Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  The emptiness of the desert gave way to surprisingly lush greenery and trees as we approached Falluja. We crossed a bridge over the Euphrates River not long after our toilet break. The presence of American military vehicles and soldiers on the road was a welcome sight. A chicane slowed the traffic and they scrutinised every passing vehicle. We weren’t stopped so I didn’t get a chance to interact with them, but that fleeting encounter was enough to sense a link to order and safety.

  From Falluja it was only fifty kilometres to Baghdad. For the first time since starting out from the border, the end was in reach. Keep pushing on and we could make it without any issues.

  You shouldn’t relax and let your guard down as you approach the end of any dangerous task, but the sight of friendly forces for the first time since six o’clock that morning had given me a fresh boost of optimism, although the second can of Red Bull I’d just finished probably helped. It was just gone 1.00pm and I pictured checking into the hotel within the hour and grabbing some much-needed rest before meeting Walid, Mohammed’s brother.

  As we entered the outer reaches of Baghdad, I began to feel a whole lot more secure. It’s far easier to hide amongst a crowd, provided you don’t stick out. Cruising into town in a Baghdad taxi was like being in London in a black cab – they filled the roads everywhere. As a precaution, I slunk down and made sure I was well covered from easy view.

  However, it soon became clear my initial feelings of reprieve were premature as we hit multiple lanes of stationary vehicles. Suddenly I felt very exposed and trapped if things were to go south. Sat in traffic, drivers and passengers tend to start taking in their surroundings and noticing things like a low-budget Englishman sitting in the car next door. Far from feeling safer in the city, I now longed to be back on the highway with speed as a weapon.

  As the time ticked by, I had no idea how far we were from our hotel destination in the centre of the city. Every time I asked Thamer how far or how long he simply opened his hands and uttered a phrase that ended with ‘Inshallah’. Not a promising sign.

  None of the traffic lights worked and there were no police in sight. Cars drove on the wrong side of the road, along pavements, trying to pull U-turns, and anything else they could think of to gain an advantage. All despite both directions being at a virtual standstill. Total chaos and all against the backdrop of piled debris, run-down neighbourhoods, bombed-out buildings, and an overwhelming sense of decay.

  Despite my frustration with our slow progress and dismay at this unexpected exposure, I kept my paranoia in check. Finally, Thamer turned off the gridlocked main road and into the side streets. He was a taxi driver, so perhaps he knew a shortcut.

  We weaved slowly through the heavy traffic, but at least we were moving. After turning into a quiet residential road, we pulled up outside a house with a peeling white metal gate. I didn’t know where we were, only that it wasn’t the Palestine Hotel.

  If he noticed it, Thamer ignored the resigned look on my face as he bounded out of the car and went to the gate, calling out a greeting. Next thing, a slender woman with long, dark hair opened the gate from inside and two small kids ran out shouting ‘Baba’ at Thamer. He scooped them up and then put them down one at a time before motioning for me to follow him towards the house.

  Thamer’s wife, Sara, spoke good English, as I discovered when she started chatting after bringing us chai, sliced fruit, mixed nuts, and a bowl of assorted sweets. Although I wasn’t comfortable about the car being out on the road and not knowing where I was, soon Sara was pointing out our location on my map. She assured me it was a safe neighbourhood where everyone had known each other for years.

  Thamer beamed as Sara translated how honoured he was to be my driver and to welcome me to his home. He also hoped I had enjoyed our journey and found his driving to my satisfaction. He might have felt less honoured if he knew I was flat broke and travelling on financial fumes, although the fact I was journeying unprotected across this dangerous route in his old Baghdad taxi should have been a clue.

  They invited me to stay for dinner, but I convinced them I needed to reach the hotel and ‘meet with my colleagues’. It was 3.30pm, so we’d made pretty good time despite the unexpected Baghdad traffic. Sara said it would take thirty minutes to drive to the hotel, but please could I try some of her cakes first. By 4.00pm we had said our goodbyes and set off again. My doubtful promises to join them one night for dinner seemed to have made everyone happy.

  As we turned onto a main road, I was surprised by the electronic goods stacked high on the broken pavements. Boxes of televisions, fridges, and air conditioning units sat outside a multitude of colourful shopfronts bearing the same brand names and logos: LG, Panasonic, Samsung, and Hitachi. The imported products lined both sides of the road as we drove through this commercial district of the city.

  Just under thirty minutes after leaving Thamer’s house, I caught sight of the instantly recognisable building up ahead on our right. Recognisable, that is, to anyone who had watched TV news coverage of the Iraq War and its aftermath. With the hotel looming above us, Thamer pulled up on the right-hand side of the road near where a group of locals armed with AK-47s read news-sheets and smoked, some leaning against the nearest wall and others lounging on plastic chairs. Behind them lurked an opening between a concrete barrier topped with razor wire and the end unit of a parade of shops. Thamer turned and beamed a satisfied smile. ‘Hotel guards.’

  After flipping the boot open, Thamer wheeled my bag towards the guards and encouraged me to follow. A quick exchange of Arabic, followed by a glare in my direction, and they let us through. We walked down an empty road with the hotel on our left behind concrete barriers topped with razor wire and a line of two-storey dilapidated buildings to our right.

  Two left turns and three minutes later we entered through the glass doors into the busy lobby of the hotel. The babble of English in various accents caught my attention. The many Western expats filling the lobby was quite a surreal sight after the epic and lonely drive across the desert. Almost like stepping into another world.

  Still wheeling my bag behind him, Thamer strode over to the reception desk on the right and primed the smart-suited guy standing behind it in Arabic. The duty manager looked at me. ‘Mr John, welcome to the Palestine Hotel.’

  Chapter 9

  BAGHDAD — FEBRUARY 2004

  After checking into my room, I called Walid who answered within a couple of rings. He sounded relieved that Thamer had delivered me to Baghdad safely and tried to insist on coming straight over to see me. That wasn’t happening; I needed a shower and a spot of Egyptian PT. We agreed to meet at 6.30pm for a quick hello and a chance to plan for the following day. Almost two hours – enough time for a power nap.

  In early 2004, Baghdad had the feel of a wild frontier. A few Western expats still lived out in the city and many continued to zip around town without armed protection as they ate in restaurants, visited shops, and attended meetings. There was an air of insecurity, of uncertainty, but not yet the menacing feeling death stalked the streets with purpose.

  The soundtrack to the city was punctuated by regular gunshots and bursts of automatic fire, mixed with the occasional explosion. It reminded me of Bosnia with UNPROFOR in ’95. The constant reminder war was close by, even if you didn’t actually see it very often. The way they celebrated weddings and just about everything else in this place, the sounds of a ‘Lebanese unload’ could be either violence or celebration. If you knew which, you were probably in the wrong place at the wrong time, whatever the answer.

  The Palestine Hotel in the heart of the city was a melting pot of security contractors, military personnel, Iraqi businessmen, and Western executives. It was outside the Green Zone which sat on the other side of the river, so a useful location for someone like me who needed freedom of movement for easy access with my local contacts. There were no checkpoints to navigate or American troops to bypass.

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sp; An eighteen-storey hotel with a unique facade of concrete flower-type designs on most of the balconies, the Palestine was located on the east bank of the Tigris River by Firdos Square – the square where the huge statue of Saddam was torn down by Baghdad residents with the help of US forces. Now a different statue stood in its place: a modern art piece with a ball balancing on a crescent moon. I’d read it was meant to symbolise the unity of the three main branches of Iraqi society – Sunni, Sh’ia, and Kurds. Art isn’t really my bag, but it looked as though they just threw up the first thing they found to fill the void from Saddam’s previously imposing figure.

  Also perched on Firdos Square was the next-door Sheraton Hotel. Compared to the tired brown and orange decor of the Palestine, you might expect the Sheraton to have been a picture of luxury. However, it had been a long time since the real Sheraton Hotels had managed it and, by comparison to my lodgings, it was a dark and dreary place which resembled a bunker on the ground floors. The one good thing about the Sheraton was that most of the gunfire, bombs, and rocket attacks seemed to be attracted that way instead of hitting the Palestine. Not so good if you lived in the Sheraton of course.

  Many of the international press corps also based themselves out of the Palestine, including CNN on the floor directly above me or very close to it. How did I know? Because when CNN reported from Baghdad, the backdrop was identical to the view out of my window down across the square and over the blue-domed mosque visible in so many news reports. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones to see that backdrop and the locals would pitch up to demonstrate their grievances in the knowledge it would all be shown on American TV.

  In amongst the mix, a few entrepreneurs like myself flitted about. Guys representing small companies or their own interests, all searching for contracts to get a foothold in the melee of post-war Iraq. I didn’t bump into anyone quite as ‘seat of the pants’ and low budget as my efforts, but they might simply have been good at blagging it, like me.

  My room was basic but comfortable and the ‘Welcome Home’ card on the desk became my bookmark for several years. The water pressure wasn’t stellar, and the temperature hardly luxurious, but in a city with many people struggling to survive it was plenty good enough. A balcony provided a view across the city, although I kept clear of it following a whispered warning given to me on the day I arrived.

  Watch out for the snipers. They take potshots if they spot any Westerners.

  I hadn’t seen any reports along those lines, but better safe than sorry.

  The other key advice for when you’re staying in a country with fluctuating power supplies and ambivalent levels of maintenance: never use the lifts, always take the stairs.

  The US military provided security to the hotel, including armoured vehicles and at least one M1 Abrams tank on permanent duty. Razor wire and concrete barriers surrounded the extended perimeter to restrict access to only one pedestrian entrance and a separate gate for authorised vehicles via the road adjacent to the river. As I’d seen on my arrival, local armed security personnel guarded the pedestrian entrance, positioned a few hundred yards from the hotel front doors and out of the line of sight. It opened onto the main road that ran between Firdos Square and the central Tahrir Square.

  Only one entrance made access control easier, but it provided a simple opportunity for anyone to observe movements on foot to and from the hotel. The first couple of days it didn’t bother me so much, but after that any surveillance of my movement pattern could quickly identify my vulnerability as I came and went without any security escort.

  In my favour, it would probably be assumed I had a ‘short’, or sidearm, which might dissuade an attack in the immediate vicinity of the hotel. Plus, the Kalashnikov-wielding guards would be able to intervene in the event of an attack. How likely the guards would be to come to my rescue was debatable, but it meant the most likely threat upon leaving the hotel was being picked up by hostile surveillance.

  *

  Walid presented as the polar opposite to his brother Mohammed back in the UK. Where Mohammed was outspoken, brash, worldly-wise, and opinionated, Walid came across bookish, quiet, and intellectual. During our time together, Walid said that Mohammed could start a fight in an empty room – an apt description. For all their differences, they were each personable, possessed a great sense of humour, and spoke excellent English. It wasn’t a surprise I found them both easy to get along with, but I did wonder how well they got on together.

  As we sat having a ‘Nescafe’ coffee downstairs in the hotel, Walid confirmed his readiness and availability to assist for the duration of my stay. His ministry remained operational, but currently redundant because the mining sector wasn’t on the immediate priority list. He might need to pop in during the odd morning to show his face. Apart from that he was at my service.

  ‘What is it you need to do here in Baghdad?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, three things really. I need to understand the security situation and whether it’s even feasible for me to operate here. Secondly, I need to try and identify business opportunities. And thirdly, I need to find local partners to support any contracts that might be won. Here at the hotel I’ll be keeping my ear to the ground, but I’d like you to think about the best people for me to meet and any places I should visit. Potential partners, business offices, accommodation. That sort of thing.’

  Walid sat back and fiddled with his glasses as he considered my requirements. ‘I must say John that I don’t know much about business. Especially not now, after the war. But I do know someone who might be able to help. My wife’s cousin by marriage is a senior general in the Iraqi Army. He has been to England and speaks good English. I will try to talk with him tonight and arrange for us to meet tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, that sounds good. He’s family so I assume we can trust him, yes?’

  ‘Yes, completely. He is the cousin of my wife’s sister-in-law, Dina. The two women are very close. The General has been to our house many times in the past.’

  ‘Great.’ I pulled $150 out of my wallet. ‘Slightly different topic, but if I give you this can you try and get me a cheap mobile phone and some credit? I need a local number and it’ll be the cheapest way for us to keep in touch.’

  Walid took the money and counted it carefully. ‘I will come to the hotel in the morning with the phone and the receipt. Ten o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be down here at ten. But if you need time in the morning to arrange any meetings or buy the phone, then don’t worry about being a bit late. Just call me or message me on my UK phone and let me know. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go now and see you here in the morning. I don’t expect to be late, but I will let you know if I am held up. The checkpoints can make it difficult getting over the river.’

  ‘Thanks, Walid. Take care on your way home and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Walid’s attitude to timekeeping was a good sign. As was honesty in what and who he knew. Far preferable to having someone promising loads and failing to deliver. I’d only just met the guy, but I had a good feeling he’d be the right man to help me make the best of this trip.

  *

  General Imad was an old school Iraqi officer; tall with grey hair, a ramrod straight back, and aristocratic features. Sandhurst-trained with impeccable English, the General bemoaned the waste of lives suffered by the military during Saddam’s ill-fated wars with Iran and the West, and the catastrophe the Americans had inflicted on the country with their bungled attempts at managing the aftermath of the previous year’s conflict.

  As a senior general and a Sunni Muslim, it was safe to assume he had been a card-carrying member of the Baath party. Given the American priority to expunge the Baathists from all walks of life, it was unlikely a call to assume a senior position at the Iraqi Ministry of Defence was in the post. However, the General remained optimistic the Americans would see sense and bring back the military officers, civil servants, scien
tists, accountants, engineers, and managers who had run the country before the overthrow of Saddam, even though they’d had to become party members to get on.

  As we sat drinking chai in the warm afternoon sunshine in his pretty garden in the centre of Baghdad, he searched for a glimmer of agreement from me that a new appointment to serve the country could be expected.

  ‘So, when do you think the Americans will realise they need us to make Iraq work? They’re not stupid people. They know they need to forget about the party and the old ways and concentrate on the future.’

  ‘I really don’t know, General. The administration in Washington seems to have de-Baathification as its main priority. I’m not working with the Coalition people here, so I don’t have any insights.’

  ‘But you must be able to see they are throwing away the chance to rebuild this country.’

  ‘I can see it, yes. The press can see it. Even the people in the administration must be able to see it. But I don’t know if that’s going to be enough. They won’t even acknowledge the mistake of dissolving the army.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll change their minds. American soldiers are dying already and many more will follow if they allow these bandits to gain momentum and popular support. They need the experience of people like me at the Ministry of Defence. We can stop this.’ His words might have been positive but the General’s face broadcast dismay, probably because I thought his recall to service unlikely.

  With the political discussion out of the way, I outlined my objectives in Baghdad. I told him I needed to identify business opportunities and how best to secure them, understand the bureaucratic steps to operate in Iraq, and assess the chances for success. I left out the part about having to then try and find money from somewhere to do anything about it; something neither he nor Walid needed to know.