Thankfully they didn’t ask her. But they did ask Myles why his clothes were too large for him. ‘I borrowed them,’ he replied.
‘Who from, sir?’ asked the Marine.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Try me, sir…’
Myles was willing to cooperate and was about to explain when Dick Roosevelt whipped out his ID card. The Marine bent down to inspect it, then stood back to salute. There were no more questions for them, and the trio were invited to walk into the conference building itself.
Sniffer dogs at the entrance barked as Myles approached. Myles put his hands up — he had, after all, been near explosives in Iraq. But when the dog handlers saw he was with the new Senator Roosevelt, Chief Executive of Roosevelt Guardians, he was allowed to pass.
Dick escorted them up some stairs and along a corridor. They passed a guarded door, and were soon in the control room — the room where he had been arrested on his last visit.
Helen and Myles absorbed the TV monitors, computer banks and pieces of paper dotted around the room — there were so many more than before. The people working there seemed busy and efficient. There was even a flip-chart testing out possible flaws in the security for the event.
‘This is the Situation Centre — the CCTV room,’ said Dick. He moved towards one of the monitors and invited the administrator to flick between views from different cameras. ‘We’ve got more than fifty cameras on this place,’ he explained. ‘Any terrorists who try to come would be seen long in advance.’
Roosevelt could see even Myles was impressed. But Myles couldn’t help thinking they were still missing something. How come Juma had been so sure he could get through? He tried to frame his question. ‘Do you think Juma knows about all this? Do you think he’ll still try to get close?’
He was answered by a voice behind him. A female voice. ‘He’d be mad to come. But then he probably is mad…’ It was Susan from Homeland Security. She lowered her head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Myles. When we detained you, we made a mistake.’
‘It was you?’
‘Yes. I had you arrested, and I was wrong.’
Myles nodded — apology accepted. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ said Susan. ‘And we don’t want any more mistakes, Myles. Which is why we’ve filled this place with US Marines, special forces and undercover guys…’
Helen’s mobile rang. She apologised as she answered. The call was from her producer. Myles overheard half the conversation: they wanted Helen to be down with the crowds of refugees. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be safe,’ she answered dismissively. ‘The place is surrounded by police, and the US Embassy is next door — it’s can’t be too dangerous.’ Then she jolted in shock. ‘Really? You want me to interview that bitch?’
Myles and Dick looked at each other. Both were listening in now.
‘Can I refer to her as a terrorist?’ asked Helen, then followed up with: ‘OK, but I can ask her if she’s a terrorist, yeah?’
She nodded as she concluded the call, then apologised to Myles and Dick. ‘Sorry, guys — I’m going to confront Placidia, outside the embassy.’
‘Should I come?’ asked Myles. ‘I need to speak to her. There must be a way to defuse this thing.’
‘No.’ Helen was shaking her head. ‘This is strictly journalism. She’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘OK,’ said Myles, hesitantly. ‘Stay safe down there,’ he insisted.
‘Will do. Any special questions you want me to ask her?’
Myles thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Ask her about Rome: what was the real reason it fell?’
‘That’s all? Not, “why did you try to give me the plague?” or “Any more bombs planned?” huh?’
Myles shrugged. ‘Perhaps — it would be interesting to hear her answers.’
She kissed him on the cheek, then waved with her fingers to Dick, and was gone.
‘Be careful,’ Myles shouted after her.
Dick turned to Myles. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Just wait, I guess,’ suggested Myles. ‘Can you get CCTV pictures of the entrance — where people are being scanned?’
Roosevelt duly set the monitor to show the main entrance, then moved to get some coffee at a machine in the corner of the room.
Myles stared at the grainy computer image. He watched as the guests were scrutinised by the walk-through machine. One by one, they went through. About half set off the machine first time and were sent back to remove belts, shoes, mobiles and other items until they managed to walk through without the scanner beeping. Myles could sense the frustration of the people queuing behind: the process was slow. Perhaps they didn’t realise just how serious the threat was. Even if Juma made it through, there was no way he could get a weapon in here — surely?
Then he noticed a man in a summer suit. His face was dark and his body small and muscular. Myles stared closer.
The man walked through the machine, then stopped in reaction to something. He had set off the alarm.
Calmly he stepped backwards again. The Marines pointed towards his jacket, which the man slipped off.
‘Dick, Dick — come over,’ insisted Myles, his eyes still fixed on the moving image. The man set the machine off a second time, but this time removed a pass from his pocket. The Marines inspected it, then waved him through.
Myles pointed at the screen. ‘It’s him. It’s Juma.’
‘You sure?’
Juma was wearing glasses and his hair was different, but Myles was sure it was him. ‘Yeah. I recognise him.’
Dick Roosevelt rushed over, alert.
‘Hey — why didn’t the Marine stop him?’ asked Myles. ‘You sent out the description of Juma, right?’
‘It should have gone out, yes,’ insisted Roosevelt, resenting the accusation that he’d made a mistake. ‘Is he still there? Which camera is he on?’ he asked.
Myles tried to point the man out again, but Juma had already disappeared.
Sixty-Six
Myles ran towards the doors but Dick called him back.
‘Which one is he?’ asked Roosevelt, scrolling back through the pictures, reversing the CCTV footage on the screen.
‘That one — he’s that one,’ said Myles, pointing at the computer image, frozen as Juma lifted off his jacket with a Marine on each side of him.
‘Got it,’ said Roosevelt framing the image. ‘I’ll put out an alert.’ He turned to talk to Myles, but the Englishman had already gone.
Myles sprinted along the corridor, bumping past delegates and almost knocking over someone taking bottled water into the main conference room.
A Marine called after him as he rushed by. ‘Slow down, bud.’
‘Sorry.’ Myles’ apology was lost in the rush. He leapt down the stairs, three at a time. Stopping at the entrance, he looked around. He could see the scanner where Juma had been less than half a minute before. He scoured the crowd:
No sign of him heading into the building…
No sign of him standing around outside…
No sign of him in any of the corridors…
It didn’t make sense: how could Juma have disappeared so quickly?
Myles approached the Marine with the sniffer dogs. ‘Excuse me. Have you seen a, a, man…’ He struggled to find a description, and was out of breath from the run.
The dog handlers were smiling. ‘We’ve seen lots of men here, sir, and a few women too.’
‘I’m looking for a black man,’ said Myles, rushing out the words as fast as he could. ‘Er, Somali, small to medium height, glasses, brown jacket. Muscular, very muscular. Scar on his abdomen…’