The Circuit (14 page)

Martin and I stayed until the kids had cleared the area.

Back at the palace, the ITN crew were chuffed with the b-roll we’d shot on our recce. I don’t think they used it because the camera work was amateur, but it gave them a good feel for what was going on. That night Martin and I tried to rest up for the next day but it was like trying to sleep through ten bonfire nights rolled into one. The locals were making a hell of a racket, firing AKs and heavy machine guns well into the wee hours.

The next morning, Tariq called to tell us that the Sheraton hotel was on fire and people were ripping the place apart. We thanked him for the tip and roused the ITN crew. It was exactly the kind of story they were after. We headed out in two vehicles; I drove the crew’s armoured Land Rover with the correspondent, cameraman and producer as passengers, while Martin backed us in the soft-skinned Mitsubishi. Even though our vehicle was armoured, I insisted the crew wear body armour as well. I set an example by wearing mine; both for my protection and because the front flap was a perfect place to conceal my 9 mm.

The Sheraton was located on the Shaat al Arab waterway approximately two miles west of the palace. As we wound our way through the streets towards the waterfront, it was soon apparent that the sporadic outbreaks of violence we’d witnessed the day before had broadened. Scores of government buildings had been ransacked and torched overnight. The Mukhabarrat building, a concrete monolith which had housed Iraqi Intelligence, was still on fire. A wild-eyed crowd of locals was stoking the flames with anything that would work as kindling – furniture, tyres, clothes – determined to see the place burn to the ground.

Everywhere we looked, there were defaced portraits of Saddam; some had the eyes scratched out, others were painted over or burnt with petrol. Saddam’s wasn’t the only face that had changed. The day before, the majority of locals we’d seen had greeted us with looks of kind curiosity. Now, more sinister elements were appearing. Friendly waves were giving way to fists shaking defiantly. Scores of people pointed their thumbs towards their mouths; the universal sign for water. It wasn’t out of the question that someone would shoot us for our supplies if given the chance.

Martin and I had recced the area housing the Sheraton the day before. It was the closest thing to ‘upmarket’ you’d find in Basra. There was a time – back when the west found it more in its interest to embrace Iraq as an ally rather than invade it – when Basra was a prime destination for international businessmen looking to profit from the country’s oil wealth. During the boom years of the 1970s Basra flourished; state-of-the-art medical facilities, an international airport and palaces for Saddam’s private use.

The mile-and-a-half-long stretch of land bordering the Shaat al Arab waterway reflected those once promising times. Lined by statues of Iraqi generals who’d commanded during the Iran–Iraq war,
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the waterfront housed government compounds, wealthy residences, exclusive restaurants, stores and, of course, the nicest hotel in town.

In many ways, the Sheraton was a symbol of Iraq’s graduation into the club of industrialized nations. Before it was even completed, however, Iraq plunged into an eight-year war with Iran. Then came the Gulf War, followed by twelve years, finally, of economic sanctions and, finally, Gulf War II. Each conflict ate away at the city’s lustre until none of its former brilliance remained. Just as the Sheraton was a product of Basra’s rise, it had been a witness to its long decline.

Wave after wave of black smoke engulfed our vehicle as we headed down the waterfront towards the hotel. It was like driving through a funfair thrill ride; each time the curtain of smoke lifted, we’d get a glimpse of the scary drama playing to our front and periphery.

Only when we pulled up across the street from the hotel did we get the full view. Gangs of men were running riot.
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Law and order had been cast aside; there was no Saddam, no police and everything was fair game. It was like watching an army of medieval barbarians sack a civilized city. In the middle of this pandemonium was the pathetic figure of the Sheraton’s general manager. He was pleading with the crowd but the poor man was powerless to stop them from trashing his hotel.

The ITN crew asked if they could get out of the Land Rover and get some soundbites from the locals. I told them it would be OK so long as I got out with them and everyone kept within ten feet of the Land Rover. It may seem odd that I’d let them leave the safety of the armoured vehicle given the state of anarchy. But I knew from my work in Gaza and the West Bank that the camera can have a profoundly calming effect on people. As soon as it starts rolling even the most disorderly individual will usually strive to put his best foot forward.

The smell of burning rubber nearly knocked me flat as I climbed out of the sealed environment of the armoured cab. The acrid fumes from the fires on the top floors, mixed with the heat and humidity of the day, forming a thick residue that burned my eyes and the back of my throat.

While the crew got down to business, I scanned the vicinity for potential threats. Two things struck me immediately: first, the gunfire coming from the top floors of the hotel. It was probably celebratory, but there could be a sniper lurking, waiting for his chance to pick off a western target. Secondly, and of greater concern to me, was the large group of around 150 men who’d gathered on the street outside the hotel. Ranging in age from early teens to mid-twenties, the unruly gang were busy showing off their booty to each other. A stocky, clean-shaven youth appeared to be the ringleader. I could tell from the way he was dressed – shirt unbuttoned to the navel, exposing a hairy and rather paunchy middle – that he was out to prove a point.

I kept a close eye on the group, marking their movements to make sure they came nowhere near the ITN crew. Everything appeared manageable until the ringleader started shouting. He pointed and all heads turned in one direction. I followed their lead and that’s when I saw her.

Never in all my years as a professional soldier or as an adviser on The Circuit had I seen anything like it in a war zone; a woman, obviously a western journalist, dressed in tight trousers and a snug top that had ridden up to reveal a patch of flesh around her middle. A woman dressed that way in London would hardly warrant a second glance. But in Basra, even under normal circumstances, it was highly provocative. The unruly gang must have thought Allah was rewarding them for their years of suffering by delivering one of their seventy afterlife virgins ahead of schedule. Add in the fact that there was no authority around to keep their impulses in check and it was obvious where the situation was headed.

The most astounding aspect of this unbelievable scene, however, wasn’t the men; it was the female journalist. She appeared to be completely unaware that she had become the object of desire for dozens of undoubtedly undersexed men. I couldn’t believe it. She was just standing there, seemingly clueless. And when she did finally notice the group of youths, what did she do? Did she run? Did she hell. She waded right into them, notebook in hand, to conduct interviews!

The men parted like a shoal of fish then closed around her. I’m sure they wanted to give her much more than a soundbite. She was trapped and she didn’t even know it. I looked around, hunting for anyone who might be attached to this woman. Across the road, about thirty yards from the gang, I saw a cameraman shooting b-roll of the Shaat al Arab waterway. If indeed he was with her and they were a team, they should have been told never to lose sight of each other. I searched the area for a security adviser. I thought surely her network would have assigned her one before sending her into a hostile environment. But there was no one to be found. She was alone.

By this point, some of the men who’d been firing rifles inside the hotel had come out and joined the unruly gang. I wondered how I could possibly intervene to help her should anything happen. My first priority was to look after my clients, the ITN crew. There was also the small matter of numbers. Could I possibly deliver her safely from the clutches of 150-odd sex-crazed young men?

The ringleader was getting louder and louder, whipping the gang into a simmering frenzy. The female journalist still seemed none the wiser to his intentions. Then the inevitable happened; the ringleader made his move. He grabbed the woman’s arm with one hand and her waist with the other. Her expression quickly changed from professional indifference to total shock. At long last, the penny had dropped.

‘Ureedik! Ureedik!’ (I want you! I want you!) shouted the ringleader.

There was nothing left to think about. I radioed Martin to keep an eye on the crew while I went in after her. He must have been watching the scene closely as well because he required no explanation for my actions.

I shouldered my way through the outer rings of frenzied men, all the time conscious of the pistol I had hidden in my body armour. My nose filled with the stench of dozens of dirty armpits. When I finally reached her, she looked like a fox cornered by a pack of hunting dogs. She was frightened and desperate to get out of there.

‘Where’s your crew?’ I shouted to her.

She pointed to a saloon car parked on the kerb outside the hotel. The cameraman I’d seen earlier was throwing his gear into the backseat. At least one of them had their shit together.

With one hand on her back and the other poised to grab my pistol, I pushed her towards the edge of the crowd. The ringleader lurched forward to grab her. I threw myself between him and the girl and looked him directly in the eye.

‘LA! LA!’ (NO! NO!) I shouted.

It was now a stand-off between him and me. He had more than a hundred men to back his claim to this woman. I had Martin, which just about equalled things out in my mind.

I searched the mob with my eyes. I didn’t see any knives or pistols but I knew that somewhere in the crowd were the young men who’d been firing rifles from the top floors of the hotel. As I inched the woman towards her car, the gang of men moved with us. They were swarming all over the vehicle like insects by the time we reached it. I opened the door and told the terrified cameraman to drive the hell out of there as quickly as possible. The weight of the crowd nearly overwhelmed me as I struggled to keep the woman shielded while she climbed into the passenger seat. Before she could close the door, the ringleader dived under my left arm and shoved his face into her lap.

The woman screamed as the dirty bastard ground his face into her crotch. I grabbed the waistband of his trousers and pulled him off her. He managed to grab a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard before he tumbled backwards out of the car.

I slammed the door shut and banged the roof with my fist. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ I shouted.

The cameraman floored it and the car sped away, leaving me to deal with the ringleader and his disappointed gang.

I was standing toe to toe with the ringleader. He didn’t look pleased, neither did his friends. I reached into my body armour and placed my hand on my pistol. I had no intention of drawing it unless necessary – which seemed very likely.

Then, to my tremendous surprise, the ringleader smiled and extended his hand. I released my weapon and shook his hand in return. ‘La, la, la’ (No, no, no), I said to him, as if he were a child who’d misbehaved. The ringleader slapped my right shoulder, laughed heartily and shook my hand again. He then turned his back on me and shared out the cigarettes he’d grabbed as if he were the grand conqueror. Given all that could have happened, I was happy to let him have his moment.

CHAPTER 14

‘Put your body armour on and keep your helmets right next to you,’ I said.

The journalists rolled their eyes. ‘Why?’ said the older of the two, an American producer in his early thirties. ‘We do this several times a week.’

‘Well, then you should know the amount of incidents that happen on this route,’ I said.

The less senior of my clients, a female producer in her late twenties, joined in. ‘You’re not wearing body armour,’ she squeaked.

‘Yes, I am.’ I tugged at the neck of my coat. ‘Underneath my clothes, like the two of you should be doing.’

The male producer looked at his younger colleague like a peacock poised to spread his feathers. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll put on our flak jackets if anything happens.’

‘Putting it on after an incident won’t do you much good,’ I said.

He stared at me defiantly.

‘If you insist on not wearing your body armour then at least put it up against the sides of the door to give you some protection,’ I said.

The female producer finally listened to reason and wedged her body armour between the seat and the side of the vehicle. The male producer folded his arms and didn’t budge.

I couldn’t get my head around his attitude. My client had been in Baghdad for weeks, whereas I’d been there less than twenty-four hours.

It was January 2004. Nearly nine months had passed since George W. Bush had infamously declared an ‘end to major hostilities’ in Iraq. The short-lived, post-invasion honeymoon period was over and any goodwill which may have existed toward the international press corps had evaporated. The number of journalists killed in Iraq was mounting. They’d become prime targets for insurgents looking to notch up western deaths and for bandits searching for western booty.

The changing climate was underscored on 31 December 2003 when a suicide bomber targeted Nabil’s, an upscale Baghdad restaurant popular with western journalists. One of the few restaurants in the Iraqi capital to serve alcohol, a large crowd had gathered at Nabil’s to attend a New Year’s Eve party. The celebration ended in carnage when the bomber drove a vehicle laden with explosives into the side of the restaurant. At least five people were killed in the attack and dozens injured.

Some media had woken up to the new reality. News organization no longer plastered their vehicles and body armour with the letters TV and PRESS – hence the reason I was wearing my body armour underneath my clothes. Yet despite growing evidence to the contrary, there were still those who clung to the belief that journalists in Iraq were ‘untouchable’. The hardheaded male producer in my vehicle appeared to fall into that category. As we prepared to get under way, I hoped his attitude was the exception rather than the norm. I had just signed on for a two-month assignment with AKE looking after CNN in Iraq.