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
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
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