Sam Roosevelt frowned, staring at Myles, but still hoping to persuade the Englishman. ‘Why won’t you come with me?’ The Senator paused, trying to size him up. ‘Money? How much do you want?’
Myles shook his head. He didn’t care about money.
‘You’re scared?’
Again, Myles shook his head.
The Senator’s frown deepened. ‘Then please explain.’
‘Well, Senator — you’ve told me how you’re going to get there and get out again, but nothing about the crucial part: the talks themselves.’
The Senator nodded respectfully. ‘OK. First, we find out whether this guy’s serious. If he is, we stop him doing whatever he has in mind.’
Myles thought before coming back. ‘And how could we stop him, Senator?’
‘Not by trying to invade Libya,’ assured the Senator. Everybody knew the Senator had been a sole voice on the Senate floor warning against America’s doomed intervention in Somalia in the early 1990s. Sending US troops into Libya, now supposedly ‘free’ after the Arab Spring, threatened to repeat the humiliation of Black Hawk Down.
The Senator indicated to Susan, who pulled some files out from under the table which were marked ‘confidential’. The Senator offered them to Myles. ‘If you want to read more, we’ve got plenty of material for you.’
Intrigued, Myles glanced at a CIA briefing on Juma. Myles picked it up and began to read:
Juma is the leader of a group of Somali pirates, now based in Libya. From his headquarters in Sirte, on the coast — a lawless city which refuses to accept Libya’s new government — he has rapidly come to dominate Libya’s underworld…
The brief explained how Juma had first caught the attention of the CIA. As an impoverished teenager in Somalia, he’d been lured to Istanbul by a criminal gang who promised to buy one of his kidneys. After the surgery, Juma had been flown back to Mogadishu with the promise there’d be someone waiting there to pay him. There wasn’t. One kidney down, and no money to show for it, the young Juma refused to be taken for a fool. He had smuggled himself on a cargo vessel back to Turkey without a visa. There, he’d tracked down the gang, killed a few of the middlemen, then threatened the gang leader. The gang leader — frightened for his own life — agreed to go back to Somalia with him, where all his money was signed over to Juma. The gang leader then disappeared, presumed dead. The cash enabled Juma to hire some local muscle in Somalia and establish a gang of his own. In 2009, Colonel Gaddafi invited Juma and his pirates to Libya. When Gaddafi’s regime began to crumble in February 2011, Juma’s men became mercenaries for the dictator. Several died fighting for him, and some were arrested when the dictator was killed in October of that year. But most escaped. They revelled in the lawlessness of ‘Free Libya’ — the Arab Spring meant they didn’t need to take orders anymore. Untouched by the new rulers of the country, Juma had become the brutal leader of a large criminal network…
The CIA’s psychological assessment was blunt: ‘Presumed Psychopathic’.
The Senator, Dick and Susan had waited silently while Myles read the paper. Dick Roosevelt broke first. ‘So you know this guy’s wife from school?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Myles. ‘Who’s his wife?’
Without words, Richard Roosevelt passed another piece of paper towards Myles, then watched the Englishman’s face.
Myles tried not to react, although when he re-read the name he found himself swallowing in shock. He hesitated before answering. ‘You’re telling me this “Juma” guy is married to Placidia?’
Dick nodded.
‘Then yes,’ Myles admitted. ‘I do know her.’
Dick leant forward. ‘How well did you know her, exactly?’ The question was snide — half accusing Myles of something, half voyeurism.
Myles ignored it. ‘She was a Rhodes scholar. We studied the history of the Roman Empire together — Placidia was my tutorial partner for a term. She was much cleverer than me.’
Dick Roosevelt had heard of the Oxford university tutorial system, where just one or two students were taught in person by a world expert in a subject. ‘And you became friends?’
‘Yes, we did. We were very good friends.’
‘Just friends. Really?’ Dick Roosevelt was trying to probe.
‘Yes. But after her year in Oxford she went back to Harvard, and I lost contact with her. I’ve not heard from her for a long time now.’
Dick checked with his father that he still had permission to ask questions. He did. ‘So, Myles, why do you think a highly educated half-American woman has hitched up with a psychopathic pirate in the third world?’
Myles raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. Only explanation I can think of is…’ He hesitated.
Dick urged him on. ‘Is…?’
‘Well, love.’
Myles’ answer disarmed Dick, who began looking through the CIA briefing pack to see if there was a sheet on the woman. He double-checked the whole file: there was nothing. As Dick leafed through his sheets, Myles glimpsed the top of a page the younger Roosevelt was trying to keep covered.
Myles Munro: Oxford University Lecturer of Military History
Exceptionally Intelligent (top 0.1 %) but problems with some basic tasks…
Distrustful of bureaucrats…
Myles was curious. He pointed the sheet out to Dick. ‘Mind if I read that?’
Dick looked to his father for advice.
Sam Roosevelt shook his head, taking charge. ‘Myles, look,’ he levelled. ‘Your name was in a text message sent to the mobile of someone who planted a bomb in the middle of Manhattan. Don’t be surprised there’s a confidential CIA briefing on you.’
‘Well, can I read it?’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have the security clearance.’
‘And yet you still want me to go with you, to meet this madman in Libya?’ Myles was moving his body to indicate he was about to leave the room.
The Senator put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Mr Munro. America needs your help, and — hell — I need your help. Come on. Please.’
Myles didn’t respond.
The Senator knew he still hadn’t Myles won over. He paused, then hunched his shoulders a little, ready to change tack. ‘You know, Myles, your ex-girlfriend has got herself mixed up with a terrorist. I can only imagine she asked for you because she needed your help.’ He stared into Myles’ eyes. ‘Placidia needs your help, Myles.’
Myles absorbed Sam Roosevelt’s plea. He looked at Susan and Dick, whose expressions were underwriting Sam’s words — that Placidia really did need him.
He turned back to the Senator. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’
The door burst open. It was Helen, with an apologetic immigration official trailing behind her. The four people in the room were as surprised to see her as she was to see them. ‘Myles, so this is where they took you…’
She acknowledged the Senator, who responded on Myles’ behalf. ‘Ma’am, your boyfriend is about to become a hero,’ said Roosevelt senior.
Helen wasn’t buying it. ‘Senator, my “boyfriend” needs a rest.’
The Senator was about to get angry, but Myles intervened. ‘I’m still young enough to be a “boy”-friend?’ Everybody relaxed. Myles put his hands on Helen’s elbows and spoke slowly. ‘I’ve got to do this. I’ll be back soon.’
‘You’ve got to?’
‘Helen… I must.’
‘Must?’ She winced as she said the word. It was probably the most meaningless explanation Myles had ever given her.
‘Yes, Helen, I must.’
Helen surveyed the room. She wanted to fight it, but she could tell she was outnumbered and that the decision had already been made.