by Greg Dinallo
“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 vacationi
ng 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.”
&nb
sp; “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.