18
The time was 7:16 A.M. Eastern Standard Time.
A maintenance van entered Andrews Air Force Base through the systems command gate just off Allentown Road. The technician behind the wheel wore an identification tag clipped to his breast pocket. It displayed his picture and security clearance, and identified his employer as SOUTHEASTERN BELL but, in truth, the quiet, unassuming fellow worked for Bill Kiley’s Company.
The van proceeded down Perimeter Road to a huge windowless building that contained telephone switching equipment for base housing and offices.
The technician left the van, and entered the hardened structure, proceeding through the vast interior to the towering racks of switching equipment that routed incoming international calls. Each was identified by a country dialing code.
Rack 044 handled all calls originating in England.
The technician rolled the track-mounted ladder into position, climbed to a work platform, and opened his attaché case. It contained tools and electronic devices aligned in neat rows. He removed one of the latter from a sealed plastic bag and went about installing it in the panel.
This wasn’t a standard bugging device but a unique communications interceptor that was a vital part of a damage control plan hatched by Kiley in the tense hours following the air strike and aborted hostage exchange.
That was more than twelve hours ago.
On leaving Tripoli harbor, the Cavalla had joined the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean beyond Libyan waters.
Larkin disembarked, carrying the aluminum attaché that contained the ANITA codes. He, Applegate, and the two Special Forces agents transferred to the USS America, presenting themselves as intelligence operatives brought out of Libya. The failure of the rescue mission meant that “need to know” rules were still in force and no mention was made of the hostages. Larkin went straight to the carrier’s communication room, called Kiley on a secure satellite link, and gave him the bad news.
“The hostages…” Kiley said as soon as Larkin had finished. “They were all on deck — Fitz was with them.” They were statements, not questions.
“Yes, sir,” Larkin replied.
“What about a fix on the gunboat’s position?”
“Not yet, sir. Cavalla’s working on it.”
“I need Duryea right away,” Kiley ordered.
When the hookup was made, he and Duryea formulated a plan to use the team of navy SEALs aboard the Cavalla to rescue the hostages should the gunboat be located.
Soon after, Larkin and Applegate were flown from the carrier to an air base in northern Spain, where they boarded separate military jetliners.
Applegate’s flight to Mildenhall RAFB in England took just under three hours. The two Special Forces agents informed him Shepherd was still on the loose.
Applegate immediately contacted Kiley at CIA headquarters in Langley and briefed him. The DCI decided against including British military and civilian authorities in the manhunt; CIA couldn’t very well ask for help in finding a pilot the president had just announced died in the raid on Libya. Instead, a discreet search under Applegate’s direction was mounted. He and the two agents wasted no time in leaving for the hospital on Mile End Road in London, where Shepherd had been last seen, a two-hour drive from Mildenhall.
Larkin was still high over the choppy Atlantic, several hours from touchdown, unaware of the problem. The dexadrine had done its job too well and he couldn’t sleep. The details of the failed mission raced through his mind like an endless videotape replay. It wasn’t the fact that he had murdered good men in cold blood that tormented him, but that he had done so and come up empty.
The time was 10:14 A.M. when the flight landed at Andrews. Larkin cleared customs, went to the longterm lot where he had left his car, and drove directly to Langley for a debriefing session.
“Morning, sir,” the colonel said wearily, as he entered the DCI’s seventh-floor office.
Kiley was standing at the window, reviewing a copy of Shepherd’s personnel file, and didn’t respond immediately. “Hello, Dick,” he finally said in a subdued tone.
“Tough one to lose, sir.”
Kiley nodded glumly. “It gets worse,” he replied, going on to explain that Shepherd was still at large.
Larkin paled and fought to maintain his composure.
“Applegate figures he’s still somewhere in London. We have a full-court press in the works. According to this we might very well need it,” Kiley concluded, indicating Shepherd’s file. He turned to a page he had marked and, with grave expression, read, “ ‘Major Shepherd is a precise and resourceful thinker. Throughout his career he has demonstrated an unusually high aptitude for tactical expertise and innovation—’ ”
“I’ll leave for London immediately,” Larkin offered stiffly, anxious to repair the damage.
The DCI shook his head no. “A.G. can handle it.”
Larkin nodded numbly. He was certain Kiley knew how badly he wanted to fix it and was purposely denying him the chance as punishment.
“The good news is we had a cable from Duryea. He has a pretty tight fix on that gunboat.”
“She hasn’t made port,” Larkin ventured, the glaze lifting from his eyes. “The hostages are still aboard…”
Kiley nodded and allowed himself a little smile. “Cavalla’s on an intercept course. Odds are we can come out of this with what we want if we lick this Shepherd thing.”
19
“I love you, babe. I love you with all my heart,” Shepherd said, feeling the words more than he ever had in his entire life.
He clicked off the recorder, rewound the tape, and played back the entire message he had dictated. Satisfied, he rewound the cassette again and removed it from the recorder. That was the easy part. The rest, the things he usually took for granted — a pen, an envelope, postage — were another matter.
He sat in his shabby hotel room, staring out the window at the bustling waterfront streets below until the screech of a boat whistle pulled him out of it; then he slipped the cassette into a pocket of the unfamiliar shirt and went downstairs to the front desk.
The clerk was a rotund woman whose huge bottom hung over the sides of her stool. She was opening mail with an old paring knife she kept handy for the task.
“Excuse me?” Shepherd said. “Would you have an envelope and a pen I could borrow?”
The clerk slit open an envelope and removed the contents. “Know what I always say? Not a borrower or lender be. Now, leasing on the other hand…”
Shepherd grimaced and reached into his pocket.
“A pound would do nicely,” the clerk said, plucking the coin from Shepherd’s palm. She handed him a worn ballpoint and resumed slitting open the mail.
“Excuse me, but I think you forgot the envelope.”
“Right you are, sir,” she said, offering him one of those she had just opened.
“I’m afraid that’s already been used,” Shepherd said, forcing a smile.
“Oh, right you are again, sir,” she said, as if she hadn’t noticed. She opened a drawer and removed one of those sickly blue air mail envelopes Europeans favor and handed it to him.
“I’d prefer a more substantial one,” Shepherd said, fingering the tissue-thin paper with concern.
“You’re a bloody picky one, aren’t you?” she whined. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know.”
“I’ve noticed,” Shepherd retorted, unable to resist. He took the envelope and walked toward the lift, intending to return to his room; but his eyes were drawn to a pay phone on the opposite wall. An overwhelming compulsion surfaced and took hold of him. He knew better, knew it would be a mistake to give in to it, but the temptation grew until he found himself striding boldly toward the phone, sorting through his pocket change; then he paused suddenly, glanced over his shoulder at the desk clerk and changed direction, charging through the lobby and out into the street.