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.
50
Shepherd and Brancato had spent the night driving the Transportpanzer across the bleak landscape of the Libyan desert. They crossed four north-south roads en route. The first three were narrow, little-used ribbons of macadam broken by drifting sand. The last was Pepsi Cola Road, a motorway connecting Tripoli and the industrial city of Ghariyan 75 miles to the south. It was primarily used by trucks ferrying raw materials and finished products to and from the factories.