by Greg Dinallo
A speck on the horizon pulled him from the reverie. He accelerated and quickly caught up to what turned out to be a pickup truck. Larkin pulled abreast in the opposite lane, glanced across to the driver, who was a local and clearly alone, then went flying past.
THE CONCRETE BLOCKHOUSES at the Ras Jdyar border checkpoint were flanked by a chainlink fence that paraded across the bleak landscape from desert to sea.
Al-Qasim waved as he approached. The Libyan Army guard in the security kiosk recognized him and raised the steel gate-arm. The BMW drove through without slowing, continuing across the grounds to the main building beyond.
“We’re in Libya now?” Shepherd asked as they parked and got out.
“Yes, safely inside Libya,” Al-Qasim said with a smile, leading the way inside.
As the attaché had promised, Shepherd’s documents were ready and his entry was handled routinely. In minutes, they had been signed and stamped and, paperwork dispensed with, he and Al-Qasim were on their way.
They were leaving the building when they saw a car approaching on the Tunisian side of the border. It stopped well before reaching the security kiosk. The door opened and Larkin got out. His eyes narrowed and locked onto Shepherd’s in a lethal, penetrating stare that, despite the fence and distance separating them, made it clear he was far from beaten.
Shepherd held it unblinkingly.
They glared at each other through the chainlink for a long moment before Al-Qasim broke the tension.
“Do you know that man?”
Shepherd nodded without taking his eyes off Larkin. “His name’s Larkin. Colonel Richard Larkin.”
“An American—”
“Yes, he tried to kill me once.”
“We should be going,” Al-Qasim said nervously.
Shepherd hesitated, then broke it off with Larkin and shook his head no. “I’m concerned for my wife.”
Al-Qasim raised a brow. “I know the provost of the D’Jerban police quite well. Why don’t I call him and ask if he’ll look in on her?”
They returned to the main building and Al-Qasim made the call. After hanging up, he forced a smile and reported, “The provost said to tell you your wife is fine.”
“What do you mean?” Shepherd asked, apprehensively.
“Well, it seems this Colonel Larkin has already confronted her. The provost said she filed a formal complaint against him. He promised he would notify me as soon as the Colonel was apprehended.”
Shepherd eased slightly and smiled at the prospect, then followed Al-Qasim outside.
The Peugeot was gone.
They returned to the BMW to discover an armored, four-wheel-drive vehicle was parked directly behind it, blocking their exit.
Three men in civilian attire were standing next to the matte black vehicle. The two in their twenties had an air of vigilance and intensity. The third was older and sullen with an icy malevolence.
Al-Qasim recognized him immediately.
He flashed official identification and addressed Al-Qasim in Arabic. Shepherd had no idea what he was saying but heard the sharp, commanding tone and saw that the attaché was clearly intimidated. Al-Qasim listened and nodded dutifully, then turned to Shepherd. “Secret police,” he said, his eyes flickering nervously, “the head of the secret police.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“You’re to go with him,” Al-Qasim replied. This was news to him, but he didn’t dare question it. Reza Abdel-Hadi’s presence was authorization enough.
“This way, Major,” the SHK chief ordered in heavily accented English, gesturing to the Soviet-made Krazz. He directed Shepherd into the backseat and got in next to him. A wire screen separated the cab from a windowless compartment where prisoners ostensibly rode.
Abdel-Hadi’s Akita was caged there now.
The powerful vehicle lurched forward with a throaty roar, leaving Al-Qasim in a swirl of dust.
“Are we still going to Tripoli?” Shepherd asked.
“Tarabulus,” Abdel-Hadi corrected sharply. “We don’t call it Tripoli.”
“Where in Tarabulus?”
“You ask many too questions, Major,” the SHK chief retorted. His dark, purplish lips tightened into a hard line that left no doubt the remainder of the journey would be made in silence.
BOOK
THREE
WE WANT A PLACE FOR OUR
BODIES TO BE BURIED IN,
AND A PLACE WHERE OUR
GENERATIONS, OUR
CHILDREN, CAN LIVE AS
FREELY AS OTHER HUMAN
BEINGS.
— YASSER
ARAFAT
35
A THIN SHEET OF SAND was blowing across the runway as a Lear jet with Syrian markings touched down at Beirut International Airport.
The time was 4:23 P.M.
Yasser Arafat bounded down the steps, bracketed by bodyguards. It had been a long day and his khaki twill fatigues had lost their creases. A Magnum revolver slapped at his side as he crossed the tarmac at a brisk pace and entered an armored Mercedes limousine.
Just over three hours had passed since he left his residence near Worldwide PLO Headquarters in Tunis for the 1,600-mile flight. His fear of Israeli hit squads had turned him into a jet-setting nomad who rarely slept in the same place on consecutive nights, deciding at the end of each day where he would stay that evening.
But this night had been planned for weeks.
Indeed, Arafat had been quietly fuming over the failure to exchange the hostages for a sanctuary in Libya. Now that Abu Nidal had been released from the hospital and had had time to convalesce, Arafat would confront him on the matter. Despite Nidal’s withdrawal from the PLO and reports of deep personal animosity between the two, they had been playing a shrewd game of good cop–bad cop for years: Arafat the ever reasonable negotiator, piously warning he wouldn’t be able to keep extremist factions in check unless certain concessions were made, then throwing up his hands and pointing to Nidal’s acts of terrorism as proof whenever they weren’t.
The limousine made its way through the city, heading north on the coastal highway toward Casino du Liban. Arafat stared out the window at the tapestry of rubble that resembled ancient ruins. The buildings might have been new, but the ruins were ancient, he thought, reminded of Abba Eban’s infamous quip, “The PLO never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity.” The hostage debacle was a perfect example and it galled Arafat that the former Israeli foreign minister would be laughing out loud if he knew.
The square-edged limousine pulled through the casino’s entrance gates and was escorted by sentries down the long approach road to the arched portico.
Abu Nidal observed Arafat’s arrival from a second-story balcony. Soon after aborting the hostage exchange, he was released from the hospital and took up residence here in an opulent suite once reserved for the casino’s highest rollers. He looked tan and robust, but he had yet to hear from either his gunboat or the group he had sent to abduct Katifa, and was in a foul mood.
“Were you part of the conspiracy or just blind to it?” Nidal challenged icily when Arafat joined him on the balcony. He knew what was coming and had fired the first volley to gain the advantage.
“Conspiracy?” Arafat flared, his nostrils contracting at the insult. “Assad called you. I was there. So was Qaddafi. You agreed to—”
“I didn’t agree to anything,” Nidal exploded, going on to inform Arafat about the doctored insulin.
“I had no idea,” the PLO chairman replied truthfully, concealing he found it bold and rather amusing.
His bull-necked silhouette framed against the sun, Nidal took a moment to regain his composure. Then he asked calmly, “Katifa said I favored the proposal, didn’t she?”
“No,” Arafat replied without hesitation, pretending he was surprised Nidal had asked. “She made your opposition known, and forcefully so.” He had given Moncrieff the ammunition to turn her; Katifa was an ally now; and he saw no reason to contribute to her demise.
“You’re certain?” Nidal said, puzzled.
Arafat nodded emphatically.
“But she was the only one who had access to the insulin. She had to be involved somehow,” Nidal reasoned. Shaking his head in dismay, he lamented, “I raised her as my own. I can’t believe she turned against me.”
“The Saudi is quite shrewd,” Arafat said slyly. “It’s possible it was his doing, not hers.”
“For her sake, I hope you’re right. She’ll have her chance to prove her loyalty when I get my hands on her.”
“Since we’re drawing lines,” Arafat said, holding Nidal’s look, “be advised I supported the proposal.”
“So the Saudi told me,” Nidal replied; then in a tone that left no doubt he found the idea reprehensible, he challenged, “A sanctuary in Libya?”
“Yes, in Libya,” Arafat retorted, uncowed. “Our people are scattered, our leaders exiled. Reunification is long overdue. It’s time to forsake this patchwork of territories and bring Palestinians together.”
Nidal scowled in disgust, his eyes darting to Arafat’s elegant wristwatch, visible below the cuff of his fatigues. “Rolex? Cartier? How much? Five thousand? Ten?”
“Close enough,” Arafat replied, not the least embarrassed. His wealth—the result of partnerships in several Kuwaiti construction companies—had always been a source of pride; as was the fact that he had never taken money from the PLO or Fatah organizations.
“Perfect copies that keep perfect time can be had for far less,” Nidal declared pointedly. “Of course, as someone very bright once said, there is nothing like the genuine article if you can afford it.”
Arafat winced and grunted in capitulation.
“And we can,” Nidal went on. “We have the currency to bring Palestinians together in Palestine.”
Several hours later, they were dining in Nidal’s suite when he glanced at his watch. “I have to take a call,” he explained to Arafat. “Come along if you wish.”
Arafat followed him down the main staircase, and through the amphitheater to the backstage communications center where the call from the Romeo came in each evening at 9:00 P.M. sharp.
This routine was dictated by the fact that all submarines, from the most primitive diesel to nuclear-powered missile-launcher, are essentially out of contact with command centers when dived. The most modern are equipped for reception of very low and extremely low frequency radio transmissions to depths of 100 meters. However, these bands lack sufficient width to support voice communication, require the boat move at slow speed, demand special antenna be deployed, and are painfully slow, ELF taking 30 seconds for the transmission of a single character. As a result, most navies transmit submarine fleet orders continuously; and each boat on its own schedule copies all messages, acting only on those addressed to it. To initiate communications, a submarine must either float a plastic buoy containing an antenna or come to periscope-antenna depth, putting one of several radio masts above the water. Voice communications demand the latter.
Like many early model submarines, the 35-year-old Romeo did not have VLF or ELF capability, which meant that when the submarine was dived, Nidal could not contact it at will, via voice or cable. Therefore, each day at this hour, the Romeo came to periscope-antenna depth, her hull just 3 meters below the surface, and contacted him on the gunboat or, as of late, at Casino du Liban.
“This is the Exchequer,” the terrorist in charge of the hostages said. “Your currency is secure.”
“I may make a withdrawal soon,” Nidal said.
“I understand. Can you specify a date?”
“Not yet. But I expect it shall be sometime in the near future,” Nidal replied, ending the transmission to prevent detection of the submarine’s position.
“What does that mean?” Arafat challenged as they left the backstage communications center and entered the amphitheater, where the trapeze hung ominously in the cold glare of the kliegs. They were walking beneath it when Nidal whirled, his heel scraping in a crusty pool of dried blood.
“It means,” he shot back, “that it’s time the Zionists in Washington and Tel Aviv felt the full might of the Intifada.”
Arafat groaned, dismayed. “The timing is all wrong. The air strike has played right into our hands. It’s turned world opinion. Now the Americans are being—”
“You never learn,” Nidal scoffed angrily.
“They’re being called terrorists now,” Arafat went on in a rush. “The tide is swinging in our favor unless we do something rash and reverse it.”
Nidal’s lips tightened grudgingly. Arafat had always been an unwelcome but valuable check on his impulsiveness. He was on the verge of accepting his counsel when the radio man appeared.
“The gunboat,” the young guerrilla enthused.
Nidal hurried to the radio console and took the microphone. “Yes, yes? Where are you? What happened?”
The captain briefed him on the encounter with the SEALs, explaining that the gunboat had been adrift in the Mediterranean ever since. Unable to repair the damaged propellers or the radio that the SEALs had destroyed before departing, his crew had nearly run out of food and water by the time a Turkish freighter spotted them and offered assistance. He was calling from the freighter’s bridge.
Nidal’s face dropped as he listened, his expression hardening into an angry mask at the report of the assault. “You’re certain they were Americans?”
“Their leader spoke in phonetic Arabic,” the captain replied. “A European would have spoken French.”
“Yes, and an Israeli would have said nothing. We await your return. Godspeed.” His soft eyes were ablaze with anger. He strode boldly onto the stage of the amphitheater, bent to the floor, and scooped up a palmful of dried blood, then held the crumbly, blackish mound out to Arafat, and hissed, “Intifada now.”
36
AFTER LEAVING the Ras Jdyar border crossing, Abdel-Hadi’s Krazz headed east into Libya on the Al Kurnish Road.
Shepherd sat next to the taciturn SHK chief as the vehicle hurtled toward Tripoli at extremely high speed: first Bu Kammash, then Zurwarah, Sabratah, Az Zawiyah, Janzur; the towns and miles flashed past; a tableaux of boats, fishermen, and drying nets on one side; stunted wheat, cracked irrigation ditches, and farmers bent to plows on the other; and everywhere, children watching and waving with wide-eyed innocence, as would his own, Shepherd thought, wondering if he would ever see them again.
A short time later, Tripoli’s rooftops edged the expanse of neon-blue sky. The ornate domes and spired minarets of ancient civilizations were crowded out by the concrete boxes that had sprung up in recent decades.
The Krazz had just passed the People’s Congress, a modern structure on the western outskirts of the Old City, when the driver made a right into Al Jala Road, a broad, eucalyptus-lined motorway that angled inland from the coast. It bordered the Christian Cemetery and the people’s shopping precinct, cutting through an industrial district to a rural area, where the Krazz negotiated the rows of concrete dragon’s teeth that lined As-Sarim Street, and approached the Bab al Azziziya Barracks.
A squad of infantry flanked a Soviet-made tank parked sideways across the entrance, blocking it. Shepherd was looking right down the barrel of the T-55’s cannon, its turret positioned to fire on any hostile vehicle that might approach.
The sentry recognized Abdel-Hadi and signaled to the tank with a wave. It roared to life and backed up, allowing the Krazz to enter the compound. Abdel-Hadi’s driver snaked around bomb craters and rubble in the unpaved road, coming upon a tent of coarse brown fabric that lay across the earth like an immense, dusty camel.
Abdel-Hadi issued some orders in Arabic to guards stationed outside the tent. They frisked Shepherd, and swept a metal detector over him, confirming he was unarmed. Then, the SHK chief ushered him inside.
Shepherd’s eyes darted to the multicolored pattern that swooped overhead, in startling contrast to the exterior. A few seconds passed before he sensed a presence and tu
rned to see Muammar el-Qaddafi slouched inconspicuously behind a plain desk.
General Younis was standing next to him.
Qaddafi’s cape was tossed rakishly over one shoulder, his large head cocked slightly to one side, eyes glancing up at Shepherd in a curious stare.
Shepherd smiled thinly and nodded, thinking that the colonel’s positioning wasn’t accidental, but calculated to allow him to gauge his visitors’ stature and intent, and seize the initiative.
Finally, Qaddafi stood and came around the desk.
Shepherd held his ground as the impact of being face-to-face with the notorious Libyan registered. He was taller than Shepherd had imagined; barrel-chested and muscular; his leathery face was stippled by a five o’clock shadow that caught the bluish cast of the fluorescents; his eyes were hard like polished obsidian.
“Major Shepherd,” Qaddafi said softly in English, extending a hand. Twenty years ago as a young cadet, he had attended the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, England, and was surprisingly fluent when it suited him.
“Colonel,” Shepherd said, judging from the handshake and roughened palm that Qaddafi was as strong and physically capable as he looked.
Qaddafi introduced Younis; then, addressing Shepherd, he said, “I have always admired men with the courage to follow the dictates of their conscience.”
“I did what I thought was right, sir,” Shepherd drawled humbly, playing his part. “I took an oath that I’d never carry out an order I knew to be wrong, and I stuck by it. Our nations aren’t at war. My government had no justification for military action.” It was killing him to say it but he had little choice.
“You paid a high price.”
“It could’ve been higher.”
“I understand all too well, Major,” Qaddafi replied, his eyes darting about warily at Shepherd’s allusion to personal safety; then he opened his cape, revealing a bulletproof vest girdling his torso. It was a lightweight Kevlar model with Velcro fasteners. “Now, since we’re speaking of price,” Qaddafi resumed, somewhat effusively, “the question, as you Americans say, is ‘what’s in this for us’?”