Helen tried to reach for it. Her hand was knocked. The young African woman was being moved away by the crowd.
‘Throw it to me!’ called Helen.
The African woman tossed it as she was pushed away. Helen managed to catch it in the air, and grabbed it firmly. It was an old-style mobile phone.
The young woman called out to her. ‘It’s from Placidia,’ she said. ‘Placidia said you’d need it.’
Helen nodded to indicate she had heard, although she didn’t understand the message.
She looked at the phone, bemused. Briefly she wondered whether it was dangerous: would it blow up? Helen turned quizzically to Myles.
He took the phone and quickly pressed the ‘last dialled’ button. Nothing. Then he looked at the messages — the inbox. Again, nothing.
Myles knew he’d missed something. What was Placidia doing?
He frowned in frustration. Another of Placidia’s puzzles, or had he forgotten something?
He didn’t have time to work it out now. He looked back at the refugees, now in full panic as they realised the Roosevelt Guardians were preparing to fire at them.
Some of the Africans were crying, others shouting. Some jeered at the Roosevelt Guardians, even as the security men raised their rifles. The migrants felt betrayed. They were trapped in a square with no escape. People who were about to be slaughtered like animals…
One of the young men given a gun on the ship raised his weapon to fire in the air. A Roosevelt Guardian sniper hit him almost immediately, also shooting the two women standing beside him. All three collapsed in an instant.
Myles moved over to Helen. ‘Come on,’ he shouted to her over the noise. ‘We’ve got to get inside the building.’
Helen and Myles moved in through the entrance door of the building. Myles desperately looked around inside. He knew there would be one here…
His eyes scanned the walls as Helen spoke to the worried man on reception. Then Myles saw what he was looking for. He moved over towards it, apologising to the receptionist as he did so. ‘Sorry…’
The man wondered what he was about to do. But Myles had already raised his arm.
Myles took aim, then slammed his elbow into the fire alarm.
Seventy
The square of glass in the fire alarm shattered. Instantly a deafening siren rang throughout the building. The doors automatically flung themselves open.
Helen frowned at Myles. ‘What have you done?’ she tried to shout over the noise of the alarm.
Myles tried to shout back, but realised the fire signal was too loud. He could only give her a one word explanation. ‘Sanctuary,’ he mouthed.
Helen still didn’t understand.
Within a few seconds US Embassy workers started to appear from corridors and stairways. Some in suits, others in chinos or jeans. They began to gather near the doors, wondering whether it was a drill or a real fire.
Myles shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Everybody outside.’
He hoped none of them remembered the last time he gave instructions to the embassy staff, but his English accent still caused confusion: why were American diplomats being herded by a Brit?
Helen saw what was happening and backed him up, putting on a southern drawl to make sure everyone got the message. ‘Come on — everybody outta here…’
An older staff member recognised her from television and looked uncertain. Helen kept up the pretence. ‘Yes, it’s a fire alarm,’ she confirmed. ‘Everybody out. Quick.’
Gradually the embassy staff started to obey. Diplomats and officials, office staff and cleaners all started to leave the building. Once it became clear a few were going the rest followed in a rush.
Myles and Helen found themselves in a swarm of half-panicked Americans, all desperately trying to leave the building.
The receptionist, who had seen Myles slam his elbow into the alarm, tried to approach. He couldn’t make it through the crowds, but he caught Myles’ eye.
Myles knew the look. He didn’t want to be detained again. He grabbed Helen’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, too.’
Myles led Helen out again, allowing them to leave with the US Embassy workers.
Outside the embassy was chaos. US Embassy workers were flooding out, mixing with frightened refugees. Roosevelt Guardians and the few remaining journalists were caught up in the swirling crowds, just like Myles and Helen. No one could see what was happening.
Then the African refugees seemed to realise the embassy doors were open.
If they pushed through the Roosevelt Guardians they would be safe inside the embassy.
The Roosevelt Guardians were desperately trying to hold the line, but with the embassy staff breaking their line one way, it became impossible for them to hold back the refugees pushing the other. And as soon as a few African refugees were through, the push of the crowd became unstoppable. The line broke, and the refugees streamed towards the embassy doors and inside the building. Finally they had reached American soil.
The refugees were safe at last.
Journalists started to break through the outer cordon. Myles saw the Italian who had been arguing with the Roosevelt Guardian when he had vaulted his way in: she was now taking pictures of the private security men looking dejected. Helen’s own broadcast crew started to get footage of the first Africans inside the embassy, as they tried to claim asylum. Paramedics rushed to treat refugees with bullet wounds. The breach in the line meant the Roosevelt Guardians couldn’t pretend anymore: they had to let all the Africans through.
Helen frowned in confusion. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘We’ve bought some time,’ explained Myles. ‘But that’s all. We still need to find Placidia.’
‘Bought who time, Myles?
Myles was still too distracted to answer properly. He searched around for any indication of where she could be. Nothing. He wondered whether she could have been hiding in the crowd, but it was unlikely: if she was still with the refugees someone would have seen her by now.
‘She must have gone somewhere,’ said Myles.
‘Did she escape?’ suggested Helen, trying to be helpful. ‘Or did someone call her away?’
‘Perhaps…’ said Myles, pausing. ‘Or she called someone else away…’ He remembered the mobile, and pointed to Helen’s bag.
Helen pulled it out for him. ‘I’ve already checked: there’s nothing on it,’ she shouted over the noise.
‘Not in the inbox…’ Myles went into the messages, then clicked on ‘messages sent’. There it was. The message read: ‘We need to talk. Meet me in the Pantheon. Now.’
Myles scrolled down to ‘message details’, then looked at his watch. ‘Sent fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘There’s still time.’
He passed the device back to Helen, who still looked confused. ‘Why did she give the phone to me?’
‘Because she knew you were here,’ explained Myles. ‘Maybe she knew you’d give the phone to me.’
‘Well, who’s she meeting?’
‘Dick. It’s Dick Roosevelt,’ muttered Myles.
‘Dick?’
Myles nodded as he looked ahead, trying to map out the fastest route to the Pantheon. ‘Helen, this chaos here — it’s not the most important thing. It’s not the news story,’ he tried to explain.
Helen looked around her: wounded refugees, confused embassy officials, angry security guards… ‘Looks like a story to me.’
‘No. Listen.’ Myles held her shoulders. ‘I’ve got to go. But get your production team ready for another one of those videos from Placidia.’
‘No, Myles — she’s a terrorist.’ Helen was feeling adamant now. ‘And she’s a bitch.’