by Greg Dinallo
The Great Auk’s Head on West Ferry was buzzing with the lunchtime crowd of dock workers, aproned market clerks, and seamen. The air strike on Libya was the topic of conversation; and the president of the United States was on the television above the bar, holding a press conference.
Shepherd watched in disbelief as the chief executive announced that he and Captain Foster had died in the raid on Tripoli. Despite the fact that he was alive, that assassins were hunting him down, the president was telling the world that he had died heroically. Shepherd didn’t know why; and he still didn’t know if those trying to kill him were spies, terrorists, or renegades within his own government; but he was certain that military, diplomatic, and law enforcement officials were to be avoided until he did. Having paid for the hotel, he had $43 in cash and no credit cards. The only people he could trust were unavailable: Brancato in a hospital bed; and Stephanie, 3,500 miles away. Shepherd glanced across the pub at the phone booth, aching to call her, aching to say, “Hi, babe, I’m alive. I love you. I need your help.” But he knew how they worked: their phone would be tapped; mail intercepted; family surveilled. Applegate had told him; he just failed to mention that his people would be doing it.
Shepherd sat there, absentmindedly stirring the coffee, searching for a way to contact her safely; and then the pieces began falling into place. Whoever they were, he would appear to play right into their hands; do exactly what they expected; their zeal and professionalism would do the rest. It was a long shot, but the risk factor was low and it was all he had. He finished the sandwich and returned to his hotel room. It was a dump, to be sure, but the sun streaming through the window gave him a good feeling. He took his cassette recorder from a pocket and turned it on.
BOOK
TWO
THE UNITED STATES HAS
NOT SWAPPED BOATLOADS
OR PLANELOADS OF
AMERICAN WEAPONS FOR
THE RETURN OF AMERICAN
HOSTAGES.
– RONALD
REAGAN
18
THE TIME WAS 7:16 A.M. Eastern Standard Time.
A maintenance van entered Andrews Air Force Base through the systems command gate just off Allentown Road. The technician behind the wheel wore an identification tag clipped to his breast pocket. It displayed his picture and security clearance, and identified his employer as SOUTHEASTERN BELL but, in truth, the quiet, unassuming fellow worked for Bill Kiley’s Company.
The van proceeded down Perimeter Road to a huge windowless building that contained telephone switching equipment for base housing and offices.
The technician left the van, and entered the hardened structure, proceeding through the vast interior to the towering racks of switching equipment that routed incoming international calls. Each was identified by a country dialing code.
Rack 044 handled all calls originating in England.
The technician rolled the track-mounted ladder into position, climbed to a work platform, and opened his attaché case. It contained tools and electronic devices aligned in neat rows. He removed one of the latter from a sealed plastic bag and went about installing it in the panel.
This wasn’t a standard bugging device but a unique communications interceptor that was a vital part of a damage control plan hatched by Kiley in the tense hours following the air strike and aborted hostage exchange.
That was more than twelve hours ago.
On leaving Tripoli harbor, the Cavalla had joined the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean beyond Libyan waters.
Larkin disembarked, carrying the aluminum attaché that contained the ANITA codes. He, Applegate, and the two Special Forces agents transferred to the USS America, presenting themselves as intelligence operatives brought out of Libya. The failure of the rescue mission meant that “need to know” rules were still in force and no mention was made of the hostages. Larkin went straight to the carrier’s communication room, called Kiley on a secure satellite link, and gave him the bad news.
“The hostages . . .” Kiley said as soon as Larkin had finished. “They were all on deck—Fitz was with them.” They were statements, not questions.
“Yes, sir,” Larkin replied.
“What about a fix on the gunboat’s position?”
“Not yet, sir. Cavalla’s working on it.”
“I need Duryea right away,” Kiley ordered.
When the hookup was made, he and Duryea formulated a plan to use the team of navy SEALs aboard the Cavalla to rescue the hostages should the gunboat be located.
Soon after, Larkin and Applegate were flown from the carrier to an air base in northern Spain, where they boarded separate military jetliners.
APPLEGATE’S flight to Mildenhall RAFB in England took just under three hours. The two Special Forces agents informed him Shepherd was still on the loose.
Applegate immediately contacted Kiley at CIA headquarters in Langley and briefed him. The DCI decided against including British military and civilian authorities in the manhunt; CIA couldn’t very well ask for help in finding a pilot the president had just announced died in the raid on Libya. Instead, a discreet search under Applegate’s direction was mounted. He and the two agents wasted no time in leaving for the hospital on Mile End Road in London, where Shepherd had been last seen, a two-hour drive from Mildenhall.
LARKIN was still high over the choppy Atlantic, several hours from touchdown, unaware of the problem. The dexadrine had done its job too well and he couldn’t sleep. The details of the failed mission raced through his mind like an endless videotape replay. It wasn’t the fact that he had murdered good men in cold blood that tormented him, but that he had done so and come up empty.
The time was 10:14 A.M. when the flight landed at Andrews. Larkin cleared customs, went to the longterm lot where he had left his car, and drove directly to Langley for a debriefing session.
“Morning, sir,” the colonel said wearily, as he entered the DCI’s seventh-floor office.
Kiley was standing at the window, reviewing a copy of Shepherd’s personnel file, and didn’t respond immediately. “Hello, Dick,” he finally said in a subdued tone.
“Tough one to lose, sir.”
Kiley nodded glumly. “It gets worse,” he replied, going on to explain that Shepherd was still at large.
Larkin paled and fought to maintain his composure.
“Applegate figures he’s still somewhere in London. We have a full-court press in the works. According to this we might very well need it,” Kiley concluded, indicating Shepherd’s file. He turned to a page he had marked and, with grave expression, read, “ ‘Major Shepherd is a precise and resourceful thinker. Throughout his career he has demonstrated an unusually high aptitude for tactical expertise and innovation—’ ”
“I’ll leave for London immediately,” Larkin offered stiffly, anxious to repair the damage.
The DCI shook his head no. “A.G. can handle it.”
Larkin nodded numbly. He was certain Kiley knew how badly he wanted to fix it and was purposely denying him the chance as punishment.
“The good news is we had a cable from Duryea. He has a pretty tight fix on that gunboat.”
“She hasn’t made port,” Larkin ventured, the glaze lifting from his eyes. “The hostages are still aboard . . .”
Kiley nodded and allowed himself a little smile. “Cavalla’s on an intercept course. Odds are we can come out of this with what we want if we lick this Shepherd thing.”
19
“I LOVE YOU, BABE. I love you with all my heart,” Shepherd said, feeling the words more than he ever had in his entire life.
He clicked off the recorder, rewound the tape, and played back the entire message he had dictated. Satisfied, he rewound the cassette again and removed it from the recorder. That was the easy part. The rest, the things he usually took for granted—a pen, an envelope, postage—were another matter.
He sat in his shabby hotel room, staring out the window at the bustling waterfront streets below until the screech of a bo
at whistle pulled him out of it; then he slipped the cassette into a pocket of the unfamiliar shirt and went downstairs to the front desk.
The clerk was a rotund woman whose huge bottom hung over the sides of her stool. She was opening mail with an old paring knife she kept handy for the task.
“Excuse me?” Shepherd said. “Would you have an envelope and a pen I could borrow?”
The clerk slit open an envelope and removed the contents. “Know what I always say? Not a borrower or lender be. Now, leasing on the other hand . . .”
Shepherd grimaced and reached into his pocket.
“A pound would do nicely,” the clerk said, plucking the coin from Shepherd’s palm. She handed him a worn ballpoint and resumed slitting open the mail.
“Excuse me, but I think you forgot the envelope.”
“Right you are, sir,” she said, offering him one of those she had just opened.
“I’m afraid that’s already been used,” Shepherd said, forcing a smile.
“Oh, right you are again, sir,” she said, as if she hadn’t noticed. She opened a drawer and removed one of those sickly blue air mail envelopes Europeans favor and handed it to him.
“I’d prefer a more substantial one,” Shepherd said, fingering the tissue-thin paper with concern.
“You’re a bloody picky one, aren’t you?” she whined. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know.”
“I’ve noticed,” Shepherd retorted, unable to resist. He took the envelope and walked toward the lift, intending to return to his room; but his eyes were drawn to a pay phone on the opposite wall. An overwhelming compulsion surfaced and took hold of him. He knew better, knew it would be a mistake to give in to it, but the temptation grew until he found himself striding boldly toward the phone, sorting through his pocket change; then he paused suddenly, glanced over his shoulder at the desk clerk and changed direction, charging through the lobby and out into the street.
“Piss off,” the clerk muttered under her breath, watching him go. She took the knife and slit open another envelope with a flick of her pudgy wrist.
Like many London phone booths, the one on Preston’s Road had a royal crown embossed above the entrance and a list of international tariffs and dialing codes on the wall. Shepherd’s heart pounded with anticipation as he lifted the receiver and thumbed a one pound coin into the slot. He hesitated momentarily, then sent the second after it with a flick of his thumb and dialed.
Thirty-five hundred miles away, in the telephone switching center at Andrews Air Force Base, the device that CIA had wired into international board 044 kicked in. It intercepted the incoming signal and diverted it to a computer that, prior to the connection being made, screened the number against a list: Shepherd’s home and the homes and offices of his friends, military associates, and minister. It took just several hundredths of a second to screen each call. Those that weren’t on the list were put through; those that were, were handled differently.
Shepherd leaned against the wall of the crimson booth, listening to the hollow hum of the line. The first ring sent a surge of adrenaline through him.
Steph, it’s me, he would say the instant she answered. I’m alive, I love you, I need your help. So what if the phone was tapped? What could they do once he had said it? They couldn’t stop him; he would just blurt it out and take his chances.
The phone rang again; and then again and again.
No one answered.
Shepherd had no way of knowing Stephanie was at home; no way of knowing CIA hadn’t used a listening device, but one that shunted the call to a phantom extension that would ring forever. Indeed, despite the advantages of eavesdropping, Bill Kiley’s foremost priority was to prevent Shepherd from making contact, from revealing he was alive, especially to his wife. Others Shepherd might somehow contact could be manipulated, could be convinced it was a hoax or a crackpot, could somehow be kept at bay until Shepherd could be terminated. That was CIA’s strong suit. But not a wife who knew her husband was being screwed by his government; not a military wife. No, Kiley had learned from experience they were the most dangerous because their outrage was driven by monumental feelings of betrayal; and whether by lover or bureaucrat, hell, indeed, hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The phone rang more than a dozen times.
Shepherd finally hung up and stood there for a long moment, coping with the crushing disappointment. The thick brass coins clunked into the return cup. He scooped them into his palm, glanced about cautiously, and left the booth.
NOT FAR AWAY on Mile End Road, the street market on the traffic median opposite The London Hospital was in full swing, an international mix of housewives milling about them in search of bargains.
Applegate and the Special Forces agents, dressed in casual civilian clothes, stood among the white canvas kiosks. The M11 motorway from Mildenhall had been backed up and the drive to London had taken somewhat longer than anticipated.
“You sure that’s it?” Applegate asked, pointing to the wrought-iron staircase next to the ambulance ramp.
“Positive,” one of the agents replied. “He couldn’t get to any of the other exits without passing us.”
“He took the bus,” Applegate said flatly, as his eyes came to rest on a shelter across the street.
“Or a taxi.”
“Taxi . . .” Applegate echoed skeptically. “In this neighborhood? At that hour? No way.” He stepped off the median without waiting for an answer, snaked between the vehicles that were slowing for the traffic signal on the corner of Turner, and crossed to the shelter where the bus schedule was posted.
The London Hospital was the oldest in the city and served many communities: Whitechapel, Hackney, Deptford, Stepney, Bromley-by-Bow, Millwall, and countless others, which meant this stop functioned as a major hub.
“He could be anywhere,” one of the agents announced, catching up.
“What time last night?” Applegate asked.
“Ten fifty-two,” the agent replied, referring to a copy of the patient transfer form.
“He must’ve caught the ten fifty-five,” Applegate ventured, giving the bus schedule a quick glance.
They returned to their car and drove a few miles to the London Transport Depot just east of Blackwall Tunnel, where Mile End Road turns into High Street.
Applegate showed his military identification to the dispatcher, and explained he was an intelligence officer, trying to find a man involved in thefts of classified data from RAF bases. He was seen boarding an East End bus the previous evening.
The dispatcher pointed out the conductor who had worked the bus in question, an elderly fellow hunched over a counter, tallying the previous night’s fares.
“It’s hard to be sure,” the conductor said, studying the photo of Shepherd. “But it might’ve been him. Yes, yes, I think he could be the one.”
“The one?” Applegate echoed, gently. “The one who what?”
“Who paid his fare with this,” the conductor complained, holding up an American dollar he had set aside. “And he was bloody pissed too, if you ask me.”
“You remember where he got off?”
The conductor’s face tightened with uncertainty. “There was a time I’d have had it just like that,” he replied, dismayed. “My wife says our Yorkie has a keener . . .” He paused, his eyes coming to life, and said, “Isle of Dogs. Yes, Isle of Dogs, it was. Preston’s Road.”
Applegate went to a phone booth outside the bus depot, removed the yellow pages from the hanger, tucked it under his arm, and returned to the sedan. One of the Special Forces agents compiled a list of hotels and rooming houses while they drove to the Isle of Dogs.
They began with the one nearest the bus stop on Preston’s Road, a seedy rooming house on the street that ran along the Isle’s western perimeter.
“One of your guests?” Applegate asked, showing the clerk Shepherd’s picture. “Checked in last night maybe?”
The weathered fellow shook his head no without taking his eyes off the ra
cing form that was spread across the desk in front of him.
“It might help to look at the picture,” Applegate prodded, his patience worn thin by fatigue.
“There’s no need,” the clerk explained matter-of-factly. “We’re bloody empty, save for me and the owner; have been for three days.”
Applegate and the agents made stops at two more hotels with similar results. Next on their list was the Wolsey.
SHEPHERD returned to the hotel, hurrying through the lobby to the lift. Dumb; dumb to have chanced calling, he thought as the gate slammed shut and the lift began its rickety ascent. He knew better; knew the tape was his best shot; his safest shot. What had come over him? Why had he weakened? He was entering his room when he realized that the bizarre sequence of events, which had transformed him from cocky, high-tech pilot to vulnerable, survive-by-your-wits fugitive, had shaken his confidence and sense of identity; and that even just listening to Stephanie’s voice—to one of the children—would have provided sustenance and the contact with reality he so desperately craved.
He settled in the chair next to the window, set the envelope on the sill, and addressed it to Stephanie. Then he wrapped several lengths of bathroom tissue around the cassette to protect it and also prevent it from puncturing the envelope. The soft padding filled it neatly. Shepherd moistened the flap and was running a fingertip across it when he heard several car doors slam in rapid succession and glanced out the window to the street.
Applegate was walking swiftly from a gray sedan toward the hotel entrance, the two agents at his heels. In the lobby Applegate showed the photograph of Shepherd to the desk clerk.
