H.M.S. Unseen (38 page)

The admiral then pointed out the progression of his thoughts—the lost fishing boat, the missing soldiers on St. Kilda, the Zodiac suddenly turning up in Mallaig. “I believe,” he said, “that our man got off
Unseen
at 09.40 West, made his way to St. Kilda for petrol, then got to Mallaig. I have no idea what he is doing—but today a man turned up at my former son-in-law’s house looking for Laura. The description fitted Adnam as I remember him. But he claimed to have met her in Cairo. And I know that she and Adnam once went there together. No one was supposed to know, and no one but he
could
have known. It was him all right, and he’s on the loose here.”

“Did he give an indication how long he was staying in Scotland?”

“No. But my idiot ex-son-in-law did tell him Laura was expected at the end of Easter, so I imagine he’ll stay around here for a couple of weeks. But you could never be sure. For all I know he’s going to get back on the submarine and hit something else…but I thought I’d better keep you up to speed.”

“Iain, I don’t need to tell you I’m delighted that you did call. I’m just wondering if there are any further checks we ought to make. Where are Bill and Laura now?”

“They’re here, I think, for another five days.”

“Let’s get ’em the hell out. Back to Kansas. And I think I’d better get a general alert out to watch for Adnam at all airport entry points in the United States. I cannot imagine that he would come here, where he is most wanted as an international criminal. But, now he knows she has gone off with an American, he might try to get to her in the States. Wish we knew what name he was traveling under.”

“Douglas—the ex–son-in-law—had a name but forgot it.”

“Don’t forget to congratulate him for me on that.”

“I won’t. Do you have a decent picture of Adnam for your checkpoints?”

“I’m not sure…but I think I can get one from David Gavron.”

“Okay, Arnold. I won’t keep you any longer. If you don’t have any luck with the Mossad, we have a good picture of him when he was here…eighteen years ago, but it might help.”

“Good. We’ll talk later.”

Commander Adnam drove north, his mind churning. Laura was coming to Scotland, but what good would that do him? She would be at MacLean’s house, and the admiral would recognize him instantly. He could not keep the white mansion under surveillance, and she might only be there for a couple of days. No, if he wanted to talk to Laura, and her husband, the place to go, perhaps in the next week, was Kansas, their permanent home.

The United States of America was also, he believed, the only place to which he could go, the one country whose natural self-interest might just make him too valuable to kill, if he played his many high cards correctly. Because Benjamin Adnam was not merely the most wanted man in the world, he was also one of the most knowledgeable. He knew many Naval and military secrets of Israel, Iraq, and Iran. He understood their attitudes, hopes, and fears. With him, Benjamin Adnam, on its side, the United States would have a supreme, strategic asset. Just so long as he could convince them of this before they took him out.

He knew he had to go in at the highest possible level, and that might not be too simple. He had not a single contact in the U.S.A. Unless—and the thought struck him suddenly—Mr. Baldridge took him there. The man entrusted with running to ground the perpetrator of the
Thomas Jefferson
disaster would be a man in touch with the highest members of the current Republican administration in Washington.

The sheer simplicity of this trail to a new life struck Ben as so utterly convenient it must be impossible. But the logic was as straight as a line of longitude. If he could find Laura, he would find Baldridge, and if he found him, he might be able to swing some kind of a deal. Either way, the former U.S. Navy officer would most likely prefer to put the great Iraqi terrorist in front of some very senior people, rather than the local sheriff.

The main problem was, surely, how to get into the United States of America without being apprehended by the immigration authorities and swiftly handed over to the merciless agents of the CIA. He believed the straight London–New York, or London–Washington was very tight at the immigration desks. And he decided to find another, quieter route into the customs halls of the Great Satan.

As he drove back past the rolling hills of Lammermuir, Commander Adnam weighed up the factors that ranged against him: the fact that Lieutenant Commander Baldridge had spent time with the MacLeans meant they all knew who he was; he felt reasonably sure Douglas Anderson would have alerted the admiral that someone had been inquiring for Laura; knowing the mind of old MacLean, Ben was prepared for anything.
My Teacher will remain consistent, missing nothing, not then, not now.

In Ben’s view, he had to get out of Scotland and into another country without his British passport being freshly stamped. From there he would try to make his way unobtrusively into the United States. There was only one country from which he could pull off such a move…Ireland, because he would not need a passport to get in. Not from England or Scotland. If MacLean had alerted his American friends, they would be keeping a rigid watch on passengers coming in from London, Manchester, Edinburgh, or Glasgow. But perhaps not quite so stringently from Shannon.

Bill, Laura, and the girls arrived back from Edinburgh shortly after 1900. Laura had signed a stack of legal papers in her solicitor’s office, and Bill had countersigned several as well. It was beginning to look as if she would be granted full custody and that Douglas would have the girls for vacations only. Admiral MacLean’s powerful intervention with the judge had worked a miracle, and it seemed increasingly likely that they would ultimately attend their new stepgrandmother’s alma mater, Wellesley College, outside Boston, Massachusetts.

The admiral met the Range Rover as it drove in, with Laura at the wheel. He told Mary and Flora to run along to the kitchen, where their grandma and Angus had their supper ready. He then suggested that Laura and Bill join him in the drawing room for a drink before dinner because there was something he needed to discuss.

They could both see the concern on his face, and they both noticed he was silent as he poured three glasses of whiskey and soda. The admiral wasted no time beating about the bush.

He mentioned that he hoped Bill liked the Scotch, a single malt distilled locally, but that the subject he wanted to discuss was very pressing.

“Ben Adnam showed up this afternoon at Douglas Anderson’s house,” he said. “He was looking for Laura, who he apparently thought was still in residence. Douglas called to let me know—the description fitted, and he told Douglas that he and his wife met you in Cairo…the Mena House Hotel actually…bit close to the bone, eh?”

“God, Daddy. I didn’t know even you knew that.”

“Well, I didn’t until about two years after the event. But I tend to come stumbling along a bit behind the rest of the world. Nonetheless, the Cairo clue was decisive. It had to be Ben.”

“Correct. It had to be Ben. And you say he was looking for me?”

“According to Douglas, he was.”

“But why?”

“Oh, it’s hard to know really. But chaps in his line of country lead very strange, lonely lives. And when they finish their various projects, it’s nearly impossible for them to return to anything normal.”

“Yes. I suppose so. Do you think I’m in any danger?”

“Possibly. I mean when a chap has already killed several thousand people, you don’t quite know what his state of mind may be. Especially if he’s been fired, or, for some reason, feels unwanted. All kinds of odd thoughts can pop into such a disturbed mind. I mean, it’s not completely beyond the realm of possibility that he might have gone to the house intending to kill Douglas and kidnap you. Let’s face it, he might be planning to kill Bill right now, and kidnap you. Either way, we are going to be very careful indeed until he is caught. I’ve had a talk with Arnold Morgan, who is concerned for your safety. He thinks you should leave Scotland immediately and return to Kansas…that’s the morning flight to Chicago tomorrow.”

“You think it’s that serious, Iain?” asked Bill.

“Actually, no. But you can’t be too careful with this man. So it is serious enough for me to have changed your reservations, and organized a Navy car and escort to get you into the airport with the girls by 0900 tomorrow.”

“Does Adnam know where we live in the States?” asked Laura.

“I don’t think so. He did not, after all, even know you were not married to Douglas anymore. But I’d better bloody ask. I should have thought of that when he rang. Must be getting old.”

“What’s Admiral Morgan doing?”

“Stepping up security at all airport points of entry, looking for Adnam, in case he should try to enter the U.S.A. If I know Arnold, it’ll be quiet but thorough. I just called him back. He’s organizing a Navy helicopter to run you from Chicago to Kansas, and for the time being there’ll probably be some military security at the ranch—firstly to protect you, secondly to catch this bastard. We now think there’s no doubt he was somehow responsible for all three of those aircraft crashes.”

“Do you think Ben might be planning to kill my husband, Daddy?” said Laura.

“Well, we have to work on the theory that he might be thinking along those lines. Dementia can easily enter the mind of a mass murderer…but I don’t think so. Because there’s an edge of hysteria in that type of thinking…murdering husbands in order to run off with their wives. Doesn’t sound like Ben to me. He’s too cold-hearted for that, too reasoned, too clever. In my view he may have wanted some kind of favor from you, but he might have turned very unpredictable if you had refused him help. None of us know where his professionalism ends and his madness begins.

“And we can take no chances. Commander Adnam must for the moment be treated as a rabid dog. Simply because he has been operating on an entirely different wavelength from most of the human race for a very long time. He may be unpredictable now in his actions. Maybe even irrational. But we do not want to assume anything. And the quicker we get you both home, with the girls, and under the personal protection of the President’s national security advisor, the better I shall like it.”

“Have you told Mummy anything?”

“No. And I see no reason to worry her unduly. You can leave that to me.”

They finished their drinks, and Bill and Laura went upstairs briefly to change before dinner. They went into the bedroom that overlooked the loch and the ex–lieutenant commander was quite surprised at his wife’s reaction. She threw her arms around him, and he could feel deep within her an uncontrolled trembling. “He really scares me, darling,” she whispered. “There’s something so absolutely terrible about him. And to think he’s out there somewhere. He found Douglas, and he could find this place. My God, he’s been here before. For all we know he’s out there watching.”

“Ben Adnam is not the kind of man to be scratching around in some field, watching a house like some kind of a pervert,” said Bill. “That’s not him at all. He operates to carefully drawn-up plans. I’d be surprised if he came anywhere near here. I mean, Jesus, your father knows him. So does your mother. This is the last place he’d show up.”

“I suppose not. But if Daddy and Admiral Morgan are worried, then I ought not to take this lightly. I’ll get Angus to start packing up the girls, and my things, while we’re having dinner.”

“Okay, I’ll make my own arrangements. But I’ll tell you one thing—I would not want to be searching for Ben here in Scotland because I’m guessing he’s on his way out of here right now.”

“Why?”

“Well, he now knows you don’t live here. He has played that card and lost. He has a Mr. Anderson who knows him, and he’ll know that a routine phone call from Douglas either to your father, or to you, will stir up a hornet’s nest. In my view he’ll be on his way out of the country instantly.”

“But where will he go?”

“That’s the question, Laura. Maybe back to the Middle East. Maybe to Switzerland to collect money. Maybe South Africa, which he mentioned. But not, I suspect, to America, where he’s the most wanted man in history, having just murdered our saintly Vice President, and a half dozen politicians.”

The farewell dinner at the home of Admiral MacLean was deeply traditional. Annie served Scottish smoked salmon from the Tay, with a bottle of Olivier Leflaive’s superb 1995 Puligny-Montrachet. The thick Angus steak fillets were accompanied by a 1990 Châteaux Lafleur from Pomerol.

“It took a bit of courage to risk steak on a world expert beef-producing rancher from the Great Plains,” said the admiral. “I hope we’ve measured up.”

“Fantastic,” said Bill, swallowing luxuriously. “And this is probably the best glass of wine I’ve ever had.”

“Yes. They all got it right in Bordeaux in 1990,” agreed Sir Iain. “Took five years for it to come right again. By the way, I’m really sorry you all have to go tomorrow, but I think it’s for the best.”

“I agree. And now we got Morgan on the case, I would not be surprised if they picked our man up very soon.”

“I hope before he does any more damage, Bill. I still have it in my mind he somehow took out those two soldiers on St. Kilda. Otherwise, they’d still be there. Imagine that, two lives for a few gallons of fuel. I suppose that’s how you become, in his business…in the end.”

“Guess so. And of course those guys always believe they are in the military, and to kill a couple of enemy soldiers hardly counts.”

“Well, he knows you were in uniform, doesn’t he?” said Laura. “I hope he doesn’t think you hardly count. Because if he does, I’ll hunt him down, and I’ll kill him in cold blood.”

Laura Baldridge did not have even a semblance of a smile on her face when she spoke those words. Her parents both looked quite shocked.

B
EN GUESSED THAT ADMIRAL MACLEAN KNEW THE
identity of the mysterious visitor to Galashiels Manor that day. That meant there would be some kind of security in place, and that he should avoid airports in big cities, like Edinburgh, Glasgow, London, and Dublin. His every instinct told him to stay rural, in his unobtrusive car, to travel alone and be seen by as few people as possible.

He studied his little map throughout an excellent dinner of cold smoked trout and roast pheasant. And by 2230 there was no doubt in his mind. The way to Ireland was through West Wales to Fishguard, and into the Emerald Isle via the quiet southeastern Irish port of Rosslare.

He would not need a passport, if he was British, and he resolved to spend some time with a travel agent before leaving Scotland. The one right around the corner from the hotel, in the High Street, he decided, would do just fine.

He slept late the following morning, read the papers downstairs in the hotel lounge, and drank three cups of coffee. Then he checked out, left his bag with the concierge, and asked for his car to be brought up at midday.

Inside the travel agent’s he studied a pile of brochures dealing with travel to and from southern Ireland. He bought himself a single ferry ticket from Fishguard to Rosslare, sailing at 0315. He intended to stay in Ireland for a few days organizing a B-2 multiple entry business visa into the United States, and then to leave via Shannon for Boston, the two closest points on the North Atlantic route.

There was one excellent reason for this. The U.S. immigration authorities have a fully staffed operation in Shannon for checking passengers straight into the U.S.A. Thus passengers go through the American desk in the sprawling Irish airport, their passports are stamped, and the Shannon–Boston flight becomes essentially an internal journey, as if it were Chicago–Boston.

Ben Adnam reasoned he had ten times the chance of slipping through the U.S. desk in Shannon, with a return ticket and a new American business visa, than he ever would in an American port of entry, where the CIA might already be watching every incoming passenger from Scotland and England.

He arranged for and prepaid his Dublin hotel, which he understood was just a short walk from the U.S. Embassy in Ballsbridge. He strolled back to the Balmoral to pick up the Audi, phoned his bank and told them to send his credit cards overnight to the Berkeley Court in Dublin. Then he tipped the doorman, slung his bag on the rear seat, and set off south out of Edinburgh, heading for the long, lonely A7 road that runs down through Galashiels and Hawick, 100 miles to the English border city of Carlisle.

It took him a couple of hours to get to the grim Scottish wool town of Hawick, trailing a line of three trucks in pouring rain for most of the way. Thankfully, Ben watched them peel off in the middle of the town, and was pleased to hit the open road, south of the great cashmere center.

It had stopped raining, and Ben was able to drive fast down the almost empty winding highway as it followed the tortuous course of the Teviot River for mile after mile, through spectacular border valleys and hillsides. South of Langholm, the A7 picks up a new river, the Esk, and again follows its twisting course through the stark border mountains, the grazing fields for cattle and sheep, deep green below the level of the road.

At Longtown the Esk swung away to the west to its long estuary at the head of the Solway Firth. Ben pressed on south for 6 more miles, before joining the fast, wide M6 motorway, which would take him almost 200 miles into the Midlands of England, the backbone of his journey.

He reached Penrith, the gateway to the Lake District by 1530, the Audi now cruising at 80 mph east of the long rolling hills that guard the high waters of Ullswater, Haweswater, and Lake Windermere. He refueled at the Tebay service station, picked up a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and drove on south.

From there the M6 skirts the waters of Morecambe Bay opposite Barrow-in-Furness, recent home of HMS
Unseen.
But the relentless southward progress of the freeway offers no opportunity for sightseeing, and Commander Adnam just kept driving through northwest England, past Lancaster, past Blackpool, Preston, Southport, and Wigan, past Warrington, Manchester, and Liverpool, past Newcastle-under-Lyme, Stoke-on-Trent, and Stafford. All the way to Birmingham, where the M6 splits into the M5, the fast road to Bristol, 90 miles farther south. Ben made it by 2100, crossing the great span of the Severn Road Bridge into Wales twelve minutes later.

He paid the toll and pulled into the Magor service station where he refueled, parked, and found a quiet table near the window for supper. He glanced at the plates of the other diners, careful to select food that would not fix his presence in the memory of the waitress. Bewildered, as always, by the eating habits of the English public, he ordered fish, chips, fried eggs, and baked beans like just about everyone else.

With Bill, Laura, and the two girls now well on their way to Chicago, Admiral MacLean and his wife had a peaceful, elegant dinner of grilled river trout, new potatoes and spinach, accompanied by a bottle of Sancerre. They each had a glass of port at the table while they finished the final edges of a full Stilton cheese.

Lady MacLean retired early, but the admiral was very restless. Finally having moved over to his study to read the newspaper in front of the dying log fire, he stood up and dialed the number for Galashiels Manor, which was answered by the butler.

“Oh, good evening, Beresford. This is Iain MacLean. I wonder, is either Mr. or Mrs. Anderson still about?”

“Oh, good evening, sir. I’m very sorry, but they’ve gone to France for a few days. But Mr. Douglas will be in London next Tuesday, I believe.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. Still it wasn’t important. Just a quick question I wanted to ask him…will he be staying at the club?”

“I believe so. But I could not be sure.”

“Very well, Beresford…thank you anyway…good-night to you.”

There was a very worried frown on the face of the admiral as he made his way to bed.

Ben Adnam checked his watch. It was almost 2230 as he pulled onto the slip road from the service station and entered the M4, which runs almost the entire length of the South Wales coastline, way beyond Swansea and into West Wales. It was pitch-dark, and beginning to rain again. The motorway was busy, and the Iraqi found the Welsh-language road signs highly confusing. It was a language that made Arabic look simple, and he stuck to the middle traffic lane, not going too fast, watching the big white lettering that signified he was passing Newport, then Cardiff, then Pontypridd, then Bridgend, Maesteg, Port Talbot, Neath, and Swansea. This was the old industrial heartland of Wales, the southern end of the steep valleys, from which they once mined the finest shipping coal in the world, Welsh anthracite.

Ben Adnam had learned much about rugby football while studying in Scotland, and he recognized the names of those towns and mining villages, almost every one of them with a place in the folklore of world rugby. Beyond Swansea he watched for the signs for Llanelli, the West Wales mining town reputed to have produced more world-class stand-off-halves than all the rest of the British Isles put together.

Ben had watched the Royal Navy play rugby several times and remembered meeting three of the massive tight forwards, all of them submariners, all of them from Wales. Irrationally he wondered if they might be living near there, and whether their lives were less lonely than his. He would have given anything for a conversation, with anyone, even with Able Seaman Berwyn James, the big, cheerful 1988 Navy forward from Neath, whose neck measured 24 inches, whose forehead was nonexistent, and whose IQ was only a shade higher than plant life. Ben remembered Berwyn well.

The M4 ended to the northeast of Llanelli, and he sped down toward Carmarthen, slashing through the rain at 75 mph He’d have liked to cruise at 90 mph plus, which the car would have managed with ease, but this he did not do. Leaving an inevitable trail, which must be uncovered within a month, maximum, was one thing; getting arrested by the police for speeding on that night would have been crass.

The roads were deserted down there in West Wales, and now the signposts were beginning to pinpoint the port of Fishguard. Ben raced past St. Clears at midnight, still heading due west. At 0030 he turned north at Haverfordwest, for the last 15 miles of the 560-mile journey. Cardigan Bay and the ferry port lay due north before him. The fish and chips lay heavily upon the stomach of a weary Commander Adnam.

The traffic, even in the small hours of the morning, grew much heavier, and Ben found himself in a convoy of trucks all trundling up the narrow, winding road between fields of unseen sheep, to the ferry. Those last 15 miles took him forty-five minutes, and the rain and spray made it impossible even to contemplate overtaking. The line of traffic meandered through ghostly quiet Welsh villages like Tangiers, Treffgarne, Wolf’s Castle, Letterstone, Newbridge, and Scleddau before the trucks turned left along the country road that bypasses Fishguard and leads down to the port.

Ben decided to go straight into the middle of Fishguard and look for a gas station, and at 0115 he drove into the desolate town square and began to follow the signs to the ferry. He was surprised at the height of the town, which seemed to be perched on a giant headland above the cold waters of the Irish Sea. He could see the harbor lights, way below, down a steep, curving road, and out to the west of the harbor wall he could see the huge lighted bulk of Stena Line’s massive car ferry, the
Beatrix Königin.

There was one gas station open along the wharf, and he filled up the Audi to ensure that when he arrived in early-morning Ireland he had a full tank for his journey. Then he made his way to the ferry, showing his ticket at the kiosk and collecting his boarding pass. The route took him through the customs shed, and a police officer stepped from the shadows and beckoned him to stop. Ben did so and wound down the window.

“British passport, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Straight ahead.” The officer did not ask to see it.

Outside the ferry-port shop a line of half a dozen early arrivals waited in their cars. But Ben got out and went inside to buy a cup of coffee. But he did not linger. He tipped in a couple of small packets of sugar, stirred, and returned to the car, where he sat and sipped, and contemplated the world that lay ahead of him.

At 0210 they called the drivers forward, and, in a long, snaking line, they made their way a half mile along the dock, with the harbor waters to their right and the streetlights of Fishguard high above to the east. Seamen ordered each of the 27 cars into a designated place, deep in the hold, balancing the weight on the port and starboard sides of the nine-deck-high ferry.

The trucks boarded ten minutes later, by which time Commander Adnam had made his way, following the signs, to the executive lounge up on deck eight. It was warm, deserted, and comfortably furnished. He sank into an armchair and drifted off to sleep before he even had time to remove his coat. He did not stir until the ship was under way, reversing out of its berth, then moving forward, to the north, around the long harbor wall into the easterly waters of the Irish Sea. Subconsciously Ben could tell they were just leaving. He could easily pick up the changing beats of the engines, as the
Beatrix
settled onto her westerly course, running through the sheltered waters, with the rugged, towering cliffs of the wave-washed coast of Pembrokeshire a mile off their port beam.

He sensed that the rain had stopped, and he walked out onto the windswept upper deck, staring over the rail at the strange moonlit coast of Wales, feeling again the old familiar rise of the ocean beneath the keel. He had already studied the route on a map he bought in Scotland, and he leaned forward on the rail, peering into the darkness for the lights of perhaps another ship.

But that part of the Irish Sea was deserted. And he waited alone, watching for the flashing light of the lighthouse on Strumble Head, which he knew was the end of the land, the point where the giant ferry would enter the rough open waters of St. George’s Channel, where the great Atlantic swells roll in from the southwest.

He felt the waters before he saw the light, felt the angle of the ship increase just slightly as she pitched slowly forward, then rose with the wave, hesitating, then angling down, the foam white spray slashing out wide from a great curl of water off her bow, as she drove her way westward.

Now he could see the light on Strumble Head. Four short flashes, then a seven-second gap, and four more.

The commander walked back inside, feeling, curiously less tense than he had all day. The feeling of the open sea, where he was used to being the acknowledged master, had a calming effect. It was, he understood, home. The only home he had ever had. And, possibly, the only home he ever would have.

He sank back into the armchair and closed his eyes. Sleep engulfed him immediately and when he next awakened it was a little after 0530. Along the wide companionway at the end of his lounge was a big right-angled ship’s bar that served alcohol, soft drinks, coffee, and biscuits. A few passengers were scattered, mostly sleeping, at various tables. No one was speaking.

Ben strolled along and sat at one of the high barstools, and ordered black coffee and a small package of shortbread, which had a Scottish tartan emblem on the wrapper. He remembered them from Faslane, and he munched them slowly, thinking again of his days training with the young British submarine officers at Commanding Officers’ Qualifying, all of them under the all-seeing but fair eye of the young Commander MacLean, the Teacher. He smiled despite himself, despite everything.

Five more minutes went by before his daydreams were interrupted. An unshaven young man, no more than nineteen, dressed in a cheap, black-leather jacket, jeans, and running shoes, came and sat one stool away and ordered a pint of Guinness. Except that he just said, “stout,” pronouncing it “stoht,” but the barmen knew what he meant, and, slowly allowing the creamy head to settle, placed the glass of jet-black Irish nectar before the young man.