At 0900 the following day he was sitting in the West Wing, recounting in graphic detail to Arnold Morgan that the big American cruise missiles had slammed the wrong country in revenge for the dead Americans in the destroyed airliners.
He could not know how the ferocious White House admiral would react to the revelation that he had been used as a pawn in the Iraqi’s grand scheme of vengeance. But he felt that Morgan would look beyond the obvious deception, and perhaps begin to ponder again the question of a big strike against Iran. The Iraqi dams had, of course, avenged the deaths of 6,000 U.S. Navy personnel in the aircraft carrier. The demise of Iraq was justifiable simply on those grounds, and that country’s proven aim of producing weapons of mass destruction.
He edged Morgan along the thought process that Iran’s day would surely come. Of that he was certain. In the end they would step out of line on the international oil stage of the Gulf. And then he, Arnold Morgan, could move in for the strike against the Ayatollahs that had been so long coming.
It was clear to both men that Commander Adnam’s days of illusion were over. Where once there had been hope and idealism, there was now an empty place. What remained was the skilled, unique military mind of the world’s most successful Islamic terrorist. And Morgan had bought that mind at a bargain price.
They were together for less than one hour, and when he left Commander Adnam was certain he had been correct in clarifying the situation. Correct in his assessment that the American admiral would appreciate knowing, finally, the full truth. And they shook hands formally at the conclusion of the meeting.
However, Commander Adnam had misjudged his man. Admiral Arnold Morgan was furious. Furious at being outwitted by the scheming terrorist every step of the way. Furious that he had once more been hoodwinked during the interrogation. And really furious that he had moved major U.S. muscle against a country that had known nothing of the acts of terrorism against the passenger aircraft. Admiral Morgan was about ready to murder Ben Adnam, and not just figuratively. It was not on the basis of some terrible attack of conscience toward any of the troublesome nations of the Middle East. But because he was sick and tired of being made to feel a damned fool in front of “this crooked fucking towelhead.”
And the Iraqi was not four yards down the drive of the White House before the national security advisor was storming through the White House, on his way to talk to the President. Their conversation lasted five minutes. Admiral Morgan briefed the Chief Executive carefully, then said with icy indifference, “Sir, I’ve had enough of him. He’s gotta go.”
“I could not,” replied the President, “agree more. Please don’t mention his name to me, ever again.”
“Nossir,” he replied. And returned to his office.
It was 2200 that evening when two CIA cars and a private government ambulance pulled into the driveway of Commander Adnam’s house. Three armed Marine Corps marksmen took up sniper positions, and Arnold Morgan walked through the front door alone. Ben Adnam was reading in the living room.
“Commander,” said the American, “it is my duty to inform you that we have no further use for you.”
“Sir?” replied the Iraqi, betraying nothing.
“We have decided to dispense with your services on the grounds that we do not trust you, and you may become an embarrassment to the U.S.A.”
“Does this mean you intend to execute me, after all, for my crimes against humanity?”
“It would, with any other prisoner of your category, Commander. But you are somewhat different.”
“I see. But I imagine you have men with rifles trained upon me as we speak?”
“Yes, Ben. I do. Your time is, shall we say, limited.”
“I think I misjudged you today. Perhaps I should never have told you the truth.”
“Perhaps not. But this day would have come anyway.”
“Are you going to tell them to kill me now?”
“No, Commander. Strange as it may seem, I have respect for you. Not for your callous murder of so many people. But for the professional military way in which you did it. As such I am going to offer you an old-fashioned form of chivalry in your departure.”
Arnold Morgan reached into his coat pocket and drew out a big, wooden-handled military service revolver. Loaded. And he placed it on the table between them.
“You understand, Commander, that your death in the next ten minutes is inevitable?”
“Yessir. I do. And I am not regretful. I have no further heart for a fight. I have nowhere to go. No one to speak to. My options have run out.”
“So, Ben, if I may call you that again, I am offering you an honorable way out, in the tradition of a serving officer. And now I am going to leave you. I wish you good-bye, and in a way I’m sorry. But not in other ways. I will turn my back on you briefly, but if you should even look at that revolver before I am gone, the honorable option will be gone. My men will shoot you down like a cheapskate little terrorist, which I believe would not do you justice, not in your mind, nor indeed in mine. I hope you follow me? Because I regard this as personal, between us.”
Ben Adnam nodded. But he never moved. And the Admiral left. The commander heard the CIA cars reach the end of the drive. He did not, however, hear the admiral disembark and stand with two agents beneath the tall trees on the edge of the road.
They all heard the veranda door slam. They heard the slow dignified footsteps walk down the wide wooden stairs, and the soft tread of the Bedouin across the gravel. And then there was silence for three minutes, before the unmistakable crash of a single echoing gunshot in the silence of the night.
When Arnold Morgan’s men went in with their flashlights, the big zip-up plastic bag, and stretcher, they found the body in a damp leafy corner of the garden. Commander Benjamin Adnam, the side of his head blown away, was still in kneeling position, facing 90 degrees on the compass, due east…toward a distant God, in a distant heaven, somewhere out by the shifting desert sands of Arabia.
H.M.S. Unseen (1999) Page 49