Purpose of Evasion (32 page)

48

“I HATE TO SAY IT, BABE,
but you better get back to the hotel,” Shepherd suggested when Stephanie briefed him on her run in with the D’Jerban police. “Just do whatever you were doing before I got here.”

She protested but knew he was right and drove back to the Dar Jerba in the car she and Brancato had rented.

Shepherd, who had been up almost thirty-six hours, spent the afternoon in the Transportpanzer sleeping.

Brancato had spent it thinking.

A pink-tinged glow still hung over the Gulf of Bougara as Brancato made his way through the towering marsh grass to the road. He drove Larkin’s rented sedan to the far side of Borj Castille, circling to a flat outcropping of rocks that jutted out into the sea. He rolled down the windows, put the transmission in neutral, released the handbrake, and started pushing.

“Good idea,” Shepherd intoned, joining him. He had just awakened and his eyes were still a little glazed.

They got it rolling and pushed it off the edge into the sea. The interior quickly filled with water and it disappeared beneath the surface with a tired gurgle.

“When do we go into Libya?” Brancato prompted, as they returned to the Transportpanzer and brought several cans of touajen, a North African version of lamb stew, to life in the tiny galley.

“The sooner the better; but we’re looking at a very narrow window. They only fly the one-elevens at night.”

Brancato nodded sagely. “We get there too soon and the machines aren’t fueled; too late and they’ve gone flying. How do we travel?”

“We have a choice—wheels or wings.”

“Wings? What kind of aircraft?”

“Mooney two fifty-two. But I vote for wheels,” Shepherd said.

“Why drive when you can fly?”

“For openers, the Mooney’s at the airport. Just getting our hands on it would be risky; and even if we could, the one-elevens are based at Okba ben Nan, which means we’ll be flying right into the teeth of their radar and SAM installations—without weaponry, electronic jamming gear, or TFR. Even if we defeat the perimeter radar, we’d still have to land out in the desert, which puts us in the middle of nowhere without ground transportation.”

“Yeah, and anywhere on or near the air base they’ll be waiting for us when we touch down.”

“With that,” Shepherd went on, indicating the Transportpanzer, “we have weapons, armor, and wheels. Besides, there are all kinds of goodies in there: radios, handguns, clothes, food. And whether we’re in the middle of the desert or driving across the air base, that thing looks like it belongs.”

Indeed, Qaddafi had specified his escape vehicle be unidentifiable as such, and the Transportpanzer’s exterior was of basic military finish and unadorned.

“Take yes for an answer,” Brancato pleaded genially. “Okba ben Nafi’s on the Mediterranean. We can shoot right down the coast and—”

“Not so fast,” Shepherd interrupted. “I had a run-in with one of their patrol boats. They know what I want; they might be waiting for me to come back.”

“So we take the scenic route,” Brancato suggested. “Must be maps in there.”

Shepherd nodded.

Brancato set the bowl of stew aside and made his way to the cab. A rack of shallow drawers, like a dentist’s tool cabinet, was built into the console between the seats. Each contained a set of plastic laminated sector maps labeled in Arabic. It took Brancato a few minutes to find the revelant charts, which he laid out across the console. They were for Qaddafi’s use and clearly delineated not only the terrain but also the location of Libyan military outposts in the desert, as well as border patrol zones.

“See this area here,” Brancato said as Shepherd joined him. “There isn’t a road, town, or military outpost on either side of the border for miles. We can leave soon as it gets dark, work our way south along the coast in the water. Then we cut inland about here and make our way through the desert. If we cross the border
between these mesas and head due east, it’d put us right on a beeline for Okba ben Nafi.”

“Lot of ground to cover,” Shepherd cautioned, digesting the plan. “And it has to be done at night. You have a fix on mileage?”

Brancato studied the chart for a moment. “Hundred seventy-five max.”

“How many in water?”

“Forty, give or take.”

“Twelve hours of darkness,” Shepherd said, thoughtfully, “figure average speed—water, desert—twenty miles an hour; doable.”

Brancato nodded. “What about fuel?”

“Tanks are still more than half full,” Shepherd said, checking the gauges for the two 50-gallon tanks, which gave the TTP its 485-mile range. “The days are getting longer,” he went on, glancing outside where the sun was still hanging on the horizon. “It doesn’t get dark now until after nineteen hundred. We’ll have a lot of time to kill once we get there.”

“According to these, there’s a patch of heavily forested terrain around this oasis about thirty miles south of the air base. We can hang out until, say, eighteen-thirty, then start moving in. It’ll be dark way before we get anywhere near Okba ben Nafi.”

“Okay, we go tonight.”

Brancato tilted his head thoughtfully. “Or we wait a day and go tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow? Why?”

“Name the holy month that celebrates the victory of Muslims over the Makkans at the battle of Badr
and
commemorates the revelation of the Koran?”

“Something tells me we’re talking about Ramadan, again,” Shepherd answered.

Brancato nodded. “Starts tomorrow. It’s similar to Lent. Muslims fast; they work shorter hours; businesses close early; and there’s lots of churchgoing. Their state of mind would be working for us; they’ll be less vigilant; less aggressive;
and
there’ll be less of them around. And since they can’t eat until sunset, they’ll be busy chowing down about the time we’re making our move on the air base.”

“Not these guys,” Shepherd countered. “Qaddafi’s pushing them hard, real hard.”

“We still have to get there. It can’t hurt.”

While Shepherd considered it, Brancato added, “Besides, you look kind of crummy. An extra day’s rest would do you good.”

“Sounds like you have all the angles figured.”

“Yeah,” Brancato said, with a thin smile. “Right up to where you radio the tower for clearance in Arabic.”

49

THE ROMEO’S
mysterious disappearance had pinned the
Cavalla
in the Crete-Karpathos-Rhodes gap. Duryea had sent a cable to Kiley at CIA headquarters, briefing him on the situation. Several hours later he received a terse reply:

REQUEST VOICE COM ASAP. CITE DIRECTOR

Duryea immediately brought the boat to periscope-antenna depth and deployed a radio mast, then went to the communications room and contacted the DCI.

“I had Romeo’s twenty-one hundred wake-up calls put on surveillance priority,” the DCI began. “Keyhole made an intercept last night that sheds some light on why he didn’t show. I’m cabling you a copy of the translation.” He nodded to his secretary, who activated a fax machine that was patched into the phone line.

Seconds later, a fax machine in the
Cavalla
’s communications room came to life. The duty officer took the pages from the delivery tray and handed it to Duryea.

R
OMEO:
This is the Exchequer. This is the Exchequer. Do you read?

N
IDAL:
Yes. Go ahead.

R
OMEO:
Your currency is secure. We are proceeding with arrangements for withdrawal as planned. Do you confirm?

N
IDAL:
NO. The terms of the transaction remain in force but I want to postpone withdrawal for forty-eight hours.

“What do you think Nidal’s up to?” Kiley prompted.

“I don’t know, sir,” Duryea replied, scanning the cable. “Do you have Romeo’s location at the time the transmission was intercepted?”

“The southern Aegean,” Kiley replied, reciting the coordinates, which confirmed the Romeo had started to Beirut and stopped at 2100 hours to contact Nidal at the point where the
Cavalla
would have intercepted. “ASW follow-up indicates he backtracked to the Cyclades.”

“For what it’s worth, sir,” Duryea said, clearly relieved, “there’s no way Romeo can make it to Beirut by the deadline now.”

“I don’t find that at all comforting, Commander,” Kiley growled. “Nidal doesn’t make idle threats. He promised to execute a hostage by Ramadan and believe me, he’ll find a way to do it.”

“They’ll have to get past us first, sir.”

Kiley grunted, far from mollified, and hung up.

Duryea returned to the control room and kept the
Cavalla
on station for the remainder of the day, waiting for the Romeo. Twenty-one hundred came and went without any sign of it. It was almost midnight when he glanced to the countdown clock in the upper right corner of the electronic chart table. It read:

00:DAYS

00:HOURS

01:MINUTES

14:SECONDS

Duryea watched until it read all zeroes.

Ramadan had begun.

THAT SAME EVENING,
on the southeastern tip of D’Jerba, the glow of dusk was fading to star-dotted darkness as the Transportpanzer rolled out of the marsh grass and past Borj Castille into the sea.

Shepherd and Brancato proceeded south, following the distant causeway to el-Kantara on the mainland, then continued along the Tunisian coast in light surf. They made their way past Zarzis, then cut through the inlet at Bin Qirdan, heading inland across the calm waters of the bay.

Several hours later they guided the Transportpanzer through the rolling breakers onto the beach, crossed the Al Kurnish Road into the desolate, southernmost part of Tunisia, and set off across the desert, well west of the Ras Jdyar border checkpoint.

As the charts had indicated, there were no roads here, no towns
in this harsh land that defied even the iron will of desert nomads to inhabit it.

They traveled 30 miles south, then angled east toward the Libyan border, entering an unpatrolled area of steep sandstone palisades that formed a natural barrier between the two nations.

Brancato left the Transportpanzer and went ahead on foot to scout the area. The TTP’s halogens illuminated the craggy terrain as he made his way along the base of the ridgeline to a spot where the vehicle could climb the near vertical wall. He guided Shepherd into position, ensuring that the front tires were properly aligned with a narrow canyon he had found on the charts, and returned to the cab. Then, Shepherd shifted the Transportpanzer into the lowest gear and eased the throttle down slowly.

The eight independently driven tires bit into the crumbly surface, sending rooster tails of sand into the air as the TTP accelerated toward the ridgeline and began its ascent. Capable of scaling a 70 percent gradient, it steadily fought its way up the slope onto a desert plateau of parched scrub brush and wind-burnished sand. Libyan sand.

It was just after midnight.

The Muslim holy month had begun.

Okba ben Nafi Air Base lay 130 miles due east.

ABU NIDAL
had spent the evening in his suite at Casino du Liban, monitoring news broadcasts for signs of a response to his ultimatum. It was a futile vigil.

At precisely midnight, he shut off the radio and television, turned toward Mecca, and fell to his knees, touching his forehead to the ground; joining Muslims throughout the Middle East, he recited to himself the traditional call to prayer for the start of Ramadan as prescribed by the Koran.

God is greatest. God is greatest. I testify there is no god save God and that Mohammed is the apostle of God. Up to prayer, up to salvation, prayer is better than sleep. God is greatest. God is greatest. There is no god, but God.

Then he took a vial of insulin from the small refrigerator in his suite, shot the medication into the roll of flesh at his abdomen, and went to bed.

The following morning, the sun streamed across the Mediter-ranean with customary brilliance.

Katifa had kept to herself, spending time in her quarters, which overlooked the marina and entrance road; this allowed her to quietly monitor arrivals and departures. Now she heard the throb of diesel engines and went to the window. Far below, the gunboat was nosing into one of the concrete slips. Crewmen were throwing housers to Palestinians on the dock, who lashed them to pilings.

Abu Nidal strode down the gangway from the casino. Perfect timing, he thought, glancing at his watch. Washington, D.C., was seven hours behind Lebanon and he had planned that the first hostage would be executed and delivered to the United States Embassy in Beirut
not
immediately upon the onset of Ramadan but midway through the first day. This ensured sufficient time for the media—who had been notified in advance and therefore would be present to witness the gruesome discovery—to write and transmit their stories, photographs, and videotapes for the evening television news programs.

Nidal watched as the blanket-covered stretcher was carried from the gunboat and down the gangway; then he followed it across the dock to the casino.

Katifa left the window and locked her door; then she took the unopened pack of cigarettes from her purse. She quickly removed the cellophane wrapper, hinged the top, and removed the foil closure, revealing the radio transmitter beneath: black plastic fascia, minuscule anodized microphone grille, and antenna—which she telescoped out before pressing the single control button. In a tense whisper she said, “Tell Mr. Stengel the first hostage has arrived. I repeat, the first hostage has arrived at Casino du Liban.” She compressed the antenna, closed the top, and slipped the pack into her jacket pocket.

Later that afternoon she was summoned to the amphitheater. Nidal was standing on the stage surrounded by several dozen guerrillas. The crowd of young men and women parted as Katifa approached. She felt the weight of their eyes, then sensed a figure hanging from the trapeze apparatus above the stage. It sent a macabre chill through her.

“The deadline has passed; long passed,” Nidal announced. “We have had no response to our demands. It is time for Intifada to become more than just a word that the Western media uses to
add spice to their headlines; indeed, it is time for the person who gave our uprising its name to give it meaning.”

Nidal took a knife from his pocket and snapped the blade open. “The weapon that killed your brother,” he said, offering it to Katifa.

She stepped forward, knowing that, this time, she had little choice but to play out the scenario.

The instant her fingers closed around the knurled grip, the kliegs came on, illuminating the trapeze with a blast of cold light. And there directly in front of her, hanging upside down and naked, his legs lashed to the ornate, velvet-sheathed apparatus, was Moncrieff.

Katifa recoiled and gasped. “No! No!” she shouted in an anguished plea, the knife slipping from her hand.

Nidal smiled slyly and picked it up. “Now, loyal daughter,” he said evenly, “you will tell your brothers and sisters why you are really here.”

Moncrieff’s eyes widened; he squirmed on the apparatus and muttered something from beneath the tape that was stretched across his mouth.

“You wish to speak?” Nidal taunted. He grasped the tape and tore it from his face.

The Saudi screamed in pain. Blood oozed from his lips where the tape had stripped them raw. “Don’t . . . don’t tell him,” he groaned.

Katifa winced, averting her eyes. The thought of what would happen next made her skin crawl. She shuddered as Nidal put the point of the blade to Moncrieff’s waist, and flicked his wrist, sending the first half inch of gleaming steel into the Saudi’s flesh. Blood oozed from the cut and ran along the edge of the blade. Nidal looked sideways at Katifa. “Why are you here?” he prompted, as the group of young Palestinians closed in around her.

“No,” Moncrieff protested through painfully clenched teeth. “Don’t tell him.”

“His life for information?” Nidal prompted. “Why did you return? What are you doing here?”

Katifa’s lips tightened as she wrestled with it.

“No, they’ll kill me anyway,” Moncrieff warned.

“I guarantee it if you don’t,” Nidal hissed coolly.

“Please take him down from there.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Please. I’ll tell you.”

Nidal nodded to the guerrilla who was working the controls. The apparatus slowly lowered Moncrieff to the stage. He lay there, bloodied and exhausted, staring up blankly at Katifa, who had rushed to his side. Nidal brusquely pulled her to her feet and took her to the communications room backstage.

“I’m listening,” he said, glowering at her.

“The Americans,” she replied haltingly. “They, . . . they wanted to know where the hostages were going to be taken for execution.”

The implication dawned on Nidal. “They’re planning a rescue?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“The submarine.”

“They know about it?”

She nodded apprehensively.

“When?”

“I don’t know. I don’t.”

Nidal was shaken but he knew the Exchequer would have contacted him at the first sign of trouble. He cursed that he had no way of initiating communication. The time was 6:14
P.M.

In two hours and forty-six minutes, the Romeo would check in and Nidal would warn him.