‘I think all she wanted was asylum for her people,’ said Myles, looking over at her crumpled body. ‘It was her last campaign.’
‘Really?’ huffed Roosevelt. ‘She just tried to kill me.’
Myles didn’t react.
Dick could tell he wasn’t convinced. ‘Come on, Myles. She was a terrorist, right? She had to die.’
Myles still didn’t answer. ‘She had to die’ — one of the doctors had said that about his mother’s cancer. Then he remembered how Placidia used to be. ‘She wasn’t a terrorist when I knew her. At university she was idealistic. She believed in good things.’
‘Sure,’ accepted Roosevelt. ‘But she changed. People change. Perhaps by marrying Juma, she became a psycho. Right, Myles?’
Myles shook his head, still concentrating on Dick’s wound. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I reckon she just got caught up in something too big for her to handle.’
‘An accidental terrorist, huh, Myles?’ joked Roosevelt.
‘She wasn’t a terrorist.’
‘No? So who was?’
Myles wondered carefully about how to respond. But no response was necessary. He felt Dick’s expression change, and realised the Senator had picked up the gun with his free hand.
Dick Roosevelt lifted the weapon towards Myles, then pressed it into his abdomen.
Seventy-Two
Myles froze.
Then, very slowly, he looked down to check he really was being held at gunpoint. He returned his eyes to Dick Roosevelt’s wound, then carefully lifted his hands away. The wound didn’t seem to matter any more.
His non-reaction was not what Dick had been expecting.
Dick’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not surprised, Myles?’
Myles shook his head. ‘I suspected before. It was how Juma got into the conference centre that convinced me. He had a Roosevelt Guardian ID card.’
‘Did he?’ asked Roosevelt, already knowing the answer.
‘Yes — I’ve got it,’ said Myles, immediately knowing he’d made a mistake by releasing the information.
Roosevelt grinned, his weapon still trained on Myles. ‘Then hand it to me, please, Myles.’
Myles removed from his sleeve the small plastic card he had taken from Juma’s jacket in the conference centre. He allowed it to drop on the floor.
Dick didn’t react. Instead he poked the gun into Myles’ shirt and lifted up the fabric. ‘You wired?’ he asked.
Myles frowned, confused. He made Dick spell it out.
Dick became agitated. ‘You know — a recording device,’ he explained. ‘You trying to get me to incriminate myself on tape?’
‘Surely that would be against the Fifth Amendment, Senator,’ replied Myles flatly.
Senator Roosevelt wasn’t convinced. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered.
Myles screwed up his face in disbelief.
Dick confirmed his instruction. ‘Take off your clothes and pass them to me, one by one,’ he demanded. ‘So I can check you don’t have a device on you.’
‘I’m not that smart, Senator.’
‘No, you’re not,’ conceded Roosevelt. ‘But Placidia was. She had something. A mobile phone thing. It was broadcasting onto the web. She was trying to make a secret video of me. Something she could have uploaded like all her other videos.’
‘But you got it?’ asked Myles.
The Senator nodded, then glanced over at a smashed electronic device not far away. It had been stamped on, and was very definitely broken. ‘She had managed to broadcast a few minutes’ worth, but nothing incriminating,’ he gloated.
Myles realised his last hope was gone: Placidia had failed to record a confession from Dick Roosevelt. He had no more defences left.
Myles began to remove his Chinese cap. But he knew as soon as the Senator confirmed Myles had no audio device on him, Dick Roosevelt would pull the trigger.
Myles had to play for time.
He paused as he undressed. ‘Placidia invited you here by text message,’ he said.
Roosevelt looked uneasy. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen the text,’ explained Myles. ‘It means people will know you’ve been in contact with her.’
Roosevelt pondered for a short moment, then shrugged. ‘I’ll just say I was invited for peace talks. My father got away with talking to terrorists all the time.’
‘Maybe,’ admitted Myles. ‘But they might be able to find all your other contacts with her and Juma. If Placidia was smart enough to try to record her conversation here, you can be sure she kept evidence of your role in everything else.’
The Senator smirked. ‘I’ve been in contact with them for ages. Investigators still haven’t made the connection. They probably never will. The guy from Las Vegas I hired to do computer stuff wiped everything clean.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘And even he didn’t know it was me until a few minutes before he died. He just called me “Constantine”, like the Emperor. Isn’t that sweet?’
‘The information planted on my laptop?”
The Senator nodded.
Myles was beginning to understand it all now. ‘You must have been in contact with them since before they took your father hostage.’
‘From before the first bomb in New York,’ boasted the Senator.
‘I always thought your escape from Libya was…unlikely.’
‘“Heroic” is the official description, Englishman,’ said Roosevelt, mocking an English accent. ‘It was “heroic”.’
Myles had removed his shirt to reveal his bare chest. He wasn’t ‘wired’. Both he and the Senator were aware that Myles, standing, could easily try to tackle the wounded Senator somehow. The Senator recognised the threat and indicated Myles should move away.
‘My trousers too?’
Roosevelt nodded. ‘In America we call them “pants”. Yes please. And shoes.’
‘And socks?’ said Myles, starting to unbutton his fly.
The Senator nodded again, enjoying the control. ‘I know you’re wondering how I’m going to explain this to the forensics? It’s easy,’ he gloated. ‘Placidia, self-defence,’ he said, gesturing with his gun towards her. ‘You being naked: well, she always loved you. Perhaps she wanted to see you naked before you died.’
‘Before she killed me?’ asked Myles.
‘Yes. Before she killed you.’
Myles knew Dick Roosevelt meant what he said. The man would kill him as soon as he needed to. How could he get out of here alive? Options tumbled through his mind. Did Roosevelt have another weak spot, apart from his shoulder? He remembered Roosevelt saying his men were outside — could he get them in sooner?
Myles motioned his head towards the pistol. ‘How will you explain the shots?’ he asked.
‘The gunshots?’
‘Yes. Witnesses outside will have heard three shots, each several minutes apart. Hard to explain away as “self-defence”.’
Dick paused, then accepted the point. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That means I’ll have to muffle this next bullet.’ He moved his weight as he sat on the floor. He removed the balled-up jacket which he had been pressing into his shoulder wound and tried to hold it over the barrel of the gun. It was awkward, and the blood made it slip in his hands, but he seemed determined.
Myles only had seconds. He raised his voice. ‘Your father…your father spoke about you before he died.’
‘Yeah?’ Dick was pretending to only half-listen. He was still concentrating on using his blood-soaked jacket to muffle the imminent gunshot. ‘So, what did my father say?’
Myles looked down at the ground as he put the question back to him. ‘What do you think he said?’
Dick was about to give an instant answer. Then he paused, and became more thoughtful. ‘Did he say sorry? Sorry for passing on a third-rate private security firm? Or for failing to become President — twice?’