H.M.S. Unseen Page 39

  “She told him she expected to get the Congressional Medal of Honor for marksmanship,” chuckled Bill.

  “Damn right, she would,” said the admiral. “And any other award she wanted…. What happened then…your boys just moved in and made him secure?”

  “That’s it. Tied him up good and tight. And kept him under guard till you guys showed up. What now? You taking him back?”

  “Yup. I wanna have another little talk with him in a minute. He seems ready to tell us anything we want to know right now.”

  “That’s how I’m reading it, Arnold. He told me last night he wanted a deal, and for his part he would disclose anything we wanted.”

  “And in return for that he wants his life.”

  “Guess so. But I’m getting the feeling he’s been betrayed by Iraq. Otherwise, he woulda gone straight home to Baghdad and kept his head down. Also, I have to say that before Laura made her dramatic entry with the Purdey, Adnam had essentially turned over his weapon. He had placed the knife on the chair. He was unarmed. He was actually surrendering.”

  “Hmmmm. Bill, let’s go through this thing the way we used to, back in Fort Meade. Let’s think this through, item by item. I’m going to write down a list of the certain facts…” And with that, the admiral pulled out his little notebook and pen, and wrote down his prime thoughts thus:

  1. ADNAM, DESPITE KNOWING THAT ALMOST ANY AMERICAN WOULD KILL HIM AS SOON AS LOOK AT HIM, HAS GIVEN HIMSELF UP, LAYING AN OBVIOUS TRAIL TO THE B-BAR-B IN THE PROCESS.

  2. HE DOES NOT APPEAR PARTICULARLY REPENTANT.

  3. HE PERHAPS DOES NOT GREATLY VALUE HIS LIFE.

  4. HE MUST KNOW A GREAT DEAL ABOUT THE MIDDLE EAST—NOT ALL OF WHICH CAN BE OBTAINED WITHOUT HIS CONSCIOUS COOPERATION.

  5. THE HISTORY, AND THE FINE DETAILS, WILL BE OF QUESTIONABLE VALUE. AGENTS TEND TO BE TOLD ONLY WHAT THEY NEED TO KNOW. BUT THIS ONE IS SPECIAL, HE WILL KNOW MORE THAN MOST, AND HIS REAL VALUE IS LIKELY TO LIE IN THE FUTURE.

  6. HE HAS OUTWITTED ME, ARNOLD MORGAN, EVERY INCH OF THE WAY. CHRIST! I’VE JUST FUCKING WELL REPORTED TO HIM! CAN I NOW USE HIM? IS THAT WHAT HE IS REALLY OFFERING?

  7. OR, IS THIS SOME OTHER TORTUOUS PLAN, INTENDED SOMEHOW TO FUCK UP MY LIFE.

  8. MIGHT THIS SONOFABITCH BE ON A SUICIDE MISSION TO KILL THE PRESIDENT’S NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR? (N.B. KEEP SAID SONOFABITCH MANACLED, AND DISARMED, FOR NOW).

  “That, Bill, is how I see this equation at the moment. But one thing is immediately interesting…do you think he might tell us where to find that goddamned submarine?”

  “Dunno. But I think he might. If, as I suspect, the Iraqis have dropped him.”

  Betty-Ann brought in the coffee, and the two former U.S. Navy colleagues sat companionably in big leather armchairs, which had Kanza Indian blankets thrown over them.

  “Seems real strange, after all these years, to think Ben Adnam’s out there in that barn, eh?” Admiral Morgan was thoughtful. He sipped the hot coffee, then he asked Bill, “Do you think we could, under any circumstances, use this bastard for our own purposes?”

  “I think it would be a political impossibility. Christ, if the public ever found out precisely who he is, and even half of what he’s done, we could end up with the first lynch mob of the twenty-first century.”

  “Hmmmm. I wonder what he knows? I wonder if he could put a finger on any of that germ-warfare activity that’s been going on in Iraq. What about their agents in this country and the UK?”

  “I’d guess he knows more than they think. Whether he tells us may depend on how badly they’ve pissed him off. My own view, Arnold, is that his great value to us will be to give us a first-class psychological profile into the Iraqi mind-set.”

  “I agree. I am certain they’ve pissed him off real badly; otherwise, he could not possibly have contemplated coming here. Not even to see your beautiful wife, the thought of which has been scaring the life out of me these past two or three days.”

  Bill grinned. “Bet he never thought she’d nail him with the earl of Jedburgh’s pheasant gun,” he said, smiling.

  “No. I wouldn’t think that was any part of his plan…but the question is, do we think Adnam is just too risky, too treacherous, too big a liar even to consider doing business with? I must say, Bill, my immediate instinct is to kill him now. Although I could be persuaded to wring him out first, then eliminate him. But…but…but…but… I wonder whether the bastard isn’t too valuable for that.”

  “Admiral, comfortable and pleasant though this is, let’s get back out there, and you have another go at him. Let’s ask him about the submarine…the part that was worrying my father-in-law…that and the fishing boat.”

  “Okay, old pal. Let’s get out there and see how forthcoming he is.”

  It was raining lightly, and both men put on their hats for the short walk to the horse barn. Inside they found the two CIA chiefs working on a detailed report of the journey and the preliminary interrogation that had already taken place. Everyone had coffee, and Ben Adnam was still sitting on a bale of straw, tightly bound. There had been no further conversation since the admiral left, and no one was untying the Iraqi until Morgan gave the word which, understandably, he did not seem inclined to do.

  The admiral moved in very quickly. “Commander Adnam, there is no submarine in the world equipped to fire short-range, accurate, surface-to-air missiles fast enough to bring down a supersonic aircraft. How and where did you convert HMS Unseen to possess this capability?”

  “We did it at sea, out in the Atlantic near the equator in the doldrums.”

  “What kind of missile system?”

  “Russian in origin. But we did not get it directly from them.”

  “Exactly what missile system, and who did you get it from?”

  “That information is for sale only, sir. Not for money, you understand. For my life.”

  “How did you know it would work? Did you test it?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Where?”

  “Down in the marshes in the south of my country, east of Qal At Salih.”

  “How?”

  “We test-fired four down there. Then once more in the Gulf on live aircraft. Pilotless, of course.”

  “Of course. Perish the thought you should kill someone.” Admiral Morgan was trying unsuccessfully to avoid the sardonic.

  “Did you hit it?”

  “The test was successful, sir.”

  “How did you make such a huge alteration to a submarine out in the ocean?”

  “It was not huge, sir. We simply modified the regular radar in the boat to locate the target at long range. We then had ample information to fire the missiles into a steady, oncoming target at a known cruising height. The actual launcher was bolted onto the deck, behind the fin.” Adnam spoke his apparent secrets with the finesse of a man who knew his captors were going to find out anyway. And he added, as an apparent statement of good faith, “I could show you how to achieve something similar anytime, should you decide to work with me.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” But the admiral turned to Bill, and speaking as if there was no one else in the barn, he exclaimed, “Can you believe this crap? I’m just getting a high-tech lesson in submarine weapons conversions from a fucking Marsh Arab…Jesus Christ.”

  Everyone laughed. Even Adnam. “Sir, I’m not from the marshes. My home is farther up the Tigris on the edge of the desert.”

  “Oh, Jesus, yes…so it is. The situation just fucking worsened…I’m being told how to put an advanced weapon onto an American nuclear boat by a fucking Bedouin.”

  Then he turned back to the Iraqi. “Right,” he muttered. “Now listen, I know you’re probably some fucking Von Braun of the Desert, but I wanna dead straight answer, right here…did you really lower that huge missile launcher over the side of a supply ship on a crane and manhandle it into position, seal it, and sail for the North Atlantic?”

  “Yessir. Yes we did. In less than two days.”

  “Jesus Christ. Whose idea was
it?”

  “Mine, sir.”

  “How did you come up with such an invention?”

  “It was not an invention, sir. The Israelis came up with it several years ago. And they had such a system made and tested. I merely stole a copy of the plans back in 1999 and adapted their ideas on a much grander scale.”

  “Was that HMS Aeneas?” asked the admiral, displaying as usual his encyclopedic memory for ships and previous conversations.

  “Yessir. Yes it was.”

  “Hmmmm. And then, what…you just set off for the Atlantic and sat there on 30 West awaiting your prey?…And how did you get away? To Scotland?”

  “Again, sir. That information is for sale. Also, I have no intention of informing you of anything that may incriminate me with another country.”

  “In your shoes, pal, I’d dispense with the formalities and start trying to make a few allies. Before I agree to anything I’m gonna need a lot of information. Give this bastard some coffee someone, while I confer with my former employee.”

  The admiral and Bill walked out of the barn together, leaving everyone else inside except the Marine corporal on guard outside the door.

  “Okay,” he said to the former lieutenant commander, “he’s telling the truth so far, right? But I really want to know more about how Iraq got that Kilo in 2002, and how they got that Upholder out of Plymouth…Christ, to the best of my knowledge no one has ever stolen a submarine before. At least not from a major Naval power. And this man has stolen two!”

  “Well, he said he would not tell us anything that would incriminate him outside the U.S. I suppose we can’t blame him for that. I think we should try him on the technical problem of driving the submarine, training the men, and above all, what the Iraqis now plan…and where the hell they are taking Unseen right now.”

  “I’ll try him on the theft, but he’ll duck that, I’d guess. The real issue for me is, who’s driving it now and where the hell is it?”

  They walked back inside the barn, and Arnold Morgan returned immediately to the fray. ”You wanna tell me how you got the submarine out of Plymouth?”

  “I drove it, sir.”

  “How many crew did you have?”

  “Forty, sir.”

  “All Iraqi?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Who trained them to drive a British Upholder-Class diesel-electric?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Iraq, sir.”

  “How?”

  “I used a full-scale model.”

  “Who built it?”

  “We did, sir?”

  “Based on what?”

  “Plans, sir. Plans of the Upholder-Class.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “I presume England, sir. I was never told.”

  “What do you mean, you were never told? How did you know they were genuine?”

  “Because I’ve driven an Upholder-Class boat, in Scotland, and I know they were.”

  “What about all the Brazilians on board? How did you get rid of them?”

  “I won’t incriminate myself with another nation, sir.”

  “How about the Royal Navy officers? What happened to them? Are they still alive?”

  “I won’t incriminate myself…”

  “Yeah I know,” interrupted the admiral. “How did you get into the exercise area, and out again, without being discovered for thirty-six hours?”

  “I found the Orders in the CO’s office, and I just kept sending in the right signals at the right time.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! This is unbelievable. How far from the area were you when you decided to miss the diving signal?”

  “About 300 miles.”

  “And from there you just headed south, around South Africa and back to the Gulf of Iran?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Whadya mean, NOSSIR? Did you take Unseen into the Gulf of Iran?”

  “Nossir. The supply ship serviced us at sea in the Atlantic. I stayed with the submarine when the missile system was fitted.”

  “Very well…”

  The admiral then conferred for the first time with Stephen Hart and Frank Reidel, discussing briefly the formalities of the arrest. Admiral Morgan suggested that since Adnam was plainly a seagoing military enemy of the United States, he should be taken into custody under the direct auspices of the U.S. Navy. The Central Intelligence Agency would then be entrusted to undertake the debriefing, working in conjunction with the U.S. Joint Command.

  Frank Reidel thus became a key man in the operation, working as he did as the senior liaison between the CIA and the Pentagon. All three agreed that the matter ought properly to be kept under the tightest imaginable secrecy rules throughout. The admiral thought the interrogation should take place at the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and that the commander from Iraq should thus be held securely during the entire time, under the normal procedures governing the arrest of an “enemy of the United States.”

  In point of fact, he would be held more securely than anyone had ever been held before. Guards from the U.S. Marines would supervise his captivity, night and day, though they would never be told who they were guarding. Accommodations would be organized by the Central Intelligence Agency.

  The admiral then returned to Commander Adnam and addressed him formally. “Commander, on behalf of the government of the United States of America, I place you under arrest. Your crimes against this nation and against humanity are of a dimension to deny you any rights whatsoever, under any treaty ever entered into by the member nations of the UN. You will be held on an indefinite basis until it is decided whether you should stand trial or simply be made to disappear.

  “At this stage we shall not be working with any other nation, but you may assume that Her Majesty’s Government in London will be informed in due course that we are presently holding the Iraqi terrorist who destroyed Concorde Flight 001 in February. Do you understand me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay. Untie his hands and someone feed the fucker. Bread and coffee…don’t want him to get too comfortable. Bill, I’m gonna beg Laura for a roast beef sandwich, then I’m gonna sit in the kitchen and annoy her for a half hour…maybe we can send down to the local town for lunch for these guys.”

  Bill Baldridge and Arnold Morgan returned to the house, both men heading for the kitchen, where the dark-haired daughter of Admiral Sir Iain MacLean was supervising the production of sandwiches. “Just us, Laura,” said the admiral. “The rest of the crew are eating out…in the barn, that is…I don’t expect you to feed half of Washington. In my view you’ve already done quite enough.”

  “Well, Admiral that’s very kind of you. Now…why don’t you and Bill go and sit by the fire in the hall. I’ll bring lunch in, and perhaps I might join you for a while.”

  “That’s the only reason I came out here,” said the admiral. “I just wanted to have lunch with you…these other ruffians can take care of the business.”

  Laura laughed. “Will I assume Benjamin will not be joining us?”

  “That’d be safe.” Arnold Morgan chuckled. “By the way, have you called your father?”

  “Yes. I did that at around two this morning…right after Ray and Skip tied Ben up and carried him over to the barn for the night. It was eight in the morning in Scotland, so it was not too bad.”

  “What did Iain say?”

  “Well, he was just so relieved we were both safe—but he laughed like hell when I told him I’d captured Ben with Grandpa’s shotgun…and he did ask me to pass on his best regards to you and Kathy.”

  “But not to Ben?”

  “Certainly not to Ben.” She laughed.

  “Do you realize, Laura, your father and I called this one almost a year ago? We both somehow sensed that if Unseen had been stolen, there was only one person who could have done it—just one person in all of this world that audacious…that damned clever. And right now he’s out in the barn.”

  “What will h
appen to him?”

  “Now that is the question. Men like him, and there aren’t many…I really mean spies like him, even without his operational brilliance…they rarely get executed. They just know too much. They are too useful alive.”

  “But surely a man who has committed such shocking crimes, brought that much grief to so many families…surely he must be executed.”

  “Not necessarily. What would execution achieve? Although Bill does not quite agree with me…yet.” And he smiled at the proprietor of the B/B.

  “He’s just too darned notorious, Arnold. There’d be a public outcry if you were found to have him kept alive.”

  The admiral nodded, was silent for a moment, and took a sportsman-sized bite out of his roast beef sandwich. After stirring his coffee and taking a couple of swigs, he spoke. To Laura.

  “What would you say to Ben if he said he would finger Saddam Hussein’s old germ-warfare plants…the ones that could wipe out half the Middle East…or Europe…or the U.S. if you would spare his life? What would you say? I’m not saying he could. I’m just making the point. If we execute, we get nothing. If we wring him out, we might get a whole bunch of Christmas presents. What would you say?”

  “I’d spare him. And take his damned knowledge and use him as long as he was useful. Not a day longer.”

  “And that, my dear, is why agents like him rarely get executed.”

  “There are no agents like him,” said Bill. “He’s completely different. He’s a one-man demolition squad. And he’s brought endless desolation to endless families.”

  “But there is one difference.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hardly anyone knows who he is, or what he has done. The public do not even know the Jefferson was hit by a foreign terrorist. We’ve never admitted it. Neither do they know there was a lunatic sitting in the middle of the Atlantic knocking down passenger aircraft. Certainly not that same lunatic. In the collective minds of 250 million Americans, including the press, and all but a few of the military, no one knows the bastard even exists.”

  “True,” said Bill Baldridge. “It just seems such a gigantic secret to keep under wraps…and if he somehow escaped and got out from under our control and did something dreadful…like blow up the Pentagon or something…then it would all come out…that this administration had been working under cover with the most evil terrorist in the history of the world, and now look what’s happened?…You’d end up more reviled than Ben.”