By 15.00 it was heaving. We were in for the long haul. I was glad we’d got in early to stake out our position at the bar, rarely leaving the counter (although the piss breaks came more frequently), always establishing our stories by laying it on heavy with the staff so they could vouch for us if it all kicked off later.
For much of the time, I got chatting to some Argies. I was gobsmacked they had come all the way from Buenos Aires. How stupid of me. It became clear to me very early doors – this was the World Cup Final for Hells Angels! They were loving it though, as I was; talking bikes was a piece of piss. They asked me about Iraq and I hammed it up a bit. I didn’t bring up the Falklands but it was at the back of my mind and, deep down, I was doing the maths to see if I could still live the lie that I had been serving then as well as now, even though I actually had been there for real in 1982. The voice in my head was urging caution. You never knew who you were talking to, and I didn’t want to get carried away. What if I was so tanked up that I deemed myself so perfect in the role that I bullshitted my way into some story, and one of their relatives had been killed living General Galtieri’s dream, and they suddenly placed me at the scene of the crime? Fucking hell. I loved this gig, but have a word with yourself, son.
Around half three, I knew we had struck gold. Into the bar walked a new bunch of Hells Angels. The only way you could tell one lot from the other was that chapter on the back. These guys said ‘Windsor’.
The only banter we had to deflect was to explain why we were there: having got in position early with the bar staff meant that they could often finish our story for us. We loved spotting the various groups – Germans, Danes, Argies, Brits. This was it big time and it was starting to get rowdy.
‘All right, guys, you from England?’ the Windsor lot asked us.
And out we trotted the cover story again.
‘Cool,’ they said. ‘What was it like in Iraq?’
I knew I had them. In one sentence I had turned them around, moving from suspicion to getting to the heart of what they were about – talk of war and guns – and they loved it. All their tough-guy posturing counted for nothing but respect to us when they found out we were the real deal, making them look like pantomime horses. Except, of course, we weren’t! To win them over further, I asked a couple of dumb questions. I knew obviously they didn’t have their bikes with them, but asking about them when Harleys came up in the conversation helped me throw the spotlight of respect back in their direction. They loved meeting real heroes and having their own egos stroked when I sought every drop of information about their pride and joy, but these guys were pussies.
All I was thinking was the bigger the bike, the smaller the cock; and, of course, was Jason rolling? He didn’t let me down. We were a great double act – me talking the sweetest of all cover stories and feigning naivety in their presence; Jason getting everything in an eight to ten hour filming session. Occasionally we would have a team meeting in the bogs, changing the battery behind a locked door in case anyone tried to kick it in. Sometimes Jason would go on his own – my only concern was a pissed-up angel stumbling in through the door but I felt Jason could handle himself and I would just let the beer keep on coming.
‘Is it true what they say about the Hells Angels?’ I asked one of these pissheads.
‘Nah, it’s all rubbish,’ he replied.
‘I’m sure I read about the Windsor Hells Angels; didn’t someone get shot?’ I went in for the kill.
‘That was years ago,’ they dismissed it.
Clearly it had happened – and I hadn’t been told to specifically target any particular chapter. I loved showing my innocence to them but in the same breath letting on that I had a small amount of knowledge. They loved the sound of their own voices as much as I did mine! When I asked them if they had security cameras in their own clubhouses, they wouldn’t shut up. They were eating out of my hand. I quizzed them on guns and I went for them on drugs – they told me they could get coke anytime anywhere in the UK.
‘Did you kill any fucking Ragheads in Iraq?’ they were thriving now.
‘Yeah, a couple,’ I lied.
They started asking me about the weapons I was using. I just turned it around back on them.
‘You carry guns don’t you?’ I goaded.
‘It’s illegal innit? Hahaha.’ one of them gave the game away.
I knew none of these had never even been in a fight let alone a war zone. I was something they dreamed of being. The beers were flowing; I was bigging myself up, bragging about my Iraq money and getting the rounds in.
Then the Yanks started joining in. ‘So you killed some sand niggers? Brilliant!’
They might have come for bikes, but I’d stolen the show. Even if Norman bloody Schwarzkopf had walked in, I knew exactly what I was talking about.
Jason and I did have a quick conference. We were well on the way to Smashedville, and we couldn’t blow it now, so we decided to knock off the booze a bit. Well, just a small bit. It was rammed, smoky, and the lights were going down. People were coming rather than going; leather was the outfit of the hour. If you suffered from claustrophobia, you’d be dead. The fog of marijuana wafted across the bar through the flashing disco lights – it was like a 1960s dance hall.
By around six, the Windsors had gone, replaced by a gang from Sacramento. Jason felt we had enough. The only way to get anything new was to leave and head for another bar. At eleven, the police turned up. Their concern was about not disturbing the neighbours – never mind that the whole bar was stoned and as pissed as a fart. As they dragged a few of them out, we were licking our lips, thinking they were going to throw everyone out and the Angels were going to kick off. We were waiting on pepper spray, cuffs and tear gas, but it never came.
One of the coppers tried to move us on until I fed him the Iraq bullshit. The policeman bought the whole thing too, telling us how he wanted to sign up and hunt bin Laden. I had him in my pocket as well. It gave the mob the chance to flee back to the clubhouse. Suddenly the streets were empty. Jason and I realised that we were fucked in every sense of the word. Pissed, but with no chance of getting back to the motel. There wasn’t a cab in sight.
I pulled rank, so to speak. ‘We’ve been drinking all day. I don’t mean to be rude but is there any chance you can give us a lift back? I’ve just come back from Iraq. You know what it’s like.’ I said.
He clearly didn’t. He paused for a moment, then said he couldn’t – that was against the rules.
Once again I played the Iraq card. Jesus – I knew my other identities better than I did myself! Let’s face it, I had been in Iraq and was bombed there, but there’s a fine line between telling that story and making up a whole heap of shit that you were breathing down bin Laden’s neck in the Tora Bora caves.
He hesitated, then saw the hero in me and told us to jump in the back. He drove us like royalty the five or six miles back to the motel! If I had pushed it, I think I could have got an out-rider or one of those dicks talking into his lapel – they totally respected the whole war thing. As for me, I just loved what a ridiculously good actor I was.
Back at the motel, we heard a kerfuffle.
‘You fucking bastards.’
‘What the hell was that?’ I said to Jase.
Not all the Angels had gone to the notorious clubhouse. I couldn’t believe my luck – half of them had rocked up at Crossroads! We dashed for our kit and made for the balcony. It was all kicking off outside.
We pegged it into the car park and headed towards our vehicle. The plan was to do a 360, lurk in the bush round the back, drop Jason off and hit the record button. It didn’t matter how pissed we were. I re-entered the car park sheepishly and texted Jason to find me.
Ultimately, the footage was too dark – you could just about make out three or four thugs having a go at these other Angels, but it was mostly shadows as the lighting was poor.
Then the cops turned up. Fucking brilliant. If it had been the same guy who had dropped us earlier
, then that would have been the icing on the cake. Either way, we had nailed them on the piss, scrapping and bragging about their guns and the coke.
Job done – though I was all up for another day on the piss with the heavies! In fact, the overt crew told me we had enough footage. I wasn’t needed any more. What a weekend.
At the airport, I was getting ready to chill my way home in Business Class when, to my disbelief, I saw half the Windsor Chapter in all their gear preparing to board. If it was anyone I spoke to yesterday – and fuck, I was so pissed, how would I know – my cover story wouldn’t have held. At least I wasn’t wearing any equipment. It would be professional suicide to try to take the covert cameras in the hand luggage.
I managed to avoid them. I knew they would be in cattle class. I think that underlines how important it was for Craig Summers always to fly in style at the BBC’s expense!
And for what? We had flown to the other side of the globe for what was eventually just forty-five seconds of footage. I flipping loved it and, more to the point, I felt natural in the part! Who wouldn’t? I had been on the ultimate boys’ weekend, and I wanted it to kick off. The truth is that nine times out of ten, undercover stuff is pretty tedious – but you always have to be on your game for that winning shot.
When I saw the show, I was really disappointed by how little they had used. In this business, I was learning fast, you were only as good as your next hit. My ego was crying out for the glory, and any great Panorama with my name high in the credits meant that I removed one more ankle chain from the desk marked Health and Safety and strolled over to the office marked Undercover. I was desperate to be as important as Simpson, and I would always go the extra mile to get there for the BBC.
I don’t mind admitting that, on this occasion, I got carried away in the part. I love spending other people’s money doing a job but, equally, if I had sat there on lemonade all day, nobody would have talked to me. The only way to get involved was to become them – I had no problem with that. I wanted to see them get their guns out, or start lining up the coke, but it was sufficient that they bragged about it on camera. I described it to Sue as a stag weekend. There was no need to file report after report when we got back. Jason and I had a quick debrief and that was all. If anything, though I didn’t know it at the time, the whole weekend would make a mockery of what followed.
TSUNAMI
My stock had remained high after Friendly Fire – I was entered for a Rory Peck Award and the Panorama show on Iraq won a Royal Television Society Award. John and Tom had travelled to Washington and amazingly got access to a female pilot from the crew who had dropped the bomb on us. We were able to confirm that the Special Forces had called in the strike.
Since then Tony Loughran had quit the Beeb and Bob Forster began to leave me alone. Caroline Neil called the shots and I felt that she was the one to protect me. She understood that needs must and she knew how ops worked. It was the beginning of the BBC’s formation of a proper High Risk Team. Finally I was moving from safety to security.
I had been back to Iraq several times and Afghanistan, too – indeed my last trip prior to Boxing Day 2004 was as late as 9 December. When I returned, I was whittling down the time to Christmas. We were done for the year at the office, and I hated all that bullshit anyway. I couldn’t wait for the next mission.
Such is the random nature of breaking news, even I was taken aback to wake up on Boxing Day and find that disaster of the highest order had devastated one of the most beautiful places in the world. Instantly, I was transfixed by the story and alive to the possibilities. I didn’t move on 26 December. As with Friendly Fire, it was like a movie but very real indeed, watching those waves leap out of the ocean, knocking houses and vehicles for six. I flicked from the Beeb to Sky to ITN and back again like a junkie. I watched swimming pools being swamped, the water climbing up the balconies of hotels towards people who couldn’t imagine they were in danger. It didn’t matter how tough you were; you couldn’t not have feelings. But through it all I was weighing up the possibilities.
One report in particular kicked me into action. I saw John Irvine on ITV, holidaying in Thailand, on the beach with the sea going out only for him to grab his kids seconds later as it charged back in. That was it. I need watch no more. I had to get out there.
This wasn’t the usual Craig Summers cup of tea, and I wasn’t sure they would send me. They saw me as a bombs, bullets and bastard kind of guy. It wasn’t a war zone or football thugs on the piss – this was natural disaster on a biblical scale. I rang the planning desk. My old mate Malcolm Downing was working the Christmas period and we had a first-class relationship. Of course, because it was Christmas, I knew we had a skeleton staff. I told him straight – I was happy to deploy as soon as possible – and I told Sue the same. I even packed my bag. Malcolm gave me what he could. At this point they didn’t really know what was going on and he would call if I was needed.
‘I’m ready to go; it’s not a problem.’ I put the phone down, sketching out my next adventure. This was going to be massive. Malcolm was right though. Nobody knew how big at this stage. I also phoned Paul Greeves. ‘We should be out there – it’s right up our street and it calls for a military operation,’ I pitched.
I had to get on that plane, and years of being on standby for military ops that might or might not happen told me only I could be the logistics guy at a moment’s notice.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he flat-batted me back. ‘We should be across it as a team.’
It was clear that it was part of the world that nobody really knew much about – and it had happened at a time when the world had gone to sleep. I know this would cost us four or five days. Most people didn’t even know what a tsunami was. I was so thick that if I hadn’t been presented with a Japanese flag at the Hong Kong Sevens earlier that year by a team called Tsunami, I wouldn’t have known either!
Once again, I waited for the phone to ring and, once again, the silence was deafening. The fact that I don’t like Christmas – Sue calls me Scrooge – made it worse. Normally I would have gone to the football if West Ham were playing at home but, even though they were only at Fulham, I abstained. My mind was working overtime – and not to my pleasure. I could see the reporter Andrew Harding working out of Singapore, filing by videophone. I knew, as well, that the Delhi Bureau would handle Sri Lanka. I saw Jonathan Head, the Tokyo correspondent, and it was clear we were pulling in everyone on that side of the world. I was glued to the net and the rolling news; Sue was watching repeats of Noel’s Christmas Presents. I was chuffed we were there but felt the moment slipping away.
Most of the Beeb had eyes on Phuket in Thailand – that’s where the majority of Brits had homes or had chosen to holiday. In the early stages we were largely dependent on mobile phone footage. I soon learned that Ben Brown had flown out with Duncan Stone on camera. My phone never rang. I had it by my bed permanently switched on. At five in the morning, I would still be checking to see if the office had called. The story was leaving me behind.
Frustrated, I gave up watching the TV news and hit the gym, resolved that if nobody had called me after my workout, I would ring again. I knew that they would need help with the stories, food on the go, and that sickness was a problem. They had no logistics hub.
‘I know you want to go, Craig,’ Malcolm told me when I finally got through. ‘I know we need to organise equipment, food and tents. Let me establish what’s going on and I will call you.’ Same again. I didn’t see why there was a delay. ‘When can you go?’ he asked.
‘Now,’ I answered.
He told me he would do his utmost to get it sorted. For the first time, I thought I might be going. I rang my old mate George Booth at the Outdoor Adventure Shop – we had served together, of course, like all my old mates. I asked when he was next open. He told me tomorrow. That was 28 December. I said I would come the next day, but heard nothing from work for the next forty-eight hours. My stuff was laid out at home ready to go. I took myself to the gym
again to fill the time. I didn’t ring Paul Greeves.
God, I wanted to, but I didn’t want to piss him off. I had played my hand, and I couldn’t overplay it. I distanced myself from the news. I knew the story was drying up. I could see that they were doing live feeds now, and that they were coming off dishes not videophones. I also spotted Rachel Harvey from the BBC in Jakarta out in Thailand and Sri Lanka – that told me the infrastructure was in place. Once again, my moment was passing.
By the time I made my token visit down the M3 to Poole in Dorset to see George I had almost given up. Of course, as was always the way, I was twenty minutes from the shop when the phone rang. It was Paul.
‘Newsgathering want you to fly to Banda Aceh in Indonesia to assist with the setup – 45,000 lives have been wiped out.’
‘Yep, no problem,’ was all I could think of to say.
I was on the plane.
‘You fly at 18.15,’ he finished the call.
Bloody hell. I rang Sue immediately – she was tearful. This wasn’t like me heading to a war zone. It was Christmas and everyone had seen it on the news. It had cut right through. She changed her shift there and then to get home and get me back to the airport. I was driving faster and faster to get to the shop and straight back out to London. I marched round the store like a machine, bought X, Y and Z and apologised to George. Within half an hour, I was back on the road home.
My phone that never rang was now doing so off the hook. Even my flights changed – there had been two available via Singapore and I was offered £5,500 on BA or £3,500 on Singapore Airlines. On this occasion, I didn’t fly with the world’s favourite airline.
I was now due out at 21.00, but had to hit Heathrow by 18.15 to meet the supplies. We needed what we call ‘grab and go bags’ (enough supplies for a couple of days) plus tents, showers, and water purification. That was your classic disaster pack and, God, we didn’t know how many we would need.
Bodyguard Page 7
