Phobia-Iraq-Love Trilogy Tale

26. Behind the Moustache - Kurd Country

"Hello Mr Peter," I heard through the heavy black bakelite handpiece that I held nervously to my ear. "My name is Kak Barcode (name changed to protect identity). What time will I pick you up tomorrow morning from your hotel?" the voice was upbeat and filled with enthusiasm. 

I paused to digest this new reality. I suddenly felt threatened and uncomfortable. It felt like I was being watched - like someone knew my every move. I had been travelling alone for several days up until this point through foreign lands, but now someone knew the precise moment I had entered the hotel. Who would know that I had just arrived in Baghdad and had just checked into this hotel? How did they know? The next day was Friday which I had been told was the Islamic weekend, so I was expecting a day of relaxation at the hotel preparing for my travel north on Saturday. Who was this person, I wondered? 

The voice sensing my pause continued. "I am your UNDP driver, Mr Peter. I am driving you to Erbil."  

I relaxed. I was not an unsuspecting character in a spy novel after all, merely being gently enveloped into the waiting hands of UNDP operations. My journey north must somehow have been rescheduled for the following day. I tried to collect my thoughts in a tired mind.  

"How about 8 o'clock?" I queried cautiously. 

"Very well Mr Peter, goodnight." The phone went dead.

With the room devoid of a mini bar, telephone and TV, and in the absence of credit cards, check-out was a simple and straightforward affair. Thirty three dollars in US currency underneath my room key on the reception desk was all that was required and I was on my way. Manuel who was back on the job, or who had been on the job all night - it was difficult to distinguish - helped me load my belongings, with as much disinterest as the previous evening, into a white Nissan Patrol which had arrived in the lane outside the hotel punctually at eight - emblazoned with UNDP insignia. Mr Barcode, donning a livery of dark blue pants and a light blue open neck shirt, greeted me warmly before ushering me into the vehicle. He then skilfully manoeuvred the vehicle through narrow, congested streets until we reached the Tigris River. There we veered right and skirted northward along its eastern, tree-lined banks for a time before suddenly turning right again and pulling up in front of a heavy metal gate watched by a sleepy guard. The driver and guard exchanged quick pleasantries before the guard swept underneath the vehicle with a mirror attached to a long pole checking for explosive devises. When none, thankfully, were found he opened the gate and beckoned the car through. We cautiously made our way through into a courtyard before a large, rectangular, concrete building and pulled in beside a neat row of similar looking vehicles to our own.  

We were welcomed into an office occupied by a middle aged man who laid casually back in a comfortable chair against the far wall speaking slowly and deliberately all the while adjusting his suit and tie in an authoritative fashion and a younger woman who sat bolt upright at her desk working and talking quickly and efficiently. She was tall, dark haired and smartly dressed. 

White boards covering the walls of the office revealed the logistical juggling act that the pair engaged on a daily basis - relocating UNDP personnel within Iraq and coordinating a continuous stream of international staff and consultants moving between Amman and Northern Iraq via Baghdad. It was a ceaseless and unrelenting mix of visas, logistics and diplomacy. The James Bond analogy that I had divertingly nurtured in my mind since leaving Australia quickly evaporated as the contents of the boards revealed that my fate was being carefully planned and coordinated. I winced at my paranoia of the previous evening. Of course they knew when I arrived. 

We waited on a low couch against a wall drinking strong sweet tea watching the activities of the office until our travel permits arrived. Then we were promptly bustled out of the office by the woman who appeared intent on having at least part of her weekend off and were soon back on the chaotic streets of the city on our way north to Kurdistan.