Larkin climbed down from the cockpit and hurried toward the arrivals building. The A-6 taxied for immediate takeoff and return to the America.
The time was 10:37 A.M.
“You’re with the military?” the woman at the passport control desk asked, not because Larkin’s passport noted his military rank, which it didn’t, but because his method of arrival had been brought to her attention.
“I’m a technical consultant,” he answered, forcing a smile. He’d have preferred to enter the country more quietly; but embarking from a carrier and the pressure of time had left him little choice.
“Why did you come to D’Jerba?”
“To meet my sister and brother-in-law; they’re vacationing here. Say, maybe you can help me out.” He knew that hotels the world over routinely forwarded data to local authorities and expected she could help him locate them. “His name’s Shepherd, Walter Shepherd; I don’t know where they’re staying. Maybe, you could—”
The clerk shook her head no. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out that information.”
“I could call every hotel on the island,” Larkin said, slipping some bills from his wallet discreetly. “Or you could save me the time.”
The clerk deftly palmed the money and turned to her keyboard. “Shepherd, you say?”
“Yes, Walter Shepherd.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up from the monitor. “I’m not showing a Walter Shepherd.”
“What about Stephanie Shepherd?”
The clerk shook her head no.
“No one named Shepherd is registered in any of the island’s hotels?”
“That’s correct.”
Larkin shrugged. “I must have been misinformed,” he said matter-of-factly, then asked casually, “By the way, are there regular flights to Tripoli from here?”
“Each evening at seven. But Americans aren’t—”
“Yes, I know. Just curious. Thanks.”
He was crossing to the car rental desk, working the problem, when he recalled that Kiley had said Shepherd used Applegate’s credit card to rent a plane. Instead of returning to passport control, Larkin went to a phone booth and called the first hotel listed in the directory.
“I have a business meeting with one of your guests,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten the room number. Yes, his name’s Applegate. Paul Applegate.”
Larkin called three more hotels before the operator at the Dar Jerba recognized the name.
“He’s on the beachfront; cottage forty-seven. Do you wish to speak with Mister Applegate now?”
“No, I have what I need. Thanks.”
The time was 11:45 A.M. when the Shepherds crossed the sprawling Dar Jerba complex to the main building. Approximately 15 minutes later a BMW 735 sedan pulled up to the main entrance. Al-Qasim got out and waited beneath the canopy. Like his elegantly furnished offices and conservatively tailored suits, the car was part of the facade to impress international businessmen.
“That’s him,” Stephanie said, spotting the attaché through the huge panes that enclosed the hotel’s lobby. She and Shepherd held each other tightly for a long moment. “I love you, Walt,” she whispered, her eyes starting to fill as their lips parted.
“Love you too. We’re going to have us twenty more,” Shepherd said reassuringly, slipping from her grasp.
Stephanie stood there, holding herself together as he strode into the blinding sunlight, suitcase in his hand. Just like he was going bowling, she thought, watching as Shepherd and Al-Qasim shook hands and exchanged a few words before driving off in the BMW.
After twenty years she still didn’t understand him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t fathom how he lived with danger but why he enjoyed it so much. He was always happiest when flying headlong into a kill-or-be-killed situation, as long as it was a calculated risk. It was as if being able to anticipate threats and create a game plan to counter them made him invincible and assured success. It was a fine theory for the stock market or Super Bowl, she thought; but this game wasn’t played for profits or trophies — life was the stake.
Stephanie headed for the cottage. Almost a week had passed since she had left Andrews, and her thoughts turned to her parents and children. They were undoubtedly aware of the news reports branding Shepherd a deserter and murderer; now, she could chance calling them to explain.
A short time before, far across the Dar Jerba’s grounds, a Peugeot sedan turned onto the street that paralleled the beachfront cottages. Larkin parked and went to one of the automated information kiosks that dotted the grounds. It contained a house phone. He dialed the operator and asked for cottage 47. When there was no answer, he walked a short distance to the white-domed structure, approaching it from the beach side.
A credit card easily slipped the latch on the sliding door to the deck. Larkin entered the bedroom and began taking stock of the contents: the single suitcase and the presence of only women’s clothing and toiletries indicated Shepherd was gone and wouldn’t be returning; the navigation charts and instruments on the dresser meant he wasn’t flying anywhere.
Larkin was about to leave when he heard the key in the lock, the door opening, and glimpsed Stephanie through an opening in the stucco grillework that divided the interior spaces. She came down the corridor, entered the bedroom, and was crossing to the phone when the door shut behind her. She turned to see a man she didn’t know stepping out from behind it.
“Where’s your husband?” he asked softly.
A gasp stuck in Stephanie’s throat. A tense moment passed before it dawned on her. “You’re Larkin, aren’t you?” It was a statement; an indictment. “You bastard.”
Larkin stood his ground, hand poised to go for his sidearm if necessary. “He’s on his way to Libya, isn’t he?” His wintry eyes searching hers for a reaction, he saw the evasive flicker and made a move toward the door, further testing her.
“No!” Stephanie shouted, lunging for him. “No!”
Larkin whirled, his suspicion confirmed beyond any doubt now, and shouldered her aside. Stephanie regained her balance and came back at him with a fury; then she froze suddenly as the colonel pulled a Baretta from inside his jacket and leveled it at her forehead.
Larkin held the weapon on her for a long moment, immobilized by her expression. It was different than what he’d seen on the faces of those he had confronted and killed in combat. There was no surprise in their eyes, no sudden realization of life’s fragile thread. Yet it wasn’t the contrast that captivated him, but a nagging memory. He had seen Stephanie’s puzzled horror before; seen a woman’s eyes wide with terror. Once.
He kept the pistol trained on her as he backed out of the cottage, then holstered it, crossing the grounds to the rented Peugeot.
Shepherd was on his way to Libya; now; driving there, Larkin quickly deduced, having already eliminated other modes of transport. The map of D’Jerba provided by the rental agency was on the Peugeot’s seat. The tiny island had few roads. The route to the mainland and south to the Libyan border was boldly delineated.
At the end of the winding causeway connecting the island to the Tunisian mainland, Al-Qasim’s BMW hummed with finely tuned precision as he came through the Al Kurnish off-ramp, accelerating onto the two-lane ribbon of concrete that ran along the coast.
“I make this trip with businessmen several times a month,” Al-Qasim explained, breaking the silence.
“Why? It can’t be faster than flying.”
“Oh, it isn’t,” Al-Qasim admitted, pausing briefly to set up the punch line. “Assuming your flight isn’t delayed or canceled.”