Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  ‘Okay. Does he need to sleep?’ I brought my hands together and up to my face in the international sign for getting your head down.

  ‘He’s already slept. Don’t worry, you will leave on time to get to the border and be there ready for it to open.’

  Chapter 7

  I’ve always been a light sleeper and an early riser, waking up when required without needing a shake. But less than two hours later my watch alarm had to pierce into deep sleep to rouse me. The display showed 02:30. I hoped Thamer felt chirpier than I did. We had a long way to go today and I wouldn’t fancy driving it after less than ninety minutes’ sleep.

  I shit, showered, and shaved in ten minutes before joining a bright-eyed Thamer in the kitchen for breakfast. The sweetness of the tea probably doubled my blood sugar levels as I wolfed down eggs, bread, and cheese. Mariam fussed over us, ensuring we had enough to eat and our glasses stayed filled with the hot, sweet chai from the pot.

  I stood up and rubbed my hands together as a prompt for Thamer. ‘Time to get moving, big man.’

  He gave me a blank look. Mariam spoke to him in Arabic and after his reply she said, ‘One more glass of chai and you will go. Do you want anything else to eat?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve eaten plenty. You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Please pass on my thanks to Hamad as well.’

  As I picked up my rucksack the kitchen door opened, and Hamad appeared in the doorway. He looked like shit which caused me to snort a laugh out loud. His wild hair, half-shut eyes, and slow gait gave off a zombie-like vibe. Our goodbyes at the apartment were mercifully swift, and we headed for the car on time. I expect Hamad’s head hit the pillow again before we’d even reached the stairs.

  If the Baghdad taxi wasn’t permitted to the airport, I knew it couldn’t be the car from the movies that was taking me to Iraq. As we crossed the car park, the sharpness of the early morning seeped through my jacket. I watched anxiously for Thamer to indicate our ride; some of the vehicles we passed would have disgraced a demolition derby.

  When he stopped and opened the door of a red-and-white estate car, I was relieved. It wasn’t the newest car on the block, but in the dark it appeared to be in pretty good nick. I later found out all the Baghdad taxis used this colour scheme. With my wheeled bag nestled in the large boot, I dropped into the rear seat and checked the contents of my daysack to be at the ready.

  We had to drive over 300 kilometres to reach the Jordan-Iraq border where Mohammed had assured me an Iraqi visa would be issued on entry. Best he was right. If that failed, then I’d be back in London pretty smartish.

  *

  I woke with a start, lifted my head off the back seat, and glanced at the surroundings. Grey dawn light revealed a desert shanty town filled with trucks and small kiosks selling food, water, and other convenience wares. The taxi had hit a deep pothole as Thamer navigated gingerly around a stationary truck. We picked up speed until he must have sensed or heard me stirring.

  He braked and asked, ‘Water? Mai?’

  ‘Err… the border, here?’ I tried to spot any official-looking signs among the hotchpotch of shacks, parked lorries, ISO containers, and scattered rubbish. A glance at the brightening sky revealed it must have been getting on towards 6.00am, the time the border supposedly opened. I was loath to stop if we weren’t close, in case it turned into a big effort to get him going again.

  ‘Yes, yes. Border is very near.’

  ‘Okay. Water, yes. Mai.’ I knew a little basic Arabic like the word for water from working with Middle Eastern families over the previous few years. Our conversation wasn’t exactly flowing but it seemed we could communicate effectively enough.

  I stocked up on bottled water, a handful of chocolate bars, and two cans of warm Red Bull. With the little broken sleep I’d managed, the chocolate and Red Bull could be useful if I started to seriously flag later.

  Thamer wandered off to get food from one of the steaming carts nearby. On his return we sat down at a small table for a glass of sweet chai, despite the tang of diesel in the air. A quick look at the toilets before we left revealed someone appeared to be staging a dirty protest, so I knocked that idea on the head. Hopefully there would be a Western toilet at the border post. Within ten minutes of stopping, we were back in the car and I felt energised as we passed a sign for the Karameh Border Crossing.

  We passed through the Jordanian side easily, albeit with some puzzled looks. Then it was a short drive to the Iraqi Turaibil border post.

  We parked up and went into a single storey, white, stone building, Thamer leading the way before he stopped and motioned for me to go to the counter marked ‘Foreigners’. He scurried off to sort out his own documentation while I approached the counter. Just like the Jordanian officials, the Iraqis were very polite. They took my passport and one of the officials directed me to take a seat in the mostly empty room, telling me to wait for a ‘short while’. Stares came my way from the few other guys sat in the room. Most looked like they had rocked up for a pirate movie casting session, although given it was 6.00am at the start of the dangerous road through the western deserts of Iraq, their bleary eyes, stubble, and wary nature could be expected.

  My chief concern was being identified as a target of opportunity for kidnap or robbery. There weren’t many people in the room, but it would only take one phone call to others along the 500 kilometre highway to Baghdad to cause some real problems.

  My security on this part of the trip was always the most worrying aspect. Mohammed said he’d journeyed backwards and forwards numerous times with Thamer over recent years and never had any issues. He’d made the trip twice since the end of the war the previous year and was sure it would go smoothly. Of course, he wasn’t a fair-haired, blue-eyed Westerner who stuck out like a dog’s bollocks. I’m sure if I had swarthy Middle Eastern looks, lifelong Arabic, and a deep knowledge of the culture and religion, I too would have thought it was a piece of cake. Mohammed was suddenly conspicuous by his absence.

  I did have a contingency plan of sorts. Ten years before, when I’d left the Corps for a three-year stint in civvy street before rejoining, I got mixed up in a project in Bosnia at the height of the Yugoslav Civil War. To this day I’m not sure who I worked with, but they provided me with press ID which included an address and phone number in London for an outfit called KR Media. Using that, I’d then obtained a Foreign Press Bureau ID Card from an office in the Croatian capital Zagreb to enable me to travel into the conflict areas. Both of those cards sat in my wallet. To augment them, I had recently applied for and received an ID card for the British Association of Journalists. It didn’t have a photo, but it had PRESS in big letters on the front.

  Armed with these credentials, I intended to use them if detained by anyone unfriendly. I pictured myself jumping out of a vehicle with: ‘Ah finally, I’ve found you at last. John Pierce, reporter for KR Media. This is your chance to tell the other side of the story.’

  Not a foolproof plan I’ll admit, but a plan of sorts nonetheless.

  ‘Mr John.’

  It had only been a minute since handing over my passport, so I hoped this didn’t indicate a problem. Once back at the counter they gave me a form to complete sans any writing implement. Fortunately, I carried a notebook, pencil, and pen – a habit drummed into us from day one of basic Royal Marines training at Lympstone. I quickly filled in the required details and handed it back. Less than five minutes after sitting down and trying to get comfortable in the hard chair, my name echoed out again.

  ‘Mr John.’

  The moment of truth.

  ‘Welcome to Iraq and we wish you a pleasant stay in our country.’

  The official handed over my passport complete with Iraqi entry visa stamp and smiled as though he frequently welcomed British travellers to this tourist haven. Who knows, perhaps he did. For all I knew, this could be an everyday occurrence. At least they
hadn’t sat me down and asked if I was out of my mind for even thinking of driving the road from here to Baghdad. Mind you, they probably pictured an armoured escort waiting outside, rather than the somewhat dusty Baghdad taxi that would now whisk me on my way.

  When I strolled past the ranks of the waiting pirate audition, they didn’t look thrilled the Westerner had jumped the queue. Some grumbling followed in my wake, but no-one appeared to take any malevolent interest or try to engage me in conversation. I exited stage left and headed for the car.

  Back at the taxi there was no sign of Thamer. By now the sun had nudged above the horizon to reveal more traffic transiting the Jordanian side and heading this way. Despite the sunshine, the desert air remained cold from the night and caused me to shiver as I cursed him for disappearing when we should be setting off. A minute or so later he popped out from a nearby doorway, all smiles, and jumped in the driver’s seat.

  ‘We go now?’ Like he’d been waiting for me.

  I bit my tongue. ‘Yep, let’s go.’

  My watch read 06:05, so bang on schedule. I returned to the back seat, donned my baseball cap, and settled down for the ride.

  *

  The empty three-lane highway stretched into the distance through the desert scrubland as we motored through the western reaches of Iraq’s Anbar Province. Initially I peered forward through the headrests, constantly checking whether an illegal checkpoint or roadblock had been revealed in the distance. But there’s only so long anyone can keep up that sort of vigilance.

  Apart from passing two or three slow trucks early on, the only traffic we encountered was the occasional vehicle overtaking our relatively ponderous taxi. Usually they were new-looking SUVs like the Toyota Land Cruiser, a Middle Eastern favourite.

  After about an hour, I began to relax and hope the remaining 400 kilometres to Baghdad would pass by as uneventfully. More vehicles started to appear travelling towards the border in the opposite direction, but there was a soothing tranquillity to the vast desert panorama which helped prevent getting spun up with tension every time a black dot emerged up ahead.

  That was until a town appeared over to the right and Thamer took the ramp leading off the highway.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Family.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are we stopping?’ My curt reply reflected my annoyance. Thamer and his brother’s family had been nothing but good to me till now, but this turn of events had raised my hackles. Control of the situation was slipping from my grasp.

  ‘My family here.’ Not the most complete explanation, although enough to get the gist.

  Anyone who researched the security situation in Iraq knew its western Anbar Province was a stronghold for Sunni militants and not somewhere you wanted to be hanging around having a family day out. Not unless you were part of the in-crowd.

  It was 7.15am and I wanted to get as much distance under our belts as possible before the roads started to fill up. Instead, within a couple of minutes we were slowing down at a T-junction on the outskirts of the town of Rutba, turning left into a more built-up area of stone buildings bleached in the sun.

  There was little sign of life as we pulled up outside a pair of tall, yellowing gates. Thamer left the car and pressed a button, prompting an almost instant opening of the gates by a tall woman (I assumed), dressed head to toe in black. We must have been expected. Thamer jumped back into the car and eased it into the driveway. Our host closed and bolted the gates behind us.

  Inside the stone-walled house the temperature was Baltic. The cold permeated my jacket, although the woman silently serving chai with aged hands was padding about with bare feet.

  Thamer had said ‘My mother’s sister’ as we entered. His aunt was a big unit as well, with feet like flippers. I guessed her genes more closely matched Thamer’s bigger brother, Hamad. She and Thamer engaged in murmured conversation, but no other family members joined us. Perhaps she lived alone.

  A dish of bread, tomatoes, and cheese appeared. I took the opportunity to grab another breakfast and hoped I wouldn’t have to read the riot act to Thamer about getting back on the road. He’d already been driving for most of the last four hours, so a break and some more sustenance wasn’t a bad idea. We still had a long way to travel and I’m a reasonable guy, but it was my money paying the bills and I wanted to get this drive to Baghdad done and dusted.

  Before long, Thamer stood up and stretched, prompting me to gather my daysack and do the same. The goodbyes were thankfully short and included my liberal use of ‘Shukran’ to say thank you to our host.

  The limited field of view through the gate restricted my attempt to check the lie of the land outside. From what I could see, it appeared the scene outside was the same peaceful morning we’d left on the way in. Holding still, I strained to detect the sound of footsteps or the murmur of voices but there was no sound of either people or vehicles. The only noise was Thamer filling the car with petrol from a jerrycan. Service stations might be rare or non-existent and stopping at any we did find would increase risk. Good thinking by Thamer to top up here, even if the fuel quality might be questionable.

  I took up my position in the rear of the taxi and steeled myself for the next leg of the journey.

  On arrival, Thamer had driven straight into the small driveway, so on leaving we’d have to reverse out once the gates were open. From a security perspective this sucked. Too late now but driving out forwards we’d be better able to react to any potential surprises. I made a rolling motion with my hands and mimed the car reversing and taking straight off at speed, hoping Thamer would understand not to dawdle once we left. It wouldn’t have won me any prizes playing Boxing Day charades, but I think he got the message. At that moment I felt a long way from safety.

  With the gates opened by his aunt, Thamer eased the taxi into the sunshine and backed onto the dusty road. Low in the seat, my eyes swept up and down the road and over the nearby houses, checking for any sign of hostile activity but only registering silence and calm.

  We pulled away, seemingly only observed by a chicken strutting past the house. As we reached the highway with no vehicles following, I breathed easier. In comparison with the breakfast tour of Rutba, the main road was a tangible link with the rest of civilisation. We began eating up the miles again and the traffic didn’t appear to be noticeably heavier. Hunkered down in the rear wearing my baseball cap, things were going pretty much to plan, although I remained nervous of any checkpoints or roadblocks we might encounter. There wasn’t much point worrying about that eventuality now though. I’d just have to deal with it if and when it happened.

  Chapter 8

  For the second time that morning I woke from a half sleep as the car bumped along at walking pace. Instantly wide awake, I scanned outside to check why our speed had dropped so severely, expecting the worst. We were off at the side of the main highway in amongst a collection of shacks and a disused fuel station. There were a handful of cars, several lorries, and a few drivers and passengers nearby, none of whom appeared to take any notice of our arrival.

  ‘What are we doing?’

  As the taxi rolled to a halt, Thamer pointed towards a stone building with a side entrance as a man emerged shaking his hands. I couldn’t begrudge the guy a toilet stop but I hoped he’d make it quick.

  ‘Where are we?’ I held my hands open to emphasise my question.

  Pointing ahead to the right, Thamer made a swish of his hand and with a single word answer informed me ‘Ramadi’ was up ahead.

  I needed to take a leak myself, but not if it meant leaving the vehicle unattended. Discreetly checking my rudimentary map once Thamer had disappeared inside the toilet block, I realised it was a long way to Baghdad with a full bladder.

  Once he returned, I motioned for him to wait, paused to let a couple of guys pass the car, and then casually opened the rear door. I pulled up my jacket collar and adjusted t
he peak of my baseball cap down to shield my eyes as I made my way towards the toilet entrance.

  Walking confidently like you know what you’re doing and where you’re going will get you a long way in most places. It helps if you can blend in physically, but I had to work with what I had. With my hands in my jacket pockets, holding the phone in one and a folding KA-BAR knife with a razor-sharp, black, four-inch blade in the other, I kept my pace slow to avoid arousing suspicion. It felt like eyes were studying me as I walked the fifty or so metres, but there were no shouts of recognition or cries of ‘infidel’.

  Turning into the doorway, I almost collided with a young guy on his way out. He stood back and apologised in Arabic as I grunted an indistinguishable reply. Realisation dawned on his face as our eyes briefly met.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in English this time.

  ‘No problem,’ came my automatic reply as I continued into the building. Bollocks. This needed to be the quickest piss in history.

  Nature intervened against me and it felt like an eternity before I stood at the broken sink making an unsuccessful attempt to wash my hands due to the lack of water.

  I took a deep breath, adjusted my collar and baseball cap in the cracked mirror, and set off back to the car. Again, just as in Rutba, I detected no obvious sign my presence had registered any special interest with anyone. The guy I’d bumped into was nowhere to be seen, but I remained concerned he might be watching to identify my vehicle and send the information on ahead.

  While I’d been emptying my bladder, Thamer had bought more food, water, and fizzy drinks; so much for not leaving the car unattended. As I locked the door behind me, I turned down his offer of a can of Pepsi and pointed up the road. He shrugged his shoulders, devoured the rest of his oily sandwich-type snack, and set off again.

  I still couldn’t see any sign of my toilet doorway acquaintance as we merged back onto the highway. I monitored the wing mirrors for any suspicious following vehicles, but the only one in sight was an ancient and sluggish Mercedes truck pulling a forty-foot container. After a few hundred metres, I switched my focus to the road in front. Whether or not our stop had triggered any interest, there was no sign of any hot pursuit.