“Oh, yes,” the blond moaned softly, slowly undoing one of the pastel bows on the front of the teddy; soon her pointed breasts were free of it and one of her large nipples was in Gutherie’s mouth.
“Oh, yes, yes; do we want to make it happen now?” the redhead prompted in a breathy whisper, segueing into a circular motion astride him.
“Yes. Oh God, yes, yes, now. Make it happen now.”
He arched his pelvis, forcing her to grind against it, then began bucking beneath her until he emitted a series of long moans and collapsed into their arms. The congressman was wholly oblivious to the stress of public office and private pain, when suddenly a muffled twitter came from beneath the pile of clothing on the other side of the room.
Gutherie sat up, somewhat disoriented, trying to clear his head. His secretary had strict orders not to beep him at this hour except in an emergency; and she hadn’t, not once, in six months. The congressman pulled the bedding around him, then took the phone from the nightstand and called his office. “What is it?” he asked anxiously when his secretary came on the line. “Something happen to my wife?”
“No, sir,” she replied. “The White House called.”
“The White House?” Gutherie echoed, feeling suddenly out of touch and wondering what was going on.
“You have a meeting with the president at the OEO in half an hour. Twenty-five minutes, now.”
As a ranking member of the Intelligence and Oversight committees, Gutherie was often summoned to such meetings, but rarely on short notice.
The time was 3:58 when he arrived at the Old Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. He was ushered to a conference room, where congressional leaders, the secretaries of state and defense, the national security adviser, the CIA director, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs had assembled.
“As you know,” Lancaster began, “the War Powers Act requires, and I quote, ‘that the President in every possible instance shall consult with Congress before introducing United States Armed Forces into hostilities,’ and that’s why you’ve been invited here today.”
The congressmen sat up straighter in their chairs.
The president entered and, reading from typed notes, explained that the recent wave of terrorism had prompted him to authorize preemptive action. Tripoli and Bengahzi were the targets. When he finished reading, he pocketed his notes and left the meeting.
Lancaster presented the intercepted cables as evidence linking Libya to the Berlin disco bombing, then laid out the details of the operation.
“What about civilian casualties?” a senator asked.
“Every effort has been made to minimize collateral damage, sir,” the chairman of the joints chiefs replied.
“Where do our allies stand?” another wondered.
“France and Spain have denied us use of their air space,” the secretary of state replied.
“Frogs,” Kiley muttered bitterly.
“Israel, Canada, and Mrs. Thatcher, of course, are with us,” the secretary concluded.
“She better be,” a congressman intoned. “She owes us one for the Falklands.”
“She owes Qaddafi one for that cop he murdered,” Kiley said, referring to Constable Yvonne Fletcher, who was gunned down outside the Libyan People’s Bureau in 1984. He didn’t remind them that the pistol had been traced to a shipment of weapons procured by renegade CIA agents.
“How much time we have?” Gutherie asked.
“ETA to target is two hours fifty minutes,” Lancaster replied boldly, fully anticipating protest.
“Our bombers are in the air?” Gutherie exclaimed.
“Correct,” the CJC replied. “F-111s are en route as we speak. Intruders have yet to be launched.”
Uneasy glances flicked between the congressmen.
“Now that Congress has been consulted,” Gutherie said sardonically, “what if some of us object?”
“The attack can be called off within ten minutes of strike time,” the defense secretary replied.
“If that objection is unanimous,” Kiley chimed in slyly, knowing the chance for such an accord was zero.
No objections were voiced, let alone a unanimous one. For in truth, none denied that the United States had been pushed to the limit or that the evidence was compelling. But Gutherie and the others were wondering: Why at night? When despite popular conception, daylight bombing techniques afforded a much higher degree of accuracy; a fact the Israelis had recently demonstrated by destroying eighteen Syrian missile batteries — against antiaircraft defenses far superior to Libyan installations — without losing a single aircraft. Furthermore, why use F-111s from faraway England? Why not hit both targets with carrier-based bombers?
It was pointless to ask now, to cross-examine the president’s staff in the tense hours just prior to the strike. The media would do that. Indeed, within hours the litany of thorny questions would be asked.
Only Bill Kiley knew the answers would be lies.
The DCI had been feeling the strain of his years lately but he bristled with energy now. Fitzgerald and the other hostages would soon be delivered from their harrowing nightmare. He had no doubt that the cost, however steep, was more than worth it, and that CIA would get the credit. Victory and vindication. It was so close Kiley could taste it.
16
A late-afternoon Sirocco had subsided to a gentle breeze and by nightfall the temperature in Tripoli had dropped to a humid 81 degrees. The time was 11:16 P.M. on Monday.
At the Bab al Azziziya Barracks, Muammar el-Qaddafi, his wife, and their children went down a staircase into the basement of their porticoed home. The colonel led the way through a long tunnel to an underground garage that housed an armored personnel carrier. The garage was located well beyond the compound’s walls to provide Qaddafi with an escape route should his citizens or disloyal military officers one day turn against him.
The vehicle, an all-wheel-drive Transportpanzer, had been manufactured to special order in West Germany by Thyssen-Hen-schel. Fitted with a cupola-mounted machine gun and eight huge puncture-proof combat tires, the TTP was fully amphibious. The rear troop compartment had been gutted and the interior comfortably outfitted as a mobile home, with a small galley and sleeping quarters. It was stocked with food, water, and clothing.
“Allah has willed this,” Qaddafi said, referring to the raid, urging his family to take solace in Islam, which requires submission to the will of God. On another day, or at another hour, he might have reacted with raging anger. Neither his aides nor his wife of eighteen years could predict his mood swings, which ranged from submissiveness to his religion to enthusiastic support of terrorism — of the Islamic Jihad or holy war — in its name.
As soon as Qaddafi and his family were aboard, the Transport-panzer drove off, escorted by an armed military convoy. Its destination was the desert town of Hun, where a new national capital, its future dependent on the water that would one day flow through the Sahara pipelines, was under construction.
The leader of the People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya sat deep in thought. Although he was the nation’s leader, he had retained the rank of colonel and held no formal government office, to emphasize his kinship with the common people of his birth; other than his family, only General Younis and staff members involved in the scheme to acquire the supersonic bombers had been forewarned; and though Qaddafi had been assured the upcoming raid was designed to “minimize collateral damage,” he knew Libyans would die this night and he had agreed to it.