Honor Among Thieves

“Few people realize,” he continued, “that Mossad has an Arab section, not large in numbers, but once we’ve trained them, only the Gurkhas make better killers. The test will be if you can spot which one he is.”

“How many are coming over the border with us?”

“Only two. We can’t afford to make it look like an army. One engineer and a driver. At least, that’s how they’ll be described on the manifest, but they only have one job description as far as I’m concerned, and that’s to get you into Baghdad and back out with the Declaration in the shortest possible time.”

Scott looked straight ahead of him. “And Hannah?” he said simply.

“That would be a bonus if we got lucky, but it’s not part of my brief. I consider the chances of your even seeing her are remote,” he said as they passed a “Welcome to Stockholm” sign.

Scott began thumping Bertha’s bible up and down on his knees. “Careful with that,” said Kratz. “It still needs to be translated, otherwise you won’t know how to go about a proper introduction to the lady. After all, it will only be your palm and your voice she’ll be opening her heart to.”

Scott glanced down at the 108-page book and wondered how long it would take him to master its secrets, even after it had been translated into English.

Kratz suddenly swung right without warning and drove down a deserted street that ran parallel to a disused railway line. All Scott could see ahead of him was a tunnel that looked as if it led nowhere.

When he was a hundred yards from the entrance, Kratz checked in his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following them. Satisfied they were alone, he flashed his headlights three times. A second later, from what appeared to be the other end of a black hole, he received the same response. He slowed down and drove into the tunnel without his lights on. All Scott could now see was a flashlight indicating where they should pull up.

Kratz followed the light and came to a halt in front of what appeared to be an old army truck. It was stationed just inside the far end of the tunnel.

He jumped out of the car and Scott quickly followed, trying to accustom himself to the half light. Then he saw three men standing on each side of the vehicle. The man nearest them came to attention and saluted. “Good morning, Colonel,” he said.

“Put your men at ease, Feldman, and come and meet Professor Bradley,” said Kratz. Scott almost laughed at the use of his academic title among these men, but there were no smiles on the faces of the six soldiers who came forward to meet him.

After Scott had shaken hands with each of them he took a walk around the truck. “Do you really believe this old heap is capable of carrying Madame Bertha to Baghdad?” he asked Kratz in disbelief.

“Sergeant Cohen.”

“Sir,” said a voice in the dark.

“You’re the trained mechanic. Why don’t you brief Professor Bradley?”

“Yes, sir.” Another figure appeared out of the gloom. Scott couldn’t see his features clearly, as he was covered in grease, but from his accent he would have guessed he had spent most of his life in London. “The Heavy Expanded Mobile Tactical Truck was built in Wisconsin, sir. She has five gears, four forward, one reverse. She can be used on all terrains in most weather conditions in virtually any country. She weighs twenty tons and can carry up to ten tons, but with that weight on board you cannot risk driving over thirty miles per hour. Any higher than that and she would be impossible to stop, even though if pushed she can top 120 miles per hour.”

“Thank you, Cohen. A useful piece of equipment, I think you’ll agree,” said Kratz, looking back at Scott. “We’ve wanted one of these for years, and then suddenly you arrive on the scene and Uncle Sam offers us the prototype model overnight. But then, at a cost of nearly a million dollars of taxpayers’ money, you’d expect the Americans to be choosy about who they loan one out to.”

“Would you care to join us for lunch, Professor?” asked the man who had been introduced as Feldman.

“Don’t tell me the HEMTT cooks as well,” said Scott.

“No, sir, we have to rely on the Kurd for that. Aziz’s speciality is hamburger and French fries. If you’ve never had the experience before, it can be quite tasty.”

The eight of them sat cross-legged on the ground, using the reverse side of a backgammon board as a table. Scott couldn’t remember enjoying a burned hamburger more. He was also glad of the chance to chat with the men he would be working with on the operation. Kratz began to talk through the different contingency plans they would have to consider once they had reached the Jordan-Iraq border. It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Scott to realize how professional these men were, or to see their desire to be part of the final team. He grew confident that the operation was in good hands, and that Kratz’s team had not been chosen at random.

After a third hamburger he was sorry when the Mossad Colonel reminded him he had a flight to catch. He rose and thanked the cook for a memorable meal.

“See you in Jordan, sir,” said Sergeant Cohen.

“See you in Jordan,” said Scott.

As Scott was being driven to the airport, he asked Kratz, “How are you going to select the final two?”

“They’ll decide for themselves. Nothing to do with me, I’m only their commanding officer.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re going to play round-robin backgammon on the way to Jordan. The two winners get a day trip to Baghdad, all expenses paid.”

“And the losers?”