The following morning Stephanie dressed in the gray tweed suit and black pumps she usually wore to interviews in the District and returned to the embassy alone. She approached the receptionist with a confident stride, identified herself, and asked to see the attaché.
Adnan Al-Qasim was a tall, trim man in his mid-forties who favored conservatively tailored suits, cordovan wingtips, and subdued striped ties. His English was impeccable, as were his French and German. Educated in the United States, he had the look and demeanor of a successful corporate executive.
“I have something of a confidential nature to discuss with you,” Stephanie said, taking a seat opposite him; then, shifting her eyes to the office door, which was open, she prompted, “Would you mind?”
“Of course not,” Al-Qasim replied genially. He buzzed his secretary and said something in Arabic.
A moment later, the door to the office closed.
“Thank you,” Stephanie said. She removed a newspaper clipping from her purse and handed it to him. “Are you familiar with this?”
Al-Qasim took the clipping and perused it from a distance. It was the London Times story that branded Shepherd a deserter and killer. “Well, yes, vaguely. I recall seeing something in news reports. Why do you ask?”
“There are a number of reasons. I’ll begin by telling you Major Shepherd is my husband and those reports are untrue.”
“Well, it’s only natural for you to take that position, Mrs. Shepherd. Forgive me if I’m missing something here,” Al-Qasim said in a puzzled tone, “but I haven’t the slightest idea why you’re telling this to me, or why you’re in Tunisia for that matter.”
“First, it’s important you understand why my husband deserted. Bear with me if you will?”
Al-Qasim smiled knowingly. “Since I’m quite certain you’re going to tell me, I’ll reserve judgment.”
Stephanie nodded and straightened in the chair. “My husband took the action he did because no state of war exists between the United States and Libya, and he thought it was wrong to kill innocent people.”
“Indeed, it is,” Al-Qasim replied, still not quite sure what to make of her. “I fully agree.”
“Then I imagine you would also agree it was his concern for your countrymen that has made him an international fugitive.”
Al-Qasim’s brows went up slightly at the inference. “It might be possible to make that argument, yes,” he admitted grudgingly.
“A concern for your countrymen,” Stephanie went on, “that has resulted in his being hunted like an animal who will probably be shot on sight.”
“That’s most unfortunate, Mrs. Shepherd,” Al-Qasim replied, fully aware that she had just quite shrewdly positioned him. “I hope you’re not suggesting my government is responsible for all this.”
“No, sir, not at all. But under the circumstances, I am suggesting that it would be only fair to expect your government to help Major Shepherd if it had the chance.”
“Reasonable enough,” Al-Qasim said. “But quite frankly, Mrs. Shepherd, fairness and reason aside, I expect it would depend on just what my government was required to do.”
Stephanie studied him for a moment, acutely aware that she was about to play the card Shepherd expected would get him into Libya. “Before I go further, I must warn you that if what I’m about to say becomes known, if the media should get involved before you go to your people, it could prove very costly not only for my husband but for your government as well.”
Al-Qasim nodded, his eyes widening curiously.
“As Major Shepherd’s official representative, I formally request that he be granted political asylum in Libya.”
33
The pastel-colored bows hovered tantalizingly close to Jim Gutherie’s face. He finally captured one in his teeth and began pulling on it slowly, releasing the blond’s breasts from the teddy. She led him to the bed where the redhead, her smooth white skin sprinkled with freckles, lay naked.
Gutherie removed the cap from a felt tip pen and placed the point on a tiny freckle on the redhead’s chest. He pulled it slowly, drawing a line over the swell of her breast to another freckle and then on to another and another, creating an intricate network that resembled a sign of the Zodiac; then without lifting the pen, he drew a line down the center of her abdomen, making her shiver, arriving at another galaxy of freckles that splashed across her flesh just above her pelvis. He was zigzagging from one to the next when he paused and gently slipped the pen partially inside her.
Indeed, what had begun as a way to satisfy a purely physical need had gradually led to the living out of kinky fantasies; fantasies that, thanks to the magic of videotape, had been recorded for posterity and delivered to the office of the director of Central Intelligence, where the congressman had been invited for lunch, ostensibly to discuss the work of his committee.
“Turn it off,” Gutherie pleaded, mortified.
Bill Kiley watched a few more twirls of the pen before he aimed the remote control at the VCR. “Connect the dots isn’t our usual lunchtime fare,” he said facetiously. “Of course we don’t face the pressure of running for election every two years,” he went on, pretending to be sympathetic. “It must be a terrible grind. No sooner do you get elected than you have to start campaigning again. Eleven terms, isn’t it?”
“How did you find out about this?”
“Your psychiatrist. You recall we recommended him?”
Gutherie’s eyes flared at the implied breach of patient-doctor confidentiality.
“Oh, we would never ask him to compromise his professional standards,” Kiley explained. “However, his files are computerized and quite detailed.”
“What do you want?” Gutherie asked dejectedly.
“For openers, your pledge to drop all thoughts of pursuing the matter of Major Shepherd.”
Gutherie had heard the desperation in Stephanie’s voice when she called; he didn’t know what was going on but he could imagine. “What have you people been up to?”
“I’ll show you,” Kiley replied smugly. “I’ll show you the kind of tapes we usually watch around here.”
He replaced the cartridge in the recorder with the one that had accompanied the Polaroid of Fitzgerald, announcing he had been kidnapped.
Gutherie’s eyes darted to the monitor and saw Bassam hanging upside down and naked from the trapeze in Casino du Liban. Kiley advanced the tape to where the terrorists were spinning Bassam on the apparatus; then he zoomed in, presenting Gutherie with a gory close-up of the knife slicing the agent’s flesh until the incision completely girdled his waist.
Gutherie cringed, a chill running through him as Bassam let out a piercing scream.
Now two masked terrorists plunged their fingers deep into the incision on opposite sides of Bassam’s torso and grasped the flesh tightly in their hands. He let out another agonizing scream.
Gutherie winced as the terrorists tightened their grasp on Bassam’s flesh and, with one powerful downward yank, accompanied by a harsh chattering sound, they skinned him alive, peeling the flesh from his torso back over his head in one piece like a sweater. Blood ran in sheets from the exposed musculature of his carcass, which swung back and forth on the trapeze.
Gutherie felt as if he had been punched; he buried his head in his hands, unable to look any longer.
“That’s what this is all about, Mr. Congressman,” Kiley said. “Brave, selfless men undergoing unimaginable horrors; giving more, much more, than their lives.”
Gutherie looked up, his eyes vacant and glazed.
“I’m sick and tired of playing by rules that benefit the wicked and penalize the just,” Kiley continued. “Sick of turning the other cheek to support this higher moral plane you politicians claim we inhabit. While we’re sitting with our hands folded in front of your damned committee, our enemies are literally peeling the flesh from our bones. I hope I answered your question.”