crooked fucking towelhead.”
And the Iraqi was not four yards down the drive of the White House before the national security advisor was storming through the White House, on his way to talk to the President. Their conversation lasted five minutes. Admiral Morgan briefed the Chief Executive carefully, then said with icy indifference, “Sir, I’ve had enough of him. He’s gotta go.”
“I could not,” replied the President, “agree more. Please don’t mention his name to me, ever again.”
“Nossir,” he replied. And returned to his office.
It was 2200 that evening when two CIA cars and a private government ambulance pulled into the driveway of Commander Adnam’s house. Three armed Marine Corps marksmen took up sniper positions, and Arnold Morgan walked through the front door alone. Ben Adnam was reading in the living room.
“Commander,” said the American, “it is my duty to inform you that we have no further use for you.”
“Sir?” replied the Iraqi, betraying nothing.
“We have decided to dispense with your services on the grounds that we do not trust you, and you may become an embarrassment to the U.S.A.”
“Does this mean you intend to execute me, after all, for my crimes against humanity?”
“It would, with any other prisoner of your category, Commander. But you are somewhat different.”
“I see. But I imagine you have men with rifles trained upon me as we speak?”
“Yes, Ben. I do. Your time is, shall we say, limited.”
“I think I misjudged you today. Perhaps I should never have told you the truth.”
“Perhaps not. But this day would have come anyway.”
“Are you going to tell them to kill me now?”
“No, Commander. Strange as it may seem, I have respect for you. Not for your callous murder of so many people. But for the professional military way in which you did it. As such I am going to offer you an old-fashioned form of chivalry in your departure.”
Arnold Morgan reached into his coat pocket and drew out a big, wooden-handled military service revolver. Loaded. And he placed it on the table between them.
“You understand, Commander, that your death in the next ten minutes is inevitable?”
“Yessir. I do. And I am not regretful. I have no further heart for a fight. I have nowhere to go. No one to speak to. My options have run out.”
“So, Ben, if I may call you that again, I am offering you an honorable way out, in the tradition of a serving officer. And now I am going to leave you. I wish you good-bye, and in a way I’m sorry. But not in other ways. I will turn my back on you briefly, but if you should even look at that revolver before I am gone, the honorable option will be gone. My men will shoot you down like a cheapskate little terrorist, which I believe would not do you justice, not in your mind, nor indeed in mine. I hope you follow me? Because I regard this as personal, between us.”
Ben Adnam nodded. But he never moved. And the Admiral left. The commander heard the CIA cars reach the end of the drive. He did not, however, hear the admiral disembark and stand with two agents beneath the tall trees on the edge of the road.
They all heard the veranda door slam. They heard the slow dignified footsteps walk down the wide wooden stairs, and the soft tread of the Bedouin across the gravel. And then there was silence for three minutes, before the unmistakable crash of a single echoing gunshot in the silence of the night.
When Arnold Morgan’s men went in with their flashlights, the big zip-up plastic bag, and stretcher, they found the body in a damp leafy corner of the garden. Commander Benjamin Adnam, the side of his head blown away, was still in kneeling position, facing 90 degrees on the compass, due east…toward a distant God, in a distant heaven, somewhere out by the shifting desert sands of Arabia.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the third time, admiral sir John Woodward was my principal technical advisor in the construction of a novel.
The Admiral was obliged to use all of his considerable ingenuity to convert it into precisely the kind of boat we required for the plot. He was also obliged to “invent” a missile system which would (a) stand some chance of working, and (b) not take us too far into the realms of the impossible.
Loyally, my supersonic flight advisor said it would never work, could not achieve its objective. The Admiral disagreed… maybe not today… but in six years?
Their good-natured disagreement, conducted over several high-tech weeks, has, I hope, brought
My thanks, too, to my two Scottish advisors (rural, geographic, and social), Penelope Enthoven and Olivia Oaks. For insights and religious advice concerning the Muslim faith, I am indebted to the kindly and patient Syed Nawshadmir (Ronnie), originally from Dhaka, Bangladesh, and now of Dublin, Ireland.
— PATRICK ROBINSON
About the Author
Patrick Robinson lives in Dublin, Ireland, and on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. He is the bestselling author of three novels:
ALSO BY PATRICK ROBINSON
Credits
Cover illustration © 1999 by Danilo Ducek
Designed by Ruth Lee
Maps by Justin Spain
