We hadn’t even come in sight of the first oil well when we started passing Iraqi military vehicles heading north. I scrunched down on the seat between the ash-Shammaris, hoping no one would stop us. Four or five cars and trucks passed us and I was starting to breathe easier when a car up ahead skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. They ended up crosswise in the middle of the narrow road. Two men got out, both dressed in civilian clothes, dishdashas, but without anything on their heads.

Waleed squeezed my arm. “Do not try to talk, even if they ask you question. I will talk for you.”

“But they’re not military. I don’t see . . .”

“It is worse. I think they are Mukhabarat, the secret police. Very bad.”

“I know about Mukhabarat. They were the people who came to Hammed’s house, but why would they . . .”

Waleed squeezed harder. “Very bad.”

I was really scared but knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to show it. I’d only call attention to myself. Instead, I tried to be as small and inconspicuous as possible. Since I was several inches taller than either of my companions, it wasn’t an easy thing to do.

One of the Mukhabarat came over to the driver’s window and started barking questions. He puffed himself up and waved his arms around, trying to look as menacing as possible. It was working. Every time Mr. ash-Shammari started to answer, he’d get cut off with another question. It didn’t look to me like the Mukhabarat gave a damn about the answers, he just wanted to strut his authority.

“What are they saying?” I whispered in Waleed’s ear.

“He wants to know why we drive this way. My father, he says we go to family in desert.”

After a few more minutes of red-faced shouting, the Mukhabarat grunted and nodded. Then he stuck his head in the window to take a closer look at Waleed and me. Oh shit, here it comes. I pretended to have a convenient coughing spell and bent my head down to hack into my hand. Waleed put his arm around my shoulder and said something to the man leaning through the window. He pulled back quickly and stepped away from the car. After staring at us for a minute, he gave a dismissive wave and marched back to his car.

I gave Waleed a puzzled look. “What in the world did you say to the guy?”

“I said you had the sickness of the lungs.”

“That was quick thinking. How’d you come up with that?”

I knew the answer before he even spoke. Waleed stared out the windshield, then said quietly, “My brother.”

There were Iraqis stationed all over the Burgan Oilfield. I guess since they’d now made Kuwait part of Iraq, they were going to guard their new national treasure well. Mr. ash-Shammari’s goal was to avoid the Iraqis without seeming to avoid them. Whenever he saw a truck or car ahead, he’d veer off at just enough of an angle to miss it without looking evasive. It worked for about a half hour.

Up ahead we could see three soldiers standing next to a column of silver-painted pipes and valves, one of the Burgan oil wells. At the next intersection, Mr. ash-Shammari took a right turn and we continued on at low speed, trying to look casual. We could see the Iraqis watching us. One was pointing. Suddenly, all three jumped into their truck and took off across the sand at an angle to intercept us. Waleed’s father shouted an Arabic curse and floored the old pickup. The Iraqi truck fishtailed back-and-forth, trying to gain traction in some loose sand. It looked for a minute like they might get stuck, but they hit some solid ground and surged forward.

Mr. ash-Shammari changed course again and drove directly toward a large tank “farm,” a huge array of big tanks where the crude oil is stored temporarily before it gets pumped to the refinery. As we passed between the first two tanks, he yelled something to Waleed.

Waleed shouted at me in turn. “We must be ready to jump out. My father says we must jump and hide. When he tells us, we go quickly.”

We rounded a tank and screeched to a halt. There were huge pipes ahead of us, connecting two of the tanks. Mr. ash-Shammari shouted and shoved me toward Waleed, who fumbled for the door handle and finally wrenched it open. We tumbled out onto the sand as Mr. ash-Shammari threw the truck in reverse and lurched backwards. The open door swung wildly. He stomped on the brakes and the door slammed shut. As Waleed and I raced around the tank, I caught a glimpse of the rusty blue pickup jerking back and then forward again. This time it brushed against one of the tanks and then headed off in another direction. Mr. ash-Shammari no longer had any chance of escape. He had only one thing to do. Lead the Iraqis away from the tank farm -- away from where his son and I lay pressed up against the base of a hulking big piece of steel behind which were about a million barrels of crude oil.

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