The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Si, yes, is so. You are familiar with —"

  "What band was it operating in?"

  "The band E from a Long Track early warning radar for the SA-6 air defense system."

  "Did you check the third harmonic?"

  A puzzled Tenente Rossi shook his head. "No, why?"

  "The third harmonic may contain random micro bursts with missile guidance instructions."

  He pulled back and frowned in disbelief. "I not know of this."

  "Can I examine the tape?"

  Rossi stared at Masini, who nodded and told him, "Tenente si può procedere."

  Rossi escorted us down the hall back into the analysis department, pulled a tape from a file cabinet, and set up an analyst position. I sat down and started the machine. In less than five minutes, I knew: Marsden was plying his trade in Libya.

  "Has this been shared with NSA in America?"

  "No."

  "Why? Does this have anything to do with the Itavia incident?"

  "No, I can say no more."

  "I don't understand," said Michaels. "We were sent here to investigate electronic signals related to the crash."

  Rossi, even more nervous said, "Find what happen to Libyan he crash on the Sila and you will understand Ustica tragedy."

  "Have you seen the radar tracks from that night?"

  "I am not allowed to say. I will say nothing."

  "We need to know. You may speak in confidence. Do you know what happened?"

  He bowed his head, visibly worried. "Yes, I see data of Ciampino, ground-to air conversations between Ciampino and the aircraft. I see the radar track of Ciampino. Two Libyan fighter try to penetrate military exercise airspace by flying close to Itavia aircraft which they acquire on radar. Libyan cross the route from west to east to the path of Itavia. Three Italian, one American, and one French fighter detect and pursue Libyan and combat take place. Libyan complete attack maneuver and fly under Itavia to evade detection. Someone put air-to-air missile into the Itavia by mistake, and down one of Libyan, the one crash on the Silva." He shook his head. "A disaster no one wants."

  "Do you know of a connection between the signal from Lampedusa and the shoot down? Any at all, even wild speculation."

  "Perhaps they monitor fighters return or defend against retaliation."

  "That's a good guess. They could've expected pursuit and were waiting to spring a trap."

  Michaels said, "You think they flew into the NATO exercise expecting trouble and intended to lure them back into Libyan airspace."

  "Yes, yes, is possible," said Rossi. "Libyan radar much active, you may be correct."

  I said, "But it didn't work out that way. One of them, or maybe both got shot down instead, and the airliner was collateral damage, downed by friendly fire." We stood quiet, thinking about what we had just discovered. How's Hansen going to take this news? "I need to call Colonel Wilson ASAP."

  * * *

  Tenente Colonnello Urbani was furious judging from the artful maledictions he was using to chew us out royally. Somehow, the police officer in front of the hotel had managed to trace the license number to the base. The driver stood at attention, a sheepish frown on his face, at the side of Urbani's desk. Capitano Masini interpreted, leaving out some of the more colorful phrases. Obviously, everyone involved was a figli di puttana.

  Dismissed with a wave of the hand, Masini escorted us out to the hall. "Aviere Bartolucci," he gestured towards the driver, "tell me you have problem with the Scorpione Brigata."

  "Yeah, you might say that, we've been followed in Rome by a German woman and an unidentified man. She asked a young guy from our hotel what we were doing here at the base. He claims to have seen a scorpion tattoo on her inner thigh."

  "How—"

  "He likes the ladies and has his ways."

  Masini smiled. "You not know for sure."

  "No, can you think of a reason why they are interested in us?"

  "This brigata may be involved with sabotage of the Itavia aircraft. They follow you to learn what they can."

  I didn't believe that for a moment. Michaels most likely agreed. We had accomplished all we could and needed to get in touch with Wilson. The most secure way was through a prearranged contact at the American embassy. That would be our next stop after checking on Lisette back at the hotel.

  * * *

  My situational awareness increased as the Alfa-Romeo neared the Albergo Alberti. I was on the lookout for the guy in the Roma shirt. He seemed to be more of a threat than the girl was, but you can never be certain, looks can be deceiving.

  My attention diverted to the scene ahead as Bartolucci shouted, "Signore, l'albergo, la polizia e ambulanze." Three police cars and an ambulance sat parked with lights flashing on the narrow street in front of the hotel. My body went numb as an endless range of possibilities raced through my head.

  A police officer raised his hand and the driver halted. I jumped out and ran past, ignoring orders to halt. A second officer tried to stop me at the front door. I brushed by and stormed into the lobby.

  A body sprawled on the floor at the foot of the stairs. I searched in panic for Lisette. Carlo lay on a stretcher, attended to by the ambulance people, and appeared to be alive. An officer approached, shouting gibberish in Italian, I dodged around him, jumped over the dead body, and hurdled up the staircase, tripping and falling on the top step of the second landing.

  On the third floor, I hung a left and rushed down the hall. Our door stood open, the lock smashed, the room empty and lifeless. The world collapsed and came to a halt, my life at its end. A feeling of dread: How can this be happening again? Why did I ever think it would be safe to involve her in my job? Have I lost her? And little Duval — I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  I leaned against the wall, trying to steady myself. Then it occurred to me, the dead body belonged to the man who had been following us. Carlo's fancy switchblade was stuck in his chest. I shuffled back towards the stairs.

  Michaels intercepted me at the staircase. He was out of breath. "Pull yourself together man … Lisette's okay … she's downstairs in the kitchen with the other ladies …and the police wants to see you."

  A jolt of adrenalin surged through my veins. I flew past him, down the stairs three steps at a time, over the body, past two officers, and into the kitchen. Lisette sat at the table feeding the baby. I tried to speak, but couldn't, overcome with emotion.

  Lisette smiled and adjusted the bottle. "He was hungry."

  I found my voice, "Are you okay?"

  "Yes." She went on to explain she had been in the cucina talking with Signora Alberti when the commotion started. The man slipped past Carlo and made it to our room. After trashing the place, he returned down the stairs only to be confronted by Carlo. Both men pulled knifes' and Carlo won. Lisette recounted the tale without passion, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  Michaels appeared at the door. "Hate to interrupt, but the police officer wants to speak with you."

  6~ Disaster

  Friday, 8 August 1980: Rome

  The Regional Security Officer, or RSO, the agent in charge of the Office of Security, functioned as the senior law enforcement official in the U.S. embassy. Michaels and I sat in his assistant's office — the nameplate said Buck Crawford — listening to a litany of grievances concerning our short stay in Rome. I had just finished giving our side of the story.

  "Now let me see if I can get this straight," the stocky man with a burr haircut said with a not too subtle sarcastic tone, "you claim this man was following you … then you hire this street thug to provide security … then you pull a knife on the man … and your so-called guard kills him at your hotel. Did I leave anything out?"

  "Don't think Carlo is a street thug."

  "This Carlo character has a police record," he waved an official looking piece of paper, "fights, complaints from tourist women, and even assaulting a poliziotto last year."

  "He's just a high-spirited kid. Give him a break."

  "And
then this bull-squeeze about the Škorpion Brigade, what a bunch of malarkey. You clowns come over here and see hobgoblins behind every tree. This SSRP you claim to work for, never heard of the damn thing. What is it?"

  I grinned. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Michaels shifted uneasily in his seat.

  Crawford bolted upright in his chair. "Do you have official orders?" I handed him my letter of introduction to Urbani. He read it and passed the sheet back to me. "You were sent here by NSA?"

  "No, it was the White House."

  That raised his hackles again. He shook his index finger at me. "Listen here, don't play games with me."

  Michaels broke in, "We're not. Check with the Office of the National Security Advisor if you don't believe us."

  He inhaled a deep breath. "I can assure you that's what I'll do." He flashed his finger towards the door. "Now get the hell out of here."

  I remained calm and stretched out a bit in the chair. "I want to speak to Sandy Easton. We need to make a call to Washington on a secure line. Oh yeah, and one other thing, my wife and kid are downstairs." His eyebrows arched as the scowl intensified. "I require a safe place for them to stay."

  Out in the hallway, Michaels shook his head. "You sure know how to push people's buttons, thought he was going to blow a gasket."

  "Hey, that guy's just a protocol-obsessed bureaucrat preoccupied with dodging any problem that may require an element of risk or scintilla of judgment."

  Michaels guffawed. "Aw come on, tell me what you really think?"

  "Don't argue with a bonehead. He'll drag you down to his level."

  "Sounds like you have some deep-seated issues—

  "Got my reasons."

  * * *

  "Can I get you anything else?" said Sandy Easton, a decent looking, plain vanilla, average sized lady in her mid-forties. She happened to be a CIA case officer attached to the embassy.

  Lisette cuddling the baby beamed. "No thank you. You have been so kind."

  "Thanks for letting us use your office," I said. "We should get a follow-up call within the hour, and then we'll be gone."

  Sandy smiled at Lisette and the baby. "I'll be down the hall if you need me." Little Duval came in handy; everybody likes a bambino. She left the room and closed the door.

  "You think Wilson will call back in an hour? You're pretty optimistic on that point," said Michaels.

  He was right. My conversation with the colonel went as well as I could have expected. He wasn't upset over our troubles with the police. Guess he had come to expect the unexpected and didn't even seem excited about the signal or Marsden's possible involvement. Nor did he say too much about our theory on the crash. He did express genuine concern about the Škorpion Brigade and promised to get back ASAP.

  Michaels and I stepped out into the hallway as Lisette rectified a Pampers incident. Sandy Easton met us. "I made arrangements at a nearby hotel. Your things have been collected from your old hotels. Tell me when you're ready to go."

  I asked, my curiosity aroused, "What's your take on the Škorpion Brigade?"

  "SkB was founded in seventy-seven by members of the German Revolutionary Cells and Red Army Factions dissatisfied over the outcome of the Air France hijacking back in seventy-six, the one that resulted in the Entebbe raid. They are also allied with the Japanese Red Army militia group responsible for the Lod Airport massacre back in seventy-two. In Europe, the group is viewed an increasing threat."

  She peered into the distance as if composing her thoughts, scrunched her lips, and continued, "Some people in the agency dismiss their importance because they're an off-shoot of other organizations. I believe that makes them worse. They are sort of an all-star terrorist group."

  "Why do you think they would be following us?" Michaels asked.

  "They target anything to do with the U.S. abroad, along with Israel, and West European governments. SkB is structured as an armed cell and word is, they're attempting to obtain military hardware."

  "Where do they get their funds? All this must cost a lot of money."

  "SkB receives funding and support from the East German State Security apparatus and the Libyan and Cuban governments. They also supplement their income by high profile robberies."

  "Yeah, I read about the last one in Munich. Any idea as to the dead man's identity?"

  "No. He may have been a low-level player. However, the woman you described fits the description of Helga Bremmer, one of their main operatives. It is a bit strange though. She was last reported to be their contact with Lukas Penwell."

  "You mean the rogue CIA officer?" said Michaels.

  "Yes, now you understand why I am so concerned." Someone summoned her from down the hall. "Please excuse me, duty calls."

  A chill went down my spine. I was acquainted with Lukas Penwell. During my last Army assignment in Turkey, he managed to involve me in one of his schemes. I felt lucky to escape unscathed.

  Sandy returned and escorted us to the assistant RSO's office. He stood behind his desk and didn't offer a seat. I was expecting an effusive apology. She started to leave but he told her to stay.

  "Well, you jokers thought you could pull one over on me. Let me tell you, you got another thing coming. Your butts are going to be on the next flight out and you can be expected to be arrested once you touch down on U.S. soil."

  "Didn't you contact the White House?" asked Michaels.

  "Yeah, and they've never heard of you or this SSRP outfit." He leaned forward with his fists on the desk. "What you got to say for yourselves now?"

  Hansen screwed me again. My hunch was right. This was one of Hansen's cockamamie schemes to puff up his career. He instituted a rogue operation and somehow tricked Wilson to go along. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a response. I was speechless, for once at a loss for words.

  Sandy spoke up, "Sir, the SSRP is an actual entity. I made the secure phone connection myself. I—"

  He didn't give her a chance to finish, "Take these … gentlemen to your office while I decide what to do with them. Now get out of my sight."

  Back down at Sandy's office, Lisette was on the phone. "Oh, here he is now." She held out the receiver, "Colonel Wilson wishes to speak."

  "Brannan, how come your wife is answering a secure line?"

  I did my best to explain and informed him of the latest development with the RSO. He offered no comment when I told him the White House knew nothing of the operation. He said not to worry; he would handle it himself.

  "Richards and Ruiz are on the way to Rome as we speak. They will arrive first thing in the morning. I want your team to keep a low profile until they get there."

  "Does this have anything to do with Lukas Penwell?" The colonel didn't answer. "Sir, are you still there?"

  "What brought you to that conclusion?" There was a hard-irritated edge to his voice.

  "He came up in a discussion about the Škorpion Brigade. What's the deal?"

  "We'll discuss that when you return. For now, the less said the better. Richards and Ruiz will accompany you back—"

  "One other slight complication—"

  "What now?" He sounded disgusted, big-time.

  "My wife and I planned to go on to Lyon to visit her aunt."

  "Brannan, I told you once, and I'm not going to tell you again, this is not a family vacation."

  "And I also promised to take her to Venice this weekend."

  The colonel let out an exasperated breath. "I suppose you want to baptize the baby in the Grand Canal."

  "No sir, he was baptized at the Vatican on Tuesday."

  "Let me guess, the Pope himself performed the ceremony."

  "No, he wasn't available on such short notice. Lisette's cousin did the honors. Sir, I do need to go to Lyon."

  A long pause, "How soon can you be back?"

  "End of the week."

  "I'll think it over. Concerning Ruiz and Richards, they will make their own arrangements from the airport. I want you to stay put. Don't leave your hotel. We don't
need any more incidents."

  I hung up the phone, I had won, so it seemed. Michaels said, "One of these days Wilson isn't going to give in. You ever thought about that?"

  "Yeah, but I'm gonna keep trying until he does."

  I wondered why Wilson was so concerned about the Škorpion Brigade. What does he know? Why didn't he say more? Lukas Penwell, after he disappeared from Turkey, the government indicted him on charges of drug smuggling. He was holed-up in Beirut, a fugitive from justice, dealing with all sorts of bad actors, including Libya and Syria. Jack and Amadeo ran into his henchmen in Tehran last year. I needed to find out more. Maybe it makes sense, Marsden and Penwell. What do they say, birds of a feather?

  A knock on the door, a Marine corporal entered. "Brannan and Michaels?"

  "That's us." I threw up my hands in mock surrender. "We under arrest?"

  "No sir." He chuckled. "The RSO ordered me to escort you to your hotel with full VIP status."

  Sandy Easton came in behind the Marine, "We have a Suburban ready downstairs. The hotel is only minutes away." She grinned. "You're in good hands with Corporal Garcia, he's the best."

  "I want to thank you," I said. "Especially concerning the people we talked about. I'll be sure to follow up back home." She nodded and left. First impressions can be wrong. She was a pro, good at her job. With a little effort, she might have presented herself as an attractive woman. But it seemed, she sacrificed her vanity to practicality. She could fit in anywhere.

  Garcia wheeled the black Suburban out of the embassy compound and on to the busy street. Naturally, I scanned the area, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone unusual. I looked over at the side view mirror. A woman wearing a helmet with a dark face shield sat astride a motorcycle about two cars back. I kept my eye on her for a few blocks as she kept the same interval. Lisette pointed out a shop she wanted to visit.

  "Pull over here for a second." Garcia started to protest. "We're not getting out, think we're being followed." He pulled over and stopped.

  A line of cars passed, the motorcycle hesitated and then sped by. A dark shade obscured the rider's face, but I knew who it was, the redhead, tight pants don't lie. I pointed as the bike disappeared into traffic. "That's the German broad who's been following us."