by Jack Leavers
Surprisingly, the Humvee fired out of the dark dust cloud followed by the second and third vehicles. The bomb must have exploded too early and missed its targets.
I’d reached for my camera to get the shot I imagined would adorn the front page of Time magazine. That would give my journalist credentials and my bank balance a serious boost. Unfortunately, it was only a low-spec digital camera, so by the time it responded to my frantic clicking of the button, we’d slid to a halt 100 metres or so from the seat of the explosion still in front of us, and the Americans were long gone. Instead of a glorious photo of Humvees emerging through the dust of an IED explosion on the western highway, I got a puff of dust and an empty road. Bollocks.
It was a reminder we weren’t out of the woods yet. I interrupted the excited chatter in the car.
‘Excuse me, guys. Can we get moving?’
Instead of setting off again, both Ahmed and Thamer opened their doors and began to get out of the car.
‘We’re stopping for a break as we’re at the side of the road already,’ said Ahmed.
‘Oh no we’re fucking not. Listen mate, if that bomb was operated by radio control, mobile phone, or command wire, then someone is probably sat out there watching us right now. Someone, I might add, who’s just let off a big fucking bomb trying to kill Americans and might just fancy taking out an English dude as a consolation for screwing up. So, before they start shooting or, even worse, the Americans turn up and start vittling up the only vehicle sat near the site of an attack, let’s Foxtrot Oscar the hell out of here, okay. NOW.’
Ahmed cast fearful glances into the desert as he scrambled back into the car and called Thamer, raising his voice after the driver replied with a whingeing tone recognisable in any language. He must have made his point because Thamer suddenly darted back into the driver’s seat and wheelspun us back onto the road and away.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of those things. Have you seen them?’ Ahmed’s eyes were out on stalks peering into the passing desert. Probably a mirror image of mine, which had been sweeping across every sandy hillock, depression, bush, and tumbleweed in the vicinity since I put the camera down.
‘No mate, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Let’s get well away from this area and then you can stop for a toilet break.’
As we accelerated away from the scene of the explosion, Ahmed asked, ‘What is “vittling”? I haven’t heard this word before.’ He smiled. ‘But I understand “Foxtrot Oscar”.’
‘Vittling? That means shooting. Effective shooting. You might not find it in the dictionary though.’
‘You mean the Americans would shoot at us?’
‘Maybe. We were the only people in the vicinity. With the VBIED threat – you know, car bombs – our friendly GI Joe might not fancy bimbling up for a chat to check if we’re a bunch of rabid jihadis determined to fast-track our way to heaven or not.’
‘Bimbling?’
I laughed. ‘It means having a leisurely stroll over to us. Walking slowly, taking your time, not a care in the world. Thumb up bum. At this rate I’ll have you talking like a bootneck by the time we reach Amman.’
After briefly pulling over half an hour up the road, the only other stop before reaching the border was the world’s fastest pit-stop for fuel. Thamer moaned about my refusal to let him get anything hot to eat. Apparently, the snacks I’d brought along just didn’t cut the mustard. Tough. I’d taken enough chances over the last ten days and was in full risk mitigation mode for this final leg of the journey.
Weariness rolled over me as the Iraqi Turaibil border post came into view in the distance. Desperately trying not to switch off for the final few minutes, I forced myself to keep scanning for potential threats amongst the intermittent traffic and out into the passing desert scrubland.
As we pulled into the border post, I felt shattered and hoped the exit visas would be processed as fast as those on entry. That hope proved wildly optimistic. Even at this time of the afternoon, vehicles crowded both the Iraqi and Jordanian sides. It didn’t take much of a queue to overwhelm the officials on either side and it wasn’t a surprise the Jordanian border guards took far more interest in those entering their country than those leaving. I resigned myself to the wait.
*
Ahmed insisted I was dropped off first. It sounded like he’d be going on to meet with a former student friend, probably a girl judging by his excitement. He’d been a real asset for me on the drive across from Baghdad and we parted with a warm handshake.
I couldn’t know it then, but we were never to meet again. Later that summer he was kidnapped and tortured in Baghdad, although fortunately rescued by a police raid, along with several other shackled and blindfolded hostages held in a disused factory.
Hamad and his family treated me like an old friend and I relished the chance to relax properly for the first time since passing through less than two weeks ago. Mariam cooked a delicious meal which I savoured before excusing myself and going to bed early. I slept right through until my alarm had to wake me the following morning.
As the Royal Jordanian flight went wheels up after take-off, I finally turned my attention to life back in the UK. Our financial situation was poor, but I had a real sense of optimism Iraq could provide the money that would lift us out of the day-to-day struggles and change our lives infinitely for the better. ‘Fortune favours the brave’ as they say; well I should be due some good fortune if I kept this up.
Back home was like coming down to earth with a bump. From the fear and excitement of Baghdad, Epsom could only ever appear boring and mundane. It often did when a big project ended or I returned home from a tour, only this time it felt acute.
Great to see Claire and the girls and get out in the spring fresh air with Taz, but over in Iraq I’d been a player in a much bigger game. Here I was scratching around to find the money to back up my ambitions while trying to fit in some paying work before I went back.
Despite the risks, there was never any real doubt I would go back. The siren call of adventure was drawing me inextricably to Baghdad. Now I’d started down this road, I remained determined to see where it would lead, hoping desperately that success would be quick to arrive. But first, I had to find some money.
Chapter 13
EPSOM — LATE MARCH 2004
The collar nipped at my neck as I tried to adjust it. I wasn’t used to wearing a shirt and tie, but for the visit to the bank I’d suited up and even reacquainted myself with tying a half-Windsor knot instead of using one of my clip-on security ties. Next time I bought any shirts I needed to remember to go up a collar size.
The grey-haired bank manager, with his sensible shoes and a cheaper-looking suit than mine, flicked through my updated business plan, studied the bullish financial forecasts, and listened with apparent interest as I described my recent visit to Baghdad and exaggerated the value of work here in the UK. His attitude throughout had been more open and positive than I’d expected.
It was my first port of call for finance although I wasn’t optimistic a bank manager in leafy Surrey would be itching to fund my ambitious international expansion plans. Friends I spoke to made it clear they believed I was wasting my time, so I’d also enquired about getting a secured loan on our house. The computer at our building society said no, but some other mortgage providers claimed people like us – with less than stellar credit scores – could get a deal with them, with the accompanying higher interest rates. Funny how the more money troubles you had, the more you had to pay compared to those in a better position.
The bank manager returned to the room and sat down with a friendly smile as I finally gave in and undid the top button of my shirt.
‘So, Mr Pierce, just to recap. This loan will be used to set up an operation in Baghdad, but you do understand it is a loan to your British limited company and the liability falls squarely with that company here in the UK?’
‘Yes of course. Most of the money will be used for office rental, equipment and supplies, and a cash float for expenses. My partners in Baghdad will also be putting in money and paying their own costs separately. But I understand the liability for this loan would be with my company here alone.’
‘Fine. It sounds like a very interesting project. Based on your business plan and financial projections, and a review of your account standing, your application has passed the credit checks and I’m happy to endorse the loan. I wish you all the best with your new venture in Iraq.’
I punched the air as I left the bank, even whilst kicking myself for not asking for more, like a one-man band of competing emotions. Getting the bank to say yes to a £15,000 business loan had been a lot easier than expected. Finance sorted, my thoughts turned to Baghdad.
*
Sat in the Churchill Hotel again three days later, the future seemed full of promise as Mohammed and I discussed plans for both of us to travel together to Baghdad at the end of the month.
‘I have the money for my flight ticket to Amman,’ said Mohammed. ‘Should I give it to you, so you can book both tickets together, or buy my own ticket?’
‘If you give it to me, I can book the tickets as soon as we agree which day we’re going.’
‘I’m ready to go, so what do you think?’
I’d been invited to a rare get-together with some other ex-bootnecks the following weekend and it would be a shame to miss it. ‘Let’s fly next Monday, 29th March. That gives Thamer seven days’ notice from today for the Amman to Baghdad drive on the 30th. I know he needs to get to Amman, but that should be enough time, yes?’
‘Let me call him now and find out.’ Mohammed pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts.
Five minutes later and we were all agreed for the following week, subject to my booking the seats with Royal Jordanian or British Airways to Amman. With next Tuesday pencilled in for another desert odyssey to Baghdad, memories of my last trip flashed up and triggered a gentle fluttering of nerves. At least Mohammed would be with me this time and he didn’t seem fazed by the upcoming journey.
‘Walid shouldn’t have introduced you to this man, Faris. You can’t trust state security people.’ Mohammed had slipped back into the disapproving stance he’d adopted since first discovering the involvement with Faris on my return from Baghdad.
‘It wasn’t Walid’s fault. I asked him to introduce me to people, and it was actually General Imad who suggested meeting with Faris. And Faris isn’t so bad. He seems to know a lot of people involved in business over there. This Abu Saif guy I met could be a useful contact.’
‘I don’t know them, and you should be more careful who you meet with,’ replied Mohammed. ‘Be careful with that old rogue Imad as well. He’s related to Walid’s wife, but he doesn’t really know what’s going on outside of the Baghdad Hunting Club.’
Suffice to say Mohammed wasn’t enamoured with the involvement of Faris and didn’t appear too fond of General Imad. These were issues to keep an eye on and try to smooth out once we were back in town. He refused to share offices with Faris, which was fair enough as I wasn’t convinced about that myself. Mohammed had raised some money to put in alongside mine and said he’d find us good places to view at decent prices after registering his criticism at the rental quotes I’d received.
The UK company was mine alone, so I agreed we should set up a company in Baghdad with Mohammed as the director and shareholder. A key consideration was preventing any hostile interest that could arise if my name appeared on the records in Baghdad. It would also be easier administratively and sharing the profits from our Iraq venture would be straightforward with a written agreement between my UK company and the new firm in Baghdad. The deal wouldn’t include my unrelated investigation and surveillance business. My other work wasn’t paying big bucks, but it was all I had to try to cover the mortgage, bills, credit cards, and loans.
It was disconcerting to hear a Swedish guy I’d met at the Palestine had been killed at long range by a gunman while in traffic on a busy Baghdad road. This reflected the reports of a deteriorating security situation. My hair was fairer than usual because of the recent Middle Eastern sunshine. Even though my trip had started in February, the midday temperatures had been over eighty degrees. If insurgent gunmen were targeting Western-looking individuals in Baghdad, then pitching up with a blond beach boy look wouldn’t be ideal. I considered dyeing my hair darker and Claire volunteered to do the honours, but I imagined I’d end up looking like an oddball with mismatching hair and eyebrows, so decided against it.
*
On the Saturday afternoon, two days before the flight to Amman, I met up with a few ex-bootnecks congregated in London for a celebration. I didn’t know the guy it was all for, but one of my old oppos, Steve ‘Jacko’ Jackson, persuaded me to get on a train and head up to join them at the Victory Services Club in Seymour Street, off Edgware Road. There were some familiar faces stood round the bar, and it was great to have a few beers with friends I hadn’t seen for a long time.
Jacko and I had different views on the 1-1 draw between Chelsea and Arsenal in the Champions League quarter-final first leg earlier that week, and especially on the likely outcome of the second leg at Highbury – me being Chelsea and him a Gooner. A lot of bootnecks considered football players all overpaid fairies, and we were interrupted with derogatory comments from our big rugby-loving mate, Mark ‘Chewy’ Barker.
‘Stop talking about shitball you pair of wankers,’ chipped in Chewy as he walked past on the way back from the heads. We threw a couple of insults his way about his huge rugby-ball-shaped ‘heed’, which were met with a raised finger over his shoulder back at us.
‘Come on then, get the wets in. You must be loaded earning all that dosh in Iraq.’ Jacko wiggled his empty pint glass under my nose.
‘Some chance of that, mate. I’m spending money like water over there.’
‘Eh, gen? How come? I thought it was all a thousand dollars a day swanning round with your Oakleys on, looking ally, bronzing up on your time off.’
‘Not for this call sign, mate. I’m going for it, shit or bust. Setting up on my own to make my fortune. By next year I’ll either be driving an Aston Martin or dossing under Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Fuck. I didn’t know that. I’ll throw you a few coins when I see you under the bridge.’
‘Cheers Royal, you throbber. That’s if I even make it back. The taxi rides between Amman and Baghdad last time were… entertaining. Not really looking forward to it all again next week. Baghdad had its moments an’ all.’
‘So, what sort of security do you have? You’re tooled up, yeah?’
‘Hang on mate.’ The barmaid had reappeared and I caught her eye. ‘Excuse me love, two beers please.’
Chewy appeared at my elbow. ‘Two beers my arse. What he means, darling, is twelve pints and twelve shots.’ He smirked while he selected the poison of choice from the top shelf.
‘No need to thank me. I’ve sorted it for you.’
‘Have you mistaken me for someone else you prick? Does it look like I’m the duty baron?’
Chewy blew me a kiss. ‘You look essence, mate. And I know you’re coining it in over in Iraq you tight-fisted twat.’
‘I don’t fucking think so, mate. I’m riding round in taxis between Amman and Baghdad with no weapon, no security, no nothing. Relying on my gleaming personality and ninja skills to stay out of the shit.’
‘Well you’re fucked then, mate. What size boots are you? Tell your missus I’ll be round to sort through your kit when you get caught and fucked. Pretty boy like you, they’ll be queueing up to give you the good news from behind. Make sure you ask for a reach-around to get the full benefit. Although you’ll probably enjoy it anyway you tart.’
As the pints and shots began to arrive on the bar, our conversation was interrupted by an
influx of piss-taking, laughing idiots I called friends – old and new – grabbing drinks and downing them ridiculously fast to the disapproving look of both the barmaid and the manager helping her serve the order. Luckily for us the bar was otherwise empty. The Victory Services Club isn’t a drinking den, and we’d soon need to move on to somewhere our increasingly boisterous behaviour would be less out of place.
After paying for a round that would have stress-tested the central bank of a developing country, I turned back to Jacko and caught the tail end of him telling the others I had been roaming Iraq unarmed in a taxi. There was a brief silence before one of the lads, Simmo, piped up, ‘You fucking knobber,’ and everyone dissolved into laughter, including me.
When Jacko found out I was returning to Iraq in two days, he got straight on the phone to another ex-bootneck mate of his, Dan, the security team leader for a US TV news crew. Despite being half-cut, I recognised the offer to join their convoy leaving Amman the following Tuesday was a godsend. Through the alcoholic haze I gave no thought to the practicalities of Thamer’s ageing taxi tagged on the end.
With security for my trip unexpectedly beefed up, I settled in for another beer or two, my intention to get back home early to spend the evening with Claire temporarily forgotten in the laughter and banter. Much later than planned, I finally extricated myself from the group, bid my goodbyes, and headed home – to plenty of catcalls, orders to ‘grow a pair’, and claims my balls were firmly in Claire’s handbag. Although I’d left Central London by nine, I didn’t make it home until 10.30pm. Claire had given up on me and was almost asleep.
I tried to sound upbeat. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. Come on, we’ve still got time to watch a video or something.’
‘It’s gone ten-thirty and you’re half-pissed. I should have known you wouldn’t come back early. I’m tired and I just want to go to sleep.’
Claire turned her back on me as I tried to find a witty response that would make everything better. ‘I suppose a blow job is out of the question then?’