Juma gestured with his gun as Myles and the Marine walked forward, reaching the toilet door. ‘And through you go,’ he ordered. ‘Hands still on your heads.’
As the door opened, Myles saw a crowd of Marines eagerly watching him. Their barrels were all pointed at him — Myles felt the laser beams and gun-sights zero in. All were poised to shoot.
Myles and the Marine beside him couldn’t talk. They made faces to indicate they were under duress. The firing squad clearly understood.
Then Myles felt Juma’s sweat-soaked hand grab his collar from behind. The Somali gang leader twisted it and pulled. He called out to the crowd, his mouth just inches from Myles’ ear. ‘Guns down please, gentlemen. All guns down.’ It was the voice of a man well used to command.
Juma waited, still only half through the toilet door. Myles could see the security men in front of him were unsure what to do. Several kept their eyes on Juma. Myles could tell some of them were contemplating taking a shot.
Juma shouted again, agitated this time. ‘Guns down. Now.’
Silence. Nobody moved. The only noise came from large TV monitors above the café. It was CNN coverage: a live feed from the refugees near the US Embassy, not far away.
Finally an authoritative American voice called out from somewhere — one of the Marine commanders. ‘Lower weapons. Everyone lower their weapons…’
The Marines obeyed almost immediately, gradually and more reluctantly followed by the Roosevelt Guardians. As their guns started to drop down, Myles saw the crowd ease up slightly. They would not be firing in the next few moments. The stand-off might be resolved.
Juma called out again. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Now, I want the men standing by the corridor to move to the sides,’ he insisted. ‘Move.’
This time the men with guns obeyed more quickly. A few weapons clattered as they shuffled their positions. The firing squad in front of Myles had become an armed human corridor.
Juma twisted Myles’ collar more tightly, grabbing it firmly in his hand. Myles felt his shirt squeeze around his neck.
For several seconds, silence began to settle throughout the conference building. Then suddenly the noise of gunfire — a burst from somewhere high. Everyone looked up to trace it. It was the CNN feed on the conference TV. Myles heard Helen’s voice, broadcasting live. ‘Some shots have been fired at the refugees in the square here. Panic is starting to break out. We don’t know exactly what’s happening…’
The pictures jogged around — the cameraman filming them was taking cover — until they fixed on a wounded African woman lying on a grass verge. The men trying to treat her were ducking their heads.
Juma whispered in Myles’ ear. ‘We’re about to start running together, Englishman.’ Aggression hissed through his voice. ‘Before you try something, just remember how much I enjoy killing.’
Myles nodded.
Juma called to the Marine. ‘You. I want you to run ahead. Go towards the entrance and tell them to drop all their weapons. Go.’
The Marine understood. With all eyes looking at him, he started to jog. Clearly relieved to be away from Juma, he waved his palms down to the floor, making eye contact with people all along the corridor. Everywhere, weapons were lowered and placed on the floor. A few unarmed conference delegates, accidently caught up in the situation, began to press themselves against the wall, terrified.
Soon the Marine had cleared the route ahead. He slowed, then turned back to face Juma, his job done.
Myles could sense Juma was about to move. He braced himself, desperately trying to think of a way of saving the situation.
But he knew Juma was even more desperate than him, and that made the pirate warlord more dangerous than ever. Would a sharpshooter try to kill Juma?
Myles felt Juma push on his collar. He started moving.
Juma began pushing him faster. Myles tried to jog, but found it impossible with his collar held.
Then Juma started to turn Myles around. He was trying to spin, to make it hard for any of the Marines or security men to take a shot without hitting Myles — the hostage.
‘Run,’ shouted Juma. Myles felt himself pushed and pulled along as they rushed down the corridor. He caught the eyes of the people watching him. They kept their guns lowered, all too afraid to shoot.
‘Keep going,’ ordered Juma.
Myles and Juma had spun halfway along the corridor. The café was behind them and the entrance to the centre just up ahead.
Myles saw Juma’s pistoclass="underline" a standard-issue security weapon. The sort of gun used by security guards. It pressed into his ribs. He thought about trying to knock it to the ground, but Juma was grabbing him too tightly.
Juma was growing confident again. None of the men around him dared to fire. He started joking into Myles’ ear. ‘You like waltzing, Mr Englishman?’
Before Myles could answer, Juma had yanked him around as they approached the entrance. Suddenly they stopped spinning and Myles became a human shield in front of the pirate.
The Somali warlord pointed his gun in front of him and shouted at the people ahead. ‘Down.’
The dog handlers and conference delegates froze. Many had been about to leave the centre. Now they realised they’d been caught.
‘Down!’ called Juma again. He glared at them with wide eyes and the face of a maniac. As they caught his stare, the bankers, security men and assistants realised they had no choice but to obey. They started lying down. Juma stared at the Marine who had ran ahead, ordering him to do the same.
Juma turned to the last few who resisted his order, and jerked his gun towards them. Quickly, they copied the others. Soon everyone was on the floor.
Juma checked again behind him, then pushed Myles forward and advanced.
Myles kept thinking: has he only got a gun? He knew that if Juma fired he would instantly be torn down by all the security men. But that would leave Myles dead too. Sacrificing himself like Sam Roosevelt wasn’t enough. He already knew the plot to bring down America was about more than just the Somali pirate warlord. Far more. Myles needed to survive.
He called over his shoulder to Juma. ‘You can’t kill the all the bankers with just one gun.’
Juma laughed. ‘Up the stairs,’ he ordered.
Myles felt his neck being pointed at the steps, and walked around a terrified conference delegate who looked up at him from the ground. Juma followed on behind.
Juma checked behind him again. Everyone remained on the floor. The Somali pirate started calling out again. ‘Where’s my Marine? Marine!’
The Marine who had run ahead to clear the way lifted his head from the floor.
‘Get up,’ shouted Juma. The Marine jumped to his feet. ‘Go up those stairs,’ continued the Somali, ‘and tell the people up there to lie on the floor.’
The Marine nodded then ran up in front of Myles and Juma. On the upper level, he did as Juma had instructed. The delegates started to lie down.
Myles and Juma climbed the steps.
‘You’ve been abandoned, Juma,’ said Myles, trying to distract him.
Juma didn’t reply. He was watching the upper-level corridors as he led his hostage to the top of the stairs.
A few delegates were lying on the floor in one direction. The way towards the CCTV room was clear. There was no one with a gun who could do anything to help Myles.
Juma grinned. ‘I’d say you’ve been abandoned, Englishman — all the security men are downstairs.’
But Myles could sense Juma was disappointed. Whatever Juma’s plan was, it seemed to have gone wrong.
They were both distracted by the largest TV monitor in the centre. Helen was questioning Dick Roosevelt on camera.
‘Why have your men started firing at these civilians?’ shouted Helen over the chaos.