Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  ‘Your English is very good. Much better than my Kurdish or Arabic.’

  ‘You speak Arabic?’

  ‘Only a few words. I must work harder to learn both Kurdish and Arabic.’

  Although I thought he spoke English quite well, the mayor preferred to have our conversation translated by Ali.

  He expressed his thanks for my visit, and I got the impression I might be the only independent British businessman without regional roots to have visited in recent times. However, our discussion never ranged into any specifics regarding contracts and business. This was a ‘getting to know you’ type meeting.

  The sense that Western businessmen were a rare sight was reinforced by the sudden appearance of a television camera and reporter in the middle of our conversation. There went the low profile. They didn’t request a filmed interview, but I answered a few questions from the reporter after they’d filmed the visual footage for that night’s piece on the Kurdsat news channel.

  After collecting our phones as we left the mayor’s office, I noticed neither my UK mobile nor my local AsiaCell Nokia had any signal. Reception was usually reliable in the city, so I didn’t expect to wait long for it to reappear. Dara and the boys were waiting outside to give us a lift down the road to the under-construction Salim Shopping Centre, where we were due to meet with the owner to view some offices on the second and third floors.

  ‘It’s a nice day, so I think I’ll walk down,’ I announced, conscious I wasn’t getting enough decent exercise and glad of the fresh air after spending all morning in cigarette smoke-filled rooms. It was only a few hundred metres down to the new building and I’d have to cross the busy road, but better than nothing.

  Ali’s face projected confusion. ‘You can’t walk,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, what will everyone think? They expect you to be driven in a nice car. You’re a businessman. This isn’t London.’

  Ali was more sensitive about all that than the locals. I very much doubted they gave a monkey’s how I rocked up to meetings or left afterwards.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m going to walk. You coming?’ I turned away from the car and set off towards the gate.

  Ali caught up twenty metres down the road, slightly out of breath. He tried to light a cigarette on the move and complained about my lack of cultural awareness.

  ‘You shouldn’t do things like this. It confuses them.’

  He wasn’t happy, but it might have been more to do with the fact he had to walk with me. I don’t know why – the sun in the clear blue winter sky had reduced the early chill to a pleasant and refreshing nip.

  ‘Well they’d better get used to it, mate. I’m sure they couldn’t care less anyway.’

  I waved away a young lad trying to sell me chewing gum. The stuff I’d tried the day before tasted like they made it from old car tyres.

  The new office building looked old and tired already, and it wasn’t even finished yet. However, it stood in a decent location on the main city road, with shops on the ground floor and basement levels, plus a row of shops, restaurants, and food carts on the opposite side of the road, including a pizza place and a beer shop. A secure underground car park with resident car wash was also mooted. The offices would have Internet twenty-four hours per day, apart from an hour at lunchtime for some reason. Maintenance perhaps. And the rent would be reasonable. This was one for the shortlist if I decided to set up shop out here.

  It was after midday when we finished looking round and Ali was already suggesting we should go for lunch. I checked my phones again and saw an SMS had arrived on my UK number.

  Your father is ill – going to the hospital to visit him TODAY at 2.00pm.

  I’d checked the email draft folder late the previous night, so I hadn’t missed anything. The content surprised me: today at 2.00pm. Maybe events had moved so quickly it needed a fastball. I considered calling the contact number Chapman had provided in London.

  All phone calls on the regular GSM mobile network could be easily monitored by all and sundry, but I did have the sat phone in my daysack. Monitoring satellite phone calls required sophisticated interception equipment most countries didn’t possess, which made them inherently more secure. But rather than faffing about, I judged it easier to turn up to the nearby RV location at 2.00pm and see what happened.

  ‘Ali, I need to go to a meeting at the Palace Hotel at one-thirty.’

  Ali briefly considered my statement. ‘No, we don’t have a meeting there. The next one is at Nawroz Park at four o’clock.’

  Mr Nawroz was a leading local businessman who also owned a park with some animals and a few children’s rides. We’d met the previous day and he was keen to show me his plans for redevelopment and expansion of the park.

  ‘You’re probably going to have to cancel Mr Nawroz. I’ve just received the message about an urgent meeting at the Palace and I have to go.’

  I lifted my head and gave him a thin smile after pressing send on my confirmation reply.

  Please keep me informed.

  Ali started grumbling about cancelled appointments and mysterious meetings.

  I tapped my watch: ‘One-thirty, mate. British time.’

  He brightened up when I then pointed out that meant we needed to get lunch now.

  By telling him it was 1.30pm I had a fighting chance of getting there by 1.45pm. I wanted to be early to scout the location and make myself comfortable. On my previous visit I’d been surprised to find the coffee tasted quite decent. The ‘Nescafe’ might even have been the real thing.

  Chapter 37

  It was 1.40pm by my watch as the guard rolled back the wheeled security spikes at the vehicle entrance to the Sulaimaniyah Palace Hotel and our driver nosed the vehicle down the narrow passageway and into the car park.

  As the primary hotel used by international visitors and regional politicians, the Palace would likely feature on any terrorist target list for the city. Concrete T-walls surrounded the front of the building facing the main road and the only vehicular access was the way we’d arrived.

  The car park was shared with the adjacent two-storey office building which housed Nokan, the ruling political party’s commercial arm. It was no surprise they took the cream of the local contracts and I’d therefore already met with the Nokan head of operations during my previous visit to the hotel site a few days earlier.

  ‘I come in with you?’ asked Ali.

  ‘No mate. I need to go to this one on my own. It’s sensitive and they won’t allow you to join in.’

  I was trying to be diplomatic; I knew Ali would be unhappy because he didn’t have an invite. It might have been easier if he and the guys left me there to get on with it, but I preferred them to stick around at first, until I knew who I was dealing with.

  ‘I don’t know how long it will take but once I get an idea, I’ll let you know. If I can’t see you, I’ll call you. I’m sure you won’t mind going to grab a chai somewhere if it drags on.’

  Considering the amount of time spent waiting for other people in this city, I was irritated by Ali’s obvious impatience about the one meeting I’d arranged in all the weeks we’d been here.

  Once inside the rear hotel entrance, I passed through a metal detector, which beeped due to the kit in my daysack. The security guard made as though to look interested but slumped back into his chair after I issued a brisk ‘Hello’ and kept walking. I nodded a greeting to the male receptionist and scanned the lobby as I approached, checking for any likely contact from the spooks.

  A couple of Middle Eastern gentlemen in smart suits sat on decorated, stiff-backed, wooden sofas and a Westerner waited near the lifts on the other side of an open archway. Apart from them the lobby appeared empty. From the front of the reception desk, I cast my eyes around again just in case. I couldn’t help smiling when I spotted a familiar face observing my arrival, sat in
the far corner with his back to the wall. He already had a cup in front of him, so I ordered myself a Nescafe and made my way over to where Roper was sitting.

  *

  Roper told me a meeting involving the Shadow Emir was believed to be imminent in the northern city of Hawija, about sixty kilometres west of Kirkuk. Other than that, he was scant on details.

  ‘We’ll both get a more complete brief once we get to the base,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘and we need to get on our way there now.’

  He looked frazzled compared to the previous time we’d met but his eyes were alive, clearly more at home with fieldwork and a chance to ditch his London suit for trail boots, cargo trousers, and a polo shirt.

  I glanced down at my suit and tie. ‘Well I need to change out of this before I’m going anywhere, especially somewhere like Kirkuk. If we cut down to the North Circular, we can swing a right and our place is on the way. If you follow our car, we can go from there. How many of you are there?’

  ‘Just me, a driver, and an English-speaking Peshmerga officer,’ he said with a rueful look. ‘I only landed in Kirkuk three hours ago, so not much time to get organised yet.’

  That explained the frazzled look. Kirkuk Air Base was approximately 100 kilometres to the west. Most of the route was under the secure control of the Peshmerga but closer to Kirkuk the threat level rose significantly.

  I digested that for a moment.

  ‘I’ve got Peshmerga with me. Why don’t we take both vehicles to Kirkuk? It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Roper looked surprised and perhaps even impressed. ‘Okay, let me see who you’ve got with you and we’ll take it from there.’

  He started to rise just as my coffee arrived but quickly smiled and sat back down.

  ‘You’ve got time for that coffee though,’ he said, as his hand reached over and grabbed the little chocolate that came with it. ‘I haven’t had time to eat and I’m starving.’

  *

  The reception desk conjured up a tired-looking chicken salad sandwich which Roper munched on heartily as we walked to the vehicle. Ali, Dara, and Hamza chatted as they leant on it, and the driver sat inside singing along to the strains of a Kurdish ballad being piped out of the car stereo. When Roper signalled with his hand, a uniformed guy climbed out of a similar Land Cruiser a few spaces down and came over to join us. The driver cut the music as I made the introductions.

  ‘This is Ali and this is Dara, a Peshmerga captain. His commander is also his brother, General Rashid.’

  There was no recognition on Roper’s face when I mentioned the General’s name, but his accompanying Peshmerga officer nodded as I spoke. Ali moved straight in with an enthusiastic handshake and a gushing introduction in English, while Roper’s Peshmerga officer spoke with Dara in Kurdish. It was clear from the off they knew each other.

  ‘Ali, I need to go to Kirkuk. Can you guys come along so we have two vehicles for the journey?’

  ‘Kirkuk? No, that’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Mate, I have to go to Kirkuk.’ This wasn’t up for debate.

  Dara cut in with an injection of Kurdish that left Ali with a thoughtful look on his face. He grinned at me as he lifted a phone to his ear.

  ‘So, what did he say?’ I asked Ali.

  ‘He says we’re taking you to Kirkuk. He’s already agreed it with the major there. It’s his friend.’ Ali didn’t look particularly comfortable with the turn of events. ‘What do you have to do in Kirkuk?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We just need to go to FOB Warrior. We might be there for a while though, so we’re going to call into the house on the way now and pick up some gear. You need to take some overnight stuff and spare clothes.’

  Ali’s mode changed to despair. ‘But how long? Tomorrow’s Friday and we have a lunch invitation with the mayor. Dara needs to check with General Rashid first as well.’

  Dara called over excitedly from his phone call and Ali’s shoulders slumped. Despite his protests we were going to Kirkuk.

  And it was the first I’d heard of lunch with the mayor.

  ‘Look mate, this is something I have to do. Just call up and cancel anything you’ve arranged for the next couple of days.’

  I had no idea what other treats might be in store, but they’d just have to wait.

  *

  Despite the busy road to Kirkuk we made decent time. Roper had insisted I travel in his vehicle, so Ali and the gang were right behind us as we cut through any hold-ups and checkpoints with our siren and flashing blue lights occasionally sweeping cars from our path. On a Thursday afternoon, people finished work early and hurried home for the Friday/Saturday weekend. We bypassed the checkpoint queues via the military lanes and arrived at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Warrior by four o’clock.

  Once inside the base with temporary ID badges issued to me and my guys, we stopped in a parking area filled with military Humvees and a range of unmarked SUVs. While the Kurds and I stayed with the vehicles, Roper disappeared into a building 200 metres away that was a hive of activity. Numerous soldiers and airmen, mainly American, moved themselves and various bits of kit with a sense of urgency.

  When he reappeared, Roper was accompanied by a mature, broad-shouldered, square-jawed man wearing chinos and an untucked, short-sleeve shirt. The unmistakable bulge of a holstered sidearm visible under the shirt.

  ‘Has your guy got clearance?’ the big man asked with an American accent as they drew closer.

  ‘Developed Vetting to TS (Top Secret) level,’ replied Roper as we met at the edge of the car park.

  I’d been through the Developed Vetting process back in the late 90s, so knew how deep they checked your personal and financial background. It included interviews with personal referees to identify potential weaknesses and flaws.

  My oppo Rob had been one of those interviewed for my DV and had caused some consternation when he said, ‘Yes, John sometimes wears women’s clothes,’ in reply to a question. Apparently, his explanation that it was ‘a bootneck thing’ had required some further clarification before they moved on. He was referring to the occasional wild run ashore (night out), where dozens of burly marines would dress in the skimpiest of women’s clothing, at least until some joker yelled ‘naked bar’ or similar.

  It had been mentioned in my final interview with a smile, but there was no way I would have passed the DV clearance these days with my recent history – both my dealings with the criminal justice system and my financial situation would have put paid to that.

  Judging by Roper’s conspiratorial glance, I suspected either a few corners had been cut and rules bent, or the shiny new DV certificate didn’t even exist.

  The American stuck out a big hand. ‘Joe Holmes, Task Force 145.’

  ‘John Pierce.’ I turned my head towards Roper and indicated in his direction. ‘On temporary attachment with these guys.’

  ‘Well let’s get you up to speed. We only have a couple of hours until we need to be set. This way.’ The American led the way into the building he and Roper had exited a short while before.

  Roper called over to his guys and told them they could go to the DFAC (Dining Facility) provided they were back at the cars in thirty minutes.

  ‘And take these guys with you.’ He motioned towards Ali and the boys. ‘But make sure one of you stays with the vehicles at all times, okay?’

  We left the Kurds debating who should stay with the vehicles as we walked over to the temporary operational headquarters of Task Force 145 and its attached assets. Joe led us into a briefing room adorned with maps of Iraq, particularly the area of northern Iraq in the vicinity of Kirkuk. He drew our attention to a map of the area west of Kirkuk and said that multi-sourced intelligence indicated a meeting of high-level insurgent leaders would take place either tonight or tomorrow night in northern Iraq.

  Although the meeting location wasn’t 100% co
nfirmed, there was every indication it would be in the insurgent stronghold city of Hawija, approximately sixty kilometres west of Kirkuk. Hawija and its rural environs was a hotbed of Sunni militancy and a very difficult area in which to operate successfully.

  ‘Due to the extremely hostile nature of nearly all the local inhabitants, it’s too dangerous for you to move forward into the AO (Area of Operations),’ said Holmes, nodding towards me.

  ‘We also need to keep the footprint on the ground as light as possible. The risk of compromise in this area is very high, but the target is considered important enough that we already have the green light to take a shot at him. Last night a TF145 team infiltrated the city and set up an OP (Observation Post) in the industrial sector of the city which gives them “eyes on” the anticipated meeting location.’

  Holmes used a pointer to indicate the location on the map. ‘The team has set up two cameras on separate satellite relays which are transmitting clear images back to the TOC (Tactical Operations Centre) here.’

  He then spoke directly to me.

  ‘Your role is to positively ID the key target known as the Shadow Emir, Abu Saif al-Tikriti. Alongside you will be two people from our intelligence team. Unless you identify your boy, or they identify another comparable High Value Target, the operation will be stood down. We cannot afford to risk compromising our covert sources by using such highly sensitive intelligence in this direct way unless the pay-off is deemed acceptable. If you see Abu Saif, you need to be one hundred per cent sure it’s him. Understood?’

  No pressure then. I just hoped these transmitted images would be clear enough for me to be certain one way or the other.

  ‘Yep, understood.’ I tried to sound more confident than I felt.

  Holmes then went on to provide an overview of the assets being deployed on the mission, including a dedicated surveillance drone and a squadron of Black Hawk helicopters ready to transport the support and extraction teams into the target area, before whisking everyone and their hooded prisoners back here to FOB Warrior. The higher value targets could probably expect a plane ride to years of incarceration with Uncle Sam.