by Jack Leavers
We met at 9.55am outside the entrance to the Customs and Excise headquarters building and made our way in. We were met by an officer who escorted us upstairs in the lift.
Denis agreed to the opportunity for a private discussion in a small interview room, listened to my outline of the events, and then suggested we prepare a written statement. The investigating officers would then question me about the statement and anything else they wanted to raise before deciding whether I should be charged or not.
It took over two hours to prepare the statement, which presented a reasonable reflection of what happened. I hadn’t thrown anyone under the bus, but made it clear I believed it had been an extravagant plan, and one in which I had minimal participation. I hadn’t mentioned any of Pete’s dealings with the intelligence services or his VAT carousel investigation, mainly because I didn’t understand how they fitted in and to introduce them without any evidence could have made me sound like a fruitcake.
In the late afternoon, the two interviewing customs officers left us to consider my fate. It had been a long afternoon answering questions, although mostly straightforward. During the interview I discovered they’d established my likely identity and contact details from a business card in the folder I’d left in Scotty’s car. Forgetting the folder in the car had been unlike me and now I was reaping the consequences.
Towards the end, the proceedings took a more adversarial turn as they questioned my use of unregistered mobile phones; why I hadn’t volunteered to talk with the officers at the scene; the supposed curry and beers in lieu of payment; and their doubts as to my claimed role in the proceedings. The bottom line: they thought I was lying through my teeth.
‘So, you claim you were going to put yourself at risk to protect a man you didn’t know from others you believed were hardened criminals, and all for a curry and a couple of beers? Do you really expect us to believe that?’ This from the fatter customs guy, who was really starting to get on my nerves.
‘Yes, that was the plan. Not great, but as I’ve told you I was primarily there for a meeting about my business in Iraq. It wasn’t my plan, it was just a favour.’
‘The problem I have with that, Mr Pierce, is why would you agree to it?’
‘Because I’m an ex-bootneck and that’s who we are. A mate asked me for a favour, and I said I’d do it. Maybe you customs people are a different breed, but it’s just who I am.’ I spat that out with more venom than intended. It had been a long day and this guy was pissing me off.
By the look on his face the feeling was mutual. He looked at his colleague and they left the room. I asked Denis what he thought would happen next. He was non-committal. Surely when they reviewed everything, they’d just let me go. I hadn’t done anything.
‘Mr Pierce, you will be charged with…’
‘You’re fucking joking?’ I didn’t even listen to the three conspiracy charges as he read them out. It was all bullshit anyway.
Resigned to my fate, I joked with Denis at the desk in nearby Shoreditch police station about who would play us in the movie about this whole bizarre mess. Customs couldn’t charge me, that had to be done by the police, so I was there to be fingerprinted, DNA swabbed, and charged before being released into the early evening. My next engagement was a bail hearing at the magistrates’ court, for which I was ordered to bring my passport.
‘I need to keep my passport, Denis,’ I told him as we went our separate ways until the following morning. There was a doubtful look on his face.
*
The bail hearing at the magistrates’ court turned into a full-on battle as Denis tried to convince the magistrate I needed my passport to continue operating my business. The female lawyer for the Crown was having none of it, but in the end the magistrate decided the bail conditions were to report to my local police station every Saturday morning at ten o’clock, unless I was out of the country.
It felt like a victory after the sense of bitter frustration and injustice from being charged the previous day. Denis told me bail hearings were normally very straightforward affairs and it had been the feistiest one he’d ever experienced.
The next step would be a pre-trial hearing at the Crown Court, unless customs elected to drop the charges beforehand. Denis couldn’t tell me how long all this would take but he reminded me to inform the police if I did travel abroad. And that was it.
Chapter 24
EPSOM — LATE OCTOBER 2004
I’d submitted the report and invoice for the Monaco job; a job well done with a sizeable invoice total, although yet another disappointing profit margin. My personal overdraft was almost exhausted and the outstanding balances on my credit card statements read like telephone numbers. My director’s account for the business still had some leeway, but unless I generated more revenue soon, everything would grind to a halt. I tried to ignore the Customs and Excise situation. Pete was adamant that elements within the Security Service would see to it that the case was quashed, so I focused on that outcome.
‘There’s no way this is going to trial, mate. Too many people knew what was going on. There’s a lot more to it than those muppets at customs know.’
‘And there’s a lot more to it than this muppet knows as well, mate. Because I know fuck all. What’s this got to do with the Security Service?’
‘Don’t worry. I told you, I was a source for them, for MI5. Giving them information about those idiots and the VAT carousel, the oil theft in Nigeria, all of it.’
There was either a lot more to this than I knew about or a lot less. ‘So why have customs arrested us all and had us charged then? It doesn’t make sense unless they know absolutely nothing about your secret squirrel stuff. I tell you mate, no one’s going to come out fighting for us if this was just some complicated blag done off your own bat.’
‘No John, you’re wrong,’ Pete said, but I could see I’d struck a nerve.
Fuck. It seemed more and more likely this was all caused by a madcap scheme and the authorities had the wrong end of the stick. Customs probably assumed they’d caught serious players with their pants down. Little did they realise it was only us bunch of clowns putting on a Billy Smart’s performance to top the lot.
*
As I checked the spam folder of my Hushmail account, I noted an encrypted email from Faris. I’d set him up with a free account requiring access every three weeks to avoid being disabled. A surprise he’d managed to keep it going. He’d only sent me a handful of emails and none since shortly after I’d returned from Baghdad at the end of April five months earlier. Maybe he used it for other stuff. Not that I should be affected; other than our meagre correspondence, it wasn’t linked to me in any way.
Hushmail uses PGP encryption to send secure emails between users. It also functions as regular email if the other party doesn’t have a reciprocal PGP secured account. Faris had sent me an encrypted email which decrypted automatically on my computer. In theory the contents couldn’t be intercepted and read by anyone else, government or otherwise. I had my doubts. We had nothing to hide but it was good professional practice to keep communications confidential.
Mr Jon,
Please refer to me if you can travel to Dubai next week to meet with partners of Mr Al-Tikriti. The discussions will focus on a new project in Iraq and should only take 1 day.
I will wait your reply and ready to send 2.000 Dollars by Hawallah to you in London for your flight and expense.
Please reply soon to confirm.
Faris
Abu Saif had mentioned companies in the United Arab Emirates at our meeting in Baghdad. With them offering to pay a generous sum towards my flight and expenses it was a no-brainer. Time to start looking at cheap flight and hotel options in Dubai.
Hawallah was the unofficial money transfer system used widely in the Arab world for centuries. In recent decades it had remained relevant due to the lack of widespread international bank
ing facilities. With Iraq in turmoil and very much a cash economy, it was how money flowed in and out. Just like Western Union, Faris would hand over a wad of cash in Baghdad and the reciprocal contact in London would pay out when I produced ID and gave the correct code word. The system is hated by Western law enforcement and intelligence agencies because it makes the flow of money untraceable and can be used for money laundering. For me, it was an ideal way to get immediate cash to fund a return ticket to Dubai.
*
The desk sergeant at Epsom police station had a sceptical look on his face when I started wittering on about my travel to Dubai. I said I ought to be able to report for bail the following Saturday, but I was informing them of my travel ‘just in case’. Even if he suspected he was wasting his time with a local lunatic, he agreed to make a note of it.
I headed off to Edgware Road in London to collect the money sent by Faris. Edgware Road was a focal point for Middle Eastern expats far from home, with its coffee shops, shisha pipes, Arab and Kurdish-owned restaurants, and currency shops. The latest email from Faris had directed me to collect the cash from a dry cleaners rather than a currency shop. Real money laundering in action.
*
The suspicious vibes from the shop staff soon dissolved.
‘Mr John, please wait one minute.’
I’d only mentioned my name and Faris in Baghdad, but it had done the trick.
‘Two thousand dollars is one thousand and ninety pounds.’ He counted it out against the backdrop of suits, dresses, and other dry cleaning. ‘Here you go.’
All done on trust with nothing to sign.
After taking the money, I hurried out and headed for the Tube station. The way things were going it would be just my luck for the Security Service to have this place under surveillance and for me to be accosted with some other ridiculous charges. I gave a half-hearted stab at anti-surveillance drills at Marble Arch and again at Hyde Park Corner, but nothing that would have caught out anyone determined and professional.
The return flight only cost £360. Even adding on two nights at a hotel left 500 quid in my back pocket. And there was the potential this new business opportunity could lead to more money. After the difficulties of the last few days it felt good to focus on something positive.
Chapter 25
DUBAI — END OF OCTOBER 2004
As I checked into the hotel in Dubai, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. And I wasn’t slumming it. There had been a great deal on two nights at the InterContinental. My hotel arrangements reflected on me and the business, so the InterContinental was a good choice in the sense it wasn’t opulent luxury, but it wasn’t a fleapit either. A car would pick me up at 10.00am the following morning after my late arrival. I grabbed a shower, checked my emails, and then drifted off to sleep in the comfortable bed.
I was picked up on time the following morning by a smartly-suited young executive and accompanying driver. After a short journey we glided to a halt outside an impressive glass office building. The inside proved even more luxurious than the outside had suggested. A good job I’d brought one of my better suits, which had survived the flight without needing much of a touch-up from the iron that morning.
‘Mr Pierce, welcome to Al-Nura Engineering. My name is Essam, I’m the general manager. And you’ve already met my assistant Ibrahim.’ He indicated the young executive who had picked me up and then reached into a suit pocket. ‘My card. Please take a seat. Chai? Coffee? Water?’
Essam must have been mid-thirties, slim, clean-shaven with short, dark hair, and came across as a smooth operator. His business card had a plush feel without being over the top. American Psycho Patrick Bateman would have approved.
‘Coffee would be great, thank you.’
As Ibrahim left to arrange the drinks, I took in the breathtaking view from the top floor of the building. The blue waters of the Persian Gulf shimmered in the distance, disrupted only by the new Palm Jumeirah islands development which jutted out five kilometres from the shoreline.
Essam appeared next to me by the floor to ceiling window. ‘The view is incredible, don’t you agree?’
‘It’s fantastic. I see the Palm is taking shape. That’s an amazing project.’
Out of the corner of my eye Essam nodded. ‘We have been involved in the project. Maybe if there is enough time I can show you the Palm? A tour tomorrow morning perhaps?’
‘Unfortunately, I fly back to the UK in the morning. Next time for sure though.’
Essam smiled. ‘We’ll see. Maybe your plans will change. Let’s get down to business. I know you British like to get the small talk out of the way.’
I turned and laughed. ‘You know the British well then?’
‘I studied in London. It has stood me in great stead.’
Now it was my turn to nod. ‘Well your English is very good. Better than mine in fact.’
As we both laughed, a young woman entered through the door carrying our drinks and two bottles of water. She breezed across the room and deposited the tray on the table. In an assertive voice she said, ‘I don’t know why you trusted Ibrahim to make coffee. I had to take over, so he didn’t end up poisoning your guest.’
She looked at me with an impish smile, her eyes a striking light green and decorated in a way I’d call smoking hot: alluring colours and flourishes à la Arabian Nights. A colourful headscarf adorned her dark hair at a jaunty angle, covering little and giving the impression of a fashion accessory rather than anything religious.
‘Hi, I’m Amira,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Any physical contact with Arab women can be a minefield, especially if they’re young and pretty, so I hesitated before reaching out and briefly shaking hands.
‘Amira, this is Mr Pierce from London. He’s come to discuss a new project in Iraq,’ said Essam.
‘John. Nice to meet you,’ I added.
‘Nice to meet you too, John,’ she said, still smiling at me before turning to Essam with a frown. ‘A new project. I don’t think I’m aware of it.’
‘It’s early days,’ said Essam. ‘Mr Pierce may be able to help us with some of the groundwork. I’ll speak to you about it later.’
Essam said the last sentence with a hint of annoyance and ushered her out with an exchange in Arabic before striding over to the table and grabbing one of the drinks. From the sound of it, Amira wasn’t too happy about being kept out of the loop. Join the club – I didn’t know anything either yet.
Essam tried to brush the encounter off. ‘Women! And Amira, she’s a talented engineer and the owner’s niece.’
He didn’t add any more in explanation. Instead, he moved behind the large desk, sat down, and sipped at his tea as Ibrahim slunk in with a sheepish look on his face after his fail with my coffee. The room was quiet as we all sipped our drinks until Essam put his cup down. ‘That’s better. Now let’s get down to business.’
For the next hour and a half, we engaged in easy discussions about Iraq, Al-Nura, and my business set-up in Baghdad. These guys were Westernised and smooth. With my due diligence head on, I didn’t see much evidence of engineering activity taking place, although the engineers may have been on a different floor or based at a completely different location. When I asked Essam about them, he said it wouldn’t be possible to visit the engineering section today. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but I liked to ‘kick the tyres’ when I visited a new company. See everything that was going on and get a feel for the real business and not just what some flashy website or brochure claimed. I didn’t push the issue but made a mental note all the same.
During a tour of the conference room and management offices, we did pass an open office door with a handful of young staff beavering away at computer workstations, including Amira perched behind a desk, concentrating on the screen in front of her. Photographs of power plants and petrochemical storage tanks adorned the walls of the off
ices and conference rooms, indicating the focus of the company’s activities. That chimed with our earlier discussions although a glossy brochure hinted at a wider range of activities.
After lunch at a nearby restaurant, we returned to the offices and the talk turned to specifics in Iraq. With the country’s only ports located in the south, that area was very much of interest to Al-Nura. Not wanting to appear lacking, I regurgitated some details Ian had provided the week before. Essam was keen to know if I had the capability to support business activity moving through the ports and I mentioned a possible visit to the area in the near future.
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Essam, ‘because I would like you to travel to Basra for Al-Nura and compile an assessment of the security and logistic infrastructure and the extent of any issues we might face. We need more information before we can make an imminent decision about shipping valuable equipment and machinery to Iraq.’
I started calculating a quote in my head.
‘We’ll pay five thousand dollars for your time and one thousand for expenses,’ he added.
That would do nicely, but I made out it needed consideration first.
Essam continued. ‘We need a detailed report of the situation at the various ports, the options for secure storage, and an assessment of customs clearance times for inbound goods. Preferably with recommendations how to reduce this to a minimum, if you understand my meaning?’
‘I understand yes. Who we need to know and how much they charge for the fast-track service.’
‘Exactly. You know how things work in this part of the world, especially over there right now. We also need to understand the security risks. Many companies here are passing up opportunities in Iraq because of the risks, but no-one I speak with has a clear understanding of what is happening in Basra. There are reports that Iran is sponsoring local militias to attack the British.’