Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  No matter which way I cut it, the budget to run a small business operation for the next twelve months made depressing reading compared to my available funds. Should Claire and I take the high-risk option to remortgage the house? It was a big, crazy step to take, but UK house price inflation had given us an opportunity that could finance the business in northern Iraq. It was tempting. However, we both knew that just because we could, didn’t mean we should.

  My arrival back in Sulaimaniyah heralded a bout of private celebratory dinners and the odd losing game of blackjack. News of the Mosul operation was on everyone’s lips, not least because General Rashid was pleased to promote the pivotal role his brother Dara and the other Peshmerga had played in securing our safe extraction from the city. On each occasion, haunting Kurdish music captured the mood as they remembered both their own fallen from previous battles and the more recent death of Ricky in Mosul.

  Ali was larger than life during these gatherings and revelled in describing the action as it had unfolded, despite the fact he was back in Sulaimaniyah at the time. He set the scene and took the audience on a rollercoaster ride of emotion through the events with unerring accuracy, most likely gleaned from conversations with Dara, Hamza and me.

  His tale began with the helicopter ride north and included the failed mission he assumed had intended to kill the al-Qaeda leader Zarqawi, our unlucky compromise, the brave entry of the Kurdish rescue force, and the devastating realisation of Ricky’s death. Throughout, he weaved in his undisguised admiration for the bravery of all the Peshmerga and Coalition forces fighting the common enemy.

  Irrespective of his contribution at the time, the whole episode had bound us all closer with a genuine sense of brotherhood and common purpose as we now sought to work together and set up a successful business in the region.

  By early May I was back in the UK, re-energised by my second visit to Kurdistan and encouraged by the opening of new international airports in both Erbil and Sulaimaniyah. For business development, I had my eye on a conference called the Iraq Development Programme Summit, scheduled to take place at the Hyatt Hotel in Amman at the end of June. A stand at the conference could be just the thing to get the company in front of the clients it needed and kick-start some much-needed revenue. It would be costly, but it was now all or nothing.

  When it came time to either put up or shut up, I can’t say we agonised over the decision. Claire and I looked at each other and smiled with grim acceptance as we quietly agreed to remortgage the house and commit the cash to making the business work.

  ‘I trust you,’ said Claire.

  What could I say to that? I’d try as hard as I could to make this work, but there were no guarantees it would be enough.

  Chapter 45

  AMMAN — LATE JUNE 2005

  I flew into Amman, confident my business concept would interest companies attending the reconstruction conference. Although Erbil was the capital of the KRG, Sulaimaniyah was a sizeable city and province with its own government and no other British companies offered the business development and support services we could provide. The event was being held over a three-day weekend at the pricey Hyatt Hotel; Ali and I were staying at the InterContinental down the road. A bit of a faff, but the cost difference made it worthwhile.

  On the first night I thought I saw a former colleague from the Corps; a guy who had passed selection and joined SBS. I had no idea if he was operational or had left the military, but I erred on the side of caution and avoided catching his eye or bumping into him in case I compromised an SF mission which might be under way.

  Ali was in his element. Both knowledgeable and amicable, he grabbed delegates with his description of a Western-friendly oasis nestled against the Iranian border. The interest in our set-up and our capabilities grew stronger through the weekend, and I found myself involved in earnest discussions with some large corporations regarding the situation on the ground in Kurdistan. It was unfortunate, as a guy called Tim from leading accountants PWC told me over a drink one night, that we weren’t based in Erbil.

  ‘Nobody goes to Sulaimaniyah. You can’t get anything done because they’re all fighting each other for every contract.’

  I tried to reassure him our contacts at the heart of the Sulaimaniyah administration would help avoid those type of issues. Unfortunately, there was a lot of truth in what he said. Kurdish officials there always wanted to talk about the largest contracts, but those projects with big budgets were the deals the locals scrapped over – blocking each other using patronage sprinkled throughout the bureaucratic machinery of state.

  I needed a client focused on getting into the region with a clear business objective we could deliver. But for all our impressive talk, the lack of any track record was proving to be a problem. Despite the positive interest in our activities, we hadn’t been able to secure that elusive first contract.

  This conundrum was running through my head as I absent-mindedly washed my hands in the bathroom at the other end of the hall from our stand. I’d taken a wander around the other company stands to see if anyone else was winning business and to serve up a few more of my own cards amongst the delegates.

  ‘John.’

  I turned to my left to see JD, the SBS guy I thought I’d seen the previous day. I didn’t want to compromise him, so I checked we were alone before replying, ‘Hello mate, are you working?’

  ‘Yes mate. We’re watching you, so you might want to be careful.’

  ‘Watching me… why?’ My mind reeled, the surprise in my voice palpable.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you anything, mate. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, for old times’ sake.’

  The door began to open and the sound of accented English voices discussing a Baghdad power station spilled in. JD had drawn back into one of the cubicles and locked the door by the time the two well-dressed Arab gentlemen having the conversation appeared. I nodded a greeting at the new arrivals in the mirror as I dried my hands.

  I processed JD’s news. For the last four months I’d concentrated on the new opportunities beckoning in Kurdistan and heard nothing from the spooks, Faris in Baghdad, Al-Nura in Dubai, or even Mohammed back in London. Why now?

  As I opened the door to leave, a frisson of fear fluttered inside. If my role in the Mosul mission had become known to the wrong people, to Abu Saif himself perhaps, then I could be in real trouble. In Kurdistan I was relatively safe in the Peshmerga and security forces bubble, but here in Jordan, homeland of the AQI leader al-Zarqawi, I now felt exposed and vulnerable.

  If a threat had emerged, then why hadn’t anyone told me? Was Claire in any danger back at home? At least I had good guys watching over me, but the not knowing was going to drive me insane. Much as I was grateful he’d spoken to me, it might have been better if JD hadn’t said anything. The feeling of helplessness, of being caught up in events way beyond my control again, was suffocating.

  For the rest of the day I remained wary of my surroundings and the appearance of people I didn’t know. Utterly ridiculous considering the whole point of being at the conference was to meet new potential clients. Ali sensed something was wrong and tried to lighten the mood as we took a taxi down to the Coronation Street pub for a drink with a business contact of his living in Amman.

  ‘One of the companies today, they were very interested. They are British engineering guys looking at oil by Chemchemal, near Suli. They want to meet with you tomorrow and I think they’ll sign a contract with us. Don’t worry, we will soon be celebrating.’

  ‘That sounds good, mate. You’ve done well these last couple of days while I’ve had a couple of distractions. Now tell me again about this bloke we’re meeting.’

  *

  Ali’s contact turned out to be a friend who was a nice enough guy but of no business value for us. After two rounds of drinks I told Ali I’d see him later and headed outside to catch a taxi back to the hotel. As I stood
in the embrace of the warm evening breeze, innocent laughter and chatter from the pub rose and fell as the door opened and swung shut. I casually cast my eyes over the nearest buildings, cars and pedestrians. How many were in the surveillance team and did they have eyes on me right now? Shame they couldn’t just give me a lift and save me a few dinars.

  I sensed something was amiss as soon as I entered my room at the InterContinental. Unlike the last couple of days, the room hadn’t been cleaned and yet I could swear my bag and some clothes had been moved. I scoped out the bathroom warily. Empty. That cryptic message from JD really had put the wind up me. The room wasn’t particularly untidy or dirty, so I bolted the door with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign displayed, kicked off my shoes, and grabbed a water from the minibar.

  The usual horrific images of carnage in Baghdad were rolling across CNN when the doorbell chimed. I took the precaution of checking through the spyhole and sighed at the distorted view of Roper stood outside with a second man. I paused and then opened the door.

  ‘Roper, what a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘John.’ Roper nodded and indicated I should let them in.

  ‘I take it this isn’t a social call,’ I said over my shoulder as I walked over to take a seat at the desk by the window.

  ‘No, Mr Pierce, this isn’t a social call,’ replied a serious-sounding American voice. ‘Your presence is required in Baghdad and I’ve been ordered to make sure you get there.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of a business conference. I can’t just drop everything. When’s this trip to Baghdad meant to be happening?’

  ‘Forget the business conference. You’ll be picked up here at oh-seven-hundred hours sharp and taken to Queen Alia for the flight into BIAP. This isn’t an invitation. Now you know my British colleague Tom here, and he assures me you fully understand the situation. Is that right or do we have a problem?’

  What a tosser! I looked at Roper’s dispassionate face and then back at the American.

  ‘No, there’s no problem. I’m just right in the middle of something important and could really do without being dragged into Baghdad on a whim right now.’

  ‘This is no whim, Mr Pierce. This is a rare opportunity to take down one evil son of a bitch, and unfortunately it appears you are the only person who can positively identify him. My people probably don’t want you anywhere near this operation any more than you want to be there, but we both have our instructions and yours will take you to Baghdad tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll be flying to Baghdad as well,’ interjected Roper. ‘We’ll be going together.’

  Something positive at least. I didn’t trust spooks, and I was damn sure the American was one, but I got on well enough with Roper.

  It wasn’t as though I had any choice in the matter, so I listened to the skimpy briefing which told me little other than the flight to Baghdad would be followed by a helicopter ride to the US base in Balad. Then I considered whether to let Claire know where I was headed. No, better not to.

  *

  When Ali returned to the hotel later that night, I explained I had to travel at short notice for an urgent meeting, so he needed to man the fort in Amman for the final day of the conference.

  ‘But what about the British engineers? I said you’d meet them tomorrow and I’m sure they will want to sign a contract with us.’

  ‘You’re just going to have to deal with them again, mate. Tell them I’ve been called away on urgent business and I’ll be in touch in the next couple of days. Make sure you get their business cards with all their contact details and as much information about their objectives in Suli as possible.’

  The meeting was the easy part. Now came the bad news.

  ‘Listen, I haven’t paid the organisers the balance owing for the stand yet. The money should be in my account in the next couple of days. Here’s a cheque for the outstanding amount but try to delay giving it to them until the last possible moment to buy me some time. They’re a British company, so hopefully they won’t even bank it until they get back to the UK.’

  Ali had a panicked look on his face. ‘What about the hotel rooms? Are they paid?’

  Bouncing cheques and leaving debts still got you into prison in much of the Middle East, so I couldn’t blame him for being concerned.

  ‘The rooms are paid already but there’ll be room service and mini-bar charges to pay. Here’s $200 to cover it.’ As I handed him the cash, a grateful smile replaced the panic on his face.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ I said and meant it. ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days or so to let you know what’s happening.’

  The latest gloomy reports from CNN about insurgent attacks in Iraq prompted memories of the previous mission in Mosul. When I closed my eyes, I held the image of Abu Saif in my mind and willed the luck to roll our way so we got him this time.

  Chapter 46

  IRAQ

  As the South African pilot began the steep descent into Baghdad, I exchanged a couple of quips with Roper about the quality of the flying on this Department of Defense contracted plane compared to a civilian airline. Until then, we’d hardly spoken since his car had picked me up from the hotel dead on 07:00 and we’d gone through an extensive set of checks and searches at the airport before taking off at 09:30.

  I think we both felt comfortable enough to get lost in our own thoughts rather than trying to force a conversation – I did anyway. It wasn’t as though we could chat about our recent work together or the coming mission in front of other passengers, even if they were primarily US military personnel.

  I’m sure Roper was also still smarting after nearly causing a diplomatic incident at the airport scanner when a customs official seized a GPS from his hand luggage. I tried not to show it, but I found the whole incident highly amusing. Roper was furious, and it took a gaggle of senior Jordanian officials to finally placate him and see to it his GPS was returned. So much for us keeping a low profile.

  We didn’t corkscrew into Baghdad as severely as my last flight out of here a year before, although it wasn’t far off. Everyone on board, including me, breathed the obligatory sigh of relief when the wheels touched down and the plane began to slow. Personally, I was more concerned the pilot would miscalculate and slam the aircraft into the deck than an unlikely surface-to-air missile attack. Either way, I was back in Baghdad.

  At the bottom of the aircraft steps we were tagged by a beefy American wearing Oakley sunglasses. Suddenly exposed to the blinding sun reflecting off the tarmac, I dug around for my own pair.

  ‘Mr Roper? Mr Pierce? I’m Todd from TF145, can I see your ID please?’

  During the minimalist briefing the previous evening, Roper’s American spook buddy, Carl, had issued me with a Department of Defense ID Card adorned with my photo. No blue or red stripe to denote a foreign national either – a ‘clear’ badge. It did the trick here without needing to fish out my passport.

  ‘Outstanding. This way please.’

  After identifying our luggage as it emerged off the back of the small jet, Todd handed us each a Kevlar helmet and a pair of yellow ear defenders before pointing towards our destination across the apron: the flight line for the onward Black Hawk ride to LSA Anaconda in Balad, eighty kilometres to the north.

  There was already some kit in the back of the SUV as we climbed in, which I assumed belonged to Todd because another soldier sat in the driver’s seat. It was therefore no surprise when he said, ‘I’ll be flying with you to Anaconda, so you don’t need to worry about any instructions for arrival. I can escort you to the TOC once we’re there.’

  Our two-helicopter flight was already fuelled and ready for take-off. I donned the helmet and ear defenders and followed Todd and Roper towards the assigned Black Hawk. After heaving our gear into the helo, where the crew chief secured it with the rest, we clambered in and I tried to nonchalantly fix the four-pronged seat belt without giving away it was my
first time in this type of helicopter. When I settled back for the ride after solving the puzzle, none of my fellow passengers were giving me that ‘who’s this clown’ look. Even better, the crew chief went over to a soldier already on board when we arrived and made him refasten his seat belt correctly. I wasn’t the only first-timer then.

  I lifted my head and took a deep breath of the warm, dry air. Now I’d been sucked into the operational tempo of things again, I was looking forward to getting on with it.

  Less than twenty minutes after take-off we touched down at LSA Anaconda. Directed past the imposing blast walls, I smiled at the ‘Catfish Air’ sign above the small terminal building. To my mind it had shades of the Vietnam War about it. No sooner had we entered than Todd was greeted by two similarly bulky guys in American uniforms and we were directed out to two waiting SUVs.

  ‘The SF lines are at the other end of the main runway,’ said a British voice to my surprise.

  ‘Things are fairly manic right now, so we’re taking you to the Ops Room where you’ll get a briefing and the head shed will decide what we’re doing with you.’

  I didn’t know if he was aware we were Brits, but he didn’t bat an Oakley-clad eye when I replied, ‘Cheers mate.’

  As I walked into the TOC, my eyes swept the room and pinged Joe Holmes engaged in conversation with a senior British officer. Then I noticed the unmistakable figure and broadening smile of Katie who was walking in my direction while Dexter walked and talked alongside her. There is no doubt the sight of a pretty woman who’s pleased to see you is a morale booster of the highest order.

  ‘All fixed up then?’ she said on reaching me and Roper, making a show of scanning my face for signs of lasting damage. I hoped for a hug and the chance to breathe in some of the alluring perfume I’d vaguely detected, but this was a special forces operations room not a bar, and I wasn’t getting that lucky.