And so, through a contact, she booked a meeting room in the Senate. She called her colleagues in the press corps, and prepared all the information a journalist would want to cover the story.
When her friends arrived, they were given a pack of evidence: the material found on Myles’ computer, an affidavit from a respected Silicon Valley tech firm saying how the files had been planted, and details on exactly where in Iraq the files had been sent from.
She knew it was a good story — if she were a journalist, she would have covered it. Except, she was a journalist, and she couldn’t cover it because she was part of it. That was why it felt so odd to walk into a room full of her colleagues and sit in front of them. It made her less of a journalist than she used to be.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ she began. ‘You know, I used to avoid press conferences like the plague. But since I almost caught the plague recently, I thought I’d give press conferences a go, too…’
There was a little laughter around the room. ‘You better not be contagious anymore!’ heckled one of her friends.
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Helen, accepting the joke. ‘Actually, it turned out to be a blood infection, and I’d like to express my respect and gratitude to the highly professional doctors and nurses in Turkey, who gave me such excellent medical treatment.’
She began going through the evidence in the information packs, holding up each piece of paper in turn. ‘Myles Munro has been trying to save America, not destroy it,’ she explained. ‘He’s done all he can and he’s not even from this country…’
Hands went up. She picked someone from the front row. ‘Helen, who do you blame for all this?’ came the question.
‘Well, it looks like someone in the Department for Homeland Security made the wrong conclusion about the information on Myles’ computer,’ said Helen, trying to be fair.
‘So you blame Homeland Security?’
‘This isn’t about blame. It’s about tackling threats to America. For that, Myles Munro needs to be able to work with the authorities. He shouldn’t have to run from them.’
Several journalists shouted at once. Helen chose a woman reporter from a rival network. ‘Do you think Homeland is doing enough to stop Juma’s plot?’ asked the woman.
Helen nodded. ‘I think the plot is real. Juma is ruthless — we know that. And his wife is absolutely crazy. She may be clever, but it’s an evil sort of cleverness. She’s an expert on ancient Rome. Perhaps she’s the greatest threat here.’
‘But do you think Homeland is doing enough?’ repeated the questioner.
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know what Homeland’s doing,’ she admitted. ‘Apart from keeping Myles Munro on the run.’
The rival reporter looked down to write notes. Her face was dismissive.
‘Where is Myles Munro now?’ asked a print journalist.
‘I don’t know that. I’m sorry,’ said Helen.
‘But you were with him in Istanbul…’
‘Yes, he saved my life there,’ acknowledged Helen. ‘He may have been heading to Iraq. But I don’t know whether he reached the country.’
‘So he could be working with Islamic extremists in Iraq?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘And the headline which called him a “Runaway Terrorist” is about as wrong as it could be.’
She was beginning to feel outnumbered. Even though she knew many of the journalists, it didn’t stop them asking nasty questions.
Then a tall frame entered at the back of the room. Helen saw him first and smiled as if she had just been saved. The press pack saw she was distracted and turned to see who it was.
The man strode towards the front of the room, bypassing cameras, careful not to knock any of the broadcast equipment. He wore cowboy boots and an open-neck shirt.
If this press conference wasn’t news already, it was now.
Helen welcomed him to the front. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ she announced, the relief obvious in her voice. ‘The Chief Executive of the Roosevelt Guardians and son of the Senator in whose name this room is booked. Dick Roosevelt.’
Roosevelt junior knew how to make the best of theatre. He held his hands up in a ‘you got me’ gesture as the media shouted out to him.
‘Any news on your father, Richard?’
‘Do you agree with Ms Bridle about Myles Munro, sir?’
‘Your Roosevelt Guardians are managing security at the currency conference in Rome — will it be attacked?’
‘How safe is America, Dick?’
Instead of answering the questions, Dick Roosevelt just let them come. He had a natural ability to relax in the spotlight — just like his father. It’s the picture that matters.
He made a point of allowing each person in the room to speak, pointing at them in turn. Only once the press conference had exhausted itself of questions did he volunteer some words of his own. ‘More questions than I ever got in school,’ he quipped. ‘I’ll try to give you more right answers than I gave my teachers.’
Some of the journalists chuckled.
Then Roosevelt became more serious. ‘Look, I’m helping out this fine woman here because our country is in trouble,’ he said firmly. ‘There is a plot to destroy America as Rome was destroyed, a plot led by some very mad and bad people — hell, I should know, I’ve met them. And we’re not doing enough to keep America safe.’
He paused to find one of the broadcast cameras. He levelled at it. ‘Now there are two brave men out there. They’re in harm’s way. They’re missing in action. They’re probably suffering big time. Myles Munro is a hero, and so is my father. America needs to find them, and we need to help them.’
A journalist interrupted him with a question. ‘What do you think about the African refugees in Italy, Mr Roosevelt? Should we let them into America?’
Roosevelt tried not to be fazed by the question. He paused and looked thoughtful. Then he began to recite something:
‘That’s the poem on the Statue of Liberty,’ he explained. ‘The words which greeted our great-grandparents arriving in America, right?’
There was much nodding in the room — they recognised the quote.
Roosevelt carried on: ‘Well, sometimes America is a victim of American values,’ he said. ‘Our hospitality can be abused. Our doors have opened so wide we’ve let in people who aren’t really poor. We’ve even let in terrorists. And — hell — we’re already full up.’
‘But is that a Christian attitude, sir — “No room at the inn”, sir?’
Roosevelt smiled again. He made clear he didn’t have much respect for the questioner. ‘Look, I’m a Christian,’ he said, nodding. ‘And I want this to be a Christian country. I believe Christian values ought to be taught in schools — that was the one mistake our founding fathers made, and we’re suffering for it now. But being a Christian does not mean letting an alien religion invade our country…’
Suddenly Roosevelt lost his audience. He wondered whether it was something he said, but realised he was being upstaged.
Helen noticed it too: it was something else. All the mobiles in the room — switched to silent for the press conference — seemed to be vibrating.
The reporters at the back immediately started talking on their phones, breaking the atmosphere of the event. A few dashed out of the room while others started to pack up. In just a few seconds Helen, Myles and the Roosevelts had gone from being the lead story to old news.