H.M.S. Unseen

by Patrick Robinson

  “At that moment my grandfather went berserk. I was standing right next to him, and he smashed the flat of his hand down on the table, and shouted, ‘I’LL NOT HAVE THAT SONG SUNG IN THIS HOUSE…I’LL NOT HAVE IT! DAMN YOU…DAMN YOU TO HELL!’

  “Well, the party broke up right then. Everybody left, but the next day I asked my dad what had upset Grandpa so much. And he told me that song was an English marching song, and the Black and Tans used to sing it.”

  “Who were the Black and Tans?”

  “Oh, that was the English occupying army in southern Ireland, before we drove them out. My dad told me they had shot grandpa’s mother and both of his sisters when he was about fourteen years old down in Cork. He said Grandpa stood on the doorstep of the house, covered in the blood of his own dead mother, and he could hear the English soldiers marching off, singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’”

  “Does that mean you want to become a terrorist, a soldier of the IRA?”

  “I’m not sure. And I can’t explain it. You’d never understand what it feels like to be prepared to die for something you believe in, Mr. Arnold. I hate the English, and so does everyone in my family. They’ll never be forgiven for what they’ve done in Ireland. And it’s up to just a few us to get the last of them out of here. And the best way to do that is to bomb their bloody country until they leave.”

  “I should be careful, Paul. It’s a lonely life you’re considering. Hunted by the English, the feeling that every man’s hand is turned against you. And the constant danger of high explosives and British Army marksmen. Worse yet, you end up not daring to trust anyone.”

  “I’ve already studied the subject pretty carefully, Mr. Arnold. I’m brave enough, and I think I might be smart enough…I have helped in a few missions, but never in a real way. My father commanded an IRA squad, but he never told us what he had done.”

  “Well, I think you should take it very carefully, Paul. It’s a big step. And you’ll have a lot of time to regret it if it turns out to be wrong for you. Also, you might get killed.”

  “Ah, you say that because you can’t quite understand what it’s like to believe in something and be ready to die for it. It burns right into you, the hatred, and the feeling of being right, being justified. All terrorists are men apart.”

  “So they are, Paul,” replied Benjamin Adnam. “So they are.”

  1600. Wednesday, April 5.

  Office of the National Security Advisor.

  The White House.

  Admiral Arnold Morgan was on the secure line to CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia.

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t know where the hell he is, or where the hell he’s headed. But I know he was in Scotland last night. And I have no real reason to suspect he may be trying to get into the United States, but he might be…

  “Yup. I got a picture the Mossad wired for us. Yup, it’s on the way over. Excellent quality…well, I’d be inclined to get some guys into the main airports of entry from Britain…flights from the northern airports, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester…just because they’re nearer to his last-known position. Yeah, but we’d better watch flights in from London Heathrow and Gatwick. Just in case he heads south first. The Brits are watching all those airports.

  “Yeah…I’ve sent a physical description. Remember he’s a Navy officer…usually looks smart. And he speaks with a very correct British accent. But remember, too, he’s no fool and is unlikely to oblige us by looking like a gentleman…right…right…well, I guess New York, Washington. Possibly Philly…possibly Boston…maybe Chicago.

  “Yeah, alert immigration, the passport guys, for anyone fitting this description…okay…no I’m not sure…for all I know he might be going back to the Middle East…but he could be coming here…yeah, possibly Kansas…right…no…I don’t think he’ll have a visa…he won’t have time to get one. No…he’d forge a passport…but the modern U.S. visas are almost impossible to forge accurately…I’d guess he wouldn’t dare to try that…too big a risk. If he does try to enter the U.S.A., we’re looking for a guy with no visa, traveling just as a visitor, for less than ninety days.

  “Okay…let’s stay right on top of this…remember, this bastard is the worst terrorist in history…and, if he comes here, I want the fucker caught. So does the President…so don’t screw it up.”

  Arnold Morgan banged the phone down, yelled for coffee. Then yelled for Kathy O’Brien. Three seconds later, when the door didn’t open, he strode toward it, snapping, “Dumb-ass broad!” just as the President of the United States entered, chuckling, “Who me?”

  “Christ, no, sir. Sorry. It’s just that bastard Adnam really gets to me. I’ve no proof, and it’s a real long shot, but he just could be on his way here.”

  “Hell, that we don’t need.”

  “Not if he plans to blow up another warship or a goddamned aircraft, or even an airport…he really spooks me…I just think the fucker might do anything.”

  “I agree. If your theories are right, we might be in big trouble. Yet again. We gotta catch him, Arnold. What’s the latest?”

  “Well, I just heard from Iain MacLean in Scotland.”

  “Oh, yeah. What does he think?”

  “Well, it was Iain who alerted us Adnam was in Scotland. He thinks he’s trying to locate Laura.”

  “Jesus. You don’t think he’s trying to kill Bill, do you?”

  “Hell. I hadn’t even thought about that. But when a guy’s killed as many people as Adnam, you don’t know what he might do.”

  “We must find him, Arnold. Christ, he’s just killed the Vice President, among others. You got Langley on the case?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Keep it tight, Arnie. We gotta get him. Use as many people as it takes. How ’bout Kansas? You think we need guys out there?”

  “Not yet. He probably won’t even come here. I don’t want to alert the entire country. Right now I thought we’d just get a tight grip on all the incoming flights from Britain. We got good photos, good description…we might just have a shot at picking him up.”

  “Okay, buddy. I’ll leave it to you. Keep me informed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Back on the Beatrix Königin, Ben Adnam had said good-bye to Paul O’Rourke and was making his way down to the car deck. They had passed the flashing light to port that marks the channel into Rosslare, and now they were reversing, beyond the harbor wall into their berth on the Irish quayside. It seemed to take forever, but at 0710 on Thursday, April 6, Commander Adnam drove the rented Audi out onto Irish soil, making his way through the dock to the kiosk in front of the customs shed, which was completely empty.

  All of the cars from Fishguard just drove straight through, following the “Exit” signs, up the steep hill and out onto the main road to Wexford and, one hundred miles north, Dublin. It was growing light, and Ben could see he was driving over a long, flat coastal plain, with only few houses and little traffic. Thankfully, the fleet of heavy trucks from Wales was far behind, and Ben settled down to drive fast, along the wide, lonely Irish roads, up to Enniscorthy, then to Ferns, and Gorey and Arklow, through the Wicklow Mountains to the southern suburbs of Ireland’s capital city. Given the speed of the first part of the journey, he anticipated it would take him two hours. But as he proceeded north up the east coast, the rain began again, and the traffic grew heavier.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of Dublin he was in a rainswept morning rush hour, bumper to bumper all along the N11. Up ahead he could see his landmark, the towering aerial tower of Ireland’s television station RTE. He was looking for the next right after that, at the Catholic church, and he finally turned into exclusive Anglesea Road at 1000.

  Five minutes later he crossed Ballsbridge, swung right again into Shelbourne Road, and ran down to the Berkeley Court Hotel in Lansdowne Road. He drove straight in to the rear parking lot, checked in, and crashed onto his bed on the fourth floor. Exhausted. Hungry. Too tired to eat. But safe. And anonymous. In a new country, in which he
had never even shown his passport.

  Ben slept until midday, picked up the credit cards he had asked to be sent, and left the hotel in a light drizzle. He took a cab to Grafton Street and used his Royal Bank of Scotland credit card to purchase a raincoat and an umbrella in Brown Thomas, Dublin’s excellent answer to Harrods and Saks Fifth Avenue.

  Then he walked back up to St. Stephen’s Green and picked up a cab from the rank. He had it drive him to the great round building of the American Embassy, which sat in its own grounds behind a black wrought-iron fence at the end of Shelbourne Road. He walked through the small gateway, crossed the cobbled courtyard, and walked up the slope to the visa office. He explained to the duty guard that he wanted to pick up application forms for a B-2 multiple-entry business visa.

  The guard waved him through the security X-Ray, and at the counter the Iraqi terrorist was the only person seeking help. The Irish lady was polite and genial. She gave him the form and pointed out that he must fill it in carefully, explaining that he must pay the fee into the Irish Bank along the road and collect a receipt. He must also provide a photograph, passport size, and acquire a letter from his bank or employer to confirm that he was a man of substance and would not be entering America in order to receive welfare payments.

  Ben thanked her and took a cab back into the center of the city to the office of the Royal Bank of Scotland. There he explained to the manager that he was an established client of the bank, at the Helensburgh Branch, and would like a letter explaining that he had run an account from there for many years, and that it currently contained a sum well in excess of £50,000 sterling.

  The manager said he would fax the request to Helensburgh immediately and that Mr. Arnold should call in tomorrow morning and collect the letter of recommendation, which would be marked for the attention of the U.S. Embassy.

  Ben picked up another cab and returned to the Berkeley Court, retired to his room, and worked on the long, detailed form, electing to use his British passport, into which the coveted B-2 businessman’s visa would be stamped, valid for ten years. The notice in the embassy specified it would take two working days. But the lady behind the counter had explained that if he could return the completed documents the following morning, Friday, they would almost certainly be ready after two-thirty on Monday.

  Faced with a lonely weekend in rainy Dublin, the commander walked slowly back to the hotel, reflecting that when he entered the United States, officials would not be looking for a man with a visa. He suspected that at Shannon Airport, they might not be looking for anyone at all.

  But first he must ensure the visa was issued. And back in his room he checked every question carefully, ensuring that all of his answers were those of a stable, well-to-do Scottish businessman from Helensburgh…Ben Arnold, mining executive, with interests in the South African coal and copper fields. Currently residing in Dublin for six months. He had invented his address, invented his profession, invented his corporation, invented his name, forged his British passport. The only truthful document he would present to the American consular officials would be the letter from the Royal Bank of Scotland.

  The next morning, when he picked it up from their Dublin office, it was precisely as he wished—“To the American Embassy, Dublin. This letter is to confirm that Mr. Benjamin Arnold has had an account with us for more than 15 years, and that his current balance shows in excess of £50,000 sterling.”

  He walked to a supermarket, where he had four passport pictures taken in a machine. Then he stopped at the Bank of Ireland and paid the fee of sixteen Irish pounds, collected his receipt, and strolled the quarter mile to the embassy. There he placed his British passport, his signed application form, his photograph, his letter from the bank, and his receipt for the fee, into a brown envelope, and deposited it in the polished wooden drop box. As he left, the American security guard smiled, and said, “After two-thirty Monday, sir. It should be ready.”

  He then walked over the wide bridge that spans the River Dodder, toward the headquarters of the Dublin Horse Show. He crossed the road to a shopfront marked Ballsbridge Travel and went inside, requesting a business-class round-trip ticket from Shannon Airport to Boston on Tuesday, April 11. He was looked after by a trim, pretty Irish girl named Loraine, who checked and accepted his credit card, and booked him on the Aer Lingus Flight that leaves Dublin at midday and arrives in Shannon twenty-five minutes later. But Ben planned to drive from Dublin, leaving early in the morning and making Shannon by 1100 to check in and arrange for the return of the car to Helensburgh.

  He took his ticket and walked back to the hotel. After a light lunch, he traveled by taxi out to the suburb of Clonskeagh, to spend the afternoon at the Islamic Center and Mosque, a truly stunning religious and educational establishment founded in 1996 by Sheikh Hamdan al Maktoum of Dubai, for the 7,000 Muslims who live in southern Ireland, mostly in Dublin.

  The mosque is a magnificent stone building set beneath a vast copper dome. It holds 1,200 people, and Ben Adnam answered the Friday evening call to prayer, kneeling with several hundred of the faithful, begging his God for guidance and forgiveness.

  All through that long weekend, the commander went back and forth from the Berkeley Hotel to Clonskeagh. He read the Koran in the library, attended prayers throughout the day and early evening, and on the Sunday afternoon succeeded in gaining a private audience with the imam, a wise and considerate Egyptian sheikh whose teachings had brought comfort to many of his countrymen.

  Ben Adnam was unable to reveal the truth about himself, but he tried to explain his predicament, that he had worked for governments, carrying out their bidding, because he believed in their motives. He spoke of his betrayal by those governments, and tried to define his current dilemma, and his desperate need to attain the understanding of Allah.

  The imam was thoughtful and encouraging. But as with all Sunni Muslims, he stressed that Benjamin must continue to nurture his own faith, that no one could help him with that. But he assured the weeping ex–Naval commander who knelt before him, that Allah was merciful, that in his opinion, Allah would not damn him, and that in the fullness of time, subject to prayer and devotion to the teachings of the Prophet, Benjamin would one day be welcomed into the arms of his God.

  By night Ben slept only fitfully in his luxurious bedroom in the Berkeley, fighting off the persistent nightmares, awakening in the dark, and spending hours trying to reconcile the brute instincts of the international terrorist with his devout and pious yearnings to be closer to the kingdom of Allah. The result was always confusion, as the images before his mind, images of death and destruction, raced on with the glancing speed of all disconnected dreams.

  At 1430 on Monday he walked into the consular section of the United States Embassy. The guard waved him through the security X-Ray, and told him to go straight to window three. The lady behind the glass recognized him, and smiled. “Mr. Arnold?” Ben nodded, and she handed him an envelope in which was placed his passport and the letter from the bank.

  Outside in the courtyard, beneath the great fluttering Stars and Stripes at the top of the flagstaff, he stood for a moment and opened it. Taking up one full page in his passport was the official entry visa to the United States of America, printed along the ornate lines of a banknote, in green and pink with a wide yellow band across the great Seal of the United States. Ben’s photograph, name, and passport number faced the predatory head of the American bald eagle. The visa, the B1/B2, was good for ten years, until the year 2016.

  The next morning, Tuesday, April 11, six days after Arnold Morgan had alerted all entry points, Ben Adnam checked out of the Berkeley at first light and headed southeast out of Dublin, bound for Shannon Airport and then Boston.

  He took the city route, running along Dublin’s Grand Canal to the Crumlin Road, and heading southwest through County Kildare, past Naas, and on to Roscrea and Limerick. The road was empty throughout the second half of the 130-mile journey, and Ben pulled easily into the precincts of Shannon Airport at 10
50.

  He parked the car in the long-term parking lot, took the key, and paid a fee of £28 that was good until late Saturday. He taped the key to a piece of card he had brought with him, and placed it, with the parking-lot ticket, and a check for £1,000, drawn on his Helensburgh account, in an envelope addressed to the garage in Helensburgh. The accompanying note read:

  “Sorry about the distance. But I had to go to Ireland. The Audi is in the long-term car park at Shannon Airport, bay M39. I expect you’ll have to send someone over, so I enclose enough money to cover expenses and inconvenience. Thanks for cooperating—Ben Arnold.”

  He was sure the Scots mechanic would be irked at the prospect of the journey, but equally sure the extra cash bonus would undoubtedly make it worthwhile.

  He purchased two Irish airmail stamps inside the airport and mailed the envelope from the box next to Hertz rental desk. It was, he thought, an easy way to avoid a mysterious missing Audi in Helensburgh, which ultimately turned up at Shannon airport, the same Audi that perhaps Douglas and Natalie Anderson had seen parked in their drive. His 1,000-pound payment to the garage might prove beyond measure in covering his trail for the next couple of weeks.

  He checked his bag at the Aer Lingus desk and was directed to the business-class lounge. At 1300 he was escorted by a stewardess down to the line of United States immigration desks, through which the transit Dublin passengers had already passed. There were only 23 passengers beginning their journey in Shannon, only two of them business-class: Ben and a vacationing travel agent.

  Ben moved through first. The uniformed officer was American, and he leafed through the passport, without looking up. “Purpose of trip?”

  “Business. Meetings in Boston first, then New York.”

  “Ah-hah. How long do you intend to stay in the United States, sir?”

  “Maybe three weeks. No longer.”