The Siege

by Damien Lewis

  I exploded. I started ranting at the TV set in Welsh and yelling insults. Protesters! Protesters! Try Shariah Brigade Al Qaeda killers, more like it! I knew I was losing the plot here. No news agencies would be sending anyone onto the ground in Benghazi right now, so the BBC were likely reporting what they’d been told down some shitty phone line, which meant it was hardly their fault. But where the hell had they got that bullshit line from: protesters?

  In the midst of me pacing back and forth across the room and yelling at the TV, I felt my phone vibrate. I figured it had to be Zahid checking that I was okay. I glanced at the caller ID: it was Dave.

  I clicked it open, my hands shaking violently. Part of me feared one of the Shariah fuckers had got hold of Dave’s phone and was sending out some sick, evil text message.

  I read it with fearful eyes: “MESSAGE: preparing to EVAC Benghazi NOW!”

  Oh my God—it looked as if some of the guys at least were getting out of this hellhole alive. I didn’t think it was Dave who had sent the text. He’d have made it more personal and put more information into it, knowing it was going to me. But I figured it had to be genuine. I could only imagine that Dave had asked one of his fellow Americans to send me a message, to put my mind at ease.

  I texted back: “Hope to God you, Scotty and the others are okay. If you can, let me know.”

  After all that had happened tonight, the surviving Americans would be on a total communications blackout here in Benghazi. Someone had broken protocol by sending me that text, and in my heart I thanked them a thousand times over for doing so. God, it felt so good to read those words.

  I could only presume they’d sent it from the Annex or maybe Benghazi airport, for I knew no one was left at the Mission. It had to mean they were evacuating the country. I just hoped and prayed they’d got the message about the Ambassador, and that they weren’t about to leave his body behind.

  I’d sent my text about the Ambassador to everyone, including a couple of the Special Operations guys at the Annex, so they had to know. I didn’t sign my texts “Morgan,” but their phones were sure to have me on their caller ID. They must have known it was me who sent the message: Confirmed: your No. 1 guy is in the 1200-bed Hospital. I presumed that someone at the Annex had decided that since I’d gone the extra mile for them, the least I deserved was a heads-up on the status of Scotty, Dave, Sean, et al.—hence the text message they’d just sent me.

  Either way, I felt like someone had thrown me a lifeline; this felt like my death reprieve. For the last hour I’d truly been on the bones of my ass—literally falling apart. But the very thought that at least some of the guys were getting out of this alive had galvanized me into action. I knew now exactly what I had to do.

  I powered up my laptop and logged on to my email, to check the details of the flight that Robert had booked me. 1300: Business Class, Benghazi–Doha–London, on a packed Turkish Airlines flight. I presumed Robert had pulled a few strings to get me on it, for every man and his dog would be trying to get out of Benghazi right now.

  I read the email he’d sent: “Listen, no messing: get on that flight and get out of Benghazi.”

  I sent him a short reply saying that I’d make the flight. I didn’t tell him what I was planning to do in the meantime. I was so full of anger, and no way was I prepared just to slink away. I was going back to the Embassy first, to finish what had been started.

  Amazingly, there were emails already from some of the former RSOs: “Morgan, what the hell is going on? We’re seeing the news . . .”

  “Hey, brother, hope you got out okay, let me know what’s goin’ on if you get a chance.”

  I banged out the same reply to all: “I’m okay. Too many attackers. We didn’t stand a chance. Mission is gone. Cannot say much more, but from what I’ve seen it doesn’t get any worse.”

  I wasn’t going to be the one to get the news broken that the American ambassador to Libya was dead. The last thing I wanted was for his family to learn of his death over the TV news or the Internet. I just hoped and prayed someone from officialdom was giving his family a heads-up even now, so they would hear it first privately, and before the screaming headlines blew the world away: U.S. Ambassador to Libya Murdered . . .

  And that right now was the key focus of my intentions. The U.S. ambassador to Libya was dead, and that made the Embassy compound—the place where they had killed him—a crime scene. In fact, it was the scene of one of the biggest and most horrific crimes of the past few decades. With whatever surviving Americans there were evacuating, I had to presume I was the only good guy left in this city, and that meant I had to go back in there and document that crime scene before all the evidence was destroyed.

  I also needed to check the Embassy for bodies, or weaponry or any classified papers that might still be there, while at the same time securing the evidence of every aspect of what the attackers had done. I hadn’t been able to save even one of my American friends, but maybe this way I could help their countrymen hunt down their killers.

  The decision made, I sent Massoud a text: “Get here for first light. Bring AKs plus ammo. We’re going back in.”

  Massoud was truly one of the good guys. He confirmed that he was on his way. There was no point in my returning to the Embassy before dawn, for I’d need light in which to work.

  All I could do now was wait for Massoud and for sunrise.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I set about packing and sanitizing the villa. I had a big board with all the photos of my guards pinned on it, in part so I could organize shifts, in part so I could remember all their names. I pulled the photos off, went outside, and burned them. It was dark and silent out there, with just the faint roar of the waves carrying softly across the sand. In the east I could see the barest hint of dawn.

  I stamped the ashes into the sand.

  I packed up the laptop, the satphone, the company cash, and my few personal possessions. I was pretty much done. I flicked on the TV news again. The story had broken that two Americans were dead. I knew who one was: the Ambassador. Thank God that hadn’t hit the news yet. I had no idea who the other might be.

  A text bleeped through from Massoud. “I am outside waiting for you.”

  I stuffed the Browning down my pants, the spare mags in my pocket, grabbed my camera, and headed out the door. The first light of dawn was breaking red and angry across the sea. I slid into the passenger seat of Massoud’s Nissan.

  Massoud glanced at me. “Morgan, it is good to see you still alive. But you know that two Americans have been killed?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Do you know who?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You know a second compound was attacked?”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Word is they were hammered for hours by the Shariah Brigade but they managed to hold out. Finally, American reinforcements turned up on a flight from somewhere.”

  “That’s good.” So that must have been how they’d broken the siege at the Annex and evacuated their people. But it didn’t shed much if any light on what had happened at the Mission.

  I could feel Massoud’s eyes upon me. “Did you know about this other compound, Morgan?”

  “Nope. No idea.”

  I knew Massoud knew I was lying. He probably knew why as well.

  “So, they must all have been spies in there,” Massoud probed.

  “Don’t start,” I snapped. “Not today. Not that whole fucking American spies bullshit. I don’t care who was in there.”

  The “American spies” line was a daily refrain with the Libyans. How come you can speak Arabic—are you an American spy? How come you speak this Welsh that no one else can understand—are you an American spy? Why do you know so much about the Koran—are you an American spy? Maybe they’d had this drilled into them during the Gaddafi years—that every foreigner is an American spy—but either way I did not need this shit today of all days.

  “I’m British, remember,” I t
old Massoud. “I’m the British security manager at the Mission. That’s all. Now drive.”

  Massoud got us under way. “You really think you will get into that place this morning?” he asked me.

  “No, probably not. If your countrymen are any good they’ll have security there out the asshole. The Libyan police and military should have the entire Mission surrounded and cordoned off. But in this place you never fucking know.”

  “Morgan, it is not wise going back,” Massoud remarked. “We tried once last night . . . You will not get in. And what do you hope to achieve this morning?”

  “Just drive.”

  The Libyans didn’t get it. They didn’t grasp why I was so tight with the Americans. They didn’t understand it. They thought I was the Guard Force’s champion, not that of the Americans. In truth I was both. They thought the Americans told me what to do and I instructed the guards in turn, so I probably resented the Americans. They didn’t understand how there could be such a special bond between two nations so far apart—America and Great Britain.

  Massoud’s phone rang and he gabbled away in Arabic for a minute or so. He ended the call and there was a heavy silence. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Morgan, now it is four dead Americans.”

  “How do you know?” I demanded.

  “My friend at the airport has just seen four bodies turn up and get loaded onto an aircraft.”

  “Ask him what their names are. Ask him who they were.”

  “I have. I have asked. He doesn’t know. But he can see Americans are there loading up their dead.”

  “So ask him to find out who the fuck they are!” I snapped. I was desperate for information.

  “Morgan, he can’t. No one will tell him. He’s not able to.”

  I’d known that two were dead and I had accepted that fact. One was the Ambassador and I figured one was most likely one of his close protection guys. But now it was four dead Americans, and I just knew in my heart that the number would keep rising.

  My phone rang. It was Phil, another of my security mates now working out of Tripoli. “You okay, mate?” he asked. “I’m watching the news.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m living it.”

  “What do you need, mate? Anything? Cash? How are you getting out? Where are you right now?”

  “I’m fine. I’m keeping moving.”

  “If you need anything just get in touch. If need be, mate, I’ll fly down there for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me know when you get home, okay?”

  I killed the call. We turned the last corner and hit the approach road to the Embassy. I simply could not believe my eyes. There were no police. No cordons. No military. No roadblocks. No security at all. Nothing. The place looked wide open. I let out a string of curses.

  “You have got to be kidding! One of the biggest atrocities ever and there’s no one fucking here!”

  I told Massoud to pull over and to wait in the car. I got out, checked my weapon, and made for the battle-scarred entranceway. As I strode ahead Massoud appeared beside me. He told me there was no way I was going in again alone. I guessed he sensed how close I was to losing it, so he was here as much to protect me from myself. Either way, it was good to have some company.

  As we moved toward the main gate a white Toyota Corolla pulled to a halt just in front of us. A guy got out dressed in a Libyan policeman’s uniform. Bearing in mind that we’d had a “Libyan policeman” doing the pre-attack recce of the Embassy, I was sorely tempted to draw the Browning and put a bullet in his head. Massoud must have realized as much, for he moved quickly and started talking to the guy.

  The three of us stepped inside the gates. The smell of burning and the smoke caught in my throat. My God, it looked a whole lot worse in the daylight. It looked as if the place had been flattened in a series of air strikes. As he surveyed the scene Massoud’s expression was one of pure horror. He looked shocked beyond words.

  He glanced at me. “Morgan, I am so sorry.”

  I gritted my teeth against the rage. “It’s not your fault, Massoud. You didn’t do this.”

  Some random Libyan guy emerged from the smoke. He ran up to me. “This is disgusting. I cannot believe they did this. I am sorry. I lived in the U.S. for nearly twenty years. How can they have done this? I am so sorry . . .”

  I gave a curt nod of thanks. We had work to do. As there was zero security around the place, that meant the Shariah killers could return at any moment, especially if they learned that I was here. I gave myself twenty minutes max to get this done.

  “Let’s get moving,” I said to Massoud.

  We headed in and to our right was the row of gutted vehicles. I pressed on toward the VIP Villa. Twenty-four hours ago this was a luxury building, decorated beautifully and full of fine furniture. I walked through the scorched entranceway—the place where I’d got challenged a few hours back by the bad guys. The interior of the Villa was totally and utterly fire-blackened and destroyed.

  I needed to take photos of everything, but I told myself to concentrate on the grim remains of the “safe room”—the place in which I had to presume the Ambassador had met his end. I walked through the steel gateway that led into the complex of bedrooms that made up the “safe room.” The furniture in this place had been like nothing I had ever seen before. Whether it was genuine or repro I didn’t know, but it was the kind of stuff you’d expect to see in a French chateau or an English castle. But it was all burned, looted, gone.

  I checked what I presumed had to have been the Ambassador’s room, or maybe it was Sean’s. Weird. Clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe almost completely untouched by the flames. I presumed the killers hadn’t been able to throw the gasoline this far inside the building, because of the steel bars, and as a result it wasn’t as badly firebombed as the rest of the place.

  I checked the way out onto the roof—the place where Scotty, Dave, and the others would have been making their last stand. It was via a large window protected by reinforced steel bars. The window was hanging open, the bars swung wide. Who had opened it? Why? Was this the way the bad guys had tried to get in, or was this the way the good guys had tried to escape the hell of the inferno?

  My attention was drawn outside. I could hear muffled shouts and yelling from behind the villa. Massoud and I looked at each other: What the hell was going on? We moved around to the back of the building, and there was the lone Libyan policeman getting abused by five armed men. They spotted the two of us and started leaping about and shouting and doing their V-for-victory signs, as they took photos of each other posing by the burned-out building.

  All except one were in full combat dress, and I could see two at least had AK-47s slung over their shoulders. The lone policeman made his way back toward us, clearly making an early escape. No surprises there: the Libyan cop was moving swiftly out of the danger zone. As he passed Massoud he muttered something.

  “What did he say?” I grated.

  “Shariah Brigade militia,” Massoud replied.

  My blood was boiling.

  This is it, I told myself. People are going to die now.

  I reached behind me and felt for the Browning. The heavy steel bulge was right where it should be. They started walking toward us, strutting and cocksure in their “victory” and their strength of numbers. Morgan, lad, this is going off big-time. Get the fuck ready.

  They still had their AKs slung over their shoulders, and I figured I could get the drop on most of them. I’d hit the two I could see with the guns first, then deal with the others.

  One started shouting: “You American! You American!”

  And what if I am?

  He was jabbing a finger at me now. “You American! You American! Death to America!”

  The five of them kept coming. Bring it on. If you think I’m an American why are your weapons still slung, assholes?

  Massoud uttered a few words in Arabic, then: “Inglesi. Inglesi.”

  “Inglesi?” the lead Sharia
h guy hesitated. “Inglesi okay. Manchester United. Wayne Rooney. English football good!”

  That tipped me over the edge. “Is it? Is it good? Is this shit behind you good? You killed all the Americans and you murdering bastards want to talk fucking football?”

  I couldn’t stop yelling at them. I was shaking with anger. Seething. I had never wanted to kill anyone as much as I did these guys. I knew they were probably low-level Shariah, but still I was dying to drop the whole lot of them. They’d come here to take their sick souvenir photos in front of the burned-out wreck of a building where the American ambassador—a fine friend of Libya—had met his end, and most likely to show their mates what good, strong, brave jihadists they were.

  And for that in my book they deserved to die.

  I saw them exchange glances. They could sense my hatred, even if they couldn’t understand all that I was saying. All I needed now was an excuse. I wanted them to have a go. I needed them to make the first move. I knew the lead guy would have to pull his weapon off his shoulder, cock it, aim, and fire. All I had to do was grab the Browning, push it out front, and go. I was more than ready and I was convinced I could drop them before they could drill me or Massoud.

  Of course, they wouldn’t know for sure that I had a weapon. The Browning was well hidden. I guessed that made my aggression and my staring, killer gaze incomprehensible to them. To them, it had to seem as if they were being challenged to fight by one lone Brit who was unarmed.

  The mouthy one spat some words in Arabic at Massoud.

  I flicked my eyes across to Massoud. “What did he say?”

  “They are asking what your problem is. Easy, Morgan. Take it easy.”

  “Fuck taking it easy.” I fixed the lead Shariah fighter with a stare. “I tell you what my problem is, asshole: you murdered some good people here tonight. Friends of mine . . .”

  “Man United,” the guy tried again. “Inglesi football good.”