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 correc
t.”
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.”
“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. An
d 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.”
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