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 have 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.”