H.M.S. Unseen Read Online Free PDF Page B

located the Hotel Bozorg-e Fajr, checked into the best room he could find, at $75 a night, immersed himself in a hot bath, and made one phone call. Then he persuaded a rather sullen room-service waiter to bring him sandwiches and coffee while he awaited the arrival of the talabeh, the young theological student who would take him to the meeting place.
    That took another forty-five minutes, and it was close to eleven o’clock before Eilat and his guide, a twenty-four-year-old bespectacled Iranian named Emami, left the hotel. They turned immediately west, walking quickly through the shadowy, still-busy streets. Ahvaz was a late-night city, and many shops and restaurants stayed open until after midnight, probably because of the endless twilight caused by the flaming oil beacons.
    But less than a mile from the main square, Ahvaz was very gloomy. The streets were like those of most industrial towns, poor and dirty, and made even more melancholy by the proximity of the factories and refineries, in which most men worked. The heat was oppressive, and the smell of oil pervaded the atmosphere.
    They turned onto a small, deserted square, surrounded on three sides by high, dark walls, and the young talabeh led the way to a tall, wooden gateway. He tapped softly, twice, then said quietly, “Eilat,” before tapping twice more. The gate was opened by a guard, who led them across a courtyard and into a small house, situated behind an unprepossessing city mosque. Inside stood a tall, elderly cleric, dressed in the long dark robe of his calling, wearing a white turban. Eilat knew that as an Iraqi Sunni Muslim, he would have some adjustments to make. Standing before the Iranian Shiite, he raised his left hand to his forehead and lowered it in the traditional greeting of Islam, “ Salam aleikum.”
    The Iranian wasted little time. He nodded, and said, in Arabic, “Your suggestions have aroused curiosity in certain places. The hojjat-el-Islam will see you in Isfahan. I will give you a letter of introduction, with a phone number. You should call it, and a student will take you to him. You must explain everything to him. But it is better that you leave now. The train departs at eight in the morning. You must sleep. Allah go with you.”
    Eilat bowed again and took the letter that was handed to him. He offered his thanks and followed his student guide back across the courtyard and through the gate to the square. Fifteen minutes later he was in the hotel, in bed by midnight. And before he slept he assessed his progress. Out of Iraq. Good. Into Iran. Satisfactory so far. But will they listen, before they kill me? It’s beginning to look as if they might…
    The following morning, after a deep six-hour sleep, he rose early, badgered the hotel staff for tea, bathed, shaved, and wished to hell he had a clean shirt. But that would have to wait. He had someone call a cab to take him to the railway station, and there he bought himself a first-class ticket to Isfahan, for which he paid in cash. The journey would take twelve hours, with a stop at Qum. Iranian trains are fast, and the first-class section was comprised of comfortable compartments for four passengers. The seats could be converted into beds at night, and the guard came around often, taking orders for meals and tea.
    Eilat’s compartment was otherwise empty, and the train pulled out of Ahvaz only ten minutes late, heading north across the southwestern desert, 70 miles to the town of Dezful. From there, they climbed into the high peaks of the Zagros, steaming through rough but often spectacular country along the route to the mountain town of Arak, a religious center in which, in 1920, the young Ayatollah Khomeini began his theological studies.
    Arak was almost the halfway point, and Eilat’s train pulled in at two o’clock. From here it was a fast downhill run of almost 100 miles to the sacred Shiite city of Qum, a place where non-Muslims are banned from entering the holy shrine of the