by Oliver North
He took it out and looked at it. It was an American passport. When he stopped at the light on Massachusetts Avenue he opened it to see whose it was. Inside was a photograph of Oliver North. But the name under the picture was “William P. Goode.”
He was distracted from examining the passport by a horn honking behind him. The driver threw an obscene gesture his way, and Newman looked up to see that the light had changed. He put the passport back into his pocket and turned to head back into Washington. On the east side of the Roosevelt Bridge, Newman got in the left lane to pick up the expressway that would take him directly to the South West Gate at the White House. As he came to a halt for the light at Seventeenth Street, he made his decision. Before telling anyone else about the contents of the safe, he would find out once and for all what all this was about. But that would have to wait until he got back to Fort Bragg later in the week.
THE
POSTCARD
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Narnia Farm
________________________________________
Bluemont, VA
Monday, 30 January 1995
0900 Hours, Local
It was a postcard in a stack of Monday morning mail. Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North, USMC (Ret.), probably wouldn't have taken the time at that moment to read it except that it was a picture that every Marine knows well—a photograph of the statue at the north end of Arlington Cemetery, the Iwo Jima Memorial. North read the caption on the postcard:
Six men, in battle dress, straining to raise an American flag atop an extinct volcano on a tiny atoll in the Pacific on February 23, 1945. The moment captured in 1/400th of a second by Joe Rosenthal, an Associated Press photographer. The statue, sculpted by Felix de Weldon, is a five-times life-size, three-dimensional rendering of Rosenthal's Pulitzer Prize—winning black-and-white photo. The six Marines, intent in their purpose, stand like silent sentinels overlooking the nation's capital.
North turned the card over and read a carefully handprinted note:
IRONHAND THREE ACTUAL, URGENT. REQ U RNDVU W/ FOX TWO ACTUAL AT SURIBACHI AT 1930 ON TUE, 7 FEB; WED, 8 FEB; OR THURS, 9 FEB. DO NOT BREAK EMCON. FOX TWO SENDS.
“Ironhand Three” had been North's radio call sign when he served as the Operations Officer—or the “S-3” in military-speak—for Battalion Landing Team 3/8 in the Mediterranean in 1980. “Fox Two” was the commander of the Second Platoon of Company F. The former Marine stood staring at the postcard for a full minute while he tried to wring from his memory banks which of the bright-eyed, young lieutenants had commanded the Second Platoon of Foxtrot Company.
He was about to give up when he remembered something. North strode over to the bookcase in his office and pulled a copy of the Third Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment “Cruise Book” from the shelf. Much like a high school or college yearbook, it was a neatly bound collection of photos, notes, and memories of the unit's seven-month deployment as the landing force for the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea in 1980. Best of all, it contained rosters and photos of every sailor and Marine in the command.
Next to the title “Platoon Leader, 2nd Platoon, Co. F, BLT 3/8” was the caption “2nd Lt. Peter J. Newman.” And there were pictures of him—one staring straight into the camera and another in front of his platoon formation. He was tall, straight, thin, and fifteen years younger than he would be today. He looked like a Marine recruiting poster model. And there was a third black-and-white photo. In this candid shot, the camera had caught him giving an order during a live-fire field exercise.
North recognized the terrain: Capo Teulada, Sardinia—the NATO live-fire training area. In the photo, the young Lieutenant Newman was holding a map in one hand and pointing out in the distance. His helmet and flak jacket were covered with dust. His radio operator at his side, the four other men in the photograph must have been his platoon sergeant and three squad leaders. The caption beneath the photo said, “Lt. Newman prepares 2nd Platoon for the night attack exercise.”
It all came back, unlocking North's memory. Newman had been leading a Marine rifle platoon in a simulated night attack when one of the Italian Puma helicopters flying over his unit had flown literally into the side of a mountain, six hundred yards off the Second Platoon's right flank. Lieutenant Newman, ten of his Marines, and a Navy medical corpsman rushed to the scene, and despite a fiercely burning fuel-fed fire, the lieutenant had personally rescued four of the helicopter's injured occupants before they could be immolated in the wreckage. He then skillfully directed medevac helicopters and rescue teams to the site.
Newman, two of his Marines, and the Navy corpsman all suffered burns themselves but refused to be evacuated until after the more seriously injured Italian troops had been flown for treatment to the ships standing offshore. A few days later, when the Amphibious Squadron pulled into Naples for a five-day port visit, Admiral Crannick, the commander of NATO Forces in the Mediterranean, awarded the Navy-Marine Corps Lifesaving Medal to Lieutenant Newman, Corporal Ronnie Evans, PFC Filipé Enriquez, and HM3 Harold Benn.
Not to be outdone, the Italians had insisted on presenting an honor of their own: the Military Order of St. Boniface. Unlike the U.S. award, which was a medal pinned above the left breast pocket, the Italian decoration was a large medallion, suspended by a broad, multicolored ribbon to be hung around the neck. An Italian admiral gave a lengthy speech that no one could understand and, at its conclusion, insisted on kissing Newman several times on each cheek after he hung the medal around Newman's neck. In keeping with Marine tradition, instead of congratulating Newman on his honors, his fellow lieutenants kidded him incessantly, asking if he and the Italian admiral were now going steady.
Holding the postcard and looking at the Cruise Book, North remembered that, shortly after the battalion returned from its deployment to the Med in 1981, Lieutenant Newman had received orders to the Basic School at Quantico as a tactics instructor. It was a plum assignment—one that North had himself held upon his return from Vietnam. In fact, before departing Camp Lejeune for Quantico, Newman and his wife had come over to North's quarters to talk about what the Basic School would be like.
North also remembered that his wife Betsy and Newman's wife Rachel seemed to hit it off at once. Neither of them totally understood what their husbands did for a living, and they laughed together when Betsy began sharing. Rachel seemed to enjoy talking to another woman who understood how frustrating it was to move four times in eight years and how she could never expect her Marine husband to provide her with a daily routine and schedule that she might depend on when scheduling important family events like birthday parties. Rachel had identified with all of Betsy's frustrations and offered several examples of her own of what it was like to be a junior officer's wife in the Corps.
Before Newman and his wife left that night, North had given Newman some of his old infantry tactics lesson plans that he'd used to good effect.
Shortly after Newman left the battalion, North was ordered to the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island, and then to the National Security Council staff at the White House. North recalled reading in the Marine Corps Gazette that Newman had been deep-selected—promoted early—to captain. And North had seen him briefly five years later when Newman had been a student at the Marine Corps' Amphibious Warfare School and North had been sent there by the NSC to give a lecture on counterterrorism.
When they met that day in 1986 at Amphibious Warfare School, Newman had a few more wrinkles around the eyes from too many days in the sun, but he had the same firm handshake and the same quiet confidence. That was the last time North had seen him. And he hadn't heard from him at all in the nine years since. But now he had this postcard with a cryptic note from him. At least North thought it was from him.
He looked again at the postcard. It was postmarked January 23, 1995—a week earlier—from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. It wasn't all that unusual to be getting mail from a Marine at an Army base—lots of Marines served in joint commands, attending other service's schools
and going through their training. What made North more curious was the cryptic wording of the card's message.
Newman, if it indeed was Newman who had sent the missive, was asking for an urgent meeting at the Iwo Jima Memorial, hence the reference to Suribachi—the mountaintop where the Marines on the postcard were planting the flag. And for some reason or another, Newman clearly didn't want North to contact him about the request to meet, hence the reference to EMCON.
North's curiosity was thoroughly aroused, so he decided to call an old friend to find out if Peter Newman really was at Fort Bragg.
The phone answered on the second ring: “Brigadier General Murray Stedner, Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Plans and Operations, Headquarters Marine Corps.”
“Hey, it's North. Man, that's quite an impressive spiel. Do you feel important? You must be important, answering your own phone and all,” he chuckled.
“Oliver—hey it's great to hear from you. Important, eh? Well, nothing I'd rather be doing than pushing paper and kissing more senior generals' backsides ten hours every day.”
Stedner hated duty at HQMC. He was known as a “Marine's Marine”—a troop leader who despised staff assignments. He and North had served together at Quantico, gone together to Vietnam, relieved each other in commands from the Western Pacific to the Eastern Mediterranean. They had served together in the Second and Third Marine Divisions. Their wives were thick as thieves, had given birth to kids in the same military hospitals—kids who had subsequently grown up with each other in the same military base schools. Their two families had shared the privations and pains of military housing as neighbors. To say that Stedner and North were friends was an understatement.
They had talked when North had been forced to retire in the aftermath of the Iran-Contra flap, and Stedner had cried right along with North. Only Stedner and other Marines could know the emotion that was attendant to North's forced resignation from the Corps. But Stedner didn't bring up that subject. He stuck to small talk. “What are you doing these days? How's Betsy? And the family?”
North kept the conversation on that level until the two of them were caught up on each other's career moves and family matters. Then Stedner got to the point: “How can I help you, man? I know you didn't call me just to chew the fat. What's up?”
“Well, I'm calling because I'm trying to track down one of my old lieutenants from Third Battalion, Eighth Marines,” said North without mentioning the cryptic postcard.
“Who is it?” said Stedner. “I can call up the personnel records on every Marine in the Corps right here on this computer. Give me his name and horsepower.”
North could hear his friend tapping the keys of a computer keyboard, shifting from the program he'd been working in to the personnel file. North told him, “I don't have his service number, but his full name is Newman, Peter J.”
The clicking on the keyboard stopped, and there was a long pause before Stedner replied. “Why are you asking about Newman, Ollie?”
North, sensing that there was more here than he had at first realized, was suddenly cautious. He would trust Stedner with his life in combat, but who knew who else might be listening in on this conversation or what trouble Newman might be in? He offered a benign reply. “I'm just trying to track him down to rehash some stuff when we served together in the Eighth Marines. You know, I may have another book in me, old man.”
“Well, I don't need to run through the personnel records on Newman. He worked here in Ops and Plans until last November. But he was transferred out, and my boss, General Grisham, is handling his assignment personally.”
North knew Grisham well. He was one of the most respected officers in the Corps and widely rumored to be a future commandant. “I see,” said North. “Can you tell me if Newman's in the area—is he in CONUS … is he overseas?”
“Ollie, I can't say. It's a classified assignment. And I know you've had all the clearances, but I don't want to get cross-threaded with General Grisham.” Then, as if changing the subject, Stedner said, “Say, by the way, when you went on all those trips overseas, did you ever stop in London and go shopping at that big department store there?”
North knew this wasn't a change in course in the conversation. His friend was offering him information, if he could figure it out. “Uh … well I never had much time to go shopping,” he said, adding, “I guess you can't tell me what I want to know.”
“Sorry, Colonel,” Stedner said, “I'm afraid that's all I can say. But it's been great to hear your voice. You know, you and Betsy ought to get together with Anne and me for dinner one of these days soon. I'll have Anne call Betsy and set it up.”
“Great idea, buddy. I look forward to it. One thing's for sure—if our wives set it up, we had both better be there; we don't need them telling tales about us behind our backs. Good to talk to you. Semper Fi.” North hung up the phone, wondering about the clue Stedner had buried in the conversation. “Harrod's … he probably meant the department store in London by that name. Harrod's … ?” North asked himself. Then he sat up straight. Simon Harrod. Newman's at the White House working for the National Security Advisor, North thought.
Then he began to wonder why. His thoughts came in quick succession. He doesn't have a background in Russia, so it can't be the Yeltsin coup. What else is happening that the White House needs a recon Marine? North exhausted the possibilities without coming to a logical conclusion. Still, North reasoned, maybe Newman just didn't want anyone at the current White House to know that he was contacting a controversial member of a former administration. But just to make sure, North decided he would be at the Iwo Jima Memorial at 7:30 P.M. on Tuesday, February 7.
Smiling Buddha Restaurant
________________________________________
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 7 February 1995
1820 Hours, Local
As Newman maneuvered his Tahoe through Georgetown's rush hour into the tiny public parking lot on Thirty-third Street, the wipers were working hard to keep the freezing sleet from sticking to the windshield. He was less than a block away from the little Thai restaurant on M Street where Coombs, McDade, Robertson, and he had come to celebrate his being “frocked” as a Lieutenant Colonel a month before. Newman had chosen the place then because he and Rachel had several times enjoyed dinner there and because the price of a good meal was affordable. Being “frocked” meant that if he ever got to don his uniform again, he could wear the silver oak leaves of a Lieutenant Colonel—but he would still be paid as a major until his promotion became official sometime later in the year. But he had chosen this place tonight for an entirely different reason.
Before he got out of the car, he took his gray Marine-issue military trench coat, folded it into the smallest bundle he could make, and stuck it, along with a small collapsible umbrella and the front section of the Washington Times, under his bright yellow windbreaker. He had chosen this L.L.Bean sailing jacket because it was easy to spot in a crowd. He was also wearing a red baseball cap emblazoned with the Marine Corps' eagle, globe, and anchor embroidered above the bill. He wanted anyone who might be following him to keep watching for the tall guy in the yellow jacket and red hat. He also wanted to be close to the Key Bridge, the shortest route to Arlington Cemetery. He dashed up the hill, around the corner, and into the restaurant between drops of rain.
As Newman entered the crowded little establishment, the proprietor saw him and motioned him to his favorite corner booth in the back.
“Good evening, Mr. Newman … no friends tonight?”
“Not tonight, Mr. Sudhap. I just came in out of the cold for a big bowl of your famous egg-drop soup.”
“Coming right up!” The owner was as good as his word, and the soup appeared almost instantly, along with a generous portion of crispy rice crackers and a little pot of hot tea. Newman ate quickly, and in less than ten minutes, he placed a ten-dollar bill on the table and got up to leave.
Upon entering he had hung his yellow jacket, with the base
ball cap tucked into a pocket, on the coatrack. But now, Newman unfolded and put on his gray military trench coat and a black Greek fisherman's cap that he pulled from its pocket. No one inside noticed that he was dressed differently than when he came in. “I'll just duck out the back way to avoid the rain,” he said to the owner, who shrugged and pointed the way to the kitchen.
Newman made his way through the swinging doors at the back of the restaurant, past the chefs and servers stirring woks over a huge gas range with steam tables full of vegetables. As he stopped by the rear door to the alley outside, Newman unfurled his umbrella and stepped out into the darkness, wind, and rain.
Keeping the umbrella low over his face, Newman came out of the narrow alley behind the restaurant onto Thirty-third Street, just up from where he had parked his car. But instead of going to the parking lot, he jaywalked across Thirty-third, turned right, and walked up to M, pacing his stride so he'd arrive at the intersection just as the light changed. A crowd of other pedestrians surrounded him as he crossed M Street. Then he turned left on M, melding into the people dressed just like him, and walked briskly down the busy sidewalk toward Georgetown University. He dared not look back, but he was hoping that anyone who might have followed him to the restaurant would still be outside watching the front door of the place, waiting for a person wearing a yellow windbreaker and a red baseball hat to exit the way he went in. Newman also hoped that his pursuers were getting cold and wet.
When he reached the intersection of M and Thirty-fourth, there was a crowd queuing up at the Metro bus stop. He stepped beneath the awning of a jewelry store with a small knot of prospective passengers and removed the newspaper he had taken from his car. While he pretended to read it, he surveyed the busy thoroughfare he had just traversed, looking for any watchers. He saw none.
