After untying the cord around her ankles, he noticed Helen was shivering. Myles pulled her close and tried to warm her body with his. ‘What do you think they injected you with?’
Helen didn’t answer. But they both knew what they feared: they were in an excavation for victims of the bubonic plague. Known as the Black Death when it had struck Europe in the 1340s and killed about forty per cent of the population, the bacterial illness had struck the Roman Empire several times, often with an increasingly terrible impact. Plague helped bring down the Roman Empire. Was Juma about to unleash it into the world again, with Helen as his first victim?
Helen changed the subject. ‘I know how they did it,’ she said. ‘How they got you.’ She could tell Myles was confused. ‘The information about the Navy Seals going into Libya,’ she explained. ‘The stuff they found on your computer.’
‘They found stuff on my computer? That was their “evidence”?’
‘Yes, that’s why they arrested you,’ said Helen, nodding. ‘The raid turned out to be an ambush — Juma’s men had been warned the Special Forces were coming. So Homeland Security tried to work out how, and they found the secret plan for the raid was on your computer. But it had been planted there remotely.’
Myles paused before responding. Helen was sick and he didn’t want to disappoint her. ‘That’s good news,’ he said. ‘But we already know any information like that must have been planted somehow.’
Helen rolled her head. Myles didn’t get it. Then she coughed. ‘Myles, your computer was accessed by someone trying to set you up, and I know where it was accessed from.’
‘Where?’
‘From Iraq. One of the computer guys in the studio identified internet traffic that went in before the Special Forces raid,’ she explained, desperate to get the words out despite her condition. ‘And he got an IP address, too.’
Myles understood. ‘So you know who did it?’
‘Sort of,’ said Helen, less confident this time. ‘The IP address belongs to a Private Security firm in Iraq, based out in the Western Desert. It’s in Anbar Province.’
‘Does Roosevelt Security operate there?’
‘No. It’s a rival. A small start-up called “Galla Security”.’ Helen smiled weakly as she said ‘Galla Security’ — she’d been right about Placidia.
Myles pondered. ‘Have you found out anything about them?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much. Probably a local militia group which got a licence to become legal. They’re not big.’
Myles put his hand on Helen’s forehead. It was cold. ‘How long ago did they inject you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It was soon after you called me from Germany.’
Myles looked down at the patch of vomit, which was already half soaked up by the dust on the ground. If Helen did have the plague then she needed treatment fast. ‘We need to leave,’ he said. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Do you think you can climb the ladder?’
Helen looked up at the aluminium steps. She nodded. But the way she moved her head made clear to Myles that she wouldn’t reach the top without help.
He steadied the metal frame and placed one foot on the bottom rung to keep it firm. Then he put one arm around Helen’s back and another under her knees, and pulled her close. She collapsed into him. Clutching her limp body to his chest he turned back to the ladder, and slowly started to haul himself up. He had to poke his elbows into the ladder as he climbed.
Eventually they made it to the top. Trying to climb out onto the ground he slipped, but managed not to fall. Soon he could place both her feet firmly on the earth, where she staggered and sat down.
Myles looked around the inside of the excavation tent for ideas. Antibiotics were what he needed. The plague was a bacterial disease, so it could be treated with antibiotics. But there were no antibiotics in the tent.
He stood up and helped Helen to her feet. ‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital,’ he said. ‘And fast.’
He put his arm under her shoulder and helped her stand. They started walking.
Then a beam of light shone straight at his face. Myles was temporarily blinded. He tried to shield his eyes but still couldn’t see who was holding the torch. He called out. ‘Hello?’
After a few seconds a voice replied. ‘Stand still, please, Mr Munro.’
The torchlight moved closer. Then he saw the needle of a syringe glint in the beam.
Myles knew what was about to happen. He was about to be injected with the disease too.
He had to think quickly. No way to escape. No good going back down into the excavation pit. No way to fight back…
Then he whispered to Helen. ‘Lick my hand.’
‘What?’
Without waiting for permission, Myles pushed his fingers into Helen’s mouth. Her head reeled back in shock but didn’t resist.
The torchlight and syringe approached closer. He heard someone else coming from behind, about to grab his arms.
Myles spun round. Two Somali men were there, exposed by the torch now shining from behind Myles. One looked squat, the other nervous. Both froze as Myles squared up to them.
Then Myles jabbed his wet hand straight towards them.
One… Two…
Quickly, he poked his fingers into each of the men’s mouths. The men stood stunned, unsure how to react.
Myles turned back to the man holding the torch. Although the light made it hard to know exactly where the man’s mouth was, Myles made a guess. He stabbed his fingers forward.
Myles could see the men stop. Their attack was over. They knew what he had done.
He saw the syringe fall to the floor as the man holding it tried to wipe out his mouth — desperate not to become infected.
Helen realised too, and tugged at Myles. She could see the men were distracted and wanted to use the opportunity to escape.
Myles shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If we leave to get the cure, these guys will spread the disease before they die. The plague will get out. There’ll be an epidemic.’
He could see the reaction on his assailants’ faces: they were shocked there was a cure, but terrified that they would die without it.
Two of the men started arguing in an African dialect. One pulled a knife from his belt, but the other ordered him to put it back. The third man was still wiping his tongue, vainly hoping he could remove any trace of the plague bacteria.
One of the men who had been arguing gave Myles a macho nudge. It was a way of showing he was still in charge. But Myles knew that really it meant the power dynamic had changed. They faced death in two or three days, just like Helen and him. More than that: since he had mentioned there was a cure, he had gained power over them. Time for a bargain.
The Somali nudged Myles again. It was more like a push this time, intended to provoke. ‘You give us the cure,’ demanded the man.
Myles shook his head. He could see what was going to happen next, but he needed it to play out so the three men understood the situation too. Next would be threats…
‘You give us the cure or we kill you,’ said the man.
Myles shook his head. ‘I’ve been infected with the plague,’ he replied. ‘I will die in two or three days anyway.’
The man who had held the syringe grabbed Helen, who was visibly becoming weak again. She did not resist. ‘You give us the cure or we kill her…’ said the man, smiling as if he thought he had found Myles’ weak spot.
But Myles’ logic was too robust. ‘She also has the plague. She will die soon, too.’ Myles shrugged, as if to say ‘it doesn’t matter what you do’. He had disarmed them.
The three men looked at each other. Finally, they realised: they needed to cut a deal. Eventually one of them spoke to Myles. ‘OK, what do you want for the cure?’ he asked.