Fairly soon they decided the man lying face-down on the bloodied concrete surface was not a threat.
The first policeman approached. He kicked the man’s foot. ‘Armed police,’ he announced, following his drill.
No response. With his colleague keeping guard, the policeman bent down to check for signs of life. Putting his fingers on the man’s neck, he detected only a faint pulse.
The policeman indicated to his colleague that the body he was examining was only just alive. Death was likely. The colleague understood, and eased his posture slightly. The threat was reduced.
Half-reluctantly, and still wary in case the man suddenly came back to life, the policeman started to pump the man’s chest — a half-hearted attempt to keep him alive.
It took just a few more seconds for paramedics to reach the scene. Their ambulance pulled up and first responders jumped out. They rushed to the body and immediately undertook their own tests. They too thought the man would probably die.
The policemen looked at each other. They knew there’d be an inquiry. Questions. An investigation.
But they knew they’d followed policy. The dying man had fired a weapon in the designated area. His gun had landed several feet from his body, and had been guarded — but not touched — since the man fell. They’d issued a warning. They’d not hit anybody innocent.
The policemen relaxed while they waited for a rapid response team. They felt confident.
But Myles didn’t feel confident. He’d just seen his would-be assassin gunned down behind him. The anti-terrorism police hadn’t shot at Myles, but Myles still didn’t trust them.
He knew he had to get further away.
There were probably just two or three minutes before the area was flooded with police. That would mean he would be trapped, caught and returned to custody.
He had to make his decision quickly. Escape or surrender?
He kept running while he tried to decide. Even though his lungs were screaming and his legs worn out, he knew that to stop now was to accept capture.
Myles ran on, out to where Edgware road met Marble Arch. He remembered this site: he was on the last route taken by condemned men. Following Roman tradition, this route used to be lined with voyeurs. Captives were paraded here before they were executed.
Myles lowered his head and immersed himself in the crowds of tourists and shoppers. When the traffic lights changed, he crossed the road with a horde of pedestrians. Walking seemed a better way to pass unnoticed than running.
He couldn’t have ran any more, even if he’d wanted to. He bent double, his hands resting on his knees until he caught his breath. He checked behind him: nobody had followed him there, not even any of the Diplomatic Protection Corps, although some of the tourists were still looking at him oddly. He heard the police helicopter — still somewhere above him, but probably assigned to the drama in Connaught Square, where the body of the African gunman was being examined in forensic detail.
Myles was careful not to look up: the police helicopter might have a camera with face-recognition software. Instead he looked around, trying to look like a tourist, still trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate.
He had reached Hyde Park’s Speakers’ Corner. Free speech was protected here, although the right to answer back was equally cherished. The verbal jousting was entertaining and attracted many spectators.
While he pondered what to do, Myles wandered through the crowds listening to the speakers. One man was extolling communism. An American in the small audience was answering back, pointing out how the Soviet state locked up dissidents. From what Myles could tell, the American was winning the argument. Myles moved on.
Another speaker was reading from the Bible. Not far away someone else was preaching from the Koran. Myles listened as he passed, wondering why the two men were not addressing each other. The religious freedom they both enjoyed seemed to mean there was no dispute between them.
Would Myles be able to make his voice heard if he gave himself up to the police? He hadn’t when they’d detained him in Rome the day before…
Myles thought again of the Senator, and he remembered Juma’s threat to America. Could he stop America suffering the fate of Rome if he gave himself in? Could he save America if he escaped?
Then he looked towards the edge of the park, to a bus stop. He often passed this way: it was where the main bus route between Oxford and London offloaded passengers. Myles thought of jumping on one of the buses and taking the ninety-minute journey home: to Helen, to his flat, to his low-stress job at the university — and to where the police would be waiting to catch him.
Myles turned back towards Marble Arch. A small group of policemen were emerging, looking around. They were hunting for Myles.
Myles hid his face. He didn’t trust the police. Not at all.
He knew that now he had to decide.
Myles looked again at the bus stop to Oxford, where a bus was about to finish taking on passengers, stowing the last of the baggage into the underside of the vehicle.
He had made his decision.
Thirty-Five
Huddled under polyester blankets and protected from the wind by sea containers, for many days they waited. Those with passports had already had them stamped — the rumour was that an exit stamp from Libya would make it easier to enter Europe. But most knew that the continent was still very hard to get into. It was almost impossible: all sea-going vessels were being stopped and searched for illegal migrants.
Like Safiq, many had tried to make the journey before. All had failed. They could trade stories on their failures — the lucky ones had been rewarded with a warm meal before they were sent back, the less fortunate ones had faced abuse. Several, like Safiq, had almost drowned. Escaping to a better life in Italy or France was an impossible dream, just as the better life in oil-rich Libya was a mirage.
But now they had hope. So much hope that this time they made sure their families were with them at the dockside. And the hope came from a single rumour — that Juma, the pirate chief from Somalia, had an escape plan.
Safiq saw Juma’s convoy of technicals and armoured SUVs sweep into the dockside. He peered to get a look, as the man and the woman beside him were soon surrounded by eager Africans. Juma’s militia kept the fans away.
Juma jumped up on a sea crate, trying to make himself look taller. He let his gun hang down from his shoulder as he shouted to the crowds around him. ‘My people,’ he declared.
The migrants murmured in response. They didn’t know what to expect.
‘Thank you for being here,’ Juma called to the crowd. ‘I know that Libya has not been good to you. Africa has not been good to you. And for those of you who have tried to reach it, even Europe has not been good to you…’
Safiq found himself nodding. The audience were listening eagerly. They all agreed, too.
‘Well, my friends, I can offer you something better. Much better. I can get you to America!’
Safiq watched while Juma paused. The pirate chief was expecting the masses to cheer. But Safiq and the rest of the people were just confused. The only way to get to America was to fly. How could Juma get planes for so many people? Would the Americans even let them land? He was losing confidence…
Juma pressed on. ‘People, all I need to know is which of the young men on this dockside have been trained to fire weapons.’