Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  *

  Later that evening back at the base, I sat alone in Ian’s cabin and reflected on the afternoon’s events. Should I have activated the panic alarm or sent a distress message? The panic alarm was the ‘First IA’ (Immediate Action) if I got into trouble, but it wasn’t clear if the incident at the roundabout had been targeted at me or not.

  Someone from the Basra Trade Chamber could have tried to organise something; not difficult to envisage my hooded-eyed friend Mr Sinan involved in a nefarious plot. But equally it could simply have been a genuine misunderstanding.

  Perhaps I overreacted, although the AK-47 rounds into the bonnet of the BMW had been a huge red flag in my book. If Alec hadn’t shown up, then who knows what might have happened? In the end there was no harm done, but I vowed to be more cautious in the future. There’s only so many times you can rely on your luck before it runs out.

  Ian returned from a briefing and closed the door behind him. We hadn’t had a chance to talk privately since his patrol had picked me up.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he asked. ‘Any indications they were after you in particular?’

  ‘Not really, mate. They could have been police or other ISF (Iraqi Security Forces). Perhaps I jumped the gun a bit quick. But it definitely didn’t feel right. It’s easy to take it personally when some idiots let rip a couple of bursts of seven-six-two in your direction, but… who knows?’

  Ian looked at the report paperwork on his desk. ‘In that case, I think we should put it down to a local misunderstanding. I’m not going to include it in any report because the details are so unclear and, more importantly, none of our patrol witnessed it.’

  ‘Makes sense. Alec Gibbs reported it to the SFI HQ as a local disturbance with shots heard. Nothing more.’

  ‘That settles it. Without evidence anything sinister was afoot, we’ll leave it as it is. The involvement of a PSC (Private Security Company) at the scene complicates things even further. We’ve got enough going on without getting involved in that sort of mess.’

  While we agreed there was no evidence of foul play, it didn’t alter the fact there could have been serious consequences for my safety and Ian’s career. Having achieved everything I’d set out to accomplish in Basra, it was time to call it a day and head home before something bad did happen.

  Ian had a patrol going down to Shaibah Logistics Base the following day, close to the Kuwaiti border. His guys were keen because it meant a visit to a bigger NAAFI. More importantly, it provided an ideal opportunity for me to be driven through the visa-exempt military lane and dropped off on the Kuwaiti side of the border where they’d picked me up eight days ago.

  *

  We passed through the border crossing the following morning without a second glance. I’d miss the soldiers’ banter and the unexplainable buzz of the threat, but it was also a relief when I jumped out of the Land Rover and turned to say my goodbyes to Ian and his men.

  I almost forgot our friendship wasn’t public knowledge. ‘Thanks for all this. I know you stuck your neck out for me and I’m really grateful.’

  Okay, so I did forget. Ian’s widened eyes jogged my memory.

  I tried a regain. ‘And you guys. Thanks for making my job easier. I’m sure running contractors like me about is a pain in the arse.’ Smiles of acknowledgement broke out. ‘Although it stops you being able to spend too much in the NAAFI.’ A couple of ironic laughs. Enough to cover my opening faux pas with Ian? I thought so.

  As the Land Rovers circled round and dived through the military lane, I strolled into the shade of the only shop that appeared to be open. Back to safety, job complete.

  There was little sign of life apart from the sound of a truck engine revving in the distance. I needed transport down to the airport, but there were no cabs in sight and no lorries coming through the border to try thumbing a lift. I entered the empty shop. ‘Taxi?’ I asked, holding my thumb and little finger to my ear and mouth.

  The guy behind the counter didn’t seem to understand what I wanted or didn’t care. I had a card for Khalid, the taxi driver who’d dropped me off over a week ago at the same location, so I called him up. It was over 100 kilometres to Kuwait City, but it might be a long wait otherwise.

  ‘Khalid? It’s John. You dropped me off at the Iraqi border a week ago.’

  ‘Yes of course, Mr John. Hello. Are you back in Kuwait needing a taxi?’

  ‘I am, yes. But I’m not in the city. I’m up at the border. Same place you dropped me off.’

  ‘Okay. You want me to come to pick you up?’

  ‘If you can that would be great.’

  ‘I’m in my taxi and I’ll be on my way now. One hour and fifteen minutes I’ll be at the border.’

  ‘Thanks, Khalid. That’s great. See you soon.’

  What a hoofing bloke. Throwing money about wasn’t my style but Khalid deserved a decent tip, plus I’d make sure to keep his card for any time I returned to Kuwait.

  *

  On arrival at the airport I went straight to the British Airways desk and changed my ticket to a flight leaving for London within two hours. With that done, I took Khalid to a restaurant. When we’d both got a coffee, I gave him fifty dollars for his efforts and questioned him about the border. It turned out I knew more than he did, but it hadn’t been time and money wasted. I now had a likeable and competent driver to call on anytime I travelled to Kuwait.

  Once a happy Khalid had left, I had time to kill before my flight. A recent escapade in London had led to getting caught up in surveillance targeted at some associates. I’d known it was a stupid thing to get involved in, but a bit of peer pressure and I had the breaking strain of a KitKat.

  Paranoia still lurked inside, so after scrutinising my dining companions I left the restaurant and moved through the airport trying to detect any suspicious activity. Unsurprisingly, my efforts were to no avail.

  I laughed at myself for being ridiculous, wandered into the Build-A-Bear store, and browsed for a while before choosing a classic plain teddy for my youngest daughter, Becky. If anyone was watching, they could dig out.

  Chapter 4

  Ten Months Earlier

  London — Early January 2004

  After leaving the Corps in 1998, I’d worked on the London close protection circuit, mainly providing security for a variety of Middle Eastern sheikhs and their families. Most of the work in the UK was low threat, mundane stuff, especially if you hadn’t been a ‘badged’ special forces soldier.

  While working regularly with one Middle Eastern family, I’d struck up a friendship with Mohammed, a British-Iraqi driver from Manchester who was born in Baghdad. I’m sure he preferred to be called a chauffeur, but to be honest he was a poor driver with a penchant for road rage, even with clients in the car. However, he was affable and funny, and we immediately hit it off.

  He regularly spoke of Baghdad and normal life before the 1991 Gulf War and the sanctions that followed. How we should travel there when the sanctions were relaxed to experience his favourite fish dish called masgouf, cooked on charcoal by the banks of the Tigris. Before the 2003 Iraq War, the idea was laughable because Saddam Hussein enjoyed a position as international bogeyman and public enemy number one. The chances of me ever strutting my stuff in the souks of Baghdad were pretty much zero.

  Mohammed seemed to travel backwards and forwards quite regularly though. Although his wife and kids lived in Manchester, it sounded like the rest of the family remained in Baghdad. I guessed they were probably Sunni Muslims like Saddam because his brother was high up in a ministry and that seemed unlikely if they followed the Sh’ia side of Islam. But apart from general grumbling, Mohammed never had much of substance to say, good or bad, about religion, Iraqi politics or Saddam.

  When Mohammed called me up in early January 2004, he had recently returned from Baghdad and babbled on about contracts and business opportunities. While w
orking together in London the previous summer, we’d discussed the idea of setting up business in Iraq if the right conditions evolved. Now he was reporting back with a positive assessment and encouraging me to go see for myself.

  My business had a gaping hole in both the diary and the revenue column, so I told him I’d think about it. Give some thought to the how and, more importantly, the how much? It was a brush-off, but Mohammed didn’t hear it like that. He would be in London later in the week, so where should we meet?

  There was little to lose by agreeing to meet up for a chat and hear tales of Baghdad, occupation, business opportunities, and what appeared to be a growing insecurity problem. I wouldn’t have called myself an expert on the situation in Iraq, but I monitored the news. The UN headquarters was blown up in 2003, prompting them to evacuate most of their staff from the country, and the media reported escalating attacks as the Coalition dropped the ball on the peace after winning the war.

  *

  I met Mohammed in the lobby of the Churchill Hotel in Portman Square, close to the Marble Arch end of London’s Oxford Street. We’d both worked at the hotel regularly with Middle Eastern clients whilst they splashed their oil money around, but this would be my first time paying for drinks here. I expected an eye-watering bill.

  At least Mohammed was unlikely to choose a beer or any other alcohol. Not for religious reasons – he drank – but he avoided drinking in places like this where he knew many of the staff. That meant the bill shouldn’t be excessive. After all, how many soft drinks can two guys get through in an hour or two?

  ‘John, I’m pleased to see you again. How are your family? Have you had lunch yet?’

  Nice try.

  ‘Yes thanks, I’ve eaten. It’s good to see you. How was Baghdad?’

  A flicker passed over his face. Either he’d realised he wouldn’t be getting a free lunch, or he’d been intending to pay, and I’d just seen myself off. Whatever. I’d prefer a Subway or a Big Mac anyway.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it. Those American bastards are so powerful, but they won’t turn on the electricity for the city. Without air conditioning it’s unbearably hot in the summer and now it’s dark and cold in the winter. My family have had to go back to using oil heaters and candles. It’s like we went back a hundred years. Those bastards could turn it on if they wanted.’

  I would encounter this view time and again in Iraq. Mohammed and many of the locals in Baghdad had pro-Western leanings and were grateful for the overthrow of Saddam, but still thought the US and its partners chose not to provide the essential services.

  Even without a hardcore of Baathists and Islamists taking potshots at the Coalition forces, the whole thing would probably still have been a total disaster. Our people were incompetent, lazy, and tied up with endless bureaucracy and shit management, just like everywhere else. There was no telling him that though.

  ‘No, it’s more than that. I tell you, they are deliberately punishing the people.’

  ‘Well mate, what does that mean for us? You think there’s a real chance of winning any decent contracts over there?’

  It’s arguable how much weight should be given to the opinion of a Manchester taxi driver regarding international investment, but there couldn’t be too many business people in the UK with good contacts in Baghdad. I’d been mulling this over since Mohammed’s phone call earlier in the week. With an office set-up in Baghdad and trusted local support, surely there would be a decent chance to grab a small slice of the big reconstruction pie. Bearing in mind my abysmal financial situation, this could be the opportunity of a lifetime.

  ‘Inshallah, we will be very successful. Everything needs to be done. So many years of sanctions and then the war. They can’t do it themselves. They need the international companies to come and do the work properly.’

  I’d never heard him use the Arabic word for ‘God willing’ before. Clearly the recent trip to his homeland had included some holy inspiration.

  Over soft drinks and a bill more reasonable than expected, we sat and chatted through the practicalities of travelling to Baghdad and assessing things for myself. Mohammed’s reasons for not going with me weren’t entirely convincing: he thought it better if I made my own mind up without interference from him. Plus, after his recent lengthy spell away from home, he wanted to spend time with his wife and kids up in Manchester.

  The final clincher was cost; if both of us went, it would be doubled. Mohammed didn’t have the money to fund another trip, and I couldn’t afford his travel and costs on top of my own.

  Instead, the idea on the table would see me travel to Baghdad alone and meet up with his brother on arrival. His ministry building had been destroyed by an American smart bomb, so he could be at my disposal for the duration of my stay. Mohammed said Walid grew up to be the smartest brother in the family and was a decent family man, married with a Westernised Shi’a wife and well connected with the movers and shakers still left in Baghdad. Hopefully his talents included being a better driver than Mohammed. But if I was going to seriously consider this jaunt, there was the small question of how I’d get to Baghdad.

  Chapter 5

  Epsom, UK — Late January 2004

  My wife, Claire, was not taking the news of my imminent departure to Baghdad well. The limitations forced on my planning by our current financial situation weren’t helping either.

  When I’d left my corporate investigation job the previous summer to start my own risk management company, there had been a few immediate projects lined up, including a lucrative task in Moscow. For a short while we had more money than ever before, and things were looking rosy. But now, five months since the optimistic days of the business launch, the initial contracts had long been completed and replaced instead by a sickening scarcity of work.

  In my relatively new entrepreneurial guise, the theoretical plan to fly to Jordan and drive to Baghdad had grown legs over the last couple of weeks without me consciously deciding to go ahead. But once I’d begun compiling a plan, working on contingencies, and researching options, it had developed a life of its own.

  The arrangements for the flight to Jordan and the accommodation in Baghdad were straightforward. However, two big black holes still existed: one was the drive from Amman to Baghdad; the other what I would do once I arrived in the Iraqi capital. The business activities I was happy to leave fluid until I was on the ground, but the drive to Baghdad was a different matter. This was by far the most dangerous element of the journey and, as the trip loomed closer, my agreement to travel by taxi across western Iraq seemed like a case of misplaced bravado.

  The overall objective in Baghdad was to establish if I agreed with Mohammed’s positive assessment of the situation. If so, then I needed to identify the various options and costs of setting up shop.

  I intended to provide consultancy services to international companies, using local support and knowledge to help them win a share of the reconstruction contracts. Iraq needed everything after the West had sanctioned and bombed it to a ruin over the previous decade. I wasn’t a business mastermind, but I had spent the best part of four years running ‘cover’ companies in multiple sectors for intellectual property investigations.

  I’d learnt a hell of a lot whilst developing business relationships between these cover companies and the corporate targets, all whilst gathering intelligence and evidence for clients. The work required plenty of due diligence on potential partners, suppliers, distributors, competitors, and anyone else the client wanted to check out – and I was good at it. I only had a few average O levels, but behind those meagre statistics lurked a pretty smart cookie; the minimal academic qualifications due to a lack of application rather than intelligence. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  After three enjoyable years at the investigation company, I’d started to get frustrated. Most of my colleagues were retired ex-policemen a fair few years older than me. Nearly all were great g
uys who became good friends but, only in my mid-thirties, the pace of life had cooled too much for my liking. My time in the Corps and various previous adventures had given me a wanderlust that wasn’t satisfied, even with the occasional overseas investigation case. I became filled with a desire to go out and negotiate the great deals I was cutting with my cover companies, but for real.

  In the late summer of 2003, this combined with a bitter argument over the firm’s late invoice payments to one of my overseas agents and convinced me to hand in my notice and open my own company. An unexpected offer of a consultancy contract from a former boss provided a financial incentive and spurred me on further.

  We’d bumped into each other outside the office as he left a meeting with our Corporate Division boys and voiced his annoyance with the way a technical glitch had ruined a critical surveillance task our guys had been running for him.

  ‘You ever leave this lot mate and we could do a better job together at half the outrageous fees these idiots just charged me for a job they fucked up!’

  Pete was right, but as we found out, it often didn’t matter that you could do the job just as well for half the money; the reputation and accountability of the established players got them the work. It was a painful lesson for both of us. Only three months after we started, I had to agree with Pete that we weren’t winning anywhere near enough work to justify my fixed monthly fees. The resulting cancellation of the contract dealt a tough blow that left a big hole in my financial plans.

  So that was the extent of my business background as I looked to mix it in with my military and security experience to make my fortune in Iraq. The way I saw it, fate seemed to have dealt me a set of cards that pointed towards Baghdad, despite the risks. Claire clearly thought that hand of cards should be played differently.