“Good. I have something one of our people picked up that I think Duryea will find useful. It’ll be at Andrews when you get there. Stay on top of this,” Kiley urged. “Get Fitz the hell out of there for me.”
30
The turn of events had hit Shepherd with devastating impact. He and Stephanie abandoned Applegate’s car, took the Underground back to the East End, and returned to the barge. Though the major was no longer a problem, Shepherd had no doubt that along with CIA and the military police, every law enforcement agency in Europe would be on the lookout for him. Despite that, he knew exactly how he would get out of England; however, he had no idea how he was going to get back his F-111, let alone get into Libya.
“We could ask Gutherie,” Stephanie suggested.
“The congressman?”
Stephanie nodded.
“I don’t know,” Shepherd replied, wrestling with it. “How do we know he isn’t owned by the CIA?”
“He’s their watchdog; chairs the Intelligence Committee. And he’s been part of this from the start.”
“What do you mean from the start?”
“It was Gutherie who found out Larkin works in the White House,” she replied, explaining the circumstances that led to his listening to the tape with her.
Shepherd thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, but don’t tell him any more than you have to.” He remained on the barge while Stephanie went up the hill to a phone booth and made a collect call to Washington, D.C.
Several days had passed since the congressman and Stephanie had listened to the tape. The possibility that the tape would provide him with a high-profile campaign issue had ended abruptly with the reports of Shepherd’s desertion and murder of Applegate.
Gutherie had just returned from the Capitol when his secretary asked if she should accept a collect call from Mrs. Shepherd in London.
The congressman nodded emphatically and lifted the phone. “Mrs. Shepherd,” he said sadly when the connection was made. “I’m sorry things turned out for you the way they did.”
“They’re vicious lies,” Stephanie retorted sharply.
“I don’t understand,” Gutherie replied, surprised by her brusqueness and tone. “If that’s the case, why hasn’t your husband come forward and told his side of it?”
“He can’t. Not until he has proof.”
“You’re with him?”
“We’ve made contact,” she replied evasively. “Can you help him get into Libya?”
“Libya? Why?”
“I don’t have time to explain now. Yes or no?”
“It’s impossible. They no longer have an embassy in the U.K. Besides, the president’s ordered everyone out. Libya is off-limits to Americans.”
“What about Tunisia?” she asked, turning to a backup destination Shepherd had selected.
“That wouldn’t be a problem. Tunisia doesn’t even require a visa for entry. You know, for what it’s worth, you might try a place called D’Jerba Island,” Gutherie suggested. Just off Tunisia’s southeastern coast, the legendary home of the lotus eaters — where Ulysses landed more than 3,000 years ago — had recently acquired an international airport and modern tourist facilities, and was a thriving resort and convention center.
“Gerber, like in baby food?” Stephanie prompted.
“No. It’s D apostrophe J-e-r-b-a,” Gutherie replied, spelling it out. “I attended a conference there a few years ago. It’s about as close to Libya as you can get without living in a tent; and if I remember correctly, in those days there was a small Libyan Embassy in one of the convention complexes.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass it on to my husband. It’s important you still keep this to yourself,” Stephanie cautioned firmly. “You understand?”
“Not really, no,” the congressman replied curtly. “Not without knowing why.”
“Walt will be killed if they find him.”
“If who finds him?” he asked, sensing the issue he sought was still viable. “Come on, what’s going on?”
“You were right about covert activity getting out of hand. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“I just told you they’ll kill him. Please.”
“Okay,” Gutherie said, moved by her desperate tone. “But I can’t sit on it forever.”
“Thanks.”
“I still wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
Stephanie wrestled with it in silence for a few seconds, then slowly lowered the receiver onto the hook.
Gutherie heard the line go dead. He was sitting there, staring out the window, when it occurred to him that there was one other person who might know.
Stephanie returned to the barge and briefed Shepherd on the conversation. He nodded thoughtfully when she finished, then began rummaging through the cartons of books stacked in the cabin. Several were filled with oversized volumes, and one contained an atlas. Shepherd pulled it free, then turned to the map of Tunisia and located D’Jerba Island. “The congressman’s right. It can’t be more than fifty miles to the Libyan border,” he observed, brightening. “Remind me to thank him when I see him.”
“That’s a promise,” Stephanie said, smiling; then her eyes drifted to Applegate’s ID on the table, next to a sheet of paper on which Shepherd had been practicing his signature. “Are you sure about using those?” she asked. “He’s been in the papers, on TV. It’s not a common name; someone might recognize it.”
Shepherd nodded knowingly. “But not as easily as they’ll recognize mine. Just better odds this way; and I have a couple of ideas how we can make them even better.”
They waited until it was dark before they went up the hill to a men’s shop on Kerbey and bought Walt some clothes: casual slacks, a sport jacket, shoes, shirts, underwear, and a small travel bag.
Then they split up.
Stephanie headed for a row of shops down the street that sold used books.
Shepherd walked a few blocks to the automated snapshot booth he had used previously. He took three sets of pictures, changing his shirt for each.
Next stop was a self-service copy shop on Montague where he cut a picture from each strip, backed them with scotch tape, and affixed them to Applegate’s pilot’s license, passport, and military identification. Then, he made color Xeroxes of all three, trimmed the military identification and pilot’s license to size and heat-sealed them in plastic at an adjacent machine.
The passport was more difficult: the personal data and photograph were on the inside front cover under a toned laminate. Anything pasted over it would obviously abut the stitching that held the pages; but the matte surface laminate was smaller than the cover, leaving a border around the three edges and the sewn spine.
Shepherd returned to the barge and trimmed the Xerox, coated the back with spray adhesive he had purchased at the copy shop, and positioned it on the inside cover of Applegate’s passport over the laminate.
The alteration of all three pieces of ID, which once would have taken an expert forger several days to accomplish, was completed in just over an hour.
Stephanie couldn’t find the publication she sought in the used book shops. One proprietor sent her to a shop in Charing Cross that specialized in military publications. There she finally found several tattered copies of a 1969 U.S. Air Force orientation manual for Wheelus Field, now Okba ben Nafi Air Base. After making her purchase, she hurried to a street corner phone booth, settled in with a handful of coins, opened the Yellow Pages to Airlines, and began dialing.
“British Airways, reservations,” a cheery voice answered. “How may I help you?”