Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  He hardly knew me, but I suspected Faris had been reporting back to him. With the security situation deteriorating rapidly, I sensed an opportunity to remain involved with reconstruction efforts, even if I might need to limit my exposure in Iraq in the future.

  Specific topics included prospects for the oil sector, healthcare, and cement factories. None of these were areas in which I had any deep knowledge. However, the sourcing and procurement of international expertise, equipment, and supplies, including pharmaceuticals for hospitals, had my mind working overtime as Abu Saif outlined where he thought the best opportunities lay. The financial sector was another significant area he sounded well placed to move into, with mention of both a Jordanian bank and an insurance group.

  As we paused for a substantial lunch that covered most of the large conference table, I looked out at the tidy garden area and a young lad cleaning surface debris out of the swimming pool. It looked clean enough and big enough for a decent swim. By comparison, the pool at the Palestine Hotel was a dusty, empty reminder of better times. The tops of the surrounding high stone walls glinted in the sun with shards of glass to deter intruders. My wandering thoughts returned to the table as Abu Saif switched from an Arabic conversation back to English.

  ‘I’ve talked about all these areas of business I’m engaged with. The companies, the partners, how we can provide the logistic support here in Iraq. But can you help me to access the American money? The international funding? What can you do for me?’

  Up to that point he’d done most of the talking, which had been both unexpected and welcome. I’d picked at a couple of the dishes and already filled myself up, so the chance to speak for a while instead of eating came at the right moment.

  ‘I can give you that link to the Coalition and to the West generally. To the outside. Right now, businesses and people only see the news of the bombs and the violence. A lot of companies are interested in getting involved in the reconstruction, but they don’t know how. And even if they could manage to win a contract with, say, the US military, most would have no idea how to go about implementing it on the ground. That’s where we can come in. Not only can we try to win projects for ourselves, but we can work with others who have won contracts and help them. For a share of course.’

  As Abu Saif mulled that over, I continued.

  ‘Which brings me on to something else. I’m not interested in making judgements or trying to imply anything improper, but it would be good to understand where you can operate.’

  He frowned at the question.

  ‘I mean, I understand you have powerful business interests and from Faris, you, the meeting in Adhamiya and now here in Mansour, I assume it’s the Sunni areas where you will be strongest.’

  He held up his hand and started to protest. ‘That’s not…’

  I spoke over his objection and he let me continue. Doubtful that happened often.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean that to be taken anything other than literally. What I’m trying to say is Sunni Islamist groups appear to be at the forefront of this growing insurgency. Can we… erm… can you use your influence to provide protection for our projects? As I said, I don’t mean to imply any link to the… insurgents, but it would be prudent to explore any contacts who could reduce the threat against our interests.’

  The rest of the room had fallen silent and a scan round the faces at the table indicated I wasn’t explaining myself very well. Faris stared at me with confusion in his eyes.

  ‘That might not have come out the way I wanted, but I believe it is better to be direct and make sure we all understand the situation and the potential strengths or weaknesses we might have together. If you have lines of communication that would allow us to operate in areas where others might face… difficulties, then it’s something we can focus on. Obviously in a discreet way.’

  While the others maintained looks that made me wonder if I’d spoken way out of line, Abu Saif began to nod. And smile. This time the smile even reached his eyes.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Iraq is becoming a dangerous place and religious and tribal alliances are more important than ever. The American military are making huge mistakes if they think they can occupy the country without bloodshed and plunder its resources. The simple answer to your question is I know how to operate here. I can protect my business interests. But no-one can protect everyone, everywhere. I mean that as a friendly warning to you. Be very careful with these other Iraqi friends or partners of yours from Britain. I cannot protect you while you are with them and I advise that you only work with Faris in Baghdad.’

  His last comment annoyed me, so I snapped back, ‘It’s important I have people around me I trust, the same as it is for you. Mohammed and Walid are my friends. They won’t get involved in our business together. They don’t want to get involved.’ My voice softened. ‘But I appreciate your warning and I understand how the situation has changed here over the recent days.’

  The conversation petered out into an uneasy silence round the table. I reached for a bottle of water and gulped down the remaining half. My appetite hadn’t returned but I needed to focus my attention on something. I reached over and spooned more rice and chicken onto my plate.

  It was Abu Saif who spoke again to break the silence. ‘The key quality I need with a business partner is trust. We’ve spoken about plenty of different business sectors and opportunities, but the question I ask myself is: can I trust you?’

  I took it as a rhetorical question until he asked again.

  ‘So, Mr Pierce, can I trust you?’

  I glanced down at the business card he’d given me at the start of our meeting to check his surname. ‘Yes, Mr al-Tikriti, you can trust me. If we agree a course of action, I will complete it to the best of my ability. And, just as importantly, I’ll tell you if there’s a problem, or it can’t be done, or we need to change our approach. So yes, you can trust me. Honesty and loyalty are two areas I believe are vitally important in business… and in life.’

  Okay, so my nose could have started growing as I said that last bit, but with my blagging background I didn’t mean the honesty part in a literal sense, more in the ‘honour amongst thieves’ way.

  After our exchange, we took chai outside in the sun at a small table by the pool. The setting cried out for a couple of cold beers and some bikini-clad eye candy, although I settled for the improving atmosphere and warmer conversation with Abu Saif about family and children. There was no further mention of business. I assumed he’d made his mind up one way or the other about working with me.

  Half an hour later we parted in a relaxed and friendly manner. It wasn’t clear if we would work together, but I hoped so. This was a man who could make things happen round here. As we left the villa in the late afternoon sun to join our escort vehicle for the ride back to the Palestine Hotel, Abu Saif and the others also prepared to leave. Interesting.

  ‘Faris, is this Abu Saif’s villa?’

  Instead of answering the question, he replied, ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered. Seems like a nice place, with the pool and everything.’

  Faris turned back to face the front without adding anything. Probably meant he didn’t know either.

  *

  The TV news broadcasts were filled with daily attacks, kidnappings, hostage releases, and murders. Some who got lucky and some who didn’t. And that was just the international community. For the locals, similar kidnappings and murders were occurring on an industrial scale.

  The morning after my meeting with Abu Saif, I sat with Mohammed and Walid having a coffee in the Palestine Hotel gardens. We hadn’t been out together since our close shave with the gunman outside the entrance two days beforehand, and Abu Saif’s friendly warning also deterred the idea of anything but essential travel outside.

  ‘They kidnapped our neighbour’s son from school yesterday,’ said Mohammed gloomily. ‘They
want $10,000 in forty-eight hours or they’ll kill him. The message was left on the doorstep where his daughter was playing. Our friend is terrified they will take his other children as well, but what can he do? It’s getting so bad that people are too scared to let their children go to school any more or even to the local shops. The Americans have destroyed Iraq.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, mate. If it’s that bad at a local level, what do you reckon it means for us? What do you think we should do?’

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ answered Mohammed. He sounded more downbeat than I’d ever heard him.

  ‘We need to be very careful,’ said Walid. ‘There are rumours they are watching all the hotels and getting ready to take more foreigners. People are leaving our neighbourhood; Sunnis and Shi’a. Warnings are being left on front doors and, as Mohammed said, some of our neighbours have had family kidnapped by criminals.’

  Fuck it. This was getting out of control.

  ‘I think it’s time for me to fly back to the UK before our luck runs out. If they’re watching the hotels, and after the threats here and our fun and games a couple of days ago I’m sure they are, then the longer I stay the more danger I put us all in. And if they find out you’re working with me, then…’ The rest didn’t need saying.

  Walid lived in a mixed Sunni-Shi’a neighbourhood and he was clearly anxious about the safety of his family, even without the added risk the wrong people discovered he was working with a Westerner. My woeful cash position and the rumoured scarcity of thousand dollar tickets for the once daily flight to freedom were running up big red flags. I needed to get my arse on a plane out of there ASAP.

  ‘Get yourselves away, guys,’ I said to the two brothers. ‘I’ll finish this and go straight round to the RJ office and see what’s what.’ I knocked back the rest of my coffee and stood up. Neither Mohammed nor Walid were arguing.

  *

  The Royal Jordanian office was mobbed with a multinational mix of frantic souls in amongst the fray. Finally managing to force my way through to the ticket desk, the weary ticket agent informed me the next availability for Amman was in two days at $1,000 for the last seat, or $800 for the flight in three days’ time. I didn’t have enough cash for the first one, but I could run to eight hundred. With my back being accosted by the mutating scrum like I was having a Thai massage, I counted out the eight $100 bills, which left me a fifty and a wedge of dinars. The money counter rejected one of the notes with a beep.

  He handed it back to me. ‘No good.’

  ‘Wait a sec.’ I didn’t have another hundred in US currency, but I didn’t want to lose this seat. ‘Dinars?’

  ‘No, dollars.’

  As he handed the other $700 back, I sensed my fellow desperados saw an opportunity to take my place like sharks moving in for a kill.

  I swore under my breath as a guy in Arab dress pushed in front of me while I juggled the cash back into my wallet. Mohammed and Walid were back in the hotel garden and might have enough US dollars on them. Shit. I really didn’t want to give up my place after taking so long to battle my way to the desk. Freedom felt tantalisingly close, but at the same time frustratingly out of reach.

  I stayed put and sharpened my elbows as I pulled out and sought to flatten my eight Benjamins. I reordered them and pushed past the guy in front as he turned to leave with an infuriated look on his face. Either he wasn’t happy with the price being quoted or it was because my elbow had accidentally caught him under the ribs. More importantly, he hadn’t bought a ticket, so, although there was another clerk serving at the table, I hoped my precious seat out of here was still available.

  ‘There you go.’ I handed over the same eight $100 bills.

  If there’s such a thing as ESP then I was using it, willing this to go my way with everything I had. The room was heaving with body odour and desperation, some of it mine, as I watched him knock my bills together and feed them into the machine. This time the money counter was silent, and I had a shit-eating grin like I’d just scored a winning goal at Wembley. I was down to the last of my cash and it would be touch and go whether I could cover my final hotel bill, but I was going home.

  *

  Mohammed gave me the extra 150,000 Iraqi dinars needed to cover the outstanding hotel charges when I checked out three days later. The hotel manager shook my hand before I left and said, ‘Good luck, Mr John.’ But without his usual smile.

  From the look on his face, he must have guessed we were heading for the airport and would have to transit ‘Route Irish’, as the US military called the airport road, which was fast gaining the reputation of being the most dangerous section of highway in the world.

  Mohammed would escort me to the airport in a local taxi without Walid. There was no need for all three of us to run the gauntlet. And if Walid drove his car then he might get pegged by surveillance at the airport entrance as being involved with infidels. Instead, Walid and I had said our goodbyes the previous afternoon in the tranquillity of the hotel gardens. A tinge of sadness and finality was unavoidable given the recent events and the growing siege mentality of the expats in Baghdad. It was difficult to see me returning any time soon unless things unexpectedly improved, although he said he hoped to visit the UK again soon.

  ‘Keep your head down. Stay careful and be lucky. I’ll see you when you come to London.’

  Walid smiled as he repeated my message a couple of times like a mantra. ‘Stay careful and be lucky. Stay careful and be lucky.’ Before adding, ‘I can be careful, but the rest… Inshallah.’

  Chapter 18

  I’d never been to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) before, so this was my first time on the airport road. The section known as Route Irish was a twelve kilometres long artery linking the Green Zone at the eastern, city end, with the airport itself at the western end. For traffic joining the road from the south rather than emerging out of the Green Zone, there were three major junctions with bridges crossing the carriageway and ramps leading on and off.

  Set back from the highway were densely packed Sunni districts of the city, able to spit out and swallow heavily armed assailants at will. As the primary route between the city and airport, and the only route for civilian traffic, it was an insurgent’s dream scenario.

  Mohammed had chosen our transport wisely. Inside it was decorated with furs and jingly mementos hung from every available vantage point. Verses of the Koran indicated Allah’s guidance and protection for travellers. I was happy for all the help we could get. But it was the meaty sound of the engine and the lack of the usual red-and-white Baghdad taxi colour scheme that had me nodding my head in appreciation.

  ‘No, no, no. Here, you sit in the front,’ said Mohammed, indicating the front passenger seat after I’d grabbed the rear door handle.

  ‘No mate. I’m going to stay hidden in the back. Keep myself as invisible as possible so we don’t attract any unwelcome attention.

  ‘Of course, but what about if we run into Americans? Maybe with you in the front it will help.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t think they’ll notice in this car. Anyone seeing us will expect it to be full of locals. If we hit a local checkpoint, I’ll slouch down quietly in the back with my cap pulled down. If we run into Americans, I can speak to them.’

  Mohammed had a dubious expression as he considered what I’d said. I couldn’t blame him for being nervous about running into trouble. After all, this was also his first time along the airport road since the war. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Inshallah we will have no problems.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ I agreed.

  We bypassed the Green Zone to the south side, getting stuck in heavy traffic at the Jadriya Bridge taking us out of the central district of Karada. Then across the Tigris River and towards the junction where we turned right to join Route Irish from the south. There was a tranquil normality as we sped down the airport road. If it hadn’t been for the charred s
keletons of a destroyed convoy and occasional shells of other burnt-out cars, it could have been any other highway in the country. Like many dangerous places, it all looks calm and normal until the shit hits the fan.

  ‘Tell the driver, if we see any Americans then stay well back. At least a hundred metres. Don’t try to overtake them.’

  ‘He knows,’ said Mohammed.

  ‘I’m sure he does mate but tell him anyway. Tell him I’m saying he has to stay back, or I’ll be fucking angry.’

  The driver’s head twitched as I swore, so I followed up by catching his eye in the mirror and said, ‘You see Americans you stay back, right?’

  He glanced at both of us and shrugged his shoulders, which Mohammed answered in Arabic. I recognised the word ‘Amrikiyyan’, meaning Americans. I hoped my belligerence had helped get the message across.

  Numerous Iraqis had been killed trying to overtake military convoys and private security teams displaying ‘Keep Back 100 Metres’ signs in Arabic and English. This was one road where you couldn’t blame the security forces for being extremely wary of the suicide vehicle-borne IED (SVBIED) threat, even if the trigger-happy nature of some reports led me to regard them as potentially dangerous as the bad guys. For some reason, the locals just didn’t comprehend the seriousness of the threat and many innocent men, women, and children lost their lives due to a cultural misunderstanding of the new rules of the road.

  As the airport loomed in front of us, I spotted an American military call sign ahead. We were doing 140 km/h, so I yelled over the road noise to Mohammed that we needed to slow down and follow the Americans into the airport cautiously. By the time the driver braked, there were flashes up ahead as the Americans came under fire from the right-hand side. A boom as an RPG landed close to one of the vehicles and it wobbled left.

  We screeched to a halt along with two SUVs in front of us. The road bent round to the left in a sweeping U-turn to join the opposite carriageway and head back towards the city. We were hidden by a small grassy mound as the crack and rattle of small arms and automatic fire continued out of sight to our front.