by Greg Dinallo
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:
KEYHOLE REVEALS CARGO IN QUESTION TRANSFERRED TO ROMEO CLASS SUBMARINE 14APR AT 02:47 HOURS. 344216N/125832E. ASSUME BOAT UNDER SYRIAN COMMAND. MAJOR LARKIN IS EN ROUTE. ROME STATION CHIEF WILL COORDINATE MEETING ON USS AMERICA.
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 mysteriou
s 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—”