James Ashcroft - Making a Killing - The Explosive Story of a Hired Gun in Iraq

I had already exchanged some JDs at Heathrow so I went straight to the right-hand side of the hallway and joined the queue at the last passport desk. The tattooed squaddie was right in front of me.

The effects of the war in Iraq had touched the airport hallway in Jordan if you knew what to look for. There were several earnest young men and women who could have been aid workers, some journalists laden with laptops and cameras, the Texan KBR tour group with their booming voices and a few others who may or may not have been security men, but they were all fit, muscular, tanned, travelling alone and wearing sand-coloured cargo pants and hiking boots. The Westerners were spread throughout the hall with the exception of the security guys. They were in the right-hand queue behind me.

I watched contentedly as the first three people in the line were turned away when they couldn’t produce the necessary dinars. They wandered off searching for the bureau-de-change. I saw Westerners being sent off from other desks and being directed to the back of our queue. In short order there was a long snake of people behind us and a large knot of grumpy Europeans hanging around the bureau-de-change desk waiting for someone to turn up.

Queen Alia International is a modern airport, but it was obvious that I was back in the Middle East with the smell of tea and dirty bathrooms, cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave mingling in the air. The Jordanian officials had rigid epaulettes, small medal ribbons and neat moustaches. There wasn’t a female official in sight.

The squaddie stepped up to the desk and handed over a British passport and a 10JD note. He knew the drill.

‘ Salaam alaikum ,’ I said as I stepped forward to the desk with my passport and 10JDs.

I had picked up an Arabic phrasebook in Heathrow.

‘ Wa alaikum salaam .’ The official beamed back at me.

He licked, peeled, scribbled and stamped a striking visa into my passport. I began to wonder if I was going to do the Circuit long term whether I would need to get one of those sixty-page passports.

The immigration officer smiled again. ‘Welcome to Jordan,’ he said as he handed my passport back to me.

‘ Shukran .’ Thank you.

I walked two steps further and presented my passport to another officer who was unmoved by my salaam alaikum . He gravely inspected my passport and visa and handed it back. I smiled, shukran ’ed him and went downstairs to baggage reclaim. Four dirty boys in cream overalls fought to take my daysack for me. I waved them away and turned towards the luggage trolleys.

‘Ten JDs, Mister.’

One of the boys was indicating the trolleys. I didn’t know whether he was telling me the fee for his portering services or whether the trolleys cost 10JDs to push the 20 yards into customs. I had been warned that the baggage allowances were strict so despite all my last-minute shopping I was travelling light.

My holdall was one of the first pieces of luggage to slip out of the chute and circle towards me on the carousel, always a good sign, and I carried my two bags through customs into the unimpressive arrivals area. I looked around, grinning like an idiot. There was no one there to meet me.

I turned on my mobile phone.

No coverage. Fuck.

I had thought from the start that my phone provider’s claim of ‘complete worldwide roaming coverage’ was nothing more than advertising fluff and before leaving London I had bought a different pay-as-you-go SIM Card from another company that guaranteed coverage throughout the Middle East. British officer training, you see, always well prepared. I slotted that in and turned my phone on. And waited. No coverage.

This was Jordan, for God’s sake, not some village in the Western Sahara. Maybe there was just no coverage around the airport area? I watched as the squaddie came into the arrivals area lugging his bags. He was chatting on his mobile. No problem. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I needed a new phone contract with reliable service. No way was I going to carry on paying some grasping monthly charge when I was stuck in Iraq and only back in the UK for a couple of months a year. I was cursing my bad luck when I saw a middle-aged man jogging breathlessly through the terminal carrying a dirty handwritten sign with the word ‘Spartan’ on it.

We salaam alaikum ’ed each other and he apologised.

‘Two terminals, sir,’ he puffed and lit up a cigarette to help him regain composure. ‘I am not sure which one you are arrive to.’

I slung my bag in his car. We drove thirty minutes into Amman and I checked into the Marriott. In the future, I would try the Grand Hyatt, which was OK, and a couple of other hotels that were on the Circuit, but the Marriott would always remain my favourite.

Spartan gave us a travel allowance but I was happy to pay the extra $60 just to treat myself to the steak sandwiches from room service and to eat at the Library, a place that for me became a haven outside of time, the twilight zone between the normal world and the world of war in occupied Iraq.

On my way into Iraq, I would enjoy the exquisite Chateaubriand steak and a few glasses of red wine knowing that this might be my last decent meal before getting slotted by a terrorist. On my way out, I would enjoy the same ritual, knowing that I had cheated death again and arrived back in civilisation with fine dining and bubble baths after months of appalling food and dribbling cold showers.

The hotel receptionist was looking at me with a puzzled expression. I was miles away.

‘Two a.m., sir,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Your message from Mohammed. He will meet you in the lobby at two o’clock in the morning, sir.’

‘ Shukran ,’ I mumbled, and went upstairs to lie fully clothed on the bed. It was already getting on for midnight. No point unpacking. I had enjoyed my steak and a few drinks in the bar. The Amman Marriott illustrated perfectly the Middle East. The Library with its leather chairs and the smell of polish belonged to the colonial past. The Sports Bar with its chrome and high stools was 100 per cent Americana.

At one-thirty my alarm went off. I felt like a dead man. I called room service and ordered a sandwich, a coffee and a large bottle of water, then lay back down again. Twenty minutes later a knock at the door woke me and a waiter brought in my order. I gave him a 10JD note and he seemed happy enough as I shushed him out of the room. Christ, I was tired. I felt as if I had been run over by a bus.

I wrapped the sandwich and stuffed it into my daysack with the bottle of water and complimentary fruit basket. That was lunch sorted. I downed the cup of coffee with three sugars. That was breakfast taken care of. I grabbed my bags and headed down to reception to check out. One other Westerner was already down there. I knew from Angus that two of us would be crossing the border into Iraq that day.

He eyed me for a moment, then stepped forward to shake hands.

‘Les Trevellick,’ he said.

He had a firm, dry grip, fierce blue eyes and close-cropped hair silver-tipped at the sides. I guessed he was in his early forties but he looked younger with the kind of fitness that you see in good career soldiers. I imagined he could run all day, probably ran the London marathon every year, but at the same time he had a solid chest, shoulders and forearms that said anyone who stepped into the boxing ring with him was going to have his work cut out. He was clean-shaven and was wearing jeans with army desert boots and a fleece.

‘James Ashcroft,’ I replied.

He looked me up and down. I don’t know what he saw but if I looked half as bad as I felt, it was not impressive. I hadn’t shaved or changed in two days and had slept in the clothes I had been wearing on two flights. I looked and felt like a sack of dirty laundry.