No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  I had done my bit for Queen and Country many times and survived. This war was for those who hadn't experienced it in the past. If they had, then they would have had reservations about it. Yes, I was quite comfortable trying to make a living off the back of war, this time around.

  One morning while I was in the office working on a proposal that might lead to equipping and training an Anti-Terrorist Force for one of the United Arab Emirates, I got a call from Tosh Ferris, another old para friend of mine who was working out of Saudi Arabia as an arms dealer. A good business to be in at the time. I hadn't seen Tosh for a couple of years since he moved away but we still kept in regular contact by phone. He said that he was in London with an 'Arab acquaintance'; could we meet for lunch? He suggested a meet in The Red Lion pub, Waverton Street.

  Tosh and his Arab friend were already there up at the bar, a pint waiting for me. The other guy was a Mr Nassar Al-Khalhaif, a Kuwaiti who had recently escaped from his country. I took in his appearance: about mid-40s, greyish hair, quite tall, distinguished looking. Surprisingly, he was dressed in a suit and not in the Arab dish dash and yashmak, the traditional white one-piece gown and headgear. I hadn't got long to talk so I quickly finished my pint and arranged to meet them both later in Olivers, a downstairs bar on the corner of South Audley and Mount streets. There we would be able to talk discreetly about whatever they wanted to discuss — in fact, I'd adopted this bar as my second office. I gathered from Tosh's earlier conversation that he wanted me to do something with Mr Nassar Al-Khalhaif. I took it to be business of, shall we say, a delicate nature.

  There were a lot of Arabs around London at this time, more so than usual, even though this was the traditional time for people from the Middle East to come on holiday. What's more, the Iraqi Embassy was just around the corner from the office and one never knew who was watching or listening in. Someone like Tosh arriving in the country with a Kuwaiti, whom I knew nothing about, and pitching up in the middle of Mayfair, might have attracted attention from certain agencies who might have been watching the area for 'known players' or 'suspect faces'.

  It was always amusing to come out of the office at any time of the day and spot the 'Dick Dastardlies' waiting in cars, trying to look like chauffeurs and to blend into the ritzy setting in which they were trying to operate. Mayfair was, and still is, full of foreign security and private agents working on surveillance operations on anyone who was wearing a goatee, or who had a gold pen sticking out of their top pocket. It was a strange but exciting time. This part of London could easily have been a spies' training camp.

  Once I bumped into an old friend walking down Curzon Street who I knew was still in the Regiment. We made eye contact but he turned away without acknowledging me, without doubt on a job. The last thing I wanted to do was to compromise him, or his operation, so I followed suit.

  Tosh and I talked about old times and what each of us was up to now. I was wary of anything slightly Arab back then. Not because of prejudice but because I was still suffering from the large self-induced shot of 'Arab bollocks' over the gas mask deal and I was not particularly keen to repeat that kind of experience just to appease Tosh or his guest.

  In business, many people can sit down with a prospective client and talk all kinds of shite. I couldn't and I still can't. To me, it's like a ritual that people get themselves tied up in. A lot of people just like to hear the sound of their own voice, telling the other person how great they are. They are basically ego-stroking each other until they both feel comfortable that each knows the other's weaknesses before they get down to talking about their real purpose. My style is more:

  'Yes I can do it.'

  'It will cost this much.'

  'I can do it when you want.'

  That's a rather simplistic way of putting it, but I tend to do a body swerve around all the other bollocks if I can.

  Initially I was afraid that Tosh had introduced me to another Charles Von Douttenberg, and at that time, my time was at a premium. I was essentially a one-man band. Forester had no idea of the business he'd got himself involved in, and it was hard for him to work on this UAE project that needed my full attention because he knew nothing about the subject of Anti-Terrorism. So early on in the evening and out of earshot of the Kuwaiti, I had a quiet word with Tosh and asked him if he had made any money from any business the two of them had done. He said yes, lots of it; their particular contract was still ongoing and was worth well over two million American dollars. That was good enough for me. At least he was a player, not a time-waster.

  I have known guys who've chased after wealth, especially Arab wealth. They have been wined and dined by them, experiencing the high-life only the very wealthy could afford, then been 'fucked off at the airport when their use finally came to an end, never hearing from their contact again, and usually a lot worse off mentally and financially. Not even a sniff of a contract. So I was pretty cautious. Answering a question and then asking one.

  Tosh had told him I was ex-SAS and that my mates were probably going to play a major part in the retaking of his country. Nassar seemed to like being associated with all this Special Forces talk, and in turn told me and Tosh how he had escaped from Kuwait with his family a couple of weeks after the Iraqi invasion. Taken at face value, Nassar was a nice guy, very articulate, with better English than most Brits I know. I immediately warmed to him. However, much to my concern, he openly came out with the fact that all his Kuwait bank accounts had been frozen due to the invasion.

  Despite that, over the next few weeks I got to know Nassar pretty well. Tosh had gone back to Saudi but Nassar stayed in London. After all, he and his family, his wife and young son, had no country to go back to. They owned a large flat near Hyde Park and that was where he stayed. At least once a week he would call me up and we would arrange to meet up for a beer or play roulette at top London casinos such as Le Ambassadeurs Club, Palm Beach or The Rendezvous, then next to the Park Lane Hilton. He would play and I would watch. He couldn't have been that short of money with the amounts he gambled. When someone like me says they have no money, that's about the size of it. I might just have a few quid in my pocket. But when someone like Nassar says that, what he really means is that he is down to his last million or billion, you can never tell which.

  Often when we met I would ask him about Kuwait and what he thought the outcome would be. He didn't really want to talk about it. I later found out why. He'd lost a brother in the first week of the invasion, the Iraqis had shot him dead. In fact, the Iraqis shot a lot of Kuwaitis dead for no special reason during their seven-month occupation. There were a lot of human tragedies happening there, most of which were never reported in the West and some still haven't been written about. I still find it hard to believe that even today there are well over 600 Kuwaitis being held prisoner in Iraqi jails — if you can call them that in and around Baghdad.

  I learned a lot from Nassar, especially about the way Arabs are and how they conduct business. We all have this perception of back-handers openly being passed around for being awarded a certain contract or favour. This is their way, but it's not only the way of the Arabs. It's the way of many cultures, both in the Middle East and the Far East.

  Here in the UK we still haven't learnt that. I think sometimes we Brits frown on this open method of winning business. Of course it's done, but it's done under rather than over the table. That's obvious — if you are caught 'on the take', then you're looked upon as some kind of villain. Why? I don't really know, because we all like cash every now and then. There is something excitingly sinister about the whole affair when you are handed a wad of vacuum-packed nifties in a brown envelope. It makes you think you've got one up on someone, or that you are getting something for free. But you haven't. It's just what you are owed. Nothing more, nothing less.

  9

  THE UAE AND THE GULF WAR

  I n early 1991 the anti-terrorist contract I had been pursuing so hard for months looked more likely to come to fruition. My contact, a well-connect
ed (by family ties) serving officer in the UAE Armed Forces, had received a signal that I and one other (an ex-SAS officer) had been invited by the Government of the UAE to attend a series of meetings with their MOD to give a presentation of the project.

  I knew the ex-SAS officer well. He was an old friend, but more than that, he was one of those rare officers who knew all the aspects of the anti-terrorist team task, from the ground level right up to talking turkey at ministerial level, since he had worked his way up through the ranks. Someone of high rank was very important to gain credibility with the UAE. In a game of poker, a Smith and Wesson will always beat four aces; just so, a colonel will beat a corporal. That's life, I know my place at the trough!

  This was by far the most exciting piece of news I had received for a long time. To be officially invited by the Government was a giant step in the right direction. What's more, our company was the only one in the running. I'd heard that the client had two other prices from competitors but they were well over the top, even though the cost of my contract reached well into millions of pounds over the designated period, two years.

  There are only a limited amount of guys trained in this particular field. They all happen to be ex-SAS/SBS men, and since they are few and far between, most are always in high demand. It's very hard to prise them out of their current employment without a firm offer of a contract. This was the problem for our competitors. They didn't really have the 'in' — a personal contact with these guys — as perhaps I did. Another factor was that our competitors would have no other option but to supply the exact same guys as I was. The client knew this, so he had a rough idea of the going rate that would entice them. Our edge was that we had small overheads and were very keen for the business.

  I flew out and spent almost a month in a hotel waiting to give my presentation. Every day we would get a message to stand by to go to the MOD and every day it was eventually cancelled, and never before seven o'clock in the evening. The excuse was that the Minister was over in Saudi Arabia attending the Allied Forces War Cabinet. This was more than a pain in the arse because I could not venture very far from the hotel, just in case I got the call.

  At one point I was invited to meet with the current Anti-Terrorist Team, the one we were hopefully going to train. In the past they had been trained by the Regiment, so when I got there I was greeted by the commander, a Brigadier, who introduced me to the team and went on to show me a complete demonstration and an equipment lay-out of all their kit. This was really interesting because it was very similar to what one would have seen back in Hereford, when it was demonstrated for VIPs and such like. As none of the other companies had been allowed this demonstration, I began to feel optimistic about the whole thing.

  Meanwhile, however, things were really heating up. Every day the news carried speculative items concerning possible attacks on Iraq and there was talk of liberating Kuwait with a massive air and ground assault by the Coalition Forces. It was a strange time for me, sitting back in my hotel, watching the news, secretly knowing that my mates were probably on the ground carrying out intelligence-gathering operations. I had a gut feeling that the Regiment was working on the ground over in Iraq, but I couldn't be sure.

  As the days passed, I was getting increasingly impatient about whether I was going to meet with the Ministers, since their priorities were becoming obvious. They had a possible war to fight and were probably not too interested in this contract at the moment. I'd asked the Ministry if I should come back at a later time rather than hang about waiting for a meeting that, in my opinion, was not going to take place. All I got back was the polite suggestion that I wasn't to leave the country. I took that to mean 'would not be allowed'. I believed that they were still very serious about the contract, however, it felt worrying that I was in some way held here in the Middle East. I was not too sure if it was against my will or not, and I didn't push the point. To a degree it made me feel important and gave some weight to the seriousness of their need for my services.

  On the morning of 25 February 1991 I was told to keep the afternoon free; a car would be picking me up from my hotel. I had been called to give a full presentation of my contract to the 'Big Cheese', the UAE Armed Forces Minister — an unusual request in the sense that at all other times I'd been told 'not today, maybe tomorrow'. This got my mind in gear. This time I might get the chance to present my case.

  The car picked me up on time and I was driven at speed through the city and into the MOD, met by an armed captain carrying a loaded H&K MP5, then escorted to the war bunker. Tight security had been commonplace since I had been 'in country', but today the security forces seemed to be in a higher state of alertness than normal. Hundreds of armed soldiers were running about the place. What they were up to was anyone's guess. I was almost expecting the air raid sirens to burst into life any moment. The last time I saw so many armed Arabs was in the film Lawrence of Arabia .

  Inside the air-conditioned complex the usual military personnel were bustling around with an air of urgency. I was taken to an empty briefing room with a table that could seat 30 or so, a pencil and paper at each seat. There was a podium and screen to the front; no windows; food and soft drinks had been laid on. Very clinical.

  I waited for about 20 minutes before UAE officers in combat uniform and other men in dish dashes started to fill the room. That gave me time to think what I was going to say. I'd had almost three weeks to get my presentation right but this little extra time was beginning to fill my stomach with anxiety. I tend to work off the back of a cigarette packet and make decisions on the hoof. All this pre-presentation stuff, I thought, hasn't done me any great favours. Then the Minister made his entrance, immaculately turned out as one would expect. All seated stood immediately, and I got the impression that he was life and death in this Emirate. So this was the main man. The man who, indirectly, had suggested I not leave the country for a bit. I immediately recognised him as the brother of an Arab prince I'd been bodyguarding a year earlier. The brother had a fantastic place in Knightsbridge and this guy had visited him on a couple of occasions. I'd no idea that this chap was indeed the brother of the Prince and realised I hadn't stopped to find out about this man. With so much to think about, contract detail and all that, I'd forgotten to research the main man; a very big mistake on my part if he recognised me.

  I composed myself and started the presentation. Most of the time I addressed the Minister, wondering if he did recognise me. He didn't appear to, but then his mind must have been very full, with the pending Allied attack on Kuwait and Iraq.

  I'd been told to keep the presentation down to about 40 minutes, which I did, though the question-and-answer session went on for another 40 or so. I gave it my best shot. I knew exactly what I was talking about, I felt confident, and certainly the Minister and his people seemed to be happy. Their questions, mainly tactical ones, were spot on and, surprisingly, there were no bone questions.

  A couple of years earlier, when still in the SAS, I had given a similar presentation on the Anti-Terrorist Team, this time about demolitions and weapons to a group of visiting VIPs, government ministers and suchlike. I'd finished my talk and went into the usual routine of asking them if they had any questions. It all went quiet and I was thanked by the Armed Forces Minister for an interesting talk and that, I thought, was that, when one of these 'chaps' came through with a real bone question. At first I thought he was joking, but as he was in the presence of his boss I realised he was deadly serious. He wanted to know what the trigger pressure was on my MP5. There is always at least one who has to hear his own voice. What a doughnut! I didn't have a clue what my trigger pressure was. I got out of it by saying that because I was heavy handed, it was 20 pounds. That got a laugh all round, and it came across as though this 'chap' shouldn't have asked the question in the first place. Unfortunately, I got the dagger look from the Brigadier. Hell, how was I to know? The question should have been fired at an armourer, not at someone whose only concern should be, 'Is this weapon reliable?' 'Do
es it go "Bang" when I squeeze the trigger?' and 'How many rounds can I fire through it before it starts to melt?'

  Had I got the contract? I couldn't tell, but I knew it would be wishful thinking to expect some sort of positive response later that evening. In general, Arabs take an incredible amount of time to make up their minds on almost anything, in particular when they are parting with their well-earned fluus (Arabic for money), even when buying a pair of sandals.

  All that was said was that a decision would be made very shortly and I was booked on the Emirates flight leaving later that night. It was all very abrupt and matter-of-fact, as though they wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible.

  I was tamping! I knew they had a war to sort out, but I had spent months preparing for this pitch and it was all going tits up, big style. But there was frig all I could do. Shit happens, and here I was, part of it.

  At about midnight we finally took off. On reflection, I was a bit sad to leave. I've always liked the Middle East and now wondered when I would return. At the same time, I was aware of a strange urge to be on the ground several hundred miles north of here.

  'Bong.' Someone behind me had pushed the cabin crew button and a good-looking, black-haired stewardess hung over the back of my seat. Then I thought, No, this is a much better place to be, as I viewed her slim waist out of my peripheral vision.

  'Can I have a glass of water, too, please?' I said.

  'Yes, of course. Sparkling or still?'

  'Still please, thanks.'

  She was nice. Two minutes later she was back with my request.