by Jack Leavers
In calm, perfect English he asked, ‘Are you in trouble?’
For a city with relatively few English speakers, I was making a habit of bumping into the cream of the crop.
‘Yes mate, whatever you do, don’t stop.’
I strained to look behind using the mirrors and through the rear window despite the constrictions of the daysack on my back. No sign of pursuit. Provided the traffic kept moving, we’d arrive at the Palestine shortly and I’d be sprinting in through the gate. The driver took the right turn towards the river road leading to the new entrance. In my haste I’d have probably forgotten the pedestrian entrance had changed, so a good job I’d jumped in the cab and not found myself screaming in frustration by arriving at a bank of concrete and razor wire marking the old entrance.
As we pulled to a halt, I threw a twenty-dollar bill back at the driver and yelled ‘Shukran’ behind me. The guards at the entrance hardly stirred as I ran into the safety of the Palestine Hotel complex. I slowed down but didn’t stop running until I’d turned the corner and moved out of view from the entrance.
A check of my right forearm revealed I’d nicked myself just below the elbow with the Ka-Bar, so at least some of the blood on my arm was mine. Unsure whether I might have seriously hurt one or quite possibly a lot more people during my mad dash for safety, I changed direction and headed for the emptiest part of the gardens rather than the throng of people in hotel reception. I found an empty table shielded from the rest of the hotel to patch myself up. I cleaned away the blood with water and applied a plaster from my daysack as I tried to get my breathing under control. The sweat poured off me in rivers.
I rang Mohammed. ‘Are you okay, mate?’ He’d answered the phone on the first ring which should mean he was all right.
‘Yes, everything is fine. Those criminal bastards.’ Mohammed was his normal cheery self. ‘Where are you?’
‘Back at the Palestine. Is everyone okay there?’
‘The police are here, although nothing will happen. There was one man very hurt, but he’s gone. I have a cut and my cousin will probably never speak to me again. Apart from that everything is fine. But why did you hit the women?’
I was momentarily stuck for words. ‘It was an accident. Some people were in my way.’ What could I say? Not my greatest moment.
I’d got away with it that day, but it was a stark reminder the security threat in Baghdad needed to be taken seriously. As the coming days would show, Baghdad was changing for the worse. Much worse.
Chapter 16
At my insistence, we met with Faris later that day. It was clear from the outset him and Mohammed were never going to be the closest of friends, but after the morning’s events I wanted to give him the opportunity to offer me a pistol again.
I wasn’t disappointed and this time I had an upgrade to a compact Glock 19 with a spare magazine of fifteen rounds. That gave me thirty rounds in total with a reliable weapon. The chance to test fire it would have been ideal, but I was happy enough. Faris had even supplied a decent holster. The Glock doesn’t have a safety catch; instead it is equipped with three separate safety features which mean it won’t fire unless you mean it to, provided you handle it correctly. Compared to the Makarov, for instance, there’s no possibility of it going off accidentally when dropped.
Unlike when on patrol with the military or out on a security task, I usually carried any weapons loaded but not made ready, known as condition amber. That meant the immediate action if I encountered a serious security threat would be to cock the weapon. The Israelis tend to practise this technique, but I had American friends who would vehemently disagree with not being ready to fire at all times. The practicalities of sometimes needing to give my weapon up when meeting important people or entering places with a firearm ban meant I thought it appropriate. Believe me, if the situation escalated then I’d be made ready at condition red in a heartbeat. I might not be Billy the Kid, but I could draw and cock the weapon pretty fast, even with one hand using the heel of my shoe if required. The chances of a threat emerging that required the extra split second this would cost me was small, but I recognised it was possible. It was a trade-off, like so many other things.
Mohammed and Faris locked horns almost immediately. The Arabic between them didn’t sound at all friendly, so I interrupted.
‘Hang on a minute. What are you saying?’ I asked Mohammed.
He finished his sentence and dropped the finger he’d been wagging at Faris. ‘I told him we didn’t need him. I have places to visit and will find a good office myself.’
Faris spoke up. ‘Mr John, I don’t understand the problem. When you were here before, we took you and showed you some good places. Were you not happy with them?’
Before Mohammed could start up again, I spoke quickly. ‘Yes of course, and thank you for all your help. This is just a misunderstanding. Because Mohammed wasn’t with me last time, we need to discuss and agree the best way to do things this time.’ My eyes locked onto Mohammed’s. ‘We may need to alter things slightly, but the objectives are still the same. We all want the same thing here: to get the business up and running so we can work together and make good money.’
Mohammed’s face read as though he didn’t want the same thing if Faris stayed involved.
‘That’s right, Mohammed, yes?’
Whatever inner battle raged behind his eyes, the reasonable side won this time. ‘Yes, you’re right. But we don’t need any help to find and set up the office.’
I’d take that. ‘Right. So Faris, you don’t need to worry about the office side of things any more, so instead can you focus on the business side? Opportunities we can follow immediately and in the short to medium term.’
At the conclusion of the meeting Faris was pissed off, but thankfully not so much to make him take back the Glock. He’d clearly realised that Mohammed’s influence meant a different and looser relationship between us compared to the one he’d anticipated. In some ways it was easier the two men didn’t like each other. Any thoughts Faris might have had to relieve me of my money should be snuffed out. And Mohammed had declared he wanted nothing to do with Faris’s contacts, which left me free to explore those opportunities without him charging in and upsetting people like Abu Saif.
The change in atmosphere in Baghdad in those early April days was palpable. Restaurants suddenly became scared to have Western diners unless they could be hidden away in private. Stories of grenade attacks at eateries in the city and a multitude of direct warnings had seen to that. Even the exuberant Mr Saleh had lost his appetite for meeting with me again and instead made plans to take his family to Jordan until the outlook improved. That spelled the end for the drinks factory project, although the way things had changed I’d probably be lynched if I showed my face there again now.
Reports of Westerners being kidnapped soon filtered in and Faris warned me to be careful. ‘I am worried if you are going out without our protection. Something might happen to you. Baghdad is very dangerous for foreigners, especially British and Americans.’
He might only care because he thought I could help make him money, but he still cared. How touching.
‘Yes, I know. I’m keeping on top of the news reports. We’re being careful when we go out, but thanks for your concern. Any time you have any specific information, then let me know so we can alter our movements if we need to.’
Faris spoke without any emotion. ‘The danger is everywhere now. I advise you not to go out with your other friends. We too are having to take many precautions. Abu Saif wants to meet with you again, but now it is too dangerous to take you to Al-Adhamiyah. Perhaps we will meet in Mansour, near to the Green Zone.’
‘Does Abu Saif have some new business to discuss?’
‘Yes, plenty of business. As soon as he heard you had returned to Baghdad, he told me he wants to meet with you. He is very busy, but you will meet soon.’
‘Okay. Well tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him again and let me know when he’s available.’
‘But when you meet it must just be you. Not the others.’
‘Don’t worry. Mohammed isn’t interested in meeting him. He’s concentrating on getting the local company and offices up and running.’
*
While Faris sought to arrange a suitable time and venue for the meeting with Abu Saif, Mohammed and I went about the business of setting up the new company and finding an office.
We visited a new business centre in Palestine Street on the eastern side of Baghdad, conveniently located near Walid’s home where Mohammed stayed. However, it was also near to the Shi’a district of Sadr City, which was featuring heavily in the news after the Shi’a Mahdi Army had ambushed US military patrols and seized police stations. It was to mark the start of an uprising that would see heavy combat in the area for the next four years. As we looked round the new building, I doubted I’d be seeing it very often if we took an office there. I was right. Although we operated from the building when it opened, I never visited again.
*
The Palestine Hotel planned a grand opening party of its refurbished rooftop bar to coincide with the first anniversary of the end of the 2003 war. In the days leading up to the party, leaflets appeared warning all the workers at the hotel to leave because the insurgents were going to blow it up. The attack never materialised, but the threats prompted the cancellation of the event and the opening.
Although several other Western contractors and journalists had recently been kidnapped, on 9th April the American media focused on the disappearance of US national Nicholas Berg. This particularly resonated with me because Berg appeared to be doing the same thing as me: trying to win contracts using trusted Iraqi contacts. The feeling of a spiral into deadly insurgency and war grew ever stronger as news of the US Marines assault on Falluja filled the airwaves. However, it was the news Sunni insurgents had seized a stretch of the main highway between Baghdad and Falluja that guaranteed there was no way I’d be taking a taxi to the Jordanian border when it came time to leave for home. Baghdad felt cut off from the outside world.
While the local news was depressing, I’ve always been able to compartmentalise. Chelsea were playing Arsenal in the Champions League quarter-final second leg which I was determined to watch. The bar staff had confirmed the match would be shown live in the bar and I was the only guest down there when the game kicked off. With so much going on all over the country the news teams were working flat out. Little chance any of them could watch the game, even if they were interested. When they realised I was an ardent Chelsea fan, the hotel staff all cheered the Blues on with me. For ninety minutes I forgot all about the spiral into despair outside in the city and the potential effect it could have on my business plans. Instead I spent a memorable evening celebrating Chelsea beating Arsenal to qualify for the semi-finals.
*
Returning to the hotel one afternoon via a long walk from the closest drop-off point, Mohammed and Walid stopped at a street vendor on a corner a hundred metres from the hotel entrance gate. I wasn’t hungry after the lunchtime chicken, rice, and beans in the small, friendly restaurant we’d finally located. The two brothers were ready for a top-up though and bought a drink and a hot snack each from the old guy’s wheeled stall.
It was a hot day and I wanted to get back to the unsatisfying shower in my room before checking online if Royal Jordanian had any plans to add to the once-daily flights between Amman and Baghdad. One-way cost upwards of $750 if you could get a ticket. Not something I’d budgeted for, so I needed to be very careful with my cash situation. I hadn’t enquired about availability for the rest of the month yet, but the throng we’d passed in the morning outside the small RJ office in the Palestine Hotel complex didn’t fill me with optimism.
I tucked myself into the corner and observed west along the river road we’d traversed and then checked the narrow road leading north to the main road between Firdos Square and Liberation Square. Although I was scanning for threats, I hadn’t really expected to see some cheeky git with a scarf over his lower face raise an AK-47 in our direction from fifty metres away.
‘Take cover.’
I drew the Glock and cocked it in one movement as I dropped into a crouched position by the concrete barrier behind the street seller’s kiosk. Mohammed and Walid stood rooted to the spot, each holding a cone of fava beans and regarding me with a confused look.
The outbreak of automatic fire soon had them rushing to join me in cover though. The closest rounds snapped past and zinged off the road and barriers. Both now prone in the dirty street, Mohammed had somehow managed to keep most of his beans intact while Walid’s decorated the road surface.
I peeked round the barrier to see the gunman already running off. With only a handgun and no weapons permit, this wasn’t the time to be trying to make a citizen’s arrest, so I watched as he rounded the corner and disappeared.
The three of us just looked at each other. The street vendor hadn’t even budged from behind his cart. Had it even really happened?
‘It’s time I was heading back to the UK.’
There was no disagreement; the situation was getting out of control. The French had told all their citizens to leave the country, various NGOs were pulling out, attacks were multiplying rapidly, and American casualties were escalating fast.
*
The following morning, I was in my room when a loud explosion rang out close to the hotel, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass and multiple car alarms. I dived into the bathroom, out the way of potential flying glass in case of further explosions, and listened for sounds of any follow-up attack. With the chaos being reported in Baghdad and Falluja heralding a huge upswing in the insurgency from two different forces (Sunni insurgents and Shi’a militia), there was always the possibility of a large-scale attack against a heavily defended target like the Palestine. With the US tanks and troops stationed at the hotel it was unlikely to be successful, but it would be a PR coup for the insurgents whatever the outcome.
After a few minutes, nothing further had happened and my friends upstairs at CNN provided an update via the television. They were showing live shots from their balcony and describing the incident as a rocket attack. I looked outside my window and back to the TV. Near identical views.
Less than forty minutes later, Mohammed arrived at the hotel and spoke excitedly about the attack. ‘I heard the explosion while I was at the checkpoint. The American soldiers thought there might be an attack coming and started shouting at everyone to get back. Was it a car bomb or a rocket?’
‘The news channels say it was a rocket. I didn’t see it land, but it’s caused damage at the Sheraton.’
‘Ah, a rocket. Usually they hit the Green Zone. Maybe more rockets will come.’
It’s a natural reaction to get caught up in the excitement when an incident like that occurs, although I wasn’t quite as enamoured with the idea of rockets starting to get hurled in the direction of my hotel. As per usual, the rocket had hit the Sheraton rather than the Palestine and I hoped a couple of guys I knew over there were okay. Media reports indicated minor damage and no casualties, so hopefully we’d all got away with one today.
Chapter 17
Faris had a different assistant with him as we drove through Baghdad to the meeting with Abu Saif. I didn’t know what happened to the kid but compared to his characterless replacement he’d been a veritable feast of entertainment.
The car was silent as we passed Saddam’s giant unfinished mosque, before leaving the traffic and turning into the quieter streets of an upmarket residential neighbourhood in the Mansour district.
As the armed security guards closed the villa gates behind us, I noted there was plenty of room for the driver to turn the vehicle and face forward on exit for a change – a good start. We were in Baghdad’s ‘Red Zone’ but I
knew this area to be one of the most secure outside the Green Zone. There were a handful of embassies nearby, more than one security company headquartered down the road, and the Iraqi National Intelligence Service operated from the China House complex at the southern end of the neighbourhood, near Beirut Street.
As I entered the room, Abu Saif stood to greet me with his trademark low growl.
‘Mr Pierce. It’s very good to see you in Baghdad again. I must apologise for the way our last meeting ended. I had very important and unexpected guests who I had to deal with. I hope you can understand.’
‘Not a problem at all. I’m sure we’ll be able to cover a lot more ground today than would have been possible last month.’
The big man held my gaze and a humourless smile crossed his face. ‘Yes, today we have plenty of time. And there will be no interruptions.’
This time it was a far more personal affair, with only three minions in attendance matched by me, Faris, and his new assistant. We had an escort car with us, but Faris’s men had parked on the quiet road outside the gate when we had driven in. There was little small talk as we got straight down to business.
Abu Saif dominated the room again, both physically and with his self-assured manner. His large frame and gravelly voice gave him a touch of the Bond villain. He was refreshingly direct and came across as intelligent and shrewd.
He spoke about long-established Iraqi construction and oil services companies working with him, suggesting they would be ideal partners for international corporations seeking to win contracts in the country. We agreed a mixture of foreign expertise and local capability was going to be key to winning the cream of the business opportunities.
The discussion moved on to overseas companies with whom he already had relationships, including companies in UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Lebanon. I got the impression he considered a working relationship with me might provide him and his Iraqi contacts with an important touch of international credibility with potential Western suppliers and partners.