“As you very well know, Admiral,” the secretary of state lectured, “a protest has been filed and I expect an apology will be forthcoming. The incident has been overshadowed by these events and I suggest it remain so.”
“I agree,” the president said. “This is no time to take a hard line with Moscow over an accident.”
“Yes, sir,” the CJC replied dutifully. “But I respectfully submit we have no justification for attacking Libya.”
“What we have is a nasty problem,” Lancaster said. “Anyone care to suggest how we solve it?”
“With a pistol, Ken,” CIA’s Kiley replied coldly. The pressure had become intolerable of late, intensified by the fact that, despite CIA’s vast resources, Beirut station chief Tom Fitzgerald had vanished without a trace.
“That would put us in violation of twelve-three,” the secretary of state warned, referring to Executive Order 12333, which forbids sanctioning assassinations.
“Forget twelve-three,” Kiley said. “An attack on Qaddafi’s nerve center couldn’t be construed as an assassination even if it did kill the son of a bitch.”
The president thought it ironic that the civilians were in favor of using force and the military opposed. “It seems we have no proof Qaddafi gave the order. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Lancaster replied, tamping his pipe. “Furthermore, the antiterrorist people in Rome and Athens have announced their investigation isn’t focused on Libyans.”
“Which means Qaddafi’s going to get away with it,” Kiley retorted, angrily. “We should bomb his Muslim ass right out of North Africa.” He saw the president grimace and added, “As Machiavelli once so wisely advised, ‘Never do an enemy a small injury.’”
“Well, no one would like to get him more than I,” the president said. “But first, I want evidence, hard evidence that Libya is behind these terrorist acts.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” Kiley replied, then he turned to an aide seated behind him, one of many who ringed the walls of the conference room, providing documents and data to their bosses. “That KH-11 we have parked over Poland — how fast can we adjust its orbit?”
Keyhole number eleven was a spy satellite equipped with an ultrasophisticated electro-optical surveillance system a hundred times more sensitive to energy in the infrared and visible light spectrums than state-of-the-art film or video cameras. It also had formidable signals intelligence capability and could intercept a broad range of electronic data: radio, telephone, video, and cable transmissions in the VHF, UHF, and microwave bands, among them.
An intense, physically compact man with military bearing stood in response to the DCI’s query and crossed to the table carrying a red binder. A Vietnam ace and charter member of a top-secret Special Forces unit formed after the failed Iran hostage rescue mission, Air Force Colonel Richard Larkin possessed the cool fatalism men who have often faced death acquire. The surge of terrorism had gotten him assigned to the White House as a consultant on antiterrorism; but in truth he worked for Bill Kiley.
Colonel Larkin set the binder on the table and found the section he wanted. “Three days, sir,” he replied in a resonant voice that emphasized the hard Ohio vowels.
“Good,” Kiley said. “Have them park it right over Qaddafi’s tent. We’re talking cast-iron coverage. He won’t be able to get a hard-on without us knowing it.”
Several days after meeting with Muammar el-Qaddafi, Saddam Moncrieff flew to Tunis, 300 miles northwest of Tripoli, taking a taxi to PLO Worldwide Headquarters.
Despite the grandiose title, it turned out to be a series of cramped offices in a shabby building near the university quarter. The Saudi was thoroughly searched by PLO guards, then driven to Yasser Arafat’s private residence. The nineteenth-century seaside villa was on a cul-de-sac several miles northeast of the city, near Carthage. The chairman of the Palestinian Liberation Organization had been living here since his expulsion from Beirut.
Now, in a sparsely furnished sitting room adjacent to a courtyard where several stunted pines rustled, the man with the large features and scraggly beard, who had made the checkered kaffiyeh a symbol of the Palestinian cause, listened intently as Moncrieff laid out a proposal that involved the PLO, Libya, and the United States. “The net result,” Moncrieff concluded, “would be a homeland for Palestinians in Libya.”
Arafat’s eyes widened with resentment. Despite being scattered throughout the Middle East and North Africa, despite decentralized leadership, despite being oppressed and demoralized, Palestinians had never lost sight of their goal. “Are you suggesting we relinquish our claim to Palestine?” Arafat asked incredulously.
“On the contrary,” Moncrieff replied, having purposely provoked him to make the distinction. “I believe this could go a long way to securing it.”
Arafat’s eyes softened with curiosity. “How so?”
“Think of it as a sanctuary; a territory, if you will, where you could gather your people and infuse them with a renewed sense of hope and purpose.”
Arafat mused as the implication dawned on him. He had long ago admitted, if only to himself, that the Israelis would never willingly grant Palestinians any degree of sovereignty. Indeed, they had recently begun resettling Soviet Jews throughout the West Bank and Gaza Strip. “An unoccupied territory—”
“Yes, sir, precisely.”
“Free of Israeli scrutiny,” Arafat went on, becoming more intrigued with what he was envisioning. “One where, if I understand your thinking correctly, Palestinians and their leaders could regroup and launch an all-out effort to reclaim their homeland.”
“I’d say your view coincides with mine, sir, yes.”
Arafat settled back in his chair and spooned some honey into a cup of tea. The idea had merit, he thought. Divide and conquer was the oldest tactic in the book; and for decades, the Israelis had confined Palestinians to territories in southern Lebanon, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip, which their forces occupied — territories that were thousands of miles from Tunis, where the PLO leadership had been exiled. Four frustrating years of it, not to mention decades as the titular head of a nonexistent nation, had convinced Arafat that reunification was vital. “I think it’s worth exploring,” he said after a long silence. “What does Qaddafi want? Or should I be asking, how much?” he added with a knowing smile.
“No, he’s not interested in money; but he would very much like to acquire certain ‘currency’ which you’ve amassed per Article Seventeen of the Intifada.”
Arafat stiffened as Moncrieff expected he would. The Intifada was the PLO manifesto, a top-secret document that after decades of impulsive warfare and rhetoric had precisely defined the movement’s goals and tactics, and given the Palestinian uprising its name. Only PLO leaders were privy to its contents.
“I proofed the first drafts, sir,” Moncrieff explained. “I met the author when I was at MIT; actually, I knew her quite well.”
“Then you also know Abu Nidal controls the currency you’re after, not I.”
“That’s why I came to you first.”
“Abu Nidal is no longer a member of the PLO. I’ve no power over him,” Arafat declared, splaying his hands resignedly. “To be blunt, you don’t stand a chance.”
“They said that about the Zionists in forty-eight,” Moncrieff replied, risking the insult to win his respect. He knew that the Palestinians’ hatred of their archenemy was tempered by grudging admiration. The Zionists had pulled it off—they had a homeland.