“Which brings us to the much more difficult, but more fruitful course of ‘running’ him, using him for our own purposes?”
“Well…‘running’ him is certainly the most appealing if you don’t care about your career. As I don’t, since I’m retiring at the end of this President’s tenure. You don’t, because you’re probably unsackable, and, anyway, you and Kathy have much to look forward to in retirement…with your pensions.”
“I don’t think the President cares either. He’s halfway through his second term…so I suppose we should all act in the best interest of the country, and if it goes wrong…we just take it on the chin and retire gracefully from the fray.
“That means we ‘run’ him,” said Arnold Morgan. “And that’s a hell of a challenge. He actually said this morning he could show us how to get Iraq out of our hair for good. Christ, he’d be useful, with all of our dealings in the Middle East. And he’s not expensive, relatively. And he says he wants to stay here. Nowhere else to go.”
“The danger is, of course, he might still be working for Iraq.”
“I know. And I did bring that subject up. And his reply was quite strange. He said he would prove to us conclusively that Iraq plainly tried to kill him. He also said that if he failed to prove it, he was quite prepared to take cyanide.”
“Hmmmm. If we were dealing with a normal person, that’d be impressive. But with Ben Adnam, there’s almost always going to be more to it than meets the eye….”
“I know. I’m just trying to think what that might be. All the evidence I have tells me I am wasting my time, which, paradoxically, is why I want him on our team.”
Lunch passed swiftly, as the two American admirals wrestled with the problem of the captive terrorist a dozen miles away. By the time they had worked their way through ham and cheese omelets and salad, they had agreed that Ben Adnam must live, for the moment. But a new problem emerged. Who, eventually, would ‘run’ the ex–Israeli submarine commander on a day-to-day basis? “Aside from the fact he needs a rock-solid Navy background, whoever it is has to be as clever as Adnam.”
“Maybe impossible. I shouldn’t think his Teacher would make himself available. But he’d do fine.”
“How about his Teacher’s son-in-law?”
“Bill? Can’t see that happening. He’s got that cattle operation to run, and he’s quite recently married. I shouldn’t think he’d want to up sticks and move to Washington. And Laura seems very happy out there in the wide-open spaces.”
“I know. Think he might do it, say for six months, while we get ourselves organized with a permanent guy?”
“Well…Arnold, the first six months will probably be the most difficult. I don’t think Bill would consider it, but you never know. I guess he might.”
“Okay. Let’s get back to the factory and see if the President has any strong views. If he does, this could become strictly academic. After we finish there, we’ll make a new plan.”
“Done.”
“Hey, Scott, thank Grace for a delicious lunch, will you? I caught a glimpse of her, but she looked like she was leaving.”
“She was. So are we. I’ll ride with you. My car’s meeting me at the White House.”
At 1600 precisely, Admirals Morgan and Dunsmore presented themselves to the President of the United States. He awaited them in the Oval Office and rose to greet them with his usual affability.
“Good to see you both. Thanks for coming. How’s our terrorist?”
“He’s not bad, sir,” said Arnold Morgan. “A bit awkward, as you’d expect, but nothing we can’t deal with.”
“Good. Now, I believe we are going to touch base on what to do with him?”
“Yessir. And it’s a very touchy subject. And I am not sure how deeply you want to be involved. If you wish, you can, of course, lay down the law right away. But I would not really advise that. And I wonder whether you might not consider whether the President actually needs to be involved in the nitty-gritty of our decisions with some foreign terrorist…all I’m saying, sir, is that you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”
“I hear you, Arnold. And I thank you for your consideration. Could you give me a very private rundown on the situation right now?”
“Scott’s damned good at that, sir. When I arrived at his house this morning, he just said, ‘Right. Are you gonna shoot him, jail him, or hire him?’”
The President chuckled. “That’s why he’s Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He never gets involved in trivia.”
“Exactly, sir. Anyway, the most complicated area is the prospect of a trial for either crimes against the U.S. or crimes against humanity. In our opinion, it is a political nightmare, a nowin situation, and anyway, Adnam told me he will deny everything…he did not think Iraq would be anxious to give evidence on our behalf.”
“I’ve already thought of that,” said the Chief Executive. “Forget a trial. It would take a year, and it would drive everyone mad. It would probably drive me out of office. The left-wing media would kill us, especially if the beans somehow got spilled about the Jefferson.”
“Exactly, sir. It’s a total nonstarter. Especially since no one really knows what happened to either the carrier or the civilian airliners. And no one in this country knows Ben even exists. Just us, and our most trusted people.”
“Which means his removal would be extremely simple, hmmmm? No one would ever know anything.”
“It’s not quite that simple sir. He seems to have made quite elaborate arrangements for substantive disclosures as to our activities in the event of his sudden disappearance and failure to communicate. The hard way is the only way we’d ever find out for real. So, making him disappear might ultimately prove as embarrassing as putting him on public trial.
“We already believe he is a mine of information. We also know, to our considerable cost, that he has a brilliant mind. And I would dearly like to use him. He could change our lives in the Middle East.”
“I see. He seems to have thought it through, doesn’t he? The question is, do I need to know, or care, if you decide to remove him, or if you decide to use him.”
“I think not, sir,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “Let’s just suppose for the moment we have the man who hit the Jefferson. My own view is that it is unnecessary for you to be involved, unless we decide to go to trial, or if we decide to take any military action, in revenge, against another nation, based on information provided by Adnam. I don’t think we could avoid your involvement then.”
“I understand, Scott. And I realize you two do not want to have him executed privately. Rightly. Quite apart from the political consequences of postmortem exposure, it might be a waste of a major asset. Not to mention a purely futile act of revenge on our part. The crimes committed were so monstrous, there could be no proportionality anyway. Not with one man’s life. Therefore, my conclusion must be that I need not be involved at this stage. I will leave the fate of the mysterious Commander Adnam to the offices of my military commanders. But you will inform me, Arnold, should we consider a strike against anyone.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“One further point, before you go. Are we now certain that the airliners were knocked down by Iraq?”
“Yessir. Yes we are.”
“I would personally consider it very remiss of us if we failed to make known our extreme displeasure to that pariah of a government.”
“Understood, sir. I will keep you informed.”
The two admirals rose and said good-bye to the President, returning down the long corridors to Arnold Morgan’s office. Kathy O’Brien was at her post, on the telephone, and offered just a small wave of greeting as they arrived. “Coffee,” murmured her boss. “And hold all phone calls for a half hour.”
Inside his office, the admiral took off his coat, and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ! Did you hear that last remark?”
“I sure did, Arnold. He wants us to hit Iraq, obviously not publicly, but it sounded like he expected something impressive.”
“Isn’t it, though? Benjamin, old buddy, I think you just got yourself a job.”
“He might have, Scott. But I’m not sure what exactly he meant us to do. Bomb Baghdad? Take out a few streets? Knock down some missile sites in the desert? Hit their main seaport? Maybe a military airfield? A few oil wells? What do you think?”
“I’m not sure, but I presume he’s looking for something like their strikes against us. Too awful to be admitted, too much of a loss of face. And too secret for anyone to know quite who was responsible.”
“Guess so. But it’s a tall order.”
“No doubt, Arnold. But it was very Presidential. He is a man who just hates to see this country humiliated in any way whatsoever. And no one gets away with it. Not indefinitely.”
“Iraq got away with the Jefferson.”
“Not anymore. Not by the sound of things.”
“We better start thinking about plans. It just seems overwhelming at the minute. I’m not sure where to start…but this is military, Scott, and you’re the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs…I think this ball’s in your court…and I’m waiting for your creative input.”
“You think I’m a film director? Well, I’m not. Basically I’m an organizer. And this is what I propose. I think we have to get someone in here who’s going to work with Adnam on an initial plan, subject to your striking a deal, and reminding him of his words about Iraq.”
“Right. Who?”
“Bill Baldridge. For the following reasons. He’s in deep already. He’s damned smart. He knows Adnam, and you and he work very well together. He and Laura would certainly come to Washington for a few days if we make it quick and urgent. She could come and stay here with Grace, if necessary. Or else we’ll put ’em in a hotel. That way the three of you can try and thrash something out. We’ll pay Bill a fee; and if the mission is successful, it may just give us the opening to persuade him to ‘run’ Adnam for another six months.”
“Can’t fault any of that. Who’s gonna call Bill, you?”
“No, you. Tell him Adnam’s balls are on the line. He said he knew how to deal with Iraq. Now we’re giving him the chance to prove it. That might just titillate the master of the B/B sufficiently.”
“Yeah. I guess it might at that…leave it with me Scott…I’ll call him later. I’ll check how the herds are. See if they can manage without him for a few months.”
Two hours later, at 1900, speaking from Kathy’s house in Chevy Chase, Arnold Morgan made contact with the former submarine lieutenant commander in Kansas. Baldridge listened laconically to the proposition, made a lot of “Uh-huhs,” “Is that rights?” and general “Get outta heres.” But in the end he did not turn it down.
He just said, “When?”
Arnold Morgan replied, “Now,” which was his favorite word.
Bill Baldridge said, “How long?”
Arnold replied, “A week, max.”
“Okay. You sending transport?”
“Yup. Tomorrow morning, 1000. In front of your house.”
“We’ll be there.”
“See ya.” And the admiral clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. “Now something will happen,” he muttered. “With Commander Adnam and Bill working as a team. Just so long as we watch, monitor, and check every step Adnam makes. Maybe, one of these days, we’ll even come to trust him.”
But he was pleased with the Kansan’s response, and he visibly brightened. “KATHY! Drinks…then we’re going out for a little celebration.”
1600. May 12. The White House Lawn.
The helicopter from Andrews Air Base touched down lightly, leaving its engines running for immediate takeoff down the Potomac. Laura remained on board, while Bill disembarked and was given a pass by the Secret Service agents and escorted into the West Wing. Arnold Morgan came to meet him in person. “Hey…good to see you. Grace is waiting at the house for Laura. You and I will be there by seven. We’re all having dinner there, and we’re all staying overnight.”
Bill followed Arnold down to his office, where his briefing began. And Admiral Morgan explained everything, the potential deal with Adnam, the hopelessness of a public trial, the consequences and wastefulness of executing him. And the President’s expressed wish that a strike be organized against Iraq.
Bill was particularly interested in the avowed statement from the ex–Israeli submariner to Admiral Morgan the previous day that he could rid the United States of the menace of Iraq.
“Christ. What do you think he has in mind?”
“Who knows. But when he does have something in his mind, we know, to our cost, that he is usually not joking.”
“Ain’t that right.”
By 1800 the helicopter was back, miraculously bearing Admiral Dunsmore. The three old friends, in company with two Secret Service agents, took off from the White House in good time for the seven o’clock rendezvous with the ladies. Only Kathy O’Brien was absent, but she had to hold the fort, first thing in the morning, in Admiral Morgan’s office.
The flight was swift, and the pilot brought them in over the Potomac before dark, touching down on the wide back lawn above the river.
There was a chill in the air, as there often is in the late spring on the East Coast. But Scott Dunsmore said that the cool weather would not deflect him from his plans. He was cooking outside tonight, come hell or high water. It would be the first barbecue of the season, and he intended it to be memorable. Therefore, he expected a full attendance around the gas grill while he perfected a flawless butterflied leg of lamb, just the way his cook had taught him during his days in the surface Navy as a Fleet Commander.
The fact that the huge leg of lamb was already carefully cut by Grace’s butcher, and carefully marinated and half-cooked in the oven by Grace herself, did not discourage Admiral Dunsmore from claiming full credit, in advance. Grace mentioned that it would be a real shame if he burned it, like he did the last one, on her birthday two years ago.
“I was under a bit of pressure then,” said the chief of the entire Pentagon. “They’ll be no mistakes tonight. Let’s get in there for some drinks…then you’ll see me in action, putting a forty-minute charcoal finish to this banquet.”
Laura, who had not met the Dunsmores, was captivated by them both. Grace had been charm itself during the late afternoon, and the arrival of the admiral, the most powerful man in the United States Armed Forces, was something she had viewed with some trepidation. Even though both her father and her husband had always told her that Scott was a prince of men, and she would like him, as she had liked all of those high-ranking military Americans she had met. Even Arnold Morgan, who was not precisely everyone’s cup of tea.
Now, as Admiral Morgan assumed, always, that everyone had coffee black, “with buckshot,” Admiral Dunsmore assumed that anyone who had endured a long day would be revived by the dark smooth taste of Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch with club soda. And with this drink he was something of an artist: in the high summer he allowed two cubes of ice in a tall glass, with a lot of soda. On Labor Day he eliminated the ice for the season, and then, as the days drew in and the temperature dropped, he reduced the soda water, until by Christmas, it became quite a short drink.
That night, only six weeks before the summer solstice, when the ice went back in, the drinks were medium long but warm. And, on a silver tray, he brought five Scotch and sodas into the big room at the front of the house. They each took one, and Arnold Morgan stepped forward to propose a toast.
“We are here tonight for several reasons, some of which can be talked about and some of which cannot. So I’ll confine myself to proposing the health of Laura’s father, and our friend, Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, who has, as before, been some way ahead of us.”
They all raised their glasses, smiling at the thought of the urbane Scottish officer, who would have been mortified with embarrassment had he been in attendance. But Arnold
Morgan was not prone to mawkish sentimentality. If he said Iain MacLean was out in front in his thinking, then that was so. And if it hadn’t been after midnight on Loch Fyne, they would have all called him right there and then to congratulate him.
By now the gas grill was at full power, and Scott Dunsmore had the leg of lamb in prime position. Wearing sweaters, they all stood around outside, admiring the dusk over the dark Potomac, sipping their drinks and watching the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs strategically adjusting the angle of the gently sizzling lamb.
By common agreement, he had gotten it right this time. And dinner was outstanding, not least because the admiral decided to open his last two bottles of 1961 Haut Brion. “Bill and I drank a bottle to the memory of his brother right after we lost the Jefferson,” he said. “This seems the right time to finish the vintage…on a high note, at the conclusion of an unhappy episode.” The fact that the rare bottles were worth about $500 each was not lost on anyone. And the forty-five-year-old Bordeaux from the Graves district lived up to its towering reputation, casting a deep warm glow over the gathering. No one discussed the project that lay uppermost in their minds. Indeed, during the entire evening, it was touched upon only once, lightly, when Admiral Dunsmore raised his glass, and said quietly, “Welcome back on board, Bill.”
The following morning Admiral Morgan’s chauffeur arrived at 0800 to drive his boss and Bill the short distance back to the CIA safe house, where Benjamin Adnam awaited them. They both walked straight into the room where the terrorist was reading the newspaper, and Admiral Morgan wished him, “Good morning, Commander.”
But he did not waste one second on formalities. “Right now,” he said, “I am here to hack out a deal. And this is what I propose. I have a project, and I would like your guidance and general input. If this is deemed to be a success, we will then settle down and make some kind of a long-term agreement for you to work with us along the lines we outlined yesterday. Naturally, we can have nothing in writing, but in your business I expect you are accustomed to that.
“The project we are working on is against Iraq, and will be a one-time one-shot proposition. It will either succeed or fail. If I judge your role to have been critical, and it will be, and we are successful, we will make a one-time payment to you of $250,000 to start off your life here in America. You will not be required in an operational capacity. Only in strategic planning.”
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