Uqba ben Nafi Air Base, 1400 GMT (1500 Local)

Colonel Hassan al-Baruni sat in the rear of the air-conditioned Mercedes limousine, which was parked immediately in front of the Operations Building. A BTR-60 flanked the car on either side, each with the markings of Baruni’s elite bodyguard unit, which was made up entirely of young, attractive women. The BTRs had escorted the colonel’s limousine down from Tripoli and would go with him when he departed. The two BTRs of the regular Army had pulled back to positions in front of the Maintenance Building, across the apron to the north.

Baruni watched as the small jet with Italian Air Force roundels on its wings descended over the Mediterranean and landed to the southwest on runway 21. The American DC-8 had been towed away to a parking spot on the north end of the apron, so the Italian jet could taxi as close to the Operations Building as possible. Abu Salaam had insisted on that.

He is afraid we might shoot him, thought Colonel Baruni. Perhaps we should.

As the aircraft taxied to a stop in front of him, Baruni climbed out of the car and adjusted his dark glasses against the glare. Television cameras whirred, and the colonel waved to the reporters and smiled his handsome smile.

The colonel was above medium height, with strong features, especially his nose and the line of his jaw. His skin was tanned and faintly pitted over his high cheekbones. His eyes were dark and deep set, but now hidden behind the very dark aviator-style sunglasses. He looked trim in a tailored, open-necked khaki uniform, the two stars and eagle of a colonel, or aqid, on each shoulder board. His wave to the cameras was a clenched fist. His honor guard crashed to attention and presented their AK-47 assault rifles. Other soldiers ringed the Italian aircraft, weapons held at the ready. The door of the aircraft opened and Abu Salaam, born Ali Hassan Nazim, walked the short distance and embraced the colonel. The troops around the aircraft were waved away, and the Italian jet began to taxi immediately. Baruni smiled. It had been part of the deal that the Italians would get minimum television coverage of their plane.

Baruni held Abu Salaam by the shoulders, smiling at him. In fact, he was not at all glad to see his former pupil. Abu Salaam was at least six inches shorter than Baruni, skinny and hollow-eyed. His nose was a great, protruding beak, and he wore a scruffy, tangled beard. His mouth was wet, his black slacks and white shirt were dirty and wrinkled, and he smelled. “Come and sit with me a minute in the car, Ali,” said Baruni softly.

Abu Salaam sank into the soft leather of the Mercedes with a sigh. The windows of the car were black and reflective on the outside, and the honor guards deployed themselves to keep the reporters at a distance. Baruni sat beside the terrorist and frowned. “You should have consulted me about this operation, Ali.”

Abu Salaam smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth. “Would you have agreed?”

“No.”

“But now you will help us, my brother?”

Baruni turned in the seat and leaned toward the smaller man. “You leave me little choice. The Libyan Arab Jamahiriya stands with freedom fighters and against imperialism and Zionism, Ali, but this operation is too exposed to retaliation! It must be concluded quickly.”

Abu Salaam’s smile decayed into a sneer. “You grow fat, my Colonel, in your soft limousine with all your oil money and so few people to care for. You forget the masses who confront the Zionists from squalid camps in the Lebanon, and from concentration camps in the occupied territories.”

Baruni pulled off his black glasses and glared at Abu Salaam. “You will not talk to me in this manner! We support the struggle in all possible ways, but this is foolhardy! The American Sixth Fleet is on the horizon, and growing bigger every day. They have been aching for an excuse to strike us, and now you have given it to them!”

Abu Salaam giggled. “Then your fine armed forces must protect us, until our demands are met.”

Baruni sat back in the cushions. How to reason with this fanatic! he thought. “Ali, in the West, they say I am mad. Mad to believe in God, mad to believe in the union of all the Arab peoples as one nation. I have given money and support to those who confront the Zionists and the West directly, and arms, and training. I have supported attacks by freedom fighters in Israel and in Europe, even against civilians, so that the peoples of those lands should suffer while Arab brothers and sisters suffer. I do this gladly, Ali, the Libyan people do it gladly. But to bring this plane here, into Libya, Ali! This risks the destruction of all we have built here, for the good of all Arabs! This is madness!”

“But Colonel, already we have achieved much!” Ali’s voice was soothing, unctuous. “I am free, and soon reunited with my fighters! The Kuwaitis will have to release my other fighters from their stinking prison. We have divided NATO, and the Americans’ puppets in the Arabian Gulf are shaking in their boots! Iran will win the Gulf War, with your help, while we are showing the Americans to be weak and helpless, because they will not, my Colonel, not risk even the few lives of those pawns,” he pointed emphatically toward the Operations Building behind him, “to strike at us! We will win, Hassan, because we have the will, and the courage to be martyrs!”

Baruni shook his head sadly. Ali was right, or at least ideologically correct, and yet the colonel had an awful feeling that this insult would just be too much for the Americans to bear. “Just promise me that we will end this quickly, Ali, and that the lives of the innocent will be protected.”

“There are no innocents in this struggle, my Colonel, not Arab children in Gaza, not American children.”

“Nevertheless, these people are under your protection, and mine, and God’s, Ali. And you and I have specifically pledged to harm no one for four days while the Americans discuss your other demand with the Kuwaitis.”

Abu Salaam smiled. “Let us go join my fighters now, Hassan.”

The television cameras followed the two men from the limousine to the doors of the Operations Building. Inside in the central hall were the sixty-five passengers and crew members of World Airways flight 41a, seated in four orderly rows of metal folding chairs, all unbound for the first time since they had been brought into the building. Behind them, their faces covered with red-checked kaffiyia, were the four fighters who had infiltrated the base and awaited the American aircraft.

I should take them right now, thought Baruni. I have my guards. Blow these fanatics away, right here in front of Libyan and Western pool television cameras, then put these dangerous Americans back on their jet and send them away. But all Arabs must sacrifice for the struggle against Zionism and imperialism, and Abu Salaam has struck many hard blows at the enemy with his small band.

Abu Salaam stood aside, conferring with his young followers. He accepted a kaffiyia and wrapped it around his head and over his face. He had avoided facing the television cameras on the tarmac, and he avoided them now.

Baruni strode among the hostages, smiling and greeting them in his heavily accented English, telling them that every effort was being made to get them home, and that they shouldn’t worry, they were in God’s hands. Abu Salaam watched Baruni work the crowd like a Western politician, glad that his own expression of contempt was concealed by the kaffiyia. Baruni was once a great leader, thought Abu Salaam, but he has grown soft and rich, far from the pain of the actual struggle. Soon he will see that pain up close, very close. I hope he has the guts for it.

Abu Salaam looked at the faces of the Americans with curiosity. Some showed interest in the bizarre show; many showed fear. Two women were weeping soundlessly. Walid has already begun the teaching, he thought. There was one man alone who returned Abu Salaam’s gaze with power, even defiance. A young black marine. Abu Salaam remembered the efforts of radical Arabs to forge ties with American blacks in the 1960s, especially the so-called Black Muslims. Well, no more, Marine. The uniform you wear makes you my enemy. But I can see you are brave, so you will be honored. You will be the first to die. The thought made Abu Salaam feel serene, and he smiled.

The young commander of the freedom fighters read a communiqué to the television cameras in high-pitched Arabic. He reiterated the demands made earlier through the Libyan leader, and added that once the fighters from Kuwait were delivered to Iran or Libya, the Abu Salaam faction would require forty-eight hours to travel unmolested to a place where they would be given sanctuary, and that then the hostages would be released.

The television crews were escorted from the building, and the doors were closed. Libyan troops once again surrounded the building. The journalists were loaded onto buses and then taken to Tripoli to file their stories. The buses were held just long enough for Baruni’s motorcade to leave the base ahead of them.