“British Airways, reservations,” a cheery voice answered. “How may I help you?”
In Washington, D.C., Bill Kiley was packing up the three briefcases he took home each night. The discovery of the hostages’ whereabouts had bolstered his spirits; something had finally gone right and he felt like celebrating. He called his wife and suggested they meet at their favorite restaurant for dinner. He was on the way to the elevator with his bodyguard when his secretary caught up with him.
“COMINT just sent this up,” she said with a smile, handing him a computer printout. The acronym, shorthand for Communications Intelligence, referred to the department responsible for intercepting electronic communications. Monitoring computerized airline reservation systems was but one of its many activities.
The printout was a list of commercial air carriers, flight numbers, departure and arrival information, and dates; the name Walter Shepherd was next to each.
“Damn,” Kiley said admiringly. “He’s booked on every flight out of the U.K. for the next week.”
“Twenty-seven,” she replied. “Departures from six different airports, eighteen destinations.”
Good but not good enough, he thought, brightening. Things sure were going right.
“Put it on the global net,” he instructed. It was just a matter of time now; every airport, every flight would be covered. It didn’t matter which one he actually took. Shepherd was history.
31
After informing Kiley that the hostages had been transferred from the gunboat to a submarine, Larkin left Fort Belvoir, taking Route 1 north through Alexandria.
Forty minutes later, he crossed Memorial Bridge into the District. He had plenty of time to stop at his apartment, pack a bag, and catch the late shuttle out of Andrews. The Capitol dome glistened in the late afternoon light as he cut across 23rd to Virginia Avenue and pulled into the garage beneath his high-rise.
He parked in his assigned space and had taken a few steps toward the elevators when a voice rang out.
“Colonel Larkin?” The words echoed off the concrete walls of the cavernous space.
Larkin turned to see a figure coming toward him. Whoever it was cast a long shadow across the oil-stained concrete.
“Jim Gutherie, Congressman from Maryland,” the big fellow said, extending a hand. “I need a few minutes of your time, Colonel.”
Larkin’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “I’m not in the habit of holding meetings in parking garages, Mister Congressman.”
“Nor am I.”
“Then I respectfully suggest you call my office for an appointment.”
“I did. Your secretary was reluctant to make one. She said you were leaving the country and wasn’t sure when you planned to return.”
“That’s exactly right,” Larkin said, starting to back away. “I’ll have her contact you as soon as I do.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel. This can’t wait.”
“I have a flight to catch,” Larkin said, glancing at his watch. “Whatever’s on your mind, make it fast.”
“Major Walter Shepherd.”
“Shepherd?” Larkin echoed with a disgusted shrug, hiding his concern. “The guy who deserted and killed that MI officer?”
“Yes. What do you know about him?”
“What I read in the papers. Why?”
“I don’t recall them mentioning you were his commanding officer,” Gutherie countered sharply.
Larkin was rocked; he held Gutherie’s look for a long moment, regaining his composure. “That’s classified,” he said coolly. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“I chair the HIC, Colonel,” Gutherie replied pointedly. “I’m cleared right into your personnel file: Special Forces, CIA, White House staff—”
“Then you know my sanction.”
“I have a feeling you’re abusing it.”
Larkin seethed and burned him with a look. “Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?”
“The guy who’s going to nail your ass,” Gutherie retorted, waving to a car behind him. The black New Yorker pulled forward and stopped next to him. “That’s a promise, Colonel.” Gutherie got in, slammed the door, and the car roared across the garage.
Larkin waited until it had gone up the ramp and disappeared into the night, then went to the elevator.
Le Lion D’or on Connecticut Avenue had the finest French cuisine in Washington; and despite Bill Kiley’s brusqueness and penchant for profanity, he had cultured tastes that he preferred to indulge in privacy. He and his wife were at their usual table when the security man slipped behind the beveled glass screen and whispered something to him.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to his wife. “If the waiter comes, I’ll have the escargots and lamb.” Then, without further explanation, he walked slowly to the parking lot, climbed into his limousine, and lifted the phone. It was Larkin calling from his apartment.
“How did he get into this?” the DCI exclaimed after the colonel briefed him on his encounter with Gutherie.
“I don’t know, sir; but he made damned sure I knew he chaired the House Intelligence Committee.”
“Don’t remind me,” the DCI said. “He’s a fucking pain in the ass; not the type to let go.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
Kiley leaned back in the seat, a vague recollection tugging at his memory. “You proceed as planned, Colonel,” he finally said. “Leave the congressman to me.”
Larkin fetched his two-suiter, returned to his car, and drove to Andrews Air Force Base. A CIA courier was waiting in the boarding lounge when he arrived. “From Langley, sir,” he said, handing the colonel a slim attaché case. Larkin waited until he was airborne before opening it. He broke into a broad smile on seeing the contents. The old man didn’t miss a trick.
Three days had passed since the team of SEALs discovered there were no hostages aboard the PLO gunboat. Duryea had kept the Cavalla on station in the Mediterranean, awaiting data from the KH-11 review.
It was 8:36 A.M. when the communications officer delivered a cable to Duryea’s compartment:
KEYHOLE REVEALS CARGO IN QUESTION TRANSFERRED TO ROMEO CLASS SUBMARINE 14APR AT 02:47 HOURS. 344216N/125832E. ASSUME BOAT UNDER SYRIAN COMMAND. MAJOR LARKIN IS EN ROUTE. ROME STATION CHIEF WILL COORDINATE MEETING ON USS AMERICA.
Duryea topped up his coffee, went to the command center computer terminal, and queried the BC-10. Data on the Romeo began printing out across the screen: Diesel; twin screws; top speed 13 knots dived; primitive electronics. A total of twenty built in the late 1950s: five still operated by the Soviet Navy; one scrapped, two sold to Algeria, three to Bulgaria, six to Egypt, and three to Syria.
Discounting the Soviet and Bulgarian boats, which were deployed elsewhere, Duryea calculated a maximum of eleven Romeos could be plying Mediterranean depths — eleven underwater antiques, he thought, making a connection.
He went to the sonar room and handed the cable to Cooperman. “Remember that weird contact?” he prompted.
The rotund sonarman shrugged his shoulders. He detected literally hundreds of contacts daily in the heavily traveled Mediterranean; and whatever Duryea was referring to had been long forgotten. “Which weird contact, sir?”
“The antique; the one you’d never heard before?”
“When we were closing on Tripoli harbor?” Cooperman sensed where the captain was headed.
“Yeah. I’m thinking it might’ve been lover boy.”
“Stay tuned, skipper,” Cooperman enthused, turning to his equipment. Alphas, Charlies, Viktors — the nuclear-powered core of the Soviet Navy were the contacts that stuck; not a thirty-year-old diesel. But now that it had meaning, he knew exactly what to do.