Then he turned back to the pages of the brochure. The security men in the first picture looked like oversized cops from the southern states of America, probably retired. Other photos showed more beefy Westerners. He saw a few home-grown Iraqis with guns on other pages. None appeared like the men in the building with him now. Even the picture of the offices looked like it was staffed by Iraqis and white men, portrayed as working harmoniously together. He peered closer. Half-hidden by an outstretched sleeve in the office picture was a logo. Myles could make out some words: ‘Alliance’, ‘Iraqi’ and ‘Security’.
The Alliance of Iraqi Private Security Firms.
The brochure had been compiled by the conglomerate which owned Galla Security. They’d even used their own picture library to put it together.
Myles wondered why Helen hadn’t discovered the link to the holding company, the Alliance, when she’d first investigated the firm. Helen would have been thorough, so Galla probably kept their link with the Alliance of Iraqi Security Firms off their website. Was that deliberate?
It was still possible it was a genuine private security firm, perhaps set up by amateurs and bought out by the larger ‘Alliance’, whatever that was. But it could also be a money-laundering front, pretending to receive revenue from clients when really their cash came from more sinister sources.
It could even be worse.
Myles was caught up in his thoughts. He went to take another sip of tea, but realised he had already drunk it all. He wondered what to do next.
The man who had brought him the drink appeared again, poking his head around a pillar. Myles tried to catch the man’s attention, but he was gone before Myles could speak to him. Something about the man’s movements made Myles think he was checking up on him. Myles looked down again at his empty cup. Clearly the man hadn’t come to offer him more tea.
Then Myles saw a door open at the back of the office. A woman appeared, completely shrouded in a translucent birka, her head bowed as she approached.
Myles recognised the figure immediately. His eyes widened in alarm, and he sensed his pulse pump fast in his neck. Despite the air-con, he felt sweat break out all over his body.
Reflexively, Myles stood up to hug her.
But the woman lifted up her veil to confront him. ‘You made a mistake coming here,’ she said.
Placidia’s eyes were as fierce as ever.
Fifty
Myles tried to hide his reaction. He forced himself to remember what he had learned from the factory in Germany and the excavation site in Istanbuclass="underline" Placidia had sent several men on missions which were sure to kill them. She had tried to poison the world with lead, and infect it with a deadly plague. He was standing in front of a ruthless woman — a woman who had committed herself to destroying America and crippling civilisation.
But the sight of her face also reminded him how he used to feel. He remembered their long conversations, and sharing coffee with her. He remembered trying to make her laugh, and trying to distract her from her high-minded causes.
Placidia kept staring at him. Myles returned her gaze. They stood opposite each other for several seconds, neither of them speaking.
Then she touched him on the shoulder. With a tilt of her head, she indicated they should walk towards a more private inner office. Myles was unsure whether he should accept her invitation, but found he was already following her.
The inside of the office was plain with the rough walls painted white. Myles realised it had no outside windows — only a skylight. There was one desk in the room, which had three computers on it, all plugged in with several cables.
Placidia closed the door behind them as they entered. Two sofas faced each other, divided by a low coffee table. She directed Myles to sit in one seat while she sat opposite.
They were alone.
Myles realised this was the first time they’d been alone together for almost twenty years. His head started calculating exactly how long it was — how many years, months, days, retreating for protection into a world of numbers.
If Placidia had found more time to be alone with him all those years ago things could have turned out so differently…
Placidia sat looking at him, still silent. She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, her head on one hand, while she rested her elbow on the back of the sofa. It was how a Western woman would sit.
‘So, Helen Bridle is your partner, now?’ she asked with a faint smile.
Myles nodded.
‘She seems nice,’ said Placidia. ‘I knew you’d do well for yourself, Myles.’
The conversation was making Myles uneasy. He wanted to fire back, but knew he shouldn’t. He spoke as casually as he could. ‘And you’re married?’
Placidia nodded.
‘How long have you known Juma?’
‘A few years, now,’ she replied, briefly looking down at her wedding ring.
Myles knew he ought to compliment her husband somehow — to be polite, and to show he respected her choice. But he couldn’t — there was nothing pleasant to say about him.
Placidia filled the silence. ‘I know what you’re thinking Myles: he’s not the sort of husband you expected me to pick at university.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘I’m sure he’s…’ Myles struggled for a nice word. ‘I’m sure he’s…capable.’
Placidia leant back and laughed. It was a strained laugh. It soon stopped. ‘Yes, he’s very capable. Capable of killing, piracy, terrorism. Torture every now and then.’ She spoke with a resigned smile, still staring straight at Myles. ‘And before you ask, yes, he’s very good at what he does.’
The next question was obvious. For Myles, the ultimate puzzle. His pulse still racing, he couldn’t resist asking. ‘So, Placidia: why did you marry him?’
Placidia remained silent.
‘Love?’ suggested Myles, offering her a get-out.
She shook her head. Her smile faded and her gaze turned down. This time she resisted eye contact with Myles as she spoke. ‘I’ve always tried to do what’s best. Marriage offered me a chance to do just that.’
Myles listened as Placidia slowly raised her eyes to meet his.
‘Myles, you know at university I was committed to changing the world for the better, right?’
Myles found himself nodding involuntarily.
‘Well,’ she explained, ‘what better way to make a positive difference than to find a powerful man and persuade him to do good?’
Even though her thought process was bizarre, Myles sensed Placidia was being sincere. ‘So you married Juma hoping to change him?’
‘To change him and a part of Africa where hundreds of people die each day — yes.’ She shrugged.
Marrying a psychopathic pirate chief to make the world a better place would be absurd from anybody else, but from Placidia it was logical. Myles knew she had a habit of taking morals to their extreme and beyond. Perhaps she was naive. Myles accepted Placidia really did think she was doing the right thing.
‘And have you saved lives, by marrying Juma?’
‘Yes, I think I have,’ replied Placidia, nodding. ‘He’s killed fewer people because of me. I’ve made him help poor migrants from all over Africa. I’ve done far more good than if I’d stayed on the East Coast of the States working for some charity, or complaining about things.’
She could see that Myles was unconvinced.
‘Think of it this way, Myles — other people work for NGOs like Doctors Against Disease, or Mothers against Drunk Drivers,’ she explained. ‘Well, I’ve created Pirates against Poverty, and it’s saved many, many more lives.’