No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  'Now listen, Steve, did you get all the money?'

  'Yes, yes, relax will you? Everything went alright, look — here it is. For Christ's sake, try and be a bit respectful in front of Nassar, after all he is my contact and he did set up this deal.'

  'You can never be too careful with clients. Trust me, I've dealt with a lot of them in my time. Come on, let's have a look at the money.'

  I handed over the envelope. He started to count the cash.

  'You're not going to count it here are you? I've checked it. It's all there.'

  'I know, I just want to be sure. Watch the door, there's a good chap. Did you get a receipt?'

  'Christ, no! What do you think? It's a cash deal, you think I'm going to ask for one, then …'

  'Oh, very well then.'

  Forester always sounded like he was talking down to me — he could be very patronising in the 'old school' sort of way. When we returned to the group, I caught Nassar's eye. He knew that something embarrassing was about to come from Forester, so with his own very clever use of English, he tried to steer Forester away from saying anything which might make Nassar lose face in this company.

  'Mr Forester, are you OK? You look as if you could do with a drink; whiskey fine for you?' he said.

  'No, thank you, Nassar, I'm fine. Have a train to catch at half past the hour.'

  Nassar's intervention seemed to have avoided any unnecessary embarrassment for the moment. If you understand just one thing about the Arabs, it's this: causing a loss of face is about the biggest insult you can give them.

  I didn't understand Forester's problem. He was on the brink of financial disaster, yet was just about to screw up a 'two-phone-call' deal and more business in the future. In addition, it had basically been handed to me on a plate, as a gift from Nassar, and not to the company. It was my choice to put the deal through the company. All this looming catastrophe, just because Forester had not received a receipt!

  Then it happened. Forester asked for a receipt in a way unique to an arrogant Englishman speaking to a foreigner. The reply was short and sharp.

  'Mr Forester. You have your money; Mr Nassar assures me that my equipment is in a bonded warehouse at Heathrow,' said the General. He spoke in a clipped educated English accent. A two-second pause was left before he resumed. It was obvious that he was going to continue talking and that he was not waiting for a reply from Forester.

  'Now, if you would excuse me.'

  He got up. This prompted all of us to rise, shake hands and exchange nods of the head to acknowledge everyone's part in the deal. Then the three Arabs moved off in the direction of the bar. I had a short conversation with Forester, who muttered some sort of comment about how the Arabs do business, said he would see me in the office tomorrow and scurried out of the hotel to deposit the cash, I assumed, into the company bank account and then catch the train home. Then I joined the Arabs. My obvious embarrassment about the way Forester had acted was alleviated by the General's comment:

  'Don't worry, Mr Steve. You are amongst friends now.'

  It was not until a few months later that I realised the real meaning of what he actually said.

  I hoped that this entire episode had not affected my relationship with Nassar. He was, for sure, a 'main player' and in some way I saw my future with him. Not in the immediate term — he had his own personal family and business problems to sort out — but certainly in the long term.

  Apart from that little deal, I was working with Nassar, through the company, on a potential contract of mine-clearing the blown oil wells in Kuwait. Nassar had jacked up meetings for us to attend with the KPC (Kuwait Petroleum Corporation) management at their London offices.

  This was a contract which Kuwait urgently needed. Nassar's offices there hadn't been touched by the Iraqis during the occupation, so all that was needed to run the admin side of a project like this was already in place. The only problem we had (or should I say Nassar had) was to jack up these meetings with KPC and convince them that 'we' could do the job. Certainly I could call on the experts, ex-Royal Engineers and the like, to make the contract work. The equipment needed was not a problem, I had already begun to source it from manufacturers, and since Nassar's family name carried a lot of clout in Kuwait, the potential of pulling off a great job and making money was there.

  Our point of attack was not to convince KPC that we were the answers to all of their problems, but, more to the point, that we could clear the routes to selected well-heads, those deemed by KPC to require the most urgent attention. In short, the ones that were spewing out most of the oil. Nassar had a friend on the ground in Kuwait who was constantly feeding us with real-time intelligence on what progress was being made. These reports reached us on a daily basis, so, for example, we were some of the first to know about the Kuwaiti soldier who nonchalantly strolled up to one of the oil wells that was gushing out thousands of dollars of crude an hour and just turned it off.

  Things were looking good after the two initial meetings with KPC. I'd contacted an old mine-clearance friend and persuaded him to attend the third meeting to give his technical opinion on how to tackle the mine problem. He even gave some good ideas on the shutting down of those well-heads that had buckled and fractured castings, as a result of Iraqi plastic explosive charges detonating on them.

  I could tell that KPC were impressed. Nassar had obviously done a great job in convincing them that we could do the job as claimed. For my part, I had convinced Nassar I could carry out my side of the operation. That was to supply a team of eight suitably qualified EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) men and all the associated equipment needed to carry out the task competently. The only thing I wanted assurance on from Nassar, was that the team would have suitable living accommodation when on the ground, by which I meant that there would be a bed, clean water and something to eat. The guys in the team were a flexible bunch, not overly concerned about creature comforts, and their request was only for the basics that soldiers need to operate with. Anyway, the fee they were to be paid more than compensated for roughing it a bit.

  It was a 12-week contract, which meant that we would have a foot on the ground and, for sure, were likely to win more work. The potential worth of further work, Nassar costed out, was well over ten million US dollars. Meanwhile, one more meeting with the cheque-signer for KPC would secure our little contract. This was a very exciting time, not only for me but for Forester, who could see the pound signs, and, of course, for Nassar, who was actually doing something as a Kuwaiti on behalf of Kuwait.

  Not long after the liberation, John Major visited the Amir of Kuwait, in Kuwait. I remember so well watching the TV and listening to his speech about how the UK would help rebuild Kuwait. Here I was for the first time not actually being involved in a British war with my generation of soldiers but about to become very wealthy off the back of it. This I reckoned to be a first, because as far as I was aware, most of those who make money from any war this country gets involved in are those with a shareholding in government-sanctioned manufacturers of military equipment (probably owned or partly owned by past members of Parliament or the aristocracy), or those in the know as to just what military contracts the Government was to award to whom, and when.

  The office phone rang at the same time John Major started discussing the problems of mines. It was Nassar: was I watching the Major report? I was. Then suddenly I was gobsmacked when our Prime Minister stated that Royal Ordnance, part of British Aerospace, was to be awarded the British section of the mine-clearance contract for Kuwait. This just about knocked all the stuffing out of me. It was the first time I had heard that Royal Ordnance, the former state-owned munitions manufacturer, was in the running. Of course I had heard about other mine-clearance companies trying to bid for part of the obvious contract, but they were not after our patch. They had been working through their own different contacts and channels.

  In short, Royal Ordnance, who at that time were not geared up in the business of mine clearance, had just been awar
ded a contract worth well over £60 million to clear the designated British sector in Kuwait. The only thing Royal Ordnance knew about mines at the time was how to make them and not how to clear and destroy them. The entire episode was a farce.

  Sometime later, Royal Ordnance invited us up to their HQ for a brief on the way ahead. I didn't go. I knew exactly what the format of this briefing would take. 'We have the contract and if you want to play ball, then you listen and do what we tell you to do' would be their attitude.

  I was right. Forester came back from that meeting pretty much pissed off, confirming what I thought. No independent company was going to get a look-in. If we wanted to work for Royal Ordnance it would have to be on their terms. There was to be no subbing of any part of the contract. All those who wanted to work on it would have to work under the umbrella of Royal Ordnance, and, indeed, would be contracted to Royal Ordnance. That was that.

  All that hard work and running around, knowing that we could've done a great job, was in vain. At the time, every ex-Royal Engineer who was involved with mine clearance as a profession came out with the same old phrase: 'Royal Ordnance has no idea or experience in how to clear mines.' They were as shell-shocked as the rest of us.

  I didn't relish the task I had in front of me but it had to be done. I had to tell the ex-REs lined up for our contract that if they wanted a piece of the action in Kuwait, they had to give Royal Ordnance a call. I gave them the number. Most of them did and most of them worked over in Kuwait. Some of the stories that filtered back through 'rumour control' were startling to say the least.

  It doesn't take the brains of an archbishop to know that if you have such a large mine-clearance team as Royal Ordnance put out on the ground (well over 200 men), then you are going to get problems. Lots of 'em.

  Although I'm no expert on mine clearance (the closest I've come to detecting live mines was when my platoon inadvertently walked through a minefield in the Falklands War), I have extensive practical training in explosives and booby traps and in their making, finding and detonation. Most British infantry soldiers are trained in some form of mine-clearance techniques, mainly the prodding method. This is where you prod, or rather push a rod (preferably nonmetallic) down about a few inches into the ground in front of you. It used to be your personal bayonet! You do this at about a 30-degree angle until you feel something solid. It's a very slow process but good enough to get across a mine-field (if you're lucky!) What I do have is a practical knowledge of the problems a bunch of highly trained men, working together in a 'live' environment with just the basics of equipment, will encounter.

  Reading the progress reports on how the Kuwait job was coming along, it seemed to me that those ultimately in charge of the operation had forgotten a fundamental thing: 'You've gotta keep the boys happy.' We all like to be stroked once in a while, otherwise you end up with bags of rat shit in the end. Especially if you bluffed your way into the contract in the first place and all your employed experts knew that.

  Some days after John Major had given us the 'good news', I was debating what course I should take. Nassar offered an all-expenses-paid trip over to Kuwait, saying there were to be no guarantees but the potential was, on a scale of one to ten, about six and a half. This was a test for me. Forester and Cadogan were not going to be around for much longer if we didn't get any business. We were still waiting to hear back from the Middle East, reference the Anti-Terrorist contract.

  Every week a phone call was made but we didn't get any further. They were still waiting to see the ashes of the war settle down. It could have been, as I told Forester, another year before we even heard from them. He knew I was probably right.

  The Gulf War and Saddam had screwed up our chances of getting that contract, and subsequently our own Prime Minister had screwed up our chances of getting the KPC job! All we ever wanted was four well-heads to clear. KPC had agreed to that, but their government did not. From two potential multi-million dollar contracts to nothing; it was a great let-down. The company had a lot of potential but by now it was sliding down a very slippery road. I enjoyed the work and the buzz that this job gave me, of earning potentially more than just the flat rate, but the situation was getting very serious.

  What to do? My choice was to stay with Forester. I have never been one to chop and change. Forester had given me the break to be the Ops man for Cadogan, so the least I could do was see us both through this shitty period. Getting the company up and running was a challenge to me. It certainly had the 'legs' for it to work and I was keen for both of us to succeed.

  During the next few weeks the finances of the company didn't get any better.

  Forester had rather extended himself on all fronts. I knew that things were tight, because a few months before we had to give up much of the first floor to another company and move upstairs into the attic of the building.

  One evening in June, when we were just about to leave the office, Forester suddenly broke down in front of me. It was a total surprise. I was really taken aback to have this self-proclaimed 'seen it, done it, doing it tomorrow' businessman in floods of tears, telling me how his young wife was having an affair with another man, and how he was forced to live upstairs in their big house in Hertfordshire whilst she got on with things.

  His performance was outstanding. It deserved an Oscar. I don't know to this day if it was an act or the true thing. I was sure Forester was too hard to break down in front of me. What threw me completely was when he said he felt that he couldn't go on. 'I'll put a gun to my head,' he said. At the time I thought he was ready to meet his Maker, for sure.

  I couldn't make sense of it all. It was the first time in my life that I'd met a man openly saying he'd had enough and was ready to pull the trigger. It was a weakness I hadn't perceived in him. With hindsight I should have picked up on this much earlier, but I didn't.

  Nonetheless, I had to admit that Forester had some 'neck'. Maybe it's the way the rest of us have been brought up: accept your weaknesses; try and work around them and if you can, learn from your mistakes; then use them to your advantage. Don't just brush them under the carpet and kid yourself, 'I didn't really fuck up there. Did I? Yes I did, but I'm not going to admit it to any fucker.'

  Anyway, a saviour, if that's the right word, for the company (and indeed for Forester as a man) was just around the corner, in the form of an ex-Royal Marine Officer called Alistair Douglas. Alistair had been living in Africa with his wife since leaving 'the Corps', but I'd met him on two occasions when he'd visited London. He ran a small but select security company specialising mainly in surveillance and counter-surveillance services to wealthy clients and corporations. They had to be wealthy to afford his fees, and from what I could make out from Alistair, there seemed to be no shortage of work over in East Africa for this type of service. Certainly I offered the same type of service, but no way could I command the sorts of fees which Alistair asked for, and generally got.

  At the time the London market offering this sort of skill was awash with all sorts of 'Walters' offering electronic kits to clients, claiming that they could do almost anything. Once a few big companies and businessmen had been suckered by these types, it made getting business even harder.

  A couple of times I was approached and asked if I could do certain things, such as break into an office, and de- and re-bug a certain room and area, or install a surveillance team to watch the so-called 'dubious goings on' of a particular individual. Of course, this could all be done at a price, but when many clients heard it they were shocked at how high it would be. It sometimes shocked me , once I'd worked out how many men and how much equipment I would need to carry out even the easiest of surveillance tasks. And, of course, no results could ever be guaranteed. At least, not the sorts of results the client was looking for most of the time.

  The movie industry has a lot to answer for as regards its portrayal of the world of surveillance. If you believe cop films and TV series, you would side with the client in thinking that just one covert operator s
itting in a vehicle for a couple of hours was all that was required to pick up and follow the potential target without getting compromised. This, of course, was far from the truth. For an operation like this, you need many experienced bods on the ground with all sorts of vehicles and equipment, all properly briefed on what was what and what to do 'in the event of' (commonly known in the trade as 'actions on'). It's manpower-intensive and in and around big cities such as London, it's even harder, and very costly.

  On one very memorable occasion I had just given a wealthy client (who had more money than you could shake a stick at) my costings for a five-day surveillance operation to follow two slippery customers of his. He was thinking of going ahead, then gasped at the final figure. Why was it so high, he demanded. Actually the price was costed to get any other business he might have wanted to put the company's way, so it was far from unrealistic. In fact, his shock shocked me . The only thing I could think of as a suitable reply was to ask, 'Sir, have you ever heard of a TV programme called The Rockford Files? It's an old American series about an ex-cop turned private eye, Jim Rockford.'

  'Yes, of course. What's your point?' His reply was sharp, slightly arrogant. He was still looking down at my prices. Not once did he look up. I sensed no change in his irritation.

  'Well, his charges were $200 a day plus expenses, and that was back in the 1970s.' I waited for his reply. I had tried to inject a bit of humour into the meeting.

  He kept me standing whilst still looking over my document. I remember thinking, God, I hate the feeling of being in the hands of someone else. The company needed this contract and I didn't want to blow it, but being so subservient reminded me of being a raw recruit back in the Paras on pay-day, having to queue up and thank the officer for my wages, which I (and the rest of the platoon) had more than earned.