‘You want me to help blackmail the world economy?’ said Myles. He shook his head. Whatever was at stake, he just couldn’t do it.
Juma smiled — the Englishman was as straight-talking as he was. Then the Somali pirate grabbed a tuft of Myles’ hair and pulled it sharply to one side. ‘That’s OK, Myles,’ he said. ‘That’s what we thought you’d say. I can deal with the currency conference without you. I’ll go there alone. It’s not a problem.’
Placidia glared at Myles, desperately urging him to reconsider. ‘Myles, think about what you’re saying. Could we reach a compromise on this?’
But Juma had already swung his gun into Myles’ ribs.
Myles bent over and stumbled, almost falling to the floor.
Juma cocked his weapon. ‘It’s OK, Placidia. Time for me to give this man a history lesson of my own.’
Juma quickly lifted his gun onto his shoulder, then grabbed Myles’ shirt. Myles felt himself flung against the wall.
Placidia tugged on Juma’s arm. ‘Let him go,’ she pleaded.
Juma shook his head.
Placidia tried again. ‘If you kill him, they’ll try to kill us.’
‘They’ll try to kill us anyway,’ replied Juma. He whipped his hand over Myles’ face. Then, with Placidia watching in shock, he kicked Myles — a high kick, in the stomach.
Myles bent double, then felt himself flung out of the room. He caught a last glimpse of Placidia — she was almost tearful — only the second time ever that Myles had seen her show real emotions. Myles could telclass="underline" Placidia really believed his life was in danger.
Juma slammed the door behind him, then stood over Myles. Three of Juma’s men came in, clearly knowing what was going to happen. Myles heard them boasting to each other in their African dialect, taking pride in what they were about to do. Juma took command. ‘Stand up, Englishman,’ he bellowed.
Half frog-marched, half jostled, Myles was taken through the remaining offices of Galla Security towards an exit at the back. The door opened out onto a bright car park. Juma directed him towards a white Toyota Corolla. ‘Sit,’ he commanded, as if Myles were a dog.
He was manoeuvred into the back section of the vehicle, where grinning Somali gunmen sat either side of him, with a third opposite. Juma took the driver’s seat and turned on the engine.
Myles sized up the men around him. One of them offered qat leaves around. Myles declined, but the other men gladly grabbed some. Tiny pieces of half-reduced leaves stuck to their teeth. They showed decaying gums when they grinned. Qat, Myles knew, took two hours to have maximum effect. In two hours, these men would want to demonstrate their machismo. He had just two hours to escape.
The Toyota Corolla drove through a back entrance in the breeze-block perimeter wall, leaving Galla Security behind. The vehicle bumped the passengers as it started to accelerate, making its way onto the highway.
Myles was surprised when, after less than half a mile, the vehicle turned off the main route. The gap in the kerbstones led to a vague side road. Soon they were completely off-road. No more buildings from here. Juma was taking Myles into the desert.
Myles could not react and began to wonder if he was there at all. It was a sensation he had read about: an out-of-body experience. As danger increases, people begin to imagine themselves from a distance. The mind detaches from a frightening situation, trying to take the body with it. Myles was mentally removing himself from the car now.
Snap out of it, he thought. But he couldn’t snap out of it. He sensed the bravado of the men beside and opposite him. He looked at one of them, who grinned back.
The men leant and lurched as the Corolla started to reel over the uneven ground. When the front wheels impacted against a bar of half-dirt, half-sand, Juma’s men whooped in delight. For them it was like a fairground ride, or a hunting expedition. A hunting expedition with a guaranteed kill.
Myles tried to focus on what could well be his demise. How could he save himself? He knew that, because he was cooperating, they weren’t guarding him as tightly as they might. He kept trying to think through his situation. If he tried to escape and failed, he wouldn’t get a second chance.
He would have to play along until a good chance came. To stay obedient until he knew he could escape.
Was there any chance to fight back? No. Was Juma going to try to kill him? Probably, but it wasn’t certain. What could Myles say which would make Juma think twice?
After a couple of minutes where the track had become rougher, the Toyota halted. Myles heard the engine stop and the vibrations cease. Juma was instantly out of the door, standing close to where Myles was sitting. He dropped the back flap of the vehicle.
‘Down,’ instructed Juma.
The Somali gang men obeyed instantly, and jumped down. Myles had no choice but to follow.
He was poked in the back by the barrel of a gun, and found himself led towards a slight slope in the desert. He tried briefly to look around: nothing but dirt and sand in all directions.
‘On your knees,’ barked Juma.
Myles turned to Juma and tried to talk. ‘I can help you achieve what you’re trying to achieve,’ he offered.
Juma rocked his head back, laughing. ‘I know, Mr Munro. You’re about to. Down.’
‘Juma…’
‘Down.’ Juma’s instruction was absolutely clear. Myles started opening his mouth to offer more but was immediately deafened by a burst of automatic gunfire. Bullets drilled into the ground in front of him, spitting dirt onto Myles’ shins.
Juma leant close to Myles, and looked at him wide-eyed. Then he slowly mouthed the word again. ‘D-O-W-N.’
Reluctantly, Myles started to put his knees on the slope. He tried to kneel facing Juma and his three accomplices, but Juma made clear he wanted Myles to be facing away. Myles swung himself around until he was looking at the sand.
There were a few moments of silence. Then Myles felt the nuzzle of a gun barrel pressing on the back of his neck. It was pushing his head down. He duly lowered his face, until his nose and chin were firmly against the slope in the desert.
Then Myles felt the pressure of the nuzzle pull away. He understood he was expected to stay in position. He’d been lucky so far — could he be lucky again?
Some distance behind him, he heard quiet words being exchanged between the four Somalis.
The discussion stopped, followed by almost ten seconds of silence.
Very slowly, Myles tried to lift his face from the slope. Deep down he hoped the men might have departed. Perhaps he had been left alone in the desert.
He turned to look. He wasn’t alone.
Juma’s gun was raised to his shoulder, and Myles was looking down the barrel.
He saw a flash leave the end of the metal tube, and sensed a huge noise as a bullet shot towards him.
The last thing he felt was the pressure from the pulse of air which accompanied the bullet as it left Juma’s gun. He never felt the bullet hit. Instead, he slumped lifelessly into the dirt slope.
Fifty-Three
As a journalist, Helen used to keep away from press conferences whenever she could. It was a statement of independence: she didn’t like being summoned by a public figure, and she hated to help them promote themselves. Press conferences were old-fashioned and pompous. They were for losers.
But now her lover’s reputation was at stake. He had saved her life in Istanbul. She had to do all she could for him.
Myles needed her. Even though press conferences were for losers, it was better to be a loser than to lose him, she thought.