H.M.S. Unseen (4 page)

The train waited in Qum for only a few minutes, and, four hours later, Eilat arrived in Isfahan, checked into the great, ornate Hotel Abbassi, and made his phone call. He agreed to meet the student he had called at 11:00
A.M.
, and together they would find the
hojjat.

Early the following morning Eilat purchased a soft leather traveling bag and some new, expensive robes in the Iranian style. He also bought a turban, new underwear, socks, and shirts, and laid siege to a city pharmacy, acquiring after-shave, toothpaste and toothbrush, shaving foam,
eau de cologne,
and expensive bath oil. On reflection, he decided, he was glad to be shut of the life of a traveling Bedouin peddler.

When he met the
talabeh
at the correct time in the hotel foyer, he was wearing the new robes and feeling clean and comfortable for the first time since the night he had dealt with the Iraqi government’s assassins, more than seven weeks ago. The new student was taller than he, a slim youth of just twenty-one, from Tehran, who walked along reading an open book, saying nothing whatsoever. Eilat saw no reason to disturb these theological ponderings and stayed just behind, taking in the sights of a place he had known only in Muslim folklore.

Isfahan was once the most glorious city in the Middle East, and it still contained the greatest concentration of Islamic buildings in Iran. Beautiful, translucent blue tiles decorated much of the architecture. Like most tourists, Eilat had never seen anything to match the ancient splendors of the city.

Eilat and his guide walked along winding streets, to Imam Khomeini Square, a majestic shop-lined area of 20 acres, right in the middle of the town, the second most dramatic urban square in the world, after Tiananmen. They crossed its entire length, and Eilat actually thought he had walked enough by now, and asked in Arabic how far to the meeting place.

“One more mile, sir,” replied the
talabeh.
And Eilat considered it would have been churlish to quibble since he had just walked more than 300 miles without a word of complaint.

They kept heading north for another fifteen minutes, and finally turned into the precincts of the Great Mosque of Isfahan, the
Masjed-e Jame,
a truly monumental building with its twin minarets towering over the pale blue-tiled exterior. This most glorious of mosques is unique for many reasons, particularly its unfathomable eleventh-century north dome, which is still regarded as a geometric miracle, and was designed using structural theories developed at that precise time in Isfahan by the eminent local mathematician and poet, Omar Khayyam.

Eilat and his guide entered from the east and walked across the great courtyard into the large covered area in the southeastern quadrant. It was cool in there, and some parts were in deep shade, almost darkness. Standing beside one of the ornate stucco pillars, his face completely hidden, was the
hojjat
whom Eilat had come to meet.

He did not move from the shadows, but did offer a formal greeting, and Eilat stepped forward to enfold the eminent cleric’s outstretched hand in both of his, in the ancient Muslim way. The
talabeh
was dismissed somewhat curtly, and the learned man moved swiftly to business. “It’s quiet in here, and private,” he said. “We will speak in Arabic. If that’s agreeable?”

“Perfectly,” replied Eilat. “How would you like me to begin?”

By now he could see the face of the
hojjat.
And it was the face of a masterful man. Even with the white turban, the high intelligent forehead was obvious. The mouth was thin and even, the dark eyes steady but alive. He might have been seventy years of age, but there was a youthfulness in his manner and an edge of wariness. Eilat would not have been surprised if the man had carried a revolver, as he himself carried his desert knife.

The holy man walked slowly between the great supports in the vaulted area, and the Iraqi fell into step with him. “Perhaps,” began the cleric, “you should begin by telling me why I, or any of my colleagues, should trust you.”

Eilat smiled. Then he said slowly, “In my line of work, there must always be some risk. But I am here to offer you my services for an extended period of time. I expect to be highly paid, because I have a unique service to offer. But you may feel I ought not to be paid until my tasks for you are complete.”

“That was not quite what I meant,” replied the
hojjat
. “I was asking, Why? Why should we listen to you? Who are you? How can we know you are not working for a foreign government? How can we know you are not an enemy of Iran? What proof have you that we should confide in you in any way at all?”

“Sir, I will tell you as much as I can without placing myself in more danger than I already am.”

“Very well, please do.”

“I have spent almost all of my working career operating on behalf of my government under deep cover in other countries. I have taken some very large risks, and I have occasionally struck a savage blow against the West on behalf of the Nation of Islam.”

“Are you a terrorist?”

“Nossir. I am always connected with the military.”

“Are you Syrian, or perhaps Libyan?”

“Nossir. I am an Iraqi.”

“And do you intend to return to Iraq should your mission for us be completed?”

Eilat elected to use a term of high respect, and he replied, “No, mullah. I will never return to Iraq. I would not be permitted to do that, except for them to kill me. And anyway, I hate Iraq. I would rather be dead than ever set foot in the place.”

“So would I,” replied the
hojjat. “
And what has happened to make you so bitter? What have they done to this loyal servant of Saddam’s regime who stands here with me today?”

“They presented me with a medal, sir, for my long, untiring efforts on their behalf. And that same night the President sent two of his palace guards to assassinate me.”

“I see they were not successful?”

“Nossir. They were not. But it was close. I had to kill one of them in order to escape.”

“Are you publicly wanted?”

“I do not believe so, sir. They would never admit anything like that. But I imagine you have sources in Baghdad. And I expect someone will confirm to you that Eilat One is missing, and wanted, and is believed to have left the country.”

“Do you have a valid passport that I can see?”

“I do. Iraqi and old. But for obvious reasons I have placed tape over my real name. I do not wish you to know that yet, but the photograph and other details are all accurate.”

“Very well. Might I ask you also whether you seek to engage in terrorist action against the U.S.A. and the West for fundamental reasons? Or, because you intend to carry out your attacks in such a way, the blame will surely be leveled at Iraq.”

Eilat was momentarily shaken by the directness of the question, and indeed by the acute observation of his interrogator. But he knew that to hesitate would be fatal. He replied instantly. “Both.”

The cleric walked slowly forward. But he was silent for more than a minute before he asked, “Have you ever attacked a target in the West in, shall we say, a high-profile way?”

“Yessir.”

“Do they search for you? Are you a man wanted not just in Iraq, but by nations all over the world?”

“I cannot say, sir. No one ever mentioned that I was wanted by the United States. But I should not be terribly surprised if I was. Although I have no idea whether they have any clue as to my identity.”

“I share that with them, of course.”

“Yessir.”

“Well, Eilat…I must tell you that I shall recommend that our source in Baghdad substantiate your story about your…er…demise in that country. Could you give me a time and date when it happened?”

“I could. In the early hours of May 27…the time was around two-fifteen.”

“How did the man die? What did you use?”

“Knife, sir. Throat.”

“Quieter…mmmm?”

“Exactly so, sir.”

“Any other details?”

“Yes. After a long manhunt, they were unsuccessful in finding me.”

“Very clever, Eilat.”

“Just professional.”

“Would you have any interest in telling me precisely what you intend to perpetrate against the Great Satan?”

“I should prefer not to. Unless I was in the presence of the man making the decision, and in the presence of the military commander with whom I would have to work.”

“I understand. But would you propose the targets be military ones?”

“Not necessarily.”

“On the question of Fundamentalism, would you say our religious beliefs are your prime reason for wishing to carry out such operations?”

“No. That was so when I was an idealist, serving my country abroad. But no longer. I have simply come to the realization that I know no other trade. It is all I have to sell. And every man has to earn a living. I believe my talent is valuable, and I see your country as a place that might use me in a way that would put Iraq in the worst possible light on the world stage. Especially in the Pentagon, which would be likely to move against them.”

“I do agree with you. The idea has considerable appeal for me personally, and I suspect it will have for several others as well.”

“Yessir. Might I ask who will make the final decision?”

“Oh, the Ayatollah himself. In association with one or two senior military commanders.”

“The fewer people who know the precise nature of the missions, the better.”

“Correct, Eilat. That is correct.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, pacing through the great stone vault in the southeastern corner of the mosque. Then the
hojjat
spoke again. ”Is there any further evidence available to us, that you are who you say you are?”

“Sir, I have written my address—the address in which the killing took place—on this piece of paper. I am sure you could send someone in to make inquiries. You will find bloodstains on the floor in the main hall, and you will find holes in the wood above the door where I attached a bracket to the wall. I expect my possessions have been removed.”

“Thank you, and yes, we will conduct those checks in Baghdad immediately…and if you are lying, we will, of course, not contact you again. If the checks are correct, as I suspect they will be, we will be in communication very quickly, because you obviously could prove extremely useful to us. Whether or not you are able to conduct the military operations you plan will be for others to decide. When and if you wish to divulge them.”

The two men shook hands as before, and Eilat walked back outside, where the student waited to escort him to the hotel. Instructions were succinct—remain in place until we contact you again in the next few days.”

At $80 a night in the Hotel Abbassi, I trust they’ll be quick,
he thought, as they strolled back through the vast expanse of Imam Khomeini Square.

The next three days passed slowly. Eilat spent his time sleeping and regaining the weight he had lost. And then, on the morning of July 23, the phone call came. It was from the young student guide, who said simply, “Please catch the noon train to Tehran. A room is booked for you at the Hotel Bolvar, under the name Mr. Eilat. You will be contacted this evening.” At which point he replaced the phone.

The train ran into Tehran on time, shortly before four in the afternoon. Eilat wore his Iranian robes and turban and carried his leather bag. He settled down in the modest room on the third floor to await his call. It came at 5:06. It was another theological student, who announced he was in the downstairs lobby, and would Mr. Eilat come down at once. There were important people waiting for him.

Outside the hotel an orange taxi was parked with its meter running. And in the heavy evening traffic, they wended their way, north through the city—straight up the Vali-ye Asr, the world’s longest urban road, lined with shops from the Tehran railway station on the shabby south side, all the way to the former Shah’s summer palace up in the select, rarefied hills of Shemiran, a distance of 16 miles.

Eilat’s taxi did not go that far. Instead it veered off to the right at Keshavarz Boulevard, past the Iraqi Embassy, and ducked into the Kheyabon area. From there it traveled less than 200 yards before stopping opposite an elegant city mosque. The
talabeh
paid the fare, and they walked down a narrow street beside the building, 50 yards to a white gate with a doorbell on the side. It was answered immediately, and Eilat was escorted into a shaded, completely walled courtyard, containing a slender date palm and a great awning of a tamarisk tree. A stone water fountain splashed quietly in the center, and beyond stood a tall house the color of sandstone, directly opposite the west entrance to the mosque.

The door to the house opened into a large, stone-floored hall, similar in design to that of Eilat’s former residence in Baghdad, except about three times larger. Seated on a heavy wooden chair, attended by two robed disciples, was an Ayatollah. He wore a black robe and a black turban, which contrasted with his white beard. Seated next to him was the
hojjat
who had first interviewed Eilat in the Great Mosque of Isfahan.

Both men rose as the Iraqi entered, and one of the disciples poured him water from a large, dark green ceramic jug, which Eilat estimated would hold about one and a half gallons. The
hojjat
made the introductions, and the Ayatollah offered his hand to his visitor.

“You caused a commotion in Baghdad,” remarked the
hojjat. “
We had your story checked by two sources, and one of them knew all about it without having to make even one inquiry. The other man was actually in Syria, but he telephoned back in five hours. Mentioned that Iraqi security forces are still watching all airports and seaports. They even have men on buses and trains, searching for the Intelligence officer who murdered a palace guard and fled with all his secrets.”

“I suppose no one mentioned the fact that two armed men entered my house at two in the morning, and on the admission of one of them, entered with intent to assassinate me? Direct orders from the President.”