‘Your head?’ she asked, squinting at the camera.
Myles was aware that Helen was looking above his face. He put his hand on his head and felt bandages. ‘It’s from yesterday,’ he explained. ‘The doctor here reckons no lasting damage.’
‘You sure, Myles?’
‘I think so. Look — they gave me the scan to prove it.’ Myles held up the picture from his brain scan.
Helen twisted her head to see it more clearly, but, like Myles, she soon concluded it only showed a brain. Without expert knowledge it could mean anything. Myles waved it away, agreeing the scan picture didn’t help.
He became aware someone was sitting next to Helen. Dick Roosevelt leant into view, and towards the video-conferencing camera. It made him slightly out of focus.
‘Dick Roosevelt here,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure, Dick. And you?’
‘Thank you, yes, I’m OK,’ he said. ‘Bearing up.’ Dick was still shocked from the death of his father.
‘I’m sorry about your father, Dick. If it’s any consolation, he died as bravely as he lived,’ reported Myles, remembering Sam’s last moments. ‘He gave his life to save others.’
Dick Roosevelt nodded thoughtfully. ‘Juma killed him?’
Myles felt uneasy about giving too many details to a son still so obviously in shock. ‘I’ll give you the full story later,’ he said. ‘But yes, Juma was to blame.’
Helen started speaking again. ‘Myles, in case you’re still wondering, you’ve been cleared. Homeland Security have accepted those terrorist plans were planted on your computer. They know you’re innocent.’
‘How did they know?’
‘Internet tracks. Computer forensics told them you were set up. They knew the classified information was planted via the IP address in Iraq, although they still haven’t traced how the people in Iraq got the files.’
To Myles, it all seemed so long ago. It took him a while to understand the implications of it all. ‘So I’m welcome back in civilisation again?’
‘Yes, Myles. And we need to take a really big holiday together.’
No longer being on the run was a huge relief, but Myles knew it was too early for a break. ‘We can’t take a holiday yet, even though I’d love to. Juma’s still dangerous and he’s still out there.’
Dick shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t worry about him, Myles. We’re wise to the threat he poses, and we reckon we’re safe.’
‘He’s a psychopath,’ warned Myles. ‘Don’t underestimate him. He’s committed to bringing America down like Rome, and he’s the sort of person that does what he says he’s going to do — no matter how crazy.’
Helen sensed Myles and Dick Roosevelt were sparring a little. She tried to calm them down. ‘Myles, don’t forget Juma bluffs, too. It wasn’t bubonic plague in Constantinople, only smallpox. And in Germany, it wasn’t lead.’
‘I know — calcium, right?’
Helen and Dick both nodded.
‘But that doesn’t mean the threat’s over,’ said Myles. ‘The plague and the lead — that was Placidia, not Juma.’
Helen noticeably tensed up. She still reacted negatively to any mention of Placidia.
Dick tried to unpick Myles’ thinking. ‘You’re saying Placidia and Juma, even though they’re husband and wife, are working to different agendas? Why?’
Myles wasn’t quite sure. ‘Placidia’s very, very intelligent,’ he explained. ‘She’s the expert on ancient Rome, and she’s the one who always wants to minimise death.’
Helen reacted with sarcasm. ‘By threatening to kill people, right?’
‘Threatening to kill, but not actually killing them,’ said Myles. ‘Hence the calcium and smallpox, rather than lead and plague.’
Dick was nodding now. ‘And Juma?’
‘Juma actually enjoys causing suffering,’ explained Myles. ‘And I’m sure he’s going to blow up the currency conference in Rome.’
‘Why do you think that?’
Myles shrugged. ‘Because he told me he would.’
Dick still looked sceptical. ‘You know, it would be very difficult for Mr Juma to bring any harm at all to the conference in Rome,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen some of the security plan for the event. It’s even stronger now.’
The new Senator waited for Myles to reply, but the Englishman remained silent.
Helen moved towards the microphone. ‘Myles, I want to be with you. I want to be with you right now.’
‘I want to be with you, too, Helen.’
Dick Roosevelt looked slightly embarrassed at the couple’s show of affection. ‘You two, if you want to meet up, I can arrange for you to get together in Rome. Myles, if you’re still worried about security at the conference, you’re welcome see more of it. I’ll show you around myself, and I won’t let the Italian police interrupt you this time.’
Both Helen and Myles soon found themselves nodding.
‘OK, then. That’s agreed,’ concluded Dick. ‘I’ll get you flown out of there and we can all meet in Rome in a day or two.’
Helen blew Myles a kiss. ‘I love you, Myles,’ she said.
‘Love you too.’
Then Dick leant forward to press a button on the screen. For a moment his jacket shrouded the camera, dark and out of focus, before the picture went black.
Myles felt alive again: he’d been cleared by the authorities and he had spoken with Helen. Soon he’d have his vitality and he would be returning to civilisation… If he could stop Juma destroying it.
Day XII
Sixty-Four
Myles tried to get out of bed. His muscles were sore and he fell back. But he knew he had to get to Rome quickly. ‘Hello?’ he called out. The female nurse ran into his room. ‘I need my clothes,’ he told her. ‘I need to leave.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked the nurse, concerned.
He made clear that he was. The nurse ran out to fetch the doctor, who returned to find Myles standing beside his bed.
‘Thank you. Doctor, I need my clothes, please…’
The doctor looked rather apologetic. He explained that Myles’ clothes had been cut off his body when he was unconscious. ‘You can have your clothes, Mr Munro, sir, but if you tried to wear them in Europe you may be arrested for being underdressed.’
The nurse blushed and tried to hide a smile. She delved inside a plastic waste sack and pulled out Myles’ old clothes. With wide eyes, she held them up: they were tatters and rags.
Myles acknowledged the point. ‘OK, well do you have any other clothes I can wear?’
The doctor nodded and led Myles to one of the storerooms. He tried to gauge Myles’ height — tall for a Westerner but abnormally tall for someone from the Far East. He picked out the tallest boiler suit he had and gave it to Myles. Myles climbed into the garment. The height was right, but it was far larger — fatter — than Myles’ body and hung loosely around his waist. Myles flapped his arms.
The doctor laughed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.’
The doctor looked up at Myles’ head, which was still bandaged. He bent down to the bottom of the cupboard to pick out a grey cloth cap, which he then placed on the Westerner: Chairman Mao headgear.
Myles thanked the doctor. Although the boiler suit looked odd, they were the first fresh clothes he had worn for many days. The food and medical care at the Chinese oil rig may have saved his life. Being rescued from the desert certainly did. ‘Please pass on my thanks to everybody here,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Within minutes the deep flutter of a helicopter came into earshot. Moments later, Myles found himself blasted by the downdraught. He shielded his eyes from the sand lifted up by the rotor blades as the vehicle came to land at the helipad next to the rig’s offices.