Ben stood breathing hard after his exertions, gathering his thoughts, trying to work out what he wanted most, Laura, or access to the United States national security chief. The problem was confusing him. He knew he wanted Laura more than anything he had ever wanted. But he sensed that was his heart. His brain was still a small voice in the background, telling him, whispering If you kill Bill Baldridge, you’ll probably have to kill Laura…you’ll never get out of this state, never mind this country, alive…they’ll hunt you down and send you to the chair…don’t be a fool…negotiate with Baldridge…because that way may lie sanctuary, and a life…
And yet…he longed for Laura. The memory of her touch and her laughter, and their love for each other, was as vivid that night as it had ever been. Ben Adnam would have cut off his right arm to have her just once more. And at 0004 he stepped through the doorway into the upstairs corridor, his desert knife clutched in his right hand.
One floor below him, Bill leaned against the wall, his rifle cocked, watching the two doors along the southern corridor. Ben saw him first, the glint of the barrels of the Lefever, which was not so much an advantage as a clarification. The Iraqi’s task was plain, he had to descend thirteen steps without being heard, at which point Bill Baldridge was his.
Downstairs he heard Laura yell, “Where do you keep the shells for this damned thing…?” Bill, standing not fifteen feet below Commander Adnam, shouted back “Cupboard by the back stairs…top shelf…right-hand side…leather box…”
Ben took three steps downward while Lieutenant Commander and Mrs. Baldridge communicated. And he pressed himself against the wall deep into the shadows of the upper staircase of the big, heavily timbered ranch house. He pressed on down three more steps. Bill took a pace forward, then another, peering down over the balustrade to the first floor. Then he stepped back into his original position.
Ben Adnam was just 7 feet away now, and suddenly, as if emerging from the dark tunnel of his own self-pity, all of his old sense of cold-blooded reason came flooding back. He wasn’t going to kill Baldridge. But he pounced noiselessly, with a menace that was guided by cool intent. And Lt. Commander Bill Baldridge felt the cold steel of the Iraqi’s wide desert knife pressed hard against the left-hand side of his throat.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Commander,” said a British voice. “I don’t need to tell you it would take me less than five-thousandths of a second to sever your jugular, do I?”
Bill Baldridge said nothing.
“But, actually, I do not intend to do that. Now, walk carefully and place your gun on that chair.”
They both moved four paces across the hall, close to the corridor that Bill had been guarding. He put the loaded shotgun down.
“Excellent,” replied Adnam. And, with a move that absolutely astonished Bill, he removed his big desert knife from Bill’s throat and placed it on the chair also, right next to the Lefever.
“There,” said Ben Adnam. “I have not, of course, come to kill you. I have come to claim your attention. Because I want to bargain for my life…I believe you know who I am, and I should like to think we can now talk on equal terms.”
As it turned out, that might have been possible twenty seconds earlier. But it was no longer possible. Because suddenly, jammed hard against the base of Commander Adnam’s skull, were the two cold rings of steel of the 29-inch barrels of a loaded 12-bore Purdey sporting gun that had once belonged to the Ninth Earl of Jedburgh.
“Hello, Ben,” said the soft voice he had traveled across the world to hear. “If you keep very still, I may not blow your head off. But if my husband tells me to do so, I shall not hesitate. I expect I’ll be given the Congressional Medal for my marksmanship.”
Ben Adnam froze. But he kept his composure. “Hello, Laura,” he said. “What a nice surprise. Are you sure you know how to use that thing?”
Bill Baldridge, whose childhood heroes had been local men like Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, the Dalton brothers, and Wild Bill Hickok, was amazed by the coolness of the conversation between the Scottish heiress and the Arab assassin.
He was, for a few seconds, speechless. Then he heard Laura say, “Ben, both my grandfather and I could hit a high pheasant flying downwind at 50 mph with this particular gun. I assure you, I am even better with a closer target.” And she shoved both barrels a little harder into the dark curly hair at the base of the skull of her former lover.
Bill, like the commander, by now believed she might actually do it. And he stepped forward to confiscate the knife and reclaim his own gun from the chair. But he took the greatest care to stay well clear of the front of Adnam’s face, just in case his wife got carried away.
Then he spoke for the first time. “Commander Adnam,” he said, “step through that door over there, turn left, and face the wall with your hands on your head. If he makes one move, Laura, kill him. Or I will.”
Ben walked forward slowly, Laura’s magnificent shotgun, bearing Purdey’s classic rose-and-scroll pattern engraving, still rammed against his head. Inside the office, Bill searched him carefully, warning Laura, “This man is lethal…he could kill the pair of us with his bare hands in under twenty seconds…keep that ole Purdey rock solid against his brain, and keep your finger on the trigger…twitching.”
“Don’t even think about the mess you’ll make,” said Laura to Ben. “I was going to have this carpet changed anyway, and the room’s being redecorated next month.”
Bill couldn’t help smiling, but the deadly nature of the game kept him focused. He moved behind his desk, keeping his own gun trained on Adnam, who was still standing, pressed against the wall. Bill held the weapon straight with one hand and pressed a button on the telephone with the other.
Then he picked up the receiver. “Ray…hi…yeah, sorry it’s so late…but we got a big problem right here…I want you to come over right now, dressed and armed…your shotgun…and some rope…round up McGaughey, and Razor…and make it quick.”
He turned off the burglar alarms, walked around, and stood next to Laura. No one spoke, no one moved for eight minutes, until, with a crash of the front door, the big, prairie-hard Ray Baldridge came clumping in, accompanied by the veteran herd manager, Skip McGaughey, and the ranch hand and groom, Razor Macey.
“Up here, guys!” yelled Bill. They heard the three men climb the stairs, walking along to the light in the office. Ray came in first, holding a shotgun and a lariat. McGaughey had a six-shooter in his belt, as did Razor.
“Hey, little brother, you got a visitor?”
“He’s a bit more than that…this is the bastard that killed Jack, sank the Jefferson, and God knows what else. Make him secure, willya, treat him like a steer….”
The very mention of Bill and Ray’s brother, Captain Jack Baldridge, who had been Group Operations Officer in the lost U.S. aircraft carrier, four years previously, galvanized the Kansan cowboys.
Ray eased Laura away, took Ben by the back of the neck, kicked his feet from under him, and dropped expertly down on one knee, his other shin rammed into Commander Adnam’s throat as he lay prostrate.
Ray wrapped the rope tight around the Iraqi’s wrists behind his back, looped it around and through, and did the same to Ben’s ankles. Houdini himself would have been there for life. “He ain’t goin’ nowheres,” said Ray. “You want me to put a hot branding iron to him?”
“Not yet,” said Bill. “Depends a lot on how he behaves. Can you put him in that chair? I wanna talk to him.”
They manhandled Ben upward and sat him down, facing Bill. Laura stayed behind the chair, as if trying to avoid gazing upon the man she had once loved.
“What do you want, Ben Adnam?” said Bill. “What the hell do you want?”
Ben smiled. “I want you to get me in front of the President’s highest national security officer. I have much to say, and much to sell.”
“Are you kidding?” replied Bill. “They’ll put you in front of a firing squad in about twenty minutes. After the crimes you have committed. Not j
ust against the U.S. But against humanity.”
“Maybe they will. But perhaps not. Do you know of anyone else who knows as much as I do — and who has also deliberately placed himself in your power?”
Bill Baldridge looked pensive. “No, offhand, I guess I don’t.”
And he picked up the telephone again and dialed the number of the main switchboard in the White House, where it was not yet 2:00 A.M. on the morning of Friday, April 14.
Everyone in the room heard Bill’s terse request. “Hello…this is Lieutenant Commander Bill Baldridge in Kansas…please connect me right now to the President’s national security advisor wherever he is…yes…correct…Admiral Morgan…Admiral Arnold Morgan…”
None of them noted the narrow smile on the face of Commander Adnam as the White House operator prepared to awaken the admiral for the second time that night.
12
Every seat was occupied in the sleek U.S. Air Force C20 Gulfstream 4 as it raced at 450 knots above southern Illinois toward the Missouri border. Admiral Arnold Morgan was next to Deputy Director of Central Intelligence Stephen Hart. Opposite them sat Frank Reidel, the associate director of Central Intelligence in charge of military support, the link man between Langley and the U.S. Joint Command.
Next to Reidel, was the Secret Service agent with the communications system connected directly to the Oval Office. Behind them were two other armed Secret Service agents, plus an armed U.S. Marine staff sergeant with his corporal. The Gulfstream seated only eight.
They flew to the north of St. Louis and picked up the meandering Missouri River as it swerved through Jefferson City. At 1003, two hours out of Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, they cleared the eastern border of the state of Kansas, flying 30,000 feet above the old cavalry outpost of Fort Scott.
Twenty minutes later, they began their descent, sliding swiftly down out of gray clouds that scattered cold, spring showers over the eerie rolling contours of the Flint Hills, the last remaining expanse of tallgrass prairie in the United States. Arnold Morgan was tired. He’d been awake half the night, ordering hit squads, canceling hit squads, talking to Iain, and Bill, even Laura, ensuring that the Iraqi prisoner was tightly bound, was under the heavy guard of three armed Kansan cowboys, supervised by a former lieutenant commander on his own intelligence staff.
He stared out of the window on the starboard side of the aircraft, gazing at the geographic phenomenon below, 6 million acres of bluestem grass, rising and falling in jagged, uneven granite hills, none of them more than 300 feet high, right across the otherwise clean, flat, billiard table of central Kansas — north — south — from the Nebraska border 200 miles to the state of Oklahoma. A good steer gains two pounds a day grazing down there. That bluestem is the finest nutritional pasture for raising beef cattle on earth.
The Gulfstream continued to lose height, until it shrieked down across Butler County and headed into McConnell Air Force Base, on the outskirts of Wichita. It touched down on the runway at 1038. The door was opened immediately, and all eight of the men from Washington were escorted directly to a waiting Army helicopter, a howling Sikorsky Black Hawk, its rotors already running.
The transfer took less than four minutes. Seat belts were tightened, the door was slammed shut, and the helo clattered into the sky, flying to the south of the city before altering course to the northwest, low over the Great Plains for more than 100 miles, straight toward the southern border of Pawnee County. The pilot knew the way — he’d made the journey several times before, twice on Bill and Laura’s wedding day.
Bill Baldridge spotted the Black Hawk over 10 miles out. He could see it, a faint dot low on the horizon, drawing ever nearer, moving over the prairie at 250 mph — a mile every fifteen seconds. Soon he could hear the steady thump-thump-thump of the rotors, and he could see the downward blast of air flatten the pasture as Arnold Morgan came barreling out of the sky to meet the terrorist he had loathed for so long.
Bill signaled the Black Hawk to land on the lawn to the west of the main house, 50 yards from the barn in which Ben Adnam was still securely tied like a steer in the Flint Hills Rodeo. He had been there for nine hours, guarded by two of Bill’s ranch hands at all times. He’d slept on a pile of straw with a couple of horse blankets to keep out the cold. And during the night Ray Baldridge had stopped by specifically to let him know that for what he’d done to his brother Jack, Ben’d be “goddamned lucky to survive the night…someone’s gonna kill you, that’s for sure…might be my mommy, might be Bill…might be any of the guys around here…just don’t count any on waking up, hear me?”
With that Ray had gone off to bed. He felt better for having gotten that off his chest, and he felt he had achieved his objective, that of frightening Ben Adnam to death. But that he had not done. The Iraqi commander knew he was safe until this Morgan character arrived, but after that…well, it would be a journey into the unknown. Ben Adnam knew that if the top national security man in the U.S.A. wanted him dead, then dead he would quickly be. But at least he knew he was safe, relatively, until midmorning.
He also heard the U.S. Army Black Hawk come shuddering into the B/B ranch. And he heard the shouts of the Americans out beyond the heavy wooden walls of the horse barn. Then he heard the sound of the rotors die away, and almost instantly there was a shaft of light through the small barn door, which was set into the huge dark red double doors that were opened only for tractors.
By then both of Ben’s “jailers” were on their feet. The big, rangy Skip McGaughey, his gun leveled at the Iraqi’s head, and young Razor Macey, toying with his six-shooter. First man through the door was Bill Baldridge, wearing a sheepskin rancher’s coat, Stetson, and high boots with spurs. Right behind him came a smaller, thickset man wearing an expensive dark blue overcoat and a wide-brimmed dark brown trilby hat. Ben noticed his piercing blue eyes immediately, the craggy face, scowling expression. That’s Morgan, he thought. That’s the national security chief, the man I’m looking for.
Almost before the CIA chiefs and the Secret Servicemen were in the door, Adnam’s assessment was confirmed.
“Is that the sonofabitch over there, Bill?”
“Yup, the one trussed up like a steer. The other two are my trusted herd manager, Skip McGaughey, and my groom, Razor Macey.”
Admiral Morgan walked over to them immediately.
“Good to see you, men,” he said. “Been keeping an eye on this bastard, have you?”
“Yessir. Most of the night.”
“Did he behave himself?”
“Yessir. Never gave no trouble.”
“Guess that makes a fucking change,” growled Morgan. “If he steps outta line, shoot that sonofabitch right between the eyes, right?”
“Yessir.”
By then the Marine staff sergeant was inside the door, blocking it completely. His corporal was patrolling outside. The Secret Servicemen formed a posse at the end of the line of open horse stalls. Ben was in the third one along, next to Bill’s beloved Irish-bred bay hunter, Freddie. The two CIA men flanked Admiral Morgan as he made his way across the wide stone walkway toward the man who had sunk the Thomas Jefferson, blown both Concorde and Starstriker out of the sky, and obliterated Air Force Three, along with the Vice President of the United States and all of his staff.
Arnold Morgan gazed down at the arch terrorist, still tied by the ankles, his wrists behind his back.
“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble,” he said carefully. “Too much for any one man to have created. And I’ve waited a long time to meet you…now gimme your correct name, rank, and country…?”
“I’m Commander Benjamin Adnam, sir. Islamic Republic of Iraq.”
“Is that an Iraqi Naval rank?”
“Nossir.”
“What is it, then?”
“Israeli, sir.”
“Did you serve in the Israeli Navy?”
“Yessir.”
“Were you an Iraqi spy working undercover?”
“Yessir.”
; “And now?”
“Iraq, sir. I returned to work in Iraq.”
“Iraqi Navy?”
“Nossir. Intelligence.”
“Commander Adnam, did you sink the Thomas Jefferson?”
“Yessir.”
“Did you also command a stolen Royal Navy submarine in the North Atlantic earlier this year?”
“Yessir.”
“And did you cause that submarine to fire surface-to-air missiles that brought down three civilian aircraft?”
“Yessir.”
“And was that submarine operating under the command of the Islamic Republic of Iraq?”
“Yessir.”
“Then might I ask what the hell you are doing in the one country that wants you dead more than all the other countries in the world put together? And why have you made it so easy for us to nail you, right here?”
“Yessir. I have come here to bargain for my life. I have unique information that I believe has a value to you. You are correct to notice that I made my trail here relatively easy for you. But not so easy that you got here first. And I expect Mr. Baldridge will confirm I have shown no sign of being a serious threat to anyone. I am here to meet you, sir. Because you, of all people, will realize I am of more value to the United States of America if I’m breathing than if I’m not.”
“And what gives you the idea I couldn’t get any information I may need, out of you, for nothing?”
“You probably could get much of it from me — but not all of it. Not without my conscious, willing cooperation. And perhaps we should talk about that. I would, however, ask you to remember that I have always been prepared to die for my country and my beliefs, sir. That is the one thing that has never changed. You’ll either employ me, or I’ll quite happily die with my secrets.”
“I guess we’ll see about that…Bill, can you take me to the house for a cup of coffee, before I get angry with this fucking towelhead?”
“Sure can, Admiral…how is it you like it?”
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