by Oliver North
“But no one from the U.S. has contacted us directly for the three years we've been here. Even our families go out of town to mail us letters addressed to ‘John and Sarah Clancy.' We never write back from here. Nobody from home has ever called us, and we don't call them. How could anyone find us? How would anyone here even know our real names?”
“I don't know how, but they do know generally where you are. And from what almost happened to you that night on the Pescador, you know they're capable of anything. That's partly why General Grisham sent me out here. He wanted me to make sure there was no way anyone could trace you to here from Larnaca. The general knows, and so does your husband, that no cover ever works forever.”
“Is someone looking for us right now? Is that why you're here, Sergeant Skillings?”
“I don't know for sure, ma'am,” he said quietly. After a pause, he continued. “I do know that about ten days ago General Grisham received an inquiry from the FBI. Somebody at the Hoover Building has been poking around, asking questions about your husband. Last week they called HQMC and asked for his military record. Then, a few days ago, we got an inquiry from someone else, curious that your bodies were never found. The general thinks they'll eventually figure out you're alive and may already be looking for you. Something—we're not sure exactly what it was—got the FBI interested in this three-year-old case. So General Grisham contacted Mr. Goode because he was the only person who knew exactly where you were. And then the general sent me here to talk to you.”
“What's he expect you to do, Gunny?” Peter Newman had walked into the kitchen while Skillings had been describing his mission to Jerusalem.
“Where's James?” said Rachel.
“Taking a nap. He dozed off while I was reading him a story.”
“Well, sir, first, he wants me to verify that your tracks were covered between Larnaca and here so we can buy time until we get a handle on things,” Skillings said. “Kind of a ‘vulnerability assessment,' you know?”
“And then?”
“And then I report back to the general and he comes up with a course of action that will keep the two of you safe until he can figure a way to have your name cleared.”
“What does the general want us to do?” Newman asked.
“He told me to reconstruct your route from Larnaca to here and try to figure out how anyone might be able to connect Lieutenant Colonel Peter Newman, U.S. Marines, with Irish citizen John Clancy.”
“Where do you want to start?” Rachel asked.
“Let's start with the night of 10 March 1995 and go forward from there,” said Skillings, removing a small pad and a pencil from his hip pocket.
“You know,” Rachel said, “it never occurred to me that I would be married to a wanted man.”
“Well, unfortunately, you are. Now it's our job to make sure you don't become the widow of a wanted man. It really is important to try to figure out if anyone could track you here from Larnaca. We probably should have done this before now, but the general didn't want anyone to contact you from the States for fear of a trace.”
“We understand,” Rachel said, taking her husband's hand.
“General Grisham gave me a bunch of questions to ask, so let's get them out of the way first,” said the Marine. He peered at his small notebook. “First, who else besides Mr. Goode knows that he gave you Irish passports as John and Sarah Clancy?”
“We haven't told anyone besides you,” Peter said. “Well, actually, I assume General Grisham knows. And of course, our parents back in the States know our identities. Other than that, the only other people I can think of are Yusef Habib and some of his extended family in Iraq. He visited us here that first Christmas, shortly after James was born.”
“Is it possible he may have told others?”
“I suppose it's possible, but I doubt it,” Peter said. “The man and his son both risked their lives to get me out of Iraq. I trust them as fully as I trust you.”
“Do you still have all of the other identity documents and pocket litter Goode gave you aboard the Pescador?”
“Yes, I think so,” Rachel said.
“Colonel, is it possible you could have left any of the Clancy paperwork aboard the Pescador that might have been found floating on the water after the ship was blown up? After all, you left in a really big hurry that night.”
“I don't think we left any of that stuff. But maybe—we did leave the boat in a big hurry...otherwise, we'd have been fish food.”
“And if Sergeant Skillings hadn't been right there with the car, we still might never have made it,” Rachel said.
Is it possible it's really been three years since that awful night? Rachel thought.
ESCAPE
CHAPTER TWO
UK Sovereign Base
Larnaca, Cyprus
Friday, 10 March 1995
2050 Hours, Local
Rachel! Grab your stuff and c'mon—we have to get off this boat, right away!” Peter Newman shouted as he came flying down the aft ladder into the main cabin of the blue-hulled, sixty-two-foot sloop, Pescador.
“What are you talking about, honey?” Rachel said, stepping out of the forward stateroom. She was getting dressed for a celebratory dinner at the Royal Officer's Mess, overlooking the harbor of the British base. Her cheerful smile turned puzzled and then to a look of fright as her husband rushed by her and started grabbing clothing and personal effects and stuffing them into a duffel bag on the bed they had shared little more than an hour ago.
“There's someone with air tanks in the water, Rachel. I saw the bubbles while I was up on deck waiting for you to finish getting ready. Whoever it is followed the entire length of the hull on the side away from the pier and then came back and paused right there for a good minute or two,” he said, pointing aft toward the galley.
“What's there?” she asked, now joining her husband in a frenzy of packing.
“Inside the hull there's a propane tank on that side of the boat. And just below the tank are the starboard fuel tanks. If someone placed an explosive charge there, against the hull, this boat's a goner! I don't know if that's what he's doing, but I'm thinking he can't be up to any good messing with someone else's boat.”
“Oh dear God.” Rachel threw clothing into a bag. As she furiously gathered her things, she noticed her husband had emptied the contents of a manila envelope onto the small table along the stateroom bulkhead.
From the pile of documents on the table, he grabbed a sheaf of papers and shoved some into the pocket of the blue blazer she had purchased for him just hours earlier. “Here,” he said. “Take this with you.” He handed her a green-covered passport stamped “Republic of Ireland.”
She paused long enough to look inside. There, beneath her picture, was the name “Sarah Clancy.” She opened her mouth to ask a question, but he shook his head.
“Later, honey,” he said. “We've got to get off this boat—now!”
He grabbed her bag, made a quick cursory look around the stateroom, and started pushing her toward the ladder that led onto the deck.
Newman stuck his head up first, saw the black Mercedes idling on the pier beside the boat, and prayed it was Staff Sergeant Amos Skillings' silhouette he saw through the tinted glass windows. He vaulted up the ladder and then reached back to help his wife. As he did so he felt, rather than heard, the zing of a silenced bullet rush by his head and smack into the mast ten feet beyond.
“Quick! But stay low! Move fast!” he shouted and virtually dragged his wife up into the cockpit of the vessel, where they huddled for a moment.
Guessing that the shot had come from one of the buildings across the street from the concertina wire-encircled chain link fence that protected the naval base quay, Newman shouted toward the car, “Skillings! We're taking fire! Open the door—we're headed your way! Cover us!”
The rear door of the car opened—and a second later, the driver's door did as well. The snout of a noise/flash suppressor-equipped MP-5 submachine gun appeared over the
top of the door.
As Newman and his wife made a dash for the open rear door of the Mercedes, another bullet slammed into the deck boards between them—followed by a muffled burst from the MP-5. There was no more incoming fire as they threw themselves into the backseat and slammed the heavy armor-plated door.
As they piled in, Staff Sergeant Skillings slid back behind the steering wheel, closed his door almost nonchalantly, put the car in gear, and said, with Marine bravado, “Good evening, Colonel and Mrs. Newman. Where to tonight?”
“Did you see him?” asked Newman, pulling himself and his wife off the floor and onto the seat in the back of the sedan.
“Yes, sir. He was on the roof of that three-story building, directly across from the pier. I think I might have hit him,” the staff sergeant replied.
“Well done—” Newman started to say when suddenly there was a bright flash and the concussion of a large explosion behind them. Even through the heavy ballistic-protective Mylar-laminate rear window, Rachel could feel the heat from the blast.
She instinctively ducked as her husband shouted, “Go! Go! Head for the gate! Let's get out of here!”
With the debris from the Pescador raining on and around the car, Staff Sergeant Skillings maneuvered the sleek, black, armored vehicle toward the main gate, swerving wildly to avoid the few pedestrians—who had been walking nearby but were now sprawled on the walkway, tossed like rag dolls by the force of the blast.
As the car raced toward the open gate, a uniformed military sentry came out of the guard shack and held up his arm at the Mercedes hurtling toward him. Skillings chose to ignore the warning to stop, sensing it was more prudent to get Rachel and Newman away from there than to stop and explain their actions. The sentry saw that the car wasn't going to halt so he held his rifle in the “port arms” position across his chest to make his warning more threatening. But at the last second, he jumped aside as Skillings careened past him out the gate and made a screeching left turn to get into the traffic on Victoria Street. The guard, assuming that the driver was the perpetrator of the bombing explosion and was now trying to escape, reacted as he had been trainedto do—he fired. First a single shot, then a volley of semi-automatic rounds struck the back of the car.
Newman yanked his wife down below the seat back as a bullet struck the rear window, shattering but not penetrating it. Several more rounds struck the back of the car, and they could hear them slam into the armor plate behind the backseat. As the vehicle rounded the turn at the end of Victoria Street and headed for Highway G-4, Newman and his wife cautiously raised their heads.
“We've got to get off this island. Let's head for the airport,” Newman said, as much to his wife as to Staff Sergeant Skillings.
“Yes, sir!” The driver replied, throwing a map into the backseat. “See if you can find a less traveled road to get you two to the airport—one where we'd be less likely to encounter a roadblock, sir.”
“But can't we go back to the British base?” asked Rachel.
“No,” Newman said. “General Grisham already told me we needed to lay low for awhile, until he can deal with that Wanted poster and the trumped-up terrorism charges. That's why he made arrangements with Bill Goode to take us away in the Pescador in the first place. We were supposed to head for Italy tomorrow. But now, with the boat gone, we'll have to improvise.”
Newman unfolded the map and scanned it.
“I don't think we'll have any trouble on this road,” he told Skillings. “It's lined with farms, and it seems fairly deserted right now. And it sort of parallels the four-lane highway that goes to the airport, so we won't lose much time. Just follow it until we get closer to the airport; then we can get back on the G-4 highway.”
Larnaca-Nicosia International Airport
Friday, 10 March 1995
2210 Hours, Local
Skillings drove, mostly without headlights, on the remote road for nearly forty-five minutes before getting on the access road to the main highway. When he turned onto the airport entrance road, Newman said, “Pull into the parking lot instead of going directly to the terminal. That way we can look the place over and decide what to do.”
“Do you know where you want to go?” Skillings asked.
“Yes, I think so—providing we can get a plane out of here tonight. If we wait until morning, the local police might start piecing things together and close the airport. It'll be awhile before they get the fire under control at the dock. Then they'll start quizzing Goode about the Pescador.”
“I could go inside the terminal and check the flights and buy the tickets,” Skillings said. “It would be one less opportunity for them to ID you.”
“No. I don't want anyone other than General Grisham or Goode to be able to connect you to us. The airport surveillance cameras would record you buying our tickets, and then you'll be dragged into this mess. We'll just go in and buy tickets like any other tourists.”
“But how will you pay for the tickets? Do you have a credit card?”
“No, too easy to trace. But Bill Goode gave us plenty of cash when he gave us our identity papers. We'll be all right.”
Skillings pulled the Mercedes into an available spot facing the terminal windows. It was dark outside, but the ticket counters and security stations were well lit. Skillings shut off the engine, and the three of them sat quietly for a moment.
“You guys stay here. I'll go alone—just in case,” Newman said.
“No! I'm going with you!” Rachel said. “If someone remembers that Wanted poster and is looking for that guy in the picture, it'll be more confusing if we walk in as a couple.”
Skillings nodded. “She's right. They're probably looking for a clean-shaven white male, traveling alone, with no luggage. If the two of you are together, and if we can find you some more luggage to carry besides that duffel bag, you'll be less likely to fit the profile.”
“You guys are good,” Newman said with a wide grin. “Where were you two when I was on the run in Iraq and Syria?”
“I'll go inside to the duty-free shop and see if I can find some luggage for you to use,” Skillings said. “You can check on airlines and flight schedules; we can meet back here in a half hour or so.”
“Let's do it.”
Newman opened the car door and offered his hand to Rachel, who slid across the seat to join him. Then he handed Skillings several large bills.
“Pay cash for the bags.”
Skillings nodded and pocketed the money.
Peter and Rachel Newman walked into the terminal building and strolled through the corridors, checking the airline schedules. Skillings, meanwhile, sauntered into the terminal through a different entrance and looked for the duty-free shop, hoping it wasn't on the wrong side of the security checkpoints that required a valid ticket. He was lucky—there were several shops in the middle of the concourse. He picked one and entered at a leisurely pace.
At the other end of the concourse, the newly minted “Irish” couple stopped and looked at a board listing departing flights. “The next flight out tonight is one leaving for Tel Aviv,” Rachel said to her husband.
“No. We have to find a way to get to Italy. That's were Bill Goode told me he was going to take us. He planned to sail to Naples on the Pescador and then take us to Rome to link up with some people who would hide us. Besides, we'd never pass muster with the Israeli security people. We would have to know someone in Israel and already have a place to stay. They'd check us out and we'd be caught. We'll have to skip El Al.”
While they were looking at the “Arrivals and Departures” board, they noticed a security officer posted at the entrance to the corridor leading to the airline gates. He was carefully gazing at the crowd, as he was trained to do, trying to spot anyone suspicious. As his arc of vision moved in their direction, Newman turned abruptly and placed his back to the man's view. He pretended to be talking about something involving the direction from which they had just come. He pointed that way and explained in a whisper, “Just no
d your head. I need to wait until that security guy looks somewhere else.”
When he felt it was safe, Newman put his arm around his wife and began looking at the other airline flight listings. Suddenly he saw what he wanted. “There! That's it. Czech Airlines flight 407. It leaves at 3:45 A.M. for Prague, with a connecting flight to Milan. We can be in Milan in time for breakfast!”
They went to the ticket counter, presented their Irish passports, and bought tickets. He paid for them with the English pound notes that Goode had included in his currency stash. Then, pocketing their boarding passes, the couple walked back to the car in the parking lot to meet Skillings, who had already returned with three pieces of luggage. The staff sergeant had also purchased several shopping bags of stuff—books, magazines, snacks, toiletries, and a couple of sweat suits—things theycould put in the bags to give them some weight and credibility in case they were searched.
Back inside the Mercedes, Peter and Rachel removed the sales tags and packed into the new luggage the newly purchased clothing and personal items, along with the few things they had thrown into the duffel bag. They had just finished when Skillings said, “Uh-oh.”
“What's wrong?” Peter asked.
“Over there...at the other end of the parking lot. It's the Military Police from the British base. They're checking out that black Mercedes parked over there. We've gotta leave the car—Now! Come on!”
Quickly Skillings grabbed a towel off the front seat of the car and began to wipe down all the surfaces in the front of the vehicle. In the backseat, Peter Newman used a recently purchased sweatshirt to do the same.
Rachel watched the two men for a moment, looked out at the two British MPs as they slowly approached, scanning the airport parking area.
“What are you two doing? We have to get out of this car,” Rachel said.
“Fingerprints,” Peter said.
When the two men had finished, the three of them tried to leave as surreptitiously as possible, luggage in tow.
