There was also a deeply sinister presence overshadowing the border post: the threat of Islamic State extremists. It meant Turkish military hardware was on hand, and stationed in depth, in case the jihadis tried to stream across. The barbed wire had been strengthened recently, and there were new CCTV cameras covering all the crossings. Several men loitered around, probably Turkish intelligence staff, gathering whatever they could find. Myles tried to avoid them all.
Getting to Galla Security near An Nukhayb involved crossing from the benign Kurdish-dominated northern part of Iraq to the much more volatile western area, where Islamic State held sway. Anbar Province was dominated by Sunni Arabs, who had a reputation for taking up arms against the Americans and, more recently, official government forces. The west of Iraq was wild.
Myles was taken by the lorry driver into Iraq and as far as Zakho, the border town in the north. There he found a pool of long-distance drivers all working for firms which had won large contracts from USAID, the American international development agency. One of these was driving to Al Kut, and offered to pass him to someone else driving towards Jordan. Myles accepted, and the driver duly did as he promised. In return for what the driver called, in broken English, Myles’ ‘honourable nature’, he gave Myles some water and much appreciated food — chunks of chicken meat in pitta bread sandwiches.
The last lorry driver was a former dentist from Mosul called Mustafa, who had four children. He took Myles to the outskirts of An Nukhayb where he wished Myles farewell with three cups of tea, consumed by the busy roadside. Myles tried to be as generous as he could in return, although he had nothing to repay him with other than good company.
After shaking hands with Mustafa, and watching as his lorry drove away on the dusty tarmac highway, Myles walked along the road, conscious that his height, skin and features marked him out as a Westerner. Anyone wanting to act out their grudge with America might see him as a legitimate target.
But again, Myles was lucky, or at least it seemed that way. He was able to walk for more than a mile without any attacks or other violence from vehicles passing by. He also found the place he was looking for. Corralled by an unfinished breeze-block wall which defined the very large perimeter for the site, Myles could see the buildings and the offices of Galla Security in front of him. He wondered whether the premises had ever been inspected by a government official and guessed they probably hadn’t.
It was from here that someone at Galla Security had sabotaged his computer.
Myles sensed much worse things had been done here, too.
Forty-Nine
Myles paused to survey the outside of Galla Security. Built on the edge of the town, the site seemed to consist of a few low buildings by the road, then a long and fairly thin sliver of land leading off into the desert. The breeze-blocks which defined the perimeter were unpainted and uneven. Myles guessed the whole structure was less than three months old.
He pondered climbing into the site, but it was daytime, and he suspected there would be security cameras. Even if he waited until dusk, it looked as though there was no cover inside the breeze-block walls except the buildings themselves. Breaking into the premises without being caught would be far harder than the factory in Germany — and he had been caught there.
Myles brushed the dust from his clothes which had been gathering since he entered Iraq. He pulled his collar taut and tucked in his shirt, trying to hide the tatters on one side. Unusually for Myles, he wanted to look smart, even though there was little he could do about it.
He walked on towards the metal front door of the walled compound. There he found a small plastic button connected to a painted wire leading inside. He pressed it firmly.
After a few seconds he heard a sharp voice with a thick Arabic accent. ‘What is it?’
Myles cleared his throat. ‘Er, hello? I’d like to have a look at your premises.’
‘American?’ queried the voice.
‘English.’
There was a pause. Myles eventually heard the squeak and clank of a gate opening in one of the buildings. Footsteps, then the metal of a bolt was slid back, and the door in the perimeter wall was opened enough for a face to push through. The man looked aggressive, and had an AK-47 on his shoulder. Myles could tell the man wasn’t local. He looked East African. Myles guessed he was from Somalia, like Juma.
‘Hello,’ said Myles, trying to be respectful. ‘I’d like to look around your site.’
The Somali guard clearly understood but didn’t know what to make of the request. ‘You want to hire our security men?’
‘I may need you for some work,’ lied Myles. He tried to look as agreeable as he could.
The guard still looked sceptical. ‘You are alone?’
‘Yes, I am alone.’
The guard peered behind Myles to confirm he was telling the truth. There was no car waiting for Myles, and no burly mercenaries with their weapons poised. Although this made things safer for the guard, it also made him more suspicious. The Somali gunman frowned and squinted at Myles, noting his tattered clothes. The man was wondering whether Myles was mad or just naive to travel in this part of Iraq without protection.
The Somali decided to frisk Myles for weapons. Myles held his hands up, so the guard could pat him down and, once he was satisfied Myles was unarmed, allow him through the metal gate. Myles had to duck his head to get inside.
Ahead of him was a newly built office building. The security guard led Myles to a walk-through metal scanner, which wasn’t working. Hardly the grand entrance of a major security company…
Then Myles was invited to sit in a reception area. There he was brought tea, heavily laden with sugar, by another Somali-looking man, who soon disappeared again. The security guard seemed to lose interest in Myles, too, focussing once more on the perimeter gate.
Myles waited. Several minutes passed. As he drank his tea, Myles wondered if he was being ignored or forgotten. But the tea was very refreshing. Myles realised there was no reason to hurry his hosts for their attention.
On the table in front of him was a brochure. Myles picked it up and started browsing.
It was the company report for Galla Security. He flicked through the pages. The document had been produced cheaply, and probably printed locally. Myles saw the posed photographs of security guards aiming their guns into the distance, as if they were defending against an unseen foe. In poorly translated English, it listed ‘Services Offered By Us’:
Protecting People
Protecting Sites
Other Services
For this third category, clients were invited to telephone a number or send an email with their request, explaining what their ‘other service’ was. All prices were negotiable.
Myles flicked to the back, where there was some detail on ‘company information’. It said that Galla Security was certified by a trade association. There was a poor quality close-up of a signature, with the name of an official underneath. The document seemed to imply that this was a sufficient guarantee of quality. Then there was a reference to the ‘Alliance of Iraqi Private Security Firms’. Apparently Galla Security was owned by this conglomerate.
Myles logged the information in his mind. The amateurish nature of Galla Security was oddly comforting. It made the firm seem genuine. And that made his question more puzzling: Why would someone from this firm upload files onto his computer? And how would people here get the information in the first place — information about a Special Forces raid into Libya?
Myles turned back again to look at the security guard. Myles could easily imagine the man was connected with Juma.