Myles shook his head. He looked around for any hope — anything — which might save him from the bullet. But there was nothing.
‘He didn’t say sorry,’ recounted Myles. ‘He said “this is how it ends”.’
‘“This is how it ends?” — my father’s last words?’
‘Yeah. He was talking about the Roman Empire,’ said Myles, trying to bluff. ‘He said “Civilisation collapsed because people became self-centred, and there were too many pretenders to imperial power.” Your father mentioned the emperor Constantine, the emperor who made the Roman Empire Christian. When Constantine’s own son tried to become emperor, Constantine had him murdered.’
Dick looked pensive. ‘So my father knew it was me?’
Myles nodded, bluffing again. ‘And, right before he died, he said some people had to make sacrifices for others.’
Dick looked down at his gun, smiling again. He had heard enough. ‘Well that’s true, isn’t it…’
Myles sensed he had overplayed his hand. Dick was going to shoot.
He had no other options left. He had to go for the gun.
Damn the consequences.
But he was too late.
As he lurched forward, Myles felt himself blasted backwards. He collapsed onto the marble floor of the ancient church. His body spasmed as the noise reverberated through the cavern of the church. Roosevelt’s jacket had not muffled the noise at all.
Then, in the instant between being hit by the bullet and the searing pain which followed, Myles realised it wasn’t the noise of the gunshot echoing around.
Seventy-Three
Light had broken into the church. The doors had been slammed open and silhouettes with guns were rushing in. Myles’ eyes couldn’t adjust to see who they were. His body was still in shock from the gunshot wound.
Dick turned to see them too.
Everything had changed. Dick needed to change his story. ‘Hey — thank you,’ the young Senator called out, trying to sound upbeat. ‘This man knows about the terrorist plot to bring down America like ancient Rome,’ he shouted.
There was no answer. The armed men were running to surround Myles and Dick, both now with gaping injuries to their shoulders.
Finally it became clear who the men were: Myles recognised their dark blue uniforms, their leather shoes and their accents. He even recognised the beard of the man who was approaching him and the Senator.
They were Italian Special Police. Inspector Perrotta had come to stand over Dick Roosevelt. As Myles and the Senator floundered on the floor, both losing blood from their bullet wounds, Perrotta repeated the Senator’s words back to him. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot?’ he said in his thick Italian accent. Perrotta sounded as though he believed the Senator, who nodded and looked hopeful. Roosevelt loosened his grip on his weapon — the Italians had Myles at gunpoint now.
Perrotta bent down and lifted the pistol from the Senator’s hand. ‘He knows about the terrorist plot, you say?’ Perrotta’s tone was more sarcastic this time. He made eye contact with one of his men, who in turn indicated that it was safe for paramedics to come forward.
The Senator clutched his shoulder again, playing up the pain. ‘Yes, inspector,’ winced Roosevelt, pretending to ignore the sarcasm. ‘And he shot me, and that woman.’
Perrotta nodded, unconvinced.
Myles rolled his eyes, from disbelief as much as pain. He was still on the floor and could only hear the words. He groaned at the prospect of being arrested by Perrotta — again — because the authorities were too slow and too dumb. They would follow their rules, their procedures. The police would obey their bureaucrats…
One of the Italian policemen lifted Myles’ shoulders and held his head. Something was pressed into the wound to stem the bleeding. Seconds later paramedics arrived and took over. Myles was told the bullet wound was serious, but that he’d live. ‘Please try to stay awake, Mr Munro…’ said the medic.
Myles lost consciousness a few moments later.
Both he and the Senator were stabilised — emergency measures to reduce blood loss from their wounds.
Myles sensed just a blur of medical equipment and the rush of professionals. He writhed, his naked skin soaking in blood. Only half awake, he dreamed he was paralysed. He imagined being back in the London courtroom with Dick Roosevelt accusing him while he, Myles-the-misfit, wasn’t allowed to answer.
Then he started to rise up. He realised he had been strapped to a stretcher. Brought out into the light, his awareness returned. Only then did he know the paramedic was right: he would survive.
The Piazza Rotunda outside the Pantheon was now filled with journalists, onlookers and assorted other people who had realised something interesting was happening inside and wanted to know more. A pathway to waiting ambulances had been roped off. Myles was carried through it at waist height.
Where was Helen?
He hoped — expected — her to run under the rope and greet him. To take his hand and squeeze it. But there was no sign of her.
As Senator Dick Roosevelt was brought out behind him, Myles heard the swoop of journalists shouting questions out to him. He listened out for Helen’s voice amongst them, but it wasn’t there. Was she reporting on the story from somewhere else?
‘When will you resign, Senator?’
‘Do you have a political future, Mr Roosevelt?’
‘Why did you kill Placidia when she was praying, Dick?’
Myles was confused. Why did the journalists think Placidia was praying when she was killed? And why were they interrogating Dick?
Then he realised — somehow they knew. They had worked out that Dick Roosevelt was behind it all.
But how?
The Senator, of course, didn’t answer the questions. He was wounded — the perfect excuse to avoid allegations. But the questions sounded tough.
Finally he felt his stretcher lifted into the back of an Italian ambulance. And there, waiting for him, was Helen. ‘You’re safe now,’ she smiled. She kissed him.
Myles was still confused. ‘You’re not reporting this?’
‘I already have,’ announced Helen, proud that she was ahead of him on at least one thing.
Myles discovered he’d been given medical treatment in the Pantheon until his condition stabilised, while Helen had broadcast rolling coverage. She hadn’t been allowed in to see Myles while he was being treated for his gunshot injury, but hadn’t needed to: she had seen the whole thing anyway. Live.
Helen smiled. ‘The Senator was behind the whole thing,’ she confirmed, looking at Myles’ face and his wound.
Myles was still mystified. ‘Yes, but what convinced you?’
‘Dick arranged it all with Juma in advance. The bomb in New York so he became a hero, his escape from Libya. Kidnapping and killing his father, so he could become Senator. Even the stand-off between the refugees and Roosevelt’s Guardians, so he could pretend he was protecting America. And it was Roosevelt who got the files about the Special Forces raid — both to warn Juma and for Placidia to plant on your laptop,’ said Helen, now clearly teasing Myles with all she knew.
‘Yes, it must have been. But how did you find out?’
Helen smiled again, deflecting Myles’ question. ‘So the Roosevelt Guardian corporation was linked to Juma’s own private security firm, in Iraq?’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Myles. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I think the Guardians bought out Galla Security or something. That was how they were connected.’