“Is that the Palestinian?” Abdel-Hadi asked.
The guard nodded.
“Fetch him,” the SHK chief ordered. “We should have a chat before the rats get his tongue.”
28
Moments after Shepherd had captured Applegate outside Liverpool Station, Stephanie, who had continued walking to the opposite side of the building, approached the Broad Street colonnade. The two Special Forces agents were following close behind.
Spencer had slowly circled the building in his taxi. Now he spotted her coming from the station and, perfectly timing his arrival, came to a stop just as she reached the curb. Stephanie got in without breaking stride and the taxi drove off.
One of the agents hurried to the street for a taxi, but those for hire were all properly queued on the opposite side of the building. The other agent hurried back through the station in search of Applegate and discovered the sedan was gone.
It was a few blocks away on Middlesex, nearing Commercial Road, when the radio came to life. “Major? Come in, Major,” the agent’s voice crackled. “She’s back in the cab. Major, do you read?”
Shepherd was in the backseat of the sedan, holding the gun on Applegate and smiling with relief at the bewildered voice. As he had planned, Stephanie was safely back in the taxi and he had Applegate where he wanted him. Soon the sedan was snaking between the warehouses; then the drumbeat of cobblestones rose as it started down the winding hill, thundering across the desolate wharves to the barge.
Shepherd prodded Applegate up the gangway into the cabin and shoved him into the captain’s chair.
“Let’s see some ID,” Shepherd ordered.
Applegate scowled, removed his wallet from his jacket, and threw it on the table. It was a large travel type. Along with the usual cash, identification, and credit cards, it also contained his pilot’s license and passport.
“You bastard,” Shepherd said with disgust, coming upon Applegate’s military ID. He had been hoping he would find evidence to the contrary, something to dispell the ugly implications.
Applegate shrugged impassively.
“That won’t cut it, Major,” Shepherd warned, his drawl thickening with anger and indignance. “If I’m going to die for my country, it better damn well be in my one-eleven. Now you’re going to tell me what the hell this is all about.”
“And you’re going to kill me if I don’t,” Applegate retorted with weary insolence.
“I might.”
“Either way you lose, Shepherd.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Shepherd shot back, matching his smug tone. “You ever thought about being a cripple, Major? A paraplegic? Maybe a quad?” He had the pistol aimed at Applegate’s forehead; now he began slowly lowering it. “I knew a pilot once; flew over a hundred sorties in Nam without a scratch; he wasn’t home a week when he got rear ended on the freeway.” The muzzle came to rest against Applegate’s kneecap. “Whiplash; paralyzed from the neck down.” Shepherd’s eyes narrowed to vengeful slits as he squeezed the trigger. The pistol fired, emitting a blinding flash and loud report.
Applegate lurched and let out an involuntary gasp before it dawned on him that the bullet had missed, that Shepherd had purposely moved the gun off line. The bullet blew a hole in the chair, sending up a shower of splinters between his legs.
Shepherd pressed the muzzle against Applegate’s knee again. “I asked you a question, Major.”
Applegate glared at him.
Shepherd held the look for a long moment, waiting, waiting, letting the tension build, letting the weapon dig into Applegate. The sweat on the Major’s forehead began rolling down his face; his mouth turned to cotton, his tongue flicking nervously at his lips.
“Something you want to say, Major?” Shepherd taunted.
Applegate’s lips tightened into a defiant line.
Shepherd thought back to that terrifying day in Hey ford. The sickening memory of blood and brains that had suddenly filled the air, spattering his face and flight suit, consumed him as he methodically pulled the trigger again.
The bullet creased the inside of Applegate’s thigh. He groaned, his hands clutching his pants as blood seeped through the torn fabric from the burning wound in his flesh; then through clenched teeth he finally rasped, “Qaddafi wanted a couple of one-elevens,”
“You gave my one-eleven to Qaddafi?” Shepherd exploded, his eyes ablaze with anger. “Why?”
“I was following orders.”
“So were the Nazis. You killed a fellow officer in cold blood; been trying to kill me. I want to know why!”
Applegate’s eyes darted anxiously to the gun. “Qaddafi can’t make any trouble with them.”
“Keep talking, Major,” Shepherd snapped, punching the muzzle into Applegate’s other kneecap.
“We had a deal put together,” Applegate continued, clearly in pain. “Qaddafi didn’t hold up his end so we held back ANITA.”
“Who’s we?” Shepherd demanded. “Who?”
Applegate shook his head no, stonewalling.
Shepherd pulled the trigger and blew another hole in the wood between his legs.
“CIA,” the Major answered. “Kiley’s been off his nut over the Fitzgerald thing.” In nervous bursts he went on to explain how and why the F-111 s were delivered to Libya, concluding, “The bottom line is Qaddafi gets one-elevens, the Palestinians get a sanctuary, we get the hostages.”
Shepherd gasped. He was beyond being shocked now. A lifetime of unquestioning patriotism had just been destroyed. A few moments passed before he reached under the table and removed the voice activated tape recorder from the sling that held it in place. “Anything you want to add?” he asked in a weary tone, setting it on the table in front of Applegate.
The Major winced at the sight of it and glowered at him in silent hatred.
Shepherd held the look; then hearing the rumble of tires on the wharf, he glanced out the window to see the taxi’s headlights cutting through the darkness.
Applegate took advantage of the distraction and leapt to his feet, shoving the table into Shepherd, who went reeling backward, losing his grip on the pistol; it went skittering across the deck along with the tape recorder. Applegate scrambled after the gun, scooping it up on the move. Shepherd took cover behind the bulkhead that separated the main cabin from the galley just as Applegate opened fire.
Outside on the wharf, the taxi came to a stop next to Applegate’s sedan. Stephanie and Spencer were just getting out when the crack of gunshots shattered the silence. A bullet struck one of the barge’s windows, sending a shower of glass onto the dock.
“Walt! Walt! Oh, my God!” Stephanie cried out, lunging toward the gangway.
Spencer grasped her arm and pulled her behind the taxi as an exchange of shots rang out.
A tense silence followed.
It was broken by the rumble of the barge’s old door sliding back. A figure emerged and started down the gangway in the darkness, reaching the bottom before a shaft of light illuminated Applegate’s face.
Stephanie paled at the sight of him.
Applegate stumbled across the dock, heading for the sedan, heading right for Stephanie and Spencer, who were crouching between it and the taxi. They froze with terror as he raised the pistol at point blank range. A single crisp report, a blue-orange flash that came from behind Applegate, split the night. The big man stiffened, swayed, and collapsed onto the wharf.
Shepherd lowered the Baretta he had taken from Applegate earlier, and hurried down the gangway. Stephanie let out a cry of joy and ran toward him. He embraced her, his head filling with her familiar scent. They clung fiercely to each other.
Spencer was bent over Applegate’s lifeless body. The bullet that felled him was the last of three that had found their mark, and the major was near death.