by Damien Lewis
“Buddy, the guards are doing a fine job, but you know—can you really make sure they’re on the ball for the next four to five days? Make sure all vehicles get an extra-thorough search—same as usual, only better. I really need your boys to be one hundred percent.”
“No problem. You want me to bolster the guard force with some guys from the standby shift?”
As Scotty knew, I had loads of extra guys trained and vetted and ready to go. They all wanted the work.
“No, no—just keep on top of them for the next four to five days.”
I didn’t ask why, but I guessed from what he’d said that we had a VIP visit coming up. In the world of security you treat such visits on a need-to-know basis: only those who absolutely need to know will be aware who is coming and when. In Afghanistan we never used to know who a VIP visitor might be until the moment they arrived—and that included the British prime minister and the commander of the U.S. Marine Corps.
I went and relayed Scotty’s instructions to Omar, my newish Guard Force Commander.
“Listen, I need the guards to stay extra vigilant for the coming week. If a visitor doesn’t have proper documents—if they don’t have a valid visitor’s pass—you do not let them in. Even if the person has a U.S. passport, you do not let them in. You radio the RSOs, so they can come check.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Michael, no problem. But what is the cause for so much concern? Have the guards been doing anything wrong? I have been rigorously checking—”
“Nope, the guards are doing great,” I said, cutting him off. If anything, Omar had a tendency to be too much of a worrier. He was certainly too much of a talker, that was for sure. But at least his heart was in the right place.
For the next twenty-four hours the guards were at their very best. I went back to my beachside villa on the evening of the tenth knowing we were well on top of things. I had five days left to go, and the nearer my homecoming came the more my mind kept drifting to the Welsh mountains, and a beautiful woman and a feisty little boy who couldn’t wait for me to get home.
Massoud drove me into work the following morning, and he had no new intelligence to report. All seemed well until I arrived at the Embassy gates, whereupon a very worried-looking Omar came running out to me.
“Mr. Michael! Mr. Michael! Very worrying news! This morning! A Libyan policeman—he was taking photos of the Embassy gates!”
Omar was firing words at me like a machine gun. I got him to calm down and explain things properly. A couple of hours earlier the guards had spotted a man in a Libyan policeman’s uniform in the building directly opposite the Mission. He was on the roof of that three-story property taking photographs. There was no mistaking what he was taking photos of: his lens was pointed at the front gate and the interior of the Mission. This was heavy shit. From up on that roof you could see into the entire compound and get shots of just about everything.
“So did you challenge him?” I asked. “Did you ask what the hell he was doing?”
“Yes, yes, we did! But he told us to get lost, it was none of our business.”
“Did you report it to the RSOs?”
“No, Mr. Michael, I was waiting to discuss it with you first.”
I told Omar he’d done well and that I’d take it from here. As I hurried over to the TOC my mind was racing. If he was a genuine Libyan policeman he’d have been armed, so my guards were right not to have pushed it. In any case, they had no jurisdiction over the Libyan police. More important, the Libyan police were renowned for being corrupt as hell, so who knew the real reason why he was taking photographs. If it had been official police business why hadn’t they phoned and asked the Embassy for permission? It just didn’t add up.
I entered the TOC and it was a buzz of activity. It all stopped when I told them the news. “Guys, my guards just caught a Libyan policeman taking photos of the front of the Mission. Or at least, a guy wearing a Libyan policeman’s uniform.”
Dave spun around. “You are fucking joking!”
“No, mate, I am not.”
“Did they hold him?”
“No, they didn’t. They figured he was armed. Anyway, there’s no way my guards can claim to have jurisdiction over the Libyan police—not unless they’re on Mission property.”
Dave shook his head in disbelief. “This is not good. We need to chase this up with the Benghazi chief of police pronto. See if he’s a real policeman here on official business, and if so, what do they want with the photos.”
“And if he’s not?” I prompted.
Dave’s eyes met mine. “Then it’s some kind of a recce . . . Buddy, I gotta get moving. Tell your guards to keep their fuckin’ eyes peeled!”
He grabbed the phone and started making calls. I could hear him giving updates and briefings to all on what had just happened. I left the TOC feeling deeply unsettled. I figured we had about as much chance of getting any answers out of the Benghazi chief of police as we had of hell freezing over.
I went around my guard force praising them for what they’d done and urging them to keep vigilant and on the ball. “Guys, keep bloody switched on, okay. You do the job I’ve trained you to do, but even better today.”
“Yep, yep, no problem.”
I spoke to Omar and congratulated him again. It was Omar himself who’d approached and challenged the supposed policeman. In Libya, it took a lot to do that. In a place like Benghazi the police would know who you were and where you lived, or they’d be able to find it out pretty damn quickly. If you crossed a policeman you were very likely to have him come knocking on the door of your family home. The guards were unarmed. They’d challenged a supposed Libyan cop who very likely had a gun. Hats off to them for doing so—it was a ballsy move.
I made my way to the canteen for a coffee but ran into Dave on the way. He told me the State Department was seeking answers from the Benghazi chief of police as to who had been taking the photographs. I figured we had about a zero chance of getting any answers, but I didn’t say that to Dave. He’d done all that he could, and I didn’t want to bring the guy down. He was looking hyperstressed as it was.
We left it at that and I headed into the canteen. As soon as I entered I noticed two black guys sitting at one of the tables. They were dressed in the same kind of clothing as the RSOs—our de facto uniform—but these guys had pistols slung on their belts. I figured we had two extra American security guys at the Mission right now, but I didn’t know exactly why. I grabbed a coffee and asked them if they minded me joining them. They told me to pull up a chair.
“I’m Morgan. I run the guard force here.”
“Hey, nice to meet you, Morgan,” one of them replied.
“Your guards sure seem up to speed,” remarked the other.
I took a sip of the coffee, spotted Asaf, and yelled over a greeting: “Gandu!”
“Benshoot! England no good!”
“Bloody Bangladesh . . . We’re gonna ban you from cricket these days your team’s so shitty . . .”
The two black dudes were laughing at the exchange, especially since they could see that Asaf loved it. I glanced outside, absentmindedly, and my eyes came to rest upon a gray-haired figure moving past the window. I recognized him instantly, mostly from having seen the guy in the newspapers and on the TV news. It was J. Christopher Stevens, U.S. Ambassador to Libya.
The penny dropped instantly. I now knew why the place was so busy and so tense, and who the couple of guys were that I was sharing a coffee with. They had to be part of his close protection (CP) team. I presumed there had to be at least four other CP guys here at the Mission, for the British political officer in Benghazi never had less than six, and he was one below ambassador level.
No one who’d worked here for any amount of time could fail to have learned of Ambassador Stevens’s reputation as a friend of the Libyan people, and a real mover and shaker in the post-Gaddafi landscape. Over the years he’d had a close involvement with Benghazi in particular, this being where the revolution ha
d started. Benghazi was where the first weapons had been shipped in to arm the rebels, and where Libya’s Transitional National Council—the interim government—had been founded.
Ambassador Stevens’s greatest renown was that he’d sailed into Benghazi at the height of the revolution on a Greek cargo ship carrying supplies to the rebels. From Benghazi, Stevens and his team had coordinated further shipments of “nonlethal aid.” They’d had nowhere to stay in the rebel stronghold, so they’d based themselves at the Tibesti, until a car bomb had gone off in the parking lot. Sounds familiar. Stevens had stood by the rebels as Gaddafi’s forces closed in on the city, which was saved only at the last minute by NATO air strikes.
Stevens had earned a legendary reputation by standing by the rebels in their hour of need, and facing the risks alongside them. He’d bought into their struggle, and especially their fight for basic freedoms and rights—ones that we in the West pretty much take for granted. Once the Transitional National Council had been recognized as the legitimate power in Libya, Stevens had been made its U.S. Special Advisor, and he’d been the obvious choice for U.S. Ambassador to Libya thereafter.
For the Ambassador, Benghazi was almost a home away from home and I was surprised we hadn’t seen him here earlier. But as I turned back to my coffee a thought struck me most powerfully. The U.S. Ambassador had flown in, and this very morning we’d had someone posing as a Libyan policeman taking photos of the Embassy. I made the connection almost instantly: Shit—the Ambo’s here and we’ve just had some dodgy bastard doing a recce. It was either the mother of all coincidences, or it was hugely ominous and menacing.
Scotty walked into the canteen, saw me, and came right over. “There you are, buddy. Been looking for you everywhere. Sorry, I couldn’t tell you earlier but—”
I cut him off with a laugh. “No worries, mate. Don’t sweat it. I know how it works.”
“Yeah, well, sorry, you know, but we really couldn’t let on.”
“Not a problem. I’ll make sure the guards are on top form.”
Scotty smiled. “Cheers, buddy, I really appreciate it.”
I made as if to finish my coffee. “Right, I won’t hang around for long, as I don’t want to get in anyone’s way. You all seem busy and I don’t want to get under anyone’s feet. I’ll be with the guards for a couple of hours, then shoot. But if you need me, phone me. You know where I’ll be, and I’ll be right back.”
“Great. But wait five, ’cause he wants to have a quick word with you first.”
By “he” it was clear that Scotty meant the Ambassador. “No problem. I’m around.”
As if on cue Ambassador Stevens walked in. He grabbed himself a coffee, then came right over. I stood up to greet him, to show proper respect, and we shook hands.
“You’re Morgan, right? Great to meet you. Thanks for the job you’ve been doing here. The RSOs tell me the guard force is working real well.”
“Thanks very much, sir. It’s taken a good while to get them into proper shape, but yes, they’re an effective force right now.”
We took our seats. My first impression of the Ambassador was of a warm, decent, down-to-earth kind of guy. Instinctively I liked him. I’d met a lot of diplomats in my time, and there were some at least who chose to treat private security guys like me as scum. They figured we were uneducated brutes who only knew how to hurt and kill.
I’d once had some snotty Englishwoman working for the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office say this to me and my men: “You lot—you’re just thugs with guns!” Needless to say we’d canned the mission and driven her directly back to base, whereupon our boss had made her apologize, publicly, before we would take her on any further tasks. There we were supposedly prepared to take a bullet to protect her ass, and she’d said that to us. The gall of it.
“So, tell me, what d’you think of the security here?” the Ambassador asked. “You’ve been here longer than just about anyone, so I’d appreciate your take on things.”
Oh fuck, I thought to myself, here we go again—the Ambo’s been told to get the lowdown from the mouthy Brit. I reminded myself not to swear and to be polite and not to go overboard about the QRF.
“Put it this way, sir—more could be done.” I was choosing my words carefully. “There need to be more physical barriers. We could do with doubling or even tripling the numbers of RSOs—that’s what is needed to cover the workload. Plus the Quick Reaction Force—which is made up of four men from the Seventeenth February Militia—is not up to the task you require of them.”
“Interesting. Very interesting. Please, go on.”
“Well, I’m sure the RSOs have briefed you on all of this, sir, but in short we need a lot more manpower. Either that, sir, or we need more firepower. Preferably a bit of both, but if not, then one or the other would sure help.”
“Anything else?” he prompted.
“Sir, there’s a whole lot more. But I’ve briefed the RSOs repeatedly on what I see as the security deficiencies here, and I’m sure they’ve briefed you. I don’t want to talk out of line here or go over what’s already been said.”
The Ambassador gave me this very direct look. His eyes were a gentle gray-blue, and there was a lot of honesty and decency in them. “Understood, Morgan, but you’re the guy on the ground with the continuity, hence that’s why it’s good to hear it from you direct. What changes would you recommend as a priority?”
I met the Ambassador’s gaze. “Sir, number-one priority: get rid of the QRF. Get shot of them, and get a force of U.S. Marines or similar in their place, a dozen or more. I’d also double the number of RSOs, and it wouldn’t hurt to get a couple of heavy machine guns up on the roof of Villa C, as your firepower. That’s exactly what I’d do, sir.”
The Ambassador smiled. “Thanks, Morgan, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Is there anything else?”
This was a guy who struck me as being open and accessible, and ready to take feedback from whoever was best positioned to give it. The fact that this wasn’t, strictly speaking, any of my business didn’t seem to matter in the slightest with him. He hadn’t challenged a word of what I’d said. In fact, I got the very strong impression he agreed with most of it. I figured there was no point in my not saying it all.
“Well, there’s one more thing, sir. I’m sure you’ve heard, but we had a Libyan policeman—or someone posing as a Libyan policeman—taking photos of the Mission this very morning. Sir, that worries me greatly, and for reasons I am sure you understand.”
The Ambassador nodded. “I had heard, and I understand your concern. Thanks for raising it.”
We stood up and shook hands. Again the Ambassador thanked me for having the guard force in such good shape. He didn’t need to. I was just doing my job, what I was paid to do, and what Blue Mountain was contracted to do by the State Department. The fact that he bothered to say all this reflected what a thoroughly fair and caring individual the Ambassador was. He may have achieved high office, but that didn’t mean for one moment that he had forgotten the little people.
The Ambassador left, leaving me in the company of his two CP guys.
“Thanks, buddy, for speaking up,” one of them remarked. “You said what needed to be said, and you got the credibility to say it, you bein’ here so long.”
I asked them what their procedure was for extracting the Ambassador if we got hit. They said they’d bundle him into an armored Land Cruiser and make a convoy move for the Egyptian border. That I knew was a good eight-hour drive away through numerous checkpoints controlled by various Libyan militias. I told them it was unworkable: they’d be a load of Americans armed to the teeth driving very recognizable armored 4x4s, and they were bound to be seen.
They asked me what my evacuation plan was. I said I’d call Massoud, my Libyan driver, and we’d sneak away in his battered Nissan sedan making like locals. They looked at me like I was insane, but frankly I’d have rather done things my way than take my chances with the Ambo in a convoy of highly distinctive arm
ored SUVs—ones from which the red diplomatic plates still hadn’t been removed.
Before leaving for the day I watched the Ambassador do the rounds of my guards. This was a guy who somehow found time for everyone. Just as important, the guy was fluent in Arabic, and I could tell by the way he greeted my guards and how he related to them that he was a massive fan of their culture and their ways.
Just before I left, Omar grabbed me. “Who is that guy—the American? He is totally fluent in Arabic. He speaks like one of us.”
I told him that I had no idea who he was. But I repeated the need for the guard force to be extra vigilant with such visitors around.
I headed to my villa and the regular-as-clockwork takeout-chicken guy who delivered my evening meal. We’d settled into a routine. Unless I told him otherwise, he’d deliver barbecued chicken, rice, and salad to my door at eight every evening. The fact that I felt secure enough to eat it on my veranda overlooking the sea really spoke volumes. Most of the Ramadan party crowd was gone by now, but it wasn’t as if any of the bad guys had taken up residence in their place.
The next morning I went for a long run on the beach, followed by a major session in the villa complex gym. I didn’t plan to get in to the Embassy before lunchtime. It would be a busy old morning with Ambassador Stevens in town and I figured I was better out of the way.
Silvio Miotto—the top diplomat here at the Benghazi Mission—had slipped away quietly the evening before, Ambassador Stevens flying in to replace him. Silvio had become deeply unsettled about the lack of security at the Embassy, and he’d shared a lot of that with me. I knew how desperate he’d been to get away, and I could just imagine how happy he was to be en route back to the United States. I had grown to like Silvio a great deal and I was glad he’d managed to get himself gone.
Massoud drove me to the Embassy at one o’clock. All was good with my guards, so I headed for the TOC. I’d got into a habit of checking in with Sean every day, for the new IT guy was such a dude. We chatted about this and that, and then he asked a favor of me.
