Purpose of Evasion (28 page)

44

A COOL DESERT BREEZE
blew through the streets of downtown Tripoli. The time was 9:17
P.M.
when three empty buses rolled into the plaza in front of the Al Kabir Hotel on Al Fat’h Street.

The doors hissed open and a Libyan Army officer stepped from the lead bus and strode toward the hotel. He hurried beneath the curved sunscreens and arched window openings that gave the facade the look of a huge pipe organ, and through the angular concrete lobby, where a banner displaying a slogan taken from Qaddafi’s infamous Green Book proclaimed:
THE PARTY SYSTEM ABORTS DEMOCRACY
.

The slogan was one of many that adorned everything from the cellophane wrapper on rolls of toilet paper to the coffee lounge, renowned for its gloomy decor, salty cappuccino, and the crowd of reporters and camera crews who gathered there each night.

The din forced the officer to unleash several blasts on his whistle to get their attention. “Brother leader summons you,” he announced.

This was standard procedure; and as they had many times before, the reporters rounded up colleagues and equipment and filed into the bright yellow buses. They had no idea where they were going, what Qaddafi wanted, or if, as was his habit, he would fail to appear.

The convoy wound through the city, leaving a trail of blue diesel smoke in the darkened streets, which were empty of pedestrian and vehicular traffic due to a government-imposed curfew. In less than 20 minutes, the buses turned into As-Sarim Street and were lumbering past the T-55 battle tank and squad of infantry deployed at the entrance to the Bab al Azziziya Barracks. They continued across the grounds, stopping opposite Qaddafi’s tent, where squads of soldiers herded the reporters to a podium that had been set up in front of the colonel’s sway-backed domicile.

Moments later Qaddafi came through the tent flaps and strode to the podium. His white officer’s uniform, bedecked with campaign ribbons, gold braid, and red piping, glowed luminously in the flash of strobes and halogens.

General Younis, SHK Chief Abdel-Hadi, and the Akita followed and stood next to him.

“Once again,” Qaddafi began in a self-righteous tone, “the People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya has beaten the insidious shetans of America. Yes, yes, barely an hour ago, our brave and vigilant forces captured one of the world’s most wanted criminals. After deceitfully claiming he had refused to take part in an illegal attack on the Jamahiriya, after deceitfully asking for political asylum and accepting the goodwill and hospitality of the Libyan people, this vile emissary of Satan was caught, red-handed, conspiring to commit murder, larceny, and espionage against them and their leaders.” He paused, then nodded to Abdel-Hadi, who snapped his fingers twice in response.

The tent flaps behind Qaddafi parted again.

Shepherd shuffled into view, flanked by Libyan secret police officers. He was gagged and blindfolded; shackles bound his ankles and wrists. He recoiled as Abdel-Hadi brusquely removed the blindfold and the cameras and lights bore in on him.

“Now you will tell the world,” Qaddafi addressed the media, “that the People’s Jamahiriya has the notorious deserter and murderer, United States Air Force Major Walter Shepherd in custody.”

A barrage of questions erupted: “Exactly what did Major Shepherd do to cause your government to file these charges against him?” one of the reporters called out, “Can you be more specific?” another asked.

“No. It is a highly classified matter and not for media consumption,” Qaddafi replied with finality, dismissing further queries with a wave of his hand.

Abdel-Hadi and the Akita began walking toward the reporters, who parted as the fierce animal approached. The SHK officers followed, marching Shepherd through the middle of the crowd toward the prison on the other side of the compound. The reporters surged after them but were held back by the soldiers, who forced them to return to the podium where Qaddafi droned on.

The underground prison was ablaze with light when the group arrived with Shepherd. The obese guard was waiting for them.
Abdel-Hadi briefed him in Arabic, then headed down into the prison with the Akita. The SHK officers removed Shepherd’s shackles and left him in the huge guard’s custody. He marched Shepherd down the staircase, through the security doors, and into the network of foul-smelling corridors to the cell he had occupied previously. It was unlocked. The guard grabbed Shepherd by the back of the neck like a puppet and propelled him into it.

Shepherd maintained his balance and turned as the guard kicked the door closed. It slammed in his face with a deafening clang. The guard stabbed his key into the tumbler and locked it. Shepherd caught sight of the Palestinian peering through the bars of the cell across the corridor. He was standing in a cocky slouch, sporting a broad grin. It vanished when, instead of leaving, the guard turned toward his cell, unlocked it, and went in after him.

The Palestinian resisted, assuming he faced another round of torture. He didn’t know that Shepherd had given the Libyans ANITA; that they didn’t need the hostages anymore; didn’t need
him
.

But Shepherd knew; he also knew that it wasn’t torture the Palestinian faced but execution; and that
he
had signed the death warrant.

“You want to know where the hostages are?” the Palestinian taunted in Arabic as the repulsive Libyan dragged him from the cell. “Fucking your mother.”

The guard sneered, grabbed a handful of the Palestinian’s hair, slammed him up against the bars, and drove a fist into his stomach.

The Palestinian doubled over and wretched.

The big man recoiled, shuffling backwards across the corridor to get out of the way. Nonetheless, the vomit splattered over his trousers and boots. He became enraged, shouting a stream of expletives in Arabic. The Palestinian had been devastated by the blow and was on his knees, clutching his midsection. Just as the guard went for him again, Shepherd impulsively shoved an arm between the bars of his cell and got hold of the Libyan’s collar, putting an abrupt stop to his charge; then he yanked back with all his might.

The guard’s feet went out from under him. His massive head was much too large to fit between the bars of Shepherd’s cell. It smashed into them with a loud crack and bounced off. Shepherd still had hold of his collar and yanked him back again, this time with more calculated intent. The guard unleashed a primal bellow,
then his eyes rolled up behind his lids and he crashed to the floor and lay there, unmoving.

The Palestinian sagged with relief.

The pounding of boots on concrete echoed through the corridors.

The Palestinian crawled to the guard and removed the pistol from his holster; then quickly went through his pockets, taking his flashlight and a small zippered pouch that contained his money.

“The keys,” Shepherd hissed in a tense whisper, pointing to the chain on the guard’s belt, which was just out of reach.

The Palestinian hesitated for an instant, then he unhooked it and put it in Shepherd’s palm. Their eyes locked in a brief moment of camaraderie and triumph; enemies bound together by circumstance, they were equals now, just two men fighting to stay alive.

Shepherd let himself out of the cell and tossed the keys to another prisoner as he and the Palestinian took off down the corridor.

Prisoners began pouring into the corridor, engaging the guards who responded to the commotion.

Outside, in front of Qaddafi’s tent, the press conference had broken up and the reporters were being herded toward the buses when a siren began wailing. The officer in charge of the infantry shouted an order. The soldiers broke ranks and headed for the prison, leaving the media unattended.

Abdel-Hadi was in the interrogation chamber waiting for the Palestinian, waiting to oversee his execution, when the siren went off; he drew his machine pistol and stepped into the corridor with the Akita.

“Lamarikan wil Phalestineen harbou!” a guard shouted, racing toward him.

Abdel-Hadi stiffened, then crouched to the dog. “Yalla, yalla laoueg houm,” he ordered in a tense whisper. “Jib houm.”

The huge dog began straining at the leash, dragging Abdel-Hadi through the corridors. The animal had made the journey from Okba ben Nafi Air Base in the Krazz with Shepherd and soon several powerful lunges signaled that it had detected his scent.

The SHK chief removed the leash. “Yalla,” he prompted. “Yalla, katal.”

The animal raced down the corridor in a frenzy.

Elsewhere in the maze of underground corridors, Shepherd and the Palestinian approached a set of double doors that led to the barracks kitchen; there were no personnel working at this hour. The two fugitives ran past the preparation tables and ovens, following a wall of refrigerators to an open door on the other side, exiting into a corridor lined with trash pails.

Shepherd heard the scratch of claws on concrete behind him and turned to see the Akita bounding toward them. It covered the distance with several strides, then its powerful hindquarters launched it through the air.

The Palestinian whirled with the pistol but Shepherd was between him and the animal, blocking his line of fire.

At the last instant, Shepherd swept a lid off one of the trash pails and used it as a shield, slamming it hard into the charging animal, deflecting it off to one side and past him.

The dog landed on its side with a loud thud and went skittering through the open door beyond the trash pails into the kitchen, its massive paws clawing at the concrete in vain as it slid across the floor. It finally got to all fours and charged again.

Shepherd was lunging for the door to slam it shut and trap the crazed animal inside the kitchen when the Palestinian fired. The dog emitted a pathetic yelp and dropped at Shepherd’s feet like a charging rhino.

“What the hell were you waiting for?” Shepherd demanded angrily.

“You were in the way,” the Palestinian retorted; then he grinned at a thought that occurred to him and pointedly added, “Maybe I am thinking twice about killing my relative.”

Shepherd’s cold stare softened; he looked at the dog and said, “Not all animals have that luxury.”

They moved off, the Palestinian leading the way to a junction where two corridors intersected.

“Akif,” a voice ordered sharply “Akif, ouarmi slahek al ardth!”

The Palestinian stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to see Abdel-Hadi standing in the adjacent corridor, pointing his machine pistol at him.

“Slahek al ardth!” the SHK chief repeated.

The Palestinian complied with the order and tossed his pistol aside.

Shepherd was around the corner in the other corridor, out of Abdel-Hadi’s line of sight. He pressed himself against the wall and slowly, silently slid into a crouch, wrapping his fingers around the grip of the pistol that the Palestinian had thrown at his feet. Shepherd waited as Abdel-Hadi advanced toward the Palestinian, waited until he had passed the corner that shielded him, then slipped behind the SHK chief.

“Hold it,” Shepherd said sharply, jabbing the pistol into his back. Abdel-Hadi froze.

The Palestinian wrenched the machine pistol from the SHK chief’s hands, then slammed him against the wall. With an angry twist, he screwed the pistol up against the underside of Abdel-Hadi’s chin.

The Libyan groaned, eyes bulging with terror.

“No!” Shepherd shouted.

“Why? He is animal, yes?” the Palestinian demanded, his eyes ablaze with vengeance. “Yes?”

“
Yes
, but he’s—”

The Palestinian pulled the trigger, firing a burst that blew the top of Abdel-Hadi’s head up across the wall in a pulpy shower of gore.

“He was our ticket out of here,” Shepherd replied angrily, wincing at the sight, as the sound of the gunfire echoed through the corridors.

The Palestinian shrugged and released Abdel-Hadi, who slid to the floor, painting the concrete with a bloody smear.

They hurried down the narrow corridor to a service door. It opened into a long tunnel that zigzagged beneath the compound.

The pounding of boots rose in the distance.

They went back through the door and waited as the clatter came closer and closer.

Shepherd noticed that the Palestinian was standing near some electrical panels on the opposite wall. He had opened them and was about to throw the circuit breakers, plunging the prison into darkness.

“Hold it,” Shepherd cautioned. “I’ll tell you when.” He listened at the door until he heard the soldiers run past, then cracked it open slightly, waiting while the footsteps died out. “Okay. Now.”

The Palestinian pulled the breakers.

The corridors went black.

They used the guard’s flashlight to make their way through the pitch-black tunnel to a door that was now unguarded. It was locked.

The Palestinian blew the lock with a burst from the machine pistol. He and Shepherd went through it into an underground garage.

A hulking, canvas-covered vehicle stood alone in the reinforced concrete bunker. They peeled back the shroud, discovering an armored personnel carrier beneath. It was Muammar el-Qaddafi’s personal Transportpanzer, the emergency escape vehicle that had spirited him and his family out of Tripoli the night of the air strike.

Shepherd opened one of the thick steel doors in the rear of the hull, and they clambered inside the lushly carpeted troop compartment. While the Palestinian latched the door and climbed to the shielded machine gun turret atop the roof, Shepherd went forward to the cab, got behind the wheel, and turned the ignition switch.

The powerful Mercedes diesel started up with a roar.

Shepherd found a remote control in the cab, and opened the steel doors that sealed the bunker. He engaged the transmission and guided the lumbering 8 × 8 across the garage and up a ramp that led to a street several blocks from the compound.

Shepherd floored the throttle; the eight huge combat tires bit into the tarmac and sent the Transportpanzer rumbling forward to an intersection.

The cross street was a broad eucalyptus-lined motorway that Shepherd recognized as Al Jala Road, the street that the Krazz had taken inland from the coast on the trip from Tunisia. It was poorly lit and deserted. He made a sharp left and accelerated.