Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  After using the sink in the outside bathroom, we joined the others in a glass-fronted restaurant. The plastic tablecloth and functional chairs gave it the feel of a school canteen. Even before we ordered, a waiter laid out several starters, dips, and portions of hot flatbread across the table. I’d already viewed the grisly toilet block, so I opted for the safe bet of chicken, rice and beans. Unsure of what facilities would be available at our destination, I intended to stick to foods that minimised the chances of a stomach upset.

  As we ate, I caught fellow diners and the waiters looking in my direction. I hadn’t seen any other Westerners since leaving Istanbul on the flight to Diyarbakir the previous day and I gathered foreigners were a rare sight. But everyone seemed friendly enough. Conversations flowed readily across the tables between seemingly unrelated groups of customers, including ours.

  On the drive from Dukan Lake towards Sulaimaniyah, the high ground loomed large and menacing to our left. Snowbound peaks lined the route, appearing to guard the city as we reached the outskirts. We joined a three-lane ring road, but instead of heading into the city we drove up the slopes to the east.

  Snow covered the hillside as we turned into a largely empty parking area near the top and I realised they had brought me to see the view. Sulaimaniyah lay spread out on the floor of the valley down below us as though it were a giant’s map. The city itself had no high-rise buildings, apart from one tall, dark smudge in the centre, at the end of a scar of a road cutting through the city’s heart.

  ‘What’s that tall building there, in the centre?’

  After conferring with Dara, Ali replied, ‘The Sulaimaniyah Palace Hotel. The best hotel in the city. It’s where foreigners usually stay although he says it’s not very nice. Don’t worry though, you’ll be staying at our family house. Come on, it’s cold, let’s go.’

  I stole a few more moments looking across the untainted peaks and valleys. As I thought of Hamza and his village of Alexander the Great’s descendants, the wind whispered with the distant tramp of marching feet from the armies of ancient empires. I’d never been here before, but a sense of belonging emerged when I turned and saw my eager new Kurdish comrades waiting on my return to the car.

  Chapter 35

  SULAIMANIYAH, IRAQ — FEBRUARY 2005

  Ali hadn’t been back to the family home since 1991. It stood on a large plot in the Rzgari district of Sulaimaniyah City, just off the ring road, or ‘North Circular’ as Ali called it after the similar road in North London. An old couple lodged as tenants in a self-contained section of rooms on the upper floor. The rest of the two-storey house and upstairs balcony remained unoccupied and unused. There wasn’t any furniture or appliances, but Dara and the boys went off to collect some basics to get us through the night.

  With no electricity due to one of the frequent power cuts, we warmed ourselves from an oil heater stood in the middle of an old rug, the heater doubling as our light source. And we now had a gas hob with a refilled gas canister for the kitchen. We didn’t need to fire it up though because our friends had also returned with bread and hot food made by the wife of Dara’s brother, a Peshmerga general.

  Despite our meagre surroundings, the food tasted great and laughter bounced off the walls of the empty house as we all dug in with our fingers. The teapot simmered on top of the heater as we finally settled down for the night with a couple of blankets each on top of the rug. It wasn’t the Ritz, but I soon fell into a deep, contented sleep.

  *

  General Rashid was revered by his brother Dara and by the men who served under him. His reputation as a fearsome warrior commander had been honed during many skirmishes with Saddam’s forces, most recently alongside US military advisors during the 2003 war. In a series of swift engagements, they’d defeated the Iraqi army units based in the vicinity and eradicated the Islamic jihadists Ansar al-Sunna from their nearby border enclave.

  He stood only 5’6” in his stockinged feet yet projected a commanding presence and radiated confidence. His eyes were alive with intelligence and a playful smile flickered under his thick, black moustache. Wearing traditional Kurdish clothes, consisting of baggy grey-green trousers, topped off with a matching martial-type jacket and cummerbund, this man epitomised how I’d imagined a Peshmerga general would look. He didn’t speak a word of English, but his friendly manner transmitted genuine warmth.

  ‘The General welcomes you into his home,’ translated Ali.

  ‘Please thank him for his hospitality and tell him I’m honoured to meet him and be a guest in his house.’

  After some conferring in Kurdish and a smiling nod my way from the General, Ali replied on his behalf, ‘He says you’re welcome. His home is your home.’

  After leaving my shoes outside the front door beside everyone else’s, the General showed me and Ali into a large sitting room with five sofas arranged round the edges to provide comfortable seating for a dozen people. A large flat screen television showed a local Kurdish news channel with the sound turned down low.

  Four men including Dara were sat in the room and all stood up as we entered. I gathered the youngest person in the room was the General’s eldest teenage son and the two older gentlemen in Kurdish dress were lunch guests. One of the older guests greeted me in broken English and I took the opportunity to engage him in conversation. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get much further than the weather, my nationality, and how great it was to meet each other.

  The General’s son and Dara both disappeared for a few minutes before returning with bottled water and glasses of chai for all the guests. Dara was noticeably quieter than he had been when play-fighting and joking with Ali the previous day.

  ‘It’s because he respects his brother so much,’ answered Ali matter-of-factly when I asked about it.

  Before long, we were sat cross-legged on the deep rug around a large plastic picnic blanket covered in bowls and plates of food, cans of Coca-Cola and 7 Up, and a large steaming central dish of rice bedecked with chicken legs and wings. I had to be careful not to eat too much of the moreish bread in case I became full up and unable to eat the volume of food my hosts deemed satisfactory. The bread in Kurdistan was thinner than in Baghdad and southern Iraq, so a little more forgiving. I paced myself as the General frequently offered me plates and bowls across the blanket, eventually taking it upon himself to place food onto my plate. Perhaps he thought I was just being polite by not digging in, but in fact I was already stuffed.

  After attracting Ali’s attention, I told him, ‘Tell the General the food is great, but honestly I’m already full and can only finish what’s on my plate. It’s absolutely delicious though. Thank him very much.’

  It didn’t hurt to praise the food and, by implication, his wife’s cooking skills. Although the General’s young sons flitted into the room at various times, the only sign of his wife and daughters was the occasional sound of female voices and laughter drifting from another room in the house. Probably the kitchen from the amount of food being served.

  Once dinner was finished and cleared away, and I was on about my fifteenth glass of chai for the day, the talk centred on the General and his various wounds. I’d forgotten Ali wouldn’t have seen the General in over ten years. They had plenty to catch up on.

  ‘I’ve told him about the doctors in Harley Street. You can get him a visa, so he can get a full check-up. He still has bullets inside and he was at Halabja when the gas came,’ explained Ali.

  Even though I’d been very clear with Ali about my background and the minimalist nature of the finances currently available, he spoke as though I’d be waving some big company wand to get visas issued and doctors’ appointments arranged. I tried to appear positive while being as non-committal as possible.

  ‘I’m sure if the General could get a British visa, then I could assist with making an appointment with a Harley Street doctor or a private hospital. I really don’t know the current situation re
garding visas though. I’ll check and see what the process involves.’

  If I thought that was the end of it, I was wrong. Two minutes later Dara came into the room carrying a large brown envelope and handed it to the General. He pulled out a series of X-rays and began pointing at white marks in the shoulders, arms, and chest.

  ‘Those are the bullets,’ said Ali from over my shoulder. ‘Saddam’s men they tried hard, but they couldn’t kill him.’

  After being handed the X-rays, I studied each one briefly while gently nodding my head. I didn’t know what everyone expected me to say as they waited for my pronouncement.

  ‘Okay. Yes, Harley Street is a good idea.’

  It meant nothing, but the General and the other guests wore big smiles as I handed the envelope back.

  After an afternoon tour of the city which included a drive past the Sulaimaniyah Palace Hotel at my prompting, we returned to the General’s house in the evening.

  ‘The General doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear, doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t look at women apart from his wife, but he does like to play cards,’ announced Ali as a deck of playing cards appeared.

  After teaching me the basics of Kurdish blackjack, we began playing with bets of 1,000 dinar notes – about two-thirds of a dollar. The hours flashed by as the money flowed back and forth between us. I’d only had a few dinars, so Ali had bulked up my stake money. As the game broke up and we departed for home, the smiling General spoke to Ali.

  ‘He asks if we can play tomorrow night. Only this time you bring some money.’

  I’m not a great gambler or card player, but I laughed as I told them it was game on.

  Conscious I hadn’t checked the email account on my first night, I set up the BGAN on the balcony wall, adjusting it to the direction and angle of the nearest satellite. At the other end of a six-foot cable, me and my laptop were positioned on a white patio table and chairs. Once the Internet connected, I checked the account the spooks had set up: nothing. After checking my own emails, I packed everything up and returned downstairs.

  Chapter 36

  The next couple of weeks passed by with visits to various of the great and the good of Sulaimaniyah and trips to places of interest such as the Azmar Mountain which towered over the city, the museum at Saddam’s old intelligence headquarters, left unchanged since the day the Kurds rose up and took the city back in 1991, and a visit to the museum in Halabja commemorating the victims of the 1988 gas attack.

  Dara and Hamza were ever-present alongside a revolving selection of drivers. We’d meet for a late breakfast and then head out for the day. The first time we’d called in at one of the basic little outlets serving breakfast, I’d enjoyed a white, crusty, cream-type dish along with my warm bread and hot chai.

  ‘What’s this stuff called?’ I asked Ali, as I shovelled in another mouthful.

  ‘Err, it’s… I don’t know the right name. It’s the… fat stuff.’

  ‘Fat stuff. Okay, well I love it.’

  So, the ‘fat stuff’ became our breakfast staple and we never tried to find out any other name for it.

  Alongside the cultural visits and trips to prominent buildings and landmarks, I engaged in several meetings with business people and politicians, trying to assess the opportunities available for international companies. Hotels, housing, power, banking, water networks, transport infrastructure – the list encompassed nearly everything needed to develop a city.

  But did they have any money available to fund new projects or were the local and regional governments both hoping international investment would provide the crucial funding? Unfortunately, it appeared to be very much the latter. Investment opportunities were readily identifiable but paid contracts nowhere near as much. Turkish, Iranian, and Lebanese companies were investing in strength but trying to convince a British or other Western company to risk money in northern Iraq would be a stiff challenge.

  *

  There had been a few blackjack games at both Ali’s and the General’s house, culminating in a wild night that saw me lose nearly $1,000 on a sure thing.

  ‘All, all,’ I said with a theatrical wave of my hand. Every dollar I’d brought along now piled in the middle of the rug as we sat on the floor at the General’s place after an evening of balanced wins and losses.

  The General spoke to Ali who then translated. ‘He says you shouldn’t bet like that. He has good cards, so don’t risk all your money.’

  He’d tried that once before and been bluffing. It wouldn’t work a second time. ‘Mate, tell him I advise he doesn’t bet any more either. I have a great hand and don’t want to upset him.’

  Ali communicated my answer, and the General looked at me, matched my bet, and turned over his cards. Fuck. He hadn’t been bluffing this time. Over $950 of my money sat in a large pot in the middle, along with more than another $1,000 from the other two. Ali had wisely folded early.

  Not that he had, but I considered making a joke about the General cheating before deciding it might not translate well. I’d got carried away and bet funds I couldn’t afford to lose. As we prepared to leave I was still shell-shocked by my stupidity. I put my shoes back on outside the front door and nodded at the armed Peshmerga guarding the gate. He snapped to attention. The General walked in front of me with a bundle of notes in his hand.

  ‘He says he can’t take your money from you under his own roof,’ said Ali following behind him.

  The other times we’d played it had been for pin money, but clearly winning big in his own house made the General feel uncomfortable.

  ‘So next time he says we play at our house,’ Ali said as we all laughed and shook hands and bid kwarfis (goodbye). My laugh was both embarrassed and grateful. I’d tried to refuse the lost money, but the General had insisted.

  Even though we hardly spoke a word of each other’s language, thanks to Ali, the General and I were getting on famously.

  *

  Apart from one night when the BGAN refused to connect to the satellite, I checked the spooks’ email account every night. No message in the drafts. It might be weeks, months, years or never, before a chance arose for them to get Abu Saif – if he was indeed this ‘Shadow Emir’ Chapman had mentioned. And I’d received no further contact from Faris in Baghdad or Al-Nura in Dubai.

  *

  Claire had been disappointed when I told her I wouldn’t make it home for Becky’s birthday.

  ‘I’m sorry. This might be my last chance to make things work in Iraq. It’s going well if slowly. Although I’m starting to get some important meetings lined up.’

  The truth: I was thoroughly enjoying my time in Kurdistan.

  ‘It’s like Surrey, but with mountains,’ I said, trying to reassure her that security wasn’t an issue.

  The local government and security forces were absolutely committed to keeping the region secure, especially for visitors. No foreigner had been killed by violence since the 2003 war and they were determined to keep it that way. I still hadn’t seen another Westerner since I’d arrived, apart from a flash of a well-fed face in a passing vehicle, so my safety was probably a high priority for the security forces and their street level agents on every road.

  ‘They won’t let anything happen to you,’ Ali said. ‘Of course, they are watching all the time. It’s very safe here. You’ve seen it for yourself.’

  It helped we were always accompanied on our travels by three Peshmerga and had two AK-47s back at the house and a 9mm handgun in the glove compartment, all supplied by General Rashid. Truth be told, I had few accurate details of the current threat environment in the region. It was low-level compared to the rest of Iraq, but the locals appeared to feel any admission of credible threats revealed a slight on their capabilities. They kept up the mantra all was safe and well – even while Ali boasted about arrests of suspected militants and the seizure of suspect vehicles. An element of active threat cle
arly existed, so I elected to maintain vigilance against the likely indicators of hostile surveillance and targeting. Not easy when people already watched me everywhere I went.

  I was fairly satisfied we were equipped to respond to an armed attack, although it took a lot of persuasion for my hosts to maintain measures to counter the threat that concerned me most: our vehicles being left unattended and booby-trapped. Either the driver or Hamza had to stay monitoring the vehicle while the rest of us conducted our business, drank chai in cafes, or ate in restaurants. After three or four days, it became a set routine and the pout on the face of whoever got stuck with the vehicle disappeared.

  On Thursday morning at the end of the third week, after tucking into my new favourite breakfast of fat stuff, bread, and chai, we all climbed into the Monica and headed for a meeting with the Director of Sulaimaniyah Municipality, referred to by Ali as the mayor. His offices stood on the main Salim Street in the centre of the city, a kilometre down the road from the Palace Hotel. With my best suit deployed, I hoped the meeting would herald a discussion about funded and available city contracts requiring international expertise, and for which they might accept the higher fees that would entail.

  Dara, Hamza, and the driver stayed with the car as Ali and I checked in our phones at the security reception. Receipt tickets in hand, we climbed the stairs and joined a horde of locals waiting to get an audience with the mayor or one of his minions. Having a suit, fair hair, and blue eyes got me an automatic fast-pass to the front of the queue, seemingly with the acquiescence of the locals who parted like the Red Sea and ushered me through.

  Ali introduced me, and we shook hands with the mayor as they traded Kurdish greetings.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. Please, take a seat. I’m sorry but my English is not so strong,’ said the mayor.