by Oliver North
As his sailboat neared its berth, Goode put the engine in neutral and let the craft coast for another twenty meters before shifting the transmission into reverse and bringing the sailboat to a full stop. A dockhand gave signals to Goode from the floating pier and waited for him to cast the lines. After cutting the engine, Goode walked to the bow of his new boat and tossed the lines to the waiting harborhand. He had so skillfully brought her into berth that the man on the dock hardly had to pull on the braided nylon lines to bring the blue hull up against the fenders along the floating pier. The harborhand grinned and gave the captain of the Pescador II a thumbs-up sign.
The entire process took only five minutes, and Goode was just getting his land legs on the dock when he saw a familiar form about a hundred meters down the quay. Goode waved at the man, motioned for him to join him, and then reboarded the boat after checking to make sure all the lines had been made secure. The bearded man approached the gangway that had been placed from the pier to the gunwale of the Pescador II and said in a voice just loud enough to carry to the cockpit, “Hey, Captain Goode! Permission for an old Marine to come aboard?”
“Permission granted! Come aboard, my friend,” Goode said with a wide smile. The bearded man, wearing jeans and an open-collared dress shirt, jumped onto the deck, saluted the strange ensign hanging from the stern, and walked toward the pilothouse. The captain, standing in the cockpit, reached out his hand and said, “It's good to see you again, Pete. How are you?”
Peter Newman grabbed the older man and hugged him vigorously.
“I'm fine. It's great to see you again, too, Bill. I see you've got yourself another sailboat. But what's with the strange ensign?” Newman pointed to the flag hanging from the fantail.
Goode nodded. “Well, this boat was made in South Africa. She's built for single-handed sailing in the Southern Ocean—but the ensign, that's the Dutch flag. I've just come from Saint Maarten. That was my last port of call in the Caribbean, and I thought a Dutch flag was less likely to attract attention than Old Glory.”
“And the name?” asked Newman.
“Yep, Pescador II,” said Goode with a great big smile. “So far, she's lived up to her namesake.”
“Yeah, well, let's hope she doesn't meet with the same fate.”
“Amen to that. Let me show you around, and then we'll have an early lunch.”
Goode put his hand on the younger man's shoulder and steered him toward the captain's cabin. “I always start here because that's the best feature.” He led Newman inside. The room was magnificent, mainly mahogany, resembling an old English drawing room. On one bulkhead was a large bookcase, filled deck to overhead with hundreds of volumes. Newman let his hand browse along the rows of books, stowed with a wooden bar midway across each shelf, to keep them secure when the boat rolled in heavy weather. The titles ranged from classical literature to inspirational reading—along with a good selection of fiction, biographies, and travelogues. “This is great, Bill. You must feel very much at home here.”
Near the bookcase was Goode's navigation table. It doubled as his desk, but it was as neat as something in a furniture store. Not a scrap of paper cluttered its polished mahogany top. Besides a harbor chart, the only object on it was a small brass lamp, bolted to the tabletop, with a white oyster shade. Matching lamps were mounted on the bulkhead opposite the bookcase, and between the lamps was a large bed. Newman noted that, like everything else aboard this boat, a floor lamp in the corner was also fastened to the deck.
A narrow passageway between the bookcase and a tall wooden locker led to the salon, located amidships. Newman walked through the hatch on the ribbed teakwood deck and whistled softly. “Nice.”
The space in the salon was bright, lit from large portholes on three sides, and overlooked the deck. There were couches and several captain's chairs, a square coffee table, and another table for eating or working on charts. The forward bulkhead had a built-in sound system, and Newman recognized the mellow saxophone of Grover Washington playing in the background.
Goode smiled. “We'll finish the tour of the boat later, after we get underway. I'd like to set sail by 1800 hours. Oh, by the way...that hatch across the salon, just below the porthole line, leads below deck to your cabin. You can stow your stuff there and get comfortable. We'll have lunch in about a half hour.”
Dneprovskiy Hotel
Dneiper River Station, Moorage 2
Kiev, Ukraine
Saturday, 14 March 1998
1230 Hours, Local
Komulakov hadn't touched his lunch. He was still engrossed in the material just delivered to him by a former KGB associate now working for the GRU in the Russian Federation. Yuri Ancheckov had made a special trip to Kiev just to meet with Komulakov regarding some additional Russian intelligence—at least that's what he told his former boss. The truth was, Yuri just wanted to have a spring weekend in Kiev at the expense of Moscow taxpayers. It was seldom that anyone ever learned anything new from Komulakov.
Ancheckov sat across from Komulakov at the opulent dinner table and showed no reluctance in eating the meal laid out before them. He felt a little sheepish when he was nearly done wolfing down his own plate, so he offered a little encouragement to the man across from him. “General, your food is getting cold. Aren't you going to eat?”
Komulakov grunted and kept reading the photocopied material from classified FBI and CIA documents. Much of it was the same as that delivered to him in a sealed envelope from the SVR headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square a week before. Moscow Centre was the same building that had been KGB headquarters when the USSR existed, the building where Komulakov had served part of his career. Ancheckov had brought a similar package from GRU, and the retired KGB general was engrossed in perusing the files stolen from his former American adversary—all of which contained his name and the name of Peter Newman. There were also numerous files pertaining to the fugitive Irish terrorist Gilbert Duncan—along with photographs, BOLO notices, and Wanted posters of the terrorist that had been circulated all over the world.
“Yuri, you know, I just figured out what the Americans' biggest problem is.”
“What's that, General?”
“They have too much information. They have so many intelligence sources, so many police agencies, so many security services, that no two of them ever talk to one another. Look at this,” said the KGB general, holding up a photograph of Peter Newman in a Marine uniform and an Interpol BOLO notice of Gilbert Duncan, wanted IRA terrorist. “Wouldn't you think that somewhere in the vast U.S. government, somebody would have figured out by now that Newman and Duncan were the same person?”
“Well, it hass been three years since you did that, General. Three years since you created Duncan and Newman disappeared. That is what you wanted. What difference does it make if Newman died as Duncan or if Newman died as Newman aboard some sailboat in Cyprus, as long as he is dead?”
“It doesn't—as long as he's really dead. But according to these files, he may not be dead. And if he's not—I have a problem.”
Ancheckov returned to his food, and the KGB general resumed perusing the files that the mole Morales had placed in a dead drop in Virginia, just days prior. “This file is interesting,” Komulakov said, pointing to a classified FBI file that had explained William Goode's report on Peter Newman. “I'm trying to contact Morales and see if there's anything more on this case—anything fresh. This fellow, Goode, the former CIA man, reports on Peter Newman's mission and gives details that he could only have gotten from talking with Newman. It could have been that he got this information during the time he brought Newman from Turkey to Cyprus on his sailboat. But I doubt he had enough time for that. These things that Goode mentions in his debriefing sound like the result of extensive conversations and review.”
“Does it matter how he came into possession of the information?”
“Yes...If my impression is correct, it means Peter Newman did not die in the explosion aboard Goode's sailboat in Larnaca. Goode would ha
ve gotten this information from Newman after the attempt on his life. No...I think Newman is still alive.”
Ancheckov put down his fork and met Komulakov's eyes. “Well, if Newman is still alive, we have a problem, General...you and me. I do not know if he actually saw me on the train coming out of Syria three years ago or not, but I do not want this guy showing up again. I do not see how he could have survived the explosion on that sailboat, but if he did, we had better find him and get rid of him.”
“Yes, Yuri, that's true. I've already put some things in motion and will apprise you as soon as I learn more. In the meantime, there's something very important you can do for me.”
“What is that, General?”
“I want you to quietly see if you can find out just who Julio Morales really is. You know, during all the years I was his controller in Washington, I never knew his real identity.”
“I will try, General. But you know better than I how closely held that kind of information is at the Centre. May I ask why, after all these years, the identity of Morales is so important now?”
Komulakov looked over his reading glasses at the younger man.
“No, you may not.”
Office of Commander in Chief
U.S. Central Command
MacDill Air Force Base, Florida
Friday, 13 March 1998
2140 Hours, Local
General George Grisham went over his checklist one more time and then deleted the list from his laptop. Everything was done, and he was ready for his midnight flight from MacDill to Incirlik, Turkey. The fifty-six-year-old Marine ran a hand through his short-cropped gray hair and drank the last swallow of cold coffee from the mug on his desk. As he stood to put his laptop in his attaché case, there was a knock on his office door.
He turned as the door opened and Gunnery Sergeant Amos Skillings came in.
“Excuse me, sir. Anything else that you'll be needing for the trip tonight?”
“I think I have everything. That classified file you brought me this afternoon—is that the latest we have on Colonel Newman's case?”
“Yes, sir. I checked with the various other agencies, and they told me they have nothing new. The NSA never called me back. But I didn't expect we'd hear anything from the White House on this. Some deputy something-or-other called me right after I called the NSA and wanted to know what we were doing with this case. I told them it was just routine housecleaning; I was just making sure there wasn't anything new before we closed the books on it.”
“Then as far as all of the other U.S. agencies are concerned, Lieutenant Colonel Newman is still officially dead?”
Skillings nodded. “Yes, sir. Everything's quiet on his file now. I just hope I didn't stir up any interest by making that one last check.”
“I doubt it. The entire case was built on politics. His chief antagonists, Harrod and Komulakov, are both out of the picture. I think people have pretty well forgotten about the late Peter Newman.”
Skillings grinned. “Well, sir...for a dead man, he sure looked mighty good when I saw him last week.”
“I'm looking forward to our meeting in Larnaca on Monday. Did you get those clothes and things I requested for him?”
“Yes, sir. They're in that package over there beside your carry-on bag.”
“Well, what's in that other package—that long one by the couch?”
“That's for you.”
“What is it?”
“Happy birthday, General. It's a gift from your office staff. We hope you'll have a chance to enjoy it on your trip next week.”
General Grisham smiled and said, “How thoughtful, Gunny. Be sure and thank the staff for me.”
“I don't think that'll be necessary, sir.” Skillings opened the door to the outer office a little wider.
The entire CENTCOM CinC staff, from every service branch, stood in the outer office and began to sing “Happy Birthday”—mostly off-key—to their boss. He laughed and shook his head.
“I can't believe you guys are still here on a Friday night. Gunny I can believe—he's married to the Corps—but the rest of you able-bodied soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines. What's the matter with you people—don't you have lives?”
They all laughed. A few offered fake excuses about all the exotic places that they'd be right now if Gunny hadn't “ordered” them to show up tonight. Staff Sergeant Marianne Kimmel came forward with a cake.
“Sorry, General Grisham, but we couldn't afford all of the candles. That many would've drained our wallets and set fire to the cake.”
“Oh, watch it, Staff Sergeant. I'm not so old that I can't order you to do a couple dozen laps around the admin building for your disrespect.” Sergeant Kimmel laughed.
Grisham picked up the long box and opened the colorfully wrapped package. He pulled the wrapping away from the contents and smiled when he saw a deep-sea fishing rod and reel.
“Hey, this is great! I just hope I have enough time to spend a few minutes with it in the Mediterranean. Thanks, all of you. I appreciate it very much.”
By 2300 hours, General Grisham excused himself and went back inside his office. Ten minutes later, Skillings came in to get his luggage and take it to the Gulfstream V that was presently undergoing its preflight procedures for the trip that the two of them would be taking within the hour.
Habirah Prison
Near Salman Pak, Iraq
Saturday, 14 March 1998
1735 Hours, Local
Bruno Macklin had been traveling most of the daylight hours, blindfolded, in the back of a military four-by-four. He was handcuffed with his arms in front of him and shackled with leg irons and waist restraints that tied him securely to the rollover bar of the vehicle.
This procedure had become routine to him by now. Every few months, Macklin was transferred from one Iraqi prison to another. At first when it happened, he was afraid they were taking him to be executed, and the guards reinforced this impression by their actions—since that's what the guards had been told by their superiors.
Macklin figured the frequent transfers were his captors' way of making sure, if word ever leaked that Macklin was still alive, that Western intelligence agencies would have an impossible task in finding and rescuing him. And so, every six to eight weeks, he was moved to another prison.
There was perhaps another reason: the Iraqis wanted to make sure he was never at a prison long enough for his guards to become friendly with him. More than once, Macklin knew, guards had bonded with prisoners sufficiently to help them escape, and sometimes the guards themselves would flee as well. It was a strange phenomenon, but it could happen.
The most difficult part for Macklin was the uncertainty. Every time he was moved, he lost track of the time. He always tried to mark the days off on a makeshift calendar, but he wasn't always able to check it when they came to get him for another move. He felt certain he had been in their captivity for three years, but perhaps it was only two and a half, possibly even as many as four.
But today, he almost enjoyed the transfer. The fresh air that blew across his blindfolded face felt good; it erased the stench of his filthy cell. And unlike the brutal jailers at the other prisons that he had been taken to over the past three years, the Iraqis on this transport detail were almost humane: they had halted for regular rest stops to allow him to take care of toilet necessities; they had even let him eat during one of the breaks; they offered him bottles of water when he was thirsty; and, on one occasion, they even gave him water before he asked.
One of the three transport guards spoke some English and tried to converse with Macklin. Though the British officer was blindfolded, he still was able to detect the differences in voice tonality. The one speaking to him now had a maimed hand, he recalled. “How did you lose your hand?” he asked, to test whether he was right.
“Ah, yes...my hand,” the guard said. “I was wounded in 1991, in the ‘War with the West.’”
“I'm sorry,” Macklin told him honestly. “I know what it's l
ike to be wounded.”
“That was long ago,” the man answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “I hardly miss it anymore.”
“But you're still in the Iraqi Army. In the West, if a soldier loses a hand, he is honorably discharged from the service and goes back home.”
“Yes, I have heard that,” the Iraqi said. “I probably could have gone home after that too. But I would not be able to work. My family would have starved. The military let me stay and transferred me to lighter duty. It's a good job.”
“Tell me about this new prison,” Macklin said.
“It is like any other Iraqi prison. They are all alike.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Except that you may meet some of your friends at Habirah Prison. It is a new prison, and no one knows that it exists, except those of us who work there. The government built it for special political prisoners.”
“Political prisoners?”
“Yes. Many of the Kurdish resistance leaders are kept there before they are executed. There are several senior Iranian officers there and some other prisoners of war. You may meet the Americans,” the guard said.
Americans! He wondered if any of them were survivors of the compromised mission. Even if they aren't, he thought, we might be able to work together and find a way to escape. Though his face was a grim mask covered with the rags that blindfolded him, inwardly Macklin was smiling. It was a slim hope, but it was the most he'd had in a very long time.
TRAITORS AND HOSTAGES
CHAPTER SEVEN
Russian Embassy
8 Kutuzova vul.
Kiev, Ukraine
Monday, 16 March 1998 1130
Hours, Local
Your package from America has come through for you, General Komulakov. I have the information that you are expecting.”
Komulakov smiled as he took the sealed package from the attractive young woman, a GRU officer assigned to the Russian embassy staff in Kiev as an economic attaché. His hand brushed hers, and he winked at her. The young woman blushed and smiled before escorting him to the embassy's Rezidentura—the space inside the embassy set aside for classified intelligence work. These rooms were theoretically free from the threat of foreign penetration, intercepts, or electronic monitoring. Every Russian embassy had these “sanctum spaces,” where communications specialists encrypted and decrypted intelligence service messages on Kappelle devices, encoding machines used for transmitting and receiving sensitive traffic. Such a device had been used to decipher the message Komulakov now held in his hand as he sat down at a desk in one of the small, windowless rooms of the Rezidentura.