When the compound gates opened, there was a welcoming party to greet us, exactly as I’d imagined. When I got out of the vehicle, I thought I’d dropped some coins on the floor. It was the first noise I’d been able to make out since the gunfight, other than the terrible ringing. When I looked down, there were empty shell cases and shards of glass sprinkled around my feet.
Someone handed me a flute of champagne and I felt the coldness of the glass in my hand and the bubbles tickling my nose. And then the bureau chief appeared with a contract in his hand, gave me a firm handshake, and we signed on the spot. Dave must have thought I was a witch. Obviously, the news crew were over the moon, but it was a highly sensitive incident. Whenever you take that kind of action, it gets scrutinised in forensic detail. You have to be 100 per cent justified. The force needs to be appropriate, there can be no overkill. So there were no immediate pats on the back. I’m sure if we’d been engaging bandits on a regular basis, a lot of questions would have been asked. But we were confident we’d taken the correct action in exceptional circumstances, and we had three cars full of witnesses. And when the email came in from ABC bosses, we were vindicated. It read: ‘We greatly appreciate your quick thinking and positive action. On behalf of all at ABC News, we’d like to say thank you and well done.’
When I was back in Special Forces, I had so many support elements. I could call in naval gunfire or an airstrike. I had so much armour. I had someone to my right, someone to my left and someone above and below. I just felt invincible. But I can’t say I was angry at having ended up in such a dangerous situation. Yes, we were totally outgunned. Just from that one car that was onto us, we were outnumbered two to one. We were supposed to be the experts. But I just thought, ‘This is just the way they do things in this world.’ You can’t do those jobs expecting military processes and protocols. They didn’t have the money or the manpower. And the bottom line was, we just couldn’t have turned that job down. If we had, they just would have employed another security company. The smirks on my colleagues’ faces told me everything I needed to know.
Far from being upset or spooked, I was elated. All soldiers enjoy a contact. I’d have felt guilty if people on our side had been injured or killed, but it was a successful mission, the perfect scenario, a dream come true. Literally. When I went to bed that night and pulled the covers up to my chest, I did wonder about that kid and whether I’d killed him. He wasn’t a soldier, he was just an opportunist and a misfit. But you can’t feel guilty for long, not when the alternative was getting blasted in the face.
It was another break point in my life that made perfect sense. It was a defining and spiritual moment, and an extremely powerful one. Being attacked by that chimpanzee is still the most terrifying thing that has happened to me. But it was the break point on the road to Baghdad that had the greatest influence on me. That gunfight in Fallujah was the universe saying, ‘Show this idiot that this visualisation stuff works.’ Will it hard enough, see it in enough detail, invest enough emotion in it, and it will happen. I had suspected it did, but what happened on the road to Baghdad was like being knocked on the head – BOOM! I wouldn’t say it changed my life on the spot – it was many years before I fully understood the implications – but it was the first step down a different path. Everything I’ve done since then has been a reflection of that moment, especially in recent years. Whether it was my business or the television programme, it all happened because of visualisation. It might even be the case that the first time visualisation worked in my life was when I hit the Mitchell sister with my bike, because I couldn’t stop thinking about all the horrible things I wanted to do to her. So anyone who says visualisation doesn’t work is missing out.
I truly believe that we all have an amazing gift, it’s just that most of us don’t realise we have it or are using it in a negative fashion. It sounds like hocus-pocus and it’s difficult for some people to believe in, because the rewards are usually intangible in the short term. But our lives reflect our thought patterns and are the products of our imaginations. If you visualise what you want, you will make decisions and take actions that bring you closer to that goal, even if some of those decisions and actions will be a result of subconscious thinking. If you’re a negative person, you will get negative outcomes. If you’re a positive person, you will get positive outcomes. It’s a choice we make.
A few days after the attack, a big group of us flew back to the UK, on British Airways. We were herded into cattle class at the back of the plane, but shortly after taking off one of the flight attendants opened the curtain and said, ‘Is one of you Mr Ollerton?’ I made myself known, took down my gear from the overhead locker and smiled at the chuntering of my colleagues. It would seem that the pilot I’d met in the InterContinental hotel had arranged an upgrade. Either Dave’s girl didn’t have as much clout or she wasn’t as impressed. The flight attendant led me up to first class and put me in seat 1A. While the other lads were sitting with their knees up to their chins, I was reclining with a bottle of champagne. I couldn’t help peering back down the aisle, raising my glass and giving my colleagues the biggest grin imaginable. And when I woke up from a nap, I found another bottle of champagne sitting next to me. I’ve had worse flights.
I got attacked by a chimp and met Bridget Bardot, I got attacked in Iraq and met a very accommodating pilot. However weird and messed-up the situation I find myself in, I always manage to find a gem in there somewhere. My life has always been like that. I’d find a silver lining in a mushroom cloud. But that’s what happens when you have a relentlessly positive outlook.
14
TEMPTING DEATH
Shortly after that incident, I left ABC and went to work for an oil company as an independent consultant. My role was to look after two directors, ferrying them in and out of Baghdad. It was a good job and I was soon negotiating a permanent contract. Facilitating the logistics meant dealing with the boss’s personal assistant, an Australian girl called Nat who worked in London. We immediately hit it off and before long were flirting with each other over the phone and via email. When I was back in London for the company’s Christmas party, we arranged to meet. And from that point on, we were virtually inseparable.
It was clear that my marriage to Helen was unsalvageable, so pretty much as soon as I met Nat, I phoned and told her I wouldn’t be coming home again. Nat and I found a swanky flat in Chiswick and for the first time in as long as I could remember, life was almost perfect. I didn’t know life could be that good; every second I was with Nat I was like a kid at Christmas.
I never signed a contract with Nat’s company, because the job would have required me spending most of my time in Baghdad and I much preferred the idea of doing six months on, six months off. But around the same time, Mick and another mate called Andy who I’d served with in the SBS set up a security company almost overnight – there was a lot of that going on in Iraq at the time – and won a contract with a telecoms company who were putting the mobile network back into Baghdad. So I started working for them. It was as easy as that, there were contracts flying around like confetti in Iraq in 2003–04.
Mick and Andy’s concept was a great one. The security company consisted of a small contingent of Westerners, all ex-Special Forces, and about 2,000 Iraqis, who we trained in bodyguard skills, convoy logistics, site and transit security. We acquired a load of Saddam’s old villas, about six or seven of them dotted around Baghdad, as well as some of his old armoured Mercedes. We used the Iraqis as the workforce, while we maintained a low profile. This was essential, because the telecoms company had its HQ in the city’s Red Zone, which meant it was considered unsafe.
By contrast, the American contractors would be hanging out of the windows of their vehicles with weapons. They took the view that they should be as conspicuous as possible, which is just the American way. They’d be ‘yee-hawing’ and high-fiving. This was fine by us, because it meant they drew most of the unwanted attention. Meanwhile, we were driving around in the armoured Merc
edes with the blacked-out windows, just like the attackers on the highway. But that way of operating carried risks, because it made us look more local than Western, which meant our biggest threat was actually the Americans. It really was like the Wild West. Actually, it was more like Mad Max.
Getting into the Green Zone (the fortified neighbourhood that was home to government buildings, foreign embassies and businesses) wasn’t easy, because I spent a lot of time driving around Baghdad on my own, tooled-up with an AK47 and a Glock 19 pistol whilst wearing body armour. Luckily, I still had my ID card from the SBS. I’d drive up to checkpoints, pop my visor down (which had a Union Jack on it) and show them the card. The Americans manning the checkpoints thought we were still serving and would go crazy: ‘Fuck, man! We’ve got Special Forces coming in! Go! Go! Go!’ We’d wind the windows back up and laugh our heads off.
The first Thursday working for the company, I said to the guys, ‘What’s happening tonight?’
‘We’ve got the party.’
‘A party? I wasn’t expecting that…’
I didn’t imagine Baghdad to be much of a party town. As it turned out, every Thursday there was a bash for the telecoms company’s employees and our Jordanian partners, who were in charge of recruiting all the manpower. Friday was a non-work day, so everyone would go to this party and get shitfaced. Our job was primarily to look after the clients, but we were allowed to enjoy ourselves.
I turned up to this villa, which was one of Saddam’s old places, placed my weapon on the floor, stashed my body armour under my chair, grabbed a beer and waited for the guests to arrive. Everywhere you looked was marble and gold. It was really quite hideous, just as you’d expect a dictator’s villa to look. When the first guests knocked on the door, I instinctively reached for my weapon and one of the lads had to tell me to relax. The last time I’d been in Iraq was during Desert Storm, so it took me a while to feel comfortable as an ex-Special Forces soldier in one of Saddam’s old villas, with people getting pissed and smoking so much weed you could barely see your hand in front of your face.
The party was beginning to liven up when the door flung open and 13 women wearing burkas filed through. They stepped down into this sunken lounge and, in perfect unison, removed their burkas. There was no verbal command, it was almost choreographed. And now, standing before me, were 13 women in skimpy, brightly coloured lingerie and hooker heels. I’d never seen anything like it in the West, and I certainly didn’t expect to see anything like it in Baghdad. Selection interrogation was trippy, but it had nothing on this.
I soon learned that they were Saddam’s old prostitutes (we had his old villas, we had his old cars, why not the hookers as well?) and throughout the night they were in and out of bedrooms with our clients. The clients were all shitfaced, and after they’d fallen asleep, the girls would go around the rooms and nick everything they could lay their hands on. They lifted Rolex watches, jewellery and bulging wallets. Some idiot had even left his safe open, with piles of cash inside. That all disappeared. Their last stop was the kitchen, which they cleaned out of food, before putting their burkas back on and leaving. I can’t imagine what they’d been through, so good luck to them.
We were taking delivery of piles of weapons and ammunition every day, so we built an army in a heartbeat and had three massive villas interconnected with gun positions on every high point. Whenever we needed to do a logistics move of equipment, we would use locals with connections to the militia to pave our way. The locals would speak to tribal leaders, pay them cash and our convoys would be secured through that district. The operation was seamless, we were bringing in millions of dollars of equipment unhindered and our set-up was the envy of many. We moved on from telecoms and got a job with Schneider Electric, putting the grid back into Iraq. Whenever we moved transformers into the country, I put big sheets over the lorries with ‘IRAQI POWER FOR THE IRAQI PEOPLE!’ written on them in Arabic. In other words, ‘DON’T FUCKING SHOOT!’
The parties continued, each week in a different villa, each week with Saddam’s ex-prostitutes going through the same routine. And perhaps not unsurprisingly, complacency began to set in. Brian was a former Special Forces soldier who had gone native. He’d been in Iraq a long time, had dark skin, a big beard and had grown his hair long, so blended in with the locals. He’d also met a local girl called Imam at one of the parties (not one of the prostitutes, I hasten to add) and started a relationship.
Because Brian had been in the SBS a long time, climbed K2 and was a former bodyguard to the Beckhams, he was like a god to the rest of us and we were all a bit in awe of him. One day, Brian came into the compound and asked if he could have some weapons, because he was going to a party in Dora. Dora was a very active neighbourhood of Baghdad and a place to stay away from. I was supposed to be meeting him at the airport the following morning, because I was going on leave and I’d hooked him up with some business people in Indonesia. I reminded him of that, told him to be careful and he shrugged and said, ‘Don’t worry about me’, before waltzing off with his weapons. What I should have said was, ‘Mate, don’t go, it’s too risky.’ But that’s only with the benefit of hindsight. Brian was an intimidating character and vastly experienced. I thought he’d have his fun and get home safe.
When Brian didn’t turn up at the airport, we suspected something bad had happened. It wasn’t like him not to be in touch, and not like anyone to not turn up at the airport to get the hell out of that place. But I got on my plane and flew back to London. It was only the following day, while I was sat in a cafe, that I got the dreadful phone call: the Americans had found Brian’s body down a backstreet, shot to bits. Apparently, the party he was at had been ambushed by militia, who had heard there were Westerners in attendance. Brian’s girlfriend Imam and three other women were slaughtered. But a 15-year-old girl called Sarah survived. She’d been shot through the head, but the bullet had exited without hitting her brain. We managed to get hold of Sarah and put her in a villa, which I suppose was our version of witness protection.
It eventually came out that the police had stormed the party, Brian had made a run for it and been gunned down. When I say ‘the police’, I mean it in the loosest of senses. There had been a massive recruitment drive and locals would turn up, get uniforms and weapons and disappear into the ether. Often, people you thought were the police were actually militia. Their Glock pistols were supplied by the Americans, and any of the Glocks that didn’t end up in the hands of the militia were sold onto the black market, from where we bought them back for the company.
That’s what it was like in Iraq at the time, you didn’t know if anyone was who they said they were and who was carrying what. Some of the stuff I did and saw could have come straight from the film Apocalypse Now. One day, my mate Denny had to pretend I was his hostage to get me through a checkpoint. Denny was dark-skinned, looked quite wild and could have passed for a local. But as funny as we found it, we could have been killed. I’d watch Chinooks coming into the airport carrying pallets of bank notes, piles and piles of them wrapped in cellophane. That was the American way of trying to rebuild the economy, chucking money at everything. But anyone with half a brain could have worked out that if you flood a warzone with money, an awful lot of it will end up in the wrong hands.
I’d read papers and there would be articles complaining about how much the war was costing. But I’d ask myself the question: ‘How much is it making the businesses involved in the rebuilding process?’ One of the American engineering and construction companies was called KBR, and the joke was that it stood for ‘Keep Bush Rich’. The war was a business opportunity for the Americans, a money-making enterprise, which is why it became very difficult for non-US companies to win contracts, including us.
In the end, Sarah’s whereabouts were discovered and we received intelligence that there was going to be an attack on our villa, so we got her out to a safehouse in Jordan. We were pushing for legal action to be taken against the police – which was tricky, because no
body knew who the police were – when we heard that Sarah had disappeared. Consequently, the case was thrown out of court because of insufficient evidence. I don’t know what became of her.
Brian’s death was a terrible shock. I’d worked with him for a long time and he was a close friend. I hadn’t lost many friends in the military. There was my mate who died in the parachute accident in Nevada. But when I was in Northern Ireland, and the IRA were trying to blow us up, they didn’t get any of us. And it was the same when I was in Iraq as a soldier.
I felt guilty for not having tried to persuade Brian not to go to the party. It would have been a difficult conversation, but had I spoken up, he might still have been alive. Even if he’d told me where to go, at least I could have said I tried. I should have trusted my instincts. Instead, I took the easier option, which was the biggest mistake of my career.
Brian’s death was also a major blow for the company, because we’d always wanted to keep a low profile, and now we were all over the news. We were given warnings that if we ever worked on a military contract, there would be consequences from anti-coalition forces. We were looking at such contracts at the time – we also had Iraqis working for us who would have known about it – and an envelope containing a bullet was thrown over the wall of the compound. Also in the envelope was a note written in Arabic, stating that if we didn’t stop talking to the Americans, they’d send bullets with our names on.
Brian had become too localised, too blasé and pushed his luck too far. But we were all guilty of that. Being in a warzone takes its toll. We didn’t have the support networks we had when we were in the military, or the same umbrella of protection. It reached the stage where I honestly thought I’d leave Iraq in a coffin. The situation in Baghdad was deteriorating. We were hearing stories all the time about people being attacked and convoys being smashed. We had to encase our villas with steel on the inside. When we heard rounds coming close, we had to lock everything down.
Break Point Page 13
