Don Pendleton: The Libya Connection

The country belonged to Moammar then.

Khaddafi became, now and forever, Brother Colonel, the all powerful leader of his people; the invincible agent of Allah's will on earth.

And jealousy ate at Ahmad's guts like a spreading cancer.

Precious oil beneath the Sahara sand became the key to a power far greater than anything imagined by either Shahkhia or Khaddafi.

The Soviet Union needed oil for survival as much as the West did. And Moscow was willing to offer far more than the petrodollars of the capitalists.

Russia rapidly became Libya's principal arms supplier.

Oil deals with the USSR had allowed Khaddafi's military to acquire more than $10 billion worth of highly sophisticated Soviet weaponry.

But always, with the weapons... came conditions.

Khaddafi — and Shahkhia — knew that Libya was expected by the Kremlin to supply the fist behind Soviet expansion in Africa.

Still, such a role could only lead to more power.

Khaddafi was happy to oblige.

Colonel Ahmad Shahkhia shared in the power. But always — always! — awaiting his chance to step out from Khaddafi's shadow.

Ahmad was careful to mask his ambition. He bided his time.

Two months ago, his waiting paid off.

He had been discreetly approached by General Pornov, of the Russian Embassy in Tripoli.

For some time now, it was explained by General Pornov, Brother Colonel Khaddafi had become increasingly too "ambitious." For ambitious, read crazy.

Pornov had not elaborated, but implied that the Kremlin was far from pleased. It was past time for a change. They were scouting for someone new to take Khaddafi's place, fast. Someone who would be more... appreciative, more stable.

Someone like Colonel Shahkhia.

A deal was struck. Ahmad would plan and lead a coup to overthrow Khaddafi.

Pornov would supply the weaponry and financing needed to launch such a military overthrow.

It was set to happen in two days. All was in readiness. The plan, to Shahkhia's mind, was perfect. Shahkhia had given arms to members of rogue Bedouin tribes who roamed the desert. The tribesmen would do the dirty work, attacking key military installations around the country that had been carefully selected by Ahmad and his fellow plotters. Well-coordinated attacks by the Bedouins would weaken Khaddafi politically as well as militarily.

Brother Colonel would be disgraced, seen as a leader too weak to control civil disorder.

Troops loyal to Colonel Shahkhia would then march in and restore order from chaos. And of course the tribesmen would be duly paid for their work, clandestinely.

Yes, only two days... and Ahmad Shahkhia would never again stand in another man's shadow.

But why had Pornov issued this summons to a meeting in the center of nowhere? There was no traffic whatsoever along this stretch of desert highway. Only the sand, the Russians and the line of telephone poles and wire, reaching from horizon to horizon.

The uniformed Russian KGB man stood at the very edge of the tent's shade. He was waiting for the approaching rider.

Pornov was squat, oxlike. To Shahkhia, the Russian pig farmer always seemed to be slick with perspiration in his confining brown uniform.

The "shepherd" pulled rein short yards from the tent, dismounted and approached the KGB man. The Russian spoke in clipped English as the two men exchanged a handshake. English was the only language known to them both.

"Colonel Shahkhia, I am glad you were able to keep our appointment."

There was a smugness in the Russian's voice that was vaguely unsettling.

"General Pornov." Ahmad noticed that the general's camp chair was the only furniture in the small tent. The Russian and the Arab remained standing. "I trust there have been no complications in our arrangements."

"Not from our end," said Pornov. His small eyes glittered like polished beads. "But complications, yes. It seems, my dear Colonel, that you have underestimated myself and the people I represent."

Shahkhia felt cool fingers of fear caress his spine.

"Underestimate you? How?"

"Fool!" snapped Pornov. "You deal with others. You are to meet the American, Leonard Jericho, this evening at the army base at Aujila, to close a deal you have made with him without my sanction."

Shahkhia prayed that he was not showing outwardly the rising panic he felt inside.

"My General, you must be mistaken ..."

Even to Ahmad, the voice did not sound like his own.

"I am not mistaken," said Pornov icily. "It need not concern you how I came by this information. I believe that two words will suffice to persuade you, Colonel Shahkhia, that I do know of what I speak. The two words... Strain-7."

"General Pornov, I'm sure there has been some mistake ..."

"There most certainly has, Colonel! And it has been made by you. I fear you forget the power I hold over your conniving head. One telephone call to the office of Brother Colonel and that head will roll."

"We are coconspirators, General Pornov."

"Obviously I will deny any allegations you make against the Russian Embassy, and do you know? Colonel Khaddafi could not afford to disbelieve me!"

Shahkhia felt his throat go as dry as the desert sand on which they stood.

"My General, I had planned to turn over the consignment to you, once it was mine."

"Do not lie to me, Shahkhia."

"The man called Jericho would not deal with the Soviet Union," insisted the Arab. "And I thought something so important should be obtained for our cause."

"You thought only of your own ambition," snarled Pornov. "You thought of the power that would be yours. You will keep your scheduled rendezvous with Mr. Jericho. I will accompany you. And you may thank your beloved Allah that your life has been spared. My people will contact you later today regarding flight plans for tonight. That is all."

Pornov spun around and strode back toward his cluster of men and vehicles with the stiff military bearing of the parade field.

The Libyan officer mounted his steed. He whipped the horse into a gallop, retracing his approach already obliterated by the shifting sands.

Colonel Shahkhia did not look back.

As the rider in shepherd's clothing, and the gray charger beneath him, topped the dune and put the scene of the confrontation behind, Colonel Ahmad Shahkhia exerted all of his self-control at calming a mind still in turmoil from the scene with the Russian.

Shahkhia understood that it might become necessary to kill Pornov. This would be a most delicate matter, indeed. But Ahmad Shahkhia would not be stopped. Not this close to attaining all of his lifelong dreams. When he obtained what Jericho now had, the power would truly be his.

Nothing shall stop me, thought Shahkhia, except Death itself. It would take a mighty executioner to get his head to roll.

There was another element to consider in addition to Pornov; an occurrence, mentioned in Leonard Jericho's last communique to Shahkhia, that Pornov seemed not to be aware of.

The coded communique had carried vague reference to an attack on a yacht owned by Jericho in the Bahamas. It was the vessel aboard which the American end of this operation had been initiated.

Jericho's representatives had finalized the arrangement with the American general, Thatcher. The shipment had immediately left ground at Houston International Airport in Texas, America, and was now in Libya, according to Jericho. Along with the "gift" Jericho had promised.

The human gift.

A woman.

But what of the assault on Leonard Jericho's yacht? Was it related to Shahkhia's business with Jericho?

Colonel Shahkhia felt a premonition.

It gave him a creepier feeling even than the knowledge of General Pornov's damnably correct Intelligence.

Only thoughts of Jericho's flesh gift could relieve his queasiness. Yes, having his way with her would be of supreme interest. How thoughtful of Jericho to feed his tireless appetite for the unusual...