Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  I entered the room and all five rose smartly. Hassan caught up with me as they approached from both sides of the table.

  ‘Okay, I want you to translate word for word, yes? I want to understand everything and not just bits of what’s going on.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr John. I do the same things for Lieutenant Ian all the time.’

  We’d see about that. In the past I’d often had translators forgetting their job and rambling off on their own conversational paths while I stood there like a chump, left out of the loop. Not for long mind you. A sharp word reminding them who paid the bills usually brought things back on track.

  Compared to the squalid state of the city outside, these guys sported a range of snappy suits. They fitted the impressive surroundings better than my chinos, Timberland boots, button-down shirt, and lightweight canvas jacket. Although I reckoned my look wasn’t a million miles from the archetypal ‘East of Suez’ English adventurer of a bygone era. If anyone thought I was underdressed for the meeting, they didn’t show it.

  Hassan slipped into translator mode: the speech firm and confident compared to his usual softer voice. My name featured in his opening sentence, but he didn’t stop there and instead a flood of indecipherable Arabic followed. So much for the earlier pep talk.

  I tried to catch his eye to stop, but he was in full flow. Then Karim and the others from the car joined in and the conversation washed back and forth between everyone in the room except me; my fault for not speaking the language. I occasionally nodded on recognising the odd word and smiled when everyone else did.

  I’ve been told my behaviour sometimes gets noticed during these situations. Those present suspecting my claims of ‘not speaking a word’ are merely the devious machinations of yet another cunning Englishman. The idea of ‘Perfidious Albion’ lingered on in this part of the world and many believed the British still pulled all the important strings. Who knows, maybe they were right. But if somebody was pulling the strings, they were causing an almighty snarl which didn’t seem to help anyone, us Brits included.

  Finally, the conversation ebbed and Hassan introduced the tallest of the hosts. ‘Mr John, this is Sheikh Mustafa, the Deputy President of the Basra Trade Chamber.’

  Bingo! This was my man. I stuck out a hand.

  ‘John Pierce. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Chapter 2

  The immaculately groomed Sheikh wore a perfect fitting navy blue suit and exuded an air of authority and confidence. As we shook hands, he held my gaze, smiled, then surprised me with almost flawless English in a deep, crisp voice.

  ‘Mr Pierce, it is our pleasure to welcome you to the Basra Trade Chamber. We are honoured by your visit and look forward to working with the British to rebuild our city.’

  ‘Thank you, Sheikh. I am looking forward to bringing British expertise and know-how to help rebuild Basra as a modern, twenty-first century port city.’

  My knowledge of building a port or a city was negligible, but I’d put on my best ‘big business’ voice and the small audience lapped it up. I’m sure the Sheikh and the others here had shares in companies destined to get the pick of the contracts. Fine by me. Once I found out which contracts were funded and identified the best local partners, I could try to bring in suitable international outfits for management and oversight. If only it was as easy as it sounded.

  After being introduced to the Sheikh’s four smartly dressed companions, one of them, the organisation’s secretary, regarded me solemnly.

  ‘It is very regrettable that our president cannot attend the meeting today due to business travel. However, he asked me to invite you to a lunch in your honour at his home outside the city on Friday.’

  A lunch in my honour. Not an everyday occurrence. The president must be worried his company would miss out on the contracting action.

  ‘Please tell the president thank you for the invitation. I am very honoured. But I don’t know if my tight schedule will allow me to attend on Friday. My movements are often influenced by matters outside my control. However, I will get back to you and confirm one way or the other.’ Code for thanks, but no thanks.

  It kept my options open though, in case an overwhelming reason to attend cropped up. That reason would need to be something very special. A social engagement with this mob somewhere outside the city in a week’s time wasn’t on my bucket list. I wanted to be long gone by then.

  Weak smiles all round, me included. I don’t think anyone cared much about my snubbing the president’s invitation.

  The ensuing discussion ranged over the various sectors that needed prioritisation. High on the list was the power sector, dredging the ports, repairing the roads, and building hotels to accommodate all the international businessmen expected to fly into a brand-new airport. The world loves optimists.

  Everyone in the room assumed I worked for the British Government in some capacity; some devious capacity judging by the questions in the car earlier. At least nobody mentioned spying or the Israelis again. They wanted details of specific projects and the level of allocated funds. Seeking, no doubt, to get an inside advantage and jump the queue of local companies desperate to start earning decent money again after the war the previous year.

  I made positive noises about future projects, which primarily consisted of educated guesses, and inferred I knew more than I could let on. It didn’t hurt if they thought I was linked to Brit Gov.

  Unfortunately, I knew nothing about the reconstruction plans, how much money was available, or where the cash would be spent first. I was hoping they’d tell me. My week in Basra so far had been spent at the military base with Ian and the guys, or in snatched meetings around the city and ports as I compiled my report and searched for lucrative business opportunities.

  Although insurgent activity had only recently begun to escalate in Basra, the lack of secure hotels and scarcity of safe havens resulted in greater vulnerability than the comparative chaos of Baghdad. This was compounded by the lack of trusted locals to watch my back, unlike the friendly faces I had up in the capital.

  I judged it time to take centre stage and get these guys eating out of my hand. See if they did know anything.

  ‘Gentlemen. One area I need to understand is the availability of suitably experienced and capable local companies. I’m here with you, members and officials of the Basra Trade Chamber, to assess which companies are qualified to work with international contractors on key civil infrastructure work. Do you have any advice or guidance?’

  With that, a flurry of hands reached into briefcases and bags all over the room. A stack of company profiles appeared on the table. All blurry photos, terrible English, and questionably large dollar values for previous projects. I tried to look suitably impressed as I began flicking through them whilst nodding my head.

  The Sheikh had taken his time and presented a wedge of folders across the table.

  ‘These three companies have my personal recommendation. They are amongst the best contractors in Iraq.’ Big claims indeed.

  Nobody disputed him, but the faces round the table were set to neutral rather than enthusiastic agreement. The Sheikh almost certainly owned or part-owned the three companies he’d recommended, and each of the others had produced one or more profiles, including the guys from the car. I half expected Hassan to pull one out of the hat.

  Although I hadn’t been able to provide any concrete information about contracts and funding, the room filled with energetic chat as we took a break for chai, juice, and nibbles.

  Out of politeness, I took a bite from a sticky-looking pastry offered across on a tray. No wonder many of the male population were overweight and had bad teeth if they ate this stuff. The heavy sweet stuck to my teeth as my blood sugar levels took a rollercoaster ride.

  Time was getting on. Now seemed as good a moment as any to collar the Sheikh and get shot of the envelope. A check to make sure it hadn’t
inexplicably disappeared from my slim leather folder, then I walked over and interrupted his conversation.

  ‘Sheikh, can I speak to you a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’ He excused himself and took a step towards me. The hooded eyes of his dismissed colleague beamed contempt in my direction. Since the drama of the car inquisition everyone had been friendly enough, apart from this guy. It usually pays to trust your instincts with these things, and I just didn’t like him.

  I engineered a turn to face away from the rest of the room and opened the folder to reveal the white envelope with its Arabic inscription. ‘I’ve been asked to give you this important message.’

  The Sheikh regarded me with raised eyebrows and indicated with his hand.

  ‘Yes, please take it.’

  He plucked the envelope out of my folder. ‘Should I read it now?’

  That was difficult to answer because I had no idea what message the envelope contained. ‘I… yes, I suppose that would be okay. In fact, yes it’s probably a good idea.’

  If I encouraged him to dash off a quick reply, then the $1,000 on offer to courier it back to Dubai would be coming my way. Perhaps the message even included something else that might be financially beneficial. Much better for the Sheikh and I to discuss it here and now rather than have to arrange another meeting before my journey home. I relied on Ian for any escort in and out of the military base, so there were no guarantees of being able to move around whenever I wanted.

  Most of the room were engrossed in small group conversations as Sheikh Mustafa took a seat and deftly opened the envelope. He extracted three sheets of paper and started to read. Within ten seconds a frown creased his brow and he flashed me a quizzical look, which soon morphed into something more akin to disbelief and then anger. I’d seen that ‘what the fuck?’ look many times before and an emptiness opened in my gut.

  My mind raced as the Sheikh put down the papers and rubbed his neatly bearded chin, his face now set hard with a penetrating stare that alternated between the outspread pages, me, and the ceiling. Not the reaction I’d expected. What the hell had they written to piss the guy off this much? I’d be having strong words if I made it back to Dubai and they could forget employing me as a postman again.

  After a tense minute, he gathered the pages with a heavy sigh and began to reread them. At a distance the text appeared to be written in Arabic. Not much point tackling me about its contents then.

  I considered my vulnerability if the Sheikh held me responsible for the clearly unwelcome message and went all medieval. Apart from Ian, no-one in authority at the military base knew about me or my location. Even he’d be none the wiser if anything bad happened right now, not until watching it on Al Jazeera or CNN like everyone else. By the time it became clear there was a serious problem, I might not get an opportunity to transmit a warning before they confiscated my phones.

  There was the tracking device strapped to my leg though. I calculated the time back in the UK. Jim might be monitoring my location in real time. Three hours behind in the UK on a weekday morning in November he’d be at work, so maybe, if I was lucky.

  I caught the suit with the hooded eyes staring at me. No way he could read the document in the Sheikh’s hands from his position, but it didn’t take a genius to see I’d thrown a grenade into the proceedings. Made his day I’m sure. He broke eye contact, stood up, and left the room by the far door.

  Did I need to call Ian and ask him to come and get me? A change to the original plan, but he was on the ground with his team already and might be able to alter the pickup time and location. A key problem with this option being I wasn’t here in any official capacity and Ian would need authorisation from the military operations room to enter Basra city centre.

  My activity complemented the Coalition goals to rebuild the place, but I was in southern Iraq on private business and staying at the British military base only because Ian was covertly escorting me through the main entry control point (ECP) in his team’s vehicles. Even his soldiers didn’t know I was just a mate from back home doing my own thing. He may have confided in his platoon sergeant though. Either that or the sergeant guessed something wasn’t quite right, judging by his occasional comments.

  Dropping me off to disappear for hours on end, the rest of the team apparently assumed I was either ‘them’ (British Special Forces – SAS/SBS), or a spook, or a ‘wannabe twat’ from the Foreign Office. Ian said each time I made it back the odds shortened on the first two and lengthened on the third.

  A call to Ian would be premature. No point getting him spun up without a very good reason. Instead I opted for Plan B and headed out to call Jim on the sat phone. The security guard didn’t like it when I opened the door and stepped outside to get a signal, but I pointed at the antenna on the phone and cracked on regardless. It took ninety seconds before the phone locked on to the satellites and I could make the call.

  Jim answered immediately. ‘Yes mate?’ He must have recognised the Thuraya number.

  ‘Listen, Jim. Everything good here, but I’m concerned things could go noisy. Are you able to keep an eye out for the alarm, just in case?’

  ‘You’re joking? Are we talking imminent threat?’

  ‘Not really, mate, but I’m in some unknown company who might not be taking kindly to something that’s just happened.’

  ‘Understood. No problem with keeping eyes on the tracker. Actions on the alarm unchanged? I’m still to call this guy Ian on the numbers you gave me?’

  ‘Roger that. And if you can’t reach him, then you’ll just have to go for the nuclear option and call the Basra Ops Room numbers on the list I sent. Tell them I’m at the Basra Trade Chamber building with one friendly, Hassan Al Ajeen. All being well, we’re due to leave shortly for the next RV as per my email last night. Roger so far?’

  ‘Roger so far,’ Jim fired back.

  I gave him my coordinates. ‘Current location: Grid 38R QU 708x795x. Repeat back to me.’

  Jim read the grid reference back and, after providing Hassan’s cell phone number as an additional point of contact, I cut the call.

  I returned inside and took my seat at the table. As I sat down, my hooded-eyed friend came back into the room through the far door with his phone in hand. When our eyes met, he stuffed it back into his pocket. Might be meaningless, but the timing bothered me.

  Fifteen minutes later and we’d finally wrapped things up with promises of brotherhood and everlasting cooperation. I’d been trying to get moving ASAP, but these guys spent as long on their goodbyes as they did on their everlasting hellos.

  Karim stepped back to let me go through the door first and out into the winter sunshine.

  I smiled. ‘No, after you.’

  He smiled back and gestured again, but my reluctance had nothing to do with politeness. For security reasons I had no intention of being the first outside through that door. I’d already popped out once to call Jim and anyone watching might be waiting for me to appear again.

  ‘No mate, after you.’

  His smile dropped as he recognised the hard edge in my voice compared to the politeness I’d shown since we met – my turn to dominate the situation.

  He shrugged his shoulders and stepped through the door, a couple of the others right behind him. No sound of any drama outside, so I gave Hassan the nod and we followed them into the garden.

  The ‘switched-on’ guard had been joined by another alert-looking colleague, which inspired confidence our move to the car would have half-decent security cover. The new guy was positioned at the gate, with a view overlooking the vehicles parked outside, including the BMW we had arrived in.

  Good. Under-car booby traps, or sticky bombs, were a pet concern of mine and prevalent in much of the country. It only took a moment to slip a magnetic device under a car. It would be high on my list of options if I wanted to take someone out.

  Although
we needed to get going, there was another round of hugs, kisses, and goodbyes first.

  ‘Mr Pierce, your visit has been very interesting. Inshallah, you shall stay safe in your travels and I hope to see you for lunch at the weekend.’ Sheikh Mustafa’s demeanour was more formal and warier than before he’d read the letter, but his face showed no sign of anger or dark intent. Maybe that just wasn’t his style.

  As for lunch next Friday, Good luck with that. Call me paranoid, but the whole drama with the message had me firmly in the ‘no can do’ camp.

  Unless…

  I’d avoided bringing it up until now, but I had to mention the letter. My mind said, Pitch for the thousand dollars. My instinct said, Don’t get involved. A draw, so I’d roll with the Sheikh’s decision.

  ‘Thank you, Sheikh. I’m sorry if the message I delivered from Dubai did not bring welcome news. As I think you realise, I have no knowledge of its contents. However, I was asked to be ready to relay your response. I can ensure confidentiality by hand-delivering any written reply if you prefer. Although I expect it will be easier for you to contact them than it was the other way round.’

  His unblinking eyes locked on to mine with ominous intensity.

  ‘My only response today is for you, Mr Pierce. I strongly advise you to be very careful with these people in Dubai. Iraq is experiencing difficult times and many things are not what they seem. Who to trust and who not to trust can be a life-or-death decision. I need time to consider the message with my advisors.’

  It didn’t sound promising for the extra $1,000 to take a reply to Dubai; not promising enough for me to stick around too long, anyway. The warning was a riddle. Without specifics it was impossible to say if there might be anything to it. Mercenary perhaps, but the seven grand paid up front by the Dubai chaps scored well for them so far in my book. After all, it was business not a social club. However, from now on I’d be on the lookout for anything suspicious.