Appetite for Risk Read online

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road, Kibworth

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

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  Copyright © 2019 Jack Leavers

  The right of Jack Leavers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  Parts of the novel are based on true events.

  ISBN 978 1913208 127

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  To my girls – the real stars of the show – and our black Lab,

  Layla, my trusty writing sidekick.

  And to the friends who journeyed alongside me,

  and the strangers who became friends.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 1

  BASRA, IRAQ — NOVEMBER 2004

  ‘Alpha Victor Two-One-Alpha: static vehicle right, six hundred metres, over.’

  ‘Two-One-Bravo: roger static vehicle right, out.’

  I peered over the driver’s shoulder and spotted the car ahead through the heat shimmer rising from the tarmac. It sat alone at the agreed location: parked on the verge along a stretch of empty desert road between two shallow berms.

  Our Land Rover approached with caution and rolled to a halt ten metres short of a black BMW saloon; the vehicle description and plate number matched my notes. The Two-One-Bravo Land Rover stopped twenty metres behind us and three soldiers emerged to scan the car and surrounding area through the magnified sights on their SA80 rifles.

  We’d left the sanctuary of the large military base at Basra Airport a few minutes earlier, nipping out just before an inbound armoured patrol would have delayed our exit. This spot was out of sight from the base, but still close enough to sense an invisible cloak of protection from the resident British forces. Apart from the black car there were no other signs of life, and only the rhythmic rattle of the Land Rovers’ diesel engines disturbed the silence of the bleak desert landscape.

  I waited until one of the BMW’s rear doors opened and a familiar figure appeared. He held up his hand in greeting and shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  ‘Okay, here goes,’ I said through the headrests to the patrol commander up front, my long-time friend, Ian.

  He turned to me with concern etched on his tanned face. ‘We’ll see you at Khor Az Zubayr this afternoon. Call me if you run into any issues. Be careful, John.’

  ‘Any issues’ might mean bad news for me, but Ian’s army officer career would also be at risk if his unofficial support for my activities was revealed, especially if the revelation came courtesy of my being kidnapped, shot, or otherwise compromised in downtown Basra.

  Judging by the banter over the last week, his men thought it likely I was a spook of some kind. Ian’s last, familiar comment sparked interested glances in my direction.

  ‘Roger that mate, thanks.’

  I nodded to the other guys, clambered over the tailgate, and dropped onto the road. When I neared the car, my eyes roved across the rough ground for any sign of IEDs before I stepped off the tarmac.

  Clear.

  A bead of sweat trickled past my left eye before I caught it with my sleeve. Admittedly I was apprehensive about the impending meeting, but it must have been over eighty degrees in old money, despite being November.

  Ian’s young translator, Hassan, stood by the open door of the BMW wearing his usual smile. A slim, friendly graduate in his early twenties, he was dressed in polished shoes, black trousers, and a white shirt without a tie. Business casual – like me.

  ‘Morning, Hassan. Are we all set?’

  ‘All set, Mr John.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get this show on the road.’

  After tossing a wave towards the two departing Land Rovers, I removed my sunglasses and slid into the BMW, taking a moment to adjust from the searing sunlight to the darker interior.

  ‘Gentlemen. John Pierce, good to meet you.’

  Hassan climbed in and shut the door. The central locking clicked and an unexpected silence engulfed the car, putting me on edge and causing the smile to drop from Hassan’s face.

  ‘Are you a spy for the Israelis?’

  Where the hell did that come from?

  The dust cloud kicked up by Ian’s patrol grew smaller ahead as they raced off along the stark, black thread of road; my link with safety slipping away. Little sign of the invisible cloak of protection now. A shock of alarm pulsed deep inside.

  Hassan on my right, a large stony-faced guy on my left. If this was an abduction, I needed to force my way out of the car, as fast as possible and as violently as necessary.

  The fuse lit by the question burned.

  Stolen glances round the car detected no obvious weapons, but impossible these guys were unarmed – no-one was in these parts. Not the friendliest-looking bunch I’d met either. I doubted they were unfamiliar with the sight of bloodshed or the use of violence. Useful if they were on my side, not so good if they weren’t.

  The Land Rovers dropped out of sight once they passed the sandy berm. I tried to hold on to a composure wanting to disappear with them and focused on the forty-something questioner glaring from the front passenger seat. With a dodgy suit, shiny black hair, thick moustache, surly expression, and personal hygiene enhanced by a strong cologne, he was rocking the same look as stony face on my left and what I had seen of the d
river.

  A former bootneck, or Royal Marines Commando, I’d been around a bit myself, although accusations of spying were a first. Time to roll the dice: stay put or make a run for it?

  Images fast-forwarded through my head: orange boiler suit, sharp knives, unwanted TV stardom – switching to a violent struggle, haring down the main drag, locals asking, ‘Why did the crazy Brit attack us?’ – switching again to questions, answers: ‘We’re so sorry, Mr John, but we had to ask.’ Hassan apologetic on their behalf.

  The last option worked for me. ‘Stay put’ it was then. Best the old bootneck charm worked its magic.

  With the silent tension needing to be punctured, I blurted out, ‘No.’

  Not much charm there, not much composure either.

  It was a simple escort to a business meeting in Basra city; no different to the way I’d moved around the area for the last week. These guys should be on my side, my protection. Hassan needed to sort this shit out, but he sat motionless on my right, panic written all over his face. No help coming from that direction.

  Then another question, this time from the big guy on my left, complete with a warm blast of smoker’s breath.

  ‘You spy for the Americans?’

  Was he kidding me? They’d all watched British Army vehicles drop me off down the road from the British base and heard my cheery greeting in the Queen’s English. And surely they knew Hassan was the translator for a British Army officer.

  ‘No.’ Another weak-sounding reply. I needed to get a grip to avoid this being taken to a level I didn’t want to visit.

  ‘So, you’re a spy for the British?’

  Okay, so they got there in the end. Mind you, hopelessly off target. A derisive snort before I answered, ‘They wouldn’t pay enough.’ Not that I really knew.

  At last Hassan snapped into action and quick-fire Arabic barked between him and the others. When they all started smiling and shaking hands, I assumed the mini-inquisition was over.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum, Mr John. Welcome, welcome. Sorry.’ Laughter and pointing between them and me.

  Yeah, good one. I almost smashed my metal pen into your face you grinning idiot.

  That was it: from looming disaster to best buddies in a heartbeat. A ripple of perspiration moistened my shirt despite the fierce air conditioning. Hassan nodded as his eyes flicked over to mine although his smile wasn’t convincing. By the looks of it, he’d enjoyed the exchange about as much as I had, but at least he wasn’t sadly shaking his head.

  The manner of my arrival and our location might have encouraged suspicion, but I wasn’t a spy for anyone and had never been involved with any intelligence services.

  I could point to a fair amount of experience in investigations and surveillance over the years, just never for the government – ours or anyone else’s. And I did sometimes mix in circles that included special forces types and spooks. Not in any form of operational capacity though. No, instead I was here scrabbling to find business opportunities to get me out of my latest financial mess.

  However, as those three questions had been fired at me, I’d been painfully aware of the tracking device strapped down my right thigh; a body search would have livened up the encounter no end. It wasn’t Japanese micro-technology, or a James Bond-style gadget designed by Q and disguised as a button. Instead, it was British military style: chunky, soldier-proof, and unproven.

  An ex-bootneck friend and communications expert, Jim, had jumped at the opportunity to have his prototype tracking kit tested as I roamed southern Iraq. The data was his primary interest, but he promised to keep an eye on my progress as and when he could. The built-in panic alarm provided an unexpected feeling of added security, despite the limited monitoring. Fingers crossed he’d be standing by if things went to ratshit, so he could let people know I was in trouble and where, before it was too late.

  *

  The BMW traversed the pot-holed Basra roads smoothly as we made our way into the city; the driver far superior to the other locals whose driving I’d endured over the last few days. The experience of travelling in local vehicles was very different compared to being with Ian and his soldiers. My vulnerability if we ran into the wrong crowd made it nerve-racking at times. An air of near normality could switch to apprehension in an instant if a checkpoint or police patrol loomed up ahead, let alone if we encountered anything more suspicious.

  The high-profile military vehicles faced an escalating threat of attack, but returning to the bosom of Brit Mil’s support and firepower always put a smile on my face. Unfortunately needs must, so I had to hope my low profile in the BMW would be enough to keep me out of trouble.

  The car slipped unnoticed through the traffic as we sped towards my meeting with the Basra Trade Chamber. The afternoon might prove useful in terms of business, but first and foremost it provided an opportunity to meet Sheikh Mustafa, the organisation’s deputy president. I needed to hand-deliver an important private message to him in the form of a sealed white envelope addressed in handwritten Arabic – old-school confidential communications.

  Entrusted to me by business contacts in Dubai, I’d made sure it stayed secure by carrying it close ever since. I wasn’t privy to the message contents, but they regarded it as crucial to their future business operations in southern Iraq.

  My new business associates had paid $5,000 for an assessment of the ports and logistics in the Basra area, plus $2,000 for expenses. But I’d been left in no doubt they considered successful delivery of the confidential message a vital element of the task. There was also an opportunity to earn another grand if I received a reply to courier back to them.

  Setting up a meeting with the Sheikh hadn’t proved easy. Despite my efforts over the last week, this chance had only slotted into place in the last twenty-four hours. I’d completed the assessment of the ports, so delivering the letter was the last item on my ‘to do’ list.

  We pulled up outside a large, white, three-storey building. My new back-seat buddy clambered out and motioned to stay put with a small movement of his hand. Everyone else got out of the vehicle and made an exaggerated show of checking the surroundings for any threats to my safety.

  Good to see these chaps were looking out for me, but not something I’d be relying on. If I hadn’t been there, I imagine they would have rolled from the car into the building in a big gaggle, trading witty repartee in loud Arabic. From inside the vehicle I scanned a full 360 degrees for any signs of danger. Of the few people in the vicinity, none showed unhealthy interest in our arrival.

  *

  ‘Most of the Trade Chamber are the problem. They’re the ones behind all the violence and I wouldn’t trust any of them in the slightest.’

  Last night the commanding officer’s translator had dispensed his pearls of wisdom and then spun round and sauntered out the door. I was grateful for his help to arrange the meeting, but that parting comment wasn’t welcome news.

  His words repeated in my mind as I mentally prepared to encounter the people he’d been talking about, with no clue how many would be present and what percentage might see me as a walking dollar sign.

  Recently, a British journalist had checked into a local hotel and been kidnapped within fifteen minutes. Lucky for him he hadn’t been sold on to the insurgents, so it hadn’t turned into an orange jumpsuit and sharp knife scenario. Instead, he’d been released the following day although it was plenty enough to convince me to veto Ian’s plan that I stay at a supposedly secure farmhouse owned by one of Hassan’s relatives.

  Instead I was staying in Ian’s cabin at the British base, sleeping on the top bunk and trying to avoid detection. I expect a procedure existed to allow me to stay on the base officially, but we adopted the ‘easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission’ approach.

  *

  Hassan waved me out of the car. ‘Mr John, everything is clear. Follow please.’

 
I grabbed my daysack and joined him on the shabby street.

  ‘Thanks. Keep close when we get inside.’

  We crossed the cracked road and weed-strewn pavement and passed through a narrow gate into a surprisingly lush and colourful garden. The contrast was even greater than expected because Basra was filled with heaps of rubble, twisted metal, and ramshackle buildings, all coated in a layer of fine dust. It was a dump, even compared to Baghdad. But this garden could have graced an English country manor.

  A suited guard with an AK-47 stood by a large, ornate wooden door. He appeared smarter and more alert than your usual ‘twelve hours on, twelve hours off’ door sentry. As we approached, he murmured a greeting to the leader of our little group and rapped on the door behind him. It opened immediately and we entered a bright, cool hallway adorned with vases full of colourful flowers.

  I stopped to fish the local Nokia phone out of my pocket and send an SMS to Ian.

  At Alpha. Will advise > RV.

  Once the meeting finished, we had a rendezvous (RV) planned at the port of Khor Az Zubayr, part of Ian’s Area of Responsibility. I’d been there two days earlier, noting and appreciating the small British military detachment that oversaw security.

  ‘This way, Mr John.’ The leader of our little posse, Karim something or other, was now the perfect host compared to his earlier stint as an interrogator.

  He gestured for me to enter through a doorway on the right. Inside it opened into a spectacular and spacious room, its brightly painted walls and high ceiling immaculately decorated with numerous gold flourishes. A covered table with hot drinks, juice, water, fruit, and snacks stood at one end and a large conference table dominated the centre.

  Matching mahogany furniture and a highly polished floor gave the room a luxurious feel. Several display cases along the walls contained thickly bound books and ancient-looking trinkets. The purring air conditioners produced a pleasant, cool temperature.

  It was encouraging to see only five men present, all sat at the conference table. The room had a closed door at the far end, but no sign of weapons or other threats. If this meeting remained a small, intimate affair, I could keep a closer eye on the participants and maintain a semblance of control. Much better than the rowdy band of warlord chieftains I’d half expected. Provided one of those present was the Sheikh, the afternoon should go okay.