explained his situation to the admiral, who picked up a telephone and spoke to someone in Northwood. Then he spoke to someone on the base, and finally said, “Okay, that’s it, Bill. We’ll drive home right away. The chopper will pick you up at eight o’clock at my house and whip you into Glasgow in time for the nine-thirty flight to London. Your ticket’s at the British Airways desk. If I were you I’d find a bit of supper in the airport, and catch some sleep in the Concorde lounge. It’s pretty civilized and that new Washington flight boards at 0700.”
The journey back around the loch to Inveraray passed quickly. Back at the house, Bill rushed upstairs, packed his bag, jumped in the bath, shaved, changed out of uniform into a civilian coat and tie, and headed downstairs. The admiral was on the phone, Lady MacLean was out with the children, and Laura was awaiting him in the hall.
“So soon,” she said, quietly. “I would have enjoyed another dinner and chat.”
“Duty calls,” Bill replied awkwardly.
“If I hear from Ben, how do I find you?”
Bill handed her a piece of paper. On it was written the number of his apartment in Suitland, Maryland, with its answering service, and his number at the Navy Intelligence office. For good measure he also included the number of the ranch in Kansas. Ray’s number, not his mother’s, in the interests of security. He also included both his personal addresses. “I was kinda hop in’ you wouldn’t lose track of me,” he said.
Laura laughed at the pile of information, handwritten on the “Inveraray Court” writing paper. And as she did so, they could hear the roar of the Royal Navy helicopter thundering down onto the lawn outside. Both of them knew they had about five seconds before the admiral emerged from his phone call.
“I wish you weren’t going,” said Laura, helplessly.
“So do I,” said Bill. “But I must. Can I speak to you, somehow, somewhere?”
Laura pressed a piece of paper into his hand. It contained a phone number and several time frames.
Admiral MacLean came out of his study. “Okay, Bill, I hope we meet again. Come on…”
The roar of the chopper’s engines drowned out all further conversation. Laura followed them out, and Bill instinctively ducked his head as he headed for the helicopter’s door. The loadmaster was already out, and helped him aboard, strapping him into his seat. Bill latched the door shut, gave a thumbs-up to the pilot, who took off instantly, as if conducting an evacuation from a battle zone.
Bill looked out of the window at the two figures standing on the lawn, waving. He thought of the admiral’s amazing kindness, and quite remarkable grasp of the situation. And he felt he had not thanked him nearly enough. And then he smiled, waved back from about four hundred feet, above the gleaming waters of the loch now. But he felt a twinge of guilt that he was not really waving at Admiral Sir Iain MacLean.
8
Admiral Morgan was pacing his office deep in the heart of Fort Meade. The short, stubby, fiercely glowing cigar, jutting out like a 40mm Navy shell from between his teeth, betrayed his impatience. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and the admiral never smoked before sunset unless he was profoundly irritated.
Before him stood a young lieutenant who had been charged with the relatively simple task of contacting Captain Carl Lessard at the Israeli Navy HQ in Haifa to check whether it would be possible to speak to Israeli submarine commander Benjamin Adnam.
The lieutenant had returned to say that the admiral’s request was not being complied with.
“Did you speak to Captain Lessard?”
“Yessir.”
“Did you tell him you were calling for me?”
“Yessir.”
“Did you tell him it was just routine, nothing serious?”
“Yessir.”
“What did he say then?”
“He said he did not think he could help but would put me through to someone who might.”
“Whadya mean, he couldn’t help? They only own four working submarines. He must know where his fucking commanding officers are. What the hell’s he talking about?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“I know you’re not sure! Try not to keep aiming a glaring light at the totally fucking obvious.”
“Nossir…er…yessir.”
“Who did you speak to next?”
“An officer in the personnel department.”
“The
“The personnel department. And he said he did not keep records of submarine commanders’ whereabouts.”
“Then what?”
“Well, I called back and got put through to the submarine operations center. They said they were not empowered to tell anyone the whereabouts of their commanders.”
“Jesus Christ! We paid for their fucking Navy!”
“Well, sir, you did not give me instructions to get heavy with them, you just said speak to Captain Lessard.”
“I know what I said, for Christ’s sake. Get Lessard back on the phone. I’ll speak to him personally.”
That had been thirty minutes ago. Three minutes ago, a perfectly charming Israeli secretary had come onto the line and said that she was afraid that Captain Lessard had just boarded a warship and would not be available for at least three weeks.
“Some bastard’s lying,” Morgan fumed. And the furnace on the end of his cigar radiated with vicarious fury.
“Okay, Lieutenant, I guess I’m going to move to Plan B.”
“Could I ask what might that be, sir?”
“The hell you could. I’m still working on Plan A.”
Morgan chuckled at himself, at last. But it did not disguise the indignation in his face. And he decided to put the matter on hold, until Bill Baldridge arrived an hour from now.
He dismissed his lieutenant, and paced. Then he put in a call to the Shin Bet in Tel Aviv, Israel’s secret interior Intelligence service, equivalent to America’s FBI, and Britain’s MI5. Morgan had enjoyed considerable access to the organization since the appointment of the former Navy Chief, Rear Admiral Ami Ayalon three years ago as its head.
They were old friends, and the ex-Israeli commando had been unfailingly cooperative with the Americans. Arnold Morgan knew that Ami would not be in, but trusted his assistant to connect him with someone who would be more helpful than Captain Lessard had been.
Morgan’s ensuing conversation with a very senior Israeli intelligence officer had been short and brief, culminating with a promise to arrange something through the Washington embassy. At that point the admiral knew something was afoot. He picked up his direct line to the CIA in Langley, and was put through to Jeff Zepeda, who was surprised and pleased to hear from him.
Zepeda agreed to contact the Israeli embassy and get someone who would speak to the admiral in straightforward language. He spent a few minutes explaining that he was drawing a large blank so far in his inquiries in Iran, but there was something stirring in Iraq. Meanwhile the admiral should stand by for a call from one of the Mossad’s representatives in Washington.
Admiral Morgan checked his watch. He did not want to be in the middle of something when Baldridge arrived. He paced, and was debating the possibility of lighting another cigar, when the phone rang. “Admiral Morgan…good morning…this is General David Gavron, at the military attache’s office in the Israeli embassy. I have been advised by Tel Aviv and by your own CIA, that it would be wise for us to meet….”
“Well, General, I’m kinda surprised at the momentum my very simple inquiry has generated.”
“Admiral, if you do not mind my saying so, men such as yourself do not make very simple inquiries.”
