Scott held his head in his hands and didn’t speak for some moments. “So if we took that route we would be committed to crossing the border at Kirkuk,” he eventually said. “Where both sides could prove to be unfriendly.”
The chief started tapping Kirkuk on the map with his finger while talking urgently to his nephew.
“My uncle says Kirkuk is our best chance. Most of the inhabitants are Kurdish and hate Saddam Hussein. Even the Iraqi soldiers have been known to defect and become Kurdish Peshmergas.”
“But how will they know which side we’re on?” asked Scott.
“My uncle will get a message to the Peshmergas, so that when you reach the border they will do everything they can to help you to cross it. It’s not an official border, but once you’re in Kurdistan you’ll be safe.”
“The Kurds sound like our best bet,” said Hannah, who had been listening intently. “Especially if they believe our original mission was to kill Saddam.”
“It might just work, sir,” said Cohen. “That is, if the car’s up to it.”
“You’re the mechanic, Cohen, so only you can tell us if it’s possible.”
Once Aziz had translated Scott’s words the chief rose to his feet and led them to the back of the house. He came to a halt beside a large oblong object covered by a black sheet. He and Aziz lifted off the cover. Scott couldn’t believe his eyes.
“A pink Caddy?” he said.
“A classic 1956 Sedan de Ville, to be exact, sir,” said Cohen, rubbing his hands with delight. He opened the long, heavy door and climbed behind the vast steering wheel. He pulled a lever under the dashboard and the hood flicked up. He got out, lifted the hood
and studied the engine for some minutes.
“Not bad,” he said. “If I can nick a few parts from the truck, I’ll give you a racing car within a couple of hours.”
Scott checked his watch. “I can only spare you an hour if we’re hoping to cross the border tonight.”
Scott and Hannah returned to the house and once again pored over the map. The road Aziz had recommended was roughly twelve miles away, but across terrain that would be hard going even if they were carrying nothing.
“It could take hours,” Scott said.
“What’s the alternative if we can’t use the highway?” asked Hannah.
While she and Scott continued working on the route and Cohen on the car, Aziz rounded up thirty of the strongest men in the village. At a few minutes past the hour, Cohen reappeared in the house, his hands, arms, face and hair covered in oil.
“It’s ready to be taken apart, Professor.”
“Well done. But we’ll have to get rid of the truck first,” said Scott as he rose from the table.
“That won’t be possible, sir,” said Cohen. “Not now that I’ve removed one or two of the best parts of its engine. That Cadillac should be able to do over a hundred miles per hour,” he said, with some pride. “In third gear.”
Scott laughed, and accompanied by Aziz went in search of the chief. Once again he explained the problem.
This time the chief’s face showed no anxiety. Aziz translated his thoughts. “‘Do not fear, my friend,’ he says. “While you are marching across the desert we will strip the truck and bury each piece in a place Saddam’s soldiers could never hope to discover in a thousand years.”
Scott looked apprehensive, but Aziz nodded his agreement. Without waiting for Scott’s opinion the chief led his nephew to the back of the house, where they found Cohen supervising the stripping of the Cadillac and the distribution of its pieces among the chosen thirty.
Four men were to carry the engine on a makeshift stretcher, and another six would lift the chrome body onto their shoulders like pallbearers. Four more each carried a wheel with its white-rimmed tire, while another four transported the chassis. Two held onto the red-and-white leather front seat, another two the back seat and one the dashboard. Cohen continued to distribute the remaining pieces of the Cadillac until he came to the back of the line, where three children who looked no more than ten or eleven were given responsibility for two five-gallon cans of gas and a tool bag. Only the roof was to be discarded.
Aziz’s uncle led his people to the last house in the village so he could watch his guests begin their journey towards the horizon.
Scott shook hands with the chief, but could find no words adequate to thank him. “Give me a call the next time you’re passing through New Haven,” was what he would have said to a fellow American.
“I will return in better times,” he told the old man, and Aziz translated.
“My people wait for that day.”
Scott turned to watch Cohen, compass in hand, leading his improbable platoon on what appeared likely to be an endless journey. He took one of the five-gallon cans from the smallest of the children, and pointed back towards the village, but the little boy shook his head and quickly grabbed Scott’s canvas bag.