Mission Compromised (68 page)

After he put his cell phone away, he said to his son, “Look around—find his computer. We will take it with us. You can take whatever else you see that you like. We are to make it look like a robbery. Her jewels are mine.” And he turned to the task of ransacking Rachel's dresser and closet.

They waited until after 0300 and when Rachel still had not come home, the son left the house to bring back their car. He pulled it into the garage and closed the door while they put the computer, a TV set, VCR, some jewelry, and a few things from Newman's closet into the trunk of the rental car. Then they left for a local motel, to await further instructions.

 

Aboard USAF C-17, Special Air Mission Flight T-43

________________________________________

Andrews Air Force Base

Wednesday, 8 March 1995

2105 Hours, Local

 

Rachel heard the familiar sound of jet engines and felt the landing gear thump into the wheel wells as General George Grisham's C-17 lifted off the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base. For a change, she hadn't had to give the pre-flight safety brief, and wouldn't have to get up to check on the passengers' comfort. As she leaned back in the comfortable executive package seats of the big U.S. Air Force transport, she contemplated her last twenty-four hours.

After the call from Peter, almost twenty hours earlier, Rachel had tried unsuccessfully to sleep for a few more minutes. After tossing and
turning for half an hour, she had gotten up and taken a shower. By the time she had toweled and dried her hair, it was almost 3:00 A.M. She then decided to call the number on the card he had given her the day he left.

I'm supposed to use the cell phone
, she remembered. She put on her jogging suit, slipped into her running shoes, went down the stairs, out the front door, and walked down Creswell Drive toward the cul-de-sac at the end of her street. Standing beneath the streetlight, she dialed the number. Oliver North's pager offered two options. “For a numeric message, press 1. For a voice mail message, press 2.” Rachel pressed 2.

“Colonel North, this is Rachel Newman. My husband called me and is in trouble and he told me to call you.” She gave her cell phone number and ended the call.

In less than a minute, North had called her back.

She had told him about Peter's call, and when she finished, North had asked where she was. When she told him, the retired Marine had given her very specific instructions: “Go back to the house, pack enough comfortable clothing for a few days—just as though you were making an overseas trip for TWA. Nothing formal. Pack for comfort. Go immediately to a hotel that you know. Get some food to eat in the room because you shouldn't be going out. Use another name. Pay in cash. I'm going to call a friend. After you get settled at the hotel, call me back using the cell phone.” He gave her the number for his cellular phone.

Rachel had followed the instructions exactly. She raced back into the house, packed some clothing in her black TWA-issued flight bag, and grabbed the one thousand in cash that she kept in an envelope in a dresser drawer. She didn't even take time to make the bed. But just before running out the door to jump into her car, she stopped and ran
back up the stairs to pick up the study Bible that her friend Sandy had given her several weeks before.
It's heavy, but I might as well stay with my new routine.

Rachel drove along Broad Street to Old Town Alexandria. She knew of a Hampton Inn there where commercial airline flight crews often spent the night when they had a D.C. layover. Even though the streets had been empty, uncooperative traffic lights had turned the ten-mile drive into a half-hour trip. From Broad Street she had turned left onto King Street, past Dangerfield Road—seeing some irony in the street sign—and then one block past Diagonal Road to the Hampton Inn in “Old Town” Alexandria.

On the form provided by the bored young man behind the counter she printed her middle name and maiden name and her parents' address. She asked for a non-smoking room on the second floor, paid cash in advance for one night, and waited while the clerk made her room key.

When she went back to her car, Rachel saw the sign for the parking garage in the rear, and drove around and parked inconspicuously in a corner between two vans.

Then Rachel took her carry-on out of the back seat and headed for her room.

She took the elevator to the second floor, looked for the number plan on the wall in the hallway, and then walked to room 207. She unlocked the door, reached in and found the light switch, flicked it on, looked inside, and finding it empty, went into the room. Rachel tossed her carry-on onto the bed and double-locked the door.

Then, feeling a little out of breath, she sat on the chair by the desk and opened her purse. She took out Peter's cell phone and dialed Oliver
North again. It was 4:10 A.M., but he answered right away. Once again, he had instructions: “In case someone else is listening on my line, don't mention where you are in the course of this call or any other until we know that we can get someone to you to protect you. I'm going to give you a phone number. As soon as we are done, I want you to call the number immediately. The last two digits of the number will be a kind of code that only you and I understand. If you understand my little code tell me ‘yes,' hang up, and call that number. That way, you will have completed the call by the time anyone who might be listening can break the code. Tell the person who answers what you told me an hour ago. He will give you instructions. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

North gave her the first eight digits of a telephone number, but instead of the last two digits in the sequence, he then said, “And the last two are the numbers of the unit that Peter and I were serving in when you two came over and had dinner with Betsy and me.”

His wife Betsy. We were at Camp Lejeune. … 1980, the 2nd Marine Division. … Third Battalion, 8th Marines. … three, eight!

“Yes! I've got it.”

“Good,” North had replied. “Call that number now, and do as he says.” North hung up.

Rachel had called the number immediately. It, too, rang only once, and the voice said simply, “Grisham.”

 

 

In the hours since that first call to General Grisham, the sun had come up and the rest of the world had gone to work, braving the notorious Beltway commute. The general had told her to stay put, to get some rest, and to call him back at 4:00 P.M., using the cell phone.
Rachel did as instructed. She had watched the news, studied some from her Bible and probably would have slept soundly for a few hours but for the maid who had come by to freshen the room. Rachel had sent her away and called down to the front desk to extend her stay. The manager had required her to come down and pay in advance for another day since she hadn't left a credit card. Other than the brief trip to the lobby office, she had been in the room all day.

At precisely 4:00 P.M. she called General Grisham. It wasn't a pleasant call.

“General, it's Rachel Newman again. Have you heard anything more about Peter?”

General Grisham's calm and reassuring voice came back on the line. “Not yet, Mrs. Newman … but I'm gathering a fair amount of information, and I'm hopeful that this is going to work out for the best. Unfortunately, there seem to be some other people in this government who want it to turn out differently. Mrs. Newman, are you somewhere where there's a TV?”

“Uh … yes, I have one here.”

“Turn on the news. There's a press conference, and it concerns your husband. I'll hold while you turn it on,” General Grisham said.

Rachel reached for the remote and clicked the TV set on. She found the news and turned up the volume just as the anchor said, “… has brought you this report live from outside the White House, and that was our correspondent, Brian Penner. We've just seen and heard the announcement that the United States government and the United Nations have joined Interpol in an international manhunt for the Irish Republican Army Terrorist, Gilbert Duncan—suspected of planting the bomb that brought down the United Nations Humanitarian Relief flight over Iraq on Monday. The U.S. government has offered a
$2-million reward for Gilbert Duncan—dead or alive.” As the newsman droned on about the IRA denying any connection to the crash that had supposedly killed all aboard, a photo of Rachel's husband was added to the top right of the TV screen, with the name “Gilbert Duncan” below the photo.

Rachel was flabbergasted. She had so many thoughts going through her head that she didn't comprehend half of what she heard. But she had seen the picture and heard key words that made her react with stark fear—“fugitive … terrorist … dangerous killer … fanatic … bent on a suicide mission … sought by U.S. agencies … Interpol … wanted dead or alive.”

“Uh … General … what's happening? That was Peter—but not his name. Have they made a terrible mistake? I don't know what's going on. Why are they saying these things about Peter? And why didn't they use his real name?”

“Mrs. Newman, I don't know what's going on. I've known your husband since he was a second lieutenant. I do know that he's not a terrorist and I believe that someone is trying to frame him, and use him for purposes that are dishonorable at best, and treasonous at worst. I would very much appreciate it if you would stay in touch with me from right where you are. Would you please call me back at 6:00 P.M.?”

Rachel was sure that if she hadn't brought her Bible with her, she would have gone crazy watching the digital alarm clock by the bed slowly click to 6:00. By the time she called the general's number, the cable news networks had all repeated the story twice about the “terrorist Gilbert Duncan,” each time showing a picture of her husband.

But despite what was on the TV, this time, when the general answered his phone, the news was better. “Mrs. Newman, I've talked to your husband,” the General had said. “He's all right, and trying to
make his way back to safety. I'm headed to Turkey this evening to make sure that he knows he has friends out there. I don't mean to intrude on your personal life, but he asked me to bring you with me. I think it would be safer for you. Would you like to go?”

“He called you? When? How long ago—did he say where he was? Is he all right?”

“Mrs. Newman, I talked to him within the past thirty minutes. He said he was all right, but I can't tell you much more. That's when he asked me to bring you with me—if you wish to go, of course.”

“I'd like that very much, General.”

“Good. Tell me where you are. I'm going to send some Marines to pick you up right away and take you to Andrews Air Force Base.”

 

 

For a few minutes after takeoff, General Grisham had patiently answered her questions—and there were many—right down to why a Marine General was flying on an Air Force C-17 transport. He chuckled and said, “This aircraft is actually used for Special Air Missions by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The pilots needed some long-range over-water navigational experience so they are making a ‘training flight' to Turkey.”

After they had been airborne for half an hour, the stewards served a hot meal. Rachel turned on her reading light and opened her Bible. In minutes she was asleep.

General Grisham motioned for the Marine major who was sitting behind them and said quietly, “John, ask the crew chief to dim the cabin lights and get a blanket to cover her up. And when you get that done, have Staff Sergeant Winsat bring me those briefcases full of paper.” The General spent the next four hours bent over his tray table reading “Action Items” under his purview at the Marine Headquarters.
Despite the “URGENT ACTION REQUIRED” label on most of them, none seemed as pressing as the husband of the woman sleeping across the aisle.

 

International Airport

Damascus, Syria

Wednesday, 8 March 1995

2350 Hours, Local

General Komulakov's aircraft had arrived at Assad International Airport in Damascus at a little after 4:00 P.M. At his request, the airport authorities had parked it at the far end of the terminal, beyond the row of Syrian Arab Airlines planes.