‘OK. Then just believe me; these refugees are innocent.’
Helen glanced at them. She could accept that. ‘But Myles…’ She wanted to say something more to him, but Myles was already running. Within seconds he had gone. Helen couldn’t see him for all the journalists, refugees and Embassy staff. Then she caught a final image of his tall frame dodging through the crowds. He disappeared behind an Italian fire engine which had arrived on the scene, blocked in by the jam of people.
Helen moved back towards the embassy, towards her production team who were eagerly taking as much footage as they could. The camerawoman clearly wanted her to do a live broadcast, but Helen wasn’t going for it. ‘Have we had any more terrorist videos from Placidia?’ she asked.
The camerawoman shook her head and pulled a face which said she didn’t want to be disturbed. She kept filming what seemed like ideal news footage.
‘Please check,’ insisted Helen.
The camerawoman reluctantly conceded. She pulled out her internet-enabled mobile to go online. It took a few seconds to boot up and get a webpage. Then she scrolled to the site which had shown earlier broadcasts from ‘the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome’. She studied it until she was sure, then showed it to Helen. ‘Nothing new,’ she said.
‘Really?’
The camerawoman nodded as she took back the device and prepared to film Helen commentating on the crazy scenes in the embassy.
She was just about to put the internet browser away when she saw something. ‘Wait…There is something. Coming through now. It’s live.’
Helen and her camerawoman began watching the moving images. Helen recognised the ancient interior immediately. The footage was being broadcast from inside the Pantheon.
Seventy-One
It took Myles eight minutes to sprint to the Pantheon.
As he ran across the piazza outside the building he heard a loud bang. The acoustics of the Pantheon distorted the noise, but Myles recognised the sound immediately.
A gunshot.
All the tourists flinched and looked confused. But not Myles — he kept running, past Roosevelt security men standing guard outside, through the large wooden doors, and into the eerie interior of the building itself.
He began to walk forward, into the darkness, towards the centre of the ‘Church for All Gods’.
‘Anyone here?’ he called out, catching his breath.
His words echoed around the building. No response. Then he heard a weak voice call out. ‘Myles — is that you?’ It was Dick Roosevelt, lying wounded on the church floor.
Myles rushed over. Dick clearly had a bleeding wound near his left shoulder. He was grasping his upper arm with his right hand.
‘Dick — what happened?’
Myles bent down to help, unsure what he could do. He lifted Dick’s torso into a sitting position, and examined his wound. The bullet had passed through his muscle: serious but not life-threatening.
Roosevelt spoke slowly. ‘She shot me,’ he said.
‘Placidia?’
Dick nodded. His face turned towards the side of the church.
Myles followed his gaze, his eyes still adjusting. Gradually he made out a figure slumped in one of the alcoves of the church. He left Dick and moved towards it, slowly at first, then as fast as he could.
Placidia’s body was still warm. Myles lifted it — limp and heavy. He looked at her mouth, her forehead, and her cheeks…and her lifeless eyes. He tried to shake her, but there was nothing. He shouted at her face, ‘Placidia?’
No response.
He looked into her eyes again and turned her head towards the dim light inside the building: the pupils didn’t contract. He felt her neck: no pulse. Then he held her towards him, hugging her body for the last time. It had all gone so wrong.
Myles held her close, helplessly rocking her dead body in his arms.
Dick called out from behind, his voice still strained. ‘Is she dead?’
Myles didn’t need to answer Dick’s question: it was obvious she was. He cut the young Senator out of his mind and ignored his whole surroundings. Instead, he remembered the life-force which Placidia had once been: the tireless campaigner at Oxford, the beauty of their shared tutorials on the Roman Empire, the enigmatic terror behind Juma and the plot to bring down America…
Myles could admit it now: he had loved her. Somehow her spirit would never go.
He looked again at her face. It seemed stuck in an odd expression: it was as if she died in the midst of victory and defeat at the same time.
Myles surveyed the rest of her body. Her breasts were bloody and damaged: a bullet wound to the chest.
Dick’s voice called over to him again. ‘You think I might get some treatment here?’ he asked, sarcastic and pained.
Myles gently kissed Placidia’s body as he lay it back on the floor of the church. ‘Sure, Dick. I’m coming,’ he called as he moved back to the young Senator.
Dick had managed to remove his jacket and bunch it up. He was holding it as a pad against the wound. It was already starting to soak through with blood. ‘I guess I finally got her,’ he said.
‘Self-defence?’
Dick nodded, wincing with pain. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘If she had been a better shot…’
Myles examined the wound as he listened. ‘Did she say anything before she died?’
‘Not much,’ replied Roosevelt, looking around as he tried to recall. ‘I think she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”.’
‘That’s what she said, “At least I’ll kill one American”?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Then she tried to shoot you?’
‘Yeah, but I, kinda, moved to the side,’ said Dick trying to smile. ‘And shot her back.’
Myles pressed firmly into Dick’s shoulder wound, freeing up the Senator’s other hand. ‘She didn’t make you drop your weapon first?’ asked Myles.
‘No. I guess she was an amateur terrorist.’ There was a mocking tone in Dick’s voice.
‘So she held you at gunpoint but let you keep hold of your weapon?’ said Myles.
Dick Roosevelt nodded. Then he grabbed Myles’ wrist with his free hand. He forced Myles to look him in the eye. ‘Hey, Myles. Isn’t it great? It’s finally over,’ said Dick, excitedly. ‘The plot to bring down the United States. Placidia’s “Last Prophecy of Ancient Rome”. It’s over. You and I: we saved America. We’re real heroes now.’
‘You mean, Juma dead, Placidia dead…’ said Myles, more soberly. ‘And your father: dead, too.’
The mention of Sam Roosevelt’s death knocked Dick’s mood. He started to become sullen and self-absorbed. ‘It was such a pity my father had to die,’ said Dick, almost like a confession. It seemed as though he might say more, but the American kept his words back. Roosevelt junior seemed to be thinking something through, perhaps even making a calculation.
After a silent pause Roosevelt changed the subject. ‘Well, at least my men are outside,’ he said.
‘Well, why don’t they come in?’ suggested Myles, surprised. ‘We need to get your wound treated, Senator.’
Dick didn’t really respond to the question. He winced again, then turned back to Myles. ‘So what do you think Juma had been planning?’
‘I guess he was trying to smuggle a bomb into the conference and set it off.’
‘Not a suicide bomber, then?’
‘No,’ answered Myles, shaking his head. ‘He only swallowed the bomb to get through security. He was trying to get the bomb out in the toilet when we interrupted him.’
Dick looked pensive. ‘And Placidia?’