Authors: Patrick Robinson
H.M.S. Unseen (5 page)
“Yes. As a matter of fact our first man knew everything. Apparently there are many people who are angry at the Iraqi government’s propensity to have people quietly executed. And quite a lot of them thought the President deserved what happened. Eilat One is a name on every insider’s lips. But nothing has been officially announced.”
“No. I thought probably not.”
“I would like to ask you two things? Firstly, how did you make one of the assassins tell you what he was there for? And secondly, how did you get away.”
“To the first question, routine persuasion. To the second, I walked.”
Both and
hojjat
and the Ayatollah smiled. “You mean you killed one of them, and threatened the other with a similar fate?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did. It seemed reasonable since both of them were trying to kill me, and, for all I knew, there were others outside with a similar brief.”
“And about this walk. How long did it take?”
“About twenty-two days from Baghdad to the train station in Ahvaz. I suppose I averaged around 15 miles a day. It was fiercely hot, and I walked at night when I could. Parts were very slow. I stuck to the river, but in places there was no hard surface, and sometimes it took almost an hour to cover a mile. Other places were much better.”
“Well, Eilat. You are a man of considerable resources. Before we ask you to outline your plans, there is one further question I would like answered.”
“Please?”
“Did your President have any reason whatsoever to mistrust you?”
“No. He did not. Except for the unavoidable fact that I had been away for a very long time. And he may have felt that I had become distant and could never really be trusted. But I gave him no cause, and I worked only on behalf of Iraq. For my entire working life.”
“I see,” replied the
hojjat. “
But it has been very hard to discover anything about your career. No one appears to know exactly what you have been doing, or even where you have been doing it.”
“For that I should perhaps be congratulated, sir,” replied Eilat. “Secrecy is, after all, the difference between life and death in my trade.”
“That and your sharp knife,” added the Ayatollah. “By the way, do you have it with you?”
Eilat smiled. But he was not afraid of the holy men with whom he conversed. “Yessir. Yes, I do.”
“Perhaps you would do me the honor of placing it on the table until you leave. We, of course, are not armed.”
Eilat recognized a test of trust when he heard one, and he walked across the room, drew his knife from inside his robes, and placed it next to the water jug. One of the disciples chuckled, archly, at its size. “You are Crocodile Dundee,” he said, betraying the terrible truth that he had been watching Western videos. “In disguise,” he added.
The Ayatollah looked puzzled. But he ignored the young man’s remark and spoke only to his visitor, offering simply, “Thank you, my son.” It was, Eilat knew, an expression of trust, and for that he was grateful. For he also knew that he would need to tell these men more about his life than he had ever told anyone. They were plainly going to check him out ruthlessly, and if he wanted to earn their confidence, he would have to level with them. Otherwise, the entire exercise would become futile. There were risks attached to telling the truth, but he might face death as a spy should he attempt to conceal his background from the Iranian Ayatollah.
“And now, Eilat, the
hojjat
and I would like to hear your plans.”
“Sir, may I begin by suggesting that we are dealing with two acts of revenge here? Mine and yours. And by that I refer to the occasion, almost two years ago, when all three of your Russian Kilo-Class submarines were mysteriously destroyed in Bandar Abbas. I realize from the newspapers that the Iranian Navy put the entire thing down, officially, to an accident. But I am sure we all know it was no accident. And, when you think about it, no other nation, except the Satan, could possibly have done it. They had the motive, the power, the finance, and the know-how.”
“And what was that motive?” asked the
hojjat.
“I do not really know, sir. But I would guess they secretly blamed Iran for the destruction of that aircraft carrier in the Gulf a few weeks previously. They always said that was an accident. But I don’t think so, and I believe 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.”
September 12, 2004.
T
HEY 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?”
“Probably not. You guys are generally regarded as dangerous outlaws in the world community.”
“And soon we show them how dangerous, eh Ben?”
“Yes. Except they’ll think it’s Iraq.”
Both men laughed. They were the only passengers in the big, noisy military aircraft, as it thundered on to Bandar Abbas. But such was the deadly nature of their business, they still spoke in the guarded tones of strangers, despite having worked closely together in Tehran for more than three weeks. The two officers were already kindred spirits, mainly because of Ben Adnam’s certainty that it had been the U.S.A. that destroyed the three Iranian submarines.
Admiral Badr had been the project manager for the entire Kilo-Class program in 2002. He had been at his home in the Bandar Abbas dockyard when the American hit squad had struck, smashing all three of the Russian-built submarines onto the bottom of the harbor. For Admiral Badr it represented ten years of work in ruins. He was fortunate not to have been dismissed from the Navy, but the Ayatollahs liked the big, bespectacled submariner from the south-coast port of Bushehr, and he was held in great respect by his fellow admirals. No one in Iran knew more about submarines than Mohammed Badr. At least, not before Commander Adnam arrived.
In the months after the attack, the admiral had concluded, like almost everyone else in the Iranian Navy, that the American President had blamed the Ayatollahs for the loss of the
Thomas Jefferson
, and acted accordingly. But the Americans were wrong. Iran was innocent, and the gnawing desire for revenge against the Great Satan seemed only to grow with each passing month. Especially in the mind of the man most affected by the loss, Admiral Mohammed Badr.
For him, the sudden appearance of Benjamin Adnam represented a beacon of light in the murky waters of naval sabotage, that no-man’s-land of world politics, where no one admits anything; neither the criminal, for obvious reasons, nor the victim, for fear of humiliation.
But in this former Iraqi Intelligence officer, Admiral Badr could see a man with a plan—a plan of such monumental dimensions it would be a miracle if it worked. But the ex–Israeli submarine commander seemed coldly sure of his own abilities, and Iran had the money and the will to make it happen.
The admiral smiled again. It was a good-natured smile, indicating contentment with his new colleague and anticipation of the future.
“You know, Ben,” he said, “I really admired your planning for these missions. But one thing puzzles me. Why did you turn down their offer of becoming a rear admiral?”
“I suppose I’m a purist about some things. Remember, I earned my rank in the Israeli Navy. I was Commander Benjamin Adnam, and I was CO of a submarine. I’m very proud of that. And I’m proud of my rank. It does me honor, and I do not want to be a fraud admiral. I am Commander Adnam. I expect you heard me tell them I’d accept rear admiral when the project was successfully completed. Because then I will have earned it.”
“Very admirable,” replied Admiral Badr. “And now I have a question. I heard you say twice in that last meeting that the West believes you are dead? How can they? They don’t even know you? Who told them you were dead?”
“The Mossad, I expect. There was a pretty serious hunt for me after I deserted the Israeli Navy. But they thought they found me.”
“Can you explain that, Commander?”
“Well, I suppose I can now. Okay. This is what I did. I had known for many months a professional forger, an Egyptian who specialized in passports and official documents. He lived in Cairo. He did the most exquisite work…and I had used him often in the past. The strange thing was that he bore the most remarkable physical resemblance to me. Same height and build, same complexion. He even walked like me, the big difference being a very slight limp, and he always walked with a black cane with a silver top.
“And so, I set him up. Phoned him and asked him to meet me, privately, in a secluded place, at night, up in the precincts of the Citadel, on the southeast side of the city. There I would hand him a small attaché case made of soft leather, in which were several documents I wanted him to copy for me. I would also hand him $300 in American currency as a down payment.
“I made the time 1930, because I knew he would walk straight down the hill to the mosque he attends every night at 2000. Then I called the Mossad in Tel Aviv and spoke to a duty officer. Told them I was a sympathetic member of the
sayanim
and that I had valuable information which would cost them $100,000 if it proved to be accurate. I gave them the number of a Swiss bank account, and told them I had many contacts, and that I might be able to inform them of important matters…but right now, however, my information was this…that the missing Israeli naval officer, Commander Benjamin Adnam, was to be kidnapped and interrogated that evening by an Iraqi hit squad. The Mossad had one chance, to take him out themselves on the dark and lonely lower part of the hill leading down to the Mosque of Sultan Mu’ayyad Sheikh.
“Obviously, I told them the man would be wearing Arab dress and walking with a slight limp, using a black cane with a silver top. Their men should wear Western suits and approach under the guise of Egyptian secret police, requesting to see his papers. I was working on the theory that a criminal such as this would carry no papers of his own. That would leave only the attaché case, and right there it was up to them. Because in that case was every one of my most valuable documents…you know, Navy record, passport, driver’s license, birth certificate…not to mention my cigarette case and my precious Israeli submariner’s badge.
“After my own transaction was complete, I slipped away and followed the forger from a distance. I watched two men approach him and examine the contents of his briefcase. Then I watched one of them kill him instantly from behind with one shot from a silenced pistol. I watched them leave, taking the briefcase with them.
“It was ample evidence for the Mossad, and there was thus no doubt in their minds about who the dead man was. Someone found the body a few hours later, and the Egyptian police took over. But, of course, they knew nothing. There were no documents left on the corpse…. Two weeks later the Israelis sent$100,000 to my account in Geneva.”
Admiral Badr burst out laughing at the sheer brass of the scheme. “Ben, I guess a lot of people in Tel Aviv think you are dead.”
“Yessir. And they will undoubtedly have informed the Americans.”
“But Commander, what had you done, precisely, to make the United States so interested in you?”
“I don’t think I can reveal that. Except to say that I know your country had nothing to do with the elimination of that U.S. aircraft carrier.”
“My God, Ben. Was that you?”
But the Iraqi just smiled, and said, “Admiral, let’s look to the future…”
Admiral Badr, however, remained thoughtful. “Is your vision of the future the same as ours, Commander?”
“I believe so, sir. If you are referring to a general belief that one day the Nation of Islam must dominate the earth, to the everlasting glory of Allah.”
“That is our dream, Ben. That is our dream. And there are many of us in the military here in Iran who believe that the only way to achieve this aim is to cause chaos in the West.”
“You mean, sir, if we frighten them often enough, they may begin to fall apart?”
“I believe they will, Ben. Because unlike us, they are a Godless society. They have no central rallying point except money. In fact they have nothing except money. Their God is material possessions. They have no ideals.
“Great wars of the past have often been won behind a religious banner. But in this millennium, Allah alone can inspire brilliance and courage. Because Allah is great…and Allah is all-powerful…Allah makes us great…and when we attack, we attack behind his power, for a common cause. In the end, nothing can withstand us. Certainly not the infidels of the United States.
“We must strike hammerblows against them, over and over, until their will dissolves…as it must. Because they have no God. They are just overfed disciples of a lesser God—the God of money…and country clubs…and huge cars…and beautiful houses. But in the end they are nothing. Because they believe in nothing…and they have no true God. The Koran does not guide them. Nothing holy lights their way.
“They are the rampant heathens of the twenty-first century, sucking the world’s resources dry. Taking, grabbing, using, claiming the rights of other countries, treating our own Gulf of Iran as if it were theirs. But one day, we will rise up and claim what is ours, what has been ours for thousands of years. And when that day comes, the power of the United States will be returned, finally, to the Nation of Islam.”
The two men sat in silence after that. But to each of them the words possessed unfathomable meaning. Not everyone in Iran agreed with such thoughts, nor with Admiral Badr’s preferred course of action. But there were senior military figures who did share his views, very firmly. Which is why he had been singled out to work with the newly arrived Benjamin Adnam, the world’s most wanted terrorist.
The big Hercules began descending toward the Bandar Abbas airport, slipping down through the hot clear skies. Ben could see from his window the submarine docks in the distance. There would be much activity in there during the week, with the arrival from St. Petersburg of the first replacement Kilo, Russia’s special export model; the 636 AIP,
Yunes-4
(Jonah-4, named for the prophet who was swallowed by a whale but saved by God).
Ben could imagine her quietly berthed in the submarine pens, the 235-foot-long 3,000-tonner from the Baltic, and as he did so he imagined himself in the control room, as once he had been. Admiral Badr also wore a faraway look, remembering, as he so often did, the black night of August 2, 2002, around the midnight hour…the scene of absolute devastation that had greeted him at the Iranian submarine base. The confusion. The fear. And the desperate, unavailing attempts to save the men on board the two hulls that had been sunk alongside the jetties.
He would soon have his first sight of an operational Kilo in the harbor of Bandar Abbas since that most terrible night. And it gave him heart. For he assumed that under the guidance of this quite brilliant Iraqi officer, with whom he now shared a common goal, they would harness the new Kilo to attack the hated, imperious enemy from the Western hemisphere. Admiral Badr liked it.
A Navy staff car greeted them as they disembarked and drove them immediately to the base. Ben put his few possessions in the house provided for him, next door to the admiral’s residence. Twenty minutes later they were in the Special Ops room, which comprised the entire top floor of a small executive block. Each man had a private office, with secure phone lines. There was a wider conference room between them, which contained drawers full of Navy charts, reference books, architectural plans, a fax machine, a copying machine, and three computers, one containing all of the world’s naval charts, another a myriad of marine engineering and design information. Ben guessed most of his work would be done on the third computer.
There was no sign of any staff or assistance in any form. But there were four armed Iranian Navy guards in the upstairs corridor, beyond the big locked wooden doors. Ben approved that, and checked that the guards would be on duty twenty-four hours a day. Every day. He also requested that the two-man guard on the main entrance be trebled.