Purpose of Evasion (20 page)

Stephanie sensed his mood and tightened her grip on his hand as they approached the building, its horizontal bands of gray granite and steel mullions in stark contrast to its Victorian neighbors. At the newstand on the corner of Sloane, Shepherd’s eyes darted to his photograph on the front page of the
London Times
and a headline that proclaimed:
PILOT THOUGHT DEAD, A DESERTER; KILLS USAF OFFICER
.

Shepherd stared at it in disbelief. “Better buy one,” he finally said to Stephanie in a hoarse whisper. He led the way to Hyde Park, the seemingly endless expanse of greenery in central London, where they settled on a bench and read the story:

In a bizarre mix-up that has baffled U.S. Air Force officials, informed sources have told the
Times
that Major Walter Shepherd, reportedly killed during
the raid on Libya, had actually gone AWOL moments before he was scheduled to take off in his F-111 bomber. Believed upset at having to fly a combat mission with a new weapons systems officer, the thirty-seven-year-old veteran of the Vietnam conflict failed to appear on the flight line. The last-minute switch of crews had apparently confused Air Force public information personnel, who referred to the original mission roster when releasing the names of pilots and weapons systems officers whose bombers had been shot down by Libyan surface-to-air missiles.
Times
sources have also learned that last night Major Shepherd allegedly shot and killed Major Paul Applegate of military intelligence, who had tracked him down. Though critically wounded, Major Applegate evidently managed to escape from his attacker and was found unconscious on an East End street by a taxi driver who took him to hospital. However, he expired before casualty room doctors could administer treatment. At press time officials were still trying to piece together other details of the story.

Shepherd looked up from the paper, feeling as if he had been kicked in the groin. “They took it away from us,” he finally said, the color draining from his face as he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“The truth. It threatened them, scared the hell out of them,” he said, briefly savoring the idea. “They were terrified someone would find out I was alive before they could kill me. But not anymore. The bastards turned the whole damn thing around.”

“So what?” Stephanie replied, undaunted, trying to bolster his spirits. “The story has obviously been planted; the air force doesn’t know if it’s true or—”

“That’s my point. The moment I surface, I confirm it. I’ll be arrested, charged with desertion, charged with
murder
; anything I say will be seen as an alibi, as something I cooked up to cover my butt.”

“But it’s the truth.”

Shepherd shrugged. “I can’t prove it. I mean, it’s all so damned absurd. Who’d believe it?”

“You have the tape—”

“They’ll claim I forced Applegate to make it. Hell, the truth is I did. You heard it, so will they. Then they’ll say I killed him to shut him up.”

“Your word against theirs. What about a lie detector? Wouldn’t that—”

“Steph,” he interrupted. “Did I fly that mission?”

“No.”

“Did I kill Applegate?”

“Uh huh,” she replied dejectedly, seeing where he was headed.

“Exactly what they’re saying; the rest are shadings, details. The bottom line is I’m looking at a court martial no matter how I slice this. If I lose, I face a firing squad . . .” He let the sentence trail off forebodingly, then added, “Assuming I’m not killed resisting arrest.”

They looked at each other forlornly.

“You can’t run forever,” she finally said.

“And I can’t come forward unless I can prove what’s on that tape.”

“How?”

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” he said, intrigued by the audacity of the thought. “Get back my plane.”

29

THE MORNING AFTER
the meeting in Lancaster’s office, Larkin drove to Fort Belvoir in Virginia to begin the search for a Mediterranean rendezvous between the PLO gunboat and a second, mystery vessel. The top-security installation where KH-11 data was monitored and recorded was located 10 miles south of Alexandria.

After identifying himself, Larkin was given a security badge and taken to a computer room where a technician waited.

The KH-11 satellite that had been spying on Tripoli and surrounding areas transmitted high-resolution color images by day and infrared images by night to the huge antenna atop the concrete blockhouse. The data was recorded and stored on videotape. Each of the special-sized cartridges covered a twenty-four-hour period.

The technician had a half-dozen stacked next to a high-speed videotape analyzer that was tied into Fort Belvoir’s powerful Cray Y-MP supercomputer. The data on the cartridges covered the time between the failed hostage exchange and the discovery that the hostages weren’t aboard the gunboat, the time during which they had been transferred to another vessel.

The technician loaded the first cartridge into the analyzer, then programmed the computer to ignore all land-based data, instructing it to search for two vessels side by side in open sea.

Since each frame of videotape depicted a large section of the Mediterranean, the technician further instructed the computer to break the frames down into grid squares and analyze them individually, starting with Tripoli harbor, working north, and east to west. The images were blown up and viewed on a 1,250 line per inch video monitor that provided twice the resolution of a standard television set.

That was two days ago.

Now in the center of the screen two elongated specks stood out against the dark texture of the sea. The technician typed on his keyboard and the infrared image on the monitor began zooming in slowly; the dark specks kept increasing in size until two hazy shapes filled the screen. The oblong blobs were heavily textured but devoid of definitive pictorial detail.

“Might be something,” the technician said.

Larkin shrugged, unconvinced; the hostage debacle had plunged him into an angry depression and the news of Applegate’s death had made it worse.

The technician typed another instruction. “For our purposes, we can assume those blobs are vessels,” he explained. “At supercomputer speed—that’s billions of operations per second—the image-enhancement program will compare groups of data particles against a library of known shapes, objects, and details. In this case I’ve programmed it to deal only with seagoing vessels of certain classifications. It begins with the general and proceeds to infinitesimal detail.” He nodded to the monitor, where the image had begun gaining definition. In moments the fuzzy details had resolved into the distinct, clearly identifiable decks of two vessels.

Larkin just about gasped when he saw them.

It was so simple, so obvious, so perfect, he thought. He could hardly believe his eyes. There on the monitor was the PLO gunboat and next to it—goddammit,
connected
to it by a gangway on which the infrared images of cowed men could be seen walking—was a submarine.

“Clever bastards,” Larkin said bitterly.

Indeed, while intelligence operatives were searching every slum and hellhole in the Middle East for the hostages, Abu Nidal had shrewdly hidden them beneath the sea. For countless months they had been cruising the Mediterranean’s inky depths—and they still were.

AS HE DID EVERY NIGHT
before leaving the office, Bill Kiley was watching the network news. That morning he had paused longer than usual in front of the memorial wall in Langley’s lobby. Applegate’s death had ruined whatever satisfaction he had derived from neutralizing Shepherd; the thought that another star, an anonymous one, would soon be engraved in the
Georgia marble had intensified his gloomy mood. He was cursing the media’s antiadministration bias when his secretary told him Larkin was on the line.

“That’s great news, Colonel,” he said enthusiastically when Larkin told him the hostages had been located on a submarine. “We can thank the Syrians for this one.”

“Syrians, sir?”

“Damn right. Moscow sold them some Romeos a couple of years ago; three to be exact. That explains why Nidal can’t make a move without clearing it with Assad first.”

“Well, if anyone can find that sub, it’s Duryea,” Larkin said encouragingly.

“I’m counting on it,” Kiley replied, tilting back in his chair, entertaining an idea. “Hold on for a minute.” He swiveled to his computer terminal and typed in ROMEO. A directory appeared on the screen. He scrolled through it and found the file he wanted. “How soon can you leave for the Mediterranean?”

“Tonight,” Larkin replied, brightening at the chance to get out of the DCI’s doghouse and back into the field.

“Good. I have something one of our people picked up that I think Duryea will find useful. It’ll be at Andrews when you get there. Stay on top of this,” Kiley urged. “Get Fitz the hell out of there for me.”

30

THE TURN OF EVENTS
had hit Shepherd with devastating impact. He and Stephanie abandoned Applegate’s car, took the Underground back to the East End, and returned to the barge. Though the major was no longer a problem, Shepherd had no doubt that along with CIA and the military police, every law enforcement agency in Europe would be on the lookout for him. Despite that, he knew exactly how he would get out of England; however, he had no idea how he was going to get back his F-111, let alone get into Libya.

“We could ask Gutherie,” Stephanie suggested.

“The congressman?”

Stephanie nodded.

“I don’t know,” Shepherd replied, wrestling with it. “How do we know he isn’t owned by the CIA?”

“He’s their watchdog; chairs the Intelligence Committee. And he’s been part of this from the start.”

“What do you mean from the start?”

“It was Gutherie who found out Larkin works in the White House,” she replied, explaining the circumstances that led to his listening to the tape with her.

Shepherd thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but don’t tell him any more than you have to.” He remained on the barge while Stephanie went up the hill to a phone booth and made a collect call to Washington, D.C.

SEVERAL DAYS
had passed since the congressman and Stephanie had listened to the tape. The possibility that the tape would provide him with a high-profile campaign issue had ended abruptly with the reports of Shepherd’s desertion and murder of Applegate.

Gutherie had just returned from the Capitol when his secretary
asked if she should accept a collect call from Mrs. Shepherd in London.

The congressman nodded emphatically and lifted the phone. “Mrs. Shepherd,” he said sadly when the connection was made. “I’m sorry things turned out for you the way they did.”

“They’re vicious lies,” Stephanie retorted sharply.

“I don’t understand,” Gutherie replied, surprised by her brusqueness and tone. “If that’s the case, why hasn’t your husband come forward and told his side of it?”

“He can’t. Not until he has proof.”

“You’re with him?”

“We’ve made contact,” she replied evasively. “Can you help him get into Libya?”

“Libya? Why?”

“I don’t have time to explain now. Yes or no?”

“It’s impossible. They no longer have an embassy in the U.K. Besides, the president’s ordered everyone out. Libya is off-limits to Americans.”

“What about Tunisia?” she asked, turning to a backup destination Shepherd had selected.

“That wouldn’t be a problem. Tunisia doesn’t even require a visa for entry. You know, for what it’s worth, you might try a place called D’Jerba Island,” Gutherie suggested. Just off Tunisia’s southeastern coast, the legendary home of the lotus eaters—where Ulysses landed more than 3,000 years ago—had recently acquired an international airport and modern tourist facilities, and was a thriving resort and convention center.

“Gerber, like in baby food?” Stephanie prompted.

“No. It’s
D
apostrophe
J-e-r-b-a
,” Gutherie replied, spelling it out. “I attended a conference there a few years ago. It’s about as close to Libya as you can get without living in a tent; and if I remember correctly, in those days there was a small Libyan Embassy in one of the convention complexes.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass it on to my husband. It’s important you still keep this to yourself,” Stephanie cautioned firmly. “You understand?”

“Not really, no,” the congressman replied curtly. “Not without knowing why.”

“Walt will be killed if they find him.”

“If who finds him?” he asked, sensing the issue he sought was still viable. “Come on, what’s going on?”

“You were right about covert activity getting out of hand. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You’re not making this easy.”

“I just told you they’ll kill him. Please.”

“Okay,” Gutherie said, moved by her desperate tone. “But I can’t sit on it forever.”

“Thanks.”

“I still wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

Stephanie wrestled with it in silence for a few seconds, then slowly lowered the receiver onto the hook.

Gutherie heard the line go dead. He was sitting there, staring out the window, when it occurred to him that there was one other person who might know.

STEPHANIE
returned to the barge and briefed Shepherd on the conversation. He nodded thoughtfully when she finished, then began rummaging through the cartons of books stacked in the cabin. Several were filled with oversized volumes, and one contained an atlas. Shepherd pulled it free, then turned to the map of Tunisia and located D’Jerba Island. “The congressman’s right. It can’t be more than fifty miles to the Libyan border,” he observed, brightening. “Remind me to thank him when I see him.”

“That’s a promise,” Stephanie said, smiling; then her eyes drifted to Applegate’s ID on the table, next to a sheet of paper on which Shepherd had been practicing his signature. “Are you sure about using those?” she asked. “He’s been in the papers, on TV. It’s not a common name; someone might recognize it.”

Shepherd nodded knowingly. “But not as easily as they’ll recognize mine. Just better odds this way; and I have a couple of ideas how we can make them even better.”

They waited until it was dark before they went up the hill to a men’s shop on Kerbey and bought Walt some clothes: casual slacks, a sport jacket, shoes, shirts, underwear, and a small travel bag.

Then they split up.

Stephanie headed for a row of shops down the street that sold used books.

Shepherd walked a few blocks to the automated snapshot booth he had used previously. He took three sets of pictures, changing his shirt for each.

Next stop was a self-service copy shop on Montague where he cut a picture from each strip, backed them with scotch tape, and affixed them to Applegate’s pilot’s license, passport, and military identification. Then, he made color Xeroxes of all three, trimmed the military identification and pilot’s license to size and heat-sealed them in plastic at an adjacent machine.

The passport was more difficult: the personal data and photograph were on the inside front cover under a toned laminate. Anything pasted over it would obviously abut the stitching that held the pages; but the matte surface laminate was smaller than the cover, leaving a border around the three edges and the sewn spine.

Shepherd returned to the barge and trimmed the Xerox, coated the back with spray adhesive he had purchased at the copy shop, and positioned it on the inside cover of Applegate’s passport over the laminate.

The alteration of all three pieces of ID, which once would have taken an expert forger several days to accomplish, was completed in just over an hour.

Stephanie couldn’t find the publication she sought in the used book shops. One proprietor sent her to a shop in Charing Cross that specialized in military publications. There she finally found several tattered copies of a 1969 U.S. Air Force orientation manual for Wheelus Field, now Okba ben Nafi Air Base. After making her purchase, she hurried to a street corner phone booth, settled in with a handful of coins, opened the Yellow Pages to Airlines, and began dialing.

“British Airways, reservations,” a cheery voice answered. “How may I help you?”

IN WASHINGTON, D.C.,
Bill Kiley was packing up the three briefcases he took home each night. The discovery of the hostages’ whereabouts had bolstered his spirits; something had finally gone right and he felt like celebrating. He called his wife and suggested they meet at their favorite restaurant for dinner. He was on the way to the elevator with his bodyguard when his secretary caught up with him.

“COMINT just sent this up,” she said with a smile, handing him a computer printout. The acronym, shorthand for Communications Intelligence, referred to the department responsible
for intercepting electronic communications. Monitoring computerized airline reservation systems was but one of its many activities.

The printout was a list of commercial air carriers, flight numbers, departure and arrival information, and dates; the name Walter Shepherd was next to each.

“Damn,” Kiley said admiringly. “He’s booked on every flight out of the U.K. for the next week.”

“Twenty-seven,” she replied. “Departures from six different airports, eighteen destinations.”

Good but not good enough, he thought, brightening. Things sure
were
going right.

“Put it on the global net,” he instructed. It was just a matter of time now; every airport, every flight would be covered. It didn’t matter which one he actually took. Shepherd was history.