He drove on about three miles, until he found a parking lot near a supermarket. Here he parked, and lay in the back of the car under a blanket laden with pet hair he found on the back seat.
He was woken by the morning light, feeling groggy and thirstier than ever.
He opened the glove compartment in the car: insurance documents, a torch, an adjustable spanner, receipts, and an out-of-date coupon for something. No money.
Myles looked up at the sign for the supermarket: they would have food.
He checked himself again: was it really OK for him to steal, just so he could remain on the run? He already felt bad for taking the cars, rifling through the luggage on the bus going to Oxford and breaking into the pharmacy. Each time he had broken the law he could justify it: he was protecting the public…
But stealing food from a supermarket seemed harder to justify somehow. The thought of it made Myles despise himself. Crime rose when Rome declined… If everybody stole — even to save America — the America they saved would be very different. Did he really have to steal?
He thought again and realised, yes, he did. If he was going to have a chance of confronting Juma and Placidia and stopping the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome, he needed to get some food and drink.
Reluctantly, Myles slumped out of the white Fiat and ambled towards the store. It was still fairly early in the morning and there didn’t seem to be many customers inside. But he was conscious of his clothes — the tears and faint scorch marks drew attention to him. Myles was used to being a misfit, but standing out had just become dangerous…
He wandered towards the double doors, which opened automatically as he approached. A security guard was waiting as he went in. Myles tried his best to ignore the man. The guard appeared to be only half-interested.
Never having shoplifted before, Myles decided it was best to look as though he was browsing normally. He picked up a basket and surveyed the vegetables near the entrance, plucking a cabbage from the rack to check it for quality. Occasionally he picked more things up to inspect them, trying to sense whether anyone was watching him. There were no cameras in the ceiling. He felt confident he wasn’t being observed.
On the corner of an aisle, he found some cartons of milk. In a single swift motion, he bent down and moved one into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Next he came to some cans: tinned meat and, a little further along, baked beans. Again, he made a point of putting them in his coat as nonchalantly as he could.
Finally, he found some cheese. This was easier to take, since the slices of brie were thin. Myles leant over and stuffed several inside his sleeves.
He had what he needed. It was time for him to go.
As he walked back towards the double doors, he wondered how ironic it would be if he were arrested for shoplifting — a small but real crime — after he had just uncovered plots to spread poison and plague in the world.
He continued towards the exit, trying to avoid catching the attention of the security guard. He knew leaving the store with an empty basket was bound to raise concerns. He just had to keep walking.
‘Affedersiniz, Efendim…’ called a voice. It was the security guard. Myles turned to him, unsure what the man had just said. The guard realised Myles was foreign and offered him the same phrase in English. ‘Excuse me, sir…’
Myles nodded. He moved over to the man, trying to smile, and wondering if he was about to be arrested. He started thinking through what he could do. Run — but where to? He couldn’t make a fast getaway in the car. Pretend to know nothing about the stolen goods? Not credible. Hand himself in… Maybe.
Myles approached the security guard. ‘Yes?’
The man pointed down, his eyes lowering towards Myles’ coat pockets.
Myles frowned, pretending to understand what the security man was saying.
‘Your laces, sir.’
Myles looked at his feet: his laces were untied. He relaxed his face in understanding.
Bending down subtly, Myles tried hard to keep the cheese slices hidden in his sleeves. Kneeling on one knee at a time, he refastened each lace in turn. One, then the other, making sure to pull them tight. ‘Thank you,’ he said, weakly.
Myles smiled at the man, who tipped his cap in response. Myles replaced the empty basket by the door and walked out of the store as confidently as he could.
He retreated to his car. Checking again that he hadn’t been seen, he collected his takings beside him on the passenger seat. He waited a few more minutes to check before he ate the cheese slices, washed down with the chilled milk. Then he took the adjustable spanner from the glove compartment and used it to squeeze the tin of meat. As he tightened, the metal buckled then split. Myles scooped out what he could, catching his finger at one point, causing a small cut. The cold baked beans opened more easily, but some oozed out of the can before he could eat them. His clothes had become messier than ever.
The food satisfied only his stomach. The fact that it was stolen made him feel sick.
Doing the right thing had been important to Myles ever since his mother had died. As a fourteen-year-old, he’d decided that his extraordinary brainpower would be wasted on maths problems or the puzzles of physics. Perfect solutions lost their appeal. It was the human world which mattered: accepting it could never be perfect, the right thing to do was to make it better. Was Myles doing the right thing now?
He wondered. Justifying theft in an effort to stop a terrorist plot was a bit like taking up Juma’s deadly offer from when they had first met at the Libyan border: kill one man himself to stop Juma killing more. It might be the best thing to do, but did that make it right? Myles couldn’t work it out.
The puzzle was as nasty as Myles’ current situation, although now even more was at stake. Much more. He cursed himself, and tried to rest.
After several hours in the car, interrupted only by a toilet break, Myles was confident he had no contagious diseases. Placidia’s mistake in picking a grave from the Antonine Plague of 169AD — rather than the much more lethal Justinian Plague of 541-542AD — was lucky for him.
He remembered Placidia at university. She would have never slipped up like that. It was a relief to know Placidia was making mistakes now.
He wondered where to go next. His only lead was from Helen. She had identified the IP address of a computer which had placed files on his laptop, files which detailed the Navy Seal rescue operation in Libya, files which had led to his arrest in Rome. He had to track down the address. That would clear his name, and might help uncover more of the plot to destroy America.
He remembered Helen’s drowsy words: the IP address belonged to Galla Security, based near An Nukhayb in Anbar Province, Western Iraq.
So Myles connected the ignition on his Fiat, moved into gear, and prepared himself for a day and a half’s drive to Turkey’s south-eastern border with Iraq.
The first half of the drive was uneventful. Myles had enough fuel to drive past the modern capital, Ankara, and along the highway into the mountainous central region of Cappadocia. There he decided to abandon the Fiat, parking it on the roadside, and begin hitch-hiking. He didn’t have to wait long in the sun: he was offered a lift by an elderly couple from Denmark who were touring the area. They took him to Diyarbakir, where he managed to get picked up by a long-distance haulage lorry about to go over the border into northern Iraq.
At the Iraqi border post, Myles noticed the signs of recent renovation. A new shiny metal roof now shaded part of the road. The gates and bollards were clean and had just been installed. The entry system was computerised. There was even high-powered air-conditioning for the offices. Myles knew where the money for the upgrade had come from: it was American money.