Secrets From the Past

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘I always do that when I come to the Middle East from New York – it makes life easier. Let’s order the food, and then I’d like to go over a few things with you and Zac, ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘Aren’t we going out this afternoon?’ Zac asked from the doorway of the bedroom.

  ‘There’s no reason to go now, or later. I want you fed and rested before we venture out,’ Yusuf said in a careful tone.

  ‘Fine by me,’ I replied.

  Zac was silent, went over to get his camera bag and his roller suitcase.

  It struck me that he was being a sourpuss, and I instantly realized why. He didn’t like the idea of Yusuf being with us all the time. But there was nothing I could do about that. I was following Harry’s rules and conditions. And I aimed to continue doing that, whatever Zac thought. I’d managed to get him where he wanted to be, and he was going to have to live with the conditions, no matter what.

  Yusuf suggested we order club sandwiches, explaining they were one of the best things on the menu, and hot lemon tea. Zac nodded, as did I, and asked Yusuf to also order me a Coke. I then excused myself.

  I left the two men talking about the situation in Libya, and rolled my suitcase into the bedroom and closed the door.

  I unpacked, putting items in the chest of drawers. Everything I had brought with me was made of cotton because of the extreme heat in this country. Lots of underwear, two pairs of strong but comfortable trainers and white ankle socks, plus five pairs of black cotton trousers and ten black T-shirts. Following Dad’s instructions, I always wore black on the front lines, because light or bright colours drew attention. I had also packed a few pieces of khaki clothing, just in case I needed them.

  Picking up my shoulder bag, I took out my satellite phone, two BlackBerrys and two cell phones, put them on my bedside table, then checked my camera bag. Everything was in order. Once I’d taken my toilet bag to the bathroom, I went to lie down on the bed. I felt a little queasy, maybe from the heat, although the air conditioning was working. I was also hungry. Hopefully I would feel better after some food.

  I smiled to myself when I thought of Harry and all of his instructions to Yusuf; I would talk to Yusuf later. I had decided it would be wiser if he found a room elsewhere in the hotel for Jamal and Ahmed; he could then move into the other bedroom. It would make Zac happier, and I would prefer this myself.

  I had soon realized that Yusuf was teasing Zac a little about not taking his eyes off me. Obviously, Harry had meant out in the war zone, not here in the hotel. I was perfectly safe in this suite, and we all knew it.

  I focused on Yusuf Aronson. He was a good man. He was forty-one and had worked for Global Images for seventeen years, had started as an assistant to Harry when he was twenty-four, after graduating from Oxford. He was a great photojournalist, and because he spoke English, Swedish, Arabic, French, Spanish and Italian he was an enormous asset.

  There was something extremely cosmopolitan about him. His mother, who had been born in Beirut, had spent her youth in Paris, where her father owned various businesses. Very beautiful, she had been a Dior model for a time, had married Sven Aronson in 1970. He was a Swedish diplomat. Yusuf was their only son; he had a sister Leyla, who created beautiful handmade clothes, which were works of art almost, and very costly. They were a close family, like ours.

  Yusuf and his wife Carlotta lived in Paris, but Yusuf travelled the world a lot of the time. Harry called him Global’s roving ambassador, but I was well aware he was Global’s major troubleshooter. He was a good manager, as well as an excellent photojournalist, and when it was necessary Harry sent him in to other countries to take over one of our bureaus, usually to get it back into shape.

  I fully understood that having been assigned by Harry to cover Libya in February, he was now the troubleshooter, given the task of protecting me, and helping in any way he could. I had always liked Yusuf, with his bright blue eyes, slender build and amazing height, obviously inherited from his Swedish father, while his dark, curly hair and dusky skin came from his Lebanese mother. He was a lovely mixture, I thought, and always made light of difficult situations, usually managing to solve them with the minimum of fuss and a lot of success. Furthermore, he was always calm, cool, and did not allow anything to rattle him.

  I was fully aware that I had several imperatives at the moment. I must not let Zac and Yusuf know I was pregnant; I had to look after my health and be extra careful; and I must not mention Valentina Clifford to Yusuf. It might get back to Harry if I did. I had better warn Zac later, although I knew that wasn’t really necessary. Zac usually played everything close to the vest, and tended to be a very private person.

  A short while later, Zac tapped on the bedroom door and looked in. ‘Are you all right, Pidge?’ he asked, his good humour restored. He sounded worried about me, his expression full of concern.

  I pushed myself up on the bed. ‘I’m fine. I felt a bit jet-lagged, but I’m good now.’

  He smiled, relief reflected in his eyes. ‘The food’s here. Come and eat something, you’ll feel better. Then Yusuf is going to show us around the hotel. We’ll meet some of the other journos, have a drink with them.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said, getting up off the bed. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’ As I freshened up, I wondered if we might run into Val Clifford here at the Rixos.

  When we went down to the lobby much later I realized that the Rixos Hotel was crammed with war correspondents and photographers from all over the world. I recognized a few of them, and spoke to some briefly. We had drinks with several others with whom Yusuf was friendly, but as the evening progressed I started to get worried. From the conversations it was becoming apparent to me that we were not merely on a front line, but near many other front lines. There were rebel armies in many other Libyan cities, who were heavily armed and fighting ferociously, their own war against Gaddafi’s dreaded regime growing worse. Violence prevailed, apparently.

  There was a moment when I was gripped by apprehension, as I suddenly wondered if I’d made a horrible mistake in coming here to please Zac … and to seek out Val Clifford.

  I then acknowledged the fact that I could so easily be injured or maimed. Or worse. I could be killed.

  I had never felt this sense of apprehension so intensely before, and I accepted that it was because of the baby I was carrying. I was at risk, wasn’t I?

  FORTY

  We went out early the next morning.

  It was Sunday 24 July and our first day on the streets of a war-torn Tripoli.

  The ongoing battle had been raging since February, and it showed. Broken-down walls, shattered windows, buildings in ruins. Destruction and death everywhere. And hatred.

  The air was misty. The heat was already rising. It would be cruelly hot today. I was relieved I was wearing cotton clothes and comfortable trainers.

  Yusuf told us over breakfast that we would head for Green Square, where there was constant conflict between the rebels and Gaddafi’s army, who were well equipped in every way.

  We were wearing our flak jackets of deep blue, marked PRESS in huge white letters. Our helmets were also deep blue, again with large bright white letters: PRESS. No way to misunderstand who we were. I noticed some other correspondents arriving, also with blue flak jackets and helmets. A couple of them had made the letters TV out of lengths of white tape, and stuck the tape on their backs. Clever, I thought, as I moved forward with my crew.

  I had two cameras slung around my neck; my shoulder bag, with the strap across my chest, held a notebook, pens, my satellite phone, the four other phones, my press credentials, passport, credit cards and extra cash. I had additional cash in my trouser pockets. Tommy and Harry had both drilled this into me years ago. I must keep these items on my person, in case I had to flee immediately without returning to the hotel. I could leave right now if I had to, and go wherever I wanted in the world, because I had everything I needed on me.

  Zac was silent, as usual, and alert, glancing about as we move
d cautiously down a street towards the square. I was alongside him, Yusuf just behind me, with Ahmed and Jamal in the rear.

  I knew we were almost at Green Square. I could hear the incessant rapid gunfire, explosions, loud blasts, shouting and screaming, yells and whoops, and within a few seconds we were part of a mob of people.

  Yusuf moved closer to me, took my arm, led me to the left. ‘Rebel forces are over here,’ he muttered. ‘Safer for us.’

  I followed the direction of his hand, saw where he was pointing. I shook my head. ‘They don’t look like a rebel army. What a ragtag bunch. And are all the rebel armies so disorganized?’

  ‘Afraid so. But what they lack in organization they make up for in enthusiasm and determination – and they’re all good shots, I might add.’

  His words were drowned out by a burst of machine-gun fire. A pickup truck came careering around a corner, very fast, a machine gun mounted on it. It was being manned by a soldier in uniform, and several more trucks followed, also manned by Gaddafi forces. Men on flat-roofed buildings were shooting, and jumping to the next building, taking aim at the soldiers driving the pickup trucks. Waving their rifles, shouting, shooting.

  Some of the rebels in the square began to run, as we did, shepherded by Yusuf to a safer area, a corner of a street off Green Square.

  I happened to look down that narrow alley, and saw two frightened women in black, huddled against a wall. Another woman was prone on the ground; she appeared to be totally helpless.

  With them was a small girl with huge black eyes, black curls and a dirty face, wearing a T-shirt that was too big for her as a dress. She was staring at me, and looked to be about three years old.

  I smiled at her.

  She smiled back. Then she raised her small grubby hand and waved to me, still smiling as I lifted my camera and got that lovely shot of her. And several more.

  The two women were staring hard at me, anxiety written across their faces. I moved slowly into the alley, wary as always, very cautious. I then saw that the woman on the ground was older. Her face was full of immense sorrow, her dark eyes filled with tears. Blood was pooling around her. I realized that she was probably dying. Oh my God.

  ‘Please,’ one of the women said. ‘Please. Help us.’

  ‘Okay,’ I answered swiftly, nodding. ‘Okay.’

  As I turned, I saw Yusuf waiting for me. ‘One of those women has been shot. She’s in a bad way,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ll phone Emergency at the hospital. Sometimes they have ambulances in this area.’ He shook his head. ‘But the hospitals are full, bursting at the seams with the wounded. That’s one of the many problems. The wounded and the dying.’

  Together he and I walked back to Green Square, where I almost gagged on the smell of gunpowder, blood, sweat and burned flesh. I swallowed. ‘God, it’s an awful stench,’ I muttered to myself.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Yusuf said, glancing at me. ‘It’s the smell of war, hatred and fear … all mingled together.’

  Yusuf took out his cell phone, called the hospital and told them about the woman, gave the name of the street as well as his name. Then he glanced at me and said, ‘Whether they’ll come or not I don’t know – your guess is as good as mine.’ He pulled me into a doorway, where we stood huddled together, scanning the square, dodging bullets.

  I suddenly thought: I’m in the middle of a civil war. Two factions in the same country, filled with anger and hatred for each other. A country so rich from massive oil revenues, and yet the majority of the people are so poor … with nothing. No wonder they have risen up, started a revolution.

  It was directed at Gaddafi, their leader for forty-two years, stealer of their wealth, their health, their welfare and their happiness. Not to mention human rights on every level.

  Yes, I was on the front line, no doubt about it, whatever Zac wanted to call it. The front line of a civil war. Who would win, I had no idea. I had to hope it was the rebels, because they had been cheated; they were the downtrodden. They should have freedom and equality. But I wasn’t sure they could win, however enthusiastic they were – such good shots, too, according to Yusuf.

  I wanted to stay in the square longer, needing to know if the ambulance would come. But Yusuf was adamant. We had to keep moving. He wanted to get us away from this ongoing violence. People were on edge, angry, ready to kill anyone. He said the mob might soon be out of control.

  Zac was behind me as we set off, shooting pictures, capturing vivid images on film. He was being tailed by Ahmed and Jamal; they were protecting him, I thought. Watching his back. I knew that the two lads, as Yusuf called them, had guns. I’d noticed them this morning. But I had kept quiet. It was none of my business. Yusuf was in charge.

  The gunfire unexpectedly increased, seemed to become overwhelming. The crowds were yelling and screaming, growing more restless and resentful, and it wasn’t yet noon.

  Within a few minutes, Yusuf was hurrying us out of the square, moving us along quickly. ‘Too many people. It’s chaos. And it’s going to get worse; there’ll be a lot of people killed. It’s a bad day.

  ‘Bad Day at Black Rock,’ I said, and squinted in the sunlight as I looked up at Yusuf.

  ‘Good movie though,’ he responded, his face straight. Then he winked.

  Zac fell into step with us. ‘Some of these rebels are just kids,’ he exclaimed, staring at Yusuf. ‘Very young … teenagers.’

  ‘And inexperienced – no training, nothing, just a desire to be free of the yoke … free of the Gaddafi government. It’s quite amazing that they have managed to hold parts of this city, and other cities as well.’

  ‘Benghazi,’ Zac said. ‘I watched it all on television back home. CNN did some great coverage.’

  ‘That city was almost defeated,’ Yusuf replied. ‘If it hadn’t been for the NATO strikes it wouldn’t exist today … fighting between the rebels and the loyalists was incredible, violent, brutal, incessant.’

  ‘And some of them are just kids,’ Zac said yet again, amazement lingering on his face.

  ‘Students, oil workers, doctors, engineers, teachers, farmers, lawyers – in other words, civilians. They’re the ragtag militias facing Colonel Gaddafi’s much better trained and armed forces. Land, sea and air forces, at that. In a way you’ve got to take your hat off to the militias. They’re brave, stalwart.’

  None of us disagreed.

  For the next week we went back to Green Square from time to time, but we also covered outlying districts and the suburbs of Tripoli, and some of the desert villages farther away from the city. Fighting was in progress everywhere. Violently so.

  It seemed to me that this whole land was consumed by the revolution: new militias springing up every day, rebels arming themselves. No one could tell us where all the guns were coming from, but I had seen a lot of Gaddafi’s soldiers with Kalashnikov rifles. It was like a world on fire, a burning hell …

  Both Yusuf and Zac kept referring to the social networks, and how word spread so fast these days that everything changed from minute to minute. No time to think, I thought, silently agreeing with them.

  The brutality, the noise, the deaths … all began to take their toll on me, and everyone else in our little group. Even the lads, Ahmed and Jamal, had started to look weary, their faces grim. They never said much; when they did speak they were extremely polite. And always wanted to help.

  Every night I insisted we have a rest, get cleaned up, and go downstairs for dinner. Of course, all of this happened after Yusuf had checked in by phone with Harry, and Zac and I had also talked to him.

  Sometimes we didn’t feel like leaving the Rixos, other times we did. In this instance, we visited the Corinthia Hotel, and a few others, hoping to see journalists we knew. Mostly Ahmed and Jamal went off on their own, but not always. We considered ourselves a team.

  Whenever I was with other journos, I wanted to ask about Val Clifford, but didn’t dare. And so Zac volunteered to do this for me. He usually began his conversation b
y inquiring about friends of his, not mentioning her until later. And one night he got an answer.

  A war correspondent from a French network, whom Zac knew, Henri Brillet, said he’d heard that a group of women journalists had gone to Sirte. He specifically said that Val Clifford, and a Frenchwoman, Ariel Salle, were two of them. And perhaps Marie Colvin. But Zac said he doubted that Marie would go there, because she was too smart. It was such a dangerous area that few journalists ventured into that town.

  Later that night, when we were alone in the bedroom, I said to Zac, ‘Let’s go to Sirte, see if we can contact Val Clifford.’

  Zac nodded, then sighed. ‘Well, why not? I wouldn’t mind shooting in another city. We might even get some iconic pictures. It’s Gaddafi’s hometown, where he was born, and it could be interesting, especially if we talk to some of his people.’ He half laughed. ‘They’re all his people in Sirte, which is the main reason we should stay away. It is very, very dangerous, Pidge.’

  Wanting to encourage Zac, I exclaimed, ‘But we could get some really unique pictures! It’s worth a try. And I think you should bring it up with Yusuf. You’ll have to do it, Zac.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he said, giving me a hard stare. ‘He’d always favour you first. He’s got a thing about you.’ He laughed after saying this, just so I wouldn’t think he was jealous of Yusuf. But I knew he was.

  ‘It’s better you do it, honestly,’ I insisted. ‘He’ll tell Harry I wanted to go, and Harry might put two and two together and come up with ten. He also might well know Val Clifford is there.’

  ‘How could he possibly know that!’ Zac sat back, shaking his head, frowning, and looking exasperated. He muttered, ‘We’ve only got the idea she is in Sirte from Henri Brillet, and he wasn’t all that positive.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, probably it’s better that we don’t go. Couldn’t you ask him though, tomorrow, Zac? Please.’

  Naturally the answer was a resounding NO, when, next morning at breakfast, Zac broached the idea of making a trip to Sirte.