by Greg Dinallo
The Saudi leaned across the bed and kissed Katifa’s forehead gently.
She broke into a weak smile at the sight of him. “Moncrieff,” she whispered in a dry rasp.
“How are you feeling?”
“Frightened,” she replied, her eyes dark with concern. “Abu Nidal knows we deceived him. He’ll send a hit squad for us. We can’t stay here.”
“Yes, I know. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“To where? Beirut isn’t safe and—”
“Jeddah,” he said, referring to his home in Saudi Arabia. “The arrangements are being made. In the meantime . . .” Moncrieff opened the package he had brought, removed a small pistol, and wrapped her hand around the grip. “Nine rounds, automatic; the safety’s off,” he went on, tucking in the bed covers to conceal it.
“I love you,” she whispered, touched by his loyalty and concern, her spirits bolstered by his presence and the cool steel in her hand. But the moment was quickly marred by thundering echoes of machine gun fire that came back in a chilling rush, filling her with a depressing sense of failure.
Three floors below, Katifa’s nurse stepped out of an elevator and hurried down the corridor to a phone booth. He took a slip of paper from his wallet and dialed the operator.
“Yes,” he said softly, “Collect; to Beirut, please?”
AT OKBA BEN NAFI AIR BASE, Qaddafi’s Transportpanzer came through the entrance gate and rumbled down the main access road, passing the blackened hulks of several SU-22 fighters destroyed in the air strike. Each twisted wreck was centered in a ring of scorched concrete. Those that hadn’t been hit were aligned in diagonal rows on the flight line.
Qaddafi scowled at the sight, his head filling with the acrid scent of incinerated space-age plastics and exotic metals that hung in the air.
The TTP continued on to hangar 6-South. Qaddafi and Younis left the vehicle and entered through a personnel door, where an armed guard was posted.
The two F-111 bombers were parked side by side. The needle-sharp radar covers and engine shrouds had been removed. Maintenance personnel crawled over the sleek fuselages. Qaddafi stood between them, head cocked haughtily, envisioning their future exploits; this was his first look at them, and despite the withheld Pave Tack programming key, he was clearly impressed.
The man in charge of maintaining the planes was an East German avionics expert, the resident genius in a growing community of European and Asian nationals Qaddafi had hired to care for his arsenal of hi-tech war machines. The balding, bony fellow was in his glass-walled office conferring with several members of his staff when Younis caught his eye and waved him over.
“Any way we can develop ANITA on our own?” the general asked impatiently when he joined them.
“My technicians are already looking into it,” the East German replied through a tiny mouth that barely moved when he spoke. “It’s a long shot but it may be possible.”
“Do it,” Qaddafi shot back. “Give them whatever they need—equipment, personnel. Spare no expense.”
“In the meantime,” Younis said, brightening, “we’ll start training flight crews.”
“How long, assuming we have ANITA?” Qaddafi asked.
“It takes an American crew more than six months to become fully proficient. The limited scope of our mission will reduce that considerably; but all training flights will have to be at night, and only at night. We can’t take any chances that the planes will be spotted.”
Qaddafi nodded thoughtfully. “Were the bombers delivered with a full complement of ordnance?”
“Yes, sir,” Younis replied. “We have enough explosive power to turn that Tunisian dam into a pile of sand.”
21
IT WAS a gloomy Friday morning in Camp Springs, Maryland. A humid haze heavy with the moisture of coming rain lay over the city like a wet blanket.
Stephanie Shepherd was sitting at her breakfast table staring sadly at a story about the air strike in the Washington Post when the doorbell rang.
The children scurried to answer it. Their sorrow had turned to denial; for days now, every time the phone or doorbell rang, they fully expected someone was bringing the joyful news that their father was alive.
Laura opened the door to find an air force driver standing on the porch with several pieces of luggage.
“Mrs. Shepherd?” the driver said as Stephanie arrived. “Right there next to number nineteen,” he went on uncomfortably, offering her pen and clipboard. She signed it and led the way inside. The driver put the rumpled bags in the den and left.
The children huddled, staring at them in stunned silence. Their father’s things had come home without him and their hopes had suddenly withered.
“Come on, we have to get ready,” Stephanie said, referring to a memorial service later that morning. “Grandma and grandpa’ll be here any minute.”
The children shuffled off, leaving Stephanie alone with Walt’s luggage. She hadn’t expected his effects would be returned so quickly, and was close to losing her composure. She had no way of knowing that Applegate had expedited their shipment to reinforce the idea that her husband was dead. Her lower lip started to quiver and she hurried from the den, thankful she didn’t have the time to go through it now.
THAT SAME MORNING, the president sat at a desk in his East Wing living quarters, reviewing a speech. The euphoria of punching out a bully had worn off and his mood matched the weather—not because of the hostage debacle, of which he had no knowledge, but because four airmen had been lost. He slipped the file cards into a pocket, reflecting on the grim task that awaited. He’d faced many tragedy-stricken families, but it never got any easier. The chattering rotors of Marine 1 landing just across the grounds pulled him from the reverie.
“I’m afraid it’s time,” he said to the First Lady, who had just joined him. They exited through a door that opened onto the Rose Garden, where Secret Service agents were waiting with umbrellas, and walked toward the helicopter, passing a surging crowd of White House correspondents.
“Why was the raid carried out at night?” one shouted over the roar of the chopper’s turbine.
“Sources say Qaddafi was in his tent just before the attack,” another said. “How did he escape injury?”
“Is it true Congress wasn’t properly notified?”
“Mr. President? Mr. President,” another bellowed, thrusting his microphone at him. “Why did we use bombers based in the U.K.?”
“I can’t comment at this time,” the president finally said. He continued past them without breaking stride and boarded the helicopter.
The flight to Andrews took just over 10 minutes. Marine 1 was descending over the north end of the air base when the president looked out the rain-streaked window and saw an island of black umbrellas clustered below.
Beneath them were representatives from the departments of Defense and State, the air force, Congress, and the families of the airmen whom, all believed, had died in the raid on Tripoli. Stephanie and her family were seated in the front row along with CIA-provided mourners serving as relatives of the weapons systems officers whose identities the Company had created.
The scream of turbofans rose in the distance as eight F-4D Phantoms streaked overhead, their sonic booms pounding the mourners with surprising force as one of the jets peeled off and vanished in the mist.
The president’s speech was an eloquent tribute delivered with heartfelt sadness. There wasn’t a dry eye when he had finished. He left the podium and worked his way down the line of mourners, spending a moment with each, offering his condolences.
“Mrs. Shepherd?” a voice called out.
Stephanie turned to see Congressman Gutherie coming toward her.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, clearly saddened.
“Thank you,” she replied, forcing a smile as she introduced him to her parents and children.
“If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I’m sure there is, but right now . . .” Stephanie paused and sh
rugged forlornly, letting the sentence trail off. Gutherie nodded and was about to leave when her eyes came to life with a question. “You think the Libyan government will be cooperative?” she asked. “I mean, about returning my husband’s body?”
Gutherie reflected on that dark day six years ago when members of the Iranian hostage rescue team were tragically burned to death, and jocular mullahs brandished their charred bones like war clubs. “You understand,” he began, delicately touching on the matter, “the crash, the heat, there’s a chance that—”
“He’s little more than a pile of ashes?” Stephanie asked weakly. “If that’s the case, I want them here—in Arlington where they belong. Where the children and I can . . .” Her voice cracked and she left it unfinished, the sense of loss, of being suddenly cut adrift on unchartered waters overwhelming her.
Gutherie put an arm around her. “State might know something,” he said as she wept softly. “On the other hand, Walt’s CO might already be into it.”
“Will you find out for me?”
“Of course,” Gutherie replied, his voice rising over the departing helicopter. “You have his name?”
“Larkin,” Stephanie replied. “Colonel Richard Larkin.”
22
SHEPHERD had spent the remainder of the week aboard the barge eating and regaining his stamina. Friday evening, he began work on the next phase of his plan. He wrote his signature beneath his photograph in the newspaper he had taken from the post office; then, he stuffed Spencer’s pistol in the pocket of a rain slicker he had found in a locker along with an old sweater and seaman’s cap, and went up the cobbled hill to Poplar High Street, where a sign flickering amid the electronic glitter proclaimed: SNAPSHOTS—THREE POSES 1£.
He slipped inside the automated booth and, holding the newspaper flat against his chest, pushed a coin into the slot, and sat rock steady as the strobe flashed three times. The mechanism whirred and the strip of snapshots fell into the tray, ripe with the scent of developer. On his way back to the barge, he found a record shop and bought a blank cassette and fresh batteries for his recorder.
The next morning, he stood in the main cabin of the barge looking about, then reached up and ran a hand along the back side of a ceiling beam; unsatisfied, he examined a hanging lamp and several sections of built-in shelving before finally focusing on the table. It had a round wooden top on an ornate, cast-iron pedestal. He pulled the captain’s chair aside and turned the table upside down, then left the barge and crossed the dock to the equipment shed, where he found a piece of old inner tube, a pair of scissors, a hammer, and some tacks, all of which he took back to the cabin. He cut a 4 × 8-inch strip out of the black rubber and placed it flat against the underside of the table. He tacked one end to the wood, then stretched the rubber tightly before tacking the other. He fetched his recorder, set it in the voice activated mode, turned the microphone switch to High, and slipped it beneath the taut rubber sling, which held it securely against the wood. Then he righted the table and sat in the chair to make sure the device couldn’t be seen.
“This is Walter Shepherd, Major, United States Air Force, speaking,” he drawled in a low voice, going on to recite his serial number. “As you know, I’m supposed to have been killed in the raid on Libya. Well, the truth is, I wasn’t. The next voice you hear will be Air Force Major Paul Applegate, military intelligence, who’s going to explain what really happened and why.”
Shepherd retrieved the recorder and played back his preamble, determining that the level was satisfactory. Then he went for a walk along the waterfront, reviewing the rest of his plan. He returned several hours later to find Spencer waiting for him.
“Your bloody friends from the hotel came by my flat this morning,” he said gravely. “It seems they’ve been tracking down every cabbie who worked the waterfront this week.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said the post office was the last I saw of you.”
“Thanks,” Shepherd said, relieved.
“Like I said, I’m a man of my word.” Spencer stepped to the refrigerator, removed two bottles of Watney’s, and popped the caps, handing one to Shepherd. “To your health, Major.”
Shepherd stiffened at the remark.
Spencer held up a newspaper in explanation—the one with Shepherd’s photograph and signature that he had left in the cabin. Spencer had seen other copies but hadn’t made the connection. Seeing it there, seeing it with Shepherd, had driven the resemblance home despite the four days of stubble and weariness that obscured the vibrant face in the picture.
“I imagine you could tell quite a story,” Spencer said.
Shepherd nodded. “But I wouldn’t be able to prove a word of it. I can’t even prove who I am.”
“You must know things, I mean, that no one else could; things that’d go a long way to proving—”
“I have to find someone I can trust first.”
“What about your embassy?”
Shepherd shrugged with uncertainty.
“Scotland Yard? The military?” Spencer went on. “One of them has to be—”
“Which one? I can’t afford a mistake. Besides . . .” Shepherd paused, wracked with frustration at the stumbling block that had confronted him all along. “They’re all connected. Soon as one gets into it, it wouldn’t be long before my ‘bloody friends,’ as you call them, are all over me.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “I figure the media is my best shot.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“My wife.”
Spencer questioned him with a look.
“The way I see it, I’m going to get one run at this target,” Shepherd explained. “But I’ve got to be sure who the enemy is and what he’s up to, first. I’ve got a plan worked out and my wife’s the key to it. I didn’t want to get her involved but there’s no way I can pull it off without her.”
Spencer nodded. “How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years,” Shepherd replied. “Twenty years next Friday.” He paused, thinking it through, then asked, “How would you like to help me celebrate?”
THAT AFTERNOON IN LANGLEY, Virginia, Kiley summoned Larkin to CIA headquarters; they went immediately to an audio laboratory in a subbasement where a communications technician was waiting for them.
In the center of the electronics-packed room, a small table stood beneath a high-intensity lamp; centered in the bright circle of light was a pale blue air mail envelope that had been steamed open, a pile of neatly folded bathroom tissue, and an audio cassette.
“You listen to it?” Kiley asked.
“Yes, sir,” the com tech replied. “Mostly family chatter; last third’s where it gets interesting.”
“From the top,” Kiley ordered.
The com tech stepped to a console, dropped the cassette into the holder, and pressed the play button.
“Thursday, three April,” Shepherd’s voice began in an easy drawl. “Real pretty up here, babe. We left the Grand Banks behind about an hour ago. Advance report for touchdown is rain and more rain. Sounds like we’re talking weather for ducks. Speaking of water, Al thought you should know that Beethoven used to pour ice water over his—He’s waving at me like a matador. Not Beethoven, Al. Be talking to you soon.
“Tuesday, eight April. How is my favorite little gymnast doing? And how’s her mommy and brother? I went over to the hospital last night to see Al. He’s complaining the pasta isn’t al dente, so I figure he’s doing okay. It turns out that little sortie with the Russians was just a warm-up. We’ve got a real live mission on the boards now. It should be history by the time you get this; so should Qaddafi. I’m real sorry about messing up our anniversary, babe. Like I said, we’ll make up for it soon as you get here.
“Tuesday, fifteen April. This is going to shock you, babe; it’s going to make you happy too. Don’t believe what you’ve been seeing on TV, don’t believe the president, don’t believe anybody. I didn’t go down over Libya; didn’t even fly the damn missio
n. I’m alive but I’m in big trouble and need your help.” Shepherd went on to explain about the attempts on his life, naming Larkin and Applegate. “They’re trying to kill me,” he concluded. “I don’t know what their game is, some kind of conspiracy I guess. I figure our phone’s been tapped; they might be watching the mail too. Anyway, if you get this, just come to London as soon as you can. Check into the Hilton and I’ll find a way to contact you. Trust no one, no one. Miss you and the kids like crazy. Kiss them for me, okay? I love you, babe, I love you with all my heart.”
Kiley and Larkin exchanged apprehensive looks.
The hiss of blank tape filled the silence.
“Fuck,” the colonel finally groaned.
Kiley was silent, analyzing the situation. Though Shepherd had quite correctly assumed his phone, mail, and family were being monitored, a man in his position had little choice but to try, the DCI thought. The device CIA had installed in the switching center at Andrews had prevented any contact by phone. It was only natural Shepherd would turn to other means to obtain help, other means that, Kiley now shrewdly realized, could be turned against him.
“I think with some selective editing, this tape can be used to advantage,” he finally said, nodding as the idea crystallized. “Can we lose the incriminating information and keep the instructions?”
“No problem, sir,” the technician replied. “Just tell me what stays and what goes.”
“Good. As soon as we’re finished, we’ll forward it to Shepherd’s wife and let her lead us to him.”
“How do we know she won’t go to the air force or the media?” Larkin asked. “I mean, the fact that he said to trust no one doesn’t rule it out.”
“Good point,” Kiley mused. “But we have people who can stop her, should she try.”
23
GUTHERIE had a speaking engagement after the memorial service on Friday and didn’t get back to the office. First thing Monday morning he asked his secretary to call Larkin. Since she had no number for him, she called the Pentagon and got it—his real number, not the cover one in Heyford.
