The Somali pirate chief got back on his feet and surveyed the aftermath of the rocket-propelled grenade. As with all explosions, the impact of the Senator’s second munition seemed to have been random. Devastation was interspersed with areas which remained untouched. Some of the desert floor was torched and charred. Other parts looked exactly as they had before. Dead bodies from the first explosion had shaded some areas from the second.
Juma looked down at his men. Several bodies were in pieces. Charred limbs and torsos were mixed with broken weaponry and tatters of clothes. It was hard to know exactly how many people had been killed.
Juma noticed one Somali pirate near the middle of the crater who was missing a leg and arm. The man started to howl for help as he recovered consciousness and recognised his leader. Juma stomped towards him, lifted his head and shook it, then put it down again, swiftly concluding that the man had no hope of surviving. When the man called out again, Juma returned to him, then kicked him hard in the face. The man lost consciousness once more, never to regain it.
Two other men appeared to be alive but severely wounded. They were careful to remain quiet. Two more, who had not been with the main group, were on their feet by this time. Like Juma, they were largely unhurt, and explored the wreckage with him.
To check both his captives were dead, Juma was keen to examine the Toyota: it had been blown upside down and landed on its roof, which was crushed. The African gang leader bent down to check no one was alive inside. There was certainly no movement. No one could have survived, he concluded. Although he couldn’t see properly, Juma was content to leave the vehicle containing Myles’ corpse where it was.
Juma missed the satisfaction of killing him, but knowing the Englishman was dead was almost as good. He shrugged, then turned away.
Then he saw the Senator’s body, which had massive wounds to the chest and neck. Sam Roosevelt was definitely dead. Juma called over to his two surviving accomplices. When he had their attention, he put his boot on the old man’s face and stamped it into the dust. The pirates laughed as Sam Roosevelt’s head was pressed down, deformed and bloodied. Juma stepped away satisfied.
Content that he had surveyed the danger, Juma replaced the magazine in his AK-47 and made the gun ready to fire. Then he levelled the barrel at the bodies of the men near the crater. He aimed at the two who were alive but severely wounded. Although they tried to ask for a chance, Juma shot them through with bullets. They died instantly.
Juma stepped back, and fired a short burst into the Senator’s body near his feet. Then he clambered back over to the wreck of the Toyota.
Once more he examined the twisted remnants of the vehicle. Juma couldn’t see the Englishman’s body. He was beginning to doubt his earlier conclusion. Could Myles have survived?
To make sure, he readied his weapon for a final time, and sprayed the whole front section of the Toyota Corolla with bullets. He exhausted the whole of his magazine, and his gun clicked to let him know he was done. Then he crouched down to examine the bullet holes. A good spread: there was not a single space within the mass of the vehicle which hadn’t been hit. A cat couldn’t have avoided the bullets, let alone someone as tall as Myles.
No movement from inside.
Juma waited. Still no movement.
Finally, he was convinced: wherever Myles Munro’s body was, there was no way he could still be alive. His limbs must be amongst the twisted and charred cadavers near the crater of the explosion. Juma was content. He stood up and chuckled at his work: he had killed both of his Western hostages.
He beckoned over to his two fellow survivors, who came in beside him. The three men walked away from the wreckage, careful to step between the corpses rather than on them.
With their guns slung back on their shoulders, Juma ordered his men into a second car, parked further away from the main scene. They climbed inside, Juma enjoying a last glance at the scene of the Senator’s demise so far from the American soil that he loved.
Soon Juma and his men were away, and the pile of wreckage and dead bodies was left behind in the cooling desert afternoon sun. Within hours the scavenger animals of the desert would pick at what was left. Within days it would be half-covered by desert dust. Perhaps some of the scene — the twisted metal of the overturned vehicle and the Somali guns — would be preserved for as long as the Roman ruins of the abandoned town. But to Juma, it didn’t matter. He was heading off to rejoin his people. Placidia’s people. The last obstacle had been overcome, and he was about to achieve his grand ambition.
Fifty-Nine
Safiq had arrived, but what sort of civilisation had he reached?
He was in a fine street, with rich architecture and lovely trees, somewhere in the centre of Rome. It seemed like a wonderful city. He and a mass of hundreds of other Africans, a few of them still armed, crowded outside the American Embassy.
But the embassy was protected by a strong fence. They knew the fence was strong because they had attempted several times to knock it down and failed. Someone had been badly crushed when they tried. Safiq understood: there was no way in.
In every direction, including the route the throng had taken from the ship, roads had been blocked. The Italian police were containing the crowds. Safiq was wondering whether the Italians would advance — for now, they were just waiting. Waiting, he guessed, for the Africans to tire and give up.
Like the Africans, a few of the Italian police had guns; Safiq had worked out the armed ones wore special ‘Caribinieri’ uniforms. He made sure he kept his distance from them.
Safiq had no food and, like the others, he was hungry. The only nearby café had closed and been locked up. They’d all managed to drink from a water hose when they first reached the embassy, but now even that had been turned off.
So here he was, in the middle of civilisation but still desperate. He was standing right next to the US Embassy, which someone had told him was officially American territory, but his American dream was further away than ever.
Life was still harsh, like it had been on the windy dockside in Africa.
And he knew that soon it would get even worse.
Sixty
Myles waited for more than an hour before he moved again. When Juma had fired bullets into the overturned Toyota, he had cowered. He had strained to hear the distant sound of the Somali’s vehicle driving away. But he needed to be sure it wasn’t another of Juma’s games. He had to know Juma wasn’t waiting for him.
Blood had trickled into his hair. Myles silently walked his fingers up his scalp to trace the source. There was a sensitive spot near the top of his head. Probably just a small cut, he told himself. Head wounds give out a lot of blood.
Although it was dark, Myles felt sure he wasn’t concussed. He was too alert to be dazed. He would deal with his head wound later.
Myles listened again. Still no noise from above. Had all of Juma’s men gone?
Or had the pirate left a watchman to make sure there were no survivors?
Slowly Myles edged along the mosaic floor, sticking tightly to the walls. He looked at the overturned Toyota suspended over him, blocking the way he had come in — half dived, half fallen, at the moment the Senator had pulled the trigger. Unless Juma and his men deliberately moved the vehicle, they would not find Myles’ new hiding place.
He felt safe from them.