the room, and she was the only one with a laptop. The lecturer was still puzzled why she carried around a heavy computer instead of a simple pen and paper.
He waited until everyone was looking up again before he continued with his talk. ‘Sanctuary was not available to the early pretenders,’ he explained. ‘The many men who aspired to be emperor — in the third century, for example — could expect execution if they failed.’ The lecturer drew his finger across his neck to make the point. ‘Their heads were sometimes shown in public — to prove they were dead and to deter others. But sanctuary became important later. As the Roman Empire officially became Christian — a process started by Emperor Constantine in the 320s, and which took about eighty years to complete — failed pretenders would seek sanctuary in churches. Some stayed there and prayed. It was thought no truly Christian emperor could kill someone praying in a church…’
The tall boy sitting next to the girl seemed to be writing a note for her.
The lecturer ignored them and continued. He lifted up a much-read copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. ‘This book,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘has much to say about Christianity and its impact on Rome — it was one of the reasons why, when the first volume came out in 1776, it was so controversial. The author, Gibbon, angered the Church establishment, because he blames part of Rome’s decline on the adoption of Christianity…’
The lecturer could see the girl unfold the boy’s note. Still talking to his audience, he peered over as the note opened and read it upside down.
Doing the right thing can sometimes be wrong.
The lecturer was confused. He tried not to be distracted. ‘And so, um, if we look at this year’s American Presidential Election,’ he continued, ‘how does it compare with the battles to become emperor in ancient Rome? It’s expensive, like Rome. Between them all, the candidates will probably spend more than a hundred million dollars before the election is over.’
The audience reacted to the figure — the thought of spending so many millions on an election campaign seemed bizarre.
‘But in Rome the expense was even greater,’ said the lecturer. ‘Rivals to become emperor employed huge private armies — often paying mercenaries from outside the Empire. When the challenger loses to the incumbent US President, he can go back to being Governor or Senator. Roman losers faced death — unless they could find sanctuary…’