badge…the one he received from Tel Aviv?”
“No, you didn’t. And will you
“Yessir.”
“Excellent.”
Both men laughed easily. “As a matter of fact, Bill, the President told me he’d given the badge to you. I talked to him at the wedding. I must say he was very impressed with the way you identified the problem, then hunted the submarine down.”
“Actually I hunted the man down, rather than the submarine. We’d never have found that, not without a tip- off.”
“No. I suppose not. They are the devil to find, those diesels, eh?”
“Sure are…I miss it all sometimes, you know, Iain…that’s not a complaint. Laura and I are very happy running the ranch, and it’ll be great having the girls there for a vacation…but there are times…times when I see an item about the Navy in the newspaper and think about how I would tackle it. There’s not a better life when you’re single, and free, and the issues are international…and you feel you’re helping to run the world.”
“I know, Bill. I miss it, too. I suppose we all do after we leave. But some of us never quite take off the dark blue, eh?”
“Not quite, sir,” said Bill to the senior officer, who this time raised no objection.
By midday, on the other side of Loch Fyne, Ben Adnam had somewhat recovered from his tortured night. He had opened the curtains wide at first light and slept in bright sunlight for most of the morning, missing breakfast altogether. He decided on a quick cup of coffee, which he sipped downstairs in front of the fire. Then he decided to attack his all-time record of fifty-one minutes to St. Catherine’s and back.
This required him to reach the halfway turning point in twenty-four minutes — six minutes per mile — because the second half was always slower. And he set off along the loch, running hard on the flat surface of the A815.
The trouble was, his heart simply was not in it. And he found himself dawdling, looking at the water rather than his watch, and he jogged into St. Catherine’s five minutes late, which in his mind defeated the object of the exercise. So he sat on a stone wall looking across at Inverary, while he caught his breath.
And once more his thoughts returned to the darkest side of his life, to the monstrous acts of destruction he had perpetrated. And again he was haunted by the one question he could no longer answer: “For Whom Did I Do It?” And he was afraid there was no answer, because there was no one to whom he could defer in the matter of his deeply held religious beliefs.
He did not doubt Allah, nor did he doubt the Prophet, nor indeed the Koran. His worry was that he had performed his great tasks without Allah approving what he was doing. He had been taught that the senior clerics of the Muslim faith, the mullahs and the Ayatollahs, were not in direct touch with God, but were merely teachers, learned men who were there to study the Koran and to guide their fellow Muslims in the words of the Prophet Mohammed. He understood thoroughly that all Muslims must find their own faith, because there can be no direct word, through the mullahs or the Ayatollahs.
He could not possibly defer to the President of Iraq, for whom he had operated for most of his life. And, despite feeling very much at home in Iran, the clerics of that country had not hesitated to cut him off from his reward, the minute it suited them.
Who, then, was he? Just a terrorist who would operate for anyone? Was he some kind of an international criminal? A hit man? A mercenary? Because, should that be so, he was uncertain whether he could live with it. Ben Adnam was a man who believed in his own higher calling. And that profoundly held philosophy was in ruins. He did not know what to do, nor where to go. And there was one problem that would not go away: He was, without question, the most wanted man in the world.
He gazed across the flat, dark, shining waters of Loch Fyne. It was almost 2 miles wide at his present location. But it was a very bright, cold, cloudless day, and Ben could see for a long way. Snow still shone on the high peak of the “submariner’s mountain,” The Cobbler, 9 miles to the east, and Ben could see it up across the huge pines of the Argyll Forest. It reminded him, as everything in that place did, of days long past, especially those days when he had returned to the Clyde estuary in a Royal Navy submarine, watching for the mountain to signify that they were almost home.
Now he had no home. And The Cobbler was still there. And so was all the grand and glorious scenery on the other side of the loch, the steep lightly wooded foothills that sloped up to Cruach Mohr, which he could also see, towering over the land behind Inverary Castle.
Directly across the water was the great white mansion of his Teacher, the father of the only girl who had ever loved him. Alone in his desolation, Ben stared at the far bank, trying to see the house where once she had lived, but there were trees to the north of the grounds, he remembered, and it would be hard to catch a glimpse of the building.
It was strange how he was suddenly drawn back to the memory of Laura MacLean, just when he was not only the most wanted, but also the most unwanted, man in the world. They say that men about to face a firing squad, or the noose, or the electric chair, often cry out “Mummy” as they go to meet their Maker. And Ben wondered if that might not be the reason he so yearned for Laura. Was it just a helpless, despairing cry for unconditional kindness. Although he was not sure she could deliver that anymore. The brutal truth was, there was no one else.
And he sat on the wall, in the sharp chill of the early Highland spring, knowing that she was far away with Douglas Anderson, but unable to tear himself away from the sight of the place where once she had lived. He felt like a jilted lover, the kind who cherish a masochistic desire to stand secretly and watch the home of their former wife, or girlfriend. Just for a glimpse, just for even a thought-flash of remembered joy, and passion. In the desperate million-to-one hope of a chance meeting, and instant reconciliation, the ungrasped straw of the terminally hopeless.
Wearily, Ben picked himself up and turned back down the loch, running hard, trying to drive the demon of Laura from his soul, as if he ever could. But he had to get back to the inn. He had ordered lunch for 1345, homemade soup and a grilled Dover sole, and he needed fuel. In the afternoon, before dark, he would attack his St. Catherine’s record again. And then he would concentrate. If he could.
The bar was fairly empty, but the fire was crackling, and the landlady was unfailingly cheerful. They talked for a while about his work in the South African mining business. And he explained why he was here after a lifetime in the perfect climate of Pietermaritzburg. “My grandfather was a Highlander,” he told her. “And my wife died recently. I just wanted to come here for a month and feel my roots, visit a few little villages in the area. Someone told me how beautiful Loch Fyne was, and someone else told me about this place. Here I am, for another few days…rested and fit. And I’ve enjoyed every moment of it.”
He liked the people who owned Creggans. They were never intrusive, and allowed him all the space he wanted. They worked on the old Scottish theory that if a man wants company, he’ll ask for it. There’s never a need to intrude. To some visitors this private, standoffish view of the world is precisely what leads to Scotsmen being describe as dour. But to Ben Adnam it was a godsend. And in a few days he would vanish from this place forever, remembered, he hoped, by very, very few people.
He decided to cancel the afternoon run and instead to take the car and drive the 28 miles up to the northern point of Loch Awe, the thin, 23-mile long serpent of Highland water, at the head of which stood the fifteenth- century castle of Kilchurn, and the great brooding mountain of Ben Cruachan. It stood 3,700 feet above the loch, and Ben was resolved to walk to its peak someday, to claim what was widely regarded as the best view in Scotland. Ben climbs Ben, as it were. But probably not that day; and he put his binoculars in the car in case he just wanted to look down at the magical waters of the heavily wooded, deepwater fisherman’s paradise. In the back of his mind he also thought he might have a further use for the binoculars on the way back. But it was a thought he refused to recognize.
There was little traffic, and the Audi made short work of the journey. Ben gazed at the towering bulk of the mountain and decided to walk quietly around the castle instead. He climbed the stairs to the huge turrets and tried to imagine the force of the gale that had destroyed one of them, on that terrible night after Christmas in 1879, when the Tay Rail Bridge in Dundee was also demolished. He inspected the old turret, and then he walked to see the view from atop the castle, right down the long, straight waters of the loch. It was, as the guidebook said, truly
