‘They opened fire in self-defence, Helen,’ countered Dick.
‘But these aren’t terrorists, Senator. They’re unarmed civilians.’
‘These people are complicit in terrorism. We’ve just heard of a terrorist attack at the currency conference…’
The Senator’s revelation had clearly caught Helen by surprise. She didn’t have the next question ready, and seemed unsure whether to ask about the incident or press Dick Roosevelt more on his claim about the African migrants.
Myles and Juma kept watching as the footage switched away from the interview to the refugees. The bottom of the screen showed the words ‘Breaking News — Terrorist incident at Rome Currency Conference’.
Then Placidia appeared. She was standing in front of her people, her arms out, trying to stop any more of the refugees being shot. The audio didn’t pick up her voice, but it was clear she was pleading with the Roosevelt Guardians holding rifles.
Myles could see Juma’s face — whether it was Placidia or the shooting, he was enthralled. Myles used the distraction to reach inside his pocket. Subtly, he moved his fingers towards the car keys he had taken from Juma’s jacket. He clutched them in his hand.
On the screen, Placidia refused to cower. With her arms outstretched, she stood like a crucifix. People behind her flinched as another shot was fired, but she remained in place — defiant.
‘You can’t protect her, Juma,’ said Myles. He sensed Juma’s mind switch back to his present situation.
‘She can protect herself,’ huffed Juma proudly.
Myles knew Juma was wondering what to do next — where to go, where to escape.
If Myles was going to distract Juma, the time to do it was now. ‘Juma, you know what Placidia told me?’ he said.
‘What, Englishman?’
‘She told me I was better.’
Almost instantly Myles felt the hand on his collar thrust him forward. Myles was being thrown down the stairs. Juma’s voice called out behind him as he tumbled — a single word. ‘Die…’
Myles saw the warlord’s forearm stretch out. He pointed his weapon down at Myles.
Myles closed his eyes and pressed the button.
Sixty-Nine
There was just a flicker of recognition on Juma’s face before the bomb detonated inside him. His body erupted, and an enormous force burst out from his abdomen. The Somali pirate chief’s body was torn apart in an instant. His legs were shot in opposite directions, while one arm and most of his torso spun in the air. Juma’s head was blasted away to a distant part of the conference centre, while his gun ricocheted off the steps.
For half a second, a red mist hung in the air, then seemed to disappear. Juma, and all that he threatened, was blown away.
Myles barely noticed blood from the pirate’s body spray towards him. The explosion had blasted him towards the bottom of the stairs, and left him convulsed by the shock wave.
Myles still clutched the remote control in his hand, half disbelieving that something so small could have an impact so huge. Then he looked up at the remnants of the man who had terrorised America. Juma was dead.
It was hard to believe the pirate leader, the man who had caused such misery, was finally gone. Myles exhaled, still amazed he had survived.
The Marine at the bottom of the stairs was the first to his feet. He rushed over to Myles, very confused about what had happened. ‘What the hell was that?’ he asked.
Myles was still catching his breath. ‘Juma had swallowed a bomb,’ he explained. ‘He was going to plant it somewhere, then leave before it went off.’
‘But he didn’t get the chance?’
Myles nodded in confirmation, still staring at Juma’s remains.
Other delegates around the entrance to the conference centre began to stand up. The Marines and Roosevelt Guardians who had been near the café were running over, guns in hand.
Myles looked again at the live feed from CNN. The ‘Breaking News’ message on the screen now declared: US Marines fail to contain terrorism at conference.
Myles shook his head in disbelief at the headline. This wasn’t about the Marines…
Then he understood. He turned to the Marine beside him. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘America could still share the “fate of Rome” — I’ve got to run.’
The Marine frowned, as if to ask what it was all about. But Myles was already gone, leaving the confused security men to clean up the mess and work out what had happened.
The noise of the blast had been heard outside and several Marines and Italian policemen were running to assist. Myles sprinted out of the building against the flow of people. He tried to weave through them, apologising for bumping into them as he went. He had to get to the US Embassy.
Some of the people he passed saw him running and thought there was still danger in the conference centre. Others stared at him and his odd clothes, and wondered whether he was guilty. But Myles just tried to move through them as fast as he could.
Sweating in the sunshine, he approached the security perimeter of the conference. Here he had to slow. A Marine manning one of the scanners held out his hand to indicate ‘stop’.
Myles pointed backwards with his thumb. ‘There’s a bomb just gone off in there,’ he called to the Marine. The Marine saw Myles’ sweat and assumed — wrongly — that Myles was worried about another bomb in the conference centre. He let Myles pass.
Myles sprinted off again. He hurdled over a concrete road barrier designed to protect against vehicle-borne bombs, ran through the twisty narrow streets, passed tourists and cars and jogged up the steps. Myles knew the route — he had gone this way when he was on holiday with Helen. Now he had to reach her.
As he reached Via Veneto, near the US Embassy, he confronted the next security line. This one was made of Roosevelt Guardians. An outer cordon: to protect the backs of the Guardians who were watching the African refugees.
Myles stopped again. He tried to size up the private security men controlling the way ahead. They looked stern. A pretty Italian journalist was arguing with one of them — she’d just been expelled from the scene and the Roosevelt Guardians weren’t going to let her back in.
Myles tried to peer through. He could just see some of the refugees through the lines of men. They were still holding out, still just outside the US Embassy. He had to reach them.
He tried to calm his breathing and wiped the sweat from his face as he walked up to the Roosevelt Guardian who seemed to be in charge. ‘I need to go in, please,’ he asked, trying to sound polite and respectful, even though he was obviously in a hurry.
‘No, sir. No one goes in.’
‘Please, it’s important,’ Myles insisted. ‘Lives are at stake.’
‘Sorry, sir. Orders,’ came the reply, cold and certain. ‘No one else in.’
Myles clenched his fist in frustration, but knew a punch would only get him detained.
He looked at the Roosevelt Guardian’s face again, trying to judge him. Myles realised telling him about the plot to bring down America wouldn’t convince him — the man was just following orders.
Myles tried to speak to him in a chatty tone. ‘So you’re clearing out the journalists from around the embassy?’
The man didn’t answer, but his non-reaction confirmed Myles was right.
Myles nodded knowingly. ‘I’m a friend of Dick Roosevelt. The Senator said I should get through.’
‘Sorry, sir. No one goes in.’
‘Check with Dick Roosevelt,’ urged Myles, pressing his point. ‘You don’t want to countermand his order. Check with him.’