H.M.S. Unseen am-3

by Patrick Robinson

  “You’re not supposed to use that word anymore. It’s politically incorrect,” she replied with studied seriousness.

  “Not when they were lifting each other’s shirts,” he replied, chewing the veal, and drinking the white Burgundy with relish. “I’m in the past tense. An old, dead faggot is an old, dead faggot.”

  Kathy giggled at the admiral’s unfailing, irrepressible aim at any subject. Then she said, more seriously, “I suppose you don’t need reminding that you did not really catch Ben Adnam. He came here unaccompanied of his own accord, and effectively gave himself up. Plainly, he could have killed Bill, and he might have gotten Laura. But she says he never intended to kill anyone. He just wanted to get in touch with you. He’s probably regretting it right now.”

  “The problem for all men like him, Kathy, is they end up having nowhere to turn. No one wants ’em. No one needs ’em. In the end, the only country that does want them is the one they have always worked against. Just because of what they know.” He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Men too deep in national intelligence can often become outcasts, because, finally, they just have no one to talk to.”

  Kathy gazed at him quizzically. Then moved adroitly. “Are you really planning to use Ben on a long-term basis?”

  “I do not have that authority. The question is, will I recommend something of the sort to the President of the United States?”

  “Well. Will you?”

  “Kathy, that’s the second item to which I don’t have an answer.”

  “What’s the first?”

  “Whatever would happen to me, without you?”

  13

  The final barrage of questions fired at Ben Adnam by the President’s national security advisor concluded the principal interrogation of the Iraqi terrorist. He was still under the control of the CIA, and under twenty-four-hour guard by the United States Marines, but he was now moved to a CIA safe house 15 miles south of Washington, west of the Potomac River.

  He posed, obviously, the most enormous problem. The simple solution was to get rid of him, quickly, professionally, and illegally. The best solution was to use him in every possible way to guide U.S. military dealings in the Middle East. But the moral solution was to put him on trial, to answer publicly for his horrendous crimes against the American nation and others. Arnold Morgan hated Solution Three.

  He hated it because it opened a zillion cans of worms. It would bring in the British judicial system to deal with the downing of Concorde; it would let the media run riot all over the world; it would cause desperate problems for the airline industry because the media would go on and on about “Could This Happen Again?” And, worse yet, it would cause U.S. government and military authorities to admit what had happened to the Thomas Jefferson. And that would cause the media to go collectively berserk for about six months, possibly threatening even the President’s term in office.

  In the interest of a quiet life, Admiral Morgan knew that Solution One was the simplest answer. Just get rid of the sonofabitch. Very few people in the States even knew he existed, never mind what he’d done. If he should suddenly disappear, the problems would vanish with him. There is no other Ben Adnam. We have solved everything. Why not just proceed as if nothing has happened? Ben who?

  The trouble was, Arnold Morgan did not operate like some other military and political careerists. He operated only in the specific interests of the United States of America. And he knew, as surely as he knew the sun rises in the east, Ben Adnam had real possibilities. He knew of no one else in the world, indeed he had never met anyone in his long career, who could in such a short space of time have completely outwitted the entire political-military establishment of the United States. Not just once, but twice. Not to mention the Brits, the Russians, and the Israelis. Arnold Morgan reckoned Adnam was as close to priceless as makes no difference.

  Arnold Morgan knew as well as anyone about the restrictions all governments place on classified information. But Ben Adnam was not just any old intelligence officer. Ben Adnam was some kind of a military genius, and in Arnold Morgan’s opinion he was likely to have found out anything he really wanted to know. In his present plight, Adnam had two commodities to sell. Knowledge, and lateral-minded cunning. And Morgan’s instinct told him the Iraqi was unlikely to come up short. Certainly Adnam would probably know more than Langley about all kinds of matters in the Middle East.

  Before Ben Adnam had left Baghdad he had deposited the full story of his operations in three different safe-deposit vaults in Europe. The written account was split into several parts, no one of them complete. He had allowed the CIA to check out one part of one deposit in Paris. Neither the CIA, nor Arnold Morgan, who had spent a lifetime in the dogged pursuit of such data, was disappointed. The admiral could not bring himself to have commander Adnam eliminated; nor could he risk him going into a public trial before a jury. Admiral Morgan already knew, he wanted to “run” him.

  Which was why, broadly speaking, he and two Secret Service agents were driving fast down Route 1 to the Woodley Hills district, the admiral himself at the wheel. Arnold Morgan sensed there was something in the nature of a showdown in the air between him and Adnam, because sooner or later someone was going to have to decide something. Right now the admiral did not know what course of action to advise the President, but he would by the end of the day.

  They pulled into the tree-softened driveway that led through languorous lawns turning green with the advance of spring. At the end was the big, white, gabled house that represented the most unlikely-looking prison in the U.S.A. Only the presence of two uniformed Marine guards inside the glass of the front porch betrayed the secret nature of the location.

  Admiral Morgan parked and walked into the house, nodding at the two guards. Inside, two CIA field officers met him and took him into a living room that enjoyed rural views out to the trees, and three more guards. Sitting in an armchair, reading the Washington Post, despite his manacled wrists, was Commander Benjamin Adnam.

  He wore a blue shirt, dark grey trousers, and brown loafers, all of which he had bought in Helensburgh two and a half months before. He stood up immediately upon the arrival of the national security advisor and nodded a greeting. “Admiral”, he said calmly.

  “Commander,” replied Arnold Morgan, unable to bring himself to reduce to the ranks the submarine genius he wanted to hire.

  He turned to the Secret Servicemen and the CIA field officers who had accompanied him into the room, and said curtly, “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  One of the CIA men nodded to the Marine guard, who was plainly ready for this instruction, and, before leaving, he handcuffed the prisoner both to the chair, by the wrist, and to the table, by the ankle. Ben Adnam was not going anywhere, even if he had anywhere to go.

  “I want to talk to you about your future, if any,” said the American gruffly.

  “I’d be glad to join you,” said Adnam, smiling.

  “We won’t waste each other’s time on trivialities, because we both know I could have you eliminated anytime I think suitable. And, like Laura Baldridge, I’d probably get a medal from a grateful nation.”

  “If you say so, Admiral.”

  “However, I would like to touch base with you on the question of a trial, should my government decide to charge you either with crimes of mass murder against the state, or alternately war crimes against humanity. What would your reaction be?”

  “I should plead not guilty to everything. I should deny ever having been in anyone’s Navy. I should say I was just trying to get a job here. Then I would leave you to persuade the Iraqis to give evidence against me. You could ask them to swear I was the world’s greatest terrorist acting on their behalf. Or you could try Israel, get them to admit in front of that beleaguered nation that their military had been made to look absolutely ridiculous, by me, for the biggest part of twenty years.”

  Arnold Morgan shook his head, frowning.

  Then Adnam added, “You could, of course, try to
nail me with the Royal Navy submarine, the one you have undoubtedly hit by now, illegally, in international waters, drowning the innocent crew, as if you were a group of gangsters. That would probably go down very well in the United Nations. And in your press, which has been told nothing of all this. Personally, I would not really know. You see, I’ve never been in a submarine. I’m in the mining business myself.”

  “We could bring in evidence from Scotland,” growled Morgan. But he was only testing the waters.

  “Where’s that, Admiral? I’ve never even been there, as my passport will show. You have only one witness, that fool Anderson, whom any good lawyer would rip to bits.”

  “You have told me plenty, Commander. And the CIA.”

  “Yes. Your methods of torture, like some Third World despot, have been very effective. You and your henchmen could make a man admit anything. On the other hand, real evidence, as you know, is very hard to find. I can’t help thinking a public trial is not in anyone’s best interests. And you will never get anyone to admit I had anything to do with downing those aircraft.”

  Admiral Morgan had always known that the cooperation of Benjamin Adnam was only good while the man made his plea for life. Once that was achieved, and he was put on trial, things would be very different. And in his soul Arnold Morgan knew this man never would, never could, come to public trial. The ramifications, on all sides, were just too difficult. No good could possibly come of it. Not for anyone. Especially not for the United States of America.

  “Should we decide to take a more agreeable route, and make you a clandestine employee of the government, what would your expectations be?”

  Benjamin Adnam restrained even a cautious smile. He had after all planned for this moment for weeks and weeks. This moment represented his entire reason for being in the U.S.A. But he spoke slowly.

  “Admiral Morgan, I would plainly need a new identity. Which I imagine you would have little trouble providing. I would also need somewhere to live and some money. The Iraqis treated me less than generously.

  “I imagine you would wish me close to Washington, where my knowledge could best be put to use.”

  “Would you wish to become a citizen?”

  “I think I would leave that to you.”

  “Do you put a high price on your worth to us?”

  “I always put a high price on my worth to anyone.”

  “Have you considered that you might owe us something.”

  “Nossir. I work for money. Or else I leave. If I can.”

  “Try not to forget Option One.”

  “I have not forgotten it. But if you are planning to exercise that, then we ought not to be talking at all.”

  “No we ought not. But lemme ask you this, how much money do you think we should pay you?”

  “Sir, that depends how long I stay, and how long you would wish to employ me.”

  “How long would you like to stay here in the United States?”

  “Until I die.”

  “Which could be tomorrow.”

  “But I hope, and think, not.”

  “Why? Are you not our most intractable enemy?”

  “Was. Not anymore. And, I doubt it has escaped you, there are very few places I can go. In my trade you tend to have a downward spiral of friends, a spiral that ends up running out.”

  “Commander, I understand that very well. But I would like to pursue finances for a moment. If, for instance we wanted to employ you over a ten-year period, there’s no way we’d give you a substantial lump sum before that time was up. Just in case you decided to vanish. However, we might think about a monthly arrangement with perhaps a capital sum accruing to you each year, which you could not, of course, touch.”

  “What if I wished to buy a house here?”

  “No problem. We’d own it until your service time was up.”

  “Then, under such circumstances, I would expect to accrue money at the rate of $1.5 million a year, on top of my normal living salary. The interest to come to me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “After all, I can probably show you how to get Iraq out of your hair permanently. What would that alone be worth?”

  “Commander, you do not need to waste your time convincing me of your worth. I know it. That’s why we’re sitting here.”

  “Excellent. We could probably make a very good team. You remind me in many ways of my Teacher. Different style. Same analytical mind.”

  Despite an uneasy feeling that he was being patronized, the admiral smiled. He stood up and walked to the window. Then he turned around quite suddenly, and said, “I wonder how wise it would ever be for me to turn my back on you.”

  “Admiral, I have nowhere else to go. That’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s why we’re talking. I guessed your situation. The only catch may be that you are already working for someone else.”

  “Admiral, if you can trust me long enough to make a deal, I give you one promise. I can prove my former employer became my enemy, and I will do so to your satisfaction, as soon as we seal our arrangement. If I fail, you may either execute me, or I will take cyanide.”

  “Accepted. The burden of proof is on you. That’s between us. And now I’m outta here. Hope you get a decent dinner. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Admiral, just one thing you should know before you go…I forgot to tell you, I have written out my whole story, you know the aircraft carrier, and the passenger airliners…with suitable backup material, to be released to the media by my Swiss bank, if I should disappear, or die. You know, if I fail to report to them every six weeks.

  “I’ve arranged for the material mainly to go to foreign newspapers…the UK, France, Germany, and of course, the Washington Post. I thought that might deter you from executing Option One…the fact that I might come back to annoy you…from beyond the grave, as it were. How will the President laugh off the decision to take out three Iranian submarines when Iran had done nothing? How will you excuse your lies about the loss of the Jefferson? Your more recent cover-up over the airliner ‘accidents’ will seem like kid stuff in comparison.

  “Matter of fact, I think you should be extremely relieved you did not go to Option One in the first hour before we had time to talk…anyway, see you tomorrow.”

  The admiral scowled, headed back out to his car, walking resolutely, his chin stuck out in front of him, looking as if he were about to declare war. He was behind the wheel, with the engine running, before the Secret Servicemen had time to scramble out of the house and join him. Admiral Morgan did not like being outwitted, as he suspected he was by the Iraqi. Generally he preferred the driver’s seat.

  He drove on to his lunch appointment, first heading north to the Richmond Highway. From there they went farther south, away from the city, for another nine miles, where the admiral turned first onto a secondary road, then onto a shaded woodland drive, at the end of which was a majestic white Colonial house.

  He told his Secret Service detail he would be two hours. One of them should go and find their lunch, and one should bring the communication system inside. Both agents knew they were at the private residence of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Scott F. Dunsmore. They also knew he could not possibly have purchased this spectacular property, overlooking the Potomac River to the Maryland Heights, with his Navy salary. The scholarly Scott Dunsmore, it was well-known, was from a Boston banking family. He had also been the cleverest admiral in the Navy. That, too, was well-known.

  And now he stepped out to greet his old friend Arnold Morgan, and they stood chatting for a few minutes below the tall, greening trees, some still in blossom. A couple of bobwhite quails called, from quite close in the woodland, and above them the sky was clear blue. The idyllic rural scene contrasted darkly with the grim, subversive, and murderous subject they were about to discuss. Standing there in the lovely grounds of the house was to postpone the enormity of their decision…what to advise the President when they met him in the White House at1600. The subject, as it had
been so many times before, was Benjamin Adnam. Scott Dunsmore had suffered the shuddering distinction of being Chief of Naval Operations when the Jefferson was sunk.

  Inside the mansion the two admirals retired to a high summery room that faced out directly to the river and the distant Maryland shore. It was a familiar room to Arnold Morgan, and he settled himself into a wide, comfortable armchair expensively upholstered in a rose-patterned chintz, the unmistakable touch of the urbane Grace Dunsmore.

  MAP

  Admiral Dunsmore spoke first. “Well, Arnold. As the brains behind this operation, what do you think? Do we shoot him, jail him, or hire him?”

  “Hire him…”

  “Right. Let’s go and find some lunch now we’ve got that over with.”

  They both laughed, still avoiding the magnitude of the subject. “Well, what did he say?” finally asked Admiral Dunsmore.

  “As you and I both feared, the question of a trial is a total disaster area. He told me he would plead Not Guilty, drag the trial out, and reveal everything he knows to our disadvantage. He would deny ever having been in anyone’s navy and leave it to us to get the Iraqis to turn evidence against him.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Which he knows as well as we do. He also added that he is now certain, thanks to his own information, that we have demolished a submarine illegally in international waters, drowned 50 people, and generally behaved like wild men before the world community.”

  “In a sense the bastard’s right about that as well.”

  “Only in a sense…and he also says we won’t get a scrap of help from the Israelis, who will be unwilling to be made to look ridiculous, because of him, for the biggest part of twenty years.”

  “He’s got that right, too. Christ, you sure it is him?”

  “Of course. Laura MacLean, remember?”

  “Yes. Just kidding. Of course we have his passport. British, right? With a couple of South African stamps from Johannesburg Airport?”