Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  Claire was pleased I’d soon be home although expressed concern about the drive back across the desert to Jordan. She never made a big deal about these sorts of things, but it worried her. It worried me as well.

  There was no Internet availability at the Palestine, so every day I set up my BGAN at a table in the hotel gardens and pointed it towards the satellite. It allowed me to keep up to date with the news, send emails, check flight availability, and research on the Internet. Like the sat phone, I didn’t want to kick the arse out if it in case one day it disappeared because I’d run up charges the size of a small country’s GDP.

  To anyone observing, I would have looked like any another field executive out here making serious money with a large contractor. My business and personal bank accounts said otherwise though. Another reason for heading home was to keep the costs of the trip down. Every additional day cost me another 100 dollars including the hotel room. I needed to watch my money because this was a cash economy and there were no ATMs if you ran out.

  Chapter 11

  When I visited General Imad again on the afternoon before I was due to leave Baghdad, he asked if his son Ahmed could accompany me back to Amman. In his early twenties, Ahmed spoke great English and would be an asset to have alongside. He needed to travel to Amman for his own reasons, and I wasn’t going to turn down the offer to go halves on the costs.

  ‘If you need to go to Amman and can travel tomorrow morning, then it would be great to have you along. Thamer’s English isn’t great, and my Arabic is abysmal. It’ll just be us though. We don’t have any security. And we’re going to be leaving early so we miss all the traffic.’

  ‘That’s fine. I want to be in Amman by mid-afternoon anyway. As for security, my father knows a lot of people.’

  ‘You mean guards to travel with us?’

  ‘No, I mean the tribes and the army. If there’s any sign of terrorists along the road then he will be warned and can call to let me know. I will give him the taxi plate number, so he can pass it on if needed.’

  It was a benefit I hadn’t expected and anything that might increase the level of security for the journey was welcome news.

  As we left his house, the General mentioned Faris had been trying to reach me, so back in the car I called him using my local phone.

  ‘Faris, it’s John. You’ve been trying to get hold of me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr John. I have arranged a meeting tonight with an important businessman. I will pick you up at seven from your hotel. Just you, Mr John. Not your friend Walid.’

  ‘That’s very short notice. Who is this guy and what does he want to talk about?’

  ‘Business. Lots of opportunities. He’s a powerful man in Baghdad and he wants to meet you. I think it will be very good for you.’

  The run back from the General’s house to the Palestine was due to be my last Baghdad journey before boarding Thamer’s taxi early the following morning for the long drive to Amman. I’d focused on these two tasks as the final hurdles to cross before being able to relax for my flight home. The idea of arranging an evening meeting with persons unknown wasn’t something that appealed. Neither was the request from Faris that I go alone with him.

  However, I couldn’t turn it down. It would put a different complexion on everything if a highly promising business opportunity came into my hands. With a heavy sense of foreboding I agreed Faris should pick me up alone as suggested.

  ‘Okay, seven pm. I’ll be waiting near the gate. Call me as you arrive and I’ll come out.’

  Back at the hotel I said my warm goodbyes to Walid. After parking the car in the first available space about fifty metres from the access gate, he walked with me to the hotel and we moved into the gardens with a Diet Coke and a bottle of water each.

  ‘Thanks, Walid. I’m really grateful for all your help these last couple of weeks. I know that working with me could be dangerous for you. And say sorry to your wife for me, for dragging you away nearly every day.’

  ‘No need to thank me. It’s been my pleasure. I hope I have helped you make good use of your time in Baghdad. I also hope we will soon see more British and Americans here to help us rebuild and not just the soldiers.’

  He tried to insist on coming in the morning to wave me off in the taxi, but I torpedoed that idea. Come 6.00am I intended to be moving as quickly as possible out of the city to avoid the horrendous morning gridlock and get a head start for the border. I’d already ensured Thamer would pick up Ahmed before coming to the Palestine. I wanted a straight shot out of Baghdad once I was loaded in the car.

  After spending most of the last ten days with the reassurance of the Makarov, I’d miss having a weapon when I had to return it before heading to Jordan; despite knowing that if we ran into an armed group on the highway, those ten rounds wouldn’t be enough, and the presence of a firearm during any search would nullify my journalist cover story.

  *

  ‘Mr Faris asks that you get down in your seat and let me put this jacket over you.’

  The young guy sat next to me in the rear of the SUV must have seen the scowl on my face, but he had his orders. We already had darkened privacy glass in the rear and this clown wanted me to hide under a jacket.

  ‘Why? What’s happening?’

  All I needed. A drama on my last night in Baghdad during a magical mystery tour. Not that I’d seen anything to cause alarm.

  ‘Mr Faris says the area we are going to, Al-Adhamiya, is a very strong anti-American neighbourhood and they must not know you are there.’

  Just fucking great. What about the people inside the meeting? I certainly didn’t have control of the situation and things could start going wrong pretty fast. If it was such a big deal, then why the hell was the meeting being held there?

  My concern rose that it might be fine getting in, but, after I’d been presented like a debutante at a summer ball to the waiting audience, how long would it take for some undesirables to crash the gig and upset my evening. Assuming that didn’t happen, leaving and getting out of there might prove trickier than the move in.

  ‘We need to keep this meeting short, mate. Very short.’

  ‘Mr Faris agrees that the meeting should not be a long one.’

  The kid must be telepathic because Faris, sat in the front passenger seat, hadn’t said a word. That meant they must have already discussed this point, and he knew we were headed into a potentially dangerous situation. He was a Sunni who served under Saddam. If he was concerned about it then I had every right to be.

  Ten minutes later, with me huddled under a dark jacket on the back seat keeping low, Faris murmured to the driver and I felt the vehicle turn left, bump down an incline, and stop.

  The doors opened. ‘We’re here.’

  Thanks, kid.

  We’d driven into a small integral garage underneath a house. It was dark outside, but the lights on the two gateposts up at street level provided enough illumination to make out a doorway in the gloom and reach it without tripping over anything. There was no space to turn around, which meant reversing out when we came to leave. What was it with everyone in this country? Why did no-one ever think to reverse in and be ready to exit in a better tactical position? I took some deep breaths to calm my frustration as I shook my head and muttered under my breath about ‘fucking idiots’.

  Once allowed inside the house by a big, sullen guard with a holstered handgun, we entered a large room full of Faris lookalikes sitting round a huge conference table at one end. At the other end, the identity of the resident Mr Big was clear: behind a huge desk sat a large, clean-shaven man in his late forties/early fifties with an intelligent face who emitted a naturally powerful aura solely by his presence, a perception undoubtedly helped by the dominant size and position of both him and his desk. He spoke with an off-putting deep growl and I had to concentrate to understand his English.

  ‘Welcome, Mr John. Faris
tells me we have little time. You’ll forgive me if we begin immediately.’ And so began the interrogation.

  When I say interrogation, I don’t mean in a torture sense. Instead, Mr Big, aka Abu Saif, had his minions rapid-fire questions in my direction for the next twenty-five minutes about me, my business, what I was doing in Baghdad, and what I hoped to achieve in Iraq.

  It’s lucky I had experience blagging business meetings as an investigator because this was brutal. Abu Saif eyed me intently throughout, interjecting with an occasional question directly to me, and comments in Arabic to the minions.

  ‘You must excuse me, I have visitors.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as Abu Saif left the room. A young, fit-looking guy with a holstered Glock-type handgun had darted in to give him the message announcing the apparently unexpected guests. After which, Abu Saif had immediately risen from his sumptuous leather chair and strode out of the room with a curt nod in my direction after he spoke.

  The lack of a handshake concerned me, but then maybe he would be back in a couple of minutes. Faris looked directly at me with a slight frown. A short while later he wrapped things up with the interrogation tag-team as they finished their copious note-taking.

  ‘Mr Faris says we need to go.’ No shit, Sherlock. The kid was only doing his job, but his ‘Simon says’ way of talking was beginning to get on my nerves.

  ‘Tell him we need to be very careful leaving here.’ Faris seemed to be on top of things, but I wanted to make doubly sure we were all on the same page.

  There was no sign of Abu Saif as we exited through the same basement door out to the SUV. I had mixed feelings about the three rugged-looking men armed with AK-47s stood inside the gate. They were taking no notice of me and I wanted to get out of there ASAP in case that changed to unfriendly interest. I didn’t know whether they belonged to Abu Saif or his visitors, but they held themselves and their weapons like they knew what they were doing. If things went noisy as we left, I hoped they’d be on our side.

  I held my hand up as the kid turned to me with his eyes sweeping down to the jacket laid on the seat beside me.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll deal with it.’ I grabbed my baseball cap out of the daysack and pulled my own jacket collar up high. No way I was leaving this place curled up on the back seat like a cat under their jacket.

  ‘Mr Faris…’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck.’

  The sound of the slide racking on my Makarov prompted a comedy look of shock on the kid’s face. Cultural sensitivity was all very well, but this wasn’t the time for pussyfooting about.

  The kid was speechless, which suited me fine.

  Faris turned from the front seat with a concerned look on his face and made downward motions with his hands. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’

  The expression on his face said it might not be okay.

  ‘Let’s not hang about when we get outside, yes? Go, go, go, yes?’ This wasn’t the time to be all ‘Driving Miss Daisy.’

  The armed guards opened the gates and stepped out onto the road in front of the house as we inched backwards until we pulled level with the pillars. The engine revved and we reversed into a left turn with screeching tyres before shooting forward down the road.

  People stood clumped together on the street and outside most houses as I searched for signs of weapons and threats. Christ, it seemed like every other person had an AK-47. Ten rounds in a handgun felt like very small beer.

  We swerved left past a shouting figure stepping out from a house gate fifty metres or so down from Abu Saif’s pad. More yells sounded behind us, but no gunfire, no pursuit, no drama. I blew out a breath as we turned onto a main road until I looked behind and saw a dark Mercedes come flying round the same corner we’d recently emerged from.

  ‘Behind, behind.’ I chopped a hand towards the following vehicle.

  ‘No, no, no. With us.’

  We’d arrived alone, but it appeared Abu Saif had supplied an escort for our journey home. Faris nodded as his eyes searched out mine, checking I understood.

  ‘Okay, good,’ I offered.

  If they were an escort, then great. Mind you, I didn’t know who was in the vehicle or whether their intentions were in fact friendly. I guessed we’d find out soon enough.

  Faris certainly appeared to have relaxed now we’d cleared Abu Saif’s neighbourhood and he spoke to the driver without any urgency in his voice. It was probably a home from home for him, or perhaps he even lived there. Maybe if knowledge leaked out of the presence of an infidel, it could have a seriously adverse effect on him. Selfish I know, but I hoped so. If it was in his interests to keep me out of harm’s way, then that suited me just fine.

  The driver manoeuvred through the evening traffic at speed and the Mercedes soon dropped out of sight. It had indeed only been an escort out of the neighbourhood by the looks of it.

  When we arrived outside the pedestrian gate entrance to the hotel, I realised Faris didn’t know I’d be leaving in the morning. I cleared the Makarov and made it safe as we pulled up, prompting another wide-eyed look from the kid. As I handed it to Faris, I let him know my plans.

  ‘Bukra?’ he asked in Arabic. Then switched back to English. ‘Tomorrow, Mr John? You should have told me. We have so much to do and I haven’t made any arrangements to escort you to Amman.’

  Chapter 12

  It had been a tough call. Either head back with Thamer and take my chances with the unsupported, low-profile approach, or rely on Faris, a new and unproven contact. I’d made the decision during the last get-together with General Imad.

  First, the General surprised me when he didn’t express a ringing endorsement of the blossoming relationship with Faris. It sounded like they didn’t know each other as well as I’d initially assumed.

  ‘Be careful with Faris. Him and his type may have links with some very unpleasant people. Unfortunately, this is the future of Iraq unless the Americans act quickly.’

  ‘Thanks, General. Are you saying you don’t trust Faris?’

  The General snorted. ‘Of course I don’t trust him. He was state security and now he mixes in circles where money is everything. Some of these people would sell their mothers for dollars.’

  Okay, so they definitely weren’t as close as I’d thought. Faris had been a useful person to meet, but it was a reminder I needed to be very careful where things went next.

  Secondly, with his son Ahmed now coming along, the General reassuringly informed me, ‘We have friends along the way, so you will have a safe journey.’

  Walid confirmed what Ahmed had said about the General having lots of friends in the military and amongst the tribal leaders in the western Anbar Province, so I made sure Imad’s number was stored in my UK phone, the local Nokia, and the sat phone. For good measure I’d also given his and Walid’s numbers to my ex-bootneck mate, Jim, in case I disappeared off the grid.

  As I checked out of the Palestine Hotel, I felt surprisingly wistful to be leaving. The last ten days had been like beaming into a completely different, exciting, dangerous universe. There were no guarantees I would ever return.

  Optimistically, I’d tucked myself and my gear into a sheltered doorway thirty metres from the pedestrian gate. The hotel staff appeared genuinely sorry to see me leaving and one of the doormen had insisted on wheeling my bag to the gate for me. It can’t have been because I was a big tipper; I’d been relieved to have enough money left to cover the outstanding hotel balance. But I had chatted to the staff whenever I bumped into them and engaged in several friendly discussions about Premier League football results and the Champions League progress of Chelsea and Arsenal.

  The arrogant attitudes from some of the press corps and executives strutting around the place made me wonder how many guests treated them with decency and respect. Almost every time I passed the reception desk, I heard someone registering a complaint about
water, power, the standards of cleaning, lack of Internet, poor food, broken air conditioning, or just venting about Baghdad. It’s not a job I would have fancied.

  My Nokia rang and Ahmed announced their imminent arrival at the gate. I grabbed my gear and yomped off in that direction.

  One of the armed guards was still complaining to Thamer and telling him to move, even while I threw my larger bag into the boot and assumed a position on the back seat with my daysack. Perhaps he needed to attend the next customer service course.

  We left Baghdad only fifteen minutes later than scheduled and were soon cruising past Abu Ghraib on the western outskirts and hitting the open road. I vetoed a stop at the local version of motorway services near Falluja. I’d read the book and got the T-shirt for Iraqi service stations and didn’t intend to chance my arm in this area again.

  Ahmed in the car with his excellent English gave me far more control over the journey. And with General Imad’s assurances the journey would pass without incident, I hoped an unseen, wider presence offered protection along the way.

  *

  The American Humvees were travelling at speed on the opposite side of the carriageway back towards Ramadi. We weren’t hanging around either. The speedo regularly nudged 130km/h as Thamer’s freshly-serviced taxi zipped through the scorched desert air. The road ahead of us was empty as a second packet of Humvees came into view, charging down the other side of the road.

  Without warning, a huge explosion of dust about 400 metres ahead of us obscured our view of the lead Humvee. The deafening road noise in the old car helped to muffle the sound to that of a distant peal of thunder.

  ‘IED.’ I knew what had happened immediately.