The children huddled, staring at them in stunned silence. Their father’s things had come home without him and their hopes had suddenly withered.
“Come on, we have to get ready,” Stephanie said, referring to a memorial service later that morning. “Grandma and grandpa’ll be here any minute.”
The children shuffled off, leaving Stephanie alone with Walt’s luggage. She hadn’t expected his effects would be returned so quickly, and was close to losing her composure. She had no way of knowing that Applegate had expedited their shipment to reinforce the idea that her husband was dead. Her lower lip started to quiver and she hurried from the den, thankful she didn’t have the time to go through it now.
That same morning, the president sat at a desk in his East Wing living quarters, reviewing a speech. The euphoria of punching out a bully had worn off and his mood matched the weather — not because of the hostage debacle, of which he had no knowledge, but because four airmen had been lost. He slipped the file cards into a pocket, reflecting on the grim task that awaited. He’d faced many tragedy-stricken families, but it never got any easier. The chattering rotors of Marine 1 landing just across the grounds pulled him from the reverie.
“I’m afraid it’s time,” he said to the First Lady, who had just joined him. They exited through a door that opened onto the Rose Garden, where Secret Service agents were waiting with umbrellas, and walked toward the helicopter, passing a surging crowd of White House correspondents.
“Why was the raid carried out at night?” one shouted over the roar of the chopper’s turbine.
“Sources say Qaddafi was in his tent just before the attack,” another said. “How did he escape injury?”
“Is it true Congress wasn’t properly notified?”
“Mr. President? Mr. President,” another bellowed, thrusting his microphone at him. “Why did we use bombers based in the U.K.?”
“I can’t comment at this time,” the president finally said. He continued past them without breaking stride and boarded the helicopter.
The flight to Andrews took just over 10 minutes. Marine 1 was descending over the north end of the air base when the president looked out the rain-streaked window and saw an island of black umbrellas clustered below.
Beneath them were representatives from the departments of Defense and State, the air force, Congress, and the families of the airmen whom, all believed, had died in the raid on Tripoli. Stephanie and her family were seated in the front row along with CIA-provided mourners serving as relatives of the weapons systems officers whose identities the Company had created.
The scream of turbofans rose in the distance as eight F-4D Phantoms streaked overhead, their sonic booms pounding the mourners with surprising force as one of the jets peeled off and vanished in the mist.
The president’s speech was an eloquent tribute delivered with heartfelt sadness. There wasn’t a dry eye when he had finished. He left the podium and worked his way down the line of mourners, spending a moment with each, offering his condolences.
“Mrs. Shepherd?” a voice called out.
Stephanie turned to see Congressman Gutherie coming toward her.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, clearly saddened.
“Thank you,” she replied, forcing a smile as she introduced him to her parents and children.
“If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I’m sure there is, but right now…” Stephanie paused and shrugged forlornly, letting the sentence trail off. Gutherie nodded and was about to leave when her eyes came to life with a question. “You think the Libyan government will be cooperative?” she asked. “I mean, about returning my husband’s body?”
Gutherie reflected on that dark day six years ago when members of the Iranian hostage rescue team were tragically burned to death, and jocular mullahs brandished their charred bones like war clubs. “You understand,” he began, delicately touching on the matter, “the crash, the heat, there’s a chance that—”
“He’s little more than a pile of ashes?” Stephanie asked weakly. “If that’s the case, I want them here — in Arlington where they belong. Where the children and I can…” Her voice cracked and she left it unfinished, the sense of loss, of being suddenly cut adrift on unchartered waters overwhelming her.
Gutherie put an arm around her. “State might know something,” he said as she wept softly. “On the other hand, Walt’s CO might already be into it.”
“Will you find out for me?”
“Of course,” Gutherie replied, his voice rising over the departing helicopter. “You have his name?”
“Larkin,” Stephanie replied. “Colonel Richard Larkin.”
22
Shepherd had spent the remainder of the week aboard the barge eating and regaining his stamina. Friday evening, he began work on the next phase of his plan. He wrote his signature beneath his photograph in the newspaper he had taken from the post office; then, he stuffed Spencer’s pistol in the pocket of a rain slicker he had found in a locker along with an old sweater and seaman’s cap, and went up the cobbled hill to Poplar High Street, where a sign flickering amid the electronic glitter proclaimed: SNAPSHOTS — THREE POSES 1£.
He slipped inside the automated booth and, holding the newspaper flat against his chest, pushed a coin into the slot, and sat rock steady as the strobe flashed three times. The mechanism whirred and the strip of snapshots fell into the tray, ripe with the scent of developer. On his way back to the barge, he found a record shop and bought a blank cassette and fresh batteries for his recorder.
The next morning, he stood in the main cabin of the barge looking about, then reached up and ran a hand along the back side of a ceiling beam; unsatisfied, he examined a hanging lamp and several sections of built-in shelving before finally focusing on the table. It had a round wooden top on an ornate, cast-iron pedestal. He pulled the captain’s chair aside and turned the table upside down, then left the barge and crossed the dock to the equipment shed, where he found a piece of old inner tube, a pair of scissors, a hammer, and some tacks, all of which he took back to the cabin. He cut a 4 × 8-inch strip out of the black rubber and placed it flat against the underside of the table. He tacked one end to the wood, then stretched the rubber tightly before tacking the other. He fetched his recorder, set it in the voice activated mode, turned the microphone switch to High, and slipped it beneath the taut rubber sling, which held it securely against the wood. Then he righted the table and sat in the chair to make sure the device couldn’t be seen.
“This is Walter Shepherd, Major, United States Air Force, speaking,” he drawled in a low voice, going on to recite his serial number. “As you know, I’m supposed to have been killed in the raid on Libya. Well, the truth is, I wasn’t. The next voice you hear will be Air Force Major Paul Applegate, military intelligence, who’s going to explain what really happened and why.”
Shepherd retrieved the recorder and played back his preamble, determining that the level was satisfactory. Then he went for a walk along the waterfront, reviewing the rest of his plan. He returned several hours later to find Spencer waiting for him.
“Your bloody friends from the hotel came by my flat this morning,” he said gravely. “It seems they’ve been tracking down every cabbie who worked the waterfront this week.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said the post office was the last I saw of you.”
“Thanks,” Shepherd said, relieved.
“Like I said, I’m a man of my word.” Spencer stepped to the refrigerator, removed two bottles of Watney’s, and popped the caps, handing one to Shepherd. “To your health, Major.”