Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  ‘You’re actually going to Baghdad?’

  I don’t think I’d ever heard Claire sound incredulous before.

  ‘Seriously? Are you mad? Driving to Baghdad? What the hell are you thinking?’ Then with a forlorn note, ‘What about us… me… the girls?’

  I looked at her, unsure what to say, but she hadn’t finished, and the questions were rhetorical. Kind of anyway. She expected an answer but not yet. Her bewitching green eyes flashed with anger. No sign of their usual mischievous sparkle.

  ‘What are you thinking… just… why would you?’

  As well as the anger, Claire’s face had dropped when I announced I’d be flying in only two days. I couldn’t blame her either. It would be obvious it was a barking mad idea to anyone who stopped to consider it, which explained why I’d made a point to avoid doing just that.

  Things had moved on autopilot at first, but now this course of action had developed into a workable plan. And with my limited funds, the plan provided my only viable option to get a piece of the reconstruction action in Iraq. No one else would pay for me to go to Baghdad and tout for work.

  If pressed, I’d prefer to describe it as a ‘ballsy move’, but it was difficult to argue much with Claire’s description that included ‘stupid’ and ‘suicidal’.

  ‘Sweetheart, things are all arranged on the Iraqi side. I’ll be travelling low-profile with highly trusted escorts. Once I’m in Baghdad, I’ll be able to piggyback off the Coalition and international press set-ups. It’ll be okay and, more to the point, how many Westerners are in Baghdad right now with trusted Iraqi contacts? I swear to you, if I get out there and things look really dodgy, then I’ll be the first one to bug the hell out. But this is a real chance to get in on the ground floor. Make some real money.’

  Everything I’d said was true, although it relied on the best-case scenarios and taking Mohammed at his word for the arrangements at the Iraqi end. With so many unknowns, it was impossible to predict what would happen and how any of this would work out.

  ‘One thing I do know is that it’s time to put up or shut up. It’s not like I’m looking forward to this trip, but if I’m going to do this, then I need to get on with it. I’m trying to make contingency plans for everything, but in the end it comes down to getting my arse on a plane and just doing it.’

  I’d spoken on and off with Mohammed about business in Iraq since the end of hostilities nine months before in April 2003. By contrast, Claire had only become aware of the seriousness of my planning five minutes ago.

  After his recent trip to Baghdad, Mohammed judged the time was right and everything would go well, so I tried to project the same confidence to Claire. I had my doubts of course. Was he blagging it as well? Probably. Was his confidence just an act for my benefit, and did he really think it was a massive, high-risk gamble? Almost definitely.

  Claire must have seen the shadow of doubt pass across my face.

  ‘You’ve got no life insurance, no support, nothing. How will I even know if anything happens to you? Tell me? How? How many days should I wait before I call someone? Who would I call? You haven’t got a clue what it’s like.’ She turned away as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Fortunately, she wasn’t aware of the video tape I’d made earlier that morning for her, our teenager Natalie, and our one-year-old daughter Becky. It could best be described as a ‘sorry I screwed up’ tape, where I told Claire and the girls how much I loved them and tried being positive about how they should make the most of their lives, go to university, be happy, and all that sort of stuff. I’d left it in the filing cabinet next to my old service will.

  Helpfully titled ‘Play this if I’m Dead!!’, I’d almost shed a tear as it dawned on me how shitty it would be for the girls if I never came home. Funny how it wasn’t the thought of dying that seemed to matter, but the effect it would have on those left behind.

  I hadn’t cried since Alan Shearer scored for England against Scotland in Euro ’96 and tears leaked out in sheer joy and relief – and that was only the first goal of the match. Just like today, back then the emotion had swelled out of nowhere. Claire had been sitting next to me in our married quarters in Poole, watching with a bemused smile on her face and wondering what had happened to the rufty-tufty marine she’d married. My emotional register had certainly never included crying at sport before.

  She said later she hadn’t known whether to hug me or leave me to it. In the end she’d left me to it and gone into the kitchen shaking her head and making some quip about me being a ‘new man’, before laughing like a drain with our neighbour Karina, who was already in the kitchen grabbing another glass of wine.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Not enough, but all I could muster.

  Into the silence I added, ‘I love you.’

  That wasn’t something I said very often and certainly not often enough. Perhaps that made it more special when I did say it, but I doubt Claire would have agreed.

  We’d been married for fifteen years and experienced plenty of ups and downs, although nothing different from other service couples who spent long periods apart and never had enough disposable income. Claire had fallen pregnant at only nineteen and, being the chivalrous guy I no longer was, I’d asked her to marry me.

  Natalie was now fifteen and finding her own feet. Not my little buddy like before she was a teenager, but she had grown up funny, pretty, and smart. Stubborn too, with a temper that could smoulder and burn with fiery intent. I knew who she got that from, so I couldn’t really complain.

  I put my arms round Claire’s shoulders and tried to turn her towards me. She resisted at first, but soon softened and we kissed. That was something else we didn’t do enough of lately. Although with a teenager and a one-year-old in the house, mixed with my new business and Claire’s nursing job, that wasn’t much of a surprise.

  The anger had left Claire’s eyes and instead she looked lost, like we were twenty years old again and being wrenched apart by the Corps. Her left alone with a young baby while I went off soldiering round the world. A normally hidden well of emotion started to stir. Christ, this was becoming a habit. I breathed deeply and forced it back down.

  ‘It’ll be okay, don’t worry.’ I forced myself to smile. ‘This time next year, we’ll be millionaires… honestly.’

  She looked at me, shaking her head as a grudging smile crept onto her face. She sighed and said, ‘I love you too,’ before kissing me quickly on the lips and then pulling away, her hands remaining fixed on my hips.

  ‘Sorry, I know how it is and I know you’ve mentioned this Baghdad thing before, but it’s suddenly so real, so soon. I’m sorry.’

  And then with an effort to sound brighter, ‘Let’s do something before you go. How about the zoo? Becky’s never been before. What about London Zoo tomorrow?’

  My flight to Amman was scheduled for Monday: two days’ time. We knew from long experience it was better to stay busy and not think about the impending separation and danger.

  ‘Yeah, the zoo is a great idea.’

  Leaning in, we kissed and smiled at the same time. Things hadn’t always been great between us in the last few years, but we always seemed to come out okay in the end.

  Chapter 6

  Amman, Jordan — Early February 2004

  It was gone midnight as I hauled my bag off the carousel at Jordan’s Queen Alia International Airport in Amman.

  The flight on Royal Jordanian had been empty enough to allow me to spread out comfortably. After reading for a while, a smile had crept across my face as I’d recalled the weekend with Claire and the girls. The trip to London Zoo had been great fun, helped by the dry weather and rare winter sun. We’d all ignored my imminent departure and concentrated on having a good time.

  Although only twelve months old, Becky’s sense of humour already shone through. A few times on our day out I caught myself appreciating her total innocence and
wishing nothing bad would ever hurt her; that she wouldn’t have to carry the burden her whole life of a father who left her before she was even old enough to remember him.

  I wasn’t religious but I kept an open mind to hedge my bets. One or two dodgy situations in the past had led to promises being offered up to the big guy in return for a slice of divine intervention. This time though I hadn’t been praying, I’d been ordering myself to do everything possible to stay lucky and make sure I came home.

  When I stretched out my tired leg muscles, an image of our black Labrador-cross, Taz, flashed into my head as the lights of a southern European city passed below. We’d run that morning on Epsom Downs as we did most days, and always on the days I flew abroad. I’m not superstitious, but it had become a good luck routine. Running up on the Downs in the early morning fresh air with the panorama of London spread out below us always relaxed me, until she saw another dog or a horse and decided to inject some chaos into the proceedings.

  Taz had a resigned air when I left the house with my gear that morning for the waiting taxi. Probably recognised only too well the signs she’d be missing out on our runs for a while. Claire wasn’t much of a dog person and she certainly wasn’t much of a runner these days. She still had a tidy figure though, which prompted the memory of our frantic sex from the night before to pop up. My smile broadened.

  Despite my dismissal of superstition, somewhat bizarrely I also had a plastic eyeball that always came with me on these trips as a good luck charm. Natalie had given it to me when she was tiny after pulling it out of a Christmas cracker. I’d taken it on my first tour to Northern Ireland and been very lucky during a touch-and-go incident. After that, the more times I got lucky, the more it was sure to be packed when I travelled. Only held together by black masking tape these days, it had caused the odd raised eyebrow amongst customs officers over the years.

  Right up until the announcement to prepare for landing, I’d suppressed the growing sense of trepidation about this trip. With our imminent arrival in Amman it rose up again, but a couple of deep breaths before meeting the eye of a smiling, doe-eyed Royal Jordanian air hostess and those thoughts receded again.

  Once I was on the ground, freshly stamped visa in my passport, I surveyed the surroundings on my first-ever visit to Jordan. Finally getting started always made everything easier. The worst time is always the run-up to a job like this and thinking about the ‘what ifs’. Once you’ve rolled the dice, it’s time to get on with it. Or as Julius Caesar put it slightly better back in the day: ‘Alea jacta est’ – The die is cast.

  *

  I’d tried to establish a firm protocol for my airport pickup.

  ‘No, tell them not to write my name on a card at the airport,’ I’d repeated. My attempt at explaining to Mohammed why it could compromise my identity wasn’t getting through.

  ‘Just get them to write GRC.’

  Mohammed looked puzzled. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’ll be able to identify them and make an approach if I’m happy.’

  Mohammed considered my answer. ‘Why wouldn’t you be happy?’

  ‘Because I don’t know these people. I know you say I’ll be met by the brother of the trusted taxi driver who always drives you to Baghdad, but to be honest that doesn’t fill me with absolute confidence. I just want the chance to make my own assessment and approach him in my own time once I’m comfortable with the situation.’

  Mohammed nodded in acceptance. ‘So, what is GRC?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. They’re simply three letters that I will recognise. Like a code. You understand?’

  ‘Ah, okay, I understand now. A three-letter code. I’ll speak to them and arrange it.’

  *

  As my eyes roamed across the last few people holding cards, it became clear the plan was not quite coming together as envisioned. I dismissed yet another porter trying to entice me to a waiting taxi and started to consider the options if my pickup didn’t happen. With not much of a list to work with, the cheap hotel at the airport beckoned.

  Despite repeated requests, Mohammed hadn’t provided any contact numbers, addresses, or any other information about my transfer from Amman to Baghdad. I only knew the driver’s name was Thamer and when I arrived he would be asleep in preparation for the 3.00am start. The airport pickup arrangements were therefore in the hands of Thamer’s brother, Hamad.

  I was now the last Westerner waiting in the area, apart from an overweight guy with glasses who was bellowing into a mobile phone and jabbing a finger in the air.

  Out of the blue there was a crash to my right as a luggage trolley smashed into the farthest carousel, followed by shouts and then the wailing of a young kid. I guessed from his body position sprawled across the trolley that the kid had been riding it like a go-kart. An older-looking boy smirked from behind a nearby pillar.

  As porters and uniformed guards gathered round the stricken trolley, raising their voices at each other and everyone else, a huge man with a big shock of black hair appeared by the pillar. He grabbed the older lad in his wake and scooped up the crying younger boy. Bit late for young kids, I thought as he strode purposely in my direction.

  ‘You must be Mr John. I am Hamad, and these are my sons Jamal and Sirwan. Welcome to Amman.’

  The big guy thrust out a huge hand and I shook it as I considered how best to politely ask him to prove his identity to make sure I wasn’t being lured off somewhere.

  ‘Do you have a sign with you?’ I asked. It was doubtful criminals would come bounding along with young kids in tow, but it pays to be careful and follow the set procedure whenever you can.

  ‘No. The boys were writing them but then argued which one was the best. In the end they both ended up ripped, so we threw them away. We didn’t need them; we found you. Come on, the car is this way. Let me take your bag.’

  So much for the security protocol. Giving myself an internal bollocking, I let Hamad take my small-wheeled grip while I kept my black, cabin-sized rucksack slung over one shoulder.

  The guards eyed us suspiciously and the remaining porters were clearly disappointed a potential customer was being whisked out from their grasp at the last minute. The other Westerner stared over at us although the beep of a car horn from a sleek S-Class Merc soon caught his attention. He began wheeling his luggage towards the kerb while a chauffeur jumped out of the vehicle to assist.

  An S-Class wouldn’t be bad but looking at Hamad and his sons I had my doubts we would be travelling in quite the same luxury.

  If I reckoned it unlikely that kidnappers would bring kids along, the sight of the car in front of me cemented my view I wasn’t the victim of a criminal enterprise; not unless they intended to grab me and take me back to 1986 that is. As a beaming Hamad swept his hand in presentation, the car in front of me looked as though it had come straight off the set of the movie Back to the Future.

  With its top-opening gull wings, it was either a DeLorean DMC-12 or a damn fine copy. I was lost for words. It was in great condition, I could give him that. A fine specimen no doubt of a somewhat cult car with a limited production run. However, to say it was unexpected was putting it mildly.

  ‘But how are we going to fit…’ As I spoke, a petite woman wearing a headscarf hopped out of an adjacent Honda and called to the boys in Arabic.

  ‘Mr John, this is my wife, Mariam.’

  Mariam walked towards me and held out her hand as she said in excellent English, ‘Mr John, it is our pleasure to welcome you to Amman and our home.’

  With the lightest and briefest of touches I shook her delicate hand and thanked her for coming to greet me at the airport. ‘You really didn’t need to go to all this trouble. If I had your address, I would have caught a taxi.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hamad said, as Mariam cajoled the boys into the Honda. ‘You are our guest.’

  I tried to imagine me, C
laire, and the girls rocking up to Heathrow to greet a business traveller flying in at midnight, but it wouldn’t have even crossed our minds. It wasn’t the last time I would be touched by the welcoming nature and friendliness of people across the Middle East, even to those who they didn’t know and might never meet again.

  My watch showed almost 1.00am as we finally entered the door of the family apartment in downtown Amman. The two boys were still boisterous, but it didn’t matter because it seemed most of the neighbours were still up and about.

  ‘This is my brother Thamer, your driver for Iraq,’ said Hamad, as a shorter, bearded man with similar features smiled back at me while we shook hands.

  ‘As salaam alaikum,’ Thamer offered in greeting. So much for getting his head down ready for our 3.00am start.

  ‘Alaikum as salaam.’ I almost sounded like a native. All downhill from there if my Arabic got tested much further though.

  ‘Baghdad taxis are not allowed to Queen Alia Airport, which is why we picked you up,’ said Hamad. Fair enough.

  Back to English for me as well. ‘Thamer, great to meet you. Are we still going to be good to go for three am?’

  Thamer kept his smile up but glanced across at his bigger brother. I looked over to Hamad as well. His confused expression showed he hadn’t quite caught what I’d asked either.

  I simplified it. ‘Are we leaving at three o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Hamad, before a quick exchange in Arabic with Thamer.

  ‘My brother speaks English, but not so much,’ explained Hamad.

  That would prove to be an understatement although we were to make do without too many dramas. In some ways it was quite handy. I didn’t particularly want to spend 800 kilometres with Iraq’s version of a London cabbie in my ear the whole way.

  Just in case, I had a small ‘Pocket Comms’ flip book designed to help people who didn’t know the local lingo to communicate via images – a category that definitely applied to me.