Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  The news coming from Baghdad worsened by the day: the latest showed kidnapped American businessman Nicholas Berg being decapitated by a knife in a video released by al-Qaeda in Iraq, reportedly killed by their Jordanian leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. With depressing reports from Mohammed about the deteriorating situation and no sign of progress with any of the business opportunities, a long-running gig in London was very helpful financially.

  I’d told Claire it was a surveillance job; no need to get into the details with her. The bugs weren’t located in the bedrooms anyway, so the listener in the back wasn’t getting his kicks from the sounds of rampant sex all day long. From what my partners in the van reported, they were more likely to be heading home about ready to slit their wrists after listening to a procession of losers pouring out all their troubles to a basque and stocking-clad escort girl, before seeing if spilling their beans helped take the edge off their problems.

  Several days later I heard something in the back hitting the floor or sides and the van swayed as Jez must have stood up.

  ‘Jesus, mate. This guy Clive isn’t our man. Sounds like his missus wears the trousers in their house. Apparently she “doesn’t understand me” and their sex life is non-existent. I’m not surprised you idiot. You’re paying £200 an hour for a blonde goddess and you’re sitting there boring her to death. I don’t understand you either. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.’

  I’d seen the pictures on the website of this statuesque Russian girl and tried to imagine the scene. ‘Yeah, I bet she’s not bothered. Better to get paid for listening to some loser than have to shag him for an hour. By the way mate, careful about walking round in the back. The van starts to rock and that could get noticed. The local neighbourhood watch might think we’re a mobile gigolo service.’

  ‘If I wasn’t hidden in this sweat box, pissing into a bottle, then I’d be beating them off with a shitty stick.’ Then Jez swore quietly about the headphone cables getting snarled up.

  ‘That’s what you get for throwing the kit about.’

  I opened the door to the cab and stepped out to stretch my legs in the fresh air. That caused Jez to start chuntering about who had to do all the work on this job.

  ‘Keep it down, mate,’ I said back into the van, which only prompted more but quieter grumbling.

  For me, it was a case of parking up and acting like a fibre optic cable engineer as per the magnetic sign displayed on the side of the van. Drinking tea, listening to the radio, and reading a newspaper seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

  Less than a month later and the job ended. We never did intercept any attackers or get an invite to any staff parties, but it generated some much-needed income before the Qataris came back into town. Unfortunately, they had plans to spend most of their summer holiday in Paris, so the security job with them only lasted a couple of weeks instead of the more usual six or more. I still enjoyed playing football with the two elder sons and had introduced them to the time-sapping delights of Championship Manager on the laptop, but soon I faced another empty work diary and needed to make a decision about the future of the operation in Baghdad.

  During this time, Natalie chose to hold her sixteenth birthday party at her boyfriend’s house, which meant I had little involvement in the planning and organisation. The lad and his parents seemed a decent bunch and we mixed easily without becoming real friends. Claire became more involved as the day drew closer, but the momentous occasion for our eldest daughter seemed to pass us by in a flurry of GCSE exams and growing up. The party was a good night though, and Natalie appeared to be relaxed and happy which was the most important thing. And on the plus side, chipping in to share the costs meant it hadn’t proved as expensive as feared.

  *

  My main business marketing efforts focused on the Internet. I’d knocked up the company website myself using online guides. It wasn’t great although many of the images were photographs I’d taken in Iraq and I thought they evoked an air of authenticity. Using a small budget on Google AdWords and the Yahoo pay-per-click service, I received regular requests to quote for work, some of which turned into paying jobs.

  Not enough though, so I went back to the bank for more funds to give me time to get better established. They agreed an increase in the loan and a £10,000 overdraft facility, but only if I guaranteed both personally. I didn’t even need to think about it and signed on the dotted line. With the additional money I expanded my marketing budget and rented a small serviced office not far from where we lived. Far better than working from the dining-room table and it meant being closer to a train station that could whisk me into Central London in thirty minutes if required.

  What I really needed now was a big meaty project, either out in Iraq or closer to home.

  In the early nineties, when I’d left the Corps for three years before rejoining, I’d posted an advert in the back of Combat & Survival magazine that read: Former Royal Marine seeks interesting work UK or abroad with my home telephone number underneath (well before the days of mobile phones). It led to several interesting experiences, including an appearance as a prosecution witness in a conspiracy to commit murder trial and adventures in the former republic of Yugoslavia.

  By 2004 the Internet was changing a lot of things, but there were still people out there who needed the same kind of irregular jobs doing. The trick was to try and avoid the time-wasters and instead concentrate your efforts on projects with real earning potential. At the end of the summer I was approached via my website contact form with an invitation to discuss an ambitious project called Football to the Summit.

  Sport had captured the national mood that summer and mine with it. England had reached the quarter-final of Euro 2004 before losing on penalties to Portugal. Although the country wallowed in the disappointment, it soon perked up with the rest of the home nations during the Athens Olympics a month later as Britain achieved its best medal haul in the modern era. What better time to get involved in an international sporting project?

  Football to the Summit was the brainchild of a smart-suited, young British-Indian businessman with a passion for the sport. He intended to dribble a football hundreds of miles through India in thirty-two stages, accompanied during each stage by local kids representing one of the thirty-two teams qualified for the 2006 World Cup. Training sessions and small matches would be scheduled throughout, with one of the goals being the introduction of football to the youth of cricket-loving India. The final stages would see us move into Nepal before playing a game at Everest Base Camp, which would be the highest altitude match ever staged. An unlikely but ambitious goal was for the match ball used in the Everest game to be used to kick off the opening match in the 2006 World Cup.

  As I sat through the presentation in London by the three men running the project, I understood immediately it could be the making of me and my company – provided it had the funds to go ahead. They asked me to submit a proposal for a comprehensive security support package, so the costings could be included in the financial projections. There was mention of FIFA approval and discussions with various high-profile brand names but, when push came to shove, the funding to date all appeared to have come from the founders. I’m a big football fan and love the occasion of the World Cup, so it was a given I’d prepare an extensive and comprehensive proposal for this project in any event. However, these guys did seem to have the contacts who could make this thing fly.

  Over the next couple of weeks, I coordinated with Jim to add a communications package to my security plan. It was his area of expertise and he wrote a slick document which dovetailed with my main proposal. The total figure for the security side totalled over £2 million plus costs. It was difficult not to get excited as the plans came to life in my research, concept of operations, and risk assessments, but it wouldn’t generate any revenue unless and until the funding was in place. Therefore, I needed to avoid being sidetracked too much and instead keep focused on developing new
business.

  *

  The investigation and due diligence work often included interesting cases, usually with overseas elements to a greater or lesser extent. This reflected my website, which made no mention of standard UK private investigator fare such as process serving or tracing debtors. It meant the jobs coming through the door paid well; there simply weren’t enough of them. My target was the corporate market where I could provide the same level of service as the big companies, but at less than half the price. Unfortunately, many law firms preferred the accountability of the larger companies. Outside of that, they only engaged trusted individuals with whom they had a long-standing relationship.

  I considered pretty much anything which came my way. It led to investigations in France, Italy, Germany, Eastern Europe, and the US. While I achieved great results in complex cases, the costs of employing surveillance teams, overseas agents, and technical experts always reduced the net profit to disappointingly low numbers come the end of each month. I needed to increase the margins and increase the volume, but it was a very competitive market.

  *

  Mohammed had returned to Baghdad to run the office and try to generate some revenue; until our last phone call earlier that week had been interrupted by the sound of automatic gunfire.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m downstairs by the reception. There’s fighting outside in the street. Things are getting even worse.’ He sounded dejected.

  ‘Keep your head down and get home to the family as soon as you can, mate. There’s no point risking your life.’

  When he called me again later that night from Walid’s house round the corner from the office, we agreed not to renew the six-month office lease when it expired the following month. Gunfights taking place outside the entrance to the business centre were the final straw. Mohammed would move all the furniture and computers into storage at his brother’s place and come back to the UK. Our efforts to establish a trusted business beacon in Baghdad had failed.

  The only potential bright spot for Iraq was an ongoing discussion with a German company about the feasibility of exporting HMS 1 & 2 scrap metal through the ports in Basra in the Shi’a south under British control. The south had its own problems but compared to Baghdad it sounded like a haven of peace and solitude. Mohammed said he knew people down there, so we agreed to meet up on his return to discuss the support options in the south. Maybe there was still a chance to salvage something out of the Iraq adventure after all.

  *

  The previous year, my full-time consultancy work for Pete had been short-lived once he’d quickly realised winning the big corporate jobs would be more difficult than anticipated. Even so, we’d been friends for over twelve years and I continued calling into his office in SW London at least once a week.

  If I thought I met some interesting characters and got involved in weird and wonderful schemes, it was nothing compared to Pete and his small team. I’d first worked with him in the early nineties while on my sabbatical from the Corps. It had been a similar story back then with debt collecting, car repossessions, process serving, and investigations. Always on the edge of acceptable, but Pete got results.

  Although I no longer worked with Pete on a retainer, I did join up with him and the team for specific corporate jobs as and when they came up. My once or twice weekly visits gave us a chance to compare notes about enquiries we’d received. Sometimes I used the expertise of him and his team to subcontract on my cases, but usually it was Pete bringing me in on one of his corporate jobs.

  Pete seemed to be involved in various wild and complicated projects with high net worth clients in the UK and abroad. The last time I’d visited his office he had complained bitterly about having a cheque seized from him by customs at Gatwick during a random search.

  ‘They searched all my bags, found the cheque, and started asking me questions about where it came from. I mean, what right have they got? Next thing I’m pulled into an interview room and they’re telling me I should have declared it and they need to make some enquiries. Before you know it, they’ve snatched it away and given me a receipt. Strewth, what sort of country is this? Seventy-five thousand bloody euros for Christ’s sake.’

  Not a lot you can say to that. Apparently, the cheque originated from some Spanish casino owner. He’d mentioned an important client down in Spain, but I didn’t know enough to understand how all of this fitted together. I hadn’t even been aware customs could seize a cheque in that manner, not that travelling with large quantities of cash and cheques was a problem likely to affect me anytime soon. Still, visits to see Pete always made for an interesting break from my quiet little office in Ewell.

  It was a sunny day as I parked up round the back of the supermarket, grabbed a microwave Rustlers cheeseburger on my way through the shop, nipped over the road through the traffic, and entered the code on the external office door. After climbing the stairs, I was about to get an offer I most definitely should have refused.

  Chapter 20

  SOUTH WEST LONDON — OCTOBER 2004

  ‘The problem is, John, no-one’s got any balls any more.’

  The next time I hear that, I’m going to steer well clear of whatever they have to say next.

  Pete was railing against the lack of take-up for his generous offer to get involved in a small ‘sleight of hand’ operation to protect his main client. He went on to outline what he described as a simple task, undoubtedly intending to lure me into accepting a role in his scheme. He was flat out of luck. To me it appeared clear it was more a case of no-one wanting to risk getting involved in a plan with ‘potential fuck-up’ written all over it.

  We were having a coffee in his office near the River Thames in South West London. Lately, Pete had spun tales of an investigation involving VAT carousel activity, stolen oil shipments off the coast of Nigeria, and meetings with British intelligence. The British intelligence part supposedly included being led on a curious circuit of London, which ended in a meeting at the Cutty Sark. His main client was somehow adversely affected by all these shenanigans, although I didn’t pay close attention to the details.

  A few weeks earlier, he’d taken me to meet a new contact at the Special Forces Club in London; an interesting experience even if the club rule of wearing a jacket and tie had me sweltering as we sat having drinks at a table in the bar during the still heat of a summer afternoon.

  Pete’s contact, George, was an old and bold member of the club who seemed to know everyone there. I suspected this new relationship was at the root of Pete’s claimed dealings with elements of the British intelligence agencies, who were also entitled to join the SF Club. Added to his Spanish casino client causing him no end of problems, it all sounded complicated and messy. Good job I wasn’t involved.

  The latest development was a plan to distance Pete’s client from two businessmen implicated in the VAT carousel investigation, with whom the client had other, legitimate business dealings. Pete’s attempts to rally a team together for the plan had failed, apart from two dubious-sounding characters from the local pub. He was openly frustrated by my refusal to join in.

  ‘Sorry mate, I’m busy all next week due to this scrap metal thing. Probably be in Germany.’

  Unlikely, but I didn’t want to leave any scope for arm-twisting. The plan was being put into action the following week, so the limit of my involvement would be listening to a recap after the event next time I visited the office. He gave up talking about it and turned to one of his guys who used the name ‘John’ in the office. An unfortunate coincidence that meant I was frequently still referred to as ‘Jack’ from my time working with them.

  Shortly afterwards, Pete made a phone call to a lawyer while masquerading as a customs officer, which set in train a fuck-up that tangled me firmly in its web.

  *

  LONDON — THE FOLLOWING WEEK

  The train passed through Wimbledon on time on it
s way to London Waterloo as my eyes dropped back to the page of a new book I’d started reading. My efforts to avoid getting caught up in Pete’s plans to help his client had failed, although my role was a minor bit part. That morning he’d called with a final plea for my assistance.

  ‘I can’t do it, mate. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon at four at the Churchill Hotel with my Iraqi guy.’

  That should have been the end of it, but Pete was nothing if not resourceful, and had called back to inform me enthusiastically he’d been able to switch the location of the ‘op’ to the Churchill Hotel at the same time I’d be there. Therefore, I needed to meet with him and the team for a quick briefing in Berkeley Square at three o’clock, and there was free curry and beers for all the team afterwards. It was only some counter-surveillance. What harm could it do?

  The part about my meeting with Mohammed was true. The German company interested in exporting the scrap from Basra were keen. I didn’t know anyone in Basra, so I needed to pick Mohammed’s brains and find out if any of his southern contacts might be able to assist. Baghdad continued to spiral into a dark place as sectarian killing dominated the news. It didn’t look as though we’d be setting up shop there again anytime soon.

  The next day I’d also arranged to meet for a coffee with an old army officer friend of mine. Ian was in the UK on leave from Iraq and had called me earlier in the week to catch up. Even if I might not make it to Basra myself, I knew Ian was deployed in southern Iraq. He just might have information useful to the German firm.

  I reached Green Park Tube station early, made my way to the Costa Coffee near the south side of Berkeley Square, and dropped into a comfortable chair to read more of my book. I’m a fast reader and busted through a couple more chapters before checking my watch. Almost ten to three. I finished my coffee and wedged the book inside my leather folder alongside a few notes about Iraq.