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.
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.
The villagers didn’t move until the car was out of sight.
General Hamil swung aro
und, angry that anyone had dared to enter his office without knocking. His ADC came to a halt in front of his desk. He was shaking, only too aware of the mistake he had made. The General raised his swagger stick and was about to strike the young officer across the face when he bleated out, “We’ve discovered the village that the traitor Aziz Zeebari comes from, General.”
Hamil lowered his arm slowly until the swagger stick came to rest on the officer’s right shoulder. The tip pushed forward until it was about an inch away from the ball of his right eye.
“Where?”
“Khan Beni Saad,” said the young man in terror.
“Show me.”
The Lieutenant ran over to the map, studied it for a few moments and then placed a finger on a village about ten miles north of Baghdad.
General Hamil stared at the spot and smiled for the first time that day. He returned to his desk, picked up the phone and barked out an order.
Within an hour, hundreds of troops would be swarming all over the little village.
Even if Khan Beni Saad did only have a population of 250, the General felt confident someone would talk, however young.
Aziz was able to keep up a steady thirty miles per hour while Scott tried to work out where they were on the map. He couldn’t pinpoint their exact location until they had been driving for nearly an hour, when they came across a crude handpainted signpost lying in the road that read “Khalis 25km.”
“Keep going for now,” said Scott. “But we’ll have to stop a couple of miles outside town so I can figure out how we get past the checkpoint.”
Scott’s confidence in the old chief’s judgment that there would be no army vehicles on that road was growing with every mile of flat desert road they covered. He continued to study the map carefully, now certain of the route that would have to be taken if they still hoped to cross the border that day.
“So what do we do when we reach the checkpoint?” asked Cohen.
“Maybe it’ll be easier than we think,” said Scott. “Don’t forget, they’re looking for four people in a massive army truck.”
“But we are four people.”
“We won’t be by the time we reach the checkpoint,” explained Scott, “because by then you and I will be in the trunk.”
Cohen scowled.
“Just be thankful it’s a Caddy,” said Aziz, grinning as he tried to maintain the steady speed.
“Perhaps I should take over the wheel now,” said Cohen.
“Not here,” said Scott. “While we’re on these roads, Aziz stays put.”
It was Hannah who saw her first. “What the hell does she think she’s up to?” she said, pointing to a woman who had jumped out into the middle of the road and was waving her arms excitedly.
Scott gripped the side of the window ledge as Cohen leaned forward to get a clearer view.
“Don’t stop,” said Scott. “Swerve around her if you have to.” Suddenly Aziz began laughing.
“What’s so funny, Kurd?” asked Cohen, keeping his eyes fixed on the woman, who remained determinedly in the middle of the road.
“It’s only my cousin Jasmin.”
“Another cousin?” said Hannah.
“We are all cousins in my tribe,” Aziz explained as he brought the Cadillac to a halt in front of her. He leaped out of the car and threw his arms around the young woman, as the others joined them.
“Not bad,” said Cohen when he was finally introduced to cousin Jasmin, who hadn’t stopped talking even when she shook hands with Scott and Hannah.
“So what’s she jabbering on about, then?” demanded Cohen, before Aziz had been given the chance to translate his cousin’s words.
“It seems the professor was right. The soldiers have been warned to look out for an army truck being driven by four terrorists. But her uncle had already been in touch this morning to warn her we’d be in the Cadillac.”
“Then it must be a hell of a risk to try and get past them,” said Hannah.
“A risk,” agreed Aziz, “but not a hell of a risk. Jasmin crosses this checkpoint twice a day, every day, to sell oranges, tangerines and dates from our village. So she’s well known to them, and so is my uncle’s car. My uncle says she must be in the Cadillac when we go through the checkpoint. That way they won’t be suspicious.”
“But if they decide to search the trunk?”
“Then they won’t get their daily ration of cigarettes or fruit for their families, will they? You see, they all take it for granted we must be smuggling something.”
Jasmin started chattering again and Aziz listened dutifully. “She says you must all climb into the trunk before someone passing spots us.”
“It’s still a hell of a risk, Professor,” said Cohen.
“It’s just as big a risk for Jasmin,” said Scott, “and I don’t see any other route.” He folded up the map, walked around to the back of the car, opened the trunk and climbed in. Hannah and Cohen followed without another word.
“Not as comfortable as the safe,” remarked Hannah as she put her arms around Scott. Aziz wedged the bag between her and Cohen. Hannah laughed.
“One bang on the side of the door,” said Aziz, “and I’ll be stopping at the checkpoint.”
He slammed down the trunk. Jasmin grabbed her bags from the side of the road and jumped in next to her cousin.
The three of them in the trunk heard the engine splutter into action and begin its more stately progress over the last few miles towards Khalis. Jasmin used the time to brief Aziz on her routine whenever she crossed the checkpoint.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The chief was hanged first. Then his brothers, one by one, in front of the rest of the village, but none of them uttered a word. Then they moved on to his cousins, until a twelve-year-old girl, who hoped to save her father’s life, told them about the strangers who had stayed in the chief’s house the previous night.
They promised the little girl that her father would be saved if she told them everything she knew. She pointed out into the desert to show them where they had buried the truck. Twenty minutes of digging by the soldiers and they were able to confirm that she was telling the truth.
They contacted General Hamil by field phone. He found it hard to believe that thirty of the Zeebari tribe had taken the chief’s Cadillac to pieces and carried it bit by bit across the open desert.
“Oh, yes,” the little girl assured them. “I know it’s true because my brother carried one of the wheels all the way to the road on the other side of the desert,” she declared, pointing proudly towards the horizon.
General Hamil listened carefully to the information over the phone before ordering that the girl’s father and brother should also be hanged.
He returned to the map on the wall and quickly pinpointed the only possible road they could have taken. His eye moved along the path across a stretch of desert until it joined another winding road, and then he realized which town they would have to pass through.
He looked at the clock on his desk: 4:39. “Get me the checkpoint at Khalis,” he instructed the young Lieutenant.
Aziz saw a stationary van in the distance being inspected by a soldier. Jasmin warned him it was the checkpoint and tipped out the contents of one of her bags onto the seat between them.
Aziz banged on the side of his door, relieved to see there were only two soldiers in sight, and that one of them was sleeping in a comfortable old chair on the other side of the road.
When the car came to a halt Scott could hear laughter coming from somewhere. Aziz passed a pack of Rothmans to the guard.
The soldier was just about to wave them through when the other guard stirred from his drowsy slumber like a cat who had been resting for hours on a radiator. He pushed himself up, moved slowly towards the car and looked over it with admiration, as he had done many times before. He began to stroll around it. As he passed the trunk he gave it a loving slap with the palm of his hand. It flicked open a few inches. Scott pulled it gently closed as Jasmin dropped a
carton of two hundred Rothmans on the ground by her side of the car.
The border guard moved quickly for the first time that day. Jasmin gave him a smile as he retrieved the cigarettes, and whispered something in his ear. The soldier looked at Aziz and started laughing, as a large truck stacked with crates of beer came to a halt behind them.
“Move on, move on,” shouted the first soldier, as the sight of greater rewards caught his eye. Aziz quickly obeyed and lurched forward in second gear, nearly throwing Cohen and the holdall out of the back.
“What did you say to that soldier?” asked Aziz once they were out of earshot.
“I told him you were gay, but I would be returning on my own later.”
“Have you no family pride?” asked Aziz.
“Certainly,” said Jasmin. “But he is also a cousin.”
On Jasmin’s advice, Aziz took the longer southern route around the town. He was unable to avoid all the potholes, and from time to time he heard groans coming from the trunk. Jasmin pointed to a junction ahead of them and told Aziz that that was where he should stop. She gathered up her bags, leaving some fruit on the seat between them. Aziz came to a halt by a road that led back into the center of the town. Jasmin jumped out, smiled and waved. Aziz waved back, and wondered when he would see his cousin again.
He drove on alone to the far side of the town, still unable to risk letting his colleagues out of the trunk while the few locals around could observe what was going on.