“Yes,” Gutherie replied in a barely audible rasp.
Kiley took a copy of Stephanie Shepherd’s Capitol Flyer interview with Gutherie and handed it to him.
“Your favorite journalist was in London with her husband last time we saw her,” Kiley declared. “Has she been keeping in touch?”
“What makes you think she’d contact me?”
The DCI handed him several photographs: Gutherie and Stephanie during memorial services at Andrews; Gutherie entering and exiting her home. “I have a list of phone calls if you’d like to see them. We weren’t sure what to make of it for a while but you cleared it up for us the other night.”
“Colonel Larkin—”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” Kiley said, feigning he was puzzled. “Really, Mister Congressman,” he went on, gesturing to the videotape cartridge of Gutherie’s indiscretions, “does it matter?”
“What do you want to know?” Gutherie’s broad shoulders sloped in defeat.
“Where are the Shepherds now?” Kiley asked. His people in the U.K. had come up empty so he knew Shepherd hadn’t taken any of the commercial flights he had booked. He also knew there was one obvious alternative for a pilot on the run. A check of private aircraft rental agencies had quickly turned up the charge on Applegate’s credit card. “And don’t tell me London,” he warned. “We know Major Shepherd rented a plane.”
“Tunisia,” Gutherie said, trying to decide if he hated himself or Kiley more.
The DCI’s brow tightened. “Where in Tunisia?”
“D’Jerba Island,” Gutherie replied after a long silence. “She said her husband wanted to get into Libya.”
Kiley’s face stiffened with concern, then his eyes drifted to Shepherd’s file on his desk. He didn’t have to open it. He knew the salient details by heart; indeed, any uncertainty he might have had of just how expert Shepherd was when it came to tactical innovation had been swiftly dispelled by recent events.
Shepherd was desperate, Kiley thought; but his actions weren’t those of an aimless fugitive. On the contrary, they were the precisely calculated moves of a man driven to disprove the charges with which he’d been unjustly tarred. It was clear he had wisely decided that coming forward and denying them wasn’t the answer. Furthermore, Shepherd’s desire to gain entry to Libya indicated he had a plan; an objective that, whatever it was, would clear his name if he could pull it off. Kiley ran down the list, putting the pieces together, putting himself in Shepherd’s shoes. There was only one thing that could bring the truth to light; one thing that could prove it beyond any doubt — one thing in Libya. After forty years of clandestine gamesmanship, thinking the unthinkable had become a matter of routine and, now, to his horror, the DCI was quite certain he knew Shepherd’s objective.
He buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Get me Colonel Larkin on the America.”
34
Hazy sunlight streamed across the Mediterranean, infusing D’Jerba with a pale saffron glow.
Shepherd stood in the bathroom of the waterfront cottage, shaking a can of shaving cream. “Well, here goes,” he called out to Stephanie, who was showering.
“I was kind of getting used to it,” she replied.
Shepherd filled his palm with the aerosol foam and began lathering it over his four-week growth of beard; he was getting used to it too; but it was time to get back to being Walt Shepherd.
Two days had passed since Stephanie’s meeting with Adnan Al-Qasim at the Libyan People’s Bureau. It was almost as if she and Walt had taken a long-promised vacation. But despite moments of blissful happiness, despite the romantic pull of the sea and the desire to explore the ancient island, indeed, despite the temptation to just drop out of sight and start life anew, they kept their vigil, remaining within earshot of the phone; and yesterday, when it finally rang, their expectations rose, then quickly plummeted when a room service clerk inquired what they wanted for breakfast.
Now, clean-shaven, his face taut and stinging from the razor, Shepherd sat on the deck outside the cottage. The orientation manual for Wheelus Air Force Base was flopped open on the table in front of him; but his eyes were distant, staring out to sea, lost in the turmoil that had become life.
The phone rang, snapping him out of it.
Stephanie answered it. She heard Al-Qasim’s voice and signaled Shepherd as he came in from the deck. “Yes. Yes, I think so,” she said to Al-Qasim. “Can you hold on a minute?” She covered the mouthpiece and in an anxious whisper said, “They want to talk.”
“Good,” Shepherd replied, brightening. “When?”
“Noon. Al-Qasim will pick you up.”
“Did he say where we’re going?”
“Tripoli.”
Shepherd nodded and took the phone from her.
“This is Major Shepherd,” he said authoritatively. “I want to impress on you that there will be no media involvement, no announcements; this must be kept quiet. No, it’s not a matter of being caught but killed. Do you understand? Good. Noon is fine. I’ll be ready.” He hung up and turned to Stephanie. His elation and sense of triumph were quickly tempered by the sadness and concern he saw in her eyes, which glistened with the knowledge that from this moment on he would be proceeding alone.
On the USS America, south of the island of Malta in the Mediterranean, a Navy A-6 was hooked to the starboard catapult. The pilot gave a thumbs-up to the launch officer and the Intruder was rocketed from the carrier’s deck in a thundering explosion of steam and blue-orange flame. The all-weather bomber dipped slightly, then its twin turbojets sent it soaring in a graceful arc into the azure skies.
“Don’t spare the J-4, Lieutenant,” Colonel Larkin urged from the backseat as they leveled off.
The pilot pushed the throttles to the stops and the A-6 bolted forward on a heading for D’Jerba.
Several days had passed since the strategy session on the America. After hatching the plan to incapacitate the personnel aboard the Romeo, Larkin and Duryea contacted Kiley, briefed him, and requested technical assistance. The DCI was enthused and code named the plan Project Twilight. “I’ll get OTS right on it,” he replied; the acronym stood for Office of Technical Services, the group at Langley that researched and developed special items related to clandestine activities.
Then Duryea returned to the Cavalla to hunt for the Romeo. He knew it would stay submerged, and therefore, unlike the Palestinians on the gunboat, there was little chance the crew could spot reconnaissance aircraft. This meant that ASW Vikings based on the America could assist in the search.
Larkin remained aboard the carrier to coordinate the effort. He was in a briefing room mapping out search patterns with Viking crews when Kiley called and briefed him on Shepherd’s whereabouts and his suspicion that he was out to retrieve his F-111.
The colonel wasted no time in gathering his things and arranging transportation. The pilot who had ferried him from Naples needed flight time and volunteered.
Now, less than 30 minutes after takeoff, the A-6 had covered the 300 miles to the Tunisian coast and was approaching D’Jerba.
The tower at Melita International didn’t receive landing requests from U.S. warplanes very often; but when the pilot informed them he was ferrying a passenger, they had no reason to deny him clearance.