Purpose of Evasion

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 boat 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 racing 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.

“Familiar?”

The clerk put her elbows on the counter, her flabby underarms hanging in a catenary to the worn Formica. “Nothing real distinctive about him, is there?” she wondered, solicitously.

Applegate took a ten pound note from his pocket and snapped it between his thumbs and forefingers. “Yes or no?” he demanded impatiently.

“Room two oh six,” the clerk said, snatching the note from Applegate’s hand. “Oh, he’s here all right,” she offered, anticipating the next question.

“How many ways out of here?”

“Main and service,” she replied, indicating a second door at the base of the staircase.

The agents remained in the lobby, covering the exits. Applegate took the lift to the second floor.

It groaned to a jerky stop. He slid the gate back just enough to exit, guiding it closed to keep it from slamming. Shepherd’s room was at the end of the hallway beyond the stair landing. Applegate drew his pistol, walked to the room, and leaned to the scarred door, listening; then he turned the knob slowly. The latch withdrew with a soft clack and the door opened slightly. Applegate sent it smashing back into the wall in the event Shepherd was behind it. The knob bashed a hole in the plaster.

The room appeared empty.

Applegate entered, glancing about cautiously, peered beneath the bed, then advanced toward a closet. He threw open the door, ready to fire.

Shepherd was outside in the hallway, concealed in the angular space beneath the staircase. As soon as Applegate entered the room, he slipped from his hiding place and hurried to the lift.

Applegate was staring into the empty closet when the gate slammed. He whirled at the sound and ran into the hallway in time to glimpse the lift rising behind the decorative grillework. He stepped quickly to the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and shouted. “Hey! Hey, he’s heading for the roof!”

Applegate took off up the staircase, both agents following after him from the lobby below.

Shepherd had sent the lift on its way and returned to the space beneath the staircase. He crouched in the darkened cranny listening to the footsteps approaching; soon they were thundering directly overhead, sending a cascade of dust atop him. He waited until they made the turn on the third floor landing, then he started down the stairs.

The desk clerk was keeping a vigil at the base of the staircase. Shepherd came rocketing past her and made a beeline for her counter.

“Hey! Hey, what the bloody hell are you doing?” she shouted, waddling after him.

He leaned over the counter and snatched the paring knife she used as a letter opener, then charged past her to the street. She lumbered across the lobby to the staircase. “He’s down here!” she bellowed through cupped hands. “The bloody creep’s down here!”

Applegate and the agents had already realized they’d been duped and reversed direction. They came clambering down the staircase and through the lobby to the street, the clerk padding after them.

Shepherd was at the corner, getting into one of the black taxis that patrolled London’s streets like convoys of teeming ants.

Applegate and the agents ran to their car. He opened the door, then paused and slammed it in disgust without getting in. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, sending a frustrated kick into the front tire, which had been slashed.

The taxi turned the corner and drove off.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

“A post office — a busy one,” Shepherd replied, slipping the paring knife into his sock.

“That would be the main off Trafalgar Square,” the driver said, selecting not only a busy but also a distant post office. “Tough morning?” he prompted. “I mean it’s not every day a chap runs from a hotel and slashes a tire.”

“Pardon?” Shepherd said, stiffening. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about that.”

“I saw you right here, I did.” The driver tapped his rearview mirror.

“Better just pull over and let me out.”

“You don’t want me to do that, sir, believe me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d have to tell the police where I dropped you. I could lose my license if I didn’t. Of course, they pay for information. Twenty pounds minimum if it works out, and I have a feeling you’re worth quite a bit more. Maybe fifty, even a hundred.”

“I don’t have that much,” Shepherd replied, getting the driver’s point. “I’ll take my chances on the street. Pull over.”

“I haven’t finished,” the driver replied. “How much were you paying in that hotel?”

“Fifteen pounds.”

“Well, we know you’re not staying there tonight, don’t we? Now, I can put quite a lovely roof over your head for ten; you guarantee me two nights and we all make out. See how it works?”

Shepherd nodded warily. “I’ll think it over.”

“Plenty of time,” the driver replied.

A short time later, he had driven the length of the Strand past Charing Cross Station and turned into Duncannon, stopping in front of a Greek revival structure ringed by huge columns of bloated granite.

“Well?” he prompted, turning to Shepherd.

“Where is this place?”

“On the waterfront. Quiet, no one about. I’ve no doubt you’d find it to your liking, if you follow me?”

Shepherd studied him, wrestling with the decision.

“I’m going that way from here,” the driver went on as inducement, concerned he might lose the sale. “I’ll wait until you’re finished if you like.”

Shepherd nodded and turned to get out of the cab.

“That’s three pounds fifty,” the driver said sharply, resetting the meter.

Shepherd paid him and hurried toward the post office. He was pushing through the door when he saw the taxi’s reflection in the glass, saw the driver turn to the microphone next to him, and begin talking.

A sickening chill came over Shepherd. Was the driver reporting in to his dispatcher or to Applegate? Was he just a hustler making a buck any way he could? Or was he one of them, one of Applegate’s operatives who had slyly ensnared him? But he had picked the cab from several on the street; could Applegate’s people have been driving every one of them? Bet your ass, Shepherd decided. He’s in the post office on Trafalgar Square, he imagined the driver saying to Applegate with a smug smile. Come get him.

As Shepherd crossed the lobby, his eyes darted to a newspaper in a nearby trash receptacle. The headline proclaimed U.S. BOMBERS ATTACK LIBYA. His photograph was one of those that accompanied the story. He fetched the paper, using it to shield his face while he waited in the postal queue. It inched forward at an unnervingly slow pace. At least ten minutes passed before he stepped to the window and mailed the cassette.

A light rain was falling when he came out of the post office. The square was a bustle of homeward-bound office workers, scurrying about Nelson’s Column beneath umbrellas on their way to the Underground. He scanned their faces warily; not one approached or took notice of him; there was no sign of Applegate or the Special Forces agents as Shepherd hugged the facade of rain-darkened stone and peered round the corner.

The taxi driver was slouched behind the wheel, reading a magazine. There was nothing anxious or vigilant about him; nothing to suggest he was anything other than what he appeared to be, Shepherd thought, dismissing his previous anxiety as paranoia. It might be a week before Stephanie got the tape and could take action; furthermore, he had no credit cards and little cash. Deciding it would be more difficult for Applegate to track him down again if he avoided hotels, he hurried through the rain to the taxi.

“Sorry to be so long,” Shepherd apologized as he got in and pulled the door closed after him.

“Does that mean we have a deal?” the driver asked.

“Something you should know, first. Those men were trying to kill me.”

“I didn’t think they had news of an inheritance,” the driver quipped. He put the cab in gear and drove off, the wipers slapping noisily at the windscreen. “By the way, I’m Spencer, Spencer Quait.”

“Smith,” Shepherd replied. “Walt Smith.”

Spencer drove south on Craven to Victoria Embankment, the broad boulevard that snaked along the Thames, then east toward the waterfront into ever-narrowing streets until the stately granite buildings gave way to a russet landscape of abandoned warehouses that lined the approaches to Blackwall Tunnel.

Dusk had fallen by the time the taxi started down a cobbled hill that twisted steeply through thickening fog to an expanse of dilapidated wharves. The decaying timbers rumbled in protest as the taxi proceeded across the dock, stopping next to a lone houseboat lashed to the tarred pilings. The decrepit vessel had a low-slung cabin with canted sidewalls and a rusted pipe rail that ran atop the gunwale. It listed slightly to port, tugging gently at the mildewed hausers, which matched the color of her hull.

“There she is,” Spencer said as they got out of the taxi into the rain. “A coat of paint, a tune-up, and I’ll sell her for twice what I paid; maybe more. In the meantime, she’s all yours.”

“You don’t live here?”

“Not on your life. I have me a flat in Woolwich. That’s on the south bank, just through the tunnel.”

Shepherd’s head filled with the strong odor of creosoate and salt as he followed Spencer up a rickety gangway that swayed over the brackish water.

The slight cabbie opened the padlock, grasped the paint-encrusted hasp, and slid back the door. His hand found the light switch and turned it. Nothing happened. He grunted in disgust. “I must’ve thrown the main last time. Don’t go way.”

He hurried down the gangway and across the dock to an equipment shed that leaned against a power pole, making his way in the darkness to the electrical panel. Shepherd remained on deck until the lights inside the barge came on, then entered cautiously, half expecting to find Applegate waiting for him. He was greeted instead by the bored meow of a battle-scarred tomcat who shouldered past him into the main cabin. It was cluttered with packing crates, cartons of books, overstuffed furniture, a table, and a captain’s chair. The bed was in an alcove opposite the galley. Shepherd was browsing through cupboards stocked with canned provisions when Spencer entered the cabin behind him.

“Two nights payable in advance,” he announced.

Shepherd put a twenty pound note in his hand and studied him for a long moment before releasing it. “How do I know you still won’t tell the authorities where I am?” he finally asked.

“Because I’m a man of my word.”

“Just ask anyone who’s done business with you, right?” Shepherd said, with a thin smile.

Spencer’s eyes flashed with indignation; he whirled to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and removed a pistol.

Shepherd froze at the sight of it.

“I wouldn’t be giving you this if I was planning to go to the police, now would I? Come along, take it,” Spencer insisted, seeing the terror in Shepherd’s eyes. “There are a lot of nasties on the waterfront; too many for my taste. Having this about gives me peace of mind when I’m here working on her. I imagine it might do the same for you.”

Shepherd sighed with relief.

The cabbie gave him a set of keys and left.

Shepherd bolted the door after him then, mentally and physically exhausted, he fell face down on the bed and was asleep before the sound of the departing taxi had faded.

20

“The mad dog American and English whore are leading a barbaric crusade against the Arab world!” Muammar el-Qaddafi shouted, the twisted veins at his temples throbbing. He stood amid the rubble of his headquarters building, a bulletproof vest strapped around his torso.

A crowd of reporters who had been bused from their hotel surrounded him. Behind them, medical teams scurried to care for bombing victims who were being dug out from the rubble and loaded aboard helicopters that would take them to Al Fatah University Hospital.

“They are the two Hitlers behind this act of state-sponsored terrorism!” Qaddafi ranted on, purposely using the phrase from the president’s speech. “But they paid for their crimes! Their bombers were destroyed!” He paused dramatically, then cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned to an aide. “Are the children ready?” he whispered calmly — in sharp contrast to his rhetoric.

The aide nodded and, on cue, two gurneys appeared from within the collapsed walls of Qaddafi’s home. Each contained a heavily bandaged child.

“The Americans are murderers! Child murderers!” he roared, gesturing to the young boys whom he had never seen before in his life. Then he strode toward his tent, which despite several near-misses was still standing.

A phalanx of bodyguards closed in, barring the reporters from pursuing or asking questions, and herded them back onto the buses.

The public relations charade over, Qaddafi entered his tent, where General Younis was waiting along with Reza Abdel-Hadi, head of the SHK, the Libyan secret police. An Akita heeled at his side sprang to a standing position, its tail unmoving and tightly curled.

Moncrieff sat in a chair nearby, still fuming at being left behind by Larkin. He and Katifa had been fished out of the harbor by a navy patrol boat.

The tent was in shambles: books and papers littered the woven floor mats; the steel tent poles had been knocked askew, causing the billowing fabric to sag to the ground in several places; a support cable on one of the light fixtures had snapped and the long fluorescent hovered overhead like a ghostly apparition.

The blue cast of the lighting perfectly suited Qaddafi’s mood. “Anything we can do about this?” he asked, having acquired two essentially useless bombers.

“No, sir,” Moncrieff grunted. “The Americans delivered. We didn’t.”

“But it was Abu Nidal’s doing,” Qaddafi protested halfheartedly. “Why should we be penalized?”

“No hostages, no ANITA,” the Saudi replied with finality. “That was the deal.”

“But the Americans may never even locate the hostages, let alone get their hands on them.”

“Then again they might…” Abdel-Hadi observed, letting the sentence trail off mysteriously. The SHK chief was a sullen, malevolent man in his mid-fifties. Dark, dispassionate eyes hid behind blue-veined lids that rarely blinked. SHK stood for Sahim Hiya Khurriye, literally Preserver of Life and Liberty; and Abdel-Hadi carried out his mission with legendary ruthlessness. “Especially if we help them,” he concluded.

“What are you suggesting?” Qaddafi asked, intrigued.

Abdel-Hadi prompted Younis with a crisp nod.

“Moncrieff and the Palestinian woman weren’t the only ones we pulled from the sea last night,” the general explained. “We netted one of Nidal’s people too.”

The previous evening, the young Palestinian had managed to shed the heavy cartridge belts that were dragging him to the bottom of Tripoli harbor, but the gunboat was gone by the time he surfaced. A Libyan patrol boat plucked him from the oily waters along with Moncrieff and Katifa.

Qaddafi’s eyes flashed at the implication. “He can tell us where they’re taking the hostages,” he enthused. “And we can pass it on to the Americans.”

Abdel-Hadi nodded smugly. “He’s in solitary. We’ll have his cooperation soon.”

“Perhaps some cellmates might help loosen his tongue,” Qaddafi suggested, heading out of the tent, the others following after him.

He and Younis strode to the colonel’s customized transport-panzer which was parked next to the tent, and headed for Okba ben Nafi Air Base.

Moncrieff, carrying a small package under his arm, boarded a helicopter that was taking injured soldiers to Al Fatah University Hospital.

Abdel-Hadi headed for the military prison on the other side of the compound, the Akita heeled next to him on a short leash. A section of the prison had been damaged during the air strike and some of the inmates were being moved. One of them had broken ranks and was running across the grounds toward the wall that enclosed the compound.

Several military guards were in hot pursuit.

Abdel-Hadi called them off and unleashed the Akita. The powerful canine, heir to centuries of breeding by Japanese emperors who prized their fierce loyalty and killer instinct, sprinted across the grounds. The fleeing prisoner heard the animal approaching and whirled. Without breaking stride the 130-pound Akita leapt into the air, clamped its jaws around his throat, and, with an abrupt jerk of its massive head, shredded it. Then as if it had just fetched a stick, the animal bounded back to its master in search of praise.

The SHK chief patted its head and descended into the bowels of the prison, the Akita padding after him. He strutted through the maze of concrete corridors, waving one of the guards to follow him. His nostrils flared at a vile stench as they entered a small room. The walls were lined with wire cages filled with rats, which went into a frenzy at the dog’s presence.

“Brother leader thinks it’s time the Palestinian had some cellmates,” Abdel-Hadi said to the guard slyly.

The helicopter circled to a landing at Al Fatah University Hospital. Paramedics rushed forward with gurneys and began removing the injured Libyan soldiers.

Moncrieff climbed out, carrying his small package. He hurried into the hospital, took an elevator to the third floor, and went to a private room at the end of the corridor. Two military guards posted at the door stepped aside as he approached.

Katifa lay peacefully in the bed. Several hours of surgery were required to remove the bullets that had torn her smooth flesh. She had survived thanks to Moncrieffs heroic efforts and the superb medical technology brought in over the years by oil companies, which had raised health care in Tripoli to near-Western standards.

A nurse was adjusting the flow of an intravenous fluid as Moncrieff entered.

“She’s doing quite well,” the slight fellow said with a reassuring smile. “Aren’t we?”

Katifa nodded and forced a smile.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it,” the nurse teased affectionately, taking Katifa’s pulse before leaving the room.

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 shrugged 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 mission. 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.

When it came to unconventional missions, the DCI knew preventative damage control had its limits. The dangers of revising military records to support an operative’s cover far outweighed the advantages. Kiley had labeled the inviolable rule DDD: documentation destroys deniability.

“No Colonel Larkin, Richard or otherwise, based in the U.K.,” Gutherie’s secretary announced about a half hour later.

The Congressman’s brows went up as she knew they would.

“Quite a guy… Vietnam ace, Special Forces,” she went on, saving the plum for last. “He works in the White House these days.”

“The White House,” Gutherie echoed flatly. “What the hell are they up to now?” He was already irritated over executive branch end runs around Congress. The last-minute notification of the air strike on Libya was only the latest affront. They didn’t even pay lip service to oversight anymore; and lately, he’d heard rumors that Special Forces personnel working out of the Pentagon were carrying out unauthorized covert activities in a number of the world’s trouble spots.

The congressman swiveled to the window and looked out at the Capitol. It was still raining. The flag was heavy with water and hung limply against the pole.

Stephanie and the children had spent the weekend at her parents’ house in Bethesda. After breakfast, she left Laura and Jeffrey, and drove to her home on Andrews Air Force Base; her husband’s luggage was in the den waiting for her and she wanted to be alone.

She lifted one of the pieces onto the desk and opened it slowly. Her head filled with Walt’s scent, which came from within the bag. She savored it, then began gently removing the items, pausing reflectively before putting them on the desk: shaving gear, toiletries, civilian clothing, an old sweater that she crushed to her bosom. She had removed about half the contents when she heard the mail dropping into the box next to the front door.

She paused, welcoming the interruption, and fetched it. Her eyes darted to the pale blue air mail envelope amid the magazines and fliers, darted to Shepherd’s bold printing. She returned to the den, opening the envelope carefully to preserve it, then removed the contents, undid the tissue wrapping, and stared solemnly at the cassette. Walt’s scent was one thing, his voice another, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

The ring of the telephone jarred her.

“Stephanie, you sure about the name of your husband’s commanding officer?” Gutherie asked.

“Yes, yes, I am — Larkin. Colonel Richard Larkin. That’s what they told me when I called Heyford. Why?”

“I have a feeling something strange is going on,” he replied, telling her of his secretary’s discovery and of his suspicions that covert activity was getting out of hand. “Did your husband say or do anything unusual lately?”

“Well, come to think of it, he was always good about keeping in touch. This time was different.”

“Anything else?”

“I just got a tape from him in the mail. He always sent one before flying a mission. I haven’t listened to it yet.”

“Why don’t we do it together?” Gutherie suggested, hearing the uncertainty in her voice. “Who knows, it might shed some light on this.”

Forty-five minutes later the congressman’s black New Yorker was parked in Stephanie’s driveway and the two of them were in the den. Gutherie put the cassette in the tape player and turned it on.

“Thursday, three April. Real pretty up here, babe,” Shepherd’s voice began. The engaging charm of his gentle drawl enfolded Stephanie in its familiar warmth. She stared out the window at a stand of budding Aspen as she listened, almost chuckling at the image of an ice-water-soaked Beethoven. Walt’s reference to his favorite little gymnast coaxed a poignant smile from her. When he got to Brancato growling over poorly cooked pasta, she had almost put the horrible reality out of her mind. But his remarks about the mission wrenched her back abruptly. Her eyes had filled with tears by the time he promised they’d do something special to make up for their anniversary.

Stephanie shrugged, acknowledging that the tape hadn’t shed even a glimmer on the situation, when the selectively edited section began.

“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. I didn’t go down over Libya; didn’t even fly the damn mission. I’m alive but I’m in big trouble and need your help. 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.”

A rush of adrenaline hit Stephanie with staggering force. Her color returned, a sense of joy spreading over her like a warm glow.

Gutherie was rocked; he stood in shocked silence, staring at the tape player.

“Walt’s alive,” Stephanie finally said in a stunned whisper. “He’s alive, alive,” she repeated, savoring the word. Her spirits soared, then came crashing down as the implications of the message hit her, hit her hard, and she turned a frightened look to Gutherie. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I have no idea,” Gutherie mumbled, the words sticking in his throat.

“You said you thought something strange was going on. You asked me if Walt said or did anything unusual. If you know something, please tell me.”

“I did, Mrs. Shepherd. Believe me, I told you everything I know.” The congressman stepped to the desk and picked up the air mail envelope. “It came in this?”

Stephanie nodded solemnly, then shut off the tape.

“It was mailed in London the day after the air strike,” Gutherie observed pointedly, examining it.

Stephanie bit a lip, holding back the emotions that had welled up, then nodded as the pieces began falling into place. “I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, but I had a feeling something wasn’t right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Walt wouldn’t change bases without letting me know, let alone go a week without calling back. We’re a close family; I told you, he always kept in touch.” She paused, as a question occurred to her. “Why would the president say he died in the line of duty?”

Gutherie shrugged, clearly baffled. “I’ll make some calls; see what I can find out.”

Stephanie nodded numbly, struggling to cope with the wrenching swing of emotions; then, her presence of mind returning, she reconsidered. “Wait. Wait, no. I don’t want you to call anyone,” she said firmly.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“You heard what Walt said about not trusting anyone. He said it twice; he must have a good reason.”

“Mrs. Shepherd, I think you can trust me.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, under the circumstances, I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Quite true,” Gutherie mused. “Of course, it’s possible it might have just been a figure of speech.”

“No, I know my husband,” Stephanie said adamantly. “He’s a pilot, a technically precise man; and if he said no one, believe me he meant it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to London; I’m going to do exactly as Walt instructed,” Stephanie replied. Then locking her eyes onto his, she added, “And I expect you to do the same and keep this between us.”

“I can’t say I blame you, Mrs. Shepherd; but it’s obvious something’s terribly wrong. I can’t just ignore it.”

Stephanie broke into a knowing smile. “I realize there may be a hot issue here, Mister Congressman,” she said pointedly, her resolve strengthening with each passing minute. “Just give me some time to get to London and find out what’s going on.”

Gutherie winced, unable to deny that the upcoming campaign had occurred to him, and wrestled with the decision.

“A day or two. I’ll leave tomorrow,” she declared. “Please, I’m afraid for Walt; he sounded so desperate.”

Gutherie let out a long breath and nodded.

24

For three days, the interval between sonar signals had been gradually diminishing.

Following the call from Kiley, Commander Duryea had put the Cavalla on a heading for the Middle East and began hunting for the PLO gunboat.

“Lot of ocean out there,” he prompted McBride.

“Probably hug the coast all the way to Egypt,” the exec offered smartly, assuming the Zhuk would remain in Libyan waters, avoiding the 6th Fleet on station off Benghazi, several hundred miles northeast of Tripoli.

“I’m counting on it. Sixth gets nosy and spooks them, the element of surprise goes out the window and the hostages along with it.”

“Any chance she’ll port someplace to refuel?”

“Negative. She’s carrying two auxiliaries,” Duryea replied, having spotted the deck-mounted tanks while berthed in Tripoli harbor. He stepped to his keyboard and typed the word MAFIA. A graphic depicting a line of undersea SOSUS hydrophones was superimposed on the electronic chart of the area.

The MAFIA net cut across the Mediterranean from Sicily to Misratah, 50 miles east of Tripoli. Each cluster of detectors was encased in a huge tank moored to the bottom and linked to an onshore transmitter by fiber optic cables. The hydrophones picked up the sounds of the sea, its inhabitants, and all vessels that crossed or came within several hundred miles of the net. All data was relayed via FLTSATCOM to SOSUS control in Norfolk, Virginia, for computer processing and storage.

Duryea brought the Cavalla to periscope-antennae depth and sent the following cable on an SHF channel:

Zhuk was a Soviet Navy classification, which meant the gunboat’s basic acoustic signature — a sound fingerprint created by a vessel’s propulsion machinery and hull moving through the water — was already in SOSUS computer files. All contacts that fell within Duryea’s parameters were matched to the specimen signature. The gunboat was identified; its course, speed, and location established and radioed to the Cavalla.

Duryea used the BC-10 to estimate the gunboat’s current position and plotted an intercept course.

“Come to zero eight seven. All ahead full.”

The Cavalla was at 90 feet, 65 miles astern of the gunboat, when Cooperman heard the first sonar echo on the BQS-6 bow array. Primarily a passive collector, the big spherical transducer had single-ping ranging capability. Cooperman fed the data to the BC-10 computer for DIMUS analysis. Digital multi-beam steering processed many signals simultaneously, isolating the sharply defined frequencies, allowing Cooperman to lock onto the unique cavitation of the gunboat’s twin propellers.

Now within striking distance, Duryea was waiting not only for cover of darkness but until an hour when the Palestinians would be asleep. Then and only then would the team of SEALs attempt to rescue the hostages. Duryea was hugging the attack scope, watching the PLO gunboat riding a gently rolling sea, when an alienlike silhouette entered the command center.

Lieutenant Diego Reyes was a fireplug of a man, his black wet suit stretched taut over planes of hard-packed muscle. A laser-honed diver’s knife rode his left calf. Born in a Los Angeles barrio, the cocky Chicano had eagerly traded the world of drive-by shootings for the calculated violence of covert action.

“Ready to deploy, sir,” he reported, as coolly as if announcing dinner was ready. “They have sentries?”

Duryea nodded and stepped back from the periscope, letting Reyes have a look. “Take the conn. I’ll be in section eight,” Duryea said to McBride, using the nickname that the SEALs — thought by some to be certifiably insane — had given their quarters.

Duryea and Reyes made their way to a compartment where five men in wet suits were reviewing deck plans of the Zhuk. Pictures of the hostages and cards displaying phonetically printed Arabic phrases were taped to the bulkheads. Like their leader, the SEALs were young, action-oriented, and driven to flirt with death — a team of disciplined killers for whom the time between missions was torture.

“Two sentries,” Reyes announced, marking the positions on deck plans. “Piece of cake, right?”

“Right!” the group responded spiritedly.

“Wrong. We’re talking religious fanatics here!” Reyes admonished, a slight accent surfacing with his temper. “These ragheads think they’re fighting a holy war. Like God’s on their side or something.”

“Does that mean they go straight to pussy heaven just like us?” a SEAL cracked.

“Yeah, but the word is theirs makes ours look like a weekend pass in a convent. These mother fuckers don’t back down. If they can’t blow you away, they’re gonna get their dicks real wet trying. Got it?”

A cacophony of four-letter wisecracks erupted as the team pulled on hoods and diving masks, and followed Reyes up a ladder and through a hatch into the dry deck shelter, mounted on the exterior of the Cavalla’s hull. A swimmer delivery vehicle hung from a cradle within. Five feet in diameter, thirty feet long, the black SDV resembled a minisubmarine with three open cockpits. Each had two breathing regulators on flexible hoses that were fed by a common scuba unit built into the vessel. Compartments in its sleek plastic hull contained the standard complement of weapons, rope, grappling hooks, and roll-up boarding ladders.

“Go with God,” Duryea said.

“You really think He takes sides?” Reyes asked.

“I’ve heard it said, He takes the good.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Duryea smiled. He left the DDS, locked the access hatch, and then pulled a lever, opening valves that quickly filled the chamber with ice cold seawater. When the aft bulkhead yawned open, Reyes released the tie-down latches and eased the vessel from its cradle. It emerged into the green-black depths, leaving a graceful trail of swirling bubbles behind.

A thousand yards ahead, the churning wake of the Zhuk’s propellers caught the light of a crescent moon that sliced through hazy clouds.

Reyes set the dive planes to neutral and homed the throttle. The SDV accelerated toward the gunboat like a ravenous shark that had just spotted its prey.

Commander Duryea went directly to the Cavalla’s communications room and printed out a message:

The officer on duty scanned it for encoding, got to the sign-off, and questioned Duryea with a look, though he had no doubt of his captain’s intent.

“Send it and shut off the radio,” Duryea replied, making certain it was clear.

UNODIR — an official U.S. Navy acronym — was pronounced “you know dear” and meant “unless otherwise directed.” That the sender’s radio had been turned off to preempt countermanding orders was implicit. UNODIRs were favored by submarine commanders, who, unlike their surface counterparts, were often out of voice contact with their superiors. They were most often used in covert operations, which were Duryea’s specialty. He wholly embraced the navy dictum that with absolute power came absolute responsibility, and knew that by documenting he had taken action without clearing it in advance, a UNODIR didn’t cover his ass but those of his superiors.

When Duryea returned to the command center, the SDV was 15 feet beneath the surface, abreast of the gunboat.

Reyes maneuvered into position just starboard of the hull and signaled to one of the SEALs in the aft cockpit, who fired a spear-gun at the Zhuk’s propellers. The dart-sized projectile was tethered to a net stowed in the SDV. As the tether became entangled in the whirling blades, the net was drawn from its compartment and swiftly sucked into them. Made of Kevlar strands — the material that when woven into fabric can stop a bullet — the net gradually bound both props in a knotted bundle of shredded space-age plastic. And it did so gently and silently, disabling the gunboat without the jolt or racket that a chain or explosive device would have made, waking the crew and alarming sentries.

On the Zhuk’s bridge, the PLO helmsman was staring curiously at the erratically surging tachometer. He had heard no noise to indicate the boat had struck floating debris; he had plenty of fuel, and no reason to suspect the vessel was about to be boarded. He cut back the throttles and the gunboat soon lay dead in the water.

The aft sentry was wondering why they’d stopped when his walkie-talkie came to life.

“I think something’s fouled the props,” the helmsman said, deciding he had plowed into a kelp bed. The thick plankton that flourishes along the North African coast often trapped divers and disabled vessels.

The sentry crossed the deck with a flashlight and was about to peer over the transom when with stunning rapidity, a gloved hand thrust upward; a glint of metal flickered in the moonlight; blood splashed onto the deck in explosive spurts. The sentry pitched forward against the rail, clutching at a gaping slash in his throat that had severed his vocal chords, ensuring he couldn’t scream.

Reyes was standing on one of two boarding ladders the SEALs had hooked over the stern gunwale. He grabbed a handful of the dying Palestinian’s hair and yanked him over the rail into the sea.

Four SEALs followed Reyes up the ladders onto the deck, the sixth remaining behind with the SDV. They separated into two groups and moved up opposite sides of the superstructure toward the bow.

The forward sentry was lighting a cigarette when he heard a short-lived whistle. The barbed, stainless steel arrow covered the distance from speargun to the center of his chest in an eyeblink. He was teeter-tottering, mouth agape in silent agony when three SEALs sprang from the darkness and pitched him over the side.

Reyes was already moving up a short companionway to the bridge. The helmsman was on the radio, trying to raise the aft sentry on the walkie-talkie. He never heard the powerful Chicano slip into the cabin behind him. His last memory was the flicker of light from a loop of hair-thin wire passing in front of his face.

“Grips secured, wrists crossed,” the instructor had exhorted with authority born of experience. “Then over-and-pull with a decisive snap; a tactic that when properly executed will neatly sever head from torso.”

Any doubts Reyes might have had were quickly dashed by the fountain of blood that erupted from atop the helmsman’s shoulders and the sickening thud of his cranium against the steel deck.

Reyes led the way down to the captain’s cabin just aft of the bridge. Accustomed to engine vibrations and the rush of water against the hull, the rotund Palestinian had sensed the quiet and awakened. He was swinging his legs over the side of the bunk when Reyes slipped into the cabin, clamped a hand over his mouth, and put a knife to his throat.

“Tell your men not to resist,” Reyes whispered tensely in phonetic Arabic.

The groggy Palestinian glanced to the gleaming blade and nodded repeatedly, eyes wide with fear.

Reyes dragged him out of the cabin and down the corridor to where the hostages were quartered. He approached the first cabin slowly, quietly, imagining their relief, their joy at having at last been rescued; he turned the latch, opened the door, and peered inside. It was empty. As was the next and the next. Indeed, all he found were a handful of sleeping seamen, who heeded their captain’s warning and offered no resistance.

“They’ve got to be here!” Reyes barked. “Check the stores and engine room! Look for secret compartments!”

The SEALs proceeded to rip up floor hatches and tear out bulkhead and ceiling panels. They nearly dismantled the Zhuk’s interior before finding the blind panel in a passageway, the panel that invisibly sealed the compartment where the hostages were held, the panel that when opened explained why it had been so easy, why the captain had been so cooperative — there wasn’t a single hostage aboard.

25

“Come on, the fucking boat never made port!” Kiley exploded when informed about the hostages. He charged out of his chair and circled toward Larkin. “They’re not there; they’re not in Beirut; what the hell happened? They vanish into thin air?”

“It looks like they were transferred to another vessel en route, sir,” Larkin replied, reddening.

“No shit?” Kiley snapped sarcastically. “Shepherd’s still on the loose; Fitzgerald is who the hell knows where. Not a very impressive performance, Colonel.” He crossed to a sideboard and scooped some ice into a tumbler. “What’s Duryea’s game plan?” he rasped, spinning the cap from a bottle of well-aged Dewar’s.

“He’s requested a KH-11 review for openers, sir,” Larkin replied apprehensively. He knew the need to search videotapes on which spy satellite data was stored — tapes on which the rendezvous between vessels in the Mediterranean had been hopefully recorded — went to the heart of a gritty dispute between intelligence agencies and would further annoy the DCI. Though CIA could request specific KH-11 surveillance, the storage and analysis of raw satellite data was an NSA function.

Kiley groaned, as Larkin expected, and buzzed his secretary on the intercom. Going outside the Company had always been an anathema to him, more so under the circumstances. “Set up a meeting with Lancaster,” he ordered grudgingly. “I need him as soon as possible.”

Barely a minute had passed when the DCI’s intercom buzzed. “He’s available right after lunch, sir,” his secretary reported, “but I’m afraid he’s insisting it be in his office.”

“Fine, fine,” Kiley barked impatiently, the gravity of the situation overriding territorial imperatives.

Several hours later, Kiley and Larkin arrived in the Old Executive Office Building across the street from the White House on 17th and Pennsylvania.

Despite his own conservative tastes, Kiley had always found Lancaster’s office unbearably stuffy and wasted no time in getting down to business. He made no mention of the air strike or debacle in Tripoli harbor in his briefing, explaining only that CIA had learned the hostages were aboard a PLO gunboat and had been transferred to another vessel, thwarting a rescue attempt. “The bottom line is we need a KH-11 fix on the second vessel as soon as possible.”

Lancaster nodded thoughtfully, his dour expression hidden behind a cloud of pipe smoke. The hastily arranged meeting had made him suspect the DCI had been up to something; but being cut out of a hostage rescue operation was well beyond anything he had imagined. “I’ll arrange it,” he finally said.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Not acceptable,” Kiley replied sharply.

Lancaster stared at him blankly for a long moment, drawing on his pipe. “The colonel will be handling liaison?” he finally asked, ignoring Kiley’s reply.

Kiley nodded, bristling with frustration.

Lancaster shifted his look to Larkin. “Tomorrow; Fort Belvoir; oh eight hundred,” he said, rapid-fire. “My people will be expecting you.”

A short time later the DCI’s limousine was on the Beltway, heading back to Langley, when the mobile phone twittered. Kiley sat trancelike, letting it ring, his mind fixed on his old friend Fitzgerald and on the infuriating mystery of the hostages’ whereabouts.

Larkin saw he was preoccupied and answered it.

“Colonel Larkin… Yeah, yeah. You bet I’ll tell him.” He hung up and turned to Kiley. “Surveillance reports Mrs. Shepherd booked a flight to London. She leaves tomorrow.”

Kiley’s eyes brightened. “Everything in place?” he asked, savoring the thought that it might soon be over.

“Yes, sir,” the colonel replied, thinking it had been weeks since he had seen the old man smile.

26

British Airways flight 829 from Dulles made a big looping turn over the Buckingham countryside, coming onto a heading for London’s Heathrow International. The time was 2:37 P.M. when the jetliner touched down and taxied to a stop at a terminal 4 boarding ramp.

Stephanie Shepherd deplaned with a carry-on bag, cleared passport control, and hurried down the green-walled corridor for those not involved with customs.

She didn’t notice a casually attired man in the crowd assembled behind the barrier. He appeared to be meeting arriving passengers and didn’t stand out. Stephanie had no way of knowing that he was waiting for her nor that he would easily recognize her from a CIA-procured snapshot that he palmed.

When certain of her identity, Applegate pocketed the snapshot and nodded to the two Special Forces agents backing him up that he had spotted her.

Stephanie paused to get her bearings, then followed the signs to the taxi queue along the west facade of the building. Moments later, she was tucked inside one of the boxy black cabs heading toward London.

A sedan with U.S. military insignia affixed to the visor came from the restricted parking area adjacent to the terminal. Apple-gate accelerated around a bus that blocked his view and followed the taxi into the thickening stream of vehicles exiting the airport.

About an hour later, Stephanie checked into the Hilton on Park Lane opposite Hyde Park in London’s fashionable Mayfair district. She tried to nap but couldn’t fall asleep and spent the remainder of the afternoon reading in the plainly furnished room. Her mind kept drifting and she was staring out the window at the park far below when the phone rang, startling her.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Shepherd?” Spencer asked, in his mild cockney. He was calling from a street corner booth, which he had done several times daily for the last three days — a routine Shepherd had worked out in the event Stephanie arrived in London prior to the earliest possible date he had estimated. “I’d like to confirm that you called for a taxi?” Spencer prompted.

“A taxi?” Stephanie answered cautiously. She sensed this might be her husband’s way of making contact, but was uncertain how to respond and decided to be truthful. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t believe I did.”

“Actually it was a gentleman who rang me. He gave the name Viper, he did; said to say, Happy anniversary.”

Stephanie’s heart fluttered, any misgivings she had vanishing. “Oh yes, yes, now I remember.”

“Good. The taxi will pick you up at the Hertford Street entrance at precisely six o’clock this evening.”

“Yes, six o’clock,” she replied, her pulse surging. “Hertford Street. I’ll be waiting.”

In the room directly below, Applegate glanced to a CIA communications technician and smiled. Shepherd’s tape had alerted them to where Stephanie would be staying; she had made the reservation at the Hilton prior to departure, and they had had more than sufficient time to learn which room she had been assigned and tap the phone.

Applegate took the elevator to the lobby, crossing to a bookshop off to one side of the entrance. Its open facade afforded a clear view of the entire lobby area.

“She’s been contacted,” Applegate said to the agent stationed there, who was browsing casually through a rack of magazines. After reviewing the details, Applegate left the hotel via the Hertford Street entrance and briefed the second agent, who was stationed in the doorway of a building across the street; then he went to his car, which was parked just down the hill, and waited.

Stephanie was excited and shaken by the message from the mysterious caller. She showered, dressed, and, at exactly 5:55 P.M., slipped into a raincoat and went to the lobby.

The agent in the bookshop saw her leave the elevator. He palmed a small walkie-talkie and clicked it on. “Target is moving,” he reported softly.

Applegate smiled and lifted the microphone from the sedan’s dash. “Hertford Street?”

“Affirmative.”

“Okay. Stay on her,” Applegate instructed. “The taxi may be some kind of diversion.”

Stephanie spun through the revolving door and walked tentatively to the curb. There was no taxi waiting. It seemed like an eternity, though barely a minute had passed before the clatter of a diesel rose and she saw the headlights coming up the hill.

The agent across the street backed into the darkness as the cab rumbled to a stop next to her.

“Please step in, Mrs. Shepherd,” Spencer urged. Shepherd’s description and Stephanie’s clearly anxious demeanor had made her easy to recognize.

“Walt?” she blurted as she opened the door, hoping to find him tucked in the backseat. Her spirits plunged on discovering he wasn’t.

“She’s getting in the cab,” Applegate said into the microphone. “Better move it.”

Stephanie pulled the door closed and perched on the edge of the seat. “My husband, he’s okay?” she said, leaning anxiously toward the driver. “You’ve seen him? He’s alive?” she went on in a rush.

“He most certainly is,” Spencer replied, going on to introduce himself and give Stephanie a note.

Friday, 24 April. Welcome to London, Babe, it began. Stephanie brightened at the sight of Walt’s handwriting. In an economy of words, the note confirmed that Spencer was a friend and outlined precisely what she was to do.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” she prompted, her heart thumping from the surge of adrenaline.

“Soon as I’m sure we won’t be leaving that car behind,” Spencer replied, eyeing the rearview mirror.

Stephanie turned to the window and saw two men getting into a gray sedan down the street. As soon as the doors slammed, the taxi drove off slowly.

The sedan pulled away and followed.

As the taxi made its way south on Park Lane, Stephanie was taken by the glittering cityscape, a tableau of centuries-old buildings that defied the soaring towers of glass and steel. Spencer swung east into Piccadilly, taking Shaftsbury through the theater district to the Holborn Viaduct, which bypassed the City, as London’s financial heartland is called, angling across the boroughs of East Cheapside and Fenchurch, skirting the forbidding streets of Whitechapel, finally turning north into Bishopgate, where the russet colonnade of Liverpool Street Station loomed like a Victorian backdrop.

“Ready?” Spencer asked, as he cruised to a stop in front of the ornate turn-of-the-century edifice.

“Yes, yes, I think so,” Stephanie replied hesitantly.

“You’ll do fine. It’s that one right there,” Spencer said, pointing out one of the many arched entrances. “The one with the big clock.”

Stephanie got out of the taxi and approached the facade of finely pointed brick at an easy pace, easy enough to be followed, as Shepherd’s note had instructed.

The train station was alive with weekend travelers hurrying beneath the delicate latticework of steel and glass that spanned slender cast-iron columns. The space below the rhythmic vaults was brightened by lush ferns cascading from baskets hanging above the platforms.

Stephanie entered beneath the clock, heading for the endless rows of tracks. She was aching to see Walt, wondering if she ever would, her heart thumping so loudly she could almost hear it over the public address announcements that echoed through the cavernous station:

“Miss Moore, Miss Tessa Moore, please meet your party at track twelve… Mr. Colchester, Mr. Nicholas Colchester to a courtesy telephone please… Your attention please, the six-forty express to Cambridge will be departing from track eighteen this evening…”

Shepherd was on a pedestrian bridge above the Bishopsgate colonnade, his eyes riveted to the arched entrance below the clock. The anticipation had been building since Spencer reported he had made contact with Stephanie.

The clock read 6:34 when Shepherd saw her striding beneath it. His head filled with the memory of her scent; he had an impulse to dash down the staircase and embrace her. The sight of Applegate and the two Special Forces agents snapped him out of it.

For once, Shepherd was relieved to see them. All along, he had anticipated that his adversaries would intercept the tape he had sent to Stephanie, and he had shrewedly counted on their zealous bent for manipulation and deviousness to use it against him. He knew that Stephanie would be surveilled until he had been terminated, knew that her watchdogs would let her lead them to him. Shepherd had made that the cornerstone of his plan. Now he knew it had worked.

On the other side of the station, Stephanie was approaching a row of ticket windows where people were standing in long queues. The two agents following her exchanged puzzled looks as she continued past, not buying a ticket as they expected she might. Applegate was in the lead, deftly slipping between travelers to maintain visual contact with her, when the public address announcer intoned, “Major Applegate, Major Paul Applegate, please come to a courtesy telephone. Major Applegate to a courtesy telephone please.”

Applegate stopped walking; no one knew he was there, not Kiley, not Larkin. “Don’t lose her,” he warned the others as he dropped off to take the call.

He had no doubt it was Shepherd.

The numerous courtesy phone locations eliminated the possibility that Shepherd might be waiting for him. Still, as a precaution, Applegate selected the one near the ticket booths, which was in an open area.

“May I help you?” a woman’s voice asked the instant he lifted the receiver.

“This is Major Applegate. I was paged.”

“Ah yes, Major,” she enthused cheerily. “You have a call; please hold. Go ahead, sir,” she said when the connection was made.

“Applegate, this is Shepherd,” Shepherd said in a hard, commanding tone. He was curled in a phone booth just inside the colonnade where Stephanie had entered the station. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Major, and I don’t want to know. I wouldn’t blow the whistle on you if I did. My point is—”

“Where the hell are you, Shepherd?” Applegate interrupted. “What do you think you’re—”

“Shut up and listen, dammit. The point I’m making is you have no reason to kill me. My wife and kids are all I care about. Now, I want you to bring me in; I want me and my family to be given new identities and relocated. You know, like they do with witnesses? That’s what I want. You arrange it?”

“I don’t know,” Applegate replied, caught off guard. “I mean, I’d have to clear it. My people would need assurances that—”

“Then let’s meet somewhere and work it out.”

“Sure, sure we can. How about—”

“Hard Rock Cafe in Mayfair,” Shepherd shot back, beating him to it. “Fifteen minutes.” He hung up and hurried from the booth.

“Shepherd? Shepherd, dammit!” Applegate groaned, slamming the phone onto the hook. He began shouldering his way through the crush of travelers in the terminal to the street, then he sprinted to his car and clambered behind the wheel. He was reaching for the microphone to contact the agents when his eyes darted to the rearview mirror, to the face that had suddenly appeared directly behind him.

“Don’t move, Major,” Shepherd barked, jabbing the pistol Spencer had given him hard against the back of Applegate’s skull. “Hands on the wheel and keep them there.” He reached around from the backseat, where he had been concealed, slipped his free hand inside Applegate’s jacket, and took the Baretta from his shoulder holster.

“What the fuck is this, Shepherd? You said—”

“I lied,” Shepherd retorted. He kept his pistol against Applegate’s neck and pushed the Baretta into his waistband, then leaned over the seat, grabbed the microphone cable, and yanked it out of the dash. “Get moving. Make a left at the next corner.”

“Fuck you; go ahead shoot; shoot me right here.”

“Listen up, Major. One of us is going to do the driving; if it’s me, you wake up with a nasty lump on your head and an even nastier headache. Your move.”

Applegate muttered an expletive, started the car, and drove off into the night.

27

The F-111 that had once had AC MAJ SHEPHERD stenciled on the nose gear door was streaking down Okba ben Nafi’s south runway at 145 knots when the Libyan pilot eased back the stick and the sleek bomber rose into the balmy North African darkness. Its Vietnam-era camouflage had been painted over with a pattern of soft desert browns; all U.S. markings had been replaced by the bold green square of the Libyan Air Force.

“It would be best if they remained unmarked, sir,” General Younis had counseled when Qaddafi gave the order.

“Have you no national pride?” Qaddafi exploded, launching into one of his tirades. “You’re too easily cowed by the Americans. Did you know they sold dozens of these aircraft to the Australians? Dozens. So who’s to say where we got them?” He threw his copy of The Military Balance at Younis and added, “Now you know where to go for spare parts.”

Younis had no choice but to console himself with the knowledge that the F-111s would be flown only at night.

The two aviators in the cockpit were the cream of a mediocre crop from which Younis had selected four crews. Like test pilots in an unfamiliar aircraft they were coping with a barrage of flight and mission data. Twenty minutes after takeoff, the fast-moving bomber was 250 miles from base and closing on its target.

“Thirty miles,” the pilot reported.

“Attack radar engaged,” the wizzo replied, eyes riveted to the Pave Tack monitor, as he manipulated the control handle that swings out from the right sidewall.

Qaddafi and Younis were in the tower at Okba ben Nan with the East German avionics expert, hovering over one of the radar screens, listening to the pilot and wizzo.

SHK Chief Abdel-Hadi sat off to one side, the Akita heeled patiently next to him.

Moncrieff paced nervously behind them. He wasn’t thinking about F-111s, water shortages, or pipelines, but about getting Katifa to Saudi Arabia, where she could safely convalesce. Rejecting commercial flights as too vulnerable to attack by Nidal’s hit squads, he had gone to his family for assistance and one of the Royal DC-9s was due to arrive at Okba ben Nafi shortly.

Qaddafi and Younis flinched as the crackle and hiss from the radio was suddenly broken.

“Twenty miles,” the F-111’s pilot reported. He pushed the throttles to the stops, beginning a high-speed bombing run designed to minimize the time that the plane would spend in hostile airspace.

“They should have acquisition by now,” the bony East German groaned, avoiding Qaddafi’s angry glare.

“Ten miles,” the pilot announced. “Five… four…”

“Blank screen,” the wizzo reported, his eyes darting between the columns of alphanumeric data.

Younis snatched a microphone from the tower radar console. “Save the ordnance,” he ordered, knowing the bombs would miss the target — a defunct oil pumping station in the desert, selected because it was the same distance from Okba ben Nafi as Nefta Dam in Tunisia.

This was the third training sortie in as many nights and, each time, despite the F-111’s being right on target, the Pave Tack program invariably wasn’t.

“I thought you had this solved,” Qaddafi challenged the East German.

“So did I,” the flustered engineer replied. “We’ve checked and double checked every sequence point; the data is accurate and precise; it’s the entry key that we haven’t been able to crack.”

“We’ll just have to wait until the Americans get their hands on the hostages,” Younis counseled softly.

“What about the Palestinian?” Qaddafi demanded, shifting his glowering eyes to the secret police chief.

Abdel-Hadi’s thick brows went up apprehensively. “Nothing. He has a strong will, and I’m concerned we’ll—”

“Find a way to break it,” Qaddafi retorted angrily. He was still smoldering when the pilot of the Saudi jetliner radioed the tower for landing clearance.

Moncrieff had been paying no attention to the others; now, he came to life. “They must have immediate clearance,” he exhorted in an urgent tone.

The air traffic controller glanced at Qaddafi.

Qaddafi nodded sharply. Then making one of his legendary mood shifts, he turned to Moncrieff with a warm smile. “Allah be with you,” he said, embracing him. “Both of you.”

“My apologies for what happened,” Moncrieff replied. “I know how frustrating it has been for you.” He waited until Qaddafi nodded, then hurried to the elevator. At the base of the tower a waiting jeep whisked him across the airfield.

A DC-9, sporting the Saudi royal family coat of arms on the tail, touched down on the west runway and was directed by air traffic control to the military helicopter port. Two royal bodyguards deplaned, joining Moncrieff, who led the way to a Libyan Air Force helicopter. The Soviet-made Mi-8 lifted off and set a course for Al Fatah University Hospital.

At about the same time, a battered van came down University Road in the Al Fatah district and turned into a people’s shopping precinct. It stopped in front of a market where the nurse who had been caring for Katifa was waiting. He got into the van, joining a two-man PLO hit squad, and directed them the short distance to the hospital.

When reporting Katifa’s survival, he had withheld her whereabouts, insisting they meet in Tripoli, at which time he would reveal it in exchange for money.

“She’s in room three seventeen,” the nurse said as they pulled into the parking lot. “But there are…” Before he could finish, one Palestinian had a handful of his hair, the other a knife to his throat.

“Wait, wait,” he blurted as the blade nicked his flesh, sending a drop of blood along the edge of polished steel. “You can’t get to her without me.”

The Palestinians hesitated; they had planned to kill him and keep the money for themselves.

“There are bodyguards — two — outside her room,” the nurse went on, shrinking from the blade. “They’re heavily armed; but I can get—”

“You’re going to get us past them?” the Palestinian with the knife interrupted sarcastically.

“No, no, I can get her past them. I’m her nurse. I will bring her to you. I will bring her right here.”

The Palestinians exchanged looks, clearly pleased at the development, and released him. “Go,” the driver said, throwing open the van door.

“My money, please,” the nurse said nervously, edging toward the door.

“When we have her,” the one with the knife retorted, snapping the blade closed.

“I would have to be a fool to agree to that.”

The driver removed a packet of bills from his jacket and grudgingly gave him half of it.

The nurse pocketed the fistful of cash and hurried across the parking lot in the darkness to the emergency entrance. He put the money in his locker and slipped into a lab coat, then went to the administrative offices.

In Libya, medical care, like education and housing, is fully covered by the government and there was no bill to be paid. The clerk knew Katifa was being discharged that evening and her release papers were ready for her signature. The nurse picked them up and took the elevator to the third floor.

Katifa had shed her hospital gown and robe in favor of jeans, turtleneck, and jacket. She was putting her few personal belongings into a bag when the nurse entered pushing a wheelchair.

“Ah, good, you’re ready,” he said, presenting her with the papers and a pen.

“Is it time?” Katifa asked, puzzled, as she signed them. “I didn’t hear the helicopter.”

“You’re going to the airport by van.”

“Are you sure? Moncrieff said a helicopter.”

“There must have been a change of plans. He’s waiting for you in the parking lot with a van,” the nurse replied coolly as Katifa limped to the wheelchair. He helped her into it, slung the strap of her bag over his shoulder, and rolled her to the elevator.

One of the guards accompanied them to the ground floor, where they exited into a lobby area. “Would you take these to administration?” the nurse asked, handing him the release papers. As the guard strode off, the nurse wheeled Katifa down a corridor that led directly to the parking lot. The doors opened automatically and he continued through them without breaking stride, pushing the wheelchair into the night.

Katifa was looking about anxiously for Moncrieff when the Palestinians emerged from the darkness. She gasped at the sight of them, her hand tightening on the pistol in her jacket. She had the element of surprise and decided to keep it, waiting until they were at point blank range before squeezing the trigger. The bullet caught one of the Palestinians in the center of his chest, knocking him back against the van. The other recoiled in surprise, his eyes darting to the smoking hole in the pocket of Katifa’s jacket. He was armed but hesitated an instant before drawing his pistol; not because he had qualms about killing her but because Abu Nidal had ordered otherwise, and the weapon in his hand was a pentothal-filled syringe.

Nidal hadn’t sent them to kill Katifa but to bring her back to Beirut. Despite her apparent disloyalty, she had written Intifada, had fought long and hard for the Palestinian cause; and as her adoptive father, Nidal wanted to hear her side before taking extreme measures. At the least, he would learn what position others who had attended the fateful meeting at Assad’s villa in Damascus had taken.

The Palestinian hesitated no more than a second or two, but it was long enough for Katifa to pull the trigger again. He fell to the ground mortally wounded and lay motionless next to his colleague. The syringe dropped from his hand and went rolling across the macadam. Katifa glanced behind her for the nurse, but he had run when the first shot rang out and was long gone. She was getting out of the wheelchair when she heard the rising whomp of the helicopter.

It came in over the hospital at a steep angle and landed in a designated area in a corner of the parking lot. Moncrieff and the two Saudi bodyguards were coming down the steps when Katifa limped into the helicopter’s headlights.

“Hit squad,” she called out over the rotors.

Both bodyguards produced Uzi machine guns from beneath their jackets and secured the area while Moncrieff helped her up the steps into the helicopter.

Fifteen minutes later they were at Okba ben Nafi Air Base. Moncrieff settled Katifa in the elegant compartment aft of the cockpit as the Royal DC-9 began rolling down the long runway. It lifted off and banked sharply to the east, coming onto a heading for the Arabian peninsula.

The whine of the jet’s turbofans was a perfect match to the chilling scream that echoed through the prison beneath the Bab al Azziziya Barracks. It wasn’t a short, sudden outburst born of fright, but a prolonged, desperate bellow of excruciating pain.

The Palestinian lay naked on the floor in a corner of a pitch-black cell. He was curled in a fetal position to protect his face and genitalia from further assault by his cellmates — cellmates ordered placed there by Abdel-Hadi, who knew that the solid steel door, which kept the light out, would also keep the hungry rats in.

The young terrorist shivered with fear, listening to them scurrying about in the darkness. Soon, the scratch of claws on concrete quickened. He swept a hand blindly across the floor, batting away the vile attacker; he smacked it aside again and again, until he finally clamped his fist tightly around the snarling rodent’s torso. The frantic animal dug its claws into his palm trying to get loose. He smashed it against the floor repeatedly, until blood oozed between his fingers and the crunch of bones had become a pulpy thump. He had just tossed the limp carcass aside when he felt a stabbing pain in his buttock. Razor-sharp teeth tore loose a piece of his flesh and the snarling rat scurried off with its prize as another chilling scream echoed through the prison.

Abdel-Hadi was still smarting from Qaddafi’s reprimand when he arrived at the barracks compound. He went directly to the prison and entered an interrogation chamber where a guard was waiting.

“Is that the Palestinian?” Abdel-Hadi asked.

The guard nodded.

“Fetch him,” the SHK chief ordered. “We should have a chat before the rats get his tongue.”

28

Moments after Shepherd had captured Applegate outside Liverpool Station, Stephanie, who had continued walking to the opposite side of the building, approached the Broad Street colonnade. The two Special Forces agents were following close behind.

Spencer had slowly circled the building in his taxi. Now he spotted her coming from the station and, perfectly timing his arrival, came to a stop just as she reached the curb. Stephanie got in without breaking stride and the taxi drove off.

One of the agents hurried to the street for a taxi, but those for hire were all properly queued on the opposite side of the building. The other agent hurried back through the station in search of Applegate and discovered the sedan was gone.

It was a few blocks away on Middlesex, nearing Commercial Road, when the radio came to life. “Major? Come in, Major,” the agent’s voice crackled. “She’s back in the cab. Major, do you read?”

Shepherd was in the backseat of the sedan, holding the gun on Applegate and smiling with relief at the bewildered voice. As he had planned, Stephanie was safely back in the taxi and he had Applegate where he wanted him. Soon the sedan was snaking between the warehouses; then the drumbeat of cobblestones rose as it started down the winding hill, thundering across the desolate wharves to the barge.

Shepherd prodded Applegate up the gangway into the cabin and shoved him into the captain’s chair.

“Let’s see some ID,” Shepherd ordered.

Applegate scowled, removed his wallet from his jacket, and threw it on the table. It was a large travel type. Along with the usual cash, identification, and credit cards, it also contained his pilot’s license and passport.

“You bastard,” Shepherd said with disgust, coming upon Applegate’s military ID. He had been hoping he would find evidence to the contrary, something to dispell the ugly implications.

Applegate shrugged impassively.

“That won’t cut it, Major,” Shepherd warned, his drawl thickening with anger and indignance. “If I’m going to die for my country, it better damn well be in my one-eleven. Now you’re going to tell me what the hell this is all about.”

“And you’re going to kill me if I don’t,” Applegate retorted with weary insolence.

“I might.”

“Either way you lose, Shepherd.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Shepherd shot back, matching his smug tone. “You ever thought about being a cripple, Major? A paraplegic? Maybe a quad?” He had the pistol aimed at Applegate’s forehead; now he began slowly lowering it. “I knew a pilot once; flew over a hundred sorties in Nam without a scratch; he wasn’t home a week when he got rear ended on the freeway.” The muzzle came to rest against Applegate’s kneecap. “Whiplash; paralyzed from the neck down.” Shepherd’s eyes narrowed to vengeful slits as he squeezed the trigger. The pistol fired, emitting a blinding flash and loud report.

Applegate lurched and let out an involuntary gasp before it dawned on him that the bullet had missed, that Shepherd had purposely moved the gun off line. The bullet blew a hole in the chair, sending up a shower of splinters between his legs.

Shepherd pressed the muzzle against Applegate’s knee again. “I asked you a question, Major.”

Applegate glared at him.

Shepherd held the look for a long moment, waiting, waiting, letting the tension build, letting the weapon dig into Applegate. The sweat on the Major’s forehead began rolling down his face; his mouth turned to cotton, his tongue flicking nervously at his lips.

“Something you want to say, Major?” Shepherd taunted.

Applegate’s lips tightened into a defiant line.

Shepherd thought back to that terrifying day in Hey ford. The sickening memory of blood and brains that had suddenly filled the air, spattering his face and flight suit, consumed him as he methodically pulled the trigger again.

The bullet creased the inside of Applegate’s thigh. He groaned, his hands clutching his pants as blood seeped through the torn fabric from the burning wound in his flesh; then through clenched teeth he finally rasped, “Qaddafi wanted a couple of one-elevens,”

“You gave my one-eleven to Qaddafi?” Shepherd exploded, his eyes ablaze with anger. “Why?”

“I was following orders.”

“So were the Nazis. You killed a fellow officer in cold blood; been trying to kill me. I want to know why!”

Applegate’s eyes darted anxiously to the gun. “Qaddafi can’t make any trouble with them.”

“Keep talking, Major,” Shepherd snapped, punching the muzzle into Applegate’s other kneecap.

“We had a deal put together,” Applegate continued, clearly in pain. “Qaddafi didn’t hold up his end so we held back ANITA.”

“Who’s we?” Shepherd demanded. “Who?”

Applegate shook his head no, stonewalling.

Shepherd pulled the trigger and blew another hole in the wood between his legs.

“CIA,” the Major answered. “Kiley’s been off his nut over the Fitzgerald thing.” In nervous bursts he went on to explain how and why the F-111 s were delivered to Libya, concluding, “The bottom line is Qaddafi gets one-elevens, the Palestinians get a sanctuary, we get the hostages.”

Shepherd gasped. He was beyond being shocked now. A lifetime of unquestioning patriotism had just been destroyed. A few moments passed before he reached under the table and removed the voice activated tape recorder from the sling that held it in place. “Anything you want to add?” he asked in a weary tone, setting it on the table in front of Applegate.

The Major winced at the sight of it and glowered at him in silent hatred.

Shepherd held the look; then hearing the rumble of tires on the wharf, he glanced out the window to see the taxi’s headlights cutting through the darkness.

Applegate took advantage of the distraction and leapt to his feet, shoving the table into Shepherd, who went reeling backward, losing his grip on the pistol; it went skittering across the deck along with the tape recorder. Applegate scrambled after the gun, scooping it up on the move. Shepherd took cover behind the bulkhead that separated the main cabin from the galley just as Applegate opened fire.

Outside on the wharf, the taxi came to a stop next to Applegate’s sedan. Stephanie and Spencer were just getting out when the crack of gunshots shattered the silence. A bullet struck one of the barge’s windows, sending a shower of glass onto the dock.

“Walt! Walt! Oh, my God!” Stephanie cried out, lunging toward the gangway.

Spencer grasped her arm and pulled her behind the taxi as an exchange of shots rang out.

A tense silence followed.

It was broken by the rumble of the barge’s old door sliding back. A figure emerged and started down the gangway in the darkness, reaching the bottom before a shaft of light illuminated Applegate’s face.

Stephanie paled at the sight of him.

Applegate stumbled across the dock, heading for the sedan, heading right for Stephanie and Spencer, who were crouching between it and the taxi. They froze with terror as he raised the pistol at point blank range. A single crisp report, a blue-orange flash that came from behind Applegate, split the night. The big man stiffened, swayed, and collapsed onto the wharf.

Shepherd lowered the Baretta he had taken from Applegate earlier, and hurried down the gangway. Stephanie let out a cry of joy and ran toward him. He embraced her, his head filling with her familiar scent. They clung fiercely to each other.

Spencer was bent over Applegate’s lifeless body. The bullet that felled him was the last of three that had found their mark, and the major was near death.

“He’s barely breathing,” Spencer announced. “You want me to take him to a casualty room?”

Shepherd considered it for a moment and scowled. “It’d serve him right if we threw him over the side,” he replied, gesturing to the Thames.

“You’ll be no better than he is if you do that,” Stephanie admonished.

“Yeah, I guess,” Shepherd said somewhat grudgingly, knowing she was right. “Besides, even if he pulls through, he won’t be in any shape to make trouble.” He and Spencer took hold of Applegate and loaded him into the backseat of the taxi. “Better say you found him in the street,” Shepherd warned before the cabbie drove off.

Shepherd stood there clinging to Stephanie, watching the clattering diesel climb the hill and disappear into the night. This certainly wasn’t the first time he had killed, but it was the first time he had done it face to face, the first time he hadn’t been insulated in his cockpit. He shifted his eyes to a small pool of blood on the wharf and stared at it for a long moment before he led Stephanie up the gangway into the barge.

The cassette recorder was lying on the floor of the cabin along with Applegate’s wallet and ID. “It’s all right here,” Shepherd said, retrieving the recorder. He saw Stephanie’s bewildered look and gently put a fingertip to her lips to stem the barrage of questions he knew was coming. “In the morning, okay?” he asked softly. He took her hand, crossed to the alcove, and collapsed onto the bed. They burrowed beneath the mound of wool blankets, their arms and legs entwined, torsos pressed together, breathing in unison and listening to each other’s heartbeats.

“The kids with your folks?” he finally whispered.

Stephanie nodded.

“What did you tell them?”

“I said I needed to get away for a few days to put myself back together,” she explained, her voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t want to get their hopes up. I mean, I was going crazy. I knew you were alive but I was so afraid something would happen to you before I got here. I…” she paused, her eyes brimming with tears. “I love you so much,” she whispered.

They clung to each other for hours before their anxiety subsided and their passions rose. Soon they were inside each other’s clothing, his hands moving over the familiar swells of her body, hers gently grazing his bruised flesh, soothing the pain, releasing the pent-up tension. Several weeks had passed since they were last lovers, but the intervening events made it seem like an eternity. Grieving one minute, making love the next, they soared to moments of pure joy that crested in an electrifying affirmation of life; then, satiated and wracked with exhaustion, they collapsed into each other’s arms and slept.

In Washington, D.C., dusk was falling when one of the Special Forces agents called Kiley from London to report that Shepherd had eluded them and that, after mysteriously vanishing from Liverpool station, Applegate had turned up dead on arrival at The London Hospital. “Better screw the lid down as tight as we can, sir,” the distraught agent concluded.

Kiley listened in thoughtful silence, his mind racing through the myriad of moves and countermoves like a chess master. “Maybe not,” the DCI finally said, enigmatically. “After forty years in this game, I’ve learned that sometimes, sometimes, the very thing we’re trying so desperately to hide is precisely what ought to be revealed.”

The following morning in London, a cool, clear dawn broke over the Thames as the waterfront began coming to life, the slow-moving traffic gently rocking the river barge.

The haunting sounds that came through the windows were soon rudely joined by a voice, a familiar voice, a grating voice that drummed at Shepherd in his sleep. No! No, it can’t be, he thought, convinced beyond doubt he was in the throes of a cruel nightmare. Try as he might to shut it out, Applegate’s voice droned on, the insolent tone filling Shepherd with anger and fear. He suddenly sat bolt upright in the bed, emitting an anguished cry. His eyes wide with terror, he tried desperately to focus on the hazy figure hovering over him.

“Easy, hon,” Stephanie said, embracing him comfortingly. “Easy. It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

But it wasn’t; despite her presence, despite her assurances, the voice continued.

Shepherd’s eyes soon focused on his tape recorder atop a small built-in dresser next to the bed. “The tape,” he said with an immense sigh of relief. “You’re listening to the tape.”

Stephanie nodded, eyes full of compassion and concern, knowing now all that he had been through. She shut off the tape, draped a blanket over his shoulders, and kissed him lovingly; then she fetched them both a cup of coffee from the galley.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Shepherd said, sipping from the steaming mug. “Our own people—”

“I know,” she replied glumly. “Your commanding officer works in the White House.”

“Larkin?”

Stephanie nodded.

“A little detail Major Applegate forgot to mention,” Shepherd observed, thinking he was going to need every piece of ammunition and data he had amassed.

He gathered Applegate’s wallet, credit cards, passport, and identification, which were strewn across the floor, and put them in a manila envelope along with his tape recorder and the cassette containing Applegate’s account of the conspiracy. He was about to add the strip of snapshots of him holding the signed newspaper when he paused thoughtfully, then fetched a pair of scissors from the galley and cut one snapshot from the strip.

“Hang onto this,” he said, giving it to Stephanie. “Anything happens to me you can—”

“Walt,” she protested.

“Just in case. You can use it to prove I was alive and well the day after the air strike.”

They left the barge, got into Applegate’s car, drove along the waterfront to Knightsbridge, in London’s West End, and parked in a multilevel garage around the corner from the Underground. A sense of exhilaration at having prevailed came over Shepherd as they hurried toward Bowater House, the modern office tower on Knightsbridge Road opposite Hyde Park, where CBS News was located.

CBS was the network of Murrow, Severeid, and Cronkite, the network that had exposed McCarthy, that had damn near invented electronic journalism and, for decades, had set standards of quality and integrity for the industry. Shepherd imagined the stunned reactions, the buzz of excitement as a dead man walked into the newsroom; imagined the lead story that evening as Dan Rather, with patented, thin-lipped gravity, would reveal the ugly conspiracy to the nation and world.

Stephanie sensed his mood and tightened her grip on his hand as they approached the building, its horizontal bands of gray granite and steel mullions in stark contrast to its Victorian neighbors. At the newstand on the corner of Sloane, Shepherd’s eyes darted to his photograph on the front page of the London Times and a headline that proclaimed: PILOT THOUGHT DEAD, A DESERTER; KILLS USAF OFFICER.

Shepherd stared at it in disbelief. “Better buy one,” he finally said to Stephanie in a hoarse whisper. He led the way to Hyde Park, the seemingly endless expanse of greenery in central London, where they settled on a bench and read the story:

In a bizarre mix-up that has baffled U.S. Air Force officials, informed sources have told the Times that Major Walter Shepherd, reportedly killed during the raid on Libya, had actually gone AWOL moments before he was scheduled to take off in his F-111 bomber. Believed upset at having to fly a combat mission with a new weapons systems officer, the thirty-seven-year-old veteran of the Vietnam conflict failed to appear on the flight line. The last-minute switch of crews had apparently confused Air Force public information personnel, who referred to the original mission roster when releasing the names of pilots and weapons systems officers whose bombers had been shot down by Libyan surface-to-air missiles. Times sources have also learned that last night Major Shepherd allegedly shot and killed Major Paul Applegate of military intelligence, who had tracked him down. Though critically wounded, Major Applegate evidently managed to escape from his attacker and was found unconscious on an East End street by a taxi driver who took him to hospital. However, he expired before casualty room doctors could administer treatment. At press time officials were still trying to piece together other details of the story.

Shepherd looked up from the paper, feeling as if he had been kicked in the groin. “They took it away from us,” he finally said, the color draining from his face as he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“The truth. It threatened them, scared the hell out of them,” he said, briefly savoring the idea. “They were terrified someone would find out I was alive before they could kill me. But not anymore. The bastards turned the whole damn thing around.”

“So what?” Stephanie replied, undaunted, trying to bolster his spirits. “The story has obviously been planted; the air force doesn’t know if it’s true or—”

“That’s my point. The moment I surface, I confirm it. I’ll be arrested, charged with desertion, charged with murder; anything I say will be seen as an alibi, as something I cooked up to cover my butt.”

“But it’s the truth.”

Shepherd shrugged. “I can’t prove it. I mean, it’s all so damned absurd. Who’d believe it?”

“You have the tape—”

“They’ll claim I forced Applegate to make it. Hell, the truth is I did. You heard it, so will they. Then they’ll say I killed him to shut him up.”

“Your word against theirs. What about a lie detector? Wouldn’t that—”

“Steph,” he interrupted. “Did I fly that mission?”

“No.”

“Did I kill Applegate?”

“Uh huh,” she replied dejectedly, seeing where he was headed.

“Exactly what they’re saying; the rest are shadings, details. The bottom line is I’m looking at a court martial no matter how I slice this. If I lose, I face a firing squad…” He let the sentence trail off forebodingly, then added, “Assuming I’m not killed resisting arrest.”

They looked at each other forlornly.

“You can’t run forever,” she finally said.

“And I can’t come forward unless I can prove what’s on that tape.”

“How?”

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” he said, intrigued by the audacity of the thought. “Get back my plane.”

29

The morning after the meeting in Lancaster’s office, Larkin drove to Fort Belvoir in Virginia to begin the search for a Mediterranean rendezvous between the PLO gunboat and a second, mystery vessel. The top-security installation where KH-11 data was monitored and recorded was located 10 miles south of Alexandria.

After identifying himself, Larkin was given a security badge and taken to a computer room where a technician waited.

The KH-11 satellite that had been spying on Tripoli and surrounding areas transmitted high-resolution color images by day and infrared images by night to the huge antenna atop the concrete blockhouse. The data was recorded and stored on videotape. Each of the special-sized cartridges covered a twenty-four-hour period.

The technician had a half-dozen stacked next to a high-speed videotape analyzer that was tied into Fort Belvoir’s powerful Cray Y-MP supercomputer. The data on the cartridges covered the time between the failed hostage exchange and the discovery that the hostages weren’t aboard the gunboat, the time during which they had been transferred to another vessel.

The technician loaded the first cartridge into the analyzer, then programmed the computer to ignore all land-based data, instructing it to search for two vessels side by side in open sea.

Since each frame of videotape depicted a large section of the Mediterranean, the technician further instructed the computer to break the frames down into grid squares and analyze them individually, starting with Tripoli harbor, working north, and east to west. The images were blown up and viewed on a 1,250 line per inch video monitor that provided twice the resolution of a standard television set.

That was two days ago.

Now in the center of the screen two elongated specks stood out against the dark texture of the sea. The technician typed on his keyboard and the infrared image on the monitor began zooming in slowly; the dark specks kept increasing in size until two hazy shapes filled the screen. The oblong blobs were heavily textured but devoid of definitive pictorial detail.

“Might be something,” the technician said.

Larkin shrugged, unconvinced; the hostage debacle had plunged him into an angry depression and the news of Applegate’s death had made it worse.

The technician typed another instruction. “For our purposes, we can assume those blobs are vessels,” he explained. “At supercomputer speed — that’s billions of operations per second — the image-enhancement program will compare groups of data particles against a library of known shapes, objects, and details. In this case I’ve programmed it to deal only with seagoing vessels of certain classifications. It begins with the general and proceeds to infinitesimal detail.” He nodded to the monitor, where the image had begun gaining definition. In moments the fuzzy details had resolved into the distinct, clearly identifiable decks of two vessels.

Larkin just about gasped when he saw them.

It was so simple, so obvious, so perfect, he thought. He could hardly believe his eyes. There on the monitor was the PLO gunboat and next to it — goddammit, connected to it by a gangway on which the infrared images of cowed men could be seen walking — was a submarine.

“Clever bastards,” Larkin said bitterly.

Indeed, while intelligence operatives were searching every slum and hellhole in the Middle East for the hostages, Abu Nidal had shrewdly hidden them beneath the sea. For countless months they had been cruising the Mediterranean’s inky depths — and they still were.

As he did every night before leaving the office, Bill Kiley was watching the network news. That morning he had paused longer than usual in front of the memorial wall in Langley’s lobby. Applegate’s death had ruined whatever satisfaction he had derived from neutralizing Shepherd; the thought that another star, an anonymous one, would soon be engraved in the Georgia marble had intensified his gloomy mood. He was cursing the media’s antiadministration bias when his secretary told him Larkin was on the line.

“That’s great news, Colonel,” he said enthusiastically when Larkin told him the hostages had been located on a submarine. “We can thank the Syrians for this one.”

“Syrians, sir?”

“Damn right. Moscow sold them some Romeos a couple of years ago; three to be exact. That explains why Nidal can’t make a move without clearing it with Assad first.”

“Well, if anyone can find that sub, it’s Duryea,” Larkin said encouragingly.

“I’m counting on it,” Kiley replied, tilting back in his chair, entertaining an idea. “Hold on for a minute.” He swiveled to his computer terminal and typed in ROMEO. A directory appeared on the screen. He scrolled through it and found the file he wanted. “How soon can you leave for the Mediterranean?”

“Tonight,” Larkin replied, brightening at the chance to get out of the DCI’s doghouse and back into the field.

“Good. I have something one of our people picked up that I think Duryea will find useful. It’ll be at Andrews when you get there. Stay on top of this,” Kiley urged. “Get Fitz the hell out of there for me.”

30

The turn of events had hit Shepherd with devastating impact. He and Stephanie abandoned Applegate’s car, took the Underground back to the East End, and returned to the barge. Though the major was no longer a problem, Shepherd had no doubt that along with CIA and the military police, every law enforcement agency in Europe would be on the lookout for him. Despite that, he knew exactly how he would get out of England; however, he had no idea how he was going to get back his F-111, let alone get into Libya.

“We could ask Gutherie,” Stephanie suggested.

“The congressman?”

Stephanie nodded.

“I don’t know,” Shepherd replied, wrestling with it. “How do we know he isn’t owned by the CIA?”

“He’s their watchdog; chairs the Intelligence Committee. And he’s been part of this from the start.”

“What do you mean from the start?”

“It was Gutherie who found out Larkin works in the White House,” she replied, explaining the circumstances that led to his listening to the tape with her.

Shepherd thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but don’t tell him any more than you have to.” He remained on the barge while Stephanie went up the hill to a phone booth and made a collect call to Washington, D.C.

Several days had passed since the congressman and Stephanie had listened to the tape. The possibility that the tape would provide him with a high-profile campaign issue had ended abruptly with the reports of Shepherd’s desertion and murder of Applegate.

Gutherie had just returned from the Capitol when his secretary asked if she should accept a collect call from Mrs. Shepherd in London.

The congressman nodded emphatically and lifted the phone. “Mrs. Shepherd,” he said sadly when the connection was made. “I’m sorry things turned out for you the way they did.”

“They’re vicious lies,” Stephanie retorted sharply.

“I don’t understand,” Gutherie replied, surprised by her brusqueness and tone. “If that’s the case, why hasn’t your husband come forward and told his side of it?”

“He can’t. Not until he has proof.”

“You’re with him?”

“We’ve made contact,” she replied evasively. “Can you help him get into Libya?”

“Libya? Why?”

“I don’t have time to explain now. Yes or no?”

“It’s impossible. They no longer have an embassy in the U.K. Besides, the president’s ordered everyone out. Libya is off-limits to Americans.”

“What about Tunisia?” she asked, turning to a backup destination Shepherd had selected.

“That wouldn’t be a problem. Tunisia doesn’t even require a visa for entry. You know, for what it’s worth, you might try a place called D’Jerba Island,” Gutherie suggested. Just off Tunisia’s southeastern coast, the legendary home of the lotus eaters — where Ulysses landed more than 3,000 years ago — had recently acquired an international airport and modern tourist facilities, and was a thriving resort and convention center.

“Gerber, like in baby food?” Stephanie prompted.

“No. It’s D apostrophe J-e-r-b-a,” Gutherie replied, spelling it out. “I attended a conference there a few years ago. It’s about as close to Libya as you can get without living in a tent; and if I remember correctly, in those days there was a small Libyan Embassy in one of the convention complexes.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass it on to my husband. It’s important you still keep this to yourself,” Stephanie cautioned firmly. “You understand?”

“Not really, no,” the congressman replied curtly. “Not without knowing why.”

“Walt will be killed if they find him.”

“If who finds him?” he asked, sensing the issue he sought was still viable. “Come on, what’s going on?”

“You were right about covert activity getting out of hand. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You’re not making this easy.”

“I just told you they’ll kill him. Please.”

“Okay,” Gutherie said, moved by her desperate tone. “But I can’t sit on it forever.”

“Thanks.”

“I still wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

Stephanie wrestled with it in silence for a few seconds, then slowly lowered the receiver onto the hook.

Gutherie heard the line go dead. He was sitting there, staring out the window, when it occurred to him that there was one other person who might know.

Stephanie returned to the barge and briefed Shepherd on the conversation. He nodded thoughtfully when she finished, then began rummaging through the cartons of books stacked in the cabin. Several were filled with oversized volumes, and one contained an atlas. Shepherd pulled it free, then turned to the map of Tunisia and located D’Jerba Island. “The congressman’s right. It can’t be more than fifty miles to the Libyan border,” he observed, brightening. “Remind me to thank him when I see him.”

“That’s a promise,” Stephanie said, smiling; then her eyes drifted to Applegate’s ID on the table, next to a sheet of paper on which Shepherd had been practicing his signature. “Are you sure about using those?” she asked. “He’s been in the papers, on TV. It’s not a common name; someone might recognize it.”

Shepherd nodded knowingly. “But not as easily as they’ll recognize mine. Just better odds this way; and I have a couple of ideas how we can make them even better.”

They waited until it was dark before they went up the hill to a men’s shop on Kerbey and bought Walt some clothes: casual slacks, a sport jacket, shoes, shirts, underwear, and a small travel bag.

Then they split up.

Stephanie headed for a row of shops down the street that sold used books.

Shepherd walked a few blocks to the automated snapshot booth he had used previously. He took three sets of pictures, changing his shirt for each.

Next stop was a self-service copy shop on Montague where he cut a picture from each strip, backed them with scotch tape, and affixed them to Applegate’s pilot’s license, passport, and military identification. Then, he made color Xeroxes of all three, trimmed the military identification and pilot’s license to size and heat-sealed them in plastic at an adjacent machine.

The passport was more difficult: the personal data and photograph were on the inside front cover under a toned laminate. Anything pasted over it would obviously abut the stitching that held the pages; but the matte surface laminate was smaller than the cover, leaving a border around the three edges and the sewn spine.

Shepherd returned to the barge and trimmed the Xerox, coated the back with spray adhesive he had purchased at the copy shop, and positioned it on the inside cover of Applegate’s passport over the laminate.

The alteration of all three pieces of ID, which once would have taken an expert forger several days to accomplish, was completed in just over an hour.

Stephanie couldn’t find the publication she sought in the used book shops. One proprietor sent her to a shop in Charing Cross that specialized in military publications. There she finally found several tattered copies of a 1969 U.S. Air Force orientation manual for Wheelus Field, now Okba ben Nafi Air Base. After making her purchase, she hurried to a street corner phone booth, settled in with a handful of coins, opened the Yellow Pages to Airlines, and began dialing.

“British Airways, reservations,” a cheery voice answered. “How may I help you?”

In Washington, D.C., Bill Kiley was packing up the three briefcases he took home each night. The discovery of the hostages’ whereabouts had bolstered his spirits; something had finally gone right and he felt like celebrating. He called his wife and suggested they meet at their favorite restaurant for dinner. He was on the way to the elevator with his bodyguard when his secretary caught up with him.

“COMINT just sent this up,” she said with a smile, handing him a computer printout. The acronym, shorthand for Communications Intelligence, referred to the department responsible for intercepting electronic communications. Monitoring computerized airline reservation systems was but one of its many activities.

The printout was a list of commercial air carriers, flight numbers, departure and arrival information, and dates; the name Walter Shepherd was next to each.

“Damn,” Kiley said admiringly. “He’s booked on every flight out of the U.K. for the next week.”

“Twenty-seven,” she replied. “Departures from six different airports, eighteen destinations.”

Good but not good enough, he thought, brightening. Things sure were going right.

“Put it on the global net,” he instructed. It was just a matter of time now; every airport, every flight would be covered. It didn’t matter which one he actually took. Shepherd was history.

31

After informing Kiley that the hostages had been transferred from the gunboat to a submarine, Larkin left Fort Belvoir, taking Route 1 north through Alexandria.

Forty minutes later, he crossed Memorial Bridge into the District. He had plenty of time to stop at his apartment, pack a bag, and catch the late shuttle out of Andrews. The Capitol dome glistened in the late afternoon light as he cut across 23rd to Virginia Avenue and pulled into the garage beneath his high-rise.

He parked in his assigned space and had taken a few steps toward the elevators when a voice rang out.

“Colonel Larkin?” The words echoed off the concrete walls of the cavernous space.

Larkin turned to see a figure coming toward him. Whoever it was cast a long shadow across the oil-stained concrete.

“Jim Gutherie, Congressman from Maryland,” the big fellow said, extending a hand. “I need a few minutes of your time, Colonel.”

Larkin’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “I’m not in the habit of holding meetings in parking garages, Mister Congressman.”

“Nor am I.”

“Then I respectfully suggest you call my office for an appointment.”

“I did. Your secretary was reluctant to make one. She said you were leaving the country and wasn’t sure when you planned to return.”

“That’s exactly right,” Larkin said, starting to back away. “I’ll have her contact you as soon as I do.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel. This can’t wait.”

“I have a flight to catch,” Larkin said, glancing at his watch. “Whatever’s on your mind, make it fast.”

“Major Walter Shepherd.”

“Shepherd?” Larkin echoed with a disgusted shrug, hiding his concern. “The guy who deserted and killed that MI officer?”

“Yes. What do you know about him?”

“What I read in the papers. Why?”

“I don’t recall them mentioning you were his commanding officer,” Gutherie countered sharply.

Larkin was rocked; he held Gutherie’s look for a long moment, regaining his composure. “That’s classified,” he said coolly. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“I chair the HIC, Colonel,” Gutherie replied pointedly. “I’m cleared right into your personnel file: Special Forces, CIA, White House staff—”

“Then you know my sanction.”

“I have a feeling you’re abusing it.”

Larkin seethed and burned him with a look. “Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?”

“The guy who’s going to nail your ass,” Gutherie retorted, waving to a car behind him. The black New Yorker pulled forward and stopped next to him. “That’s a promise, Colonel.” Gutherie got in, slammed the door, and the car roared across the garage.

Larkin waited until it had gone up the ramp and disappeared into the night, then went to the elevator.

Le Lion D’or on Connecticut Avenue had the finest French cuisine in Washington; and despite Bill Kiley’s brusqueness and penchant for profanity, he had cultured tastes that he preferred to indulge in privacy. He and his wife were at their usual table when the security man slipped behind the beveled glass screen and whispered something to him.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to his wife. “If the waiter comes, I’ll have the escargots and lamb.” Then, without further explanation, he walked slowly to the parking lot, climbed into his limousine, and lifted the phone. It was Larkin calling from his apartment.

“How did he get into this?” the DCI exclaimed after the colonel briefed him on his encounter with Gutherie.

“I don’t know, sir; but he made damned sure I knew he chaired the House Intelligence Committee.”

“Don’t remind me,” the DCI said. “He’s a fucking pain in the ass; not the type to let go.”

“How do you want to handle it?”

Kiley leaned back in the seat, a vague recollection tugging at his memory. “You proceed as planned, Colonel,” he finally said. “Leave the congressman to me.”

Larkin fetched his two-suiter, returned to his car, and drove to Andrews Air Force Base. A CIA courier was waiting in the boarding lounge when he arrived. “From Langley, sir,” he said, handing the colonel a slim attaché case. Larkin waited until he was airborne before opening it. He broke into a broad smile on seeing the contents. The old man didn’t miss a trick.

Three days had passed since the team of SEALs discovered there were no hostages aboard the PLO gunboat. Duryea had kept the Cavalla on station in the Mediterranean, awaiting data from the KH-11 review.

It was 8:36 A.M. when the communications officer delivered a cable to Duryea’s compartment:

Duryea topped up his coffee, went to the command center computer terminal, and queried the BC-10. Data on the Romeo began printing out across the screen: Diesel; twin screws; top speed 13 knots dived; primitive electronics. A total of twenty built in the late 1950s: five still operated by the Soviet Navy; one scrapped, two sold to Algeria, three to Bulgaria, six to Egypt, and three to Syria.

Discounting the Soviet and Bulgarian boats, which were deployed elsewhere, Duryea calculated a maximum of eleven Romeos could be plying Mediterranean depths — eleven underwater antiques, he thought, making a connection.

He went to the sonar room and handed the cable to Cooperman. “Remember that weird contact?” he prompted.

The rotund sonarman shrugged his shoulders. He detected literally hundreds of contacts daily in the heavily traveled Mediterranean; and whatever Duryea was referring to had been long forgotten. “Which weird contact, sir?”

“The antique; the one you’d never heard before?”

“When we were closing on Tripoli harbor?” Cooperman sensed where the captain was headed.

“Yeah. I’m thinking it might’ve been lover boy.”

“Stay tuned, skipper,” Cooperman enthused, turning to his equipment. Alphas, Charlies, Viktors — the nuclear-powered core of the Soviet Navy were the contacts that stuck; not a thirty-year-old diesel. But now that it had meaning, he knew exactly what to do.

All sonar contacts were stored on magnetic tape. A high-speed search found the one in question. Cooperman put it up on the oscilloscope, then accessed the BC-10 computer. Its magnetic bubble memory contained the acoustic signatures of all Soviet Navy vessels. He retrieved the basic Romeo profile and ran it through the oscilloscope, comparing its pattern of frequencies to that of the recorded contact. Save for minor harmonic idiosyncrasies due to the signatures’ being made by different sets of propeller blades, they matched.

It was just after noon when Larkin’s flight touched down on the long runway adjacent to 6th Fleet headquarters outside Naples, Italy.

A CIA driver was waiting when the colonel deplaned with his carry-on and attaché. “We’re over here, sir,” he said, leading the way to a gray government sedan. “We’ve arranged a ride in the backseat of an A-six that’s being delivered to the America.”

The Intruder’s pilot was ready to go when they arrived on the flight line. Larkin pulled a jumpsuit over his clothing, donned a helmet, and climbed into the seat behind him. Barely an hour later they had covered the 420 miles from Naples to the USS America on station just southeast of Malta.

“Ever landed on a carrier before, sir?”

“First time,” Larkin replied, unimpressed by the hair-raising tales of landing at 145 knots on a postage stamp pitching in a rolling sea. On the contrary, now that he was out of the DCI’s doghouse, he was feeling rather cocky; but he quickly paled, knuckles whitening, as the pilot skillfully brought the Intruder in over the America’s fantail. It slammed onto the short runway in a controlled crash and was jerked to a neck-snapping stop by the arrester cable, forever ending any controversy over who had bragging rights among pilots.

Commander Chris Duryea had been ferried from the Cavalla a short time earlier. His boat was classified as a hunter-killer submarine and, knowing he would soon be playing underwater hide-and-seek with the Romeo, Duryea had brought his chief hunter and killer along.

“Good to see you again, Colonel,” the commander said when Larkin was ushered into the secure compartment in the America’s communication bay. He latched onto Larkin’s hand, then introduced Cooperman and Reyes.

“As you probably know,” Larkin began after the coffee had been served and preliminaries dispensed with, “this is the old man’s operational priority; a personal obsession. I made him a promise I’d have some traveling companions when I returned; seven of them to be exact. Any ideas how I keep it?”

“Well, we’ve been kicking a few around,” Duryea replied, signaling Cooperman with a nod.

The sonarman brought Larkin up to speed on the mysterious contact. “Turns out it was a Romeo,” he concluded. “Cross referencing location and time of contact with Keyhole data, odds are it’s our boy.”

“In other words, Colonel,” Duryea said, “we can separate the target from any other ship in the Mediterranean; hell, in the world for that matter.”

“Then what?”

“Intercept and board,” Reyes said in his cocky manner. “We foul the props; force her to surface—”

“Easy does it,” Duryea cautioned. “Remember we’re talking about a dived boat here. The trick is to incapacitate her without spooking the crew.”

“We’ll need deck plans,” Reyes declared.

“We have them,” Larkin replied. He set the attaché on the table and removed a set of drawings, construction drawings that went well beyond deck plans to delineate every rivet, hatch, electrical chase, air duct, snorkel vent, and mast. “Compliments of the director.”

The group scoured the drawings, determining where the hostages would most likely be quartered; then they searched unsuccessfully for a way to disable and board the Romeo without endangering them.

Duryea was prowling the room, deep in thought. “I think we’re coming at this backwards,” he finally offered.

“Which means?” Larkin wondered.

“Incapacitate the people, not the boat.”

“The people…”

Duryea nodded; a growing smile left no doubt he knew exactly how he would go about it.

32

The Thames lay long and flat, like a black liquid mirror unstirred yet by the morning’s barge traffic.

Stephanie watched as Shepherd dressed and packed his things into the travel bag. A week ago she thought he was dead; now, barely more than forty-eight hours after getting him back, she was losing him again.

“Wish me luck, babe,” Shepherd said, embracing her.

“I’ll bring you luck,” she replied, her eyes leaving no doubt she intended to accompany him. She had been up half the night listening to the creak of old timbers, thinking about it, and her mind was made up.

“I thought we said you were—”

“The children will be fine,” she interrupted knowingly. “I’m going with you, Walt. I’m going to be with you every minute I possibly can.”

Shepherd smiled, clearly pleased by her spirit, which had always captivated him.

The sun was still below the horizon when they left the barge and took the Underground to Victoria Station, just east of Belgravia near Westminister Cathedral, where they caught the 7:10 express to Brighton, the quaint seaside resort south of London.

Just over an hour later they were in a taxi traveling the winding coast to the town of Hove, to a small general aviation airport on the bluffs above the sea. It was well known to American pilots because private planes could be rented there — planes registered in the United States, which meant British flying certification wasn’t required.

The rental clerk was a chatty, methodical fellow who, to Shepherd’s dismay, moved at a snail’s pace.

“Well, that just about covers the formalities, Major Applegate,” he said, as he ran the credit card through the magnetic reader and glanced at the display, waiting for an approval code.

Shepherd’s heart rate began racing. Had they canceled Applegate’s credit card? Was there a code to signify the bearer was a fugitive? Was the computer printer, which had just unnervingly come to life, pumping out an alert? He flicked a nervous glance to Stephanie, who forced an encouraging smile.

Shepherd wasn’t keen on using a dead man’s credit card but had no doubt it would be more dangerous to use one of Stephanie’s, which had his name on it. Applegate had been dead for two days; the chances that the issuing company had been notified and had broadcast a global warning were unlikely. Finally, the clerk jotted the approval code on the form and pushed it to Shepherd.

“Thanks for your help,” Shepherd said as he signed Applegate’s name.

“My pleasure, Major. Have a lovely holiday,” the clerk replied, dropping a set of keys into Shepherd’s palm. “Space thirty-eight.”

Shepherd and Stephanie hurried from the rental office, following numbers stenciled on the tarmac to a Mooney 252. The four-passenger, single-engine aircraft had unusual stability, crisp sportscar handling, easy to read instrumentation, and was an excellent IFR plane. Cruising comfortably at 200-plus MPH, it burned an economical 12 gallons of fuel per hour, giving it a range in excess of 1,000 miles. It was well suited for the 1,250-mile journey to Tunisia.

Shepherd did a walk-around and soon had the Mooney zipping down the runway, flaps at 10 degrees, throttle wide open, air speed indicator climbing. A sense of relief, of exhilaration came over him as he eased back the yoke. While law enforcement authorities were blanketing airports in London, Manchester, Norwich, Birmingham, and Edinburgh, the plane lifted off, banking south over the English Channel onto a heading for the coast of Brittany.

Private and business aviation was as prevalent in Europe as the United States. Countless aircraft crisscrossed Common Market borders, refueling on foreign soil en route to their destinations. Their passengers were treated no differently than commercial travelers who had disembarked at an airport to make a connecting flight, never officially entering the country or undergoing passport control procedures.

Shepherd’s flight plan — basically the same route the F-111 bombers would have flown if France had approved use of her airspace for the raid on Libya — took them on a southeast course past Paris and Lyon to Nice on the French Riviera, where they landed and refueled, then across the Mediterranean, skirting the eastern coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, and Lampedusa to southeastern Tunisia. All but 300 miles of the flight were made over, or in sight of, land.

They spent the time discussing ways to get Shepherd into Libya: renting a boat in one of D’Jerba’s fishing villages and making port immediately adjacent to Okba ben Nafi Air Base topped their list, but that area of coastline would undoubtedly be heavily guarded by Libyan patrol boats; an extremely low-altitude flight to a desert landing was a close second, but that would leave him stranded miles from the air base without any transportation; renting a four-wheel drive vehicle and crossing somewhere along the miles of desolate border solved the problem; but in these scenarios and others they had considered, once inside Libya, Shepherd would still not only have to gain access to a high-security air base, but also locate his F-111, and steal it without any guarantee it would be fueled or in flying condition — all without speaking a word of Arabic.

Now, barely more than eight hours after takeoff, the domed mosques and beehive-shaped houses of D’Jerba shimmered above the Gulf of Bougara like clusters of golden pearls in the late afternoon light. The tiny island’s mild climate and proximity to the capitals of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East made it ideal for a vacation or business convention.

“There it is, babe,” Shepherd said, dipping a wing to give Stephanie a better view. The 197 square miles of palm and olive groves were split down the middle by MC-117, the arrow-straight road connecting Houmt Souk in the north to el-Kantara in the south, where a 5-mile-long causeway linked D’Jerba to the mainland. “An hour’s drive to the Libyan border,” he went on. “A hundred and fifty miles to Tripoli.”

Shepherd came onto a heading for Melita International Airport and radioed the tower. Many private aircraft arrived and departed daily and he received routine landing clearance. He brought the Mooney down to a smooth landing and taxied to a parking area. After tying down, he and Stephanie presented themselves as tourists and cleared passport control without incident.

They took a taxi to the Dar Jerba Hotel, the pride of the island’s burgeoning tourist industry. Set on pristine beaches amid swaying palms, it was a sprawling complex: four hotels, convention hall, casino, cinemas, several radio stations, and accommodations for 2,400; a place where two Westerners wouldn’t stand out, which was why Shepherd had selected it.

He left Stephanie outside and went to the check-in desk in the lobby with their bags, registering under the name Paul Applegate. He used Applegate’s credit card and reluctantly presented the altered passport at the clerk’s request. The impeccably uniformed fellow recorded the number in a register, then returned it.

Shepherd didn’t like it but he had little choice. He had traveled extensively and knew it was standard procedure in hotels throughout the world to forward the name and passport number of each guest to local authorities. He took some solace in the knowledge that by using Applegate’s name and avoiding having Stephanie register, he had prevented the name Shepherd from appearing in either hotel or police records.

The bellman led Shepherd through a courtyard to a domed waterfront cottage that resembled a miniature mosque. Stephanie followed at a casual pace a short distance behind; she waited until the bellman had departed, then joined Shepherd in the cottage.

The blazing white interior was bathed in golden light and alive with the delicate scent of lemons and pomegranates carried by sea breezes from nearby groves. They left their bags where the bellman had dropped them and exited via a private deck to the beach.

For about an hour, they walked D’Jerba’s sugar-fine sands, reviewing the ways they had devised to get Shepherd into Libya; then, feeling gloomy about his prospects, they sat on a windswept bluff and watched the sun falling swiftly toward the horizon. Shepherd was tracing a fingertip through the sand, examining the possibilities over and over, when his eyes brightened with a recollection. “Steph,” he finally said, breaking the long silence, “didn’t the congressman say there was a Libyan Embassy here somewhere?”

“Uh huh. I recall him mentioning it. He wasn’t really sure. Why?”

“Let’s hope he was right,” Shepherd said, a chill going through him at the idea that had surfaced. “If he was, I think I know how I’m going to do it.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” he replied, becoming more convinced that he had not only found a way into Libya but also into the cockpit of his F-111, he added, “Applegate said the Libyans don’t have ANITA, which means they’ve got a couple of useless bombers. I’m betting they’d like nothing better than to get their hands on an expert.”

“They sure would,” Stephanie replied; then, her enthusiasm tempered by concern, she said, “But you can’t just walk into the embassy and say you know they have them; they’re going to ask how you know.”

“And the minute I tell them, they’ll know exactly what I’m up to,” Shepherd said, finishing her thought.

Stephanie nodded glumly.

Shepherd ran a hand over his bearded face. “Maybe we’re missing something here,” he said pensively. “Maybe the key to pulling this off is to just play the hand I’ve been dealt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone who reads the papers knows I’m a fugitive; they also know I’m a one-eleven pilot.”

“True.”

“So all I have to do is let the Libyans know I’m available; they’ll figure out the rest.”

“You’re still taking a chance by coming forward.”

“I’m not coming forward,” he said with a smile, as the details solidified. “You are.”

She didn’t know exactly what he had in mind, but she knew he had found the answer. He had that look, she thought, the look that always came over him before a mission, the one that transformed Walt Shepherd to call sign Viper, to that person she didn’t really know.

The Libyan Embassy was closed by the time they located it in a colonnade of offices adjacent to the Dar Jerba’s convention center, a vaulted building on the far side of the sprawling complex.

Beneath the multicolored Libyan flag in the window was a sign that in several languages proclaimed: LIBYAN PEOPLE’S BUREAU.

Despite years of tension and strict border control, Libya and Tunisia had maintained diplomatic relations. The Libyan People’s Bureau, as Qaddafi called his embassies, was located in the capital city of Tunis, but ever anxious to acquire military and industrial technology, he had also established a bureau on D’Jerba to generate contacts with the international businessmen who frequented the island. Hence, the bureau’s multilanguage sign and posh interior, elegantly furnished in chrome, leather, and glass, which had been designed to resemble the offices of Western corporations, right down to the personnel.

The following morning Stephanie dressed in the gray tweed suit and black pumps she usually wore to interviews in the District and returned to the embassy alone. She approached the receptionist with a confident stride, identified herself, and asked to see the attaché.

Adnan Al-Qasim was a tall, trim man in his mid-forties who favored conservatively tailored suits, cordovan wingtips, and subdued striped ties. His English was impeccable, as were his French and German. Educated in the United States, he had the look and demeanor of a successful corporate executive.

“I have something of a confidential nature to discuss with you,” Stephanie said, taking a seat opposite him; then, shifting her eyes to the office door, which was open, she prompted, “Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Al-Qasim replied genially. He buzzed his secretary and said something in Arabic.

A moment later, the door to the office closed.

“Thank you,” Stephanie said. She removed a newspaper clipping from her purse and handed it to him. “Are you familiar with this?”

Al-Qasim took the clipping and perused it from a distance. It was the London Times story that branded Shepherd a deserter and killer. “Well, yes, vaguely. I recall seeing something in news reports. Why do you ask?”

“There are a number of reasons. I’ll begin by telling you Major Shepherd is my husband and those reports are untrue.”

“Well, it’s only natural for you to take that position, Mrs. Shepherd. Forgive me if I’m missing something here,” Al-Qasim said in a puzzled tone, “but I haven’t the slightest idea why you’re telling this to me, or why you’re in Tunisia for that matter.”

“First, it’s important you understand why my husband deserted. Bear with me if you will?”

Al-Qasim smiled knowingly. “Since I’m quite certain you’re going to tell me, I’ll reserve judgment.”

Stephanie nodded and straightened in the chair. “My husband took the action he did because no state of war exists between the United States and Libya, and he thought it was wrong to kill innocent people.”

“Indeed, it is,” Al-Qasim replied, still not quite sure what to make of her. “I fully agree.”

“Then I imagine you would also agree it was his concern for your countrymen that has made him an international fugitive.”

Al-Qasim’s brows went up slightly at the inference. “It might be possible to make that argument, yes,” he admitted grudgingly.

“A concern for your countrymen,” Stephanie went on, “that has resulted in his being hunted like an animal who will probably be shot on sight.”

“That’s most unfortunate, Mrs. Shepherd,” Al-Qasim replied, fully aware that she had just quite shrewdly positioned him. “I hope you’re not suggesting my government is responsible for all this.”

“No, sir, not at all. But under the circumstances, I am suggesting that it would be only fair to expect your government to help Major Shepherd if it had the chance.”

“Reasonable enough,” Al-Qasim said. “But quite frankly, Mrs. Shepherd, fairness and reason aside, I expect it would depend on just what my government was required to do.”

Stephanie studied him for a moment, acutely aware that she was about to play the card Shepherd expected would get him into Libya. “Before I go further, I must warn you that if what I’m about to say becomes known, if the media should get involved before you go to your people, it could prove very costly not only for my husband but for your government as well.”

Al-Qasim nodded, his eyes widening curiously.

“As Major Shepherd’s official representative, I formally request that he be granted political asylum in Libya.”

33

The pastel-colored bows hovered tantalizingly close to Jim Gutherie’s face. He finally captured one in his teeth and began pulling on it slowly, releasing the blond’s breasts from the teddy. She led him to the bed where the redhead, her smooth white skin sprinkled with freckles, lay naked.

Gutherie removed the cap from a felt tip pen and placed the point on a tiny freckle on the redhead’s chest. He pulled it slowly, drawing a line over the swell of her breast to another freckle and then on to another and another, creating an intricate network that resembled a sign of the Zodiac; then without lifting the pen, he drew a line down the center of her abdomen, making her shiver, arriving at another galaxy of freckles that splashed across her flesh just above her pelvis. He was zigzagging from one to the next when he paused and gently slipped the pen partially inside her.

Indeed, what had begun as a way to satisfy a purely physical need had gradually led to the living out of kinky fantasies; fantasies that, thanks to the magic of videotape, had been recorded for posterity and delivered to the office of the director of Central Intelligence, where the congressman had been invited for lunch, ostensibly to discuss the work of his committee.

“Turn it off,” Gutherie pleaded, mortified.

Bill Kiley watched a few more twirls of the pen before he aimed the remote control at the VCR. “Connect the dots isn’t our usual lunchtime fare,” he said facetiously. “Of course we don’t face the pressure of running for election every two years,” he went on, pretending to be sympathetic. “It must be a terrible grind. No sooner do you get elected than you have to start campaigning again. Eleven terms, isn’t it?”

“How did you find out about this?”

“Your psychiatrist. You recall we recommended him?”

Gutherie’s eyes flared at the implied breach of patient-doctor confidentiality.

“Oh, we would never ask him to compromise his professional standards,” Kiley explained. “However, his files are computerized and quite detailed.”

“What do you want?” Gutherie asked dejectedly.

“For openers, your pledge to drop all thoughts of pursuing the matter of Major Shepherd.”

Gutherie had heard the desperation in Stephanie’s voice when she called; he didn’t know what was going on but he could imagine. “What have you people been up to?”

“I’ll show you,” Kiley replied smugly. “I’ll show you the kind of tapes we usually watch around here.”

He replaced the cartridge in the recorder with the one that had accompanied the Polaroid of Fitzgerald, announcing he had been kidnapped.

Gutherie’s eyes darted to the monitor and saw Bassam hanging upside down and naked from the trapeze in Casino du Liban. Kiley advanced the tape to where the terrorists were spinning Bassam on the apparatus; then he zoomed in, presenting Gutherie with a gory close-up of the knife slicing the agent’s flesh until the incision completely girdled his waist.

Gutherie cringed, a chill running through him as Bassam let out a piercing scream.

Now two masked terrorists plunged their fingers deep into the incision on opposite sides of Bassam’s torso and grasped the flesh tightly in their hands. He let out another agonizing scream.

Gutherie winced as the terrorists tightened their grasp on Bassam’s flesh and, with one powerful downward yank, accompanied by a harsh chattering sound, they skinned him alive, peeling the flesh from his torso back over his head in one piece like a sweater. Blood ran in sheets from the exposed musculature of his carcass, which swung back and forth on the trapeze.

Gutherie felt as if he had been punched; he buried his head in his hands, unable to look any longer.

“That’s what this is all about, Mr. Congressman,” Kiley said. “Brave, selfless men undergoing unimaginable horrors; giving more, much more, than their lives.”

Gutherie looked up, his eyes vacant and glazed.

“I’m sick and tired of playing by rules that benefit the wicked and penalize the just,” Kiley continued. “Sick of turning the other cheek to support this higher moral plane you politicians claim we inhabit. While we’re sitting with our hands folded in front of your damned committee, our enemies are literally peeling the flesh from our bones. I hope I answered your question.”

“Yes,” Gutherie replied in a barely audible rasp.

Kiley took a copy of Stephanie Shepherd’s Capitol Flyer interview with Gutherie and handed it to him.

“Your favorite journalist was in London with her husband last time we saw her,” Kiley declared. “Has she been keeping in touch?”

“What makes you think she’d contact me?”

The DCI handed him several photographs: Gutherie and Stephanie during memorial services at Andrews; Gutherie entering and exiting her home. “I have a list of phone calls if you’d like to see them. We weren’t sure what to make of it for a while but you cleared it up for us the other night.”

“Colonel Larkin—”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” Kiley said, feigning he was puzzled. “Really, Mister Congressman,” he went on, gesturing to the videotape cartridge of Gutherie’s indiscretions, “does it matter?”

“What do you want to know?” Gutherie’s broad shoulders sloped in defeat.

“Where are the Shepherds now?” Kiley asked. His people in the U.K. had come up empty so he knew Shepherd hadn’t taken any of the commercial flights he had booked. He also knew there was one obvious alternative for a pilot on the run. A check of private aircraft rental agencies had quickly turned up the charge on Applegate’s credit card. “And don’t tell me London,” he warned. “We know Major Shepherd rented a plane.”

“Tunisia,” Gutherie said, trying to decide if he hated himself or Kiley more.

The DCI’s brow tightened. “Where in Tunisia?”

“D’Jerba Island,” Gutherie replied after a long silence. “She said her husband wanted to get into Libya.”

Kiley’s face stiffened with concern, then his eyes drifted to Shepherd’s file on his desk. He didn’t have to open it. He knew the salient details by heart; indeed, any uncertainty he might have had of just how expert Shepherd was when it came to tactical innovation had been swiftly dispelled by recent events.

Shepherd was desperate, Kiley thought; but his actions weren’t those of an aimless fugitive. On the contrary, they were the precisely calculated moves of a man driven to disprove the charges with which he’d been unjustly tarred. It was clear he had wisely decided that coming forward and denying them wasn’t the answer. Furthermore, Shepherd’s desire to gain entry to Libya indicated he had a plan; an objective that, whatever it was, would clear his name if he could pull it off. Kiley ran down the list, putting the pieces together, putting himself in Shepherd’s shoes. There was only one thing that could bring the truth to light; one thing that could prove it beyond any doubt — one thing in Libya. After forty years of clandestine gamesmanship, thinking the unthinkable had become a matter of routine and, now, to his horror, the DCI was quite certain he knew Shepherd’s objective.

He buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Get me Colonel Larkin on the America.”

34

Hazy sunlight streamed across the Mediterranean, infusing D’Jerba with a pale saffron glow.

Shepherd stood in the bathroom of the waterfront cottage, shaking a can of shaving cream. “Well, here goes,” he called out to Stephanie, who was showering.

“I was kind of getting used to it,” she replied.

Shepherd filled his palm with the aerosol foam and began lathering it over his four-week growth of beard; he was getting used to it too; but it was time to get back to being Walt Shepherd.

Two days had passed since Stephanie’s meeting with Adnan Al-Qasim at the Libyan People’s Bureau. It was almost as if she and Walt had taken a long-promised vacation. But despite moments of blissful happiness, despite the romantic pull of the sea and the desire to explore the ancient island, indeed, despite the temptation to just drop out of sight and start life anew, they kept their vigil, remaining within earshot of the phone; and yesterday, when it finally rang, their expectations rose, then quickly plummeted when a room service clerk inquired what they wanted for breakfast.

Now, clean-shaven, his face taut and stinging from the razor, Shepherd sat on the deck outside the cottage. The orientation manual for Wheelus Air Force Base was flopped open on the table in front of him; but his eyes were distant, staring out to sea, lost in the turmoil that had become life.

The phone rang, snapping him out of it.

Stephanie answered it. She heard Al-Qasim’s voice and signaled Shepherd as he came in from the deck. “Yes. Yes, I think so,” she said to Al-Qasim. “Can you hold on a minute?” She covered the mouthpiece and in an anxious whisper said, “They want to talk.”

“Good,” Shepherd replied, brightening. “When?”

“Noon. Al-Qasim will pick you up.”

“Did he say where we’re going?”

“Tripoli.”

Shepherd nodded and took the phone from her.

“This is Major Shepherd,” he said authoritatively. “I want to impress on you that there will be no media involvement, no announcements; this must be kept quiet. No, it’s not a matter of being caught but killed. Do you understand? Good. Noon is fine. I’ll be ready.” He hung up and turned to Stephanie. His elation and sense of triumph were quickly tempered by the sadness and concern he saw in her eyes, which glistened with the knowledge that from this moment on he would be proceeding alone.

On the USS America, south of the island of Malta in the Mediterranean, a Navy A-6 was hooked to the starboard catapult. The pilot gave a thumbs-up to the launch officer and the Intruder was rocketed from the carrier’s deck in a thundering explosion of steam and blue-orange flame. The all-weather bomber dipped slightly, then its twin turbojets sent it soaring in a graceful arc into the azure skies.

“Don’t spare the J-4, Lieutenant,” Colonel Larkin urged from the backseat as they leveled off.

The pilot pushed the throttles to the stops and the A-6 bolted forward on a heading for D’Jerba.

Several days had passed since the strategy session on the America. After hatching the plan to incapacitate the personnel aboard the Romeo, Larkin and Duryea contacted Kiley, briefed him, and requested technical assistance. The DCI was enthused and code named the plan Project Twilight. “I’ll get OTS right on it,” he replied; the acronym stood for Office of Technical Services, the group at Langley that researched and developed special items related to clandestine activities.

Then Duryea returned to the Cavalla to hunt for the Romeo. He knew it would stay submerged, and therefore, unlike the Palestinians on the gunboat, there was little chance the crew could spot reconnaissance aircraft. This meant that ASW Vikings based on the America could assist in the search.

Larkin remained aboard the carrier to coordinate the effort. He was in a briefing room mapping out search patterns with Viking crews when Kiley called and briefed him on Shepherd’s whereabouts and his suspicion that he was out to retrieve his F-111.

The colonel wasted no time in gathering his things and arranging transportation. The pilot who had ferried him from Naples needed flight time and volunteered.

Now, less than 30 minutes after takeoff, the A-6 had covered the 300 miles to the Tunisian coast and was approaching D’Jerba.

The tower at Melita International didn’t receive landing requests from U.S. warplanes very often; but when the pilot informed them he was ferrying a passenger, they had no reason to deny him clearance.

Larkin climbed down from the cockpit and hurried toward the arrivals building. The A-6 taxied for immediate takeoff and return to the America.

The time was 10:37 A.M.

“You’re with the military?” the woman at the passport control desk asked, not because Larkin’s passport noted his military rank, which it didn’t, but because his method of arrival had been brought to her attention.

“I’m a technical consultant,” he answered, forcing a smile. He’d have preferred to enter the country more quietly; but embarking from a carrier and the pressure of time had left him little choice.

“Why did you come to D’Jerba?”

“To meet my sister and brother-in-law; they’re vacationing here. Say, maybe you can help me out.” He knew that hotels the world over routinely forwarded data to local authorities and expected she could help him locate them. “His name’s Shepherd, Walter Shepherd; I don’t know where they’re staying. Maybe, you could—”

The clerk shook her head no. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out that information.”

“I could call every hotel on the island,” Larkin said, slipping some bills from his wallet discreetly. “Or you could save me the time.”

The clerk deftly palmed the money and turned to her keyboard. “Shepherd, you say?”

“Yes, Walter Shepherd.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up from the monitor. “I’m not showing a Walter Shepherd.”

“What about Stephanie Shepherd?”

The clerk shook her head no.

“No one named Shepherd is registered in any of the island’s hotels?”

“That’s correct.”

Larkin shrugged. “I must have been misinformed,” he said matter-of-factly, then asked casually, “By the way, are there regular flights to Tripoli from here?”

“Each evening at seven. But Americans aren’t—”

“Yes, I know. Just curious. Thanks.”

He was crossing to the car rental desk, working the problem, when he recalled that Kiley had said Shepherd used Applegate’s credit card to rent a plane. Instead of returning to passport control, Larkin went to a phone booth and called the first hotel listed in the directory.

“I have a business meeting with one of your guests,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten the room number. Yes, his name’s Applegate. Paul Applegate.”

Larkin called three more hotels before the operator at the Dar Jerba recognized the name.

“He’s on the beachfront; cottage forty-seven. Do you wish to speak with Mister Applegate now?”

“No, I have what I need. Thanks.”

The time was 11:45 A.M. when the Shepherds crossed the sprawling Dar Jerba complex to the main building. Approximately 15 minutes later a BMW 735 sedan pulled up to the main entrance. Al-Qasim got out and waited beneath the canopy. Like his elegantly furnished offices and conservatively tailored suits, the car was part of the facade to impress international businessmen.

“That’s him,” Stephanie said, spotting the attaché through the huge panes that enclosed the hotel’s lobby. She and Shepherd held each other tightly for a long moment. “I love you, Walt,” she whispered, her eyes starting to fill as their lips parted.

“Love you too. We’re going to have us twenty more,” Shepherd said reassuringly, slipping from her grasp.

Stephanie stood there, holding herself together as he strode into the blinding sunlight, suitcase in his hand. Just like he was going bowling, she thought, watching as Shepherd and Al-Qasim shook hands and exchanged a few words before driving off in the BMW.

After twenty years she still didn’t understand him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t fathom how he lived with danger but why he enjoyed it so much. He was always happiest when flying headlong into a kill-or-be-killed situation, as long as it was a calculated risk. It was as if being able to anticipate threats and create a game plan to counter them made him invincible and assured success. It was a fine theory for the stock market or Super Bowl, she thought; but this game wasn’t played for profits or trophies — life was the stake.

Stephanie headed for the cottage. Almost a week had passed since she had left Andrews, and her thoughts turned to her parents and children. They were undoubtedly aware of the news reports branding Shepherd a deserter and murderer; now, she could chance calling them to explain.

A short time before, far across the Dar Jerba’s grounds, a Peugeot sedan turned onto the street that paralleled the beachfront cottages. Larkin parked and went to one of the automated information kiosks that dotted the grounds. It contained a house phone. He dialed the operator and asked for cottage 47. When there was no answer, he walked a short distance to the white-domed structure, approaching it from the beach side.

A credit card easily slipped the latch on the sliding door to the deck. Larkin entered the bedroom and began taking stock of the contents: the single suitcase and the presence of only women’s clothing and toiletries indicated Shepherd was gone and wouldn’t be returning; the navigation charts and instruments on the dresser meant he wasn’t flying anywhere.

Larkin was about to leave when he heard the key in the lock, the door opening, and glimpsed Stephanie through an opening in the stucco grillework that divided the interior spaces. She came down the corridor, entered the bedroom, and was crossing to the phone when the door shut behind her. She turned to see a man she didn’t know stepping out from behind it.

“Where’s your husband?” he asked softly.

A gasp stuck in Stephanie’s throat. A tense moment passed before it dawned on her. “You’re Larkin, aren’t you?” It was a statement; an indictment. “You bastard.”

Larkin stood his ground, hand poised to go for his sidearm if necessary. “He’s on his way to Libya, isn’t he?” His wintry eyes searching hers for a reaction, he saw the evasive flicker and made a move toward the door, further testing her.

“No!” Stephanie shouted, lunging for him. “No!”

Larkin whirled, his suspicion confirmed beyond any doubt now, and shouldered her aside. Stephanie regained her balance and came back at him with a fury; then she froze suddenly as the colonel pulled a Baretta from inside his jacket and leveled it at her forehead.

Larkin held the weapon on her for a long moment, immobilized by her expression. It was different than what he’d seen on the faces of those he had confronted and killed in combat. There was no surprise in their eyes, no sudden realization of life’s fragile thread. Yet it wasn’t the contrast that captivated him, but a nagging memory. He had seen Stephanie’s puzzled horror before; seen a woman’s eyes wide with terror. Once.

He kept the pistol trained on her as he backed out of the cottage, then holstered it, crossing the grounds to the rented Peugeot.

Shepherd was on his way to Libya; now; driving there, Larkin quickly deduced, having already eliminated other modes of transport. The map of D’Jerba provided by the rental agency was on the Peugeot’s seat. The tiny island had few roads. The route to the mainland and south to the Libyan border was boldly delineated.

At the end of the winding causeway connecting the island to the Tunisian mainland, Al-Qasim’s BMW hummed with finely tuned precision as he came through the Al Kurnish off-ramp, accelerating onto the two-lane ribbon of concrete that ran along the coast.

“I make this trip with businessmen several times a month,” Al-Qasim explained, breaking the silence.

“Why? It can’t be faster than flying.”

“Oh, it isn’t,” Al-Qasim admitted, pausing briefly to set up the punch line. “Assuming your flight isn’t delayed or canceled.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Shepherd said, relaxed by the small talk. “You know the military, everything by the numbers, on a timetable.”

“Yes, I’m sure your bombers arrived in Tripoli right on schedule,” Al-Qasim said, in a sarcastic tone.

You bet your ass they did, Shepherd thought, resisting the temptation to say it. Playing the role in which he’d been cast, he replied, “I understand how you feel; but there’s no need to take it out on me.”

“You’re quite correct, Major. My apologies.”

“Accepted. We were talking about driving—”

“Yes, I was about to say I find it gives me an opportunity to ease a client’s anxieties about doing business in my country.”

“Well, that’s something I can relate to.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s been a while since I’ve taken an American across.”

“You anticipate any problems?”

“No. Despite current tensions, your oil companies are still well represented, as are your citizens. Many have ignored the order to leave. I’m sure your documents will be ready.”

“I hope so. I can’t just turn around and go back if this doesn’t work out.”

“Well, since you mentioned it, Major Shepherd, I didn’t think the circumstances warranted political asylum. I forwarded your request to Tripoli only as a matter of routine. To be honest, I was quite surprised when they agreed to it, let alone so quickly.”

“I guess they had their reasons,” Shepherd said matter-of-factly. He had known all along that the apparent circumstances wouldn’t qualify him for asylum and realized that Al-Qasim hadn’t been told about the F-111s or the need for ANITA. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” Al-Qasim explained that once across the border they would drive to the People’s Central Committee Headquarters in downtown Tripoli, where government officials were expecting them.

A distance behind, Larkin’s Peugeot had just left el-Kantara at the southernmost tip of the island and was starting across the causeway, passing Borj Castille, the seventeenth-century Spanish fortress that rose from the tip of a peninsula jutting out into the gulf.

Five minutes later the Peugeot came through the Al Kurnish turnoff onto the coastal highway. Ever since Qaddafi closed the border, the area south of D’Jerba had become a virtual no-man’s-land. Once a main conduit between the two nations, the Al Kurnish Road carried only occasional traffic now.

Larkin sat behind the wheel, pedal to the floor, speedometer edging 150 KPH, staring at the empty road ahead, his mind fixated on the confrontation with Stephanie Shepherd, on the memory of the last time he had come that close to shooting a woman.

It occurred several years after his return from Vietnam. He was married at the time and, despite the joy of reunion, the experience of being shot down and hunted in Asian jungles tormented him, straining the relationship. It ended the night he rolled out of bed in the throes of a violent nightmare and went for the pistol he kept in the nightstand. His wife was awakened by the commotion and sat up against the headboard. Larkin saw the movement in the darkness and went for her. He had the muzzle in her mouth and was squeezing the trigger when he saw the terror in her eyes, in her clear blue Anglo-Saxon eyes, and snapped out of it. He had no doubt he would have killed her had they been brown.

A speck on the horizon pulled him from the reverie. He accelerated and quickly caught up to what turned out to be a pickup truck. Larkin pulled abreast in the opposite lane, glanced across to the driver, who was a local and clearly alone, then went flying past.

The concrete blockhouses at the Ras Jdyar border checkpoint were flanked by a chainlink fence that paraded across the bleak landscape from desert to sea.

Al-Qasim waved as he approached. The Libyan Army guard in the security kiosk recognized him and raised the steel gate-arm. The BMW drove through without slowing, continuing across the grounds to the main building beyond.

“We’re in Libya now?” Shepherd asked as they parked and got out.

“Yes, safely inside Libya,” Al-Qasim said with a smile, leading the way inside.

As the attaché had promised, Shepherd’s documents were ready and his entry was handled routinely. In minutes, they had been signed and stamped and, paperwork dispensed with, he and Al-Qasim were on their way.

They were leaving the building when they saw a car approaching on the Tunisian side of the border. It stopped well before reaching the security kiosk. The door opened and Larkin got out. His eyes narrowed and locked onto Shepherd’s in a lethal, penetrating stare that, despite the fence and distance separating them, made it clear he was far from beaten.

Shepherd held it unblinkingly.

They glared at each other through the chainlink for a long moment before Al-Qasim broke the tension.

“Do you know that man?”

Shepherd nodded without taking his eyes off Larkin. “His name’s Larkin. Colonel Richard Larkin.”

“An American—”

“Yes, he tried to kill me once.”

“We should be going,” Al-Qasim said nervously.

Shepherd hesitated, then broke it off with Larkin and shook his head no. “I’m concerned for my wife.”

Al-Qasim raised a brow. “I know the provost of the D’Jerban police quite well. Why don’t I call him and ask if he’ll look in on her?”

They returned to the main building and Al-Qasim made the call. After hanging up, he forced a smile and reported, “The provost said to tell you your wife is fine.”

“What do you mean?” Shepherd asked, apprehensively.

“Well, it seems this Colonel Larkin has already confronted her. The provost said she filed a formal complaint against him. He promised he would notify me as soon as the Colonel was apprehended.”

Shepherd eased slightly and smiled at the prospect, then followed Al-Qasim outside.

The Peugeot was gone.

They returned to the BMW to discover an armored, four-wheel-drive vehicle was parked directly behind it, blocking their exit.

Three men in civilian attire were standing next to the matte black vehicle. The two in their twenties had an air of vigilance and intensity. The third was older and sullen with an icy malevolence.

Al-Qasim recognized him immediately.

He flashed official identification and addressed Al-Qasim in Arabic. Shepherd had no idea what he was saying but heard the sharp, commanding tone and saw that the attaché was clearly intimidated. Al-Qasim listened and nodded dutifully, then turned to Shepherd. “Secret police,” he said, his eyes flickering nervously, “the head of the secret police.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“You’re to go with him,” Al-Qasim replied. This was news to him, but he didn’t dare question it. Reza Abdel-Hadi’s presence was authorization enough.

“This way, Major,” the SHK chief ordered in heavily accented English, gesturing to the Soviet-made Krazz. He directed Shepherd into the backseat and got in next to him. A wire screen separated the cab from a windowless compartment where prisoners ostensibly rode.

Abdel-Hadi’s Akita was caged there now.

The powerful vehicle lurched forward with a throaty roar, leaving Al-Qasim in a swirl of dust.

“Are we still going to Tripoli?” Shepherd asked.

“Tarabulus,” Abdel-Hadi corrected sharply. “We don’t call it Tripoli.”

“Where in Tarabulus?”

“You ask many too questions, Major,” the SHK chief retorted. His dark, purplish lips tightened into a hard line that left no doubt the remainder of the journey would be made in silence.