by Jack Leavers
I was relieved to see an expat security commander jump out of the front SUV, although he didn’t look anywhere near as happy to see our jingly taxi joined on the end of his team. A look of surprise crossed his face as I emerged from the rear door and called over. Turned out he was the British team leader of a security team escorting US journalists to the same flight as me. It dawned on me that failure to make the flight would be a disaster as I doubted the RJ refund policy would be much help to get my money back, let alone the issue of when the next seats might be available.
We were in cover from the firefight which appeared to be dying down as quickly as it had erupted. However, sitting here could make us vulnerable to the American soldiers if they unexpectedly came across us when clearing the area.
I removed my baseball cap to reveal my fair hair and took off my jacket to expose my white forearms below the rolled-up shirt sleeves. The first time I’d ever been disappointed to note how brown they were from my ‘pusser’s tan’.
‘I’m going to let them know we’re here.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ The team leader had a point, but I was picturing US soldiers sweeping through the area and catching sight of our local vehicle positioned in cover not long after an attack had hit them. Any decision to shoot first and ask questions later would put a dent in my travel plans.
‘There’s no way I’m missing this flight.’
I had my hands up as I rounded the hillock. There was at least one American casualty on the floor being treated about seventy metres to my front. As I moved forward gingerly, none of the Americans appeared to have seen me. That could be bad, so I shouted out to make sure they were aware of me.
‘BRITISH.’ And again. ‘BRITISH. Three vehicles.’ I waved three fingers of my raised left hand back in the direction of the hillock.
That did it. Before I’d finished shouting, weapons were taking a bead on me and a cluster of American voices were screaming at me to halt.
‘British. Three Vehicles,’ I repeated, but the Americans were screaming at me to ‘GO BACK, GO BACK.’ They’d just been attacked and at least one of their mates was wounded, so I didn’t blame them for not wanting to stop and chat about it.
I about-turned with my hands even higher in the air and started to head back the twenty metres or so to the vehicles. Up ahead I could see a jam of other traffic stopped a hundred metres up the road, aware of the scene ahead of them and conscious of the threat.
Once back in cover I let my hands drop to my sides as I updated the security team leader. ‘They know we’re here, but we’re not going to get past them for a while.’
‘Fuck,’ was his simple reply. My thoughts exactly.
If we thought we were staying put until the road was clear again, we were badly mistaken. Within a couple of minutes, a Humvee tore around the corner and we were told in no uncertain terms to: ‘Get down the fucking road back to the Green Zone.’
All my money was gone, and the flight was due to leave in three hours. My shoulders sagged as the American sergeant shouted at us to get a move on while they set up a cordon and began directing traffic to take the sweeping U-turn back towards the city.
‘Is there anywhere we can stop and wait without having to go back to the city?’ I asked, more in hope than expectation.
I didn’t relish the idea of bouncing up and down Route Irish all day, but I had no idea if any of these neighbourhoods were quiet residential areas or seething with insurgent menace. The problem now was all Westerners seemed like walking dollar signs to anyone with a gun who wanted to make money by selling you to the highest bidder. You might end up in the hands of the insurgents, but it would probably be local low lifes who first took you. It was clear we couldn’t go to the north side: that was the direction the attack on the Americans had emerged from.
Mohammed conferred with the taxi driver in Arabic and we took an immediate right turn off the highway.
‘The driver knows somewhere. A restaurant not far away.’
I wasn’t hungry, but if there was a friendly location where we could wait for half an hour without having to drive all the way back down Route Irish into the centre of the city, then it got my vote.
*
‘I’m sorry. He won’t let us in.’ Mohammed had been sure he’d be able to persuade the restaurant owner to find us a discreet table, but he was having none of it. His eyes blinked ten to the dozen as he stared at me like I carried the plague.
The driver and I walked the ten metres back to the parked taxi by the kerb while Mohammed waited for the takeaway food he’d ordered, making no attempt to hide his anger at the refusal to allow us inside.
As I dropped onto the back seat, vowing not to touch any of the food in case it was tainted, a car turned into the road a few metres away and I caught the gaze of the driver. Loud music was blaring out from the open windows as he braked and slowly drove past. I could see three other young men crammed into the car, with the nearest passenger also giving me the once-over. At distance I might be okay in my local clobber, but up this close they would make out my European features and hair colour. Being the mute cousin from Mosul wasn’t going to cut it here.
‘We need to get moving.’ But I was wasting my time with the driver. He didn’t speak a word of English.
‘MOHAMMED, come on, we need to get moving.’
He waved his hand dismissively as a waiter handed him a bag. Through the back window I saw the car of young Fonzies had pulled up less than a hundred metres down the road.
‘COME ON.’
‘All right, all right.’ As he started back towards the car, Mohammed had a half-smile on his face as dismissive as his earlier wave.
By now the suspicious car had completed a three-point turn and then begun to accelerate as it approached again. Although initially appearing oblivious to the situation, Mohammed broke into a slow jog. He’d spotted the problem.
‘Let’s go. Tell him to go. GO.’
Mohammed barked an order as the carload of young men pulled up beside us. Our driver must have seen the same as me and stamped on the gas as a passenger began to emerge with the familiar black accessory of a handgun.
We barrelled round the corner into the main road and careered into the traffic to the blare of car horns from braking drivers. Our adversaries turned into the road to follow us but made little effort at any serious pursuit. A few turns later we were anonymous again amongst the lunchtime flow.
It had only been twenty minutes or so since we’d been ordered to leave the incident scene outside the airport, but already I wanted to try again. I was conscious of the clock ticking towards the departure time and didn’t have a clue how long the check-in and security process would take even if I did manage to reach the terminal before the flight had left.
After a brief conversation with the driver, Mohammed advised me we needed to rejoin the highway at the same junction close to the Jadriya Bridge from earlier. I didn’t relish the thought of cruising down almost the entirety of Route Irish again, but at least it would mean nearly an hour might have passed before we reached the site of the earlier attack on the Americans. With any luck it would now be clear, and I might still make the flight after all.
We passed the same skeletal remains of shattered vehicles as we sped back towards the airport with grim determination. I think the driver had a ‘fuck this’ moment and tried to call time on things. Mohammed pulled out a wad of dinars and used his powers of persuasion to keep us on track. He didn’t tell me what was said, but I could tell this was more than the driver had bargained for and he wasn’t at all happy about it.
There was barely any sign an incident had occurred as we passed the site of the earlier attack and closed on the airport entrance. To my consternation and the taxi driver’s obvious satisfaction, I had to disembark at a large chaotic parking area to cram myself and my luggage into a crowded bus to get to the terminal
building.
At the bus door I shook hands with Mohammed.
‘Be careful on the way back, mate.’ I looked up at the faces in the bus windows peering back at me. ‘You could have been pinged dropping me off, so get away now and I’ll see you soon in London.’
I tried to make contingency plans in case I missed the flight or it got cancelled, but Mohammed was confident it would leave as scheduled and I’d be on it. We agreed to meet again as soon as he arrived back in London. He planned to drive with Thamer when the roads heading west opened again. However, in the end he followed me to Amman on an RJ flight a few weeks later.
I felt vulnerable as I bouldered my way onto the bus not more than 400 metres from where the Americans had come under attack. There were no other white faces looking up from the packed seats. Not a surprise because other expats would be driven all the way to the terminal in their armoured escort vehicles. Yet another reminder I was firmly at the low budget and higher risk end of things.
*
As we corkscrewed up and away from Baghdad and settled into the flight to Amman, there was a collective sigh of relief from me and my fellow passengers. Everyone had endured Route Irish, security queues that seemed out of all proportion with the number of passengers actually flying, and an extra security check of all hold baggage on the hot tarmac next to the plane.
I’d already decided to treat myself to a decent hotel in Amman where my credit cards would give me access to funds again. In the end I might as well have stayed at the airport hotel because after one beer I fell into a deep sleep and hardly stirred until the morning, apart from taking a second shower and ordering burger and chips from room service.
*
Claire was happy I was home. Despite my tiredness from the journey, we hopped into bed the moment we thought the kids were asleep. After renewing our acquaintance with a quick bout of ‘hello again’ satisfying sex, we laid together and caught up properly for the first time. She didn’t watch the news much, but you’d have to be living on a desert island not to know Baghdad was going to hell in a hand basket.
‘Is it really bad over there?’ she asked. ‘My mum was really worried the other morning after seeing some news reports and I’m sure your mum feels the same. They’ve both been round and phoned so much I started getting worried. Worried something might have happened I didn’t know about.’
I gave a measured answer. ‘It’s not good. Things happened soon after I got there to stir the situation up. I don’t think I’ll be going back again for a while.’
Claire kissed me and smiled. ‘I’m pleased you’re not going back.’
I returned her kiss. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going back, just probably not for a while.’
Her face fell, but quickly brightened again. ‘Well it means we have time to plan for Natalie’s sixteenth birthday party next month. You’ll definitely be here then?’
‘Yeah, I should be. Depends on work, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be here.’
Claire kissed me again, draped her arm across my chest, and pressed herself into me. The last traces of tension from my trip melted away.
*
The escape from Baghdad had dominated my recent focus, but out running with Taz over Epsom Downs on my first morning home I began to appreciate my predicament in Iraq. After so much time, effort, and money to establish a foothold in Baghdad, was it time to take a step back and reconsider whether to continue? The country was descending into a hell and I couldn’t foresee returning anytime soon. Mohammed remained over there, but was it going to turn into a pit that swallowed money until I had nothing left, or was there still a chance I could make a healthy return on my investment?
Then there was my family. While away I thought about them, just not with the immediacy I felt when at home. It might not make sense, but usually it was only at home that the risks seemed so apparent and foolhardy. When I was in Baghdad, I felt I had a semblance of control most of the time, even when things weren’t going to plan, or at least the ability to influence events around me. Watching the reports of the carnage being wrought across Iraq from afar like everyone else, it looked like heading back into that maelstrom was almost guaranteed to be a one-way trip.
As far as my daughters were concerned, like most teenage girls Natalie had plenty of problems of her own to occupy her as she approached her sixteenth birthday. If she was aware her old man was taking reckless chances with his safety in Iraq, she didn’t show it. And with her total innocence, little Becky made me smile nearly every time I looked at her and I couldn’t help but feel enormous guilt for the risks I had been taking.
*
The two periods I’d spent in Iraq had caused me to miss some interesting sounding projects I’d had to pass on to other investigators. And with all the money I’d spent in Iraq for no return, I needed to start bringing in alternative revenue fast. It was still several months before the annual arrival of Middle Eastern sheikhs would herald 24/7 work and the accompanying boost to cash flow for me and many others on the London ‘circuit’. A promising answerphone message raised my hopes.
‘John, it’s Roy. I’ve got an urgent job in London so call me if you’re home. It starts next week and hopefully should run for a few weeks. Speak soon, bye.’
Normally Roy’s business partner, Dave, contacted me, so this was a little unusual. Dave was a former para and Met Police detective whose son was an old oppo of mine from the Corps. He called on me regularly when he had close protection or investigation work available, and I hoped Roy’s message meant more of the same.
Chapter 19
LONDON — SUMMER 2004
‘I’ve got a good mind to get out and give this guy a round of applause. What a legend,’ I murmured to my partner in crime, Jez.
It wouldn’t have been practical to jump out of the surveillance van and compromise ourselves, but this average-looking old man had livened up our afternoon no end.
He had his hands in his pockets and a spring in his step – not a mean feat considering he must have been about eighty. Apart from Jez and me, the only other people who knew what he’d been doing for the last couple of hours here in Chelsea were the two Asian hookers he’d treated with champagne and a back catalogue of cracking dits.
There was no way we’d have picked him out as the potential client on his way to the flat, but I made sure to be in position to ID our mystery Romeo when he left. I’d been given a running commentary all afternoon from Jez in the rear of the van as he listened to the guy sharing a drink, enjoying a bath, and raising plenty of laughs with Mai Ling and Alicia.
Calling up the ‘Creme de la Femme’ office after he’d gone past, it turned out we now had two hours clear until the next appointment at the other flat near Paddington Station.
‘McDonalds here we come,’ I told the voice on the other end we’d christened ‘Moneypenny’. She said her real name was Sindy, but we reckoned she only used it for work, like the escorts.
‘Stay ready in case we get a new booking,’ warned Sindy. She sounded gorgeous although my attempts to get an invite to the next works party and see for myself weren’t getting anywhere.
‘We’d eat you alive,’ she’d teased.
‘Sounds like a great way to go. Put us down for four tickets,’ I said hopefully. Unfortunately, all that ever came back over the phone was a giggle rather than an invitation. Oh well, you can’t blame guys for trying. I don’t think Claire would have seen the funny side though.
The protective surveillance job had been running for over two weeks and I worked all day every day. Two listening devices had been installed in each of a pair of flats in Paddington and Chelsea which housed girls from the escort agency as they worked their magic on the variously horny, sad, lonely, and/or pathetic men who came to see them. A spate of attacks had resulted in Dave and Roy’s company being hired to protect the girls. It wasn’t a complicated security plan although it was a lit
tle unclear in the important places.
‘So, if you hear an attack taking place then you’re to get in there ASAP and deal with the attacker,’ Roy had explained during the initial briefing for the job. ‘Don’t worry about the police, I’ll deal with them if it comes to it. Just make sure you call me straight away if something kicks off.’
Roy was former Met Police Flying Squad and still had strong contacts on the force. Over the years, I’d had my fair share of jobs that threw up obvious warning flags and without doubt this fell into that category.
‘But surely we’re going to be bang to rights if we’ve kicked seven bells of shit out of this prick, even if he has attacked one of the girls?’ Jez had a good point, and I was keen to hear Roy’s answer as well.
‘Listen guys, when you get this scumbag, just make sure you don’t leave him in the flat. You get me? If he’s not in the flat, then there shouldn’t be anything to tie him to the agency or us.’
‘Apart from the witnesses who see two men dragging a guy out the front door and dumping him on the street,’ I threw in.
Roy turned and glared at me. ‘I told you, if it comes to it then I’ll deal with the Met. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t kill anyone. Do something stupid like that and no-one can help you.’
Not exactly a rousing pep talk, but it did signal the start of some well-paid work bombing up and down between the two flats, parking within range of the bugs planted in the hallways and outside the bedrooms, and listening intently for the sounds of a struggle, attack, or anything else untoward.
For some reason no-one else wanted to drive the van, so I took that on for the duration of the job whilst three other guys, Jez, Billy, and Smudge, rotated the listening role in the back of the van to fit in with their other work. It suited me because it meant I took the van home at night rather than having to catch a late-night train and then another early the next morning to get back up into town.