Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Right then, we’d better get you home, Professor, hadn’t we?” said Cohen. “Aziz will take over while we’re in his neck of the woods.” He jumped out of the cab and the Kurd came running around to take his place behind the wheel. Once Cohen had clambered over the tailgate, he banged the roof of the truck and Aziz switched the engine on.

  They accelerated around the courtyard, drove straight through the barrier and out onto Victory Square. The only other vehicles to be seen had long since been abandoned, and there was no sign of anyone on the streets.

  “The area has been cleared for three miles in every direction, so it will be a little time before we come across anything,” Aziz said as he turned left into Kindi Street. He quickly moved the truck up to sixty miles per hour, a speed only Saddam had ever experienced before on that particular road.

  “I’m going to take the old Baquba Road out of the city, traveling through the areas where we’re least likely to see any sign of the military,” explained Aziz as he passed the fountain made famous by Ali Baba. “I’m still hoping to reach the highway out of Baghdad within the magic two hours.”

  Aziz took a sudden right, switching gears but hardly losing any speed as he continued through what gave every impression of being a ghost town. Scott looked up at the sun as they crossed a bridge over the Tigris; in an hour or so it would have disappeared behind the highest buildings, and their chances of remaining undetected would greatly improve.

  Aziz swung past Karmel Junblat University and into Jamila Street. There were still no people on the roads or sidewalks, and Scott felt that if anyone did see them now they would assume they were part of an army unit on patrol.

  It was Hannah who spotted the first person: an old man, bent double, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk as if nothing in particular had taken place. They drove past him at sixty miles per hour, but he didn’t even look up.

  Aziz swung into the next road and found himself facing a group of young looters carrying off televisions and electronic equipment. They scattered when they saw the truck. Around the next corner there were more looters, but still no sign of police or soldiers.

  When Aziz spotted the first dark-green uniforms he swerved quickly right, down a side street that on any other Wednesday would have been packed with shoppers and where a vehicle would have been lucky to average more than five miles per hour. But today Aziz managed to keep the speedometer above fifty. He turned right again, and they saw some of the first of the locals who had ventured back onto the streets. Once they had reached the end of the road, Aziz was able to join the main thoroughfare out of Baghdad. The traffic was still light.

  Aziz eased the truck across into the outside lane, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds and complying with the speed limit of fifty miles per hour. “Never get stopped for the wrong reasons,” Kratz had warned him a thousand times.

  When Aziz switched his headlights on, Scott’s hopes began to rise. Although the two hours had to be up, he doubted that anybody would be out searching for them yet, and it was well understood that with every mile out of Baghdad the citizens became less and less loyal to Saddam.

  Once Aziz had left the Baghdad boundary sign behind him he pushed the speedometer up to sixty. “Give me twenty minutes, Allah,” he said. “Please give me twenty minutes and I’ll get them to Castle Post.”

  “Castle Post?” said Scott. “We’re not on a Red Indian scouting mission.”

  Aziz laughed. “No, Professor, it’s the site of a First World War British Army post, where we can hide for the night. If I can get you there before—” All three of them spotted the first army truck coming towards them. Aziz swung off to the left, skidded into a side road and was immediately forced to drop his speed.

  “So now where are we heading?” asked Scott.

  “Khan Beni Saad,” said Aziz, “the village where I was born. It will only be possible for us to stay for one night, but no one will think of looking for us there. But tomorrow, Professor, you will have to decide which of the six borders we’re going to cross.”

  General Hamil had been pacing around his office for the past hour. The two hours had long passed, and he was starting to wonder if Kratz might have got the better of him. But he couldn’t work out how.

  He was even beginning to regret that he had killed the man. If Kratz had still been alive, at least he could have fallen back on the tried and trusted method of torture. Now he would never know how he would have responded to his particular shaving technique.

  Hamil had already ordered a reluctant lieutenant and his platoon back to the basement of the Ba’ath headquarters. The Lieutenant had returned swiftly to report that the safe door was wide open and the truck had disappeared, as had the document that had been hanging on the wall. The General smiled. He remained confident that he was in possession of the original Declaration, but he extracted the parchment from the cylinder and laid it on his desk to double-check. When he came to the word “British,” he turned first white, and then, by several degrees deeper and deeper shades of red.

  He immediately gave an order to cancel all military leave, and next commanded five divisions of the Elite Guard to mount a search for the terrorists. But he had no way of knowing how much start they had on him, how far they might have already traveled and in which direction.

  However, he did know that they couldn’t remain on the main roads in that truck for long, without being spotted. Once it was dark, they would probably retreat into the desert to rest overnight. But they would have to come out the following morning, when they must surely try to cross one of the six borders. The General had already given an order that if even one of the terrorists managed to cross any border, guards from every customs post would be arrested and jailed, whether they were on duty or not. The two soldiers who were supposed to have closed the safe door had already been shot for not carrying out his orders, and the Major detailed to supervise the moving of the safe had immediately been arrested. At least Major Saeed’s decision to take his own life had saved Hamil the trouble of a court-martial: within an hour the Major had been found hanging in his cell. Obviously leaving a coil of rope in the middle of the floor below a hook in the ceiling had proved to be a compelling enough hint. And as for the two young medical students who’d been responsible for the injections, and who had witnessed his conversation with Kratz, they were already on their way to the southern borders, to serve with a less than elite regiment. They were such nice-looking boys, the General thought; he gave them a week at the most.

  Hamil picked up the phone and dialed a private number that would connect him to the palace. He needed to be certain that he was the first person to explain to the President what had taken place that afternoon.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Scott had always considered his own countrymen to be an hospitable race, but he had never experienced such a welcome as Aziz’s family gave to the three strangers.

  Khan Beni Saad, the village in which Aziz was born, had, he told them, just over 250 inhabitants at the last count, and barely survived on the income it derived from selling its small crop of oranges, tangerines and dates to the housewives of Kirkuk and Arbil.

  The chief of the tribe, who turned out to be one of Aziz’s uncles, immediately opened his little stone home to them so that they could make use of the one bath in the village. The women of the house—there seemed to be a lot of them—kept boiling water until all of the visitors were pronounced clean.

  When Scott finally emerged from the chief’s home, he found a table had been set up under a clump of citrus trees in the Huwaider fields. It was laden with strange fish, meat, fruit and vegetables. He feared they must have gathered something from every home in the village.

  Under a clear starlit night, they devoured the fresh food and drank mountain water that, if bottled, a Californian would happily have paid a fortune for.

  But Scott’s thoughts kept returning to the fact that tomorrow they would have to leave these idyllic surroundings, and that he would somehow hav
e to get them all across one of the six borders.

  After coffee had been served in various different-sized cups and mugs, the chief rose from his place at the head of the table to make a speech of welcome, which Aziz translated. Scott made a short reply which was applauded even before Aziz had been given the chance to interpret what he had said.

  “That’s one thing they have in common with us,” said Hannah, taking Scott’s hand. “They admire brevity.”

  The chief ended the evening with an offer for which Scott thanked him, but felt unable to accept. He wanted to order all of his family out of the little house so that his guests could sleep indoors.

  Scott continued to protest until Aziz explained, “You must agree, or you insult his home by suggesting it is not good enough for you to rest in. And it is an Arab custom that the greatest compliment you can pay your host is to make your woman pregnant while you sleep under his roof.” Aziz shrugged.

  Scott lay awake most of the night, staring through the glassless window, while Hannah hardly stirred in his arms. Having attempted to pay the chief the greatest possible compliment, Scott’s mind went back to the problem of getting his team over one of the borders and ensuring that the Declaration of Independence was returned safely to Washington.

  When the first ray of light crept across the woven rug that covered their bed, Scott released Hannah and kissed her on the forehead. He slipped from under the sheets to find that the little tin bath was already full of warm water, and the women had begun boiling more urns over an open fire.

  Once Scott was dressed, he spent an hour studying maps of the country, searching for possible routes across Iraq’s six borders. He quickly dismissed Syria and Iran as impossible, because the armies of both would be happy to slaughter them on sight. He also felt that to return over the Jordanian border would be far too great a risk. By the time Hannah had joined him he had also dismissed Saudi Arabia as too well guarded, and was now down to only five routes and two borders.

  As his hosts began to prepare breakfast, Scott and Hannah wandered down into the village hand in hand, as any lovers might on a summer morning. The locals smiled, and some bowed. Although none could hold a conversation with them, they all spoke so eloquently with their eyes that they both understood.

  Once they had reached the end of the village, they turned and strolled back up the path towards the chief’s house to find Cohen frying eggs on an open fire. Hannah stopped to watch how the women baked the thin, circular pieces of bread which, covered in honey, were a feast in themselves. The chief, once again sitting at the head of the table, beckoned Scott to the place beside him. Cohen had already taken a seat on a stool and was about to begin his breakfast when a goat walked in and tugged the eggs straight off the plate. Hannah laughed and cracked Cohen another egg before he had a chance to voice his opinion.

  Scott spread some honey on a piece of warm bread, and a woman placed a mug of goat’s milk in front of him.

  “Worked out what we have to do next, have you, Professor?” asked Cohen as Hannah dropped a second fried egg onto his plate. In one sentence, he had brought them all back to reality.

  A villager ran up to the table, knelt by the side of the chief and whispered in his ear. The message was passed on to Aziz.

  “Bad news,” Aziz told them. “There are soldiers blocking all the roads that lead back to the main highway.”

  “Then we’ll have to go across the desert,” said Scott. He unfolded his map and spread it across the table. Alternative routes were highlighted by a dozen blue felt-tip lines. He pointed to a path leading to a road which would take them to the city of Khalis.

  “That is not a path,” said Aziz. “It was once a river, but it dried up many years ago. We could walk along it, but we would have to leave the truck behind.”

  “It won’t be enough to leave the truck,” said Scott. “We’ll have to destroy it. If it were ever found by Saddam’s soldiers, they would raze the village to the ground and massacre your people.”

  The chief looked perplexed as Aziz translated all Scott had said. The old man stroked the rough morning stubble on his chin and smiled as Scott and Hannah listened to his judgment, unable to understand a word.

  “My uncle says you must have his car,” Aziz translated. “It is old, but he hopes that it still runs well.”

  “He is kind,” said Scott. “But if we cannot drive a truck across the desert, how can we possibly go by car?”

  “He understands your problem,” said Aziz. “He says you must take the car to pieces bit by bit, and his people will carry it the twelve miles across the desert until you reach the road that leads to Khalis. Then you can put it together again.”

  “We cannot accept such a gesture,” said Scott. “He is too generous. We will walk and find some form of transport when we reach Huwaider.” He pointed to the first village along the road.

  Aziz translated once again: his uncle looked sad and murmured a few words. “He says it is not really his car, it was his brother’s car. It now belongs to me.”

  For the first time, Scott realized that Aziz’s father had been the village chief, and how much his uncle was willing to risk to save them from being captured by Saddam’s troops.

  “But even if we could take the car to pieces and put it together again, what about army patrols once we reach that road?” he asked. “By now thousands of Hamil’s men are bound to be out there searching for us.”

  “But not on those roads,” Aziz replied. “The army will stick to the highway. They realize that’s our only hope of getting across the border. No, our first problem will come when we reach the roadside check at Khalis.” He moved his finger a few inches across the map. “There’s bound to be at least a couple of soldiers on duty there.”

  Scott studied the different routes again while Aziz listened to his uncle.

  “And could we get as far as Tuz Khurmatoo without having to use the highway?” asked Scott, not looking up from the map.

  “Yes, there’s a longer route, through the hills, that the army would never consider, because they’d run the risk of being attacked by the Peshmerga guerrillas so near the border with Kurdistan. But once you’ve gone through Tuz Khurmatoo it’s only a couple of miles to the main highway, though it’s still another forty-five miles from there, with no other way of crossing the border.”

  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.