H.M.S. Unseen

long as the sun rose dead ahead, he was on the right bearing.

Eilat intended to walk until dawn, until he could see the watery landscape. That meant eleven hours, including three stops, and he expected to cover close to 25 miles in the long humid night. He knew that the moon, sixteen days after it was full, would be no help at all. And he must take care not to walk over the edge of the path, into the swamp. But he was a man with excellent night vision.

Unsurprisingly, he met no one throughout the walking hours. The waters were low at that time of the year, and many of the nomadic buffalo herders had moved to the rivers. Occasionally, Eilat would spot the dim lights of a small cluster of houses set on poles above the water—sarifas, with their ornate latticework entrances. Outside in the shadows, moored in the high reeds, he could see the long, slender poling canoes — the mashufs, which are just about the only boat that can operate efficiently in the long lagoons and shallow lakes. Not many designs hold up for 6,000 years.

When the sun rose, dead ahead, thankfully for Eilat, he was seven miles short of Iran. The causeway he now walked was wide and firm. For it was along here in September of 1980 that the great armored division of Saddam’s army had mounted its opening attack on Iraq’s Persian neighbors, roaring through to the old capital of the border province of Khuzestan — the city of Ahvaz, to which Eilat was headed.

However, a patrolled frontier lay directly ahead, and the former Iraqi Intelligence officer had no wish to cross swords again with forces of the government of Iraq, or indeed Iran. He had an Iranian passport, but he nonetheless elected to lie low all day, then make his crossing by night, heading for the tiny border town of Taq-e Bostan. He ventured no closer in the daylight hours and finally made his move at 11:00 P.M. Two hours and forty-five minutes later, in the small hours of July 14 in the year 2004, he slipped into the Islamic Republic of Iran, crossing illegally the unseen line dividing two of the world’s most implacable enemies.

He was still in the marsh, but soon the land would rise and become drier. Ahvaz was 60 miles distant, with two towns along the way, Taq-e Bostan and Susangerd, where he could eat and find water. Ahvaz was more appealing. He had arranged to pick up a letter there, and he could purchase new clothes, Iranian dress, find a decent meal, and board the train for the long journey to Isfahan, almost 500 miles away across the great range of the Zagros.

It was eight o’clock on the evening of July 17. Directly to the south of where he walked, Eilat could see clearly the bright lights of the sprawling industrial city three miles away. All along the north side of Ahvaz were huge oil refineries, burning off excess gases twenty-four hours a day. These towering beacons lit up the city permanently. It never got really dark in Ahvaz.

Eilat changed back into his Western clothes a half mile from the city’s boundary. He dumped his Arab robes and bag, and strolled up to the main square, Meidun-e Shohada. From there he 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 gold-domed Astane, built over four hundred years ago in honor of the Imam Reza’s sister Fateme, who died in 816. Non-Muslims are not even admitted to the hotels around this shrine, and photography in any form is absolutely forbidden. Ayatollah Khomeini studied there for fifteen years under the legendary Muslim theologian Shayk Abdul-Karim Ha’eri.

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