No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  This last was Liam's main concern, quite rightly. Oasis were frequently compared with the Beatles, so it was seriously plausible that some nutter might come out of the crowd and spray the happy couple with a quick burst of 9mm — and me and the team, too. That's why I planned it that I would lead Patsy out. She and I would go first, then following me really close behind but off to a slight flank would be Liam, surrounded by the rest of the BGs. This would achieve two things. One, it would make for a good photo shoot; and two, it would be the best way of protecting them without making out that we were surrounding them totally and playing it over the top.

  As we continued to wait for confirmation that the decoy vehicle had left and taken some dupes away with it, and for the signal from the real vehicle's driver that he was 30 seconds out, Liam chirped up.

  'Hey Steve, what'ya think? Are there gonna be any problems out there? I mean, I've heard there's a lot of press out there. I don't want no hassle, know what I mean!'

  'You're joking, aren't you? They're all your fans out there, the decoys worked, and besides, you've got the A Team with you.' I tried to calm him down, not that he looked nervous. He was more used to it than I was, but I guess this John Lennon thing played a bit on his mind, and on Patsy's.

  'The only problem we'll get is if you lamp one of them,' I said jokingly.

  That seemed to break the ice.

  Then the radio clicked in — the driver was 30 seconds out. I asked if everyone was OK, then led off. We took a slow walk out. Some of the hotel security had managed to hold back the crowd for the best part, but as we appeared a natural surge brought the crowd closer. My eyes were everywhere. Patsy was close and I was aware of everything around me. My senses and heightened awareness were working overtime. I took everything in, looking at the crowd, through them, behind them, for that one individual who might have been wearing a mad person's face that day. Then I was aware of the Merc pulling up, and all the pops and clicks as a thousand cameras and flashes worked.

  I'd briefed the team that only the near-side door was to be unlocked and that I was the one to open it. We neared the Merc. The driver stayed in the vehicle as briefed. Mentally I picked up on all the central locking devices on the door. They were down, good, and as I put my hand on the rear near-side door, only that door's locking mechanism sprang open — the others remained firmly locked as intended. Quickly I helped Patsy in first. As I did so, the crowd saw that this was the last chance and broke ranks, but they were too slow. Liam was now getting into the car. I had to bundle him for the last bit, and in doing so trapped his left trainer in between the door and chassis. As quick as I draw a pistol, I took out my wedding present, threw it inside and slammed the door shut. Immediately it was locked from inside by the driver and the car was speeding off, followed by little hatchbacks and motor-bikes.

  It was a good clean job. Everything went well. No one was pissed off and no one hurt; Liam might have been suffering from a bruised ankle, that was all. Later that day the BG team convened in a pub just around the corner from Blakes where we met up with the reporter Liam had contacted, who had promised to get the first round in. He asked me what I'd thrown into the Merc. 'My book, of course!' He wasn't aware that I had written one, so he demanded one, too. He also wasn't aware that he had just witnessed one of the best BG teams in operation working the London circuit.

  The Monday after the newlyweds' honeymoon, a tabloid got in touch saying they'd received a call from a businessman who'd read an article about the whole episode and required a similar level of protection.

  One of the paper's writers had taken a contact number for him and passed the enquiry directly on to me. It was nice of him to do that, because I've learnt that, in general, nobody in the media ever gets in contact with you to pass on info which they aren't likely to get something out of themselves. For some reason, newspaper people and publishers always have a million things to keep their minds occupied during any one day (like the rest of us don't, of course!) so I was pleasantly surprised by this call.

  The paper hadn't vetted this man, but there was nothing wrong in that — vetting was up to me, checking him out to see if he was genuine or just another Captain Bullshitter with a dog's breath of an attitude. I decided to make the call the following morning. I dialed the mobile number and a well-spoken Brit answered.

  'Yes, speak,' a rather sharp voice bellowed.

  'Hello! Steve Devereux, you called the …' I was interrupted.

  'Of course! You're the guy who was looking after that Oasis chap and his wife, interesting. Thank you for getting in touch. Are you in London?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh good, that's great, so am I. I wasn't sure whether that reporter would pass on my call. One knows all too well what the press can be like.'

  He was very friendly but not to the point. He kept talking, as though he was trying to beat me in a verbal contest or liked the sound of his own voice. I didn't have a chance to interject. I've always been a bit hesitant in dealing with someone through a third party, especially over the phone. You can never tell if they are serious or just want to chew the fat; they could even be a hack searching for a follow-up story, in this case about the honeymoon. So I let him talk, that's always the best approach. That way you can at least get the feel of whether they're full of shite or not.

  My first thoughts were: a Rupert; middle-aged; probably fat through years of a high intake of 'business lunches'; used to strutting around shouting at people and making himself feel important. I had a feeling that he probably worked for an Arab or some wealthy guy from the Far East. I don't know why, it was probably something to do with all the foreign business connections I'd met through Nassar. Most of these highly successful, extremely wealthy Arabs had a middle-aged city type, usually an ex-public school boy, running around after them, advising on financial deals or educating them on the Brit way, whatever that was. Really they were just highly paid handbag accessories who enjoyed the prestige of their boss, whilst as far as I could see, not really giving much in return, other than being part of this country's old boy network — which, as we all know, can open City doors.

  It transpired that his boss (not his word, I think he used 'business associate' or something — typical of this type, always wanting to be in charge) had got himself into a spot of financial bother with a bank and wanted to know if we could meet soonest and talk through a possible security scenario to look after his wife and daughter whilst his boss conducted business dealings with a series of banks in the City of London. It would require 24-hour cover — was I interested?

  From his use of the term 'security scenario' and mentioning 24-hour cover, I surmised that he was ex-forces; definitely a Rupert. That would explain his rather pompous manner when talking to me, like the way an officer would address his men on the parade square. A less likely thought was that he'd had dealings with other security companies in the past and had picked up on the lingo. I don't think so, though — my first theory felt correct.

  I might be critical of my prospective clients but sometimes these forms of introductions do pay off, so during the conversation I managed to force my choice of venue for the meeting, since he was coming across pretty much like the 'man about town'. I suggested a discreet table in the bar at the Lanesborough Hotel next to Hyde Park Corner, a place I knew well. I would be a lot happier meeting in familiar surroundings on my patch.

  'You know it?' I added.

  'Yes, I know it well, let's say about two. Is that OK for you?'

  I looked at my watch. Only 10.30. I got the impression from his tone that I had managed to jump in with the location before he did, and that's why he quickly suggested a time, a sort of one-upmanship. It came across arrogantly, but these Rupert types always do! However, I wanted to reduce the time before meeting him. From his tone I figured out that he'd never been to the hotel and I didn't want him to do a recce.

  'I can't make that, I've something else on.' I tried to push his hand. 'How about 12?'

  After all it was he who
wanted me , and actually I did have something planned. He agreed. All this might seem a bit too tactical, too much like thinking on your feet, but a lot of people — clients especially — expect it. It bores me to death, but I still have to go through the routine of it all. It's par for the course in the security business.

  The trouble is, sometimes I just can't help feeling very cynical about this entire line of work. I've learnt so much on the bodyguard circuit and it always seems that this side of the business is full of people living on another planet in one way or another. If it's not a member of a team who thinks he's a budding Jean Claude Van Damme or Dark Destroyer, strutting about like they've got a bore brush for an 84 anti-tank weapon rammed up their arse, then it's some of the clients, who never cease to amaze me with their inability to take advice from their personal bodyguard. Maybe they've seen too many movies and live in that world where everything ends up perfect for the good guy.

  Anyway, I made the RV at the Lanesborough, and so did the client. It was a meet that was to bring all my skills as a soldier, BG and businessman into play.

  But that's a story for another book!

  PART THREE

  You can never plan the future by the past.

  Edmund Burke (1 729-97)

  1 4

  THE DIANA TRAGEDY

  B efore I bring you up to date on what's been happening to me, I'd like briefly to interrupt the narrative to look at one particular issue.

  Many people outside my sphere of work ask me about the Princess Diana tragedy. Why did it happen? How could it have happened? When I tell them my thoughts on the matter they seem surprised that my opinion is as simple as it is. Like a lot of other people, they want to believe in the sinister side of the theories that are still flying about.

  In fact, my considered opinion is not what they want to hear. Such people are full of all the crazy theories — mainly thrown up by the media, who should know better — such as: Diana was killed by the Security Services because she was speaking out, abusing her privileged position by giving her views on politics and international affairs such as the mines issue. That's ludicrous. My experience working with MI5 or MI6 and other security agencies tells me that they would never have picked the tunnel as a place in which to take her out. Even I could have selected a better 'killing ground' than that! It's even more ridiculous to think that she would be taken out by our Security Services because she was seeing, and going to marry, Dodi Al Fayed, an Arab, which would have caused great embarrassment to our nation.

  Another ludicrous belief is the planning of it by one shadowy top man in the Government, so that some cold-blooded killer comes out from some MOD arsenal in the Home Counties and does the job. To maintain that the execution of any operation like this can be achieved by one man alone is completely wrong. Others have to be involved, and, I reiterate, where secrets are concerned, the only secret that's truly a secret is the one you don't tell anyone else about. We human beings are very fallible when it comes to talking — especially when it comes to knowing something that nobody else knows.

  So, what follows is my qualified theory on the entire Diana affair. Now, having worked in exactly the same position as her BG, for many different sorts of principals, I believe that what they all have in common is this: if they want to do something out of the arranged security brief, then they'll do it. I'm not saying that this is exactly what happened in this incident, but it appeared that there were some really serious cock-ups in the procedure of choosing the driver on this occasion. The principals pay the wages, and as a result dictate the state of play. So let's go with this scenario.

  Dodi comes down from his room with Diana on his arm after a great evening with the woman of his dreams, then sees the world's press sticking its nose in all over the place — well, this would get any man's back up. Then bear in mind the word 'love' and all those inner emotions that go with it, detaching the mind from everyday realities; with that and their high profile, emotions were bound to be running high. So in order to get out of the situation he and Diana had put themselves in, Dodi probably grabbed the nearest employee, and told him to get in a car and to get them away from the situation.

  The BG would really have little or indeed nothing to say about this: it's not his place to stand up and debate the issue with his boss in front of the world's press. He would be far too professional to do that. Within seconds the driver would have been told to get away from the hotel ASAP. Minutes later, there's a tragic road traffic accident where three people end up dead. I know it's simple, but I can't read anything more sinister into it than that: a statistic of high-speed driving.

  It wouldn't be the first time the principal has done a runner in great haste. Many a time I've been in a similar situation, and I'm sure a great many other BGs can tell you the same. Once I was forced to take a black London cab because my principal didn't want to wait five seconds for our bullet-proof limo to pull up — yes, five seconds ! I've been in circumstances where I've suddenly been told by my principal to ride in the back-up vehicle because he wants to ride in his vehicle alone. It's totally unprofessional and well risky — but what can you do?

  And what happened next in this instance? When we arrived at a set of traffic lights on red, some chancer on the pavement, seeing £200,000 worth of motor with only two up, decided to make a beeline for it and gets into it on the principal's side. Of course, myself and the rest of team were out of the back-up vehicle like a shot. Immediately I took in that, although the principal was obviously shaken, no real damage had been done and the chancer was politely pushed to one side. So we carried on, this time with me firmly in the principal's vehicle. (The driver of the vehicle wasn't trained in the art of defensive driving but I'd known this and had given him a thorough brief before the job started. However, he obviously hadn't listened, otherwise he would have had all the vehicle's doors locked and the windows up.)

  My point is, why have BGs if you don't use them, or at least take on board their advice? Security problems will always occur if you don't keep to the basics of security. After all, the basis of any security plan is just plain common sense — prevention is always better than the cure. The problem is, principals can always be difficult. Many principals believe a driver is just a driver and a BG is just a BG — wrong! The driver should also be trained in defensive driving techniques and in BG skills. Once mobile, the driver is the main player of the BG team and common sense dictates that he should be cross-trained in all security skills. Certainly he shouldn't just be an ex-cabbie — you're really asking for trouble if that's the case.

  Now I don't want to get into a slagging match over people's personalities, but this is how some principals operate. An old friend of mine, BB, once told me the following story. He worked for the Al Fayed family as Dodi's personal BG, and one time when he was working on board one of their yachts in the South of France, he had a run in with Dodi. Dodi was soaking up the sun with a slack handful of bikini-clad beauties, when he ordered BB over.

  'Come here, you big fat donkey, come over here.'

  Now BB wasn't a small man. He was very skilled and liked to work out and never took shit from anyone. So he walked over to Dodi and his friends, who were all giggling like little schoolgirls do, and said, 'Don't you ever call me a big fat donkey again, shit for brains, and, oh, by the way, you can poke your job up your fucking arse.'

  He packed up his kit, took one of the speedboats and went ashore. Then he phoned me up (I was back in London at the time) and asked if I could send him over some cash to get home. The point is, I don't speak ill of the dead but that episode underlines what I've just said: principals can be difficult. And the BG circuit is full of such true anecdotes.

  EPILOGUE

  F or years I had tried unsuccessfully to get out of the security business. In some ways I craved a normal way of earning a living, a nice steady job with long-term prospects and being in a stable loving relationship. When I got close to securing this, something always came up — a long-term job overseas — and snuffe
d out any planned holidays, and even those things you might have arranged with your woman went tits-up in the pursuit of the buzz and the money that the business gave: the relationship with the woman whom you love had to take a back seat. It was no different from being back in the SAS, and that's the reason why a lot of men from my background don't manage to hold down a long-term relationship. I only wished I could be part of that very small percentage who make it work.

  Then unexpectedly, fate intervened.

  It was at the book launch of some famous cricketer in ex-Arsenal and Northern Ireland manager Terry Neill's celebrated London Sports Bar at the back end of 1995, chilling out over a few beers, that I first thought about writing my military autobiography. I'd just finished a three-week surveillance task, trailing the wife of some foreign industrialist all around the City and the Home Counties, in anticipation that the client might lay his worst fears to rest through me and my team's efforts in not recording any extra-curricular activity of a sexual nature by said wifey. As the beer began to flow, I was encouraged by a group of journalists to put pen to paper. Fourteen months later the result was my bestseller, Terminal Velocity , published in 1997.

  Shortly after, my good friend Billy Budd, who had left the Royal Marines to pursue a career in the film industry, finished working on the James Bond movie, Goldeneye . He'd struck up a friendship with the actors Pierce Brosnan and Sean Bean (he presented them both with Royal Marine berets) and suggested I send Pierce a copy of Terminal Velocity via his production company. I did just that, not really expecting a reply, thinking that the book might get waylaid before it to got him. At best, I'd just receive a 'thank-you' letter from one of his secretaries. So I forgot all about it, then, about a couple of weeks later, I got a call on my mobile phone from someone who I thought was Billy taking the piss. Alison took the initial call.