Bodyguard (27 page)

Some people just didn’t want us there. The women, for example, wouldn’t appear on TV – they did not want to talk. ‘I can’t talk because of my family or relatives,’ one of them said to camera.

There were a clearly a lot of people living in fear of the unknown in a male-dominated society. We pushed on further down. Maybe Hanif was right and the dried fruit stall just simply didn’t want us there. The sweetcorn had just said go. I could see our vehicles a hundred metres away at the bottom of the street. Lots of people were following. I expected the curiosity, but I didn’t like it. My head was on a 360 rotation.

From nowhere, a fight broke out in front of us by a stray cart. Hanif decided to get involved and break it up. The cart was the decoy prop.

‘Hanif, leave it,’ I shouted to him.

I didn’t want him in there – he was my other eyes and ears. The crowd closed in on us. It was a textbook sabotage. Out of one eye, I was watching the three guys in the fight; out of the other I spotted John Conroy, the director and my two other cameras. Oggy was to my left. Something didn’t ring true – it looked like a well-oiled drill. There was no reason for this to start up in front of us. I wanted to keep moving but I knew they had done this hundreds of times before. The fight lasted forty seconds, if that. We moved on. 

I surveyed the scene to work out why. Alarm bells were now
ringing
. My instincts told me not to like it. We had been here around thirty minutes. That was my maximum. It was time to abandon. To my right, I spotted two guys. One was on a phone, looking in our direction, but not really in our direction. The second man was trying to shield the first. Was this somebody calling this in to say a Western crew were in the market, or was he simply ringing his bird?

‘Look John, it’s time to go,’ I said. I didn’t like it one bit. We were gone in minutes. I was relieved to get back to the hotel. I was relieved … until I saw Oggy.

‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my phone nicked. It’s got all my contacts on it and everything.’

‘Why did you have it on you?’ I reminded him of my brief. ‘Fucking hell, that’s the most basic mistake.’

‘I know, I know.’

You couldn’t get the moment back. And Oggy would be
replaying
the point of impact time and time again. It gave me a chance to reiterate the ground rules to the Dogs. I knew for sure that it was a staged fight, and that’s what annoyed me about Hanif. He shouldn’t have got involved but, typical Afghan, he couldn’t help himself. We were pushed into the middle of the crowd and got fleeced. As ops go, it hadn’t even stretched them – these petty thieves knew the drill. All for a phone. Robin questioned how I could be so sure that it was a mock fight. I watched the footage back and it was as I’d seen it at the time – completely without spark and starting for no reason. It was important not to be naive about these things or it would happen again. Lesson learned, I hope. Greater risks lay ahead.

Next came the minister. The Afghan police had actually done brilliant work with their checkpoints, thwarting dozens of potential incidents. This is why I didn’t want a fuck-off vehicle for once. Our vehicle was one that any Afghan would have used. Otherwise, we would have added ourselves to the list of targets. 

We were on our way to meet Saeed Ansari, a spokesman for Afghan intelligence. You would think politicians would be too busy to allow a couple of hangers-on to be in on the interview. But then, this was John Simpson. Frankly, I had never seen anything like it. The World Affairs editor of the BBC sat with an interpreter and a member of the government – two of the world’s greatest explorers watching but only to tear into John afterwards. John’s plan was to lure him into saying that security in Kabul was going downhill fast. The minister trotted out the official line – it was actually improving!

John changed tack. ‘Do you think there’s an extra effort at the moment to capture Osama bin Laden?’ he asked. Fobbed off with some rubbish about what might happen if the UN put pressure on Pakistan, he interrupted the answer. ‘Sorry, I’m not asking what ought to happen. I’m asking what is happening.’

John cut the interview short. It hadn’t delivered what he hoped for. And Robin and Ran, like student journos, tore into him.

‘What did you make of our spy chief?’ John began.

‘John, I’ve got a question for you,’ Robin had been ready to pounce.

‘No, I’ve got a question for you.’ John was fired up by the
indifference
in the office. ‘What did you make of our spy chief?’

‘It’s a comment he made,’ said Robin, ‘that you didn’t pick up on.’

I think John could read Robin.

‘He was quite specific that Osama bin Laden could be picked up if the Pakistani intelligence co-operated.’ Robin felt he had John here.

‘You have to tell the difference between fact and opinion. Nothing he said was fact. We’re in the business of news – not the rhetoric of government.’ John was adamant. He had seen it all before, but it was the first time for the Dogs. That was the difference – Robin and Ran felt they had a sniff. John knew it was bullshit. It wasn’t enough to re-broadcast the words of a government minister just because you had the access. Your job was to cut through the crap.

Over the next couple of days Robin and Ran asked decent
questions
, often in the confrontational atmosphere of the throngs that 
would automatically gather when a camera crew turned up – especially when they saw it was John Simpson. They would ask the locals if they had been happier under the Taliban – that question always polarised opinions. We also took them to Friday prayers at the Mosque.

On the morning on 21 September, however, we all went down to breakfast unsure as to whether the show must go on. The previous night, a truck filled with explosives had detonated in front of the Marriott Hotel in Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. More than fifty people were dead and over 260 injured, some of them dignitaries. The bomb left a crater twenty metres wide and six metres deep – the noise could be heard fifteen kilometres away. It was one of the most
prestigious
buildings in the city and the explosion came just hours after President Asif Ali Zardari had made his first speech to the Pakistani parliament. John needed to cover the story.

The truck had pulled up at the front of the hotel. Among the casualties were one Danish intelligence agent and two American military personnel, a US State Department employee, and the Czech ambassador. Thirty American marines had been staying at the hotel, and they were believed to be the target. Either way, whoever bombed the Marriott knew they had an international audience.

This was now the problem for the Three Dogs – if a major story broke while we were out here, it would put our show in jeopardy. We had a correspondent in Islamabad, but if John Simpson was in town, then he was the man. He could be there in an hour by plane. Equally if Paul rang from London to say that either of the Peters had been in touch, the entire show would be a no-show and I would have to go.

John was frustrated. It took him nineteen takes on the roof of our hotel for him to get the report out on the bomb, finally finishing just before the light went. This was the only time I had ever seen him need this long. John was in the wrong place. He knew it was waffle because he couldn’t get close to the story. He had also heard that the bomb had been planted in retaliation for US air strikes. For a day or two, his heart had been ripped out of the Three Dogs. 

What seemed like a cute little show with some journalistic merit was now a sideshow. You couldn’t ignore the destruction over the border in Pakistan. In short, if we hadn’t been making the Dogs, John would have gone without question. So close to the scene of the crime, it was right that the World Affairs editor report it live from the Marriott on the Ten, regardless of whether any other correspondent was there. The public expected to see John Simpson and John wanted to go.

London said no. It would be day three of the story by the time John arrived. Our correspondent there would cover it. We were told to carry on with the Three Dogs. It had shaken everyone: to John, it was a day-long frustration where his mind and heart were on other things; to the Dogs, it was a reminder of the random nature of
self-destruction
in this part of the world where the price of life seemed less than at home. As for me, I studied the footage of the bomb. They made it look all too easy. I had stayed with John in that very hotel several times and knew it well. It was just another hotel and another city. The victims never stood a chance.

The next morning, I re-briefed everyone. It was time to head to the Khyber Pass. Truthfully, the chances of any of us getting killed on this route were now increased. Much of it was bandit country, and outside the city, the chance of ambush was significant. I told everyone to put their flak jackets on if that happened. We would drive straight through it if possible; if not, we would get out and find whatever cover we could, leaving everything in the truck.

‘If you get taken out, Craig,’ Ran asked, ‘who is in charge?’

I told him that with his military background it had to be him.

‘If we see vehicles ahead being taken out with RPGs (
rocket-propelled
grenades), what do we do?’ Ran knew that planning was the key to survival.

‘We’ll either quickly reverse, or de-bus and move back.’

John wanted to stop and film in a place called Surobi, about sixty kilometres east of Kabul. It was officially Afghanistan’s most dangerous place. I reminded him about the ten French paratroopers, 
killed in broad daylight just a fortnight before. If we were stopping, it would be for minutes only. We could only make that decision as and when we got there. I would take advice and see how we were doing for time. My preference was to stop outside and film into its valley. That was the problem, you see. Anyone knows that once you’re in the dip, you’re cannon fodder. There was, however, no choice but to drive through Surobi to get to Jalalabad and meet the Khyber Pass.

Proving how precarious this was, I took extra care. In fact, I did something I have never done on any other mission. I went to see senior Afghan politician Mirwais Yasini, and arranged to tag along in his military convoy. That gave us a menacing presence, but of course it also made us a far greater target.

He took me into unchartered territory. ‘Would you like to take weapons along for your own protection?’

I knew one thing. This wasn’t in the BBC Health and Safety guidelines. It told you something about where we were heading if a major politician advised you to arm up in his own backyard. That gave me maximum confidence that he was honest; it also gave me zero confidence about our mission. ‘I will need to discuss this with London. I don’t think they will allow it, but I really appreciate your offer. With you and your own security detail travelling with us … I think we should be OK.’

I never consulted Television Centre. My old mate Kev Sweeney, from our company KCM, was now working for me in Kabul. There was a security changeover at the Bureau in Kabul, so he was free to come. I had known him for thirty years and valued his opinion. We went back to see Yasini.

I put my plan to both of them. ‘We take two AK-47s with spare magazines in bags. We put one in each vehicle. They stay out of sight, unless we need them.’

I also told John. He thought it wise, but didn’t want to know. This was what we would call in the military a deniable op. Ran was over the moon, living the dream now, with me always living the dream! 
I told Yasini’s guards that these AKs were their weapons. If anything happened and we needed to use them, I would take control. How I would explain that back in London, I would deal with later. Even if I saved the Dogs from certain death, I am sure that would have been the end of me at the BBC. We walked a fine line, but I still believe it was the correct way to proceed.

We slotted into the Yasini’s convoy. One road in, one road out, and scarcely a chance to overtake. It was the usual story. Mountain roads snaking their way home; around each corner, more of the same and more of the unknown – the drop down below too vast to look at more than once. You can see how the French paratroopers and many more before were sitting ducks. We had no choice but to nestle in the pack. When they sped up, so did we. When they stopped, we did the same – flak jackets on.

As we approached Surobi, Yassini’s guards pulled over. Everybody out. Several of the French had been beheaded five kilometres away. Yassini pointed out the exact spot. This was as close to Surobi as the convoy would allow John to be filmed.

‘At the risk of sounding a bit nervous,’ John understated, ‘is it a good idea for us to stick around here?’

‘I wouldn’t say a long time,’ Yassini replied.

‘Anybody who sees us is just going to stop in Surobi and say there’s this long line of big-wiggers coming. I think we should go right away,’ John chuckled.

It was a hauntingly beautiful spot – a complete contrast to the dangers held all around. Yassini explained to Ran that some of the French were ambushed in their car; others were on foot. Walking through Surobi was just foolish – we needed to get back in the cars. Sharpish. In truth, we had only stopped for television, but then we were in the business of making TV. Driving round the corner into the town was eerie. You know when you are not wanted – the streets were lined with pro-Taliban lookouts discreetly monitoring the road but not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention. All eyes were on 
us, our vehicles creeping at a steady speed past the market stalls that hugged the pavements.

‘In 2001 after the fall of the Taliban, I came down this road,’ John recalled. ‘My cameraman nudged me saying he really didn’t like the look of this at all. He highlighted the menacing stares of a group on the corner. At that point the axle on our car went.’ Robin and Ran were transfixed. All ears were on John. The silence spoke volumes. ‘Twenty minutes later, we had switched into another car and passed a Spanish vehicle coming along the
opposite
direction. There were three Spanish journalists in there, one of whom I knew. They drove into Surobi. This gang of people decided to stop them because they knew they didn’t have any protection. They, I’m afraid, led them up a side path and shot them. Very, very depressing.’