Bodyguard

by Craig Summers

  Events in the future would show that sometimes you stick with an investigation only to hit a dead end within a whisker of a sting, and this at times had been that close, but there was no greater feeling than hanging in for the long haul, building relationships, befriending the underworld, and then handing them over to the powers that be. Or so I thought on that last night in Varna.

  There was one more call to make. At nine that evening, I told Paul to ring Harry.

  ‘It looks really, really good. The wife is really happy,’ Paul bullshitted.

  ‘She trusts me but wants to fly out, probably tomorrow, to see the kids,’ I butted in.

  He wanted money; the parents wanted money; we had money. His guard was well past down when he asked me how soon I could get it. He knew the kids were a phone call away.

  ‘The wife will bring the 40k for the deposit and the middle part – is that enough, Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a problem Boss. That’s exactly what the business deal is,’ he replied. Down the telephone line I could hear the Cheshire cat grinning.

  ‘Boss wants me to handle it now,’ Paul came back on. ‘I will do business with you from now. He doesn’t want any more part of it on the phone. The boss’s wife will come over tomorrow.’ Paul wrapped it up by saying he would touch base as soon as the wife arrived.

  ‘Will you want to see the girls tomorrow night?’ Harry was already counting his cash.

  ‘Yes,’ Paul confirmed. ‘Let’s get it done tomorrow.’

  My dear old wife Sangita never got to see the child she craved! She wasn’t flying out here to see Nazar, instead heading to Sofia to try to talk on camera to the authorities and tidying up some shots in the locality, making sure we had good footage of the garage where Harry had met Paul and Dom. I would leave the experts to the edit and get the next plane out of there.

  The next morning we went straight to the airport and left Varna for the last time. I had only the one regret. I wanted to be there when the Bulgarian police knocked on Harry’s door. As much as I wanted to see his face when he got turned over, discretion was the only option. I had my doubts of how the local justice system would play out; I didn’t know if Harry had any friends within it, but he had got away with all sorts up to now and had only done time in Germany. You could never really know if there would be any fallout, or any of these characters might wander back into another storyline in the future. Dom moved in these circles and was heading back to Sofia, too, but this was his bread and butter. This was how he worked. I knew he could handle himself.

  If there was such thing as a textbook op, this was it – from the patience and long-term strategy to the role-playing involved. It gave me massive kudos and for the first time I wasn’t only the guy pointing the camera in a tight situation. I had shown my journalistic skills, which a few years ago I didn’t even know I had. I now brought something to the table that the BBC veterans I worked alongside didn’t possess. I was another rung up the ladder, and defining my own role in real life, too, as well as the fake ones I could create for the job. In the modern era post 9/11, military nous met journalistic hunch half way and it worked.

  We had resisted the temptation to film undercover one last time at the moment of arrest and, when we got back to London, Paul rang Harry as soon as he knew he was awake. After everything that had gone on at his end, the least he could expect was ‘Problem, problem’ from us. He was remarkably cool when we told him there was a slight issue with the wife getting over and we would be back in touch soon, possibly landing the day after next. He had no choice really, given the future riches that he was convinced were on the way. Little did he know that we were simply building in a delay; equally, we were unaware that the Bulgarian authorities now had him under surveillance.

  Twenty-four hours later, we were the top story on all BBC news channels. There was one footnote to the reports: the Bulgarian police had arrested Hasan Ahmed Hasan. Harry’s Game was over.

  That same evening that we reported Harry had been taken into custody, we learned to our dismay that he had been released. It had all been a big set-up, he claimed. He pinned it on me, the gangster. He told the police that he had taken me to a genuine orphanage but that I’d told him if he didn’t get me any children, I would use my contacts to sort him.

  At the last, he played a blinder. I had been so convincing in the part that he took the fiction to a natural end, citing fear. Only now did that surreal trip to the orphanage, which at the time, seemed just bullshit, show its true hand. That visit was a double-edged sword. He was gauging our interest and whetting the appetite, but Harry was also putting his alibi into place. He had told the Varna police a complete pack of lies. I knew he had them in his pocket.

  And then it got worse. They threw the book at the BBC, accusing us of misportraying Varna as a drug-taking, child-trafficking prostitute-ridden resort. Our footage showed that behind the layers of sunshine and tourists, there was some truth in that. They overlooked the films where Harry had told us he had smuggled children into Norway and Germany, citing conspiracy from the Corporation. It was a classic case of a home decision by the ref. Our story had been perfect – I hadn’t overplayed the role and had never threatened to bring the muscle in. We had done everything correctly by BBC guidelines and appropriately in terms of leading questions to minors. Then we had handed it all over to the law. Meanwhile he had come to us with everything and told us that he could provide the kids, supply false documents and even accompany the children. He flagged up his trafficking via Cherbourg to Rosslare. He put his own criminal past on the table.

  Annie told me that their people were writing to us and it was serious. No such letter ever arrived. I knew I had walked right up to the legal line, which was exactly what the job required. There was talk of me being summoned to Bulgaria to give statements. Again, that was just a smokescreen to turn it back on us.

  As you would expect, the Daily Mail didn’t fail to go into BBC bashing overdrive – reporters Michael Leidig and Glen Owen claimed that we were now dragged into a fresh row over standards; that our investigation had been misleading; and they flowered the whole piece up with quotes from Commissioner Petrov in Varna. ‘It was a sad day’ that the BBC should ‘fall so low’ he began. ‘The BBC led this man on the promise of vast riches … he was provoked …’ And the best of all: ‘It would have been a brilliant story worthy of the highest honour, but the reality is quite different.’ Typical political bullshit.

  What staggered me was that after all our months of footage and multiple trips, Harry was in and out of custody within hours, and they drew a line under it without further investigation. I think anyone who saw the piece would draw their own conclusions. They made no effort to track down the supposed parents, brothers or grandparents; and when we rang Harry, of course he didn’t answer. His phone was dead and they never tracked him after his release. The authorities had given him a green light to go to ground – nobody ever saw Harry again. Norway, Germany or Ireland would have been a good place to start looking.

  Even though our work was undermined by his release, it had definitely been worth it. Madeleine McCann had indeed been a motivation for this story. She was the highest-profile child disappearance in living memory. Craig Oliver at the Ten had access to Home Office documentation showing that at least 330 children had been sold to UK citizens between 2005 and 2006 – and these were just the cases that they knew about. In terms of the Corporation, this was exactly what the BBC did – everybody knew that, and I knew that the public would know it was good stuff. For myself, my name was all over the story almost for the first time.

  GUNS

  It was October 2007 and I was heading to Prague to buy guns with Allan Little. I was as excited as I had been about working with John Simpson. Our paths had crossed briefly in Pakistan and Afghanistan and I knew that I was working with a pro whose reputation in Newsgathering was exemplary. He was very busy, running a tight line on other stories and due back out shortly in Sierra Leone, so we wouldn’t bring him in
until we had to, but I knew that when we did, he was the kind of journalist who would give it his all. His work would invariably be seen at the top of the bulletin.

  Dom and Paul were also back on the job – the pair of them had more than proven themselves in Bulgaria and their network of contacts in Eastern Europe was second to none. The former was a massive Allan Little fan who had developed a Balkan obsession after reading Allan’s book. Also back on board from Harry’s Game was the best cameraman in the business, Tony Fallshaw. I had the A-Team back together. The lads had come in to pitch just a couple of weeks before, and in no time, we were up and running. No bloody Business Class this time – we were to drive all the way.

  Operation Trident had been everywhere in the UK – there had been a few shootouts in Birmingham and there was significant gun crime in Manchester. The police were making very big statements about getting all the guns off the streets. Just two months before, young Rhys Jones had been gunned down on his own estate in Liverpool.

  ‘We’ve got access to buy some guns,’ Dom and Paul had said. ‘What do you think?’

  It only needed a two-word reply. ‘Fucking brilliant.’

  Once again we were back down Romany Way – Dom had befriended a gypsy boy called David. Together with his dad, they ran a cab firm in Prague. His English was poor, but access was first class. In the world of Eastern European gangsters, he knew everyone. I wouldn’t have been surprised if his and Harry’s paths had crossed at some point. Who could ever know? I just took it on trust that Dom and Paul had worked their magic through third parties and had penetrated the right people. Their stock was also high after Harry’s Game. I didn’t ask too many questions; as long as they hadn’t broken the law, I didn’t need to know. In this game, their reputation lived from one story to the next. My job was to join it now, and devise the cover story. This was a lot simpler than the story with my estranged wife Sangita – though, of course, Craig Summers was still an East End gangster. Never stray too far away from the character that you needed to play.

  I now owned a couple of pubs in London next to West Ham. Some Albanian immigrants had been giving me grief and were coming down heavy with their threats. I had even seen weapons on them. I couldn’t go to the Met because all the booze and half the cash going through my gaff was bent, shipped in from Europe. Paul’s relations were from Ilford and had done some work for me in the pub; Dom was his mate from Bulgaria. Dom knew David. I needed to get to Prague to buy a couple of pistols. It didn’t get any simpler or more complicated than that, and I loved it.

  Within two weeks of Paul and Dom bringing us the story, the producer Claire Gibson and I were hiring a car and driving to Litvínov – about ninety minutes north of Prague, and home to the CZ gun factory. (As lovely as Claire was, how dull was it listening to her Robbie shite all the way? I took control of the dashboard and whacked up some Springsteen: car rules at play here – driver picks the tunes.) We were prepared to sit it out for a couple of days when we got there if we had to wait on the guns. Our aim was to show how quick and how easy it was to buy them, and how often decommissioned weapons were coming onto the open market. You could spot a decommissioned gun because the barrel would be full of lead so you can’t fire the bullet, and the firing pin would have been removed. Otherwise it looked the same as a normal gun. A metal smith could easily bore out the barrel and make a firing pin to shoot. This was the cuts ’n’ shuts of the gun world.

  Our other objective was to link them to young British gangs in the UK. We had to drive because we wanted to take the haul through a British port – that was the route they were entering the country by. We fell short of notionally supplying a genuine order to any such gang – we didn’t have time to penetrate that world. This was a quick hit operation.

  Claire and I arrived on the Thursday after a day and a half of pegging it across Europe, overnighting in Dresden. Allan and Tony jetted in on the same evening. It was going to be a pretty simple task, and we’d be out of there come Monday morning. My first job was to identify the gun shops. Frankly, this was a doddle. Can you imagine knowing where to find a legitimate gun shop in London? Here I could just wander in and buy a decommissioned gun – and, as we wanted to show, do it without any paperwork.

  So I did. They were just like hunting and fishing shops – like a Millets – generally with only one or two people ever in there. ‘I’m interested in buying this one,’ I said, straight into the story. It was as simple as that. ‘How easy is it to buy a pistol? Do I need paperwork?’

  I already knew the answer. I would need to show some ID to get a real gun but nothing for a decommissioned one. The ID was just to show who I was and they didn’t care to make copies. In return I wouldn’t get any paperwork back. It was all a bit casual. Editorially, I couldn’t really buy a live gun over the counter. I would have had to take that to the police and that would have ruined the programme.

  They wanted 250 euros. It was brand spanking new – immaculate condition. So close to the CZ factory, almost all the weapons on show were in this state. After twenty minutes feigning interest in their entire range, I whacked five 50-euro notes on the table and got my gun – cash talked. It was as easy as buying chocolate at the newsagent. Next I bought a replica with bits of the gun cut away – this would be the weapon we would take through Customs, the sort nobody would use but might hang on the wall or occasionally wheel out for one those nonky re-enactments that freaks attend on bank holiday weekends.

  I left with both weapons. I didn’t expect to get caught at Customs. I knew it was that easy. If they pulled me over, I would play the BBC card, while protesting my ignorance of the fact that I wasn’t meant to bring it back in to the country. The truth was somewhat different – I had been told that the sum total of guns going backwards and forwards across the English Channel was in four figures. This would get you at least five years inside.

  I needed to see Allan. We met in the underground car park of the hotel and started rolling while I showed him exactly what I had. We deliberately shot here to make it look even more seedy.

  ‘Can this weapon be re-commissioned and used on the streets in the UK?’ I said yes.

  ‘Can you explain how it’s done?’

  I made it sound like any old monkey could do it, which they could.

  ‘What else are you going to do when you’re here?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going to meet some real gangland members and I’m going to buy some illegal weapons.’

  It was a tame start, but we had established the parameters. As yet, we didn’t really have a story. That evening we would make plans over dinner – that was the theory anyway, but while I sat there with my first genuine opportunity to get to know Allan properly, Dom was yakking in my ear, anoraking Allan over his Yugoslavia book.

  Outside in the car, too embarrassed to come and eat with us, our contact from the Gypsy world was waiting for us. We had met briefly to introduce ourselves last night at the hotel. He looked like Gollum, but I quite liked him. He would refer to me as the boss – of course. I felt he was easily controllable and, unlike Harry, not really answerable to any bigger authority – well, just his dad – but he equally was sniffing out a bigger future with bigger bucks out of me, if he pulled this job off. I sensed he had a few dodgy sidelines – his BMW looked like a ringer. If I asked him about it, he would merely shrug it off as katastrofik. If he didn’t want to talk about something, it was always katastrofik. Some of the players we would meet in the next twenty-four hours – katastrofik.

  When he finally came into the restaurant to join us for a drink, we were in the middle of taking the piss. A day after meeting him, we too decided everything was katastrofik! Our plan was for Allan and Tony to get some general shots of Wenceslas Square in Prague and then film another exchange between Allan and myself – more theatre just for the camera. By night, we were going to drive to the outer suburbs of Prague to meet David’s Romany boys, who in turn were mates of the gangs in Litvínov. David was extremely well connected in this wo
rld. In time I would see that he always succeeded in keeping himself just outside the circle of knowledge. He knew enough to take you there, but didn’t know any more than that, so he could never be convicted of anything himself. The location was set – outside a kebab shop! That in itself made me think this wasn’t for real. Gangsters didn’t do business in front of kebab shops. Paul and Dom assured me that David was reliable so I took it on trust, even though he didn’t give that air. He was just a typical Eastern European character – a bit like Bill Sykes, always puffing on his fags. When I pulled him up on his fake clothes, all he said was katastrofik. That probably confirmed it. He wasn’t stupid though – he clearly had danced around a lot of deals and other people seemed to respect him.

  By seven, we were in position. It was a dark, freezing night and I had pulled the hoodie on my fleece up to make me look a more imposing 6ft 6. Two Gypsy guys in their mid twenties were waiting for us. I didn’t consider the meet a danger.

  ‘He’s here to buy some pistols,’ David spoke to them in dialect. ‘If you can’t help, is it OK to speak to the guys in Litvínov?’

  This was the new pecking order. You couldn’t go to Litvínov without coming here first. They couldn’t help us but did promise to call ‘Martin and the boys’ there to see if they would assist. And what exactly were we after? I told them straight. I wanted a couple of 9mm pistols. They would call David later that night. I turned and walked away.

  Just feet from the car, I couldn’t resist any longer. ‘That was katastrofik,’ I said to Dom. I didn’t want to blow the job but I couldn’t resist. I was pissed off. I wanted to buy there and then and get filming, but then if they were proper gangsters they wouldn’t have sold on the streets. We all got in the car laughing and filled in Paul, who had been waiting. I quizzed him on how far Litvínov was – we would have to go right up near the German border.