‘OK, I’ll go there next,’ said Myles, wondering how he was going to evade whatever traps the anti-terrorism police set for him — they’d surely know he was coming. ‘Love you.’
‘Stay safe, OK?’ said Helen.
Myles was about to dismiss the worries when he became very aware of another person in the room. Someone was standing behind him.
Slowly, he put the phone down.
Thirty-Nine
Myles turned: standing behind him was the security guard, a man who looked like the men he had met on his ill-fated journey into Libya with the Senator. A Somali pirate in a security guard’s uniform.
Myles quickly tried to work out what the man knew. Was this security guard with Juma? Had the man been putting lead in the sauce? How long had he been listening to his phone call with Helen, and how much had he understood?
The security guard seemed as afraid as Myles. Myles wondered if that was good or bad. He concluded it was probably bad, since it meant the man might do something rash.
Immediately Myles started thinking of escape. He knew Helen would soon be calling the police. He had to be gone before they arrived. He wanted to be gone now.
He smiled at the Somali security guard, and then picked up the phone receiver and pointed at it. ‘Hello. I’m here to clean the phones…’ he offered.
It was a hopeless effort. Myles made for a very unusual after-hours telephone cleaner. But he could tell the Somali night guard was intimidated.
For a brief moment, Myles wondered about throwing the phone at the man and trying to run. But then he dropped the thought. Somehow the African looked too desperate. He wasn’t like the shift-men Myles had seen clocking off earlier. This man would probably chase him and fight him.
Myles tried to make eye contact with him, trying to befriend him. But the security guard just became more intense.
Then the man pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at Myles. The balance of power had changed.
Slowly Myles raised his hands. He noticed the Somali’s badge: it read ‘Galla Security’.
The Somali used his free hand to take out a mobile phone, pressing a preset number, before swiftly returning his gaze to Myles.
Myles remained still. He watched and waited, his hands still above his head, while the security guard had a telephone conversation with someone in a foreign dialect. The man’s guttural sounds were the same language Myles had heard spoken amongst the pirates when he was in Libya. The guard was linked to Juma.
Soon the phone conversation was over. The security guard pressed the ‘off’ button on his phone, then put both hands to the handle of his pistol. ‘Come,’ he said in stunted English.
His instruction, coupled with an unmistakeable pointing gesture from the gun barrel, clearly directed Myles to walk back towards the storeroom.
Now becoming nervous, Myles obeyed. Keeping his hands above his head, he returned down the corridor.
He peeked behind him: the security guard had him fully covered. There was no way Myles could run or duck away, or do anything to avoid a bullet. The Somali could choose to fire at any moment. Myles was within point-blank range of the security guard’s pistol.
As Myles arrived in the main factory part of the building, he checked that the Somali still wanted him to continue. The man gestured at Myles to keep walking, and simply grunted ‘Storeroom.’
Myles nodded, acknowledging the instruction. Soon he was passing back through the Perspex doors. Then he stood and turned where the main ingredients were kept.
Juma’s man gestured for Myles to bend down, which Myles did.
Then the security guard pointed at the lead particles — the ‘spice’ substitute. The man held out a hand and showed a big scooping motion to Myles. Then he moved his hand to his mouth. The security guard wanted Myles to swallow the lead powder.
Myles pulled a face, querying the request.
The Somali repeated it, and nodded.
Myles shook his head, refusing.
The guard moved closer, poking his gun into Myles’ cheek.
Myles froze.
The security guard pushed the pistol harder, cursing him. Then he scooped up a handful of the lead powder himself and rammed it into Myles’ mouth.
Myles choked and coughed, trying to get out as much of the lead as he could. The guard pressed it back in, and Myles felt himself involuntarily swallowing some of the tasteless metallic powder. It made him gag.
The Somali kept his pistol rammed against Myles’ face. Myles knew he had to swallow again, or he would die instantly: a lead bullet through the cheek if he didn’t accept lead powder through the mouth.
Myles reeled back, and used his eyes to talk to the guard. He conceded. He would eat the lead. He just wanted the Somali to give him time. Time to swallow. Time to think…
He gulped, and felt the dry metal powder stick in his throat, knowing some of it had gone down to poison his stomach.
Myles tried to guess how long swallowing lead would take to kill him: several months, at least. He could get medical help. If he could escape.
Swallowing lead wouldn’t kill him, but the security guard’s sidearm would. Myles had to play along.
The security guard stepped back, keeping his gun firmly aimed at Myles. He allowed the Englishman a few moments for the lead to settle. Then he indicated Myles had to take more.
Myles knew he had to think quickly now. Giving himself as much time as possible, he gradually picked up more of the grey powder.
He checked with the Somali, who still held him at gunpoint. The guard nodded in understanding, almost in sympathy. He was confirming: yes, you should eat it, and yes it will kill you.
Then Myles realised: the guard expected the lead to kill him quickly. It meant the Somali would wait for the poison to work, but then would get angry as Myles continued to survive. Angry enough to kill him.
Myles moved the powder towards his mouth. As he touched it against his tongue, he sized up the security guard. Juma’s man was afraid, and clearly wary of Myles trying to launch some sort of strike against him. He was edging back, too. Now five metres away. The man could easily fire off a shot in the time it would take Myles to pounce.
Myles looked around. There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, leading to a light switch nearby. Myles could see the turbines of a large ventilation machine — probably used to blow air through the factory in summertime.
He wished he could blow the Somali away, but knew it couldn’t happen.
‘Eat!’ instructed the man, his voice raised.
The security guard was becoming increasingly agitated as Myles pondered the lead dust in front of him.
Slowly, Myles put another handful in his mouth. Again, he almost gagged.
Could he wait until the police came? No. The Somali would probably kill him when he heard the sirens approach. That meant Myles had only a few minutes left.
Myles made a play of gulping hard, as an idea gradually began to form in his mind. He guessed the Somali didn’t know the symptoms of lead poisoning.
Roman aristocrats took several years to be made mad by lead… Myles had to convince Juma’s man the toxic metal was making him mad in minutes.
Myles started flailing around. In one gesture, he coughed out most of his mouthful, while pretending he had swallowed it. He clutched his stomach, mimicking great pain. He started moaning.
The Somali just kept watching him, with the gun firmly trained at Myles. Briefly the security guard looked around to check they were still alone, which they were.
Myles made a play of standing up but not being able to hold his balance. Without coming close to the Somali guard, he swayed around. Pretending to be grasping for something to hold on to, Myles clutched at the light hanging above him. He squeezed it so tightly that the bulb broke, exposing the filament inside and piercing Myles’ palm with shards of glass. Myles winced from his injury, while trying to make out it was less painful than the lead in his stomach. He fell to the floor.