Purpose of Evasion Read Free Page A

moment, he removed a thick, soft-cover volume from a bookcase behind his desk.
    The Military Balance was published annually by the International Institute for Strategic Studies in London. It quantitatively assessed the armed forces of more than 140 countries. The colonel relied on it to keep informed of the strength of enemies and allies alike, the latter with an eye to purchasing military hardware. He turned to the section where the Libyan Air Force was inventoried:
    BOMBERS:

6
TU-22
INTERCEPTORS:

26
MIRAGE F-1ED, 4 F-1BD
131
MIG-23 FLOGGER
49
MIG-25 FOXBAT A
49
MIG-21, 12 25U
GROUND ATTACK

45
MIRAGE 5D/DE, 13 5DD
FIGHTERS:

14
MIRAGE F-1AD
44
MIG-23BM FLOGGER F
14
MIG-23U
90
SU-20/22 FITTER E/F/J
    The list further enumerated helicopters, transports, and trainers. Qaddafi pointed to the total. “We have five hundred and forty-four combat aircraft,” he intoned. “None are capable of flying this mission?”
    “Four hundred and fifty-one are inoperable, sir,” Younis said gently, citing a statistic in the report Qaddafi was conveniently ignoring. “We are woefully short of maintenance technicians, and spare parts. Only our SU-22s are—”
    “Well, what about them?” Qaddafi challenged, zeroing in on the mainstay of his air force.
    “A defensive weapon, nothing more,” Younis explained. “Even in broad daylight it can barely—”
    “We’ve spent billions, billions ,and still can’t take out an unprotected dam?” Qaddafi bellowed.
    “Not at night. Not at supersonic speed. Not below radar. Not in Tunisia without getting caught, sir,” Younis replied evenly. “No.”
    Qaddafi ran a hand through his wiry hair, pondering the problem. “The Soviets will never sell us these aircraft,” he concluded sharply. “They’re worried we’re defaulting on the five billion we already owe them.”
    Moncrieff had been quietly observing and analyzing. “Moscow isn’t the only source,” he said calmly after a long silence.
    Qaddafi’s eyes shifted to the Saudi. “Where else?”
    “Washington,” Moncrieff replied softly.
    Younis looked stunned.
    The colonel concealed his surprise, his large head tilting back at the familiar cocky angle. He had no doubt Moncrieff was serious. He knew the Saudi could make things happen; that he had powerful international connections; that he was different, privileged.
    The Saudi prince had been educated in Switzerland and France as well as the London School of Economics, where he had honed his exceptional analytical skills. Indeed, Moncrieff had been the first to realize that finding a solution for the lack of water, not milking the abundance of oil, was the key to economic growth in the Middle East. It was a theory that had brought him to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he received a doctorate in hydrology.
    “I’d be happy to explore the matter, sir,” Moncrieff said coolly.
    “What would they want in exchange? My head?” Qaddafi cracked, knowing he had nothing that could induce the United States to give supersonic bombers to him, the financier of international terrorism.
    “No, sir,” Moncrieff replied, not daring to laugh. “I’m quite certain acceptable currency can be acquired. However, delicate linkages would be involved. I’d need your help to secure them.”
    “For example?”
    “A meeting with Chairman Arafat would be essential—a private meeting.”
    Qaddafi was considering it when the swish of a tent flap behind him broke his concentration.
    An aide-de-camp entered and delivered a communiqué. “From the People’s Bureau in Rome, sir.”
    Qaddafi took the envelope, broke the seal, and removed a cable, which read:
    WE HAVE AN EVENT PLANNED THAT WILL PLEASE YOU.
    The colonel looked up, smiling, and announced, “It seems our friends in Rome plan to celebrate Easter with a bang.” Then he went to his desk to make a phone call.
    Younis took Moncrieff aside. “These bombers—you understand, they must, must have electro-optical guidance,” he