Purpose of Evasion (21 page)

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 mysterious 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—”

“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 nothing 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.”