Honor Among Thieves

Would history ever reveal this particular mode of transport for the Declaration of Independence, Scott wondered, as Cohen shouted “Forward!”

General Hamil continued to pace around his office, as he waited for the phone to ring.

When Saddam had learned the news of Major Saeed’s incompetence in allowing the terrorists to escape with the Declaration, he was only furious that he had not been able personally to end the man’s life.

The only order he had given the General was that a message should be put out on state radio and television stations hourly, stating that there had been an attempt on his life which had failed, but that the Zionist terrorists were still at large. Full descriptions of the would-be assassins were given, and he asked his beloved countrymen to help him in his quest to hunt down the infidels.

Had the matter been less urgent, the General would have counseled against releasing such information, on the grounds that most of those who came across the terrorists might want to help them, or at best turn a blind eye. The only advice he did give his leader was to suggest that a large reward should be offered for their capture. Enlightened self-interest, he had found, could so often overcome almost any scruples.

The General came to a halt in front of a map pinned to the wall behind his desk, temporarily covering a portrait of Saddam. His eye passed down the many thin red lines that wriggled between Baghdad and Iraq’s borders. There were a hundred villages on both sides of every one of the roads, and the General was painfully aware that most of them would be only too happy to harbor the fugitives.

And then he recalled one of the names Kratz had given him. Aziz Zeebari—a common enough name, yet it had been nagging at him the whole morning.

“Aziz Zeebari, Aziz Zeebari, Aziz Zeebari,” he repeated. And then he remembered. He had executed a man of that name who had been involved in an attempted coup against Saddam about seven years before. Could it possibly have been the traitor’s father?

The load bearers halted every fifteen minutes to rest, change responsibilities and place the strain on yet-untested muscles. “Pit stops,” Cohen called them. They managed two miles in the first hour, and between them drank far more water than any car would have devoured.

When Scott checked his watch at midday, he estimated that they had only covered a little over two-thirds of the distance to the road: it had been a long time since they had lost sight of the village and there was still no sign of life on the horizon. The sun beat down as they continued their journey, the pace slowing with each mile.

It was the eyes of a ten-year-old child that were the first to see any movement. He ran to the front and pointed. Scott could see nothing as the little boy jogged ahead, and it was to be another forty minutes before they could all clearly see the dusty road. The sight made them quicken their pace.

Once they reached the side of the road, Aziz gave the order that the pieces of the car should be lowered gently to the ground, and a little girl, who Scott hadn’t noticed before, handed out bread, goats’ cheese and water while they rested.

Cohen was the first up and began walking around his platoon, checking on the various pieces. By the time he had returned to the chassis, they were all impatient to put the car together again.

Scott sat on the ground and watched as thirty untrained mechanics, under the direction of Sergeant Cohen, slowly bolted the old Cadillac together piece by piece. When the last wheel had been screwed on, Scott had to admit it looked like a car, but wondered if the old veteran would ever be able to start.

All the villagers surrounded the massive pink vehicle as Cohen sat in the driver’s seat.

Aziz waited until the children had emptied their last drop of gas into the tank. He then screwed on the big steel cap and shouted, “Go for it!”

Cohen turned the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over slowly, but wouldn’t catch. Cohen leaped out, lifted the hood and asked Aziz to take his place behind the wheel. He made a slight readjustment to the fan belt, checked the distributor and cleaned the spark plugs of the last few remaining grains of sand before screwing them in tightly. He stuck his head out from under the hood.

“Have a go, Kurd.”

Aziz turned the key and pressed the accelerator. The engine turned over a little more quickly but still didn’t want to start. Sixty eyes stared beneath the hood, but offered no advice as Cohen spent several more minutes working on the distributor head.

“Once again, and give it more throttle!” he shouted. Aziz switched on the ignition. The chug became a churn, and then suddenly a roar as Aziz pressed the accelerator—a noise only exceeded by the cheers of the villagers.

Cohen took Aziz’s place in the front and lifted the gear shift on the steering column up into first. But the car refused to budge, as the wheels spun around and it bedded itself deeper and deeper into the sand. Cohen turned off the engine and jumped out. Sixty hands were flattened against the body as it was rocked back and forth, and then, with one great shove, it was eased out of its deep trough. The villagers pushed it a further twenty yards and then waited for the Sergeant’s next order.

Cohen pointed to the little girl who had distributed the food. She came shyly forward and he lifted her into the front of the car. With sign language, Cohen instructed her to kneel by the accelerator pedal and press down. Without getting into the car, Cohen leaned across, checked that the gears were in neutral and switched on the engine. The little girl continued to push down on the accelerator with both hands, and the engine revved into action. She immediately burst into tears, as the villagers cheered even louder. Cohen quickly lifted the little girl out onto the sand and then beckoned to Aziz.

“You’re about half my weight, mate, so get in, put it into first gear and see if you can keep it going for about a hundred yards. If you can, we’ll all jump in. If you can’t, we’ll have to push the bloody thing all the way to the border.”

Aziz stepped gingerly into the Cadillac. Sitting on the edge of the leather seat he gently lifted the lever into first gear and pressed down on the accelerator. The car inched forward and the villagers began to cheer again as Scott, Hannah and Cohen ran along beside it.

Hannah opened the passenger door, pushed the seat forward and jumped into the back, as the car continued at its slow pace. Cohen leaped in after her and shouted, “Second gear!”

Aziz pulled the lever down, across and up. The car lurched forward.

“That’s third, you stupid Kurd!” shouted Cohen. He turned to see Scott running almost flat out. Cohen reached across to hold the door open as Scott threw his bag into the back. Scott leaped in and Cohen grabbed him around the shoulders. Scott’s head landed in Aziz’s lap, but although the Kurd swerved the car still kept going on the firmer sand. Aziz continued swinging the car from side to side to avoid the mounds of sand that had blown onto the road.

“I can see why there aren’t likely to be any army patrols on this road,” was Cohen’s only comment.

Scott turned back to see the villagers waving frantically. Returning their wave seemed inadequate after all they had done. He hadn’t thanked them properly or even said goodbye.