But this was not a military helicopter — the US military and their allies no longer operated in this part of Iraq. This was a smaller, privately owned helicopter, and on the side of it were emblazoned two words in English alongside their Arabic counterparts: Roosevelt Security.
Dick had come good on his promise.
Myles pressed on, and ran towards the aircraft, whose rotors slowed but never stopped. He was soon buckled in and rising above the oil plant. The doctor and nurse waved up at him as he ascended.
Inside, the co-pilot proffered Myles some headphones. He gladly put them on. Only as he did so did he realise how loud it was inside the craft.
‘Welcome aboard, Mr Munro,’ said the co-pilot. ‘Senator Roosevelt sends his compliments. We understand you don’t have a passport with you, sir?’
Myles nodded.
‘No problem — we’ll be flying to a private airport just over the border in Turkey,’ explained the co-pilot, unfazed. ‘From there we should be able to get you a jet to Rome.’
‘Thanks — that’s great.’
‘So lay back, relax, and enjoy the flight, sir.’
Myles nodded his gratitude. The vibrations of the aircraft were making him dozy already. He felt like an exhausted child starting to fall asleep in a car seat. But he knew he still had to think. Why had Placidia bluffed about lead and plague when she was planning to bring America down like the Roman Empire? And what was Juma planning?
He looked down at the desert below him: they were flying over an area which was once known as Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilisation. Yet it was featureless. There was no sign of development at all. The civilisation which had once flourished here was completely gone.
They made a desert and called it peace.
Words from a famous Roman historian, Tacitus, explaining how the Romans subdued nations by killing anybody who resisted their rule.
Myles studied the inside of the aircraft. He saw the company’s circular logo and all the documents needed to satisfy the new Iraqi aviation authority. He kept turning the issue in his mind. How was Juma going to destroy the currency conference?
What seemed like minutes later, he was woken with a judder as the helicopter landed. He looked outside: he was at a local airfield in the mountains of south-east Turkey. A man from Roosevelt Security was soon opening the door and helping him out.
With a hand on his ducked head, Myles tried to keep his new headgear in place as he thanked the helicopter pilot over the noise. He was quickly escorted onto a small private passenger aircraft. Propeller-driven rather than a jet, it seemed more rugged than most executive jets. The pilot shouted in a thick but accomplished South African accent that the flight to Italy would take just four hours.
Myles spent the time musing over the situation.
Placidia had always been an idealist — why had she become a terrorist?
Rome had declined over generations, perhaps even centuries — how could America be brought down within a lifetime? Juma was determined to bring down the United States — but what was driving him?
The plane’s flight path circled around Syria and Lebanon. It was routed over Cyprus, then the Greek Islands, crossed into Italian airspace near Brindisi, then north-west towards Rome. Myles was finally away from warzones. The luxury was confirmed when the single member of the cabin crew brought out a fine silver plate of seafood and a glass of champagne.
Myles gladly enjoyed the hospitality. But the thoughts which warmed him most were of Helen. It was Helen who had helped clear his name, Helen who had given him the lead to Galla Security in Iraq, and Helen who had trusted him when the authorities did not. She had stuck with him when he needed her most.
And so, as the small propeller-driven plane touched down in Rome’s Ciampino airport, Myles could barely wait to remove the seat belt.
As he’d hoped, Helen was standing there, waiting beside the new Senator.
The aircraft taxied to a stop. Myles clambered down the stairs, almost tripping over himself — and his ill-fitting Chinese clothes — as he rushed to meet Helen. She ran towards him too, and they embraced, together at last on the tarmac of the airfield.
Together again in Rome.
Sixty-Five
Myles and Helen kissed. It was a long and meaningful kiss. When they were last together, each had feared the other would not survive. Now they both felt more alive than ever.
After almost a minute, Helen pulled back, smiling at Myles. She frowned theatrically as she looked up at Myles’ headgear. ‘What’s this — Chinese Communism back in style?’ She lifted off his cap as she said it, and was about to toss it away when she remembered the bandages on his scalp. Carefully, she put it back into place. ‘We’ll get you some fresh clothes when we get a chance,’ she said, tactfully.
The young Senator approached, his arm extended for a handshake. ‘Welcome back to Rome, Myles. Glad you made it out OK.’
‘Thank you, Dick’. Myles paused. ‘I’m sorry again about your father.’
Dick looked down and shook his head in respect. ‘Was it painless for him?’
‘It was quick,’ replied Myles. ‘And he took as many of them with him as he could.’
‘That’s my father, the great Sam Roosevelt,’ said Dick, making clear he wanted to change the subject. ‘Come this way. We can talk in the car.’
Dick Roosevelt had arranged for a people carrier to take them into the centre of Rome. Myles waved a thank you to his South African pilot before he climbed aboard with Dick. Helen followed.
Inside, Dick ordered the driver to go, then turned to Myles for advice. ‘You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll understand if you just want to rest. But if you do have any suggestions.’ He pointed out of the window. ‘As you can see, we’ve set up a normal security cordon. But this isn’t a normal security situation.’
Myles paused before he answered, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘The TV news reported that a shipload of refugees from Libya had reached Rome. What’s the latest?’
‘Reckoned to be about fifteen hundred of them,’ replied Helen, nodding. ‘Still claiming asylum, still wanting to become American citizens. They’re camped outside the US Embassy at the moment, on Via Veneto.’
Myles remembered Via Veneto — it was where he had made a fool of himself, thinking an Italian had hidden a bomb in a washing machine crate. He didn’t let the memory faze him.
‘And Juma?’ he asked.
‘No sign.’ Helen looked at Dick Roosevelt as she said it. Roosevelt confirmed her assessment: there was no evidence that Juma was anywhere near Italy. They had no information on the Somali pirate at all.
Myles absorbed the information. ‘OK, so we have Juma determined to destroy America while one-and-a-half thousand of his people want to enter the country.’ He looked up at the other two, inviting them to draw conclusions.
Helen turned to Roosevelt, then back to Myles. ‘You mean, something doesn’t make sense?’
‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘None of this makes sense.’
Dick frowned. ‘So?’
Myles didn’t answer. ‘Who’s coming to the currency conference?’ he asked.
The young Senator looked blank, as if to say ‘I don’t know — or at least no one important’. Slowly, Roosevelt tried to remember the list of attendees he had seen. ‘Bankers, including a few central bankers, some managers of sovereign wealth funds…’ he said, reciting from memory.
‘Any politicians?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Roosevelt’s eyes roved upwards as he tried to recall the lists. ‘Although, I suppose I’m a politician now.’