H.M.S. Unseen

of a submarine.”

“I don’t believe so, sir. It’s just that it has never been done before. You see it’s not the same as the big intercontinental ballistic missiles, with their extremely complex systems. We are operating with a much smaller, simpler beast, a wickedly accurate guided missile that travels at two and a half times the speed of sound, but only for around 40 miles.”

“Well, Ben. Why do you think no one has ever before wanted to fire such a weapon from a submarine?”

“Oh, I think it’s been talked about often, but there was never a very strong reason for doing it. They fit better on surface ships. Nonetheless, I have always considered it the most formidable possibility. A missile fired, as it were, from nowhere.”

“Commander, do you envision using our only suitable submarine, the new Kilo from Russia?”

“Nossir. The Americans will be watching that too vigilantly. I am afraid we will have to be a great deal more subtle than that.”

“You mean we must acquire another submarine, one which the Americans do not know about?”

“Yessir. I do.”

“Then my colleagues and I believe that now is the time for you to explain precisely how you propose to obtain it. Are you suggesting the British, of all people, will sell us one? Or are you asking us to rent one, an old one from some moribund navy around the Gulf or North Africa? You have never told us, you know. And, so far as I can see, the entire project depends on the acquisition of the right submarine and the skill of our engineers.”

“Yessir. It does.”

“Well, Benjamin? Will you tell us your plan now? Then we can proceed to release the funds to go ahead. It may take a little time…you realize the new Kilo now costs $350 million?”

“Sir, had I intended to involve you in high expenditure for a submarine, I would have advised you accordingly many months ago. But I do not intend to do that.”

“Then you are proposing we contact the British and make some attempt to lease one for a year, or something like that?”

“Nossir. I was not planning to do that either. I think that would be impossible, as would another expensive purchase.”

At that point Admiral Badr stepped in, sensing the meeting was approaching an uncomfortable level of frustration.

“Ben,” he interjected, “you have drawn me to the inescapable conclusion that you intend to use the plastic model submarine we have in the shed!”

Ben shook his head, and said gently, “Not quite. Actually, old chap, I was intending to steal one.”

3

March 23, 2005.

“230200MAR05. 31.00N, 13.45W. COURSE 060. SPEED 12.”

Commander Adnam carefully wrote down the date, time, position, course, and speed in the manner of a lifelong Naval officer. He made the note only in his own diary, for he was a guest on board, but the old disciplined habits of the Navy, the endless recording, the blunt accuracy of even the smallest detail, never fade from the mind of a senior sailor. And for good measure the commander added, “Weather gusty, Santa Cecilia rolling forward, in a long swell.”

They had been out for forty-seven days and had run nonstop for 13,500 miles, all the way from the Gulf of Iran, down the coast of East Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, up the endless coast of West Africa. They were plowing north, 200 miles off the shore of Morocco, where the Atlas Mountains sweep down to the ocean, south of Marrakech.

The quarters were not comfortable, just a converted freight hold in this aging Panamanian-registered coaster of 1,800 tons. That was not much room for 21 fit men to sleep in, but the Iranian Navy had done its best. Bunks and hammocks had been rigged, there was plenty of water, the decks were roomy but sweltering hot, and the food was excellent. The rolling motion of the half-empty ship had caused some seasickness among the submariners, and the throb of the big diesel engines, so noisy in the hold, was with them twenty-four hours a day. Crossing the equator, it had been too noisy below, and too hot on deck. But the iron discipline of Ben’s men held. No one complained.

The second of the two holds was full of fuel, so the freighter would not need to put ashore. That had been Ben’s idea, during a daylong argument when everyone wanted to turn northwest through the Red Sea and steam straight through the Mediterranean, thus cutting the overall distance by almost a half. But the commander had been immovable.

“One visit by Egyptian customs at the canal,” he had said slowly. “Just one visit. And they find a freighter, with a full crew, plus twenty-one other guys below, and a hold full of fuel. It’s just too unusual. All right, I know we could be tourists, fishermen, a crew going to pick up another ship. But in my line of work, you never take that kind of a chance. And you certainly do not leave half a dozen customs officers wondering who the hell you really were. Gentlemen, I am sorry, but we go offshore in our freighter and make the voyage around the Cape. In private. No customs. No intrusions.”

In the dark, windy, early-morning hours of March 23, out in the Atlantic, Ben Adnam was calculating, leaning on the starboard rail, gazing to the east, watching for lights. In his mind he was working out precisely when they would arrive at the selected spot in the middle of the English Channel, and now he jotted it down, heading back to the ship’s radio room, which was empty.

He tuned to medium frequency, encrypted, and began transmitting his call sign, speaking clearly: “Calling Alpha X-Ray Lima Three. This is November Quebec Two Uniform…radio check. Over…”

The radio crackled a bit but remained silent. Ben transmitted again. “Calling Alpha X-Ray Lima Three. This is November Quebec Two Uniform…radio check. Over…”

Then, suddenly, after a delay of only a few seconds, “Roger. This is Alpha X-Ray Lima Three. Over…”

Ben spoke again. “Two-eight-two-two-zero-zero Mike Alpha Romeo zero-five. Four-niner-five- zero November…zero-four-two-zero Whiskey. Over…”

Then he repeated it, slowly and carefully. And the transmitter crackled again.

“Roger that. Out.”

By then it was 0220, and the commander returned to the hold to sleep the rest of the night. The rendezvous was fixed.

241100MAR05.

By any standards she was a beautiful boat, a traditional white cruising yacht, which looked as if she might have once belonged to the Great Gatsby, or at least his French equivalent. Moored alongside, in the port of St. Malo, on the picturesque northern coast of Brittany, the bright teak door to her magnificent wheelhouse glinting in a pale wintry sun, the Hedoniste was a splendid sight. Eighty feet long, she had two staterooms, an exquisite, covered quarterdeck with an outside bar, a canopied helm above the wheelhouse, and luxurious sleeping quarters for ten. Her big twin screws were powered by two big diesels that could propel her through a good sea at 20 knots. Her call sign was Alpha X-Ray Lima Three.

On board the Hedoniste were the three men who had chartered her for one week, at a cost of $20,000, off-season rates. Perfectly dressed in designer yachting kit, they had arrived in St. Malo in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes limousine, each carrying expensive leather luggage. They had brought with them, in another car, their captain, an engineer, and a chef-butler.

The French agent took a cursory glance at their Turkish passports, and the three addresses either on, or close to, the avenue Foche, in Paris, and rapturously handed over control of the boat to Arfad Ertegan, whose current French Masters’ certificate fully entitled him to command the Hedoniste.

“You will be very ’appy, gentlemen,” the agent had said, pocketing the banker’s check for $20,000 cash, 15 percent of which was now his. “See you in one week.”