Bodyguard (15 page)

At the next day's meeting at Television Centre, I bigged him up, painting this all-powerful man who pulled the strings all along the Varna coastline. He was a gangster into strippers, he pimped, he was in with this orphanage – the works. I told Sangita that she would have to be right in there next to me if we went back, playing the subservient wife in my shadow. I didn't feel she was really up for it.

Paul, Dom and I had a private conversation. We thought it best that she didn't actually come at all. I just needed Harry to ring Paul to say we were on, and I would be the one to deliver. Just one problem. It had all gone quiet.

Over the next three weeks, Harry wouldn't answer, or we were fobbed off. All we could do while waiting was send Sangita with a
cameraman
to Varna to shoot some peripheral footage under the pretence of making a holiday show for the BBC. The chances of them running into Harry and his gang were slim – it was a thriving tourist area.

We, meanwhile, had to bide our time. Like all undercover stuff, you want it there and then but you have to stake them out. Then Paul called. We were back on.

On Sunday 15 July at around 21.30 Dom's mobile had flashed up. It was Harry.

They spoke for no more than three minutes. ‘Dom, listen to me, I have news,' he began. ‘There are two for the boss to see and choose.' He sounded urgent. ‘I am 100 per cent sure,' he continued. The babies were in Bulgaria and would be ready at the end of the week. ‘There are no complications. One is child of woman who does the special job.' He was indicating she was a prostitute. ‘The other I'm going to tell you about when we see. They are healthy.'

He also told Dom that he could traffic the children himself to the UK for a little more money, again suggesting a honed practice and a safe route perfected over many trips.

Harry said Sangita was to say nothing, not to let her emotions and mouth run away with the story. ‘You know how this business is,' he protected himself. ‘I'm gonna call you again Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. ‘And Boss must be ready to come Friday.'

This was the moment I was waiting for. Every time Paul had updated me since Varna, I thought it was a no-go. I had got to
dreading
answering the phone, fearing the op was going to rat shit. We were now speaking so regularly, always in character – even Paul had started calling me Boss! But this was the call I wanted. It was
high-five
time – albeit cautiously. This was brilliant, but I didn't want to get back out there for a no-show. I wasted no time in jumping off my desk. Those risk assessments could wait. My mind was all about the end game – what if he did show up with the kids? What was I allowed to say to them? When did we call it off and go to the
authorities
? I had three hats to juggle.

The Boss man met the security advisor and I had to wear some journalistic responsibility, too. I had to think on so many levels. It must be safe, and I had to be in character but we couldn't have any shit afterwards when the BBC got grilled for leading questions I might ask on camera in the presence of the kids. Editorially and legally, I didn't want anyone to insinuate that we had in way doctored anything when we exposed Harry. We hadn't and we wouldn't but we had to tread carefully – it was a standard objection in the guilty to say we had played with the edit.

We decided there was no role for Sangita. She had done the general shots – the voice-over at the end would all be she would get. There wasn't time to risk it by introducing anyone else or to build new trust beyond our existing circle. Thankfully, we wouldn't now be checking in as man and wife.

I took my time getting back out there, only arriving nearly a week later. We needed to plan for simple things like making sure that the overt team and the covert team didn't bump into each other. Paul and Dom would fly back in first to check everything was running
smoothly. Sangita and her team stayed at a different hotel. We kept contact to a minimum, never mixing on the street, hotel bars our only shared office.

On the plane, I was straight back into character number one – Boss man. I would enter on my clean passport. (I had several, dependent on the role.) If Harry checked he wouldn't see any of the
journalistic
visas or unusual countries that my other documentation might show. Game on.

I had been back in the office for three weeks, answering emails, filling in forms and going home to Sue as Craig Summers. Amazingly, I had also spent ten days in Baghdad doing a security review. Paul had kept me abreast by text. In my other role, I had been driving around the Iraqi capital in fifty-degree heat on full alert.

Suddenly I was back in the part. This was the end game and I had to get it right. Conversations replayed themselves … ‘Pump my Pussy' was back in my mind, along with the coke … his Audi and his Irish missus were there, too … I needed to remember to tell him I had moved some cars around and that could be a meal ticket for him, too, especially after the eighteen months he had spent in a German jail for something to do with bent motors. When I told him I had done six months in the UK, it had sealed the deal – I was the genuine article from the proper school of gangsters and that was my badge of honour.

All these random details were flying around my mind and I had to get them in the right order. Then Harry needed to tell me we would see the kids the next day. I didn't want to make any mistakes. This was the end game and I had literally become the Boss man.

We picked it straight up at the airport – Paul and Dom also back in their parts. That's why it was crucial he had kept up the language with me in between the jobs. It had to be natural and without
hesitation
and we went full on for an Oscar with another big car – Dom taking my bags like the big shot, Paul calling me Boss.

I couldn't know if Harry had anyone snooping at the airport. I wouldn't have taken the chance if I had been him. That's why there
was no back-slapping or over-the-top greeting again at Varna. Our TV faces were on. In the car, our driver spoke little English like last time. We knew not to talk business just in case. Back at the Kempinski, we briefed ourselves and eased off the role behind the closed doors of the room. There had been regular contact with Harry. Tonight at ten, he would bring some photos. Paul and Dom would meet him. It was looking good.

We decided straightaway that, with the overt team led by Sangita out and about, we wouldn't go outside but would get him to the hotel. Paul had told him that the boss was busy and very tired but that if Harry was serious, we had to do the deal now.

There were BBC cost implications for the job, but it was now or never. If he didn't play his hand, we wouldn't be back. At home, no questions would be asked if we delivered. If we
overran
or didn't produce, it just made getting clearance for the next story all that bit tougher. I loved splashing the BBC cash, but I also wanted value for money: if that flash cash seemed
extravagant
, I knew it was for the role. It wouldn't matter a jot so long as the show aired and justified itself with the big pay-off. Some doubters in London had already written us off because of the multiple trips. I wanted them to see the show and say, ‘That was brilliant, Craig,' and then I wanted to go out and do it all over again with the next load of fiddling scum that would come my way. I loved the thought that a barely educated Craig Summers was providing the meat for some of the BBC's finest journalists. That's why I would knock back the large ones in Business Class on this trip home. Who would ever have thought that I could end up doing this?

I showered and selected my most on-the-job shirt from the
assortment
I had brought with me. Dressing was stage one of getting in the part. Dialogue wasn't a problem – I didn't need to prepare my lines, because I knew I would talk through Paul, who would relay it back as ‘Boss says'. I sensed Dom was slightly edgy. Normally Paul
would film and Dom would play the role, but he was stepping out of his comfort zone on a backup undercover camera.

Just before we went down for dinner, I sketched out on my
notebooks
exactly where I wanted everybody sat. Dom was to my left, out of range. He would be the runner to buy drinks and fags for Harry, far enough away to get a wide shot, and equally, if he got a slight panic on, far enough back not for it to be noticed. I told him not to worry about the camera – just let it run. He didn't want to let the side down either. His name was very much on the ticket and he wanted future work out of the Beeb just as much as Harry wanted a piece of Craig. We would also put my phone on the table, permanently off but still sending an audio feed back to London. We had it covered from three angles.

By nine, we had eaten and were at the table. I would see him tonight to bond; we would meet tomorrow to deal. That was the plan, and I wanted it done, as much for the buzz of the story as all those other concerns.

At ten, Harry walked in. Compare that to our first meeting – I knew he was serious, showing me the respect my legend merited. There couldn't have been a more obvious green light than being on time. We greeted each other with a gangster handshake where I pulled his finger like a trigger on a gun. The boys were sat exactly where I wanted them. I gave Dom the first fifty from my wad of 7,000 euros of BBC money.

I excused Sangita – the ‘wife' was pretty nervous about all this and didn't want to be around. He told me he did business with men, not women. It had been the right call to bin her – she would only have put him on edge. Women, in his eyes, were only there to shag or to sell for shagging.

We chewed the fat, talking the usual shit, and then I went straight in. ‘Have you got anything for us … girls?'

He said yes. ‘Twenty thousand up front, twenty thousand for the girl and then twenty more to get the child out and do the paperwork.' He explained his favourite routes out – it was always Cherbourg to
Rosslare. If need be, he would travel to the UK with the parents so it didn't look suspicious. We all clocked it – the bigger trafficking story was waiting for us, and Harry clearly had lots of fingers in many pies. False adoption papers would be a further cost, he informed us. They had no passports.

At that moment, I had no moral conscience. I didn't think, ‘Fuck this is real, and it does happen.' Conclusions, as always, were for later. This was a job and all I wanted was the story. Producing the cash wasn't going to be a problem but he wasn't getting a penny off me yet, if indeed at all. I would need a receipt for that, for sure. I'm not sure what the accountants at the Beeb would make of it – one baby,
£
20,000. That's why it was all about taking him right to the wire. The money might have to be real at some stage but we couldn't ever hand it over.

Around eleven, after an hour's chat dipping in and out of cars, drugs and other business, I dragged it back on track.

Harry whipped out his Sony camera. ‘These are the girls,' he said into every single recording device.

Yes, yes, yes. We had him. We needed only the meet with them now, and this guy was finished. The stills showed a girl of around eighteen months from a poor family. ‘She's really beautiful. What do you think, Paul? Do you think the wife will like her?' I passed the camera, knowing he would film it.

‘This girl is from a single parent – she's very beautiful, too,' he said, showing us the second image.

Paul and I did exactly the same again. I knew this was moving on. I didn't give the children a second thought – the responsibility was with the parents. It was them who were selling their kids to escape poverty. ‘When can we see the kids?' I went in for the kill.

‘Leave it with me,' Harry replied. ‘I will arrange and I'll call you tomorrow.'

I reminded him that I was a very busy man and I would be off in the next day or two. We declined another night of pumping Harry's
pussy and Dom and Paul saw him out, before we all retreated to my room to strip down the camera gear, and call the producer Annie, monitoring in another room. All the tapes were good to go – we had the lot and so did London. Thankfully, it wasn't one of those ‘Shit, it hasn't recorded' moments.

Checking the car park to make sure Harry had genuinely left, we met the rest of the team on the beach to chat it through and to make the next plan. I rang Sue and told her it was all going down
tomorrow
. I would be home in a couple of days.

It was time to see the kids. At breakfast the next day Dom told me it would happen later on today. I hated the waiting period. Something was bugging me. Harry rarely surfaced and everything told me we wouldn't hear from him before four or five o'clock. That was obviously getting towards the end of a child's day.

By 13.00, I was restless, so I killed time with a swim. Around 16.30, Paul knew it was time to make a move. It was definitely Harry o' clock. We rigged up to record but Harry's phone just rang out. Shit, what did we do here? We needed to bury this today.

Half an hour later, Paul's mobile went off. It was him. ‘Harry, Harry, what's happening? We've not heard from you. Boss not happy.' Paul was straight back into the role.

Then, the bombshell.

‘Problem,' Harry declared.

‘Problem? What problem?' Paul couldn't believe it. After last night, all we needed was a ten-second shot of the children with the cash on the table and we were home and dry. We had the story but literally didn't have the money shot.

‘Problem – the children aren't available now,' he bullshitted. They were more than available less than twenty-four hours ago. I motioned to cut the call.

‘Harry, Harry, I must tell the boss,' Paul hung up.

Fuck. Was last night a stitch-up? Like the orphanage, were they actually the kids? And if they weren't, then who were those
children? We clearly had it, but then we didn't. Had Harry played us? No, not really. All we had done was have a few drinks with him and I knew deep down things like this never ran smoothly. It wasn't like going into Tesco and putting a baby through the scanner. He might have been genuine – it could have been something really simple.