by Greg Dinallo
The Palestinian sagged with relief.
The pounding of boots on concrete echoed through the corridors.
The Palestinian crawled to the guard and removed the pistol from his holster; then quickly went through his pockets, taking his flashlight and a small zippered pouch that contained his money.
“The keys,” Shepherd hissed in a tense whisper, pointing to the chain on the guard’s belt, which was just out of reach.
The Palestinian hesitated for an instant, then he unhooked it and put it in Shepherd’s palm. Their eyes locked in a brief moment of camaraderie and triumph; enemies bound together by circumstance, they were equals now, just two men fighting to stay alive.
Shepherd let himself out of the cell and tossed the keys to another prisoner as he and the Palestinian took off down the corridor.
Prisoners began pouring into the corridor, engaging the guards who responded to the commotion.
Outside, in front of Qaddafi’s tent, the press conference had broken up and the reporters were being herded toward the buses when a siren began wailing. The officer in charge of the infantry shouted an order. The soldiers broke ranks and headed for the prison, leaving the media unattended.
Abdel-Hadi was in the interrogation chamber waiting for the Palestinian, waiting to oversee his execution, when the siren went off; he drew his machine pistol and stepped into the corridor with the Akita.
“Lamarikan wil Phalestineen harbou!” a guard shouted, racing toward him.
Abdel-Hadi stiffened, then crouched to the dog. “Yalla, yalla laoueg houm,” he ordered in a tense whisper. “Jib houm.”
The huge dog began straining at the leash, dragging Abdel-Hadi through the corridors. The animal had made the journey from Okba ben Nafi Air Base in the Krazz with Shepherd and soon several powerful lunges signaled that it had detected his scent.
The SHK chief removed the leash. “Yalla,” he prompted. “Yalla, katal.”
The animal raced down the corridor in a frenzy.
Elsewhere in the maze of underground corridors, Shepherd and the Palestinian approached a set of double doors that led to the barracks kitchen; there were no personnel working at this hour. The two fugitives ran past the preparation tables and ovens, following a wall of refrigerators to an open door on the other side, exiting into a corridor lined with trash pails.
Shepherd heard the scratch of claws on concrete behind him and turned to see the Akita bounding toward them. It covered the distance with several strides, then its powerful hindquarters launched it through the air.
The Palestinian whirled with the pistol but Shepherd was between him and the animal, blocking his line of fire.
At the last instant, Shepherd swept a lid off one of the trash pails and used it as a shield, slamming it hard into the charging animal, deflecting it off to one side and past him.
The dog landed on its side with a loud thud and went skittering through the open door beyond the trash pails into the kitchen, its massive paws clawing at the concrete in vain as it slid across the floor. It finally got to all fours and charged again.
Shepherd was lunging for the door to slam it shut and trap the crazed animal inside the kitchen when the Palestinian fired. The dog emitted a pathetic yelp and dropped at Shepherd’s feet like a charging rhino.
“What the hell were you waiting for?” Shepherd demanded angrily.
“You were in the way,” the Palestinian retorted; then he grinned at a thought that occurred to him and pointedly added, “Maybe I am thinking twice about killing my relative.”
Shepherd’s cold stare softened; he looked at the dog and said, “Not all animals have that luxury.”
They moved off, the Palestinian leading the way to a junction where two corridors intersected.
“Akif,” a voice ordered sharply “Akif, ouarmi slahek al ardth!”
The Palestinian stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to see Abdel-Hadi standing in the adjacent corridor, pointing his machine pistol at him.
“Slahek al ardth!” the SHK chief repeated.
The Palestinian complied with the order and tossed his pistol aside.
Shepherd was around the corner in the other corridor, out of Abdel-Hadi’s line of sight. He pressed himself against the wall and slowly, silently slid into a crouch, wrapping his fingers around the grip of the pistol that the Palestinian had thrown at his feet. Shepherd waited as Abdel-Hadi advanced toward the Palestinian, waited until he had passed the corner that shielded him, then slipped behind the SHK chief.
“Hold it,” Shepherd said sharply, jabbing the pistol into his back. Abdel-Hadi froze.
The Palestinian wrenched the machine pistol from the SHK chief’s hands, then slammed him against the wall. With an angry twist, he screwed the pistol up against the underside of Abdel-Hadi’s chin.
The Libyan groaned, eyes bulging with terror.
“No!” Shepherd shouted.
“Why? He is animal, yes?” the Palestinian demanded, his eyes ablaze with vengeance. “Yes?”
“Yes, but he’s—”
The Palestinian pulled the trigger, firing a burst that blew the top of Abdel-Hadi’s head up across the wall in a pulpy shower of gore.
“He was our ticket out of here,” Shepherd replied angrily, wincing at the sight, as the sound of the gunfire echoed through the corridors.
The Palestinian shrugged and released Abdel-Hadi, who slid to the floor, painting the concrete with a bloody smear.
They hurried down the narrow corridor to a service door. It opened into a long tunnel that zigzagged beneath the compound.
The pounding of boots rose in the distance.
They went back through the door and waited as the clatter came closer and closer.
Shepherd noticed that the Palestinian was standing near some electrical panels on the opposite wall. He had opened them and was about to throw the circuit breakers, plunging the prison into darkness.
“Hold it,” Shepherd cautioned. “I’ll tell you when.” He listened at the door until he heard the soldiers run past, then cracked it open slightly, waiting while the footsteps died out. “Okay. Now.”
The Palestinian pulled the breakers.
The corridors went black.
They used the guard’s flashlight to make their way through the pitch-black tunnel to a door that was now unguarded. It was locked.
The Palestinian blew the lock with a burst from the machine pistol. He and Shepherd went through it into an underground garage.
A hulking, canvas-covered vehicle stood alone in the reinforced concrete bunker. They peeled back the shroud, discovering an armored personnel carrier beneath. It was Muammar el-Qaddafi’s personal Transportpanzer, the emergency escape vehicle that had spirited him and his family out of Tripoli the night of the air strike.
Shepherd opened one of the thick steel doors in the rear of the hull, and they clambered inside the lushly carpeted troop compartment. While the Palestinian latched the door and climbed to the shielded machine gun turret atop the roof, Shepherd went forward to the cab, got behind the wheel, and turned the ignition switch.
The powerful Mercedes diesel started up with a roar.
Shepherd found a remote control in the cab, and opened the steel doors that sealed the bunker. He engaged the transmission and guided the lumbering 8 × 8 across the garage and up a ramp that led to a street several blocks from the compound.
Shepherd floored the throttle; the eight huge combat tires bit into the tarmac and sent the Transportpanzer rumbling forward to an intersection.
The cross street was a broad eucalyptus-lined motorway that Shepherd recognized as Al Jala Road, the street that the Krazz had taken inland from the coast on the trip from Tunisia. It was poorly lit and deserted. He made a sharp left and accelerated.
A jeep carrying several soldiers rocketed into view behind them. One was radioing to units up ahead. Another manned the front-mounted machine gun and opened fire. The rounds smacked into the TPP’s armor-plated hull, sparking aside harmles
sly.
The Palestinian swiveled the gun turret around, tracking the jeep as the distance between the two vehicles closed, and fired a sustained burst. The rounds stitched across the hood. The jeep veered out of control and flipped over, spilling the soldiers across the pavement.
Shepherd had the Transportpanzer barreling down the deserted motorway at 65 MPH. In minutes, it had passed the Christian Cemetery, crossed Al Nasar, and was approaching Umar Al Mukhtar, a main east-west conduit that teed across Al Jala Road, which meant the TPP would be forced to turn either left or right.
Several Libyan Army trucks were blocking the right side of the intersection. Soldiers opened fire.
The Palestinian was crouching behind the gunshield, which was clanging like a church bell, raking the street with bullets, the tracers glowing in the night.
Shepherd was about to turn left when a lightweight battle tank, stationed at the People’s Congress a short distance away, came rumbling down Bab Qarqarish, machine gun blazing, catching the Transportpanzer in a crossfire. Shepherd steered the TPP across the grounds of the Girl’s Military College on Al Mukhtar. He exited onto the Al Kurnish Road, crossed it, plunging down a steep embankment to the beach. Knobby tires churned up the sand as he drove into the surf. The fully amphibious vehicle settled into the sea; then two propellers at the rear of the hull came to life and sent the dark green Transportpanzer into the enveloping blackness.
Shepherd sagged with exhaustion and relief; then he looked back over his shoulder to the troop compartment, and grimaced at what he saw.
The Palestinian was lying on the carpeted floor beneath the gun turret, his shirt soaked with blood.
45
FOLLOWING THE MEETING at the royal guest house with Moncrieff and Katifa, Larkin was shown to the Saudi’s study. The regal, book-lined room was equipped with a state-of-the-art computer system, facsimile machine, and secure communications gear. Larkin used the latter and called Kiley at home.
The time in Washington, D.C., was 7:32 A.M.
The DCI had been up for nearly an hour; a cup of cold coffee was at his elbow, red folders and briefing books spread out on the floor around his armchair.
“Good work, Colonel,” the DCI replied, relieved that Katifa had agreed to work for them. “How do you plan to handle backup and liaison?”
“The lady’s leaving for Beirut tomorrow. I’ll do the same and work out of the embassy.”
“Not operative,” Kiley replied. “Ever since they kidnapped Fitzgerald we’ve had a hell of a time getting new people in. It could take weeks, maybe months. We’ll have to rely on personnel already in place. I’ll set it up. She should know the name. Stengel.”
“Stengel . . . I’ll take care of it.”
“Does she smoke?”
“Yes, sir, she does.”
“What brand?”
“Those French ones—blue hard pack—Gaulois.”
Kiley grunted, making a note of it. “Now, what happened with Shepherd?”
“Libyan secret police locked him up,” Larkin answered, briefing him on his meeting with Al-Qasim.
That was twelve hours ago.
Now, after a long day at Langley, Kiley was packing up his briefcases before heading home when—more than eight hours after Qaddafi’s news conference—the first wire service report of Shepherd’s escape came in.
The lengthy interlude was no accident.
On a direct order from Qaddafi, who thought Shepherd would be quickly captured, the correspondents had been herded into the buses and driven around the city for several hours to prevent them from filing their stories. When it became clear Shepherd had eluded his pursuers, the reporters were returned to the Al Kabir, only to discover the hotel’s phone system had mysteriously broken down. Several European reporters eventually made it to their embassies and contacted their bureaus.
IN JEDDAH, Saudi Arabia, the time was 5:16 A.M. when one of the Filipino servants knocked on Larkin’s door, waking him. “Excuse me, Colonel. You have a call,” he said, explaining it had come in on the secure line in Moncrieff s study and couldn’t be transferred.
Larkin pulled on a robe and went downstairs.
“Hold for the director, please,” Kiley’s secretary said when he came on the line.
“Dick?” the DCI barked. “Shepherd’s on the loose.”
Larkin groaned, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. “Do we know how?”
“We’re faxing you what we have on the other line.”
Larkin shifted his glance to the facimile machine on a sideboard behind the desk, where a single sheet of paper was already emerging from the delivery slot. It was a copy of the wire service report:
REUTERS—SPECIAL BULLETIN—ALL STATIONS. FUGITIVE USAF PILOT IMPRISONED; ESCAPES
United States Air Force Maj. Walter Shepherd was in the custody of Libya’s secret police when he escaped. The prison break occurred during a press conference in which Libyan strongman Muammar el-Qaddafi accused Shepherd of being a CIA operative and claimed his desertion and murder of a fellow officer were part of a cover story to gain entry into Libya. Highly reliable sources in Tripoli report Shepherd and a second prisoner, believed to be a Palestinian national, killed Libyan Secret Police Chief Reza Abdel-Hadi, escaping in an armored personnel carrier. The amphibious vehicle traveled a short distance across the city to the Mediterranean and when last seen was heading out to sea.
“You have it yet?” Kiley prodded impatiently at the silence on the line.
“I’m reading it now, sir.”
“I thought this situation was being terminated. What went wrong?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“See what you can find out. If Shepherd surfaces and starts talking before Duryea can make his move, who knows what might happen. We’re too close to have anything screw this rescue operation up.”
“I’ll get on it right away, sir,” Larkin replied as the DCI ended the call. The colonel slipped the wire service report into the pocket of his robe and went to the window, which overlooked the Red Sea.
The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, the low rays catching the flecks of red plankton that floated in abundance just beneath the surface, imparting the legendary crimson glow to the water.
Larkin stood there working the problem; aside from hoping the Libyans caught Shepherd and killed him, there was one base he could cover. He knew Shepherd had escaped by sea and that his wife was still on D’Jerba, which was the nearest safe port. He also knew it would take a long time to get there from Tripoli in an armored personnel carrier.
Several hours later, Moncrieff, Katifa, and Larkin were driven in one of the royal limousines to King Abdul Azziz Airport just north of Jeddah.
Larkin’s flight to D’Jerba was the first to depart. After dropping him off, Moncrieff and Katifa went to the Middle East Airlines boarding lounge.
“I wish I could think of something to say I haven’t said before,” Moncrieff whispered when her flight was called.
They embraced hurriedly, awkwardly, acknowledging they had indeed done this before. Katifa felt her eyes starting to fill, slipped from Moncrieff s grasp, and hurried off. He watched her go down the boarding ramp, just as he had that day in Boston five years ago. He waited until the plane had pulled away, then returned to the limousine, certain he would never see her again.
The Boeing 737 flew on a northwesterly heading, crossing Jordan and Syria, to Beirut International Airport, covering the 900 miles in just under two hours.
Katifa deplaned with a carry-on bag and hurried through the shabby terminal to the arrivals ramp.
“Taxi, right here,” the dispatcher said, directing her to a vehicle parked forward of the queue.
Katifa climbed into the old Citroen and pulled the door closed. “Number twenty-eight Tamar Mallat,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
The cab left the airport and headed north on the express motorway that runs along the broad coastal plain at the base of the Lebanon Mountains.
�
��Cigarette?” the driver said, holding the pack back over his shoulder.
“I have my own. Thanks,” Katifa replied.
“Your brand, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“That’s what Mister Stengel thought,” the driver said pointedly.
Katifa took the package of Gaulois from him and examined the blue, square-edged box. It was unopened and the cellophane wrapper was intact.
“It contains a radio transmitter,” the driver explained. “The unit broadcasts on a dedicated channel that’s monitored twenty-four hours a day at the embassy’s com center. Casino du Liban is well within range.”
Katifa nodded and slipped it into her purse.
The taxi continued north on the motorway to where it branches into several thoroughfares that crisscross the city. The driver took Avenue Camille Chamoun through the Wata and Tallet Khayat districts to the cluster of white stucco buildings on Tamar Mallat.
The street was quiet; a few vehicles lined the curb. Several children were playing as the Citroen pulled to a stop.
Katifa got out and glanced about cautiously, suddenly aware of the pungent scent of cordite, which always hung in the air; then she hurried up the steps of her building. She had noticed the abandoned van across the street; it had been there for months. Like so many of the vehicles on Beirut’s streets it was up on blocks, stripped of all usable hardware and parts. Furthermore, like the other vehicles on Tamar Mallat, it appeared empty.
The two men who slipped out the rear door as soon as Katifa was out of sight had been watching the building through a small window in the van’s sidewall.
Katifa was entering her apartment when she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see the Palestinians coming down the corridor. She recognized them from Casino du Liban and knew they had been sent by Abu Nidal. One brandished a pistol. The other swung a Skorpion into view from beneath his jacket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Katifa protested indignantly, as they took hold of her. “What do you—”
“Save your complaints for Abu Nidal,” the one with the pistol interrupted.
