Bodyguard (13 page)

I tried to take charge to show the lads that Craig Summers had been here before. ‘Don’t play with the plasticuffs,’ I told them. ‘That’s what they’re there for. The more you struggle with them, the more they tighten. Stay calm and see what happens.’

It would help if Simon and I weren’t forced to separate.

We were marshalled into a hut. It was like joining the military a quarter of a century ago.

‘Stand next to him, stand next to him,’ they bellowed. ‘Name – do you have any identification?’ It fulfilled a classic German stereotype.

There was a row of German officers stood in front of us. Behind them, one of the Old Bill was observing. I knew this was now the moment.

‘Can I have a word?’ I said to the bobby.

‘Why, what’s the problem?’ he replied. I got the sense that his
presence
there was just a pacifier to any racial tension that might spill over.

‘Can I have a quiet word?’ I asked again. I had one eye on Simon and the other on the two guys putting all the personal stuff into bags.

‘What is it?’ he said standing right under my nose.

‘We work for the BBC,’ I declared. I explained how we were undercover filming and had got caught up in it; our friendly copper leant over to the German who was dealing with me and whispered in his ear.

Two more thugs were sent to a cell, and he stopped anyone else coming into the room.

‘Look, I’ve got a covert camera, spare batteries, and loads of other bits and pieces in our pockets,’ I explained.

‘Take the camera kit off and put everything else in this bag now,’ he ordered. He took the lot, including our press cards. And then processed us as hooligans.

We were sent outside again to re-join the queue together,
waiting
to be escorted to rows and rows of cells. ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland,’ was all I could hear. Doors were slamming all around us. The yob element still hadn’t got the message.

I was thrown into one cell, Simon into another. Everybody had to take their shoes off. I knew it was a waiting game – I had to trust the English copper. I was confident that I hadn’t been sold down the Rhine here. In the cell were two others from the van and two more thugs. Still they sung. I sat there on the wooden bench.

‘There’s no point ranting and raving,’ I told them. ‘It ain’t gonna get you anywhere.’

And they saw sense and shut the fuck up. That didn’t last long. The door flung open. My worst nightmare. It was Millwall.

‘All right West Ham, all right.’ He was in my face. ‘Engerland, Engerland, you fucking German bastards you can’t keep me. You fucking German cunts, you can’t keep me. I’m Millwall, I’m hard.’ He was banging on the door. No, not again. I knew someone would knock him out in a minute.

‘Listen, you wanker, sit down and shut up,’ I glared at him. ‘You stink of piss and you stink of sick. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.’

As I was giving him the dressing-down, two massive German coppers stormed our cell, slammed me up against the wall, whacked the plasticuffs back on me, dragged me out, and banged the door shut.

‘Stay with it West Ham, we’re England.’ Millwall was back on his high horse.

I would have pissed myself if I’d been watching, but I was in it. This was me, hard man Summers being dragged out. I’d thought I was sorted but I wasn’t sure now.

I didn’t panic but I double-checked my memory. Did I chuck beer on anyone in the square? Did I throw a chair or go for anyone? They didn’t hold back in roughing me up, frogmarching me down
the corridor. There was no gently-out-you-come; the cuffs were dead tight and my arms were up against my back.

‘Leave him alone, you German cunts,’ the new arrivals shouted. ‘He’s English.’

I was taken to an interrogation room. Then, it all became clear. I could see the English policeman sitting there.

‘Release the plasticuffs,’ he said when he saw me. This was a game. ‘I’m really sorry about that but if you are an undercover BBC reporter then I don’t want to blow your cover,’ he explained.

‘You know what, mate?’ I replied. ‘That was absolutely brilliant.’

I loved that. I was on the inside with the best access possible and now I had got my own country’s police force playing the part, too. There was still some work to be done, though.

‘I’m going to be dead straight now,’ he levelled. ‘The head of Stuttgart police is going through all the footage in the square and if I see you or your mate doing anything untoward then you are nicked as a football hooligan.’

I couldn’t be sure of what was on the CCTV. The jury was still out.

Next thing, the door flung open. It was Simon, and they went through exactly the same drill. I loved it, but I knew we were still in for a bit.

‘Unfortunately, you’ve got two choices here,’ he went on. ‘I can put you back in with the others and then I can pull you out and put you in a cell by yourselves. I don’t know how long this is going to take, if you can bear with me.’ Then the plasticuffs went back on. There was playing the part and playing the fucking part.

So, the head of Stuttgart police was now trawling his own network looking for Simon and me. If he was that bloody good, why didn’t he just seize all our footage – we had a live confession of a stabbing on the tapes. That was a start.

I was thrown back in the cell.

‘What happened, mate, what happened?’ My cellmates couldn’t wait to see me.

‘They fucking interviewed me,’ I egged them on. ‘They reckon they’ve got me on film punching some Kraut.’

‘Fucking brilliant.’ Millwall was loving it, kicking the door with his bare feet. ‘We’re English, we’ve fucking done them,’ he shouted.

From the tiniest of cells, they were off again. ‘Ten German Bombers’ was out once more, and everyone was joining in. Then came ‘I’d rather be a Paki than a Kraut’. As much as I loved the gig, I didn’t want a night of this.

Three long hours later, almost when I had given up, the door flew open again. Here came the heavies once more. Ridiculously, Millwall, thinking he had sobered up, tried to grab onto me to keep me in the cell. The Germans palmed him away, sending him falling on his arse. The door slammed once more – this time I was on the right side of it. There was nobody in the corridor. Except the British cop.

‘Here’s a bottle of water,’ he offered. ‘I’m putting you in a cell down the corridor. Your mate will be with you in a minute.’

‘Can we have our phones?’ I asked.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He seemed to be roaming free on German soil.

By the time Simon turned up, he had his mobile, which was a sure sign that they believed us. Why would you give comms to someone you were holding? The signal wasn’t great but we got hold of Jeff back at base by text. He already knew – News had told him, because the overt team had seen us going in. We texted back to tell them not to charge in with a BBC card because I felt we would be out soon.

After an hour or so more, the British cop came in to say they had cleared the footage and returned all our stuff to us. ‘I can’t let you go at the moment,’ he said. ‘We’ve so much going on, I can’t get you into town.’

I told him we were happy to walk, knowing we would be picked up, but he asked us to wait, possibly until 06.00.

After he had gone, we inspected the bag. The twat had lied. None of our tapes had been removed from it, let alone dubbed off. Yes, it was brilliant that there was an English copper there because a
German might have just treated us as one of the mob but equally he had done nothing. The Germans could all speak the lingo but you couldn’t know that they could read your tone. Like me, he was loving living the part.

At 05.30, he was back. There was nobody around. ‘I’ve got you guys a vehicle.’ He showed us a caged dog van and apologised. ‘That’s about it, I’m afraid.’

We couldn’t care less. Nobody saw us leave and I think that’s the reason why we went at that time. He could have been a right dick and confiscated everything but I felt he played a blinder. We were dropped at the train station, and both Simon and I looked at each other and chuckled.

‘I’m fucking knackered,’ I said.

‘So am I,’ my mate replied.

I phoned Jeff and told him we were on our way and going to hit the sack; I also rang home and Sue told me I was a bit too old for all this. She was probably right.

Who knows whatever became of Millwall? This was as close as I would ever come to walking the line and crossing it – where I nearly blew a mission for being too good at it. It was the dream job, and my worlds had merged. Asked to be an undercover reporter at a major football tournament that the world was watching, I myself was uncovered, watched by my own camera crew! I was never in any risk, but I couldn’t live anything other than dangerously.

And of course, a few days later, England slumped out of the
tournament
as they always did.

Motty had been right after all – his opening words in the match against Portugal among his best and among his final as a commentator on England at major tournaments. ‘The gateway to a World Cup semi-final or to World Cup oblivion.’

Oblivion it was. Except, of course, for those who had gained notoriety through our footage. Praised as the best fans in the world, we were now once again dubbed the ‘English disease’ – a culture of
excess taken beyond the level of acceptable behaviour. One Sunday newspaper had reported at the time that two undercover BBC
reporters
had been arrested. There was no shame in that, and the obvious conclusions to draw are either that the British cop took cash to leak the story (given that he played a blinder, I dismiss that), or that among the mob were other undercover reporters too.

What if Millwall worked for the
News of the World
? What if all six of us in the van had been press? How stupid would that be? I doubt very much that anyone other than our own recognised us being thrown into the van.

The best was yet to come. When the
Panorama
show aired, my phone bleeped into action. It was August, well over a month after our pathetic exit. The show had been massively re-jigged. I had given them over 130 hour-long tapes.

‘You bastard. You fucking stitched me up,’ it read. ‘I’ll fucking have you.’ It was Ian, the Chelsea fan.

‘Hahaha, some you win, some you lose,’ I replied.

‘If you ever come to Chelsea, I know who you are and I’ll make sure we do you,’ he bragged.

I felt the chances of bumping into him were slim. ‘Bring it on,’ I bashed into my phone.

I laughed when he sent me his final text, and it just made me even more determined. Where there was danger, there was a story and where there was a story, I was drawn to it.

‘You’re dead.’

I never heard from him again.

H
ad the Corporation learned the lessons from what happened to Kate, or was that all about box-ticking? It was true that if you sent individuals into the most dangerous places in the world, some of them wouldn't come back, however thorough your risk assessments were – that was the lottery of life and the Achilles' heel of journalism. To get to the heart of the story, sometimes you become it – the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

On 14 March 2007 the call came for me to get my backside out of Baghdad and into Jerusalem. Alan Johnston, our correspondent, had been kidnapped. I knew instantly at the start of the conversation that the words ‘Alan' and ‘kidnapped' were coming – my military sixth sense had already tuned in.

My mind rewound to the previous Christmas – Alan and I had shot a video diary on the whole security situation in Gaza. He was never blasé about what was a very real threat, but he was also well respected by each of the factions in the region. The Beeb were shitting themselves – this could be Kate Take Two but much more prolonged. There was no bringing Kate back. Who knew how long Alan would be missing? Every day would be a reminder. Nobody in our industry had ever forgotten how long John McCarthy had been gone for.

When the videos came through of Alan in a suicide bomber's vest, even I thought the game was up and he would be the next body I would bring home. We were definitely in a different era now, and the BBC
no longer had a protective coat around it. If anything, the reverse was true: such an organisation was a magnet for nutters around the world, for whom the price of death was the ticket to paradise. In this case, Muslim extremists with links to al Qaeda, led by a local bully, Mumtaz Durmush, were pulling the trigger. Except they didn't.

A second video came and on 18 June a deadline passed. I felt that was the key moment. The more demands you issued, the more
ultimately
came and went. Every time that happened, you left them with fewer cards to play. The BBC decided that no correspondents would live in Gaza from now on, and armoured cars would be the vehicle of choice. Again, just like Mogadishu, any stories in the region had to be cleared by the head of Newsgathering and the High Risk Team. The John Simpson days of barging into places saying, ‘I'm from the BBC', were fading fast – unless, of course, you were John himself! There had been too many rude awakenings in recent years.

Alan was released on Wednesday 4 July, some 114 days after he was kidnapped. 200,000 people had signed an online petition. Hamas, with whom the BBC had kept up a dialogue, had played a crucial role. I had only spent three weeks out there: very soon, it had become clear that nothing was moving fast. I didn't negotiate Alan's exit, nor did I hang around for the circus of vigils that followed as the world and his wife wanted to be seen with him. I had already been called home to play Harry's Game.

‘We've got a breakfast meeting tomorrow with Paul and Dom,' Newsgathering had said.

Paul and Dom made their living sniffing out stories around the world and pitching them to major broadcasters. Craig Oliver, the News editor of the Ten, was also coming; Sangita Myska was mooted as the presenter. I was asked to suss out whether these guys were genuine and if the story had legs – we were going to buy children in Bulgaria.

My first instinct was no. I felt these two were a fly-by-night crew who wanted a quick hit and a fast buck. I sat there and said nothing. Then Craig asked me what I thought.

‘Sangita going in is wrong. She needs to be part of a couple. Sangita buying a baby in the underworld doesn't look right. I need to play her husband,' I said, shocking them. I felt Sangita thought I was trying to block it, but they just hadn't thought it through. ‘I will be the elder husband, who has married a young Indian girl totally against the rules. I've got fingers in pies everywhere but I'm a bit of a dodgy East End car dealer. Obviously I had a bit of a record.'

Inside I was rubbing my hands at the story, and I wanted a starring role. I didn't really think Sangita was the right casting and I knew somebody would ask us why we hadn't done this legitimately in the UK. Paul agreed that was perfect – and he knew the type of characters we were likely to be dealing with. Our plan was hatched – I appeared to be the only one who had thought it through, when actually, prior to the meeting, I hadn't really thought about it all.

We gave Paul and Dom a week to come back with something concrete. In the meantime I began to cost up the trip. We would need an initial recce from Paul and Dom, then Sangita and I would fly out. It came in way over budget, but we farmed the idea out to radio, News 24 and the Ten, and shared costs. We were given a green light – subject to Paul and Dom doing the groundwork.

This was like nothing I had done before. I couldn't wait to get started. What a story to tell your grandchildren – assuming I could get the right price for them in Bulgaria!

Paul and Dom were back a week later, now with specific targets to aim for. I told them it was the time to introduce me into the story – make sure you drop my name frequently into the conversation, keep this mythical figure alive, the dodgy East End car dealer who was coming in to buy. Our plan was to take it to the wire, and then go to the authorities.

By 16 June, Dom was in Sofia, working his underworld network, putting the word out that they were looking to buy a baby. They were well connected in the world of the shady and could be a bit slippery themselves. It was how you survived in that kind of world, and, of
course, how they got this and other stories. A couple of days later, they set up shop in Varna, the third-largest city in the country, right on the Bulgarian Black Sea. It was here that they came across Harry.

He had been the first to take the bait. They met him at the petrol station adjacent to Varna's central bus depot. Harry drove them south to his favourite resort at Kamchia Beach, to a soundtrack of his favourite Gangsta Rap. ‘Pump my Pussy' was his personal favourite.

It was safe here – the tourists didn't get out this way. Nor, clearly, did any serious musicians. In fact, he had laid his whole lifestyle on the table to the boys, wining and dining them, offering girls for company – not just any girls, ‘no dogs', just pretty ones. Then he drove Dom and Paul through ‘Sexy Forest' –
£
10 a time for a quick shag in the woods. What's more, he seemed to be on first name terms with them all, pointing out his favourites lined up by the street. Either he knew them, or he had the controlling stake in the business. He confirmed the latter.

The lads said he was relaxed and happy – and clearly trusting – but they felt he wasn't the main player. Someone was controlling him. He couldn't wait for me to get over there. ‘I think it's best if we get the baby and all the paperworks complete,' he had confided. ‘That way gonna be no problem getting the baby out. I have my
connections
with the orphan house, the manager and the politicians. We can make this very quickly. Maximum three months. We'll pay for all the paperworks to be like official documents. It will happen quickly. I believe in action not only talking.'

Added to this openness, astonishing so early in the piece, he had girls in his empire on the way to France, Belgium and Spain. He also had a team in Germany laundering some of the finest counterfeit cash we'd ever seen, guaranteed to fool over-the-counter checking devices. He wanted to lure Paul into taking this business into the Subcontinent, specifically India. I was clearly London's meanest gangster, not to be messed with. He was a pimp and a trafficker. The underworld had sprung to life.

Paul rang back to London to say we were on. I needed to get out there as soon as – Sangita would come later. Craig Oliver agreed, much to my delight. Alison Ford, the Home News editor said it was a great idea. I was to leave the next day.

Sangita was slightly edgy. I got the distinct impression that she felt this guy from security was taking over. I assured her that this was the right way to operate – there was no way your dodgy East End
gangster
would take his young Indian wife out on the first meet. This was boys' stuff and no place for the bird. Reluctantly, she saw it my way.

We all agreed that we would film our second meet – never film the first and never put too much on the table at the initial get-together. That was only about establishing trust and authenticity, and you couldn't ever know who or what they would bring with them. If they gave us dynamite on day one, we would simply go over it again next time when we would be rolling. It was better to lose anything on the first night, rather than nearer the kill. I also told Paul that when I got off the plane, I expected the works. I only travelled in style and what I said went – I was at all times playing the Big Time Charlie.

When I landed in Varna, we were straight into character. Paul was a better actor than I had imagined! We couldn't know if Harry's people had eyes on the airport. Once I was through immigration, they took my bag off me like I was royalty and escorted me to the waiting car. There was no back-slapping ‘Hello, mate'; I was the boss at all times and should be addressed accordingly. In the car, Paul got in the front as the muscle; Dom sat next to me in the back. They had both notionally been on my payroll, shifting dodgy motors.

‘This is the boss,' Paul told the driver. And they kept it up all the way into the five-star Kempinski Hotel, checking me in and taking my stuff up to the room. Only behind closed doors did we drop our guard.

‘Right, what's the score?' I asked.

‘Harry's well excited, and we're going to meet him tonight. He wants to meet you,' Paul replied.

We re-confirmed there would be no filming, but gave ourselves the option of getting the gear later. We would meet in our reception, on home turf at 21.00. That way we were in control.

Paul was to ring to check he was on time. Dom told me that Harry normally came alone, turning up in his black Audi, all the rap music blasting out of the speakers. We would probably hear him before we saw him. I started to get into the zone, picturing this small-time crook and working out my questions in my head.

At half nine, Harry rang. I had deliberately commandeered a specific table in the reception, myself at the head, flanked on either side by Paul and Dom.

‘Hang on a minute, Harry,' Paul said pretending to half cover the phone. ‘Boss, Boss, Harry's gonna be late – half an hour,' he went straight into the role.

‘You tell him from me, I haven't got all fucking day. I haven't flown all the way over here to be messed around. If he's not here in half an hour, then we may as well not bother.' I made sure I was loud enough. First impressions would count.

‘Harry, Harry, Boss not happy,' Paul went back on the phone.

He had heard it all. ‘I'm just dealing with a problem,' Harry replied.

We hung up. ‘That was excellent,' Paul said. ‘That's exactly what we need and that will keep him on his toes and he will come here to impress.'

One–nil.

I ordered a large G and T and sent Dom to the bar, indicating that next time he went I would produce a massive wad of euros to show Harry the player I was.

After ten, Harry arrived.

Around 5ft 11, he was stocky, muscular and had clearly worked out. I could tell it was him straightaway but I was disappointed. I was
excepting
6ft 4, twenty stone and a monster. I knew, though, I would have him eating out of my hand before we had even been introduced.

Paul and Harry shook hands first.

‘Harry, this is the boss.' Paul gestured towards me.

I handed Dom 2,000 euros in fifties. I could see Harry's eyes light up. This was going to be a piece of piss. He started asking me little questions, mostly on cars, and I knocked him back with tales of Rolls and Porsches. I told him I didn't rate Audis, just to wind him up. He said he recognised my London accent and knew I was genuine East End from his favourite film
Snatch
. I was one of the characters in it! It left me no choice but to compliment him on his average English.

He was either going to be the Real McCoy or a fucking idiot, and the only way to find out was to get into the role and mix it with him. I lived that part way too easily. My wife Sue always said I was such a good liar and she could never tell.

After half an hour of this bullshit, Harry wanted to move – he said the bar was boring. I didn't read it that way. Moving location was an obvious move to first base – there was a deal to be done. I hadn't put any scouts out around the hotel. I believed he had come alone, but I will never know. In the confines of a five star and with three of us against him, I was happy to hand him the control that I had sought when we had pitched up at the bar.

Agreeing with Paul and Dom, I didn't think he was the big cheese either. I had clocked him as some middleman. We might have to deal with someone else higher up, or might never meet them. Someone was definitely pulling his strings. That would be how these things normally panned out. Harry either trusted us or saw pound signs. Regardless, Harry's Game had begun.

He drove us to the Timbuktu Restaurant – he wanted to eat but I think it was part of the process in checking us out, moving us into various locations, making sure we were real too.

In the car, Harry was relaxed. His body language indicated trust – he was laughing with us.

‘This isn't fucking music,' I bantered with him. ‘Come on mate, turn it down.'

‘Boss not happy, Harry,' Paul would chip in.

The pussy was being pumped again, and it showed no signs of relenting.

I started talking cars with him again, taking the piss out of his Audi, throwing him the odd carrot now and then. ‘If everything goes well, we might be able to do a bit of business together,' I teased him. With all dodgy people, one bent deal could lead to another, whatever you had come looking for initially. I knew he was eating out of my hand.