Purpose of Evasion (24 page)

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 turned 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’?”

“A combat pilot,” Shepherd said pointedly; an F-111 pilot and you damn well know it, he thought, having no doubt this accounted for the secret police escort and audience with Qaddafi. Indeed, he had counted on it, not only to get him into Libya, which it had, but also into the cockpit of his F-111 bomber.

Qaddafi arched his brows and flicked a look to General Younis, who was standing off to one side. “In other words, Major, you wish to trade your knowledge and flying skills for asylum in the People’s Jamahiriya.”

“That’s correct.”

“Be advised, Major,” Younis warned, stretching to full height, “we would require
specific
knowledge.”

“For example?”

Younis broke into a sly smile. “Just enumerate the systems with which you’re familiar.”

“Certainly. I have no problem with that,” Shepherd replied nonchalantly, not wanting to appear eager. “APQ forward-looking attack radar, APQ terrain-following radar, ASQ digital fire control computer, ANITA—that stands for alphanumeric input for target acquisition—and of course all the standard navigational, avionics, and armament systems, including laser-guided Pave Tack.”

“You have a thorough working knowledge of them,” Younis prompted, secretly delighted at the development.

“I’ve been flying one-elevens for over fifteen years, General,” Shepherd answered, relieved it was going as planned. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Well, Major,” Qaddafi said in an insidious tone, “I wouldn’t take that for granted if I were you.”

Shepherd hadn’t expected that.

Neither had Younis, who stiffened with concern. He had seen it happen before and dreaded what was coming next.

Shepherd knew the deal he proposed made perfect sense. Was it possible Qaddafi hadn’t made the connection? Or had his people developed ANITA on their own? “I’ll be more than happy to take you through any one of these systems step by step,” he offered.

“That’s what bothers me.” Qaddafi’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, carving deep gorges in his forehead. “I’ve always found it difficult trusting men who change allegiance so quickly.”

“There’s been nothing quick about it, sir,” Shepherd responded, assuming Qaddafi was testing his resolve. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else since I was assigned to the mission; and no matter how I came at it, it came up wrong. The truth is, I knew all along I had no choice but to take the action I did.”

Qaddafi studied him thoughtfully. “You could be the man you claim, or"—he paused, splaying his hands—"you could very well be a spy.”

“A spy,” Shepherd echoed; he realized where Qaddafi was headed now.

So did Younis. As he had surmised, Qaddafi’s paranoia had hold of him. They finally had their hands on ANITA, and the colonel was about to throw it away.

“Yes, yes, a disgruntled patriot, a man without a country, it’s the perfect cover,” Qaddafi went on, envisioning the conspiracy. “And not the first time CIA used such a ruse to set up an operative. You see it, Younis?” he prompted, descending further into the abyss. “You see how clear it becomes once pointed out?”

“Well, it’s certainly possible, sir; but I don’t think this man is an intelligence operative. I—”

“I do,” Abdel-Hadi interrupted in Arabic, having long ago realized that
his
power grew along with Qaddafi’s paranoia, real or imaginary threats notwithstanding. “Kiley is very shrewd, very clever.”

“You deny Kiley is your commander?” Qaddafi suddenly challenged, locking his eyes onto Shepherd’s to drive the accusation home.

“Yes, I do,” Shepherd shot back, holding the colonel’s penetrating stare unblinkingly.

“You deny that this despicable shetan sent you here to assassinate me?” Qaddafi shouted, gripped by the mania that had put Libyan Air Force markings on the F-111s.

“I’m not an assassin, sir,” Shepherd replied evenly.

“Liar! He sent you here to kill me because the air strike didn’t. Yes, yes. Despite our agreement he conspired against my life and . . .” Qaddafi paused, whirling to face Shepherd again. “Or could it be that he decided to exact vengeance because he didn’t get what he wanted? Because we didn’t—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Younis interrupted in Arabic. He had little hope of reaching him, but thought it best Qaddafi be stopped before revealing the arms for hostages deal. “I really don’t think that’s the case here. I suggest we give him a chance to—”

“
That
is a matter for our courts,” the colonel retorted in Arabic; then in English he said, “Islamic justice is uncomplicated and swift, Major. Murderers are executed; thieves have their hands cut off; political assassins . . .” He let the sentence trail off ominously.

“Why not give him a chance to prove what he says?” Younis suggested gently. “Let him demonstrate this knowledge that he claims he—”

“I have all the proof I need right there,” Qaddafi snapped, indicating Shepherd’s eyes. He was caught up in a fit of raging madness now, one hand clawing at his wiry hair, the other pointing accusingly at Shepherd. “See? See how he looks at me? Take him away!” he ordered, with an abrupt wave of his hand. “Take this emissary of Satan from my home!”

These last exchanges were in Arabic.

Shepherd had no idea what had been said, but Qaddafi’s anger was unmistakable, as was the general’s dismay. Suddenly Abdel-Hadi nodded to the two secret police officers stationed at the entrance to the tent.

They cuffed Shepherd’s hands behind his back and dragged him outside into swiftly falling darkness.

When they were gone Qaddafi took a few moments to collect himself; then he turned to Younis with a strangely serene expression. “Do you really think he is bona fide?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Younis answered contritely, uncertain if Qaddafi would take offense at the reply.

Qaddafi nodded thoughtfully. “Take whatever steps are necessary to confirm it.”

37

HAVING FAILED
to prevent Shepherd from entering Libya, Larkin decided to fly to Tunis, where a United States consulate, CIA support personnel, and a secure communications link to Langley awaited.

He drove the Al Kurnish Road back over the causeway to D’Jerba, continuing north on the MC-117 to the airport. The time was 2:34
P.M.
when he returned the rented Peugeot.

As the colonel headed for the terminal, the clerk at the car rental desk routinely checked his name against a computer alert that had come in earlier from police headquarters. It had been sent to all car rental agencies, airlines, hotels, and customs in response to Stephanie’s complaint. The clerk set the papers aside and called airport security.

Larkin purchased a ticket on the 4:20 flight to Tunis, then went to a phone booth to alert the station chief to his arrival. He didn’t see the rental clerk pointing him out to the two D’Jerban police officers.

“Colonel Richard Larkin?”

“Yes.”

“Our report states you possess a firearm,” one of the officers said, his right hand cradling an Uzi submachine gun that hung from his shoulder.

Larkin nodded and glanced to his left armpit.

The second officer deftly slipped the Baretta from Larkin’s shoulder holster and confiscated it.

“Passport, please?”

Larkin reached to a pocket and gave it to him.

“You will come with us now.”

“Why?” Larkin asked warily. “What’s the problem?”

“Accusations of certain crimes have been made against you,” the officer replied stiffly.

Larkin studied him for a moment, deciding. He knew the military
mentality all too well; they had orders to bring him in, and neither argument nor resistance would convince them otherwise. “Okay,” he said calmly.

After reporting that Larkin had been apprehended, they led him outside to a white Land Rover that had
POLICE
in French and Arabic on the doors, and drove to police headquarters in Houmt Souk, D’Jerba’s capital.

Larkin was taken directly to the provost’s office, where Al-Qasim and Stephanie were waiting. There were no line-ups viewed from behind one-way mirrors here; defendant and plaintiff were brought together for direct eye-to-eye confrontation in the Arab manner.

Stephanie stared at him, seething with animosity.

“Is this the man?” the provost asked. He was slender and well-groomed, with a thoroughly professional demeanor. Like many North Africans, he spoke English with a French accent.

“It certainly is,” Stephanie replied sharply.

Al-Qasim nodded in confirmation. He had just returned to his office from the border checkpoint when the provost called with news of Larkin’s capture.

“Colonel Larkin?” the provost said calmly. “Did you break into this woman’s hotel room and threaten her with a pistol as she has charged?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Larkin replied shrewdly, deciding the truth would serve him best. The charges against Shepherd were public knowledge, he reasoned; conversely,
he
was an officer of the law, clearly in the right. “I was sent here by my government to apprehend a fugitive. Mrs. Shepherd was helping him escape.”

“You have no legal jurisdiction here, Major.”

“I realize that, sir,” Larkin said in his most deferential tone. “I intended to contact you but there wasn’t time. As you know, Major Shepherd escaped.”

“What are the charges against him?”

“He deserted from his squadron and killed an American military officer.”

The provost nodded. “In the United Kingdom. Yes, yes, I recall that incident now.”

“Being accused doesn’t make my husband guilty,” Stephanie protested, bristling with frustration.

“His actions speak louder than your words, Mrs. Shepherd,”
the provost intoned. “I’m afraid they tend to undermine any claim of innocence.”

“I’m aware of that,” Stephanie said grimly, aching to explain; but she knew it was futile, knew from the provost’s reply that, as Walt had predicted, appearances were what counted.

The provost shifted his look to Al-Qasim. “As I understand it, you drove Major Shepherd to the border?”

“Oui. Je n’etais pas au courant de ces accusations,” Al-Qasim explained, pretending he was bewildered. “Elle a dit que le Majeur était consultant—”

“En Anglais, s’il vous plaît,” the provost admonished.

“I didn’t know of these charges,” the attaché lied with an anxious glance to Stephanie. Diplomatic immunity notwithstanding, involvement in criminal activity could result in his expulsion from Tunisia. “I was under the impression her husband was a technical consultant interested in doing business in Libya.”

“Mrs. Shepherd,” the provost prompted.

Stephanie studied Al-Qasim for a long moment before answering. “That’s correct,” she finally said, deciding there was no reason to betray him; then, shifting her look to Larkin, who held it coldly, she added, “
He’s
the one who’s lying.”

“Since we’re speaking of deception,” the provost said, his tone sharper now, “your husband used false identification to enter Tunisia. Are you aware of
that,
Mrs. Shepherd?”

It was a matter of record. There was no sense denying it, Stephanie thought, nodding resignedly.

“Identification he took from the officer he shot and killed,” Larkin added.

The provost’s expression darkened, leaving no doubt the remark had the effect Larkin intended. “Are you aware of that as well, Mrs. Shepherd?”

Stephanie’s lips tightened in a thin line; then, shoulders slackening in defeat, she nodded again.

“I appreciate your time, Colonel,” the provost said after a short silence. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

“Not at all, sir,” Larkin said, checking the time. “If you have no further questions, there’s a slim chance I can make my flight.”

The provost nodded and shook Larkin’s hand.

The colonel left the office, retrieved his pistol at the front desk, and headed for the airport.

“What happens now?” Stephanie asked apprehensively.

“Having allegedly helped a fugitive to escape, the law requires you be detained,” the provost replied; he watched Stephanie’s face fall at the specter of imprisonment; then, after a calculated pause, he added, “You’ll be released on your own recognizance and remain on the island until your guilt or innocence can be determined. May I have your passport, please?”

LARKIN
arrived at D’Jerba’s Melita International shortly after his flight to Tunis had departed. On learning there were no others that evening, he checked into a hotel at the airport and called the U.S. Consulate in Tunis. He identified himself to the CIA station chief and, prompted by the gravity of the situation, he disregarded the unsecured line between D’Jerba and Tunis, and asked the call be routed on a secure net to Langley.

THE TIME
in Washington, D.C., was 8:58
A.M.

The DCI had just come from a breakfast meeting with the president when his secretary told him Larkin was on the line.

“You think he can pull if off?” Kiley wondered, on hearing that Shepherd had gained entry into Libya.

“I don’t know. Qaddafi isn’t just going to let him waltz in there and walk off with a one-eleven. I figure we’ve got a little time.”

“Any ideas?”

“There’s a Libyan diplomat who helped Shepherd get in. I think we can use him.”

“Can we trust him?”

“I doubt it, but he can be leveraged. He’d look pretty bad if his boy ripped off one of Qaddafi’s new toys. We’d be doing him a favor.”

“Good.” Kiley grunted. “Keep me posted as to—”

The intercom buzzed interrupting him.

“Hang on, Dick.” He put the colonel on hold and tapped the intercom button. “Yes,” the DCI growled, annoyed at the intrusion. “Oh. Okay, thanks,” he said, his tone softening at the message; then he switched back to Larkin and announced, “Arafat’s on the tube.” Kiley turned on the television with a remote control and searched the channels, finding the PLO leader surrounded by journalists. While Arafat fielded questions in emotionally
ncharged Arabic, a CNN correspondent turned to the camera and reported:

“PLO Chairman Yasser Arafat has just accused the United States of cold-blooded murder. The alleged killing of three Palestinian seamen occurred weeks ago when U.S. Navy commandos assaulted a PLO gunboat in search of American hostages. Arafat was quick to point out that none were found aboard the vessel. Then, in a stunning admission, he revealed that all Americans taken hostage in the Middle East in recent years were abducted,
not
by extremist Muslim factions, who had served as a ploy to deter rescue attempts, but by terrorist Abu Nidal for the purpose of ransoming Palestine. Furthermore, angered by the deaths of his countrymen, Nidal has now accelerated his timetable and demanded a Palestinian state be created in Israel no later than the start of Ramadan, the Muslim New Year. He is threatening to kill one hostage for each day beyond the deadline.”

Kiley slumped dejectedly in his chair. “Bastards,” he finally said, bitterly.

“Sir?” Larkin said.

“They’re going to kill them all if they don’t get a homeland in Israel by Ramadan.”

Larkin groaned and muttered an expletive.

The DCI sat there in silence for a long moment. “As soon as you finish with the Libyan,” he finally said, “you’ll have to go see Moncrieff.”

“I thought the bastards got him. Where is he?”

“Jeddah. He called last night. He and the lady made it to the family palace; but he’s pissed off over being left behind in Tripoli. He wants out.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“Nor I. The trouble is we need an insurance policy on this now; and he’s the key to it.”

“I understand, sir.”

After briefing Larkin on the details, Kiley went to the White House, where the president and his advisers were meeting in the cabinet room to formulate a response to Arafat’s announcement. En route, he considered revealing the upcoming rescue attempt but, fearful the news might be leaked to the media, he decided against it.

“Tel Aviv’s just told Arafat to take a hike,” the secretary of state reported in his methodical cadence. “I gave the prime minister
every assurance that we weren’t involved in this incident.” He swept his eyes over the group and, lowering his voice, added, “I hope I wasn’t misleading him.”

“No, sir,” the CJC replied truthfully.

“Ken? Bill?” the president prompted, picking up on the secretary’s lead.

“I authorized no such action, sir,” Kiley replied, choosing his words carefully while looking his commander-in-chief straight in the eye. He had Duryea’s UNODIR locked in his office safe and if push came to shove, at least technically, he could argue he had been truthful.

“Ditto, Mr. President,” Lancaster replied.

The speechwriters were already at work when the meeting concluded. That evening the president went on television, branding Arafat’s claims outright lies and denying that the attack on the gunboat ever took place. “Furthermore,” he concluded, “the United States does not make deals that reward terrorism and encourage hostage taking; nor will we ask others to do so. We fully support the decision of the government of Israel to reject this outrageous demand. The United States never has and never will negotiate with terrorists.”

LARKIN
spent the night at the airport hotel.

In the meantime, CIA personnel at the consulate in Tunis worked with the Saudi Arabian Embassy to obtain a visa, cutting the processing time from the customary weeks to hours. The following morning a CIA courier flew to D’Jerba and delivered the documents to Larkin. Then the colonel went to the Libyan People’s Bureau to meet with Al-Qasim. He arrived well after midday and was informed the attaché was hosting a luncheon for a group of German businessmen.

Larkin waited until he returned.

“I have nothing to add to what I said yesterday,” Al-Qasim said defensively, assuming Larkin was there to press the matter. “Major Shepherd misrepresented himself and there is nothing I can—”

“More than you know,” Larkin interrupted sharply, going on to brief Al-Qasim on Libya’s acquisition of the F-111s and Shepherd’s intention to steal one.

The Libyan was stunned; he sat in silence assessing the implications. “You’re certain?”

Larkin nodded gravely.

“Why should I believe you?” Al-Qasim challenged. “Or any of this, for that matter?”

“Because you’re smart enough to realize you have nothing to gain and everything to lose if you don’t,” Larkin replied pointedly.

Al-Qasim’s face stiffened with concern.

“Well,” he finally declared, brightening slightly at a thought, “he won’t have an easy time of it. The last time I saw Major Shepherd, he was in the custody of the secret police.” He took the phone and dialed SHK headquarters in Tripoli. A brief conversation in Arabic followed; then he hung up and, with relief, announced, “Major Shepherd is the unhappy occupant of a cell in Bab al Azziziya prison.”

Larkin broke into a relaxed smile.

“I assure you, I’ll make sure he stays there.”

“
Dies
there,” Larkin said in a cold whisper.