“This isn’t Shepherd,” he said in a tense whisper.
They had Shepherd to thank for it. On returning to the ward, he had exchanged name cards with the derelict who had attacked him; then, he removed his hospital gown and, knowing he would be conspicuous in his flight suit, he put on the shirt and blue jeans that were in the derelict’s locker, leaving the flight suit in their place. He slipped out a door at the far end of the ward, made his way to a service entrance, and went down one of the black wrought-iron staircases that led to Mile End Road. A street market filled the median between the east-and west-bound lanes. It was deserted at this hour, the voices haggling over prices silenced, the boxes of merchandise locked away. Shepherd was stumbling toward it when he saw a bus approaching. He waited in the shadows of the curbside shelter and flagged it down.
The conductor thumbed the clumsy ticketing machine that hung at his waist, watching with amusement as the apparently inebriated passenger struggled to climb aboard; the aging fellow’s grin turned to a sour scowl as Shepherd stuffed an American dollar into his fist and plunged unsteadily down the aisle into a seat.
About a half hour later, the red double-decker bus had crossed Stepney and was winding through Poplar. Shepherd was feeling woozy. He feared passing out in public and falling into the hands of authorities again. The bus turned into Preston’s Road, where the Isle of Dogs juts boldly into the Thames, bending it sharply. The street was lined with rundown hotels. Shepherd got off the bus at the corner. He took a room in the Wolsey, a grim edifice with crumbling plaster and torn, yellowed curtains, paying cash in advance. The lumpy mattress felt like a waterbed, and he fell asleep instantly.
The following morning in Camp Springs, Maryland, Stephanie Shepherd’s station wagon came down Perimeter Road and turned into Ashwood Circle. She had driven her daughter to school, then delivered her piece on Congressman Gutherie to the Capitol Flyer offices. Unable to sleep after the reports of the air strike, she had worked late into the night on the article.
“Mrs. Shepherd?” a man’s voice called out softly as she got out of the station wagon.
Stephanie freed Jeffrey from his seat belt, and turned to see three air force officers approaching from a government car at the curb. One was a chaplain.
“Can we give you a hand with those?” he asked, gesturing to the groceries.
She had seen casualty notification teams knock on other doors; seen the solemn faces and somber cadence; and she knew before another word was said that something had happened to her husband.
“Yes. Thank you,” she replied evenly, recalling she had promised herself she would respond with dignity and strength should this moment ever come. She handed them the groceries, scooped up Jeffrey, and led the way inside. They sat in the den amid the military memorabilia and toys. Jeffrey began playing with a truck.
Stephanie couldn’t imagine the truth, nor could these officers tell her. Indeed, their emotion was genuine as they reported precisely what 3rd Air Force Command and Pentagon officials believed had happened.
“Your husband died in the service of his country,” the chaplain said.
“Yes, I know,” Stephanie replied weakly.
It was a common response. Families of men in combat often subconsciously accept their deaths as inevitable, in defense against the terrible shock.
“His one-eleven was hit by a surface-to-air missile during the raid on Libya,” one of the officers said. “We have no reports of the crew ejecting.”
“I understand,” Stephanie said, his words dispelling any hope that Shepherd might eventually be found alive. She tilted her head thoughtfully, taking small comfort in the knowledge that he had died doing what he loved.
“Major Shepherd’s effects will be forwarded as soon as possible,” said the other officer. “On behalf of the president and the United States Air Force, we extend our condolences and sympathy.”
“Thank you,” Stephanie said, voice cracking with emotion. “Thank you very much.”
“God bless you,” the chaplain said.
Stephanie responded with a fragile smile. She showed them to the door, closed it, and stood there traumatized, fingers knotted, the tears running in a steady stream down her cheeks, the shattering words echoing over and over, “Your husband died in the service of his country; your husband died in the service of; your husband died; died; died; died…”
She was pulling a sleeve across her eyes, trying to regain her composure when a toy truck rocketed across the floor, startling her. An instant later Jeffrey came crawling after it. He looked up at her, his head cocked to one side, open-faced and innocent. Her lower lip started to quiver, then the grief overwhelmed her. She slid to the floor numbly and hugged the child to her bosom.
That same day, on London’s Isle of Dogs, it was well past noon when Shepherd awoke to the sounds of the bustling waterfront streets below. He dragged his aching body out of bed and down the corridor to the bathroom. His elbow brushed the wall, sending a cascade of peeling paint chips onto the floor like confetti. The face that stared back from the cracked mirror startled him. He had a heavy growth of beard, a small bandage across one side of his forehead, and a purple discoloration on his jaw. He took a cold shower, which invigorated him, then headed for the nearest pub and ordered a roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee.
The Great Auk’s Head on West Ferry was buzzing with the lunchtime crowd of dock workers, aproned market clerks, and seamen. The air strike on Libya was the topic of conversation; and the president of the United States was on the television above the bar, holding a press conference.
Shepherd watched in disbelief as the chief executive announced that he and Captain Foster had died in the raid on Tripoli. Despite the fact that he was alive, that assassins were hunting him down, the president was telling the world that he had died heroically. Shepherd didn’t know why; and he still didn’t know if those trying to kill him were spies, terrorists, or renegades within his own government; but he was certain that military, diplomatic, and law enforcement officials were to be avoided until he did. Having paid for the hotel, he had $43 in cash and no credit cards. The only people he could trust were unavailable: Brancato in a hospital bed; and Stephanie, 3,500 miles away. Shepherd glanced across the pub at the phone booth, aching to call her, aching to say, “Hi, babe, I’m alive. I love you. I need your help.” But he knew how they worked: their phone would be tapped; mail intercepted; family surveilled. Applegate had told him; he just failed to mention that his people would be doing it.
Shepherd sat there, absentmindedly stirring the coffee, searching for a way to contact her safely; and then the pieces began falling into place. Whoever they were, he would appear to play right into their hands; do exactly what they expected; their zeal and professionalism would do the rest. It was a long shot, but the risk factor was low and it was all he had. He finished the sandwich and returned to his hotel room. It was a dump, to be sure, but the sun streaming through the window gave him a good feeling. He took his cassette recorder from a pocket and turned it on.
BOOK TWO
THE UNITED STATES HAS NOT SWAPPED BOATLOADS OR PLANELOADS OF AMERICAN WEAPONS FOR THE RETURN OF AMERICAN HOSTAGES.