Honour Among Thieves

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 tyre, 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 distrib- ute 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 petrol and a tool bag. Only the roof was to be left behind. 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 round 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 counselled 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 harbour the fugitives. And then he recollected 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 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 but 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 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