by Greg Dinallo
“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 noth
ing 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 Shephe
rd.”
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.”