Honor Among Thieves

Scott grasped the handle and pulled. The ton of steel eased open.

“Not bad,” said Cohen. “What do you do for an encore?”

“Use you as a guinea pig,” said Scott. “Why don’t you try and close the safe, Sergeant?”

Cohen took a step forward and with both hands shoved the door closed. The three bulbs immediately began flashing red.

“Easy, once you get the hang of it,” he said.

Scott smiled and pulled the door back open with his little finger. Cohen stared open-mouthed as the lights returned to green.

“The lights might flash red,” said Scott, “but Bertha can only handle one man at a time. No one else can open or close the safe now except me.”

“And I was hoping it was because he was a Jew,” said Aziz.

Scott smiled as he pushed the door of the safe closed, swiveled the dials and waited until all three bulbs turned red.

“Let’s go,” said Kratz, who Scott felt sounded a little irritated—or was it just the first sign of tension? Aziz threw the tarpaulin back over Madame Bertha while his colleagues jumped over the side and returned to the cab.

No one spoke as they continued their journey to the border until Cohen let out a string of expletives when he spotted the line of trucks ahead of them. “We’re going to be here all night,” he said.

“And most of tomorrow morning, I expect,” said Kratz. “So we’d better get used to it.” They came to a halt behind the last truck in the line.

“Why don’t I just drive on up front and try to bluff my way through?” said Cohen. “A few extra dollars ought to…”

“No,” said Kratz. “We don’t want to attract undue attention at any time between now and when we cross back over that border.”

During the next hour, while the truck moved forward only a couple of hundred yards, Kratz went over his plans yet again, covering any situation he thought might arise once they reached Baghdad.

Another hour passed, and Scott was thankful for the evening breeze that helped him doze off, although he realized that he would soon have to roll the window up if he wished to avoid freezing. He began to drift into a light sleep, his mind switching between Hannah and the Declaration, and which, given the choice, he would rather bring home. He realized that Kratz was in no doubt why he had volunteered to join the team when the chances of survival were so slim.

“What’s this joker up to then?” said Cohen in a stage whisper. Scott snapped awake and quickly focused on a uniformed official talking to the driver of the truck in front of them.

“It’s a customs official,” said Kratz. “He’s only checking to see that drivers have the right papers to cross the border.”

“Most of this lot will only have two little bits of red paper about five inches by three,” said Cohen.

“Here he comes,” said Kratz. “Try and look as bored as he does.”

The officer strolled up to the cab and didn’t even give Cohen a first look as he thrust a hand through the open window.

Cohen passed over the papers that the experts at Langley had provided. The official studied them and then walked slowly around the truck. When he returned to the driver’s side, he barked an order at Cohen that none of them understood.

Cohen looked towards Kratz, but a voice from behind rescued them.

“He says we’re to go to the front of the line.”

“Why?” asked Kratz suspiciously. Aziz repeated the question to the official.

“We’re being given priority because of the letter signed by Saddam.”

“And who do we thank for that?” asked Kratz, still not fully convinced.

“Bill O’Reilly,” said Scott, “who was only too sorry he couldn’t join us on the trip. But he’s been given to understand that it’s quite impossible to get draft Guinness anywhere in Iraq.”

Kratz nodded, and Sergeant Cohen obeyed the official’s instructions, allowing himself to be directed into the lane of oncoming traffic as he began an unsteady two-mile journey to the front of the line. Vehicles legally progressing towards Amman on the other side of the road found they had to swerve onto the loose rubble of the hard shoulder if they didn’t want a head-on collision with Madame Bertha.

As Cohen completed the last few yards to the border post, an angry official came running out of the customs shed waving a fist. Once again it was Aziz who came to their rescue, by recommending that Kratz show him the letter.