H.M.S. Unseen Read Free Page A

frenzied head-shaking, two-footed kicking, and muffled screams of the man who still lived. But when he returned he was once more carrying the knife.
    Again he leaned over, careful to avoid getting blood on his suit, and placed the sharp tip of the weapon firmly against the assassin’s neck. And now he spoke with a hard edge to his voice. “If you want to live, you will tell me precisely who sent you, you will tell me precisely who issued your orders, and from where they came. You will speak softly when I remove the tape on your mouth. If I suspect a lie, you’ll be off to join your colleague. If you speak too loudly, you’ll meet him even quicker. It takes about eight minutes, you know.”
    With his left hand, he slowly ripped the tape-gag from the man’s lips. Then with his right, he pressed the knife harder into the neck, without making a cut, and said,: “Speak, softly and truthfully.”
    “President, sir. He ordered it,” he blurted. Trembling uncontrollably, gibbering, and begging, he poured the facts out. “Nossir…please don’t kill me…I have wife…children, please not, sir…yes, President…he tell my boss…I saw you in the office today…the man you kill on top of me was one of your escorts…yessir…President…yessir…he say you die after midnight…quietly…please, sir…please don’t kill me…I had no choice but to obey.”
    Eilat removed the knife and stuck a new piece of tape hard across the man’s mouth. Then he walked back into the main room and took from a drawer three passports and some documents from a travel agent. He straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and moved back into the hall, putting the passports and documents on the table by the water pitcher, in plain view of the blood-soaked, but still-living, assassin.
    He went into the bathroom and collected his shaving gear, toothpaste, and soap, and reemerged holding a small smart-looking leather case. Then he turned out all the lights and sat quietly in the dark for fifteen minutes while the irises in his dark eyes slowly grew larger, restoring his night vision. Eventually he stood up, and said casually, “Well, I’m going now. And I won’t be back for a while…rather a long journey…I expect they’ll send someone for you in a few hours…By the way, you don’t have a lookout posted in the alley, do you? Don’t lie to me, because if I have to kill him, I’ll return immediately to this room and kill you.”
    He felt the man shake his head feverishly. “Very well, old chap,” said Eilat. “I expect you won’t want to see me again. Nor will you, unless, of course, you have lied to me.”
    The petrified palace guard nodded firmly. Eilat stepped out into the courtyard and swiftly took off his suit, shirt, tie, and shoes. From a cloth bag behind the bicycle he produced old, soiled Arab robes, with a turban and leather-thong shoes. He stuffed his Western clothes into the sack and slung it over his shoulder. Then, adopting the stooped posture of an elderly man, he pushed the bike out into the alley and made his way, limping painfully, to the far end, away from Al-Jamouri Street.
    The disgustingly dirty little garret he had rented for more than a year was on the top floor of a small block of apartments, less than 50 yards from his house, on the same tiny street. Within moments, Eilat had left the bicycle in the downstairs hall and climbed the three flights of stairs.
    Once inside, he shaved his beard, leaving just a thick black moustache, and prepared his mind and person for his chosen new life—as a street peddler—which would see him plying his wares in Rashid’s copper and gold bazaars for at least the next month.
    During this time, the president’s security men would place an iron grip on every airport, seaport, bus and rail terminal in the country, while they tried to run down Iraq’s most wanted Intelligence officer. The one with the three passports.
    If they searched this land for a thousand years, mused Eilat,