Suddenly Helen felt herself grabbed from behind. She tried to wrench herself free, but she was held too tightly. Her mobile phone fell to the floor, and she glimpsed it being kicked into the large hole in the middle of the tent.
Instinctively she slammed a fist backwards, aiming for the genitals of whoever was holding her. She could tell her hit had registered. The grip on her slackened. But it wasn’t enough. There were more of them behind her.
She felt something being placed over her head, cutting out what little light there was. She tried to scream, but a hand was placed on her mouth, muffling her cries. She tried to kick, but felt her legs being held then bound with a cord.
She heard voices speaking a foreign language. There was more than one assailant, probably three or four. She kept trying to wriggle, but soon she was tied up — her arms, her legs, and a gag across her mouth.
Then her nostrils caught a terrible smelclass="underline" something foul had just been exposed to the air. Helen didn’t dare imagine what it was. She heard more scurrying and debate between the people who were holding her. It took a minute for their voices to settle. They had decided what they were going to do.
Only then did she feel her right arm being tied at the upper elbow. Moments later she sensed a pain pierce her wrist, as she felt a cold fluid being injected into her vein.
Forty-One
The supertanker had edged along the Libyan coast for almost twenty-four hours. Its human cargo was far lighter than the oil it would usually carry, meaning it floated much higher in the water. This allowed Juma to stick to the shallows, always keeping sight of land as he sailed east.
Juma had hugged the coast for a reason: he didn’t want the ship to be challenged. He knew the European Union anti-migration police used satellites to monitor Libya’s ports, and that well-armed patrol boats were ready to intercept any vessel which entered international waters — agreed by law to begin twelve nautical miles from land. Juma knew he had to stay less than this distance from the coast. He was ready to fight, but didn’t want to fight yet.
He’d been intercepted once before, several years ago. He was a pirate then, directing a container ship from the Red Sea back to Somalia. It was an American Navy boat which had stopped him. But all they had done was confiscate his bounty. Once they had secured the merchant vessel, they had let Juma and his men go. They hadn’t even humiliated him. What sort of superpower did they think they were?
He smiled at the memory. Those pathetic Americans.
His wife, Placidia, was the only American he knew who wasn’t pathetic. But then she was only half-American. It was because of her that he had kept men on the bows, scanning the water for deadly, floating bombs, as the supertanker passed along the coast of Libya. The men had long poles to push any mines away, and radios to warn the ship’s bridge and engine room if any got near. Placidia had insisted they protect the refugees below decks, and Juma knew he had to obey.
But the ship had not been harmed. The explosives laid by Colonel Gaddafi to guard his main ports had been cleared long ago. And by the time they reached Egyptian waters they knew they were safe.
Now the ship was near Alexandria. Juma sent out a coded radio signal, which his onshore team heard and responded to. Within minutes, a fast-moving skiff was speeding out from the Egyptian coast to meet them. The small boat docked alongside the oil tanker.
Juma and Placidia looked at each other. Without words, they confirmed what they were about to do. Then Juma left the bridge, handing the controls to one of the pirates he had brought with him from Somalia.
Not far away, along a corridor and with a view of the sea, sat Senator Roosevelt. Still in chains, he already accepted he wouldn’t be able to escape as his son had done.
He could still fight, but only with words. ‘Juma — you haven’t drowned yet,’ he said. ‘Pity.’
‘I hope you’re enjoying the cruise, Senator.’
‘I never knew how sickened I could become on a calm sea…’
Juma ordered the Senator’s chains to be removed, and watched as his captive rubbed his skin where the metal had been. ‘Time to go ashore, Senator,’ he ordered.
‘So you’re going to kill me now?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Juma with a grin. ‘Probably later.’
The Senator nodded reluctantly. He shuffled along, knowing Juma’s gun was behind him, and acknowledging Placidia as she joined them. ‘Down there?’
Juma nodded, pointing to the rope ladder with his gun. The Senator peered down to the skiff, then manoeuvred his body over the edge of the tanker. Slowly, he began the long climb down. When he reached the bottom, he was helped aboard the smaller vessel by two young Somalis who made sure the Senator was comfortable but could not escape.
Then it was Juma’s turn. When he was halfway down, Placidia repeated her orders to the crew left behind. ‘Not a word to the refugees, OK?’
The crew indicated they understood.
She had been absolutely clear: the human cargo mustn’t find out Juma, Placidia and their high-value Senator had left the ship. They didn’t need to know they were being abandoned by the man and woman who had persuaded them aboard. It would frighten them. The information might even make them do something silly, something which would stop them reaching America. She had promised them America, and she meant it. Keeping her promise to them meant keeping secrets from them, too.
She quickly followed her husband down, and soon joined him and the Senator. Silently, the smaller vessel was untied. Juma allowed it to drift off for several minutes, until it was well clear of the tanker. Then he restarted the engine and headed towards the Egyptian coastline, where a small convoy of SUVs was waiting to take them much further east by land. He didn’t want the unmistakeable spluttering of the engine to alert the refugees.
But below deck, Safiq soon knew. He had heard the small engine of a skiff draw close, then stop, then start up again much more quietly a few minutes later. He felt the tanker steer round to the north soon after. And he noticed Juma’s crew had become much more relaxed, and suspected — correctly — that it was because the big man had gone.
Even though he knew, there was nothing Safiq or any of the other passengers could do about it. They remained under their polyester blankets, trying to stay warm near the air vents to the outside — the only source of oxygen not infected by the smell of gasoline which stank throughout the ship.
Whether Juma and Placidia were with them or not, Safiq still trusted the couple who had persuaded him aboard.
He still had hope.
And he still believed that staying below the decks of the supertanker was the best way for him to reach a new, much better life in America.
Forty-Two
As Myles slammed his fist against the light switch, electricity surged into the exposed filament in the broken light bulb. The coil of metal burnt out in an instant, surrounded by the highly combustible swirling cloud of lead powder. The mixture of fine dust and air ignited with a flash, filling the space between Myles and the Somali security guard with a fireball. The explosion roared, creating a shock wave far larger than Myles could ever have imagined.
Myles felt the blast lift and hurl him through the window. Broken glass flew with him, sparkling like glitter. Rolling through the night air, he tried to place his feet on the ground, but ended up skidding on the concrete car park. Large fragments of glass were stuck in his torso and left arm.