The Circuit (3 page)

As for myself, I take issue with applying the term ‘private’ to security companies. Though technically accurate – we are talking about private sector firms as opposed to government owned – it can be misleading because ‘private’ can refer to non-profit companies.

Throughout this book, I will refer to the firms comprising The Circuit as CSCs, Commercial Security Companies. CSCs don’t exist to do good works in the world. They are not fundamentally noble in nature. The primary goal of CSCs is to make money. They are above all
commercial
, profit-driven enterprises and should be referred to as such.

That’s not to say that the people doing the actual work on the ground in hostile environments place financial gain above all other considerations. This is why you will also note a conspicuous absence of the term ‘mercenary’ in this book. I have often heard the media refer to the men and women working on The Circuit as ‘mercenaries’; a label as offensive as it is inaccurate. Let me explain.

Mercenaries are hired guns who sell their services to the highest bidder. They have no national loyalty, no sense of duty to country and no moral foundation. They’ll take up arms against their own government if the price is right.

Security advisers, by contrast, are a relatively new phenomenon (and by ‘advisers’ I mean the people putting their lives on the line in the field, not the managers and executives sitting in plush offices back in London). Security advisers first appeared in the 1970s, when The Circuit was still very much in its infancy. Today, the vast majority of advisers work on contracts servicing their own governments, governments closely allied to their own or industries regulated by their home countries, their allies or international law. Many security advisers have served in the military or supported their communities as police officers. They regard their employment on The Circuit as a continuation of their public service, not an end to it.

In fourteen years on The Circuit, I have never accepted an assignment that I felt ran counter to Britain’s national interests. I served my country proudly as a soldier for twenty-three years and continue to serve it through my work in the commercial security sector. I see myself as a patriot and a security adviser. Never call me a mercenary.

PART ONE

A STEEP LEARNING

CURVE

CHAPTER 1

‘I told you to STOP!’

I could tell by the accent that he was Russian. His voice certainly matched the rest of him. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed monster. Even with half of his body hidden in the hatch of his APC, he looked about six foot tall. All in all, a stereotypical Russian soldier – except for his weapon (an American-made M16) and his uniform (IDF, Israeli Defence Force).

Only in Ramallah.

It was April 2002. I had arrived in the West Bank just two weeks earlier to look after a CNN crew reporting on the largest incursion of Israeli troops into Palestinian lands since the 1967 Six Day War. It was a typical spring morning in that part of the world; drizzly and cold with the heavy scent of wet concrete dust hanging in the air. The pavement had been reduced to rubble, chewed up by Israeli tanks ploughing through everything in their paths. Flattened cars, like pages from a book, and piles of rubbish waiting to be burned lined the silent, undulating streets. The residents of Ramallah were battened down indoors observing the Israeli-imposed curfew that promised to shoot on sight any Palestinian – or anyone mistaken for a Palestinian – who disobeyed.

The Russian climbed down from the APC, all the while keeping his M16 aimed towards me.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

I had dressed to blend in with my journalist clients: nondescript shirt and trousers, Timberland boots, body armour with the letters TV taped across the front flap, and a ballistic helmet also with the letters TV taped on the sides.

‘Journalist,’ I said.

‘Liar,’ barked the Russian. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Scotland,’ I said, unable to contain the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face whenever I say the name of my country out loud.

‘This isn’t fucking Scotland,’ said the Russian.

‘This isn’t fucking Israel either,’ I replied.

Not the answer he wanted to hear. The Russian looked over his shoulder and nodded to one of his mates; another blond monster in an IDF uniform, no doubt Russian as well. The next thing I knew, he was sprinting towards me, his M16 elevated as if he were charging into battle. The pair of them grabbed me and dragged me behind the APC. A small group of Israeli soldiers, non-Russians, were there. When they saw what was happening, they moved away towards the front of the vehicle, leaving the Russians alone with me.

Meanwhile the CNN crew I was looking after were well out of view. If they’d followed my instructions to the letter, they’d be on their way back to the hotel.

I briefly considered trying to overpower the Russians and escape but they probably would have shot me in the back. The lead Russian slammed my head against the APC. His henchman shoved his rifle into my temple. I could feel the flash eliminator at the end of the barrel sink into my flesh. I was scared, probably the most scared I’ve ever been in my life – not exactly the position I expected to find myself in as a civilian.

When I retired from 22 SAS Regiment in 1994, I was certain that dangerous adventures in far-flung places were behind me. I had spent twenty years in the Regiment, achieving the rank of Warrant Officer. I’d fought some good wars and taken part in plenty of operations: Oman, the Iranian embassy siege in London, Northern Ireland, the Falklands War, the First Gulf War, Bosnia, and many little skirmishes in between.

I was offered a commission to stay with the Regiment as an officer but turned it down. Though I couldn’t have asked for a better military experience, I promised myself as a young recruit that I’d leave at the age of forty, the natural end to a soldier’s career. I didn’t want to be a hanger on. So, four months shy of my fortieth birthday, I gathered my belongings from camp in Hereford and walked out of the gates for the last time. I cried like a baby.

The international commercial security circuit, or The Circuit as it’s known, was a natural place for someone with my background and skills to land. Plenty of retired Regiment lads had led the way before me. Back then, The Circuit was a cottage industry catering primarily to the oil and mining industries and to high-profile individuals such as celebrities, royalty, businessmen and the super rich. Most of the lads on the ground were like me; former Regiment or SBS (Special Boat Service), as well as some very good people from other military backgrounds. Many of the advisers were highly skilled individuals, but as with any industry there were a handful of bluffers who could talk themselves into a job.

When I first joined The Circuit, my assignments were well paid and confined to non-hazardous areas. I spent my first five years working as part of a Close Protection team for an American billionaire and his family. Though busy, the job required me to spend a lot of time in five-star hotels and on private Caribbean beaches. In half a decade, the gravest threat my client encountered was a playful seal in the Galapagos Islands that swam a bit too close. At the time, it was the best job going on The Circuit. My client was a tremendous man to work for and I learned a lot. Sadly it ended due to budget cuts.

I went on to work as a security adviser for a major oil company with operations in Algeria. After that, I headed a thirty-man security detail for a Swiss family based in the south of France. Cushy as these assignments often were, I refused to let myself go or allow my military training to deteriorate. I never drank on the job; I kept myself in good physical condition and seized every opportunity to sharpen my proactive security skills. I didn’t know it at the time, but my discipline would pay off handsomely.

My days of looking after rich people in glamorous locations ended when al-Qaeda hijackers crashed two planes into the World Trade Center. That day, 11 September 2001, marked the beginning of The Circuit’s transformation from a niche business into a multi-billion-pound industry. As the War on Terror intensified, so did the demand for security advisers, especially in hostile environments; media, diplomats, civilian contractors; suddenly everyone needed looking after.

When I got the call to go to Ramallah to work with a team of CNN journalists, I jumped at the chance. It had been years since I’d had a real adventure and I missed the adrenalin rush of being in a hostile environment (technically Algeria was a hostile environment but I spent all of my time there looking after workers inside a secured cordon). I relished the chance to apply skills I hadn’t used since the military in a commercial environment. Ramallah also held out the fascinating prospect of being able to do what I never could as a soldier: mix with the local population as a real civilian.
²

The only question mark over the job was the actual clients. I hadn’t worked with journalists before and wasn’t sure what to expect. More importantly, media was a new market for The Circuit so it was likely that the journalists I’d be assigned to had never worked with a security adviser. I was warned during my pre-deployment briefing that many media clients resented having advisers around. As far as the journalists were concerned, they’d covered plenty of conflicts without our help and they didn’t need it now. Much of this resistance was due to ignorance. The journalists thought security advisers were nothing more than tick-tock ex-soldiers who would get in the way of their stories. The possibility of difficult clients didn’t put me off going to Ramallah. I was confident that if I did my job well I’d win over even the most stubborn journalist.

Israel launched Operation Defensive Shield in March 2002 in retaliation for a wave of Palestinian suicide bombings that killed over a hundred Israeli civilians within a single month. As part of the operation, Israeli tanks surrounded Yasir Arafat’s presidential compound or Mukhata in Ramallah, effectively imprisoning the Palestinian leader in his own office. By the time I got there, the situation had reached a stalemate and nerves on both sides of the conflict were raw to the point of bleeding.

Meanwhile, I was having a ball. That is, until I met the Russians.

Some journalists had armoured cars but only CNN had both an armoured vehicle and security advisers on the ground. The majority of the press corps had no choice but to spend most of their time indoors while CNN roamed around Ramallah getting stories. That really pissed off the Israelis. Usually, they showed their displeasure through basic harassment; stopping us willynilly and telling us to leave Ramallah; closing off streets when we were in the middle of filming; threatening to break our equipment – in short, tactics meant to drive us out.

That changed when we ran into the Russians. The siege had just entered its fourth week with no resolution in sight. I had set out with a stripped-down crew (a cameraman and correspondent) to recce the streets. As we slowly navigated the city in our armoured 4x4 I did my best to skirt the known Israeli checkpoints. Sure enough, as we drove up a hill towards the Manara, Ramallah’s main square, a tank was waiting at the top; its gun barrel was pointed right at us.

I had already established a procedure for this type of situation and my clients knew the drill. I stopped short of the checkpoint, left the engine running and got out. I wanted to keep the Israelis as far away from the vehicle as possible. My biggest worry, aside from them shooting one of my clients, was that they would confiscate the vehicle, leaving us stranded and unable to get stories.

I had positioned the correspondent in the passenger’s seat. It was his job to keep tabs on me once I left the vehicle. If the Israelis became aggressive or attempted to detain me in any way, the correspondent was to slide behind the wheel and drive back to the hotel. That way if the Israelis kicked me out of Ramallah, he and his crew would still be able to report from inside the city. I could always find a way back in later.

As I walked towards the tank I spotted a group of soldiers gathered around two APCs parked up a side road. It was a cold, wet, windy day and some of them had taken shelter under a piece of corrugated tin roofing they’d propped against their vehicle. I continued on past the side road and advanced slowly towards the tank. The gun barrel was still pointed directly at my clients. Finally, an Israeli commander poked his head up from the turret. The markings on his uniform indicated that he was a captain.

‘Who are you?’ His accent was American.

‘Journalists,’ I answered.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘To a primary school at the other side of the Manara,’ I said.

He looked over my shoulder at my clients and then back at me. ‘Have a nice day,’ he said and disappeared back into his tank.

It looked as if we would get off easy. I turned and started walking back to the vehicle. I had nearly made it to our 4x4 when the Russian decided to get involved.

‘Stop!’ His voice came from the side road where I’d spotted the APCs. I looked at the Russian’s uniform. The captain who’d just let me go outranked him, so I continued on my way.

‘I told you to STOP!’

That’s when I learned that rank counts for nothing in the IDF. The Russian pointed his rifle towards me and ordered me up the side street. I didn’t want my clients to lose visual contact with me but the Russian had a weapon. I, on the other hand, was unarmed.

At that moment, I should have recognized the crucial difference between operating as a member of the military in a hostile environment and operating as a commercial security adviser. No matter how skilled the adviser, soldiers will always have the upper hand; they have superior firepower, superior equipment and superior backup. Had I been thinking like a civilian that morning, I would have appreciated just how weak my position was. But I was thinking and acting as if I was still in the Regiment. Rather than keep my big mouth shut and walk away with only my pride wounded, I mouthed off to a well-supported, well-armed soldier and ended up with an M16 digging into my temple.