Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  ‘I can certainly look into all those aspects and produce a comprehensive report. If you can provide me with a detailed list of what you want, then I should be able to gather the information and send you a written report within two weeks of arriving in-country.’

  I tried not to let my excitement for the job show, but in my head I was already spending the money. Firstly, it was vital cash in the lead-up to Christmas, and secondly it would allow me to check the exact same issues for the Germans investigating the scrap opportunities in the region.

  Essam began getting ahead of things with an assumption I would jump straight on a plane and get on with it.

  ‘So, you could fly in the next twenty-four hours and report back to us within two weeks,’ he said.

  ‘Err, no. That won’t work. I need to return to the UK first. My flight is already booked for tomorrow morning, and I won’t change it.’

  ‘But Mr Pierce, we really want this report as soon as possible. Why do you need to return to the UK? Surely it will be quicker and easier to travel from here.’

  ‘Because I don’t have any kit and equipment with me. I just need a couple of days to plan and prepare before travelling.’ I also needed to give Ian at least seventy-two hours’ notice.

  Essam made no attempt to hide his annoyance with my timeline, but I’d travelled light with only minimal hand luggage for the trip to Dubai. There was no way I was rocking up to Basra wearing my best suit and without my essentials.

  His obvious annoyance with the delay showed a different side to his character and it jarred with me. I was about as ‘seat of the pants’ as anyone, but to expect a deployment to Iraq at zero notice was unreasonable. We clashed as he tried to pressurise me to change my mind.

  ‘But I still don’t understand why you can’t buy what you need here and travel sooner. The owners will not be happy with the delay.’

  ‘Listen, I’m not flying directly from here. These things need to be planned properly or they go fucking wrong.’ Oops. The bad language had been unintentional. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.’

  Essam waved away my apology and backed down now I’d made it clear I wouldn’t be changing my mind. It was a reminder I didn’t know these people. I moved the discussion to payment terms.

  ‘I’m happy with the five thousand dollars, but it will be easier for me to book the flights from London myself. If we make the expenses two thousand dollars, then it’ll cover the flights as well as hotels, drivers, subsistence, and incidentals.’

  ‘That is reasonable, but we do need the visit to take place as soon as possible. How soon can you travel from the UK?’ he asked.

  ‘If you pay me straight away, then I should be ready to fly out in… four days’ time. I’ll need to stay overnight in Kuwait. I could be crossing the border in five days. I have arrangements in place I can activate.’

  Essam and Ibrahim left the room for five minutes and returned with an envelope containing the seven grand. It was all smiles again when Essam handed it to me.

  ‘Mr Pierce, I have another engagement I must attend, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to leave you in the capable hands of Ibrahim. He will give you a briefing document detailing our requirements for your assessment.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for your time today. I hope this is the start of a long-term business relationship.’

  What had really caught my attention was the fact that they already had the briefing document ready. Maybe someone in the office had put it together over lunch, but I had my doubts. More likely our meeting had been arranged to confirm my suitability for a prepared task. Whatever the process, they’d made the right decision because it was right up my street. I wouldn’t forget to thank Faris and Abu Saif for setting this up for me.

  ‘I hope so too. One final thing, we have some important contacts in Basra, and we ask that you convey a personal message from our CEO to one of our most important friends, Sheikh Mustafa.’

  I picked up my pen and notebook from the table. ‘Okay, let me make a note…’

  ‘Ibrahim will provide you with some details to help you contact Sheikh Mustafa, who is a very influential business figure in that region and will be of great assistance to us there. The message itself is contained in this sealed envelope. I must stress to you that safe delivery of this letter is of critical importance to our business in Iraq. Please ensure that you personally hand-deliver it to the Sheikh at the earliest opportunity once you arrive in Basra.’

  The letter was sealed to prevent tampering and inscribed with handwritten Arabic on the front. They clearly didn’t trust email or phones for this message, which resonated with me. I half expected him to ask me to sign a register, similar to checking out a classified document in the military.

  ‘I’ll make sure to get all the details from Ibrahim, so I can arrange to meet with this sheikh. I assume he’ll know I’m coming? And there are no security implications I should be aware of?’ Ian out in Basra might have heard of this guy if he was a player, but it didn’t hurt to get a heads up while I was here.

  ‘Unfortunately, we are having trouble reaching the Sheikh, but he is a wealthy businessman and I am sure you will be able to find him quickly and relay the message for us. He is also a powerful man and there is no doubt your safety will be his highest priority while you are his guest.’

  Once Essam had left, I sat down with his sidekick Ibrahim and read through the briefing notes. There was a list of specific questions they wanted answering, which would help in the structuring of both my assessment and written report. Happy with the task, I looked at the envelope containing the message for the Sheikh.

  ‘What does the writing say?’ If I was going to be waving this around, then I ought to know what was written on it.

  ‘It is marked confidential and private, and addressed personally for the Sheikh’s eyes only. As Mr Essam said, this message is very important, and you should expect to receive a reply to convey back to us. On your return you will receive a further thousand dollars plus your flight expenses.’

  Great. Now they were turning me into the Postman Pat of the Middle East. I only hoped it would be as straightforward to find this guy and deliver the letter as they expected.

  Chapter 26

  LONDoN

  By the time I’d flown back into London late the following day, I only had two days to make the preparations for Basra before flying out to Kuwait. Claire’s voice contained a hint of regret even as she congratulated me for winning new work.

  ‘I’m pleased, really, but be careful. I know you’ve been paid and you’re meeting with Ian but, if anything, I’m more worried for some reason than when you went to Baghdad. How safe is it there?’

  I tried to reassure her. ‘It’s because the news from Iraq is relentless and always terrible. Don’t worry, this time I’ll be embedded with Ian and the Brit Mil guys and Basra is a lot safer than Baghdad.’

  She didn’t look convinced, but I was buzzing after getting this unexpected and paid opportunity to head into the south. With any luck, I’d be able to help both Al-Nura and the Germans to establish business operations and make some decent money. Even if Baghdad was presently a lost cause due to the nightmare security situation, perhaps the time and effort there earlier in the year had been worthwhile after all; the connections I’d established leading me to the British-administered south. And that might prove to be an easier place to work for a British businessman anyway.

  When I looked at the map, the very short distance between the Kuwait border and Basra looked a piece of cake compared to my epic journeys across the deserts of western Iraq to and from Baghdad.

  Ian was great when I reached him by phone the following morning. I kept it short and cryptic as agreed during our coffee in London. A quick hello and then a date and time: three days later at midday. He acknowledged with the correct ‘green light’ phrase and cut the call. No pleasantries or small talk. I’d g
iven him the requested seventy-two hours’ notice, if only just. There wasn’t enough time for me to get an Iraqi visa in London, which had been introduced since my previous visits, but it shouldn’t be an issue. Ian had assured me when we met that passports didn’t get checked in the military lane.

  Once I’d booked a British Airways flight to Kuwait and a hotel for the night of my arrival, I turned my attention to background research. With the money already in my hands, I didn’t need to worry about being paid. However, time spent planning is seldom wasted. I searched the Internet about Al-Nura Engineering, Sheikh Mustafa, the ports in the Basra area, and the current situation in the south.

  Al-Nura’s generic website didn’t really say a lot. A bit like mine I suppose. There wasn’t much information about them on the Internet either, but then Middle Eastern companies were often tricky with regard to due diligence. I’d used the Middle East as a business cover several times in the past for just this reason. They were difficult to check out unless you put considerable time and resources into it, neither of which I had in abundance.

  Sheikh Mustafa had some hits, but only mentions in passing and nothing of any use to me. I’d have to rely on making enquiries on the ground using the details Ibrahim had provided.

  The ports and the security situation were areas I’d already been researching. Even so, I checked the latest updates and had a closer look at relevant maps and topography. I printed off the best two maps at different scales before remembering to head over to Epsom police station to update them on my movements for the bail conditions.

  I hadn’t been away for a bail reporting day whilst in Dubai, but I needed to leave for the airport early the following Saturday and would miss at least a couple of bail attendances. The same desk sergeant made a point of repeating everything as I explained my trip to Kuwait would last at least a week, maybe a fortnight.

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll make sure those who need to know are aware of your travel plans to… Kuwait.’

  I was worried my bail conditions might suddenly be changed and my passport snatched away, although he gave no indication that was on the cards. I’d reported my return from Dubai as soon as I’d got back, which hopefully demonstrated I wasn’t a flight risk. After the focus on Iraq of the previous few days, the visit to the police station was a stark reminder of the crappy situation Pete’s scheme had landed me in.

  I dropped in to see him the day before flying out to Kuwait and he remained positive all the charges would be dropped, and he’d be getting compensation for the seizure of his computers and business equipment. I didn’t stay long. Unlikely, but he might still be targeted by surveillance. I had enough on my plate organising the trip to Basra without worrying about being tangled up in more nonsense which didn’t concern me.

  *

  POOLE, UK

  My former colleague Jim had been a military communications expert. He’d furnished me with a satellite phone and BGAN when I first travelled to Iraq at the start of the year. I hadn’t been able to cover all the bills yet, and I needed to call him and warn him there might be some more imminent usage. This time I’d only packed the sat phone and not the data hungry BGAN. It meant there shouldn’t be any shocking bills arriving on the doormat.

  As we spoke on the phone about my forthcoming trip, he asked if I could trial a new tracking unit for him while I was there. But given his workload and my imminent departure, I’d need to drive to Poole on the Dorset coast to pick it up. Two hours’ drive each way would eat into the limited time I had left before flying out, so I convinced him to agree to meet me at the services on the M27 north of Southampton. It would only save me forty-five minutes to an hour each way, but I didn’t have much time to play with and every little extra helped.

  Jim showed me the tracking unit in its waterproof case. ‘It’s a prototype, but fully functional. It’s going to be really useful to deploy it in a hostile environment and use that tracking data in future presentations.’

  I was grateful for his help again and Jim was also throwing in £450 for my trouble, despite my intimations that I’d trial it for nothing. The panic alarm feature was a bonus, although he did warn me that pressing it wouldn’t bring the 7th Cavalry charging over the hill to my rescue. He’d monitor things when he could, but generally that would be in the mornings and evenings, three hours behind Iraq time.

  ‘I’ll be running the tracking software on my laptop both at home and in the office, and keep meetings and travel to a minimum while you’re out there, especially in the mornings. If you stick to moving in daylight hours, you should be firm somewhere by early to mid-afternoon my time.’

  ‘Thanks mate. I’m grateful for whatever monitoring you can do. Resistance to interrogation isn’t my bag, and I’ll run out of scintillating conversation to hold them off with pretty fast.’

  This much was true. Start pouring water over a towel wrapped round my face and it wouldn’t be long before I’d be spilling whatever beans someone wanted to know. I’d been through some of the training and knew that was a fact. Everyone breaks in the end and I was unlikely to have any reason to hold out on any persuasive new acquaintances whose paths I might cross.

  Jim’s voice took on a more serious tone. ‘Yeah, sure mate, I understand. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t guarantee being able to keep on top of it while I’m at work.’

  ‘Mate, let’s face it, if I’m in a situation out there where I need to press that button, then I’m fucked. In fact, I’m proper fucked.’

  Chapter 27

  KUWAIT — EARLY NOVEMBER 2004

  It was my first visit to Kuwait, which is very modern and Westernised, although completely dry. Not that I’d wanted a beer, but it was the first time I’d been in a country where you couldn’t get one legally even if you wanted to. I’d mentioned it to my driver Khalid as we headed the 100 kilometres or so towards the border with Iraq.

  ‘Does that mean no-one here drinks at all?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no, people drink alcohol, but they are very careful about it,’ answered Khalid. ‘Small gatherings at home, or I hear the embassies have proper parties. For normal people, well, a lot of my friends regularly drive through Saudi Arabia to Bahrain if they want to party. There’s a place that knows how to have a good time.’

  It sounded like a lot of hassle just to get a drink, but I made a note to check out the nightlife in Bahrain one day.

  He hadn’t shown any surprise when I told him my destination, which made me feel slightly better about the wisdom of the plan. The road was empty as we drove north, save for the occasional truck heading up or down. After less than ninety minutes, he pulled over by a group of shops and pointed out the Safwan border post further up the road.

  Once Khalid had dropped me off, I checked my watch and examined the surroundings. A couple of the shops were open, including the one I stood outside. There were few other signs of life apart from a convoy of trucks heading towards the border. It was 11.30am, thirty minutes early for the RV, so I bought some water and chocolate to snack on while I waited in the shade. Just after 12.15pm, two British Army Land Rovers came through the border and headed in my direction. They pulled up near the shop and Ian climbed out of the lead vehicle.

  ‘Mr Pierce? We are your escort today. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes Lieutenant, thank you.’ I supposed his men would simply assume the mission was a scheduled escort task, so I played along.

  We whizzed through the military lane without pausing. Ian was right: the lack of a visa hadn’t been an issue. I’d been concerned about getting refused entry at the border and had been frugal with the cash from Al-Nura in case everything fell over at the outset. Failure to even make it into Iraq would have looked very amateurish to my paymasters. At least now I could forget that scenario and focus on the job at hand.

  Traffic was light even though it was Sunday, which is the first day of the working week in Iraq – like a Monday in the UK. T
he vehicles we passed were either commercial trucks or old and weary-looking cars. With the ubiquitous sunny blue skies and desert sand as far as the eye could see, it looked the same as most other desert roads in this part of the world. The only difference between the Iraqi side and the Kuwaiti side of the border was the far superior quality of the road in Kuwait.

  After the vast distances I’d had to travel on my trips to Baghdad, the appearance of a British military base close to the border came as a surprise, even though I should have expected it from studying the maps. It provided a feeling of Coalition presence and protection I hadn’t felt at all when crossing the western desert. Of course, travelling with a British Army patrol probably had a fair bit to do with that as well, but the proximity of potential support was warming me up to the idea of operating here.

  Within half an hour we entered the huge Shaibah Logistics Base where the men had been promised a chance to do some shopping at the large NAAFI and grab some fast food. They’d therefore seen the Sunday morning task to pick me up from the border as a positive rather than a pain in the arse and it sounded as though there had been some competition for the seats in the vehicles. Ian and I tucked into a Cheese Feast from Pizza Hut and quietly caught up as the others enjoyed the facilities. He asked if I’d made arrangements to stay anywhere, which caught me a little off guard.

  ‘When we spoke in London, you said you’d be able to arrange that.’

  I had no idea of the options here, only that a British journalist had recently checked into a hotel and been kidnapped almost immediately. We hadn’t had a chance to discuss anything in detail until now, but it ruled out the hotels as far as I was concerned.

  Ian shrugged. ‘We’ll get back to the base and chat with Hassan about some options. There is a secure place he’s mentioned.’

  A couple of hours later we set off for the British base at Basra Airport ten miles to the north, which Ian and his men called home. The corporal sat next to me in the back of the Land Rover explained why we needed to avoid Basra city.