Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  With the General’s military connections, he raised the topic of security services and equipment, but the competition in that sector was fierce and the costs prohibitive. Our conversation slowed as we considered alternatives in between drinking our tea.

  After a lapse into silence, the General said, ‘I do know some people involved in the reconstruction, although I don’t know the details. I could introduce you to one man in particular, Faris. He worked in the old government and has lots of connections. He’s moved into business now.’

  It sounded like this could be an interesting guy to meet, but I was wary at the mention of his previous work for Saddam’s mob.

  ‘What did he do in the government?’

  ‘He worked in state security.’

  ‘Do you mean he was a spy?’

  ‘Oh no, no. Nothing like that. State security here in Baghdad. Not spying.’

  I wasn’t convinced. It might depend on how you defined spying.

  I turned to Walid. ‘Do you know this Faris guy?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever met him,’ said Walid, ‘not unless he was here at one of your gatherings?’

  General Imad frowned in concentration. ‘He may have been here once or twice, but I don’t remember introducing you to him. In the old days, even people like me were careful with the state security men.’

  It wasn’t ideal, but anyone with any clout in this place was likely to have a chequered past.

  ‘Okay. There’s nothing to lose by meeting him. When can we set it up?’

  *

  Faris looked like he had been sent from central casting following a request for an Iraqi spy lookalike. Short, overweight, dark sunglasses, dressed in a smart dark suit, and with a polite but reserved manner, the man exuded a sense of clandestine activity and deals.

  He spoke English well enough and smiled plenty, but my gut feeling pegged him as the calculating type, and I don’t mean like an accountant. He was also business-like and claimed he knew a lot of influential people who could get things done in this city. I couldn’t imagine hanging out with him grabbing a beer, watching football, and talking shit, but this was the type of contact I needed to make this venture work.

  The small talk quota must have been reached as Faris finally turned to business. ‘So, Mr Pierce, what are you doing in Baghdad?’

  ‘I’m looking for contracts. Looking for business. Local business partners as well. I’m also checking if it’s safe enough for us to operate here. I’ve known Walid’s brother for a few years and now seems to be the right time to see if we can use our friendship to bring together Iraqi and Western companies and make some money.’

  ‘And you’re here alone? With no links to the Americans?’

  ‘Well I’ve got Walid alongside me but yes, I travelled alone. I don’t have any links with the Americans or the Coalition yet, although I’ll soon change that.’

  ‘They have the money,’ he said simply.

  ‘That they do. So Faris, what’s your set-up? What are you guys involved in? Is it your company or are you working for someone else?’

  Faris took a moment before answering. ‘We have a number of businesses in different areas. Mainly trading and construction.’

  ‘Any contracts with the Americans?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Okay. Well maybe we could put our heads together and come up with a few ideas.’

  Either I’d run ahead too fast or Faris was the naturally cautious type. He took his time before answering every question. I doubt he’d met many Western expats before, so a wily old Saddam-era state security guy was likely to be on his guard.

  ‘I think we should meet again,’ he said. ‘Where is your office? In the Green Zone?’

  ‘I don’t have an office yet. That’s part of why I’m here. Decide if it’s safe enough and look for potential office space and a place to live. I’d be interested in your thoughts on the security situation.’

  After the expected pause as his brain whirred through a few cycles: ‘The Green Zone is the safest area for foreigners. Outside there are some areas safer than others. Near the embassies for instance. You will need guards and if there is a checkpoint close by it will be better.’

  ‘I tell you what, let’s meet up tomorrow and you can show me some of the safer areas outside the Green Zone. Without any American contacts yet, it might prove tricky to get somewhere in there.’ I didn’t mention I’d nearly fallen off my seat in the bar the previous night when a contractor had told me the rental costs of the villas in the Green Zone. Way out of my league.

  It was General Imad who had arranged our meeting. He’d told me Faris wasn’t his business partner or close friend, so I should make up my own mind about him without any pressure. Neither Walid nor Mohammed knew Faris at all, so his link to my Iraqi friends was tenuous. But the involvement of the General might just help prevent me getting fleeced, abducted, or otherwise screwed over. No guarantees of course, but there were never going to be any in this place.

  *

  Faris gave me the Makarov handgun the next morning when we met up. He didn’t say anything, just produced it in his outstretched chubby hand and nodded his head. Normal safety procedures were to immediately check the weapon state. i.e. whether or not it’s cocked and made ready with a round up the spout, ready to fire if you pull the trigger. On this occasion I opted to assume the Makarov was ‘made ready’ until I established otherwise. After confirming the safety catch was applied, I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  Removing the magazine and pulling back the slide to check for a round in the chamber was not de rigueur here in Iraq, so I intended to wait until back in the vehicle to do that. Better than attracting attention from everyone in the vicinity as they heard a weapon being cocked. If doing that ejected a round from the chamber, I’d need to catch it to avoid questions over my firearms competence as I scrabbled in the dirt to recover it. And if not already cocked, then they might think the Western idiot had made the weapon ready to fire for no obvious reason.

  Although a former Royal Marine, I’d never actually used a Makarov before. AK-47s, or Kalashnikovs, had been the only Soviet weapons I’d got my hands on, usually when playing irregular enemy forces on exercise in the Corps. One of the units I’d served with had been widely used in the ‘red team’ or enemy role, and many times I’d worn jeans, jumper, and a balaclava whilst carrying an AK-47 as a ‘terrorist’.

  I recalled a lecture on the Makarov saying it had a small (eight round) magazine and a heavy trigger pull that tended to reduce first shot accuracy. Any targets over about thirty metres max and you were probably wasting your time. This would only be for cases when danger erupted up close and personal.

  Once in the car, I cleared the weapon whilst holding it down low, out of sight. It had been loaded but not made ready. A magazine check revealed it held ten rounds rather than eight. Either my dodgy memory or an updated model. No spare magazines, so if things did get lively, I’d only have the ten rounds to work with. But the front seat passenger had an AK-47 in the footwell and I’d seen Faris had a sidearm on his belt. If I assumed at least one more AK-47 in Faris’s vehicle, then we had a bit of firepower if it came to it. A lot more reassuring than me and Walid cutting around town in his rusty old Chevy with only our wits and sparkling personalities to protect us.

  The next few days saw us visit a succession of properties with a view to identifying an office and accommodation. General Imad didn’t join us for these trips round Baghdad, but Faris provided smart cars and a mixture of earnest male and female assistants. His business card showed only his name and telephone number, so it was unclear if he operated on behalf of a specific company or simply for himself. Walid didn’t know and my attempts to probe into Faris’s current status when we joined the General for dinner a couple of times didn’t reveal much either.

  Even though we were out in the ‘Red
Zone’, some of the rents being asked were astronomical and none of the properties were in a realistic price bracket for me. We discussed scenarios with shared office space and associated costs although I doubted sharing with Faris would be a good idea. One key benefit arose from these viewings: mixed in with my meetings and lunches, they provided an opportunity to observe the regular pattern of Baghdad life in proximity to its residents.

  The concept of setting up in Baghdad seemed tempting, even though the practicalities of running an operation, hiring staff, and ensuring security would be expensive. It was never my intention to make any decisions before sitting down and discussing it with Mohammed back in the UK, but that didn’t stop Faris and his gang from showing me ever more salubrious properties. These places would have been great for the large international outfit they clearly thought I ran rather than the tiny limited company they were actually dealing with. My rudimentary efforts at designing a corporate website had clearly worked on this audience.

  Chapter 10

  SOUTH OF BAGHDAD

  ‘Look at his face. Can you see his face? He hates you.’ Mr Saleh had suddenly turned from an urbane, confident businessman into an excited Willy Wonka as we’d driven through the gates of his factory to the south of Baghdad. It made a striking change from the recent days spent with the cagey Faris and his crew.

  General Imad had introduced the two of us over a phone call from his place the previous day and we’d met up that morning and spent the day together. Instead of focusing on the business set-up, it gave me a chance to spend time with a wealthy businessman and discuss discernible business opportunities.

  Lunch had been delicious fish cooked over hot coals in a tented restaurant with an open fire pit by the banks of the Tigris. And Mohammed was right: masgouf was delicious. The place was hired for our exclusive use and his private goon squad sat in a car immediately outside, watching over us and the superbly maintained vintage black Mercedes we’d arrived in.

  This wasn’t just for my protection. Local kidnappings were rampant and anyone with money was fair game as were their families. During the war the previous year, most of the prison inmates had ended up free to roam the city and get back to business. With the economy shot to pieces and the scarcity of jobs, crime was about the only sector showing rocketing expansion. Mr Saleh wasn’t taking any chances.

  As I checked out the faces of the workers in the compound, I wasn’t feeling the love from any of them. A good job the goon squad were following right behind us or this might have got unpleasant. An especially furious-looking individual with wild hair and wilder eyes stood out. If there was anyone looking angrier than this guy, then I probably needed to be drawing the Makarov.

  ‘All his family were killed in an American air strike. He hates the Americans. He hates you. If I wasn’t here, he’d try to kill you.’

  Why this was said in such an enthusiastic manner I couldn’t quite grasp.

  ‘Well let’s keep him at a distance. I don’t think it will help productivity if I have to shoot him.’

  Mr Saleh’s head turned so fast I thought he had to have done himself an injury. ‘Of course. You have nothing to worry about. I apologise. You are safe here.’

  That remained to be seen.

  We were about half an hour south of Baghdad at Mr Saleh’s drinks factory. He was giving me the grand tour after I’d explained to him over lunch how I was looking to bring leading Western brands into Iraq and here on the search for suitable local partners.

  ‘Bring me Coca Cola and all our dreams will be realised,’ he’d told me.

  As I inspected the dusty compound, run-down buildings, and forlorn production line, it was difficult to envisage the Coca-Cola quality control people ripping his hand off to sign on the dotted line.

  I tried to introduce a diplomatic reality check. ‘Coca-Cola is likely to already have partners here or in Jordan.’ Drinks manufacturing was a sector I knew precious little about and, with no advance warning about the type of business he owned, I’d had zero time to conduct any background research.

  Mr Saleh swept my negativity aside. ‘I want you to find me a new production line in the UK or Germany. Send me some details and we can refurbish this factory and make it fit for the big companies. Anyway, we shall expand our water production and become the best brand in Iraq.’

  He was thinking big. Provided he had the money, then this could be worth a closer look.

  *

  ‘He’s outraged I brought you here.’

  Mr Saleh reverted to being Willy Wonka as we headed back out through the gates. He drove the highly polished Mercedes himself with only me in the car alongside, the goon squad bringing up the rear in the other Merc. Not exactly low profile but the goons bristled with weapons and ammunition, ready for a fight rather than just for show.

  The dirt road leading from the factory wound through some undulating terrain on its way to the main road. We rounded a sandy hillock to be confronted by a pickup truck manned by four armed balaclava-clad men bearing down on us. As it slewed to the right, I could see a fifth balaclava behind a large pintle-mounted anti-aircraft gun, a 12.7mm (.50 cal) DShK, or ‘Dushka’. My eyes must have popped out of my head like something from a Looney Tunes cartoon.

  I drew the Makarov and hoped they hadn’t spotted me through the tinted windows. Mr Saleh put his arm across.

  ‘No, Mr John. It’s okay, these are security forces.’

  He stopped the car and opened the window to shout a greeting to the vehicle commander as I tried to bring my heart rate back under control. I was going to need a drink tonight.

  When I did get back to the hotel, Walid joined me in the gardens for a Nescafe. Caffeine would do for now, but as soon as he left I’d be hotfooting it to the bar for a beer. I squinted at my laptop in the late afternoon sun as Internet searches revealed a few used production lines available in Europe which might fit the bill for Mr Saleh’s expansion plans. An agreement with Coca-Cola might be tricky to say the least but helping to source equipment and goods could be eminently doable.

  *

  After ten days that felt much longer, I’d accomplished most of what I had set out to do. I hadn’t stumbled upon the holy grail of a big contract waiting for my signature, but the possibilities here were exciting and the Palestine Hotel attracted a lot of interesting people.

  In the early evening all the American news crews from CNN and other stations were earning a crust transmitting live feeds from Baghdad to breakfast news in the US. I usually returned to the hotel by the time it started getting dark. So back by sixish. After finishing any admin and having a shower, I’d head for the restaurant to see what culinary delights awaited. With only an empty room upstairs waiting for me, I then tended to gravitate towards the downstairs bar.

  General Order Number One for the US military included an alcohol ban for troops in Iraq, so no surprise soldiers were thin on the ground in there. The odd security contractor would pop in, but they were a busy bunch. Instead, I either chatted with the local bar staff while I wound down in the secure environment or mingled over a beer with reconstruction contractors. Most were engaged in telecommunications and engineering projects for the big American companies, but a few were smaller scale and on the lookout for business opportunities in a similar fashion to me. The reaction if I mentioned I worked alone with local contacts was always the same: don’t do it; and if you do then be really, really careful.

  The security situation was getting more precarious, leading to increasing numbers of expats moving out of relatively insecure villas and into secure hotels like the Palestine. My apprehension levels increased the more times I left the hotel for my daytime travels. I varied the timings as much as possible, but I had little choice other than to use the single pedestrian exit and entrance. And the more times I used it, the more concerned I became about attracting hostile attention. Those drinks in the bar at the end of most days took the edge
off, but my unease grew each day. Now each morning when I woke up, it was with a sense I’d ridden my luck so far but today it might just run out. Time to review my options for travelling back to the UK.

  Outside the immediate entrance to the hotel by the steps, a small informal ‘Haji market’ of traders had been established, selling knock-off DVDs, porn, local phone cards, dodgy-looking electronics, sweets, fizzy drinks, and souvenirs, including watches and other paraphernalia with ‘uncle’ Saddam’s picture.

  Saddam had been apprehended and reportedly had new secure digs at Baghdad Airport. None of the Iraqis I had met showed any affection or obvious allegiance to the former leader, so the phrase ‘uncle’ Saddam appeared to be more a way of poking fun at him than anything else. Poking fun at him and indirectly at the Americans as well; the subtext being things were now so bad under their stewardship that people could reminisce about the old days. I doubted any of the people using the phrase had spent time in his prisons or had family members disappear or be killed though.

  Later I encountered the same use of ‘uncle’ Saddam when in Kurdistan. It seemed many Iraqis simply had a dark sense of humour. In similar fashion, it struck me that many of the Baghdad population had the kind of Blitz spirit which people in the UK think of as uniquely British. Despite the lack of power, jobs, and money; crumbling infrastructure; lengthy queues for fuel; and rampant insecurity, they mostly just got on with living their day-to-day lives as best they could.

  I shifted into the late afternoon sunshine and called Claire to let her know I’d be heading home soon. My few phone calls to her had been short and sweet, partly from necessity because I didn’t want to rack up outrageous call charges on the satellite phone. Jim had told me not to worry about it, but I didn’t want to find the line out of credit or disconnected when I really needed it, all because I’d spent twenty minutes a day whispering sweet nothings back to Claire in the UK. That wasn’t our style anyway. I remember the both of us running out of things to say during the weekly fifteen-minute phone calls during my deployment to Bosnia back in ’95.