H.M.S. Unseen

you were innocent of that”

The Ayatollah nodded. “Please go on.”

“I am therefore proposing that we hit back three times. One blow against the U.S. for each of the lost submarines.”

“But why do you think they will not blame us again? And perhaps launch an air strike against Bandar Abbas and wipe out the rest of our ships?”

“Because, sir, we will arrange our actions to coincide with irrefutable evidence that it must have been Iraq.”

“Such as…?”

“We will hit them on a selection of the following dates: January 17, the day the American Army launched its opening attack on Iraq in the Gulf War; April 6, the day Iraq was forced to accept the terms of surrender as laid down by the American puppets in the United Nations; and July 16, the anniversary of the day Saddam Hussein became President of the Republic of Iraq.”

“I see…yes, I suppose that would be irresistibly persuasive for a U.S. Intelligence officer.”

“And, of course, there is one other method we could employ, sir. Once I am clear, and back in Iran, where I hope I’ll be welcome…we could leak some judicious details to the CIA field officers in Baghdad — details which could only have been known to the mission commander, who just happened to be a serving Iraqi Intelligence officer, now in hiding.”

“Yes…you have given this considerable thought, have you not?”

“I have, sir. And I am, of course, assuming that I am speaking to one of the Imam’s closest advisers.”

“Two of them, Eilat,” replied the Ayatollah. “On matters such as these.”

“Are you yet prepared to divulge the broad outline of your plan?”

“Not quite yet, sir. Not until we have an agreement in principle. Save to mention that I shall require quite substantial refitting work to be carried out in one of your military bases. And that I anticipate using a surface-to-air missile, possibly a regular Russian SAM. My advice is that you order four such systems, on the basis of improving your antiaircraft defense on your surface ships. It will cost about $300 million, but I think it might prove a bit of a bargain. The system I have in mind has a vast array of radar, and I will merely require certain parts of one of them.”

“Will you take charge of this work yourself personally, or will you leave it to our people?”

“I shall take charge, sir. I do not know of anyone else in the Middle East who would be qualified. Which brings us to a minor point. I shall have to be seconded into your armed forces, with appropriate rank.”

“Yes, you will. But I do not anticipate that being more than a formality. However, there is one aspect I should clear up. Might you have any idea of costs?”

“Not really, save for the value of time and people. I am looking at big hardware costs, but not as much as you may think. And there is the question of my own fee.”

“And where might you put that, Eilat?”

“I think $3 million would be fair. I shall ask you to put $250,000 in my Swiss account when we start, followed by $750,000 when the initial stage of the mission is accomplished.

“Then I shall require $500,000 when we set off. The final $1.5 million will fall due only when the three objectives have been achieved. That way I will have been on half pay if we fail, which I do not anticipate.”

“And what, Eilat, if you should be caught? And my country is held up to ridicule in front of the entire world as a bunch of lawless international gangsters?”

“Sir, we will not be caught. Cannot be caught. But if the million-to-one chance came up and we were, suffice to say death would be preferable to me. I have no fear of it. And suitable arrangements to that end would already be in place.”

“Eilat,” replied the hojjat, “you come to us with a vague and expensive scheme. I can take it no further without a much clearer plan from you, and I shall, naturally, have to consult with the Imam and the military. However, you may assume we are agreed in principle to explore this project with you, and that you will remain here as our secret, honored guest for as long as that may take.”

“Thank you. I am grateful, and may Allah always go with you. Just one thing, sir, before I leave…and I hesitate to ask…but I have been alone for a very long time. I wonder if we might pray together?”

“Of course, my son. You have been very badly used…let’s walk together across the courtyard…Ayatollah, you will join us?”

“No, I have some writing to finish. I will pray in an hour.”

The hojjat and the Iraqi entered the courtyard together and crossed it, walking slowly past the fountain. At the door to the mosque, they each removed their shoes. And the learned man turned around to ask his final question.

“Eilat, I wonder if you are yet ready, as we prepare for prayer…perhaps to tell me your real name?”

“Yes…you have been very kind to me…and I think I am ready now. My name is Benjamin…I’m Commander Benjamin Adnam.”

2

September 12, 2004.

They were 9,000 feet above the desert floor, flying low in the thicker air. The big Iranian Navy transport aircraft, a C130 Hercules transporter, was making 240 knots through crystalline skies. Down below, along the northern edges of the Dasht-e Lut, the Great Sandy Desert, temperatures hovered around 114 degrees. The Air Force colonel at the controls of the Hercules made a course adjustment to the south as they inched their way over the old city of Yazd, which has been trading silk and textiles, in the middle of Iran’s vast, broiling wilderness, for 1,000 years.

“Can you imagine living in a place like that, Commander?” muttered Rear Admiral Mohammed Badr, the Iranian Navy’s most senior submarine expert, as he stared down at the desert city, all alone in thousands of miles of sand.

“Only in the line of duty, sir,” replied Benjamin Adnam, elegant in his new Iranian uniform with the three gold stripes on the sleeve.

The Iranian admiral smiled. “Where’s your family from, Ben?”

“Oh, we’ve lived in Tikrit for generations.”

“Where exactly is it?” asked Admiral Badr. “Close to Baghdad?”

“Well, it’s also on the Tigris, about 110 miles upstream, on the edge of the central plains. You start heading west from Tikrit, you will encounter precisely nothing for 150 miles, all the way to the Syrian border.”

“Sounds like Yazd.”

“Not that bad, sir. To the south, heading for Baghdad, it can be quite busy. We’re only 34 miles from Samarra…and of course you know Saddam Hussein’s hometown was Tikrit. His rise to power gave the town a new life and new prosperity…half his cabinet came from there. My father says the old rural feel of the place vanished once it became known as a cradle of government power.”

“Did you spend much time there as a boy?”

“No…not really…I went away to school in England, and when I returned I was drafted into the Navy…the Israeli Navy actually.”

“The Israeli Navy?” exclaimed Admiral Badr. “How did you manage that?”

“Oh, there was a group of us, the chosen Iraqi youth, fanatical Fundamentalists, which I was. When everyone thought I was sixteen, I was really eighteen. We were all placed with families, operating under deep cover in different countries — I was sent to Israel and ordered to join the Navy. But everything was arranged for me. I was spying for Iraq for years.”

“You were a submariner, weren’t you, Ben?”

“Yes, for several years I was. Trained in the Royal Navy, in Scotland, after Israel bought a diesel-electric boat from the Brits.”

“Think they’d train a few of our men if we bought a submarine from them?”