by Jack Leavers
‘Thank you, Sheikh. I will bear your advice in mind.’
As we shook hands again, there was an urgent cry from my right from Hassan.
‘GUNMAN!’
And then it all went Arabic, so I didn’t know what was going on.
A scan of the buildings and the visible sliver of street revealed no indications of hostile activity. ‘Where?’ Louder: ‘Hassan, where’s the gunman?’
No answer. He stood in the gateway pointing towards an empty street corner fifty metres away and gabbled away in Arabic to Karim and the guard. I stepped back inside the building, pulled the phone out of my pocket, and got Ian’s number ready so it only needed a single button press to call if required. Then I adjusted myself to ensure unimpeded access to the panic alarm switch inside my waistband. The other guard was close by, so there were at least two weapons ready to respond to any immediate danger that might appear, even if I wasn’t ‘carrying’ myself.
When everyone else moved back inside the door, I followed the Sheikh into the meeting room. I needed space to rearrange my kit and take stock of the situation.
‘It’s probably unnecessary, but I suggest we remain here for at least a few minutes to make sure. Would you like another chai?’ Sheikh Mustafa appeared calm and collected. That said, he might have been the biggest threat to my personal safety right then. You don’t get to be a big wheel in the Basra business world by being a wallflower.
The rush from the gunman alarm made it a struggle, but I tried to match his calmness while remaining alert for danger.
‘Thank you. A chai would be great, but please, not so much sugar.’
I indicated a small amount with my finger and thumb. If the sticky pastry had made my teeth feel like falling out, the tea they’d served earlier was so sweet it almost dissolved them on the spot. I drank tea and coffee without these days, but the energy boost from a little sugar could come in handy if things got feisty.
I eyed up the sticky pastries and grabbed a slack handful with a ‘May I?’ Almost laughing out loud as I imagined adding, ‘I must get the recipe.’ Idiot – I needed to stay switched on.
Two more bottles of still water went in the bag. My respectable businessman persona had slipped a little for this poor man’s supermarket sweep, but you can get away with most things provided you throw in a smile and a thank you.
I rearranged the gear in my daysack. The business papers and CVs got relegated to the bottom, while the medical kit, GPS, knife, torch, and map were now readily accessible. The calorie-rich sticky pastries went in with the emergency rations in a side pouch.
I switched on the sat phone, extended the aerial, and prepared it ready to transmit location coordinates and a distress message to both Ian and Jim. That relied on having a connection when the send button was pressed, although I knew the earlier signal would have been lost inside the building and need to be reacquired. To provide a quicker alternative, I set up a similar arrangement with a simpler message from both my regular GSM phones.
Hassan appeared at the door and said, ‘Saydee,’ in a deferential acknowledgement to the Sheikh. He then addressed us both. ‘Outside is clear. The man with the Kalashnikov has gone. Maybe he was a policeman or a soldier. I’m sorry.’ His eyes flicked down to the floor before he added, ‘We can go now.’
Not the most reassuring explanation.
‘Perhaps it would be better if we had some of our security men escort you back to the airport?’ Sheikh Mustafa might be genuine in his concern for my welfare, but then again, he might not.
He didn’t know we weren’t going straight back to the military base, but instead heading south down to Khor Az Zubayr for the RV with Ian and his team. At least, he didn’t know until Hassan stuck his oar in. Whatever Hassan said, the port name was clearly audible.
Since he now knew our destination, his offer was worth considering. I was already driving about in a vehicle full of guys I hardly knew and with limited protection. My hooded-eyed friend studied me from across the room as I took a few seconds to decide.
I went for it.
‘Thank you, Sheikh. If I could borrow these guards, do they have a car they can use?’
Sheikh Mustafa smiled and nodded. ‘Excellent. I’m sure Karim would take good care of you, but it is prudent to travel with appropriate security. Especially in these increasingly dangerous times.’
He called out in Arabic and the secretary came over. After receiving a brief set of instructions, the secretary left the room.
I was confident taking up his offer was a good call. If these guys had a heinous plan, I was screwed anyway. If not, then his guards had been about the most switched-on local security I’d encountered so far, plus a second car gave us some redundancy if the BMW ran into problems. I hadn’t seen any weapons with Karim and the guys from the car which meant they only had sidearms at best, but no longs like AK-47s. Not unless they had them stowed uselessly in the boot.
Mr Hooded Eyes had got wind of the plan and didn’t seem to appreciate the turn of events, muttering in angry Arabic. Hassan had an indignant look on his face as he turned and fired a comment in his direction.
‘What’s the problem, Hassan?’
‘Mr Sinan is complaining about the guards travelling with us.’
The hooded-eyed Mr Sinan looked pissed, but then he hadn’t looked the happiest bunny all afternoon.
By this time, Sheikh Mustafa had walked over to Mr Sinan and they engaged in a brief, robust and one-sided conversation; the Sheikh doing the transmitting and Mr Sinan the receiving.
Hassan looked at me and nodded. ‘We can go now. One of the guards will follow us in a car until we reach the port gates.’
Only one guard rather than two, but better than nothing. It was a pleasant surprise when he climbed into a smart-looking Toyota Land Cruiser and started the engine.
I tapped out >RV and pressed send.
Chapter 3
Khor Az Zubayr Port, thirty kilometres south of Basra city, was the final call for Ian’s patrol that afternoon. As the platoon commander he could adjust timings and routes, which meant some flexibility if needed. It was secured by British troops, so if his patrol got delayed or worse, I’d be in a safe location. Stranded but safe. That made it a good RV location for us to link up before we made our way back to the airport base in time for dinner.
The traffic moved at a steady pace as we travelled along the main highway heading south west out of Basra, followed by the white Land Cruiser driven by the guard. The flat, sun-baked terrain ran along either side of the busy artery, sprinkled with rundown buildings, piles of mangled metal, and oceans of rubble. Nothing indicated whether this was a new post-apocalyptic hell or the pitiful reality from years of Saddam’s oppression of the southern Shi’ites.
Fifteen minutes after setting off, we made the turn left onto Route 26 and mixed with lighter traffic for the twenty-kilometre straight road down to Khor Az Zubayr. The previous depressing vista and occasional listless inhabitants now replaced by largely empty scrub and sporadic foliage. Sat in the middle of the rear seat to have the best cover from outside view, I started to relax and shook my head as I reflected on the afternoon’s events. Hassan on my right must have noticed. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
‘No mate. Fifteen more minutes, yes?’
‘Yes, we’re almost there.’
Hassan had done well today. Ian would be pleased his man hadn’t let him down.
Ten minutes down the road, there was a build-up of traffic at the roundabout ahead. From my previous visits to the area, I knew the left-hand turning for the port was close. However, instead of being allowed to carry on straight ahead after the roundabout, all traffic was being directed to take the first exit right by two armed, balaclava-clad soldiers, with what appeared to be a minor accident spread across the road behind them. Not enough to warrant a diversion in my book.
‘No,
no, fuck that.’ I leant forward to direct the driver. ‘Carry on. Straight ahead.’
When he didn’t react, I turned to Hassan.
‘Tell him to go straight ahead. Go round these clowns.’
My spidey senses were twitching, but I wasn’t unduly worried. It was natural to be apprehensive when you saw men in balaclavas wearing camouflage gear and toting weapons, although it wasn’t uncommon in Iraq. Even though I’d encountered similar in Baghdad, the first time I’d run into them here a few days earlier I’d almost reached for the panic alarm. Now when I saw them, the usual thought that sprang to mind was, It must be hot under there in the summer.
Due to the congestion, the traffic slowed to a crawl as we approached the entrance to the roundabout. Our escort followed a few metres behind, closing when anyone tried to cut in between us. As our driver changed lanes to manoeuvre left round the scene of the accident, the nearest balaclava guy stepped across into our path and pointed one arm at us and one down the exit to our right. Something didn’t feel right. Like we’d been singled out.
‘Back. Go back. Tell him, Hassan.’
After the resultant blast of Arabic, the driver stamped on the brake before throwing the car into reverse. He’d reacted quickly this time but it was too late. Mr Balaclava had reached the driver’s window and started shouting with his AK raised.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ All we needed.
It still wasn’t clear whether we had a bigger issue here, but I didn’t want to get channelled off into the nearby town unless there was absolutely no choice. Ian had shared reports indicating several previous attacks had either occurred or originated there.
A flash of white as the Land Cruiser appeared on our left and skidded to a halt. The Trade Chamber guard jumped out with his AK-47 in hand and started yelling at the soldier who’d stopped us.
This could easily become a real mess. I turned to Hassan. ‘Get out.’
‘No…’ he began to say, but changed his mind when he saw my face and instead opened the door.
I swept my daysack onto my back and led him around the rear of the car, intending to position myself by the Land Cruiser and be ready to jump in. If we could commandeer the larger SUV, then we could cut across the central reservation to go ‘counter flow’ down the wrong side of the road to bypass the clusterfuck this side of the roundabout.
As we cut behind the BMW I heard shouts. The second balaclava guy was running towards us and another two broke into a jog thirty metres behind him.
The first guy glanced over, and we locked eyes as I snaked past the back of the car. He shouted at me, prompting an angry response from our Land Cruiser guard. With all the shouting and running, things were escalating fast. In fact, this was going to ratshit. I needed to select the least worst option and run with it. A burst of AK fire from the approaching men focused my attention.
Little time to react if I was going to make a move, and this might still be a simple misunderstanding with real traffic cops, albeit one that was fast getting out of hand. A second volley of AK fire raked the bonnet of the BMW and made the decision for me. No chance of commandeering the Land Cruiser, so I kept it between me and the balaclavas and started to run towards the central reservation. My eyes darted left and right, checking the slowed and stopped cars for new threats.
‘Come on, Hassan.’
He looked like he was shitting himself. I probably didn’t look my best either. So close to safety as well – only five kilometres – which I’d have happily run if I thought I could get past without being mown down by gunfire.
All our balaclava-clad friends had reached the two cars now and weapons were coming up on aim in our direction as they bellowed after us. We either needed to stop and put our hands up or start sprinting and hard targeting down the main drag back the way we’d come.
A sudden roar of engines erupted above the hubbub and two bursts of fire from an automatic weapon passed high overhead towards the four balaclava boys gathered round the BMW and Land Cruiser. My head snapped left. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to spot the likely candidates: three black vehicles closing at speed from behind on the other carriageway, their ‘top cover’ troops with weapons pointing our way.
Back over at our vehicles, the Trade Chamber guard raised his weapon towards the original balaclava guy next to the driver’s side of the BMW. That could get messy if these were real police. Fortunately, a third rattle of warning shots caused him to dive for cover behind the cars like everyone else.
It looked as though Mad Max had arrived on the scene. The three aggressive-looking black vehicles with prominent up-armouring came screaming to a halt on the opposite side of the road. They were running counter flow, heading the same direction we had been going, except using their immunity from traffic laws to try to avoid the bag of bollocks at the roundabout.
The guy on top cover in the first vehicle looked like an expat – thank Christ for that. Plenty of Anglo-Saxon language started pouring out of the new arrivals, loudly directed at the balaclava gang and everyone else in the vicinity. Two expat vehicle commanders hopped out bringing AK-47s up on aim, and the top cover guys looked like they were daring someone to have a go.
Then a burly figure emerged from the lead vehicle. No doubt about it, my luck was in. Not only was he an expat, but I knew him: Alec Gibbs, a Welsh ex-para. I didn’t need a written invitation. I was on my toes and sprinting towards him yelling ‘Follow me’ back at Hassan.
The new arrivals were a game changer for the balaclava crew. As I glanced back, they were already retreating into the roundabout towards two unmarked SUVs parked on the verge of the exit road.
‘Fuck me if it isn’t Johnny Pierce.’ A broad smile broke out on the big Welshman’s face. ‘Just what the hell are you doing pissing off the locals and upsetting everyone’s afternoon? Typical Royal.’
‘Alec. Am I glad to see you. I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but can you get me down to Khor Az Zubayr?’ The relief in my voice made me sound like a giddy teenager.
‘No problem. We’re heading down to Umm Qasr to pick up a convoy, so it’s on the way. Jump in and you can tell me what trouble you’re getting yourself in these days. I take it he’s with you?’ He pointed at the doubled-over figure of Hassan trying to catch his breath.
Hassan and I jumped in the lead vehicle and Alec got on the radio to his team, telling them to mount up and advising everyone we’d be stopping at Khor Az Zubayr. Next, he informed his HQ the ‘shots fired’ report he’d sent had turned out to be a local disturbance.
A few minutes later, I wished good luck to Alec and his men as they prepared to leave after dropping us at the port. He made it clear I owed him a crate of beer and was highly dubious of my promise to deliver the goods. ‘Yeah, right. I won’t forget,’ he said, waving a dismissive hand as he climbed back in his vehicle.
Alec and I had first met a few years before on a security job in the UK. Now he was working for Security Force International, known as SFI, a British security company running convoys all over Iraq.
‘Get yourself down to Kuwait and talk to Big Steve,’ he said before leaving.
I hadn’t met Big Steve, but I knew he was the former rugby-playing company boss who worked out of a beachside hotel in Kuwait City. Alec had a good point: the money they paid security guys out here was like rock star wages for most ex-British soldiers. It sounded appealing compared to spending your own cash like muggins here was doing.
Since I’d arrived at the port early, I decided to make the most of it and take a wander round while I got my heart rate back under control following the afternoon’s entertainment. Ian’s patrol wasn’t due to arrive for another two hours.
Khor Az Zubayr was managed by shipping giants Maersk. When I called at his office, the French manager, Georges, jumped at the chance to give the grand tour. As he guided me round, Georges outlined an ambitious expansion plan. My ears pri
cked up when he mentioned scrap metal. I had a German client interested in exporting the vast heaps littering much of the country.
He showed me an area of empty rough ground the size of a fat football pitch. ‘This area here is zoned for scrap metal. HMS1 and HMS2 only.’
Previous research told me that meant scrap metal already prepared and cut to industry specifications and sizes.
‘Really? This whole area?’
What a result. The Germans might be on to something.
‘Yes. The capacity will be approximately 100,000 tonnes. The Governor is very interested in making money exporting the huge quantities left in the country after the war.’
It made sense. The stuff was everywhere.
‘That’s understandable. Do you know anything about the licensing side of that? Who will be able to use this place and how it will work?’
Georges took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt. He squinted at me in the dazzling sunlight. Despite us being alone, he moved closer and dropped his voice.
‘I believe the Governor’s son is responsible for that side. And he has a company who wants to export the scrap now the law allows for it.’ He laughed. ‘I think anyone else wanting to get involved will find it very difficult to get permission. If you know what I mean.’
‘Ahh.’ I knew exactly what he meant. Shit.
If the Basra Governor’s son had designs on being the Mr Big of the scrap export industry, the Germans would either need to partner up with him or look for a new business angle. Both options sounded unlikely.
My chances of growing a revenue stream from exporting scrap metal might have dimmed, but that wasn’t the only show in town. Coalition forces provided security at the biggest ports, so a plan to set up an office in the secure environments at Khor Az Zubayr or Umm Qasr might be feasible. With the safety of Kuwait City less than two hours away by road, it could be a great location to grab a slice of the huge import/export market. The trade routes through the southern ports were critical to the Iraqi economy and would have to remain secured by the Coalition for the foreseeable future.