Arafat studied Moncrieffs eyes, gauging his intent. It was a guileless challenge, a forthright peering into one’s soul in the Arab manner. Then the PLO chairman’s expression softened, and he pulled himself from the chair. “We’ll take a walk,” he said genially. “And I will tell you what you’re up against with Abu Nidal.”
Arafat slipped through the arched doors into the courtyard and strolled off into the night with Moncrieff at his side. Two bodyguards appeared from the shadows and followed them across the pale gray marble. “It’s a horrid story,” Arafat began. “A story that would make a smart man abandon the idea. Of course, there’s always the fool who would find it encouraging.”
In Washington, D.C., the meeting with the president broke up just before noon. Colonel Larkin avoided the postmortem sessions in the White House corridors and drove to the Pentagon, just south of Arlington Cemetery, to initiate redeployment of the spy satellite.
Not gifted, not born to lead, Larkin grew up in a family where compassion went unrewarded and ruthlessness triumphed. He developed a tenacious, can-do mentality in an effort to satisfy the harsh standards. It was Larkin, deemed too small to play football, who starred on his college team, who won the hand-to-hand combat competition in survival training camp, who after being shot down and captured while strafing a North Vietnamese supply convoy in his F-4 Phantom, escaped from a POW camp and survived months in enemy-infested jungles, fighting his way back to American lines.
“What’s going on?” he asked his secretary as he entered his office in the Pentagon’s basement, where Special Forces personnel were inconspicuously housed.
“What isn’t?” she replied, brandishing a stack of phone messages.
“I need satellite tracking first.”
She was reaching for the phone when it rang. “Colonel Larkin’s office? Hold on please.” She covered the mouthpiece and said, “Mister Moncrieff.”
Larkin’s eyes widened with curiosity, then he reached across the desk and scooped up the phone.
“Moncrieff,” he said, brightening. “It’s been a while. What’s going on?”
“I’m having breakfast,” the Saudi replied, though it was evening at Arafat’s villa. “I had an insatiable craving for scrambled eggs and bacon.”
Larkin’s eyes flickered knowingly at the remark. “Coming right up,” he said, hitting the hold button. “Put this on the scrambler, will you?” he said to his secretary. Then he headed down the long corridor toward his office, reflecting on the blustery autumn morning in Boston when he recruited Moncrieff.
That was five years ago.
The Saudi was writing his doctoral dissertation at MIT at the time. He was walking across the campus alone when the precise man with the short, neatly combed hair and dark suit, whom he thought bore a striking resemblance to former Secretary of State Alexander Haig, approached.
“I represent some people who are very interested in your work,” Larkin began after introducing himself. “You have a minute to chat?”
“Yes, sir, I do; but I’m afraid there wouldn’t be much point in it,” Moncrieff replied, having assumed Larkin was a corporate recruiter. “I’ve decided to go into business for myself and haven’t been interviewing.”
“Yes, I know,” Larkin said, privy to a CIA background check that informed him Moncrieff planned to return to Saudi Arabia and open his own consulting firm. “Have you ever considered working for the U.S. government?” he asked, showing him his identification.
“I can’t say I have, sir, no,” the young Saudi replied somewhat curiously. His English was impeccable, with a mild British inflection imparted by years of schooling in the United Kingdom. “I’m not an American citizen.”
“Not a requirement. Talent and intelligence are the criteria. I’d say you’re more than qualified.”
“So is everyone else at MIT.”
“They won’t have your positioning. Your work will be a natural entrée to situations we’d like to observe.”
“Observe—”
“Right. No assignments. You do business and tell us what you’ve seen or overheard along the way.”
“May I think it over?”
“Of course; discuss it with your family. I’ve no doubt they’ll approve.”
Nor did Moncrieff. Born into the Saudi royal family, he knew this was a chance to make his mark within the competitive and staunchly anti-communist family structure. Those who practiced Zakat, a pillar of Islam that obliged Muslims of wealth and social rank to almsgiving and involvement in affairs of state in the spirit of Western noblesse oblige, were well rewarded.
Since acquiring his Ph.D., Moncrieff had been “observing” those drought-stricken nations in Africa and the Middle East where his work had taken him. The political and economic climate, the mind-set of leaders, their state of health and personal happiness were all reported to Larkin; and bright fellow that Moncrieff was, he began seeing opportunities and proposing ways to exploit them.
Now, on this cool, April morning, Larkin entered his office, closed the door and lifted the phone. “Moncrieff — we’re clear. What’s on your mind?”
“You mean other than the fact that civilization is unraveling at the seams?”
“Tell me about it. This damned bombing’s got the president stuck in neutral.”
“Yes, rather nasty business, isn’t it?”
“Very. The DCI’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Perhaps I can help the old fellow out.”
Larkin brightened and loosened his tie. “You saying you have something on Libya for me?”
“I’m involved in a project with the colonel that might have a connection,” Moncrieff replied, encouraged by the anxious tone he detected. “In brief, you invest little and receive a substantial and immediate return.”
Larkin’s brows went up. “My kind of game. What’s the ante?”
“Bombers,” Moncrieff replied evenly. “Bombers with Pave Tack.”
“Christ,” Larkin said, stunned. “What’s his ante?”
“The hostages.”
4
“Why would we give bombers to a madman?” Bill Kiley asked incredulously before Larkin could explain.
Now, stunned by the reply, the DCI stared at the Polaroid of Tom Fitzgerald that he kept amid the top-secret folders on his desk, then went to the window.
The director’s office was in the southeast corner atop the seven-story, 1-million-square-foot headquarters building that looked out over a forested campus.
Bill Kiley loved Mother K, as insiders affectionately called Langley. Every morning he strode through the lobby, pausing at the south wall to ponder the memorial stars engraved in the richly toned Georgia marble. Each honored a CIA operative who had died in the line of duty. Kiley had known them all, in spirit if not in person, starting in Europe during World War II with the OSS; and it was the hallowed presence of these dedicated men and women that sustained him at these times.
“The hostages,” Kiley whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, sir.”
Kiley removed his glasses and cleaned them methodically with a handkerchief, taking the time to compose himself. Hostages had brought down one president and now haunted another, a nagging reminder that CIA’s vast intelligence resources had been beaten by diverse groups of rag-tag zealots: Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, Force 17, the Revolutionary Justice Organization, Cells-Omar Mouktar Forces, Lebanese Revolutionary Faction. Each had claimed to have kidnapped at least one hostage. “Bull,” Kiley finally growled. “Qaddafi doesn’t have them.”