of the city of Baghdad. Toward the factories down in the industrial delta of Iraq.
Lieutenant Commander Baldridge, Admiral Morgan, and Commander Adnam were sharing a pot of coffee and preparing to watch the seven o’clock evening news. The only news they had was that the missiles had been launched and the submarines were on their way home.
And an aura of gloom began to descend as the summary of the content was given, and no mention was made of the havoc they expected to have broken out in the Middle East.
“I know these media bastards are parochial in outlook,” growled the admiral, “but this is ridiculous.”
As 1915 came and went, still no mention. At 1920 Arnold Morgan was about to call the station, but restrained himself.
At 1922, there was an interruption. “We’re just breaking away from that story for a moment because of a breaking news event…” said the commentator with heavy emphasis. “There are reports of some kind of a natural disaster in Iraq…Baghdad is reported to be under 4 feet of water at the northern end of the city…we have conflicting reports right now…but one of them suggests the great dam on the Tigris, the Samarra Barrage has breached…however, we have another report suggesting it is the northern dam in the Kurdish mountains, the Darband-I-Khan, that has burst…right now we have no further information. Communications seem to have been heavily disrupted…but we will keep you informed of what appears to be a huge disaster in Iraq…now back to the gay rights march in LA.”
Arnold Morgan walked across and shook the hand of Bill Baldridge, and that of Ben Adnam.
But the Iraqi seemed very preoccupied. In fact he was wondering how the floodwater was rising in a little stone house off Al-Jamouri Street, the one in the dark, narrow alleyway next to the hotel.
He hadn’t seen it for two years, since May 26, 2004, the night the Iraqi President’s men had come to murder him. Since then the full moon had risen above the desert twenty-six times. It had been two years, and one week. He had just missed the anniversary, which was a pity because he liked anniversaries. But Eilat smiled.
EPILOGUE
Commander Benjamin Adnam was given a United States passport on September 18, 2006. It bore the name Benjamin Arnold, and detailed his birthplace as Helensburgh, Scotland.
For the mission against the Iraqi dams he was paid the agreed upon $250,000. With this he made a down payment on a medium-sized white Colonial-styled house quite near the Dunsmores in Virginia, on the west side of the Potomac. He purchased an unobtrusive dark green Ford Taurus and began work in the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.
A new position was created for him — Special Advisor to the associate director of Central Intelligence. This was Frank Reidel, Langley’s link between the Agency and the military. Commander Adnam moved into an office adjacent to that of Reidel, a short walk from the CIA’s Middle Eastern desk, to which the former terrorist was seconded on a permanent basis. The normal strict vetting procedures for employees of the CIA were dispensed with, on special orders from the White House.
Adnam had requested that he be permitted to use the rank he had earned in the Israeli Navy. Admiral Morgan ensured this was granted, and he was thenceforth referred to in the Agency as Commander Arnold.
On the first Thursday of each month he attended a private briefing on Middle Eastern Developments, inside the White House with the President’s national security advisor.
His salary was $150,000 a year, but Morgan negotiated him out of an annual lump sum in excess of $1 million that the Iraqi had demanded. It was agreed that at the conclusion of ten years service he would receive a bonus of $2 million. In return for this, Morgan insisted that all the incriminating documents be returned from the Swiss bank. And he sent special agents to Geneva to pick them up.
As Arnold Morgan had guessed, Benjamin Adnam’s insights into the mind-sets of the Middle East were extremely valuable. Within a matter of weeks, it was plain that he would make a major contribution in helping the Americans to ease the political crosscurrents, to calm the warring factions among the sheikhs and dictators, in the turbulent, oil-rich crucible of the Middle East.
For himself, Ben found a peace he had never known. Away from the frontiers of hands-on terrorism, separated from the high-risk work of intelligence field agent, he settled into his smooth, suburban American life with considerable ease. For the first few months, he made few attempts at befriending colleagues, but concentrated on living quietly at home, reading and watching the news and international current affairs on television. For the first time, for as long as he could remember, he was off the front line, and no one was hunting for him. At least in America they weren’t.
For the moment, Ben Adnam was content to keep the lowest possible profile, and to thank his God he was out of the lethal world of international terrorism.
On one Autumn morning he was jolted into the reality of that judgment. Reading the
Ben shook his head. “To be prepared to die for a cause”…and he pondered the years ahead, and how he would deal with civilian life, should the Americans permit him that permanent luxury. He had, of course, one further score to settle. That of Iran, and their brutal, if ill-planned attempt on his life. Not to mention the $1.5 million they still owed him.
One day the Iranians would pay for that. And, confident now of the goodwill of his new masters, Ben picked up the telephone and requested a private talk first thing in the morning with Admiral Morgan.
At 0900 the following day he was sitting in the West Wing, recounting in graphic detail to Arnold Morgan that the big American cruise missiles had slammed the wrong country in revenge for the dead Americans in the destroyed airliners.
He could not know how the ferocious White House admiral would react to the revelation that he had been used as a pawn in the Iraqi’s grand scheme of vengeance. But he felt that Morgan would look beyond the obvious deception, and perhaps begin to ponder again the question of a big strike against Iran. The Iraqi dams had, of course, avenged the deaths of 6,000 U.S. Navy personnel in the aircraft carrier. The demise of Iraq was justifiable simply on those grounds, and that country’s proven aim of producing weapons of mass destruction.
He edged Morgan along the thought process that Iran’s day would surely come. Of that he was certain. In the end they would step out of line on the international oil stage of the Gulf. And then he, Arnold Morgan, could move in for the strike against the Ayatollahs that had been so long coming.
It was clear to both men that Commander Adnam’s days of illusion were over. Where once there had been hope and idealism, there was now an empty place. What remained was the skilled, unique military mind of the world’s most successful Islamic terrorist. And Morgan had bought that mind at a bargain price.
They were together for less than one hour, and when he left Commander Adnam was certain he had been correct in clarifying the situation. Correct in his assessment that the American admiral would appreciate knowing, finally, the full truth. And they shook hands formally at the conclusion of the meeting.
However, Commander Adnam had misjudged his man. Admiral Arnold Morgan was furious. Furious at being outwitted by the scheming terrorist every step of the way. Furious that he had once more been hoodwinked during the interrogation. And really furious that he had moved major U.S. muscle against a country that had known nothing of the acts of terrorism against the passenger aircraft. Admiral Morgan was about ready to murder Ben Adnam, and not just figuratively. It was not on the basis of some terrible attack of conscience toward any of the troublesome nations of the Middle East. But because he was sick and tired of being made to feel a damned fool in front of “this
