Purpose of Evasion (29 page)

A jeep carrying several soldiers rocketed into view behind them. One was radioing to units up ahead. Another manned the front-mounted machine gun and opened fire. The rounds smacked into the TPP’s armor-plated hull, sparking aside harmlessly.

The Palestinian swiveled the gun turret around, tracking the jeep as the distance between the two vehicles closed, and fired a sustained burst. The rounds stitched across the hood. The jeep veered out of control and flipped over, spilling the soldiers across the pavement.

Shepherd had the Transportpanzer barreling down the deserted
motorway at 65 MPH. In minutes, it had passed the Christian Cemetery, crossed Al Nasar, and was approaching Umar Al Mukhtar, a main east-west conduit that teed across Al Jala Road, which meant the TPP would be forced to turn either left or right.

Several Libyan Army trucks were blocking the right side of the intersection. Soldiers opened fire.

The Palestinian was crouching behind the gunshield, which was clanging like a church bell, raking the street with bullets, the tracers glowing in the night.

Shepherd was about to turn left when a lightweight battle tank, stationed at the People’s Congress a short distance away, came rumbling down Bab Qarqarish, machine gun blazing, catching the Transportpanzer in a crossfire. Shepherd steered the TPP across the grounds of the Girl’s Military College on Al Mukhtar. He exited onto the Al Kurnish Road, crossed it, plunging down a steep embankment to the beach. Knobby tires churned up the sand as he drove into the surf. The fully amphibious vehicle settled into the sea; then two propellers at the rear of the hull came to life and sent the dark green Transportpanzer into the enveloping blackness.

Shepherd sagged with exhaustion and relief; then he looked back over his shoulder to the troop compartment, and grimaced at what he saw.

The Palestinian was lying on the carpeted floor beneath the gun turret, his shirt soaked with blood.

45

FOLLOWING THE MEETING
at the royal guest house with Moncrieff and Katifa, Larkin was shown to the Saudi’s study. The regal, book-lined room was equipped with a state-of-the-art computer system, facsimile machine, and secure communications gear. Larkin used the latter and called Kiley at home.

The time in Washington, D.C., was 7:32
A.M.

The DCI had been up for nearly an hour; a cup of cold coffee was at his elbow, red folders and briefing books spread out on the floor around his armchair.

“Good work, Colonel,” the DCI replied, relieved that Katifa had agreed to work for them. “How do you plan to handle backup and liaison?”

“The lady’s leaving for Beirut tomorrow. I’ll do the same and work out of the embassy.”

“Not operative,” Kiley replied. “Ever since they kidnapped Fitzgerald we’ve had a hell of a time getting new people in. It could take weeks, maybe months. We’ll have to rely on personnel already in place. I’ll set it up. She should know the name. Stengel.”

“Stengel . . . I’ll take care of it.”

“Does she smoke?”

“Yes, sir, she does.”

“What brand?”

“Those French ones—blue hard pack—Gaulois.”

Kiley grunted, making a note of it. “Now, what happened with Shepherd?”

“Libyan secret police locked him up,” Larkin answered, briefing him on his meeting with Al-Qasim.

That was twelve hours ago.

Now, after a long day at Langley, Kiley was packing up his briefcases before heading home when—more than eight hours after Qaddafi’s news conference—the first wire service report of Shepherd’s escape came in.

The lengthy interlude was no accident.

On a direct order from Qaddafi, who thought Shepherd would be quickly captured, the correspondents had been herded into the buses and driven around the city for several hours to prevent them from filing their stories. When it became clear Shepherd had eluded his pursuers, the reporters were returned to the Al Kabir, only to discover the hotel’s phone system had mysteriously broken down. Several European reporters eventually made it to their embassies and contacted their bureaus.

IN JEDDAH,
Saudi Arabia, the time was 5:16
A.M.
when one of the Filipino servants knocked on Larkin’s door, waking him. “Excuse me, Colonel. You have a call,” he said, explaining it had come in on the secure line in Moncrieff s study and couldn’t be transferred.

Larkin pulled on a robe and went downstairs.

“Hold for the director, please,” Kiley’s secretary said when he came on the line.

“Dick?” the DCI barked. “Shepherd’s on the loose.”

Larkin groaned, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. “Do we know how?”

“We’re faxing you what we have on the other line.”

Larkin shifted his glance to the facimile machine on a sideboard behind the desk, where a single sheet of paper was already emerging from the delivery slot. It was a copy of the wire service report:

REUTERS—SPECIAL BULLETIN—ALL STATIONS. FUGITIVE USAF PILOT IMPRISONED; ESCAPES

United States Air Force Maj. Walter Shepherd was in the custody of Libya’s secret police when he escaped. The prison break occurred during a press conference in which Libyan strongman Muammar el-Qaddafi accused Shepherd of being a CIA operative and claimed his desertion and murder of a fellow officer were part of a cover story to gain entry into Libya. Highly reliable sources in Tripoli report Shepherd and a second prisoner, believed to be a Palestinian national, killed Libyan Secret Police Chief Reza Abdel-Hadi, escaping in an armored personnel carrier.
The amphibious vehicle traveled a short distance across the city to the Mediterranean and when last seen was heading out to sea.

“You have it yet?” Kiley prodded impatiently at the silence on the line.

“I’m reading it now, sir.”

“I thought this situation was being terminated. What went wrong?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“See what you can find out. If Shepherd surfaces and starts talking before Duryea can make his move, who knows what might happen. We’re too close to have anything screw this rescue operation up.”

“I’ll get on it right away, sir,” Larkin replied as the DCI ended the call. The colonel slipped the wire service report into the pocket of his robe and went to the window, which overlooked the Red Sea.

The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, the low rays catching the flecks of red plankton that floated in abundance just beneath the surface, imparting the legendary crimson glow to the water.

Larkin stood there working the problem; aside from hoping the Libyans caught Shepherd and killed him, there was one base
he
could cover. He knew Shepherd had escaped by sea and that his wife was still on D’Jerba, which was the nearest safe port. He also knew it would take a long time to get there from Tripoli in an armored personnel carrier.

Several hours later, Moncrieff, Katifa, and Larkin were driven in one of the royal limousines to King Abdul Azziz Airport just north of Jeddah.

Larkin’s flight to D’Jerba was the first to depart. After dropping him off, Moncrieff and Katifa went to the Middle East Airlines boarding lounge.

“I wish I could think of something to say I haven’t said before,” Moncrieff whispered when her flight was called.

They embraced hurriedly, awkwardly, acknowledging they had indeed done this before. Katifa felt her eyes starting to fill, slipped from Moncrieff s grasp, and hurried off. He watched her go down the boarding ramp, just as he had that day in Boston five years ago. He waited until the plane had pulled away, then returned to the limousine, certain he would never see her again.

The Boeing 737 flew on a northwesterly heading, crossing Jordan and Syria, to Beirut International Airport, covering the 900 miles in just under two hours.

Katifa deplaned with a carry-on bag and hurried through the shabby terminal to the arrivals ramp.

“Taxi, right here,” the dispatcher said, directing her to a vehicle parked forward of the queue.

Katifa climbed into the old Citroen and pulled the door closed. “Number twenty-eight Tamar Mallat,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

The cab left the airport and headed north on the express motorway that runs along the broad coastal plain at the base of the Lebanon Mountains.

“Cigarette?” the driver said, holding the pack back over his shoulder.

“I have my own. Thanks,” Katifa replied.

“Your brand, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“That’s what Mister Stengel thought,” the driver said pointedly.

Katifa took the package of Gaulois from him and examined the blue, square-edged box. It was unopened and the cellophane wrapper was intact.

“It contains a radio transmitter,” the driver explained. “The unit broadcasts on a dedicated channel that’s monitored twenty-four hours a day at the embassy’s com center. Casino du Liban is well within range.”

Katifa nodded and slipped it into her purse.

The taxi continued north on the motorway to where it branches into several thoroughfares that crisscross the city. The driver took Avenue Camille Chamoun through the Wata and Tallet Khayat districts to the cluster of white stucco buildings on Tamar Mallat.

The street was quiet; a few vehicles lined the curb. Several children were playing as the Citroen pulled to a stop.

Katifa got out and glanced about cautiously, suddenly aware of the pungent scent of cordite, which always hung in the air; then she hurried up the steps of her building. She had noticed the abandoned van across the street; it had been there for months. Like so many of the vehicles on Beirut’s streets it was up on blocks, stripped of all usable hardware and parts. Furthermore, like the other vehicles on Tamar Mallat, it appeared empty.

The two men who slipped out the rear door as soon as Katifa
was out of sight had been watching the building through a small window in the van’s sidewall.

Katifa was entering her apartment when she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see the Palestinians coming down the corridor. She recognized them from Casino du Liban and knew they had been sent by Abu Nidal. One brandished a pistol. The other swung a Skorpion into view from beneath his jacket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Katifa protested indignantly, as they took hold of her. “What do you—”

“Save your complaints for Abu Nidal,” the one with the pistol interrupted.

“Gladly,” Katifa replied, relieved. “Casino du Liban was my next stop. Though I didn’t expect an escort.”

“You have no choice in the matter, believe me.”

“Please,” she said with disdain, gesturing toward the weapons. They ignored her remark and, pistol pressed to her side, marched her to their car, which was parked a short distance down the street.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Casino du Liban. The entrance gates were closed. Heavily armed sentries materialized from nearby cover and surrounded the car, their fierce eyes peering at Katifa in condemnation. One of them opened the door, pulled her from the car, and began searching her. She stood unflinchingly while rough hands ran over her torso and breasts, then up her legs and between her thighs; but she stiffened when the other sentry dumped the contents of her purse onto the hood of the car and began sorting through the contents. He picked up one of the boxes of cigarettes. The flicker of the cellophane wrapper caught her eye.

“The other one is open,” she said. She deftly slipped the box from his hand and dropped it into her purse; then she casually took the open pack from the hood, removed two cigarettes, and pushed one between his lips; the other was for herself. He smiled, produced a butane lighter, and lit them both.

When the sentries were satisfied she was unarmed, Katifa put the rest of her belongings back into her purse. Then one of the gates was opened, and the armed escort led her down the long approach road and through the casino to the marina.

The gunboat was tied up in one of the slips. The Soviet-made Zhuk had been towed to an offshore moorage by the Turkish freighter. From there, it had been winched into the marina, where
repairs were made to the tangled propellers, gutted interior, and radio.

Now Abu Nidal stood on one of the floating docks supervising as the captain and crew prepared to put to sea. Several Palestinian seamen were stowing stores and ordnance; others were filling the auxiliary tanks with diesel fuel. The terrorist leader heard the sentries coming down the gangway behind him and turned, freezing when he saw Katifa was with them.

“Binti el-amin,” he finally said sarcastically, locking his eyes onto hers in a seething stare. “No doctored insulin this time?”

“What? What are you talking about?” she asked, appearing genuinely puzzled. “What’s going on? Why were they at my apartment? I don’t understand.”

“Someone put water in the vials,” Nidal snapped, his tone leaving no doubt whom he suspected.

Katifa was silent, as if wounded by the accusation. “How could you even think such a thing?”

Nidal studied her, his eyes boring into her soul. “Then tell me how?” he challenged. “You picked the insulin up and brought it here directly. It couldn’t have happened without your compliance.”

“Why not? Someone could have easily bribed the pharmacist or arranged to have the vials switched before I picked them up. Believe me, after that meeting in Damascus, I wouldn’t put it past any of them.”

Nidal took a moment, digesting the reply. “What
about
Damascus?”

“They all betrayed you,” Katifa said angrily. “I told them you were opposed to the idea, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s not what Arafat said,” Nidal countered slyly, twisting the truth to test her.

“Then he lied,” Katifa declared. “It was
he
who favored the plan; he, Assad, and Qaddafi, of course. I suppose Arafat claimed otherwise?”

“No,” Nidal replied grudgingly. “He admitted to arguing in favor of it.”

“Well?” Katifa said, implying she’d been vindicated. “Why do you think I insisted Assad call you?” she went on in a bold lie. “I was stunned when you reversed your position. But who was I to argue? I looked like a fool; not to mention, I was nearly killed. Frankly, I think I’m owed an explanation.”

“Assad spoke with the Saudi, not I.”

Katifa stiffened, pretending she was shocked.

“We found out he was in the room below,” Nidal explained. “He must have intercepted the call somehow.”

Katifa shook her head, dismayed. “That bastard,” she said with as much acrimony as she could muster. “Well, at least now I understand.”

Nidal mused, then gestured she follow as he strolled down the dock toward the gunboat. “How did you escape from Tripoli?” he asked rather offhandedly.

“With the Saudi,” Katifa answered, knowing Nidal was trying to catch her in a lie. She had little doubt that the nurse had reported back to him and that like a clever trial attorney, Nidal knew the answer before he asked the question. “I recuperated and left Jeddah as soon as possible.”

Nidal was weighing her reply when the gunboat’s captain appeared at the railing. “We’re ready to cast off,” he called down to them.

“Good luck and Godspeed,” Nidal called out over the throb of the engines, as the Zhuk put to sea. Then, turning to Katifa, he challenged “Why should I believe you?”

“Why else would I have come back to Beirut?” she responded spiritedly; then she let her posture slacken, and stared at him like a hurt child. “I haven’t forgotten who raised me,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “Have you, Abu-habib?”

Nidal’s expression softened.

“Nor have I forgotten who taught me to fight,” Katifa went on. “I’ve spent my life fighting to liberate Palestine, and I intend to continue.”

Nidal nodded and broke into an enigmatic smile. “You’ll have a chance to prove it soon,” he said, glancing off to the gunboat, which was vanishing in the afternoon mist.