Bodyguard (23 page)

Nigel and Dirk cleared the checkpoint. Next it was us. TT wound the window down; John was dozing, his Tilley Hat tilted over his sleeping eyes. TT greeted him in Afrikaans. The policeman looked in the car, then looked at us. I picked up the bottles of water in the footwell and two pots of Pringles and offered them to him.

‘Everything OK?’ TT asked.

He waved us on our way with his finger, easier than any of us imagined. If only Mugabe knew. They were obviously hungry and not being looked after. I felt totally confident for the first time – it was clear that the message from the top wasn’t being passed down. Bribes would work. Anything you needed to get through. Just keep looking down, avoiding eye contact, offer them something, appear subservient, and avoid confrontation, and it seemed you could drive the length of the breadth of the country without anybody dragging you out of the car and uttering the words none of us wanted to hear. ‘Mr. Simpson – welcome to Zimbabwe. We’ve been expecting you.’

I loved that we were in. I would switch off for the forty kilometres or so between the patrols but as soon as the radio clicked and Steve came back on saying ‘checkpoint’ then my heart raced a little and my brain upped a gear. I got back in the zone, but never needed to be on full alert.

Once in to the suburbs of Harare, we still had about an hour to go to get to that night’s safe house. Pulling up at the lights was when you really had to watch yourself. At the first major junction, you would
have thought we were in a war zone. Traffic was tearing in from every direction. Dodgy people frequented every corner.

‘What are these?’ I said to TT.

He pointed out the War Vets for the first time. ‘They take over major junctions and sit and observe, and report in anything slightly strange,’ he explained. In Ireland, they used to call them dickers.

I knew as well that our luck was cursed. The lights had been on green for ages and the front two vehicles had gone through. It was one of those moments on approach where they were always going to change. Anyone tailing has experienced that at some point. ‘You’re not going to stop, are you?’ I asked TT.

Doing so would leave us directly adjacent to the War Vets on John’s and my own side; speeding through would make us look like trouble, too. They changed to amber. TT just floored it. Years of procedure had taught me – always lock your doors. These guys looked serious. I had a word with myself. I needed to be right at the top of my game.

In total, excluding the War Vets, we had only encountered four checkpoints. Incredible, really. Mugabe had certainly done a good job in image management – the world perceived that it was a risk coming in. So far, we had breezed it. We made for Borrowdale.

It was a mostly white, affluent area in the north of the capital, like Sunningdale in Berkshire. Dirk pulled over when we got there. We sent Steve in to speak to the owner of the house to let him know we had arrived ahead of time. We didn’t want to be hanging around. Could we move in now?

Considering our expectations for the journey when we stopped back at the lodge, we had made impressive time. One thing you can never know is how long to budget for if you get any checkpoint hassle. They could, in theory, keep you all day. Ten minutes later Steve was back, and we were in.

I knew what was coming.

It was a huge gated complex – nobody could see in. The walls were six to eight feet high. It was a six or seven bedroomed old thatched
house, with beautiful land all around. We were bang out of the way. My only concern was that there was only one road in: if there was any tracking on the signal or we got tailed, then we were in the shit. We even had servants, preparing stew and dumplings for us almost immediately we entered. Wine and beer were in large supply. It was like being on holiday. But in Zimbabwe.

And I knew it was coming.

I thought I should probably pre-empt it because it was obviously moments from entering the conversation. He was scribbling away while we feasted. The election was a stone’s throw away and the clock was ticking. We were so close to being there on the day that Mugabe would reach out to democracy in that sincere way that only he could do that it was a major risk. We didn’t even have a story; all we had done was travel – but that in itself was some sort of achievement given the ban on the BBC.

And then John and Oggy ganged up. ‘We want to do something for the Ten tonight.’ Well, at least that got it out of the way. It was no longer coming; it was happening.

If we went live, that clock was ticking twice as fast. As soon as somebody picked it up and asked, ‘Did John Simpson really say he was live in Zimbabwe?’, then we had to move, and at some point they were going to catch up with us. I respected John’s hunger, but it felt like an unnecessary risk.

‘Let me get back to you,’ I told them.

Professionally, as liaison between the local guys and John, I had to sound them out. I took them out into the garden to assess the risk and, believe me, this was proper risk assessment, not some BBC bollocks about sitting up straight at your desktop in case the Corporation got sued.

‘He wants to go live tonight, doesn’t he?’ Dirk laughed. ‘We guessed this was coming.’

They hardly knew the old trooper but they could see that look in his eyes. It was this killer instinct to be the best and deliver the
story that nobody else could even contemplate that would always divide opinion on John – you either loved him or hated him. Luckily, tonight, he was among his own.

Like I said, there would be confrontation. We all knew it was coming. It didn’t matter that John, Oggy and I knew that
essentially
tonight would be waffle. The kudos and the sense of victory, coupled with the ‘watch this space’ tease of what would come in the next few days, meant that if John Simpson could get on the Ten and deliver his ‘live in Zimbabwe’ report then he had won. The whole world would be watching. That wasn’t about ego – John was from another era where reporters were qualified and were drawn to the story, not the limelight. He didn’t care for a second career on
Strictly
. As with bin Laden, Gaddafi, Mugabe, he was attracted to evil. It really was a lifetime of showing up the bad guys to as many people as possible. It was impossible to say no – whether you were his confidant like myself or one of these old Colonials whose house it was and who had seen him broadcast from the most impossible places in the world.

‘That’s not the end of the world,’ Dirk confirmed. ‘But John needs to be aware that we need some time to activate the second safe house.’

Considering we weren’t even meant to be here tonight, frankly, we were making life very difficult for ourselves. The new plan was to move first thing in the morning.

I went back in to give John the lowdown. He also knew me too well. I would tell him if it was a risk, but I would do everything I could to enable him to break a story. So, this time, he knew it was coming. ‘Okay, this is where we are John. We can do a quick hit. It’s got to be round the side of the house. Minimal lights. Then we move tomorrow.’ I was making it up on the fly. ‘In the meantime, I need to be working on an escape plan, if we have to move tonight.’

John had his way – as
he
knew he would. In the meantime, Steve went to fetch the broadcast equipment in his truck. This, for me, was the risk.

Steve assured me that actually it was quite easy to drive around the neighbourhood because he was well known. ‘Even the blacks know me,’ he said.

While Steve set up, Dirk, TT and I discussed our plan for when we went live. Could Mugabe’s people triangulate the signal and sniff us out? What if they came down our dead-end road? John was only going out on the Ten – that helped. Airing on BBC World could have scuppered us.

We walked round the back of the house. There was one garage and a wall leaning over to the house at the back. TT and Dirk attached a ladder over to the house – the neighbours were on side and said we could park a car on their drive. We would run for it, climb over and take the car from there if we had to. It wasn’t the world’s greatest plan, but at least we had an option. Remember, too, these were huge houses on massive estates. I calculated there was enough time to flee.

It was good enough. I briefed John again. This time, I had to put friendship aside. ‘Look John, whatever you do, you cannot say we are in Harare.’ I was as blunt as Craig Summers could be.

‘Well, what can I say?’ He was asking me. After all his years in the game. To his credit, John knew it was a team effort. Moments later, I heard him sign off. ‘John Simpson, BBC News, somewhere in Zimbabwe.’

He was ecstatic – still buzzing after all these decades. He couldn’t have many ambitions left, but to say those words reduced the list by one. I knew it meant a lot. And it had been a long day. Out came the whisky. That was him saluting the team. Mugabe would be watching, and John Simpson was on his tail.

The next morning, Dirk and TT grabbed me. The owner of the house was happy, but we couldn’t be doing ‘lives’ from here at night. It would just attract too much attention. Deep down, we all knew that. Now that John had declared our hand, we would always be on the move, looking over your shoulder. The boys had a Plan B – their contacts were incredible. I respected that. They knew a Welsh guy
who had lived out here most of his life. His wife and kids were away so it wouldn’t be a problem. If we needed to do ‘lives’ there was an office space we could work from. I relayed all this to Nigel and Oggy. As a pro though, I had to go to check the live position. There was no point making them safe if I made them redundant. That was the paradox of the job.

It was even better. I couldn’t move in quick enough. Nick, the owner, showed us the tennis courts and swimming pools. The guest rooms were palatial. With a huge electric fence around it, it was the dog’s bollocks. It was clear we could broadcast safely and easily. Nobody could see in and one of Steve’s mates had a pad out here. Perfect! As much as I liked it, I was aware we could run out of safe houses if we carried on doing ‘lives’. I hoped this would be good for forty-eight hours or so and we would take it from there. I didn’t want to move every night and we were all desperate to hang on until the election. That would be some feat, to survive until polling day.

We were in a C-shaped building. The live position was in the inner bit of the C, surrounded by its own building, and we didn’t need to rig it for lighting because we could take the natural aspect from the house. Nor could it be seen from the road. John loved it, too: to be live once in Zim was good, but was far from enough. He had set the bar high. I knew what else was coming. There was no way that John Simpson was going to sit in a palatial safe house in the middle of Harare and not be on television.

‘We don’t want John to come up before the elections. We don’t want to jeopardise anything.’ I was sick of hearing this from London. ‘It’s your call,’ they would say.

Did they realistically think John wasn’t going to broadcast? John was with people he trusted and I wasn’t about to abandon him. We regularly spoke about it, often joked about it, and we both had faith in our local guys on the ground. There was no way any editor of the Ten worth his salt wasn’t going to take a live from him in Harare. None of them would ever say, ‘I don’t want John Simpson on tonight.’

Yes – during the day we would lie low. John knew his day began at night. We would have a breakfast meeting every morning. Nigel and I would go out and do some general shots. We could send back radio, and John would scribble, but ultimately it was about keeping him hidden. Occasionally, John would push it and ask to go out – he wanted to go to Faraday’s, his favourite shop in Zimbabwe. I told him we would take each day as it comes. After all, who has a favourite shop in Harare? He also wanted to go and have tea with the Meikles family. They were very famous in Harare and John knew them from way back.

I consulted with TT and Dirk. It seemed an unnecessary risk but TT also knew the family. We agreed to plan. There was no way we could get giddy on an old school tie. There’s an old saying that you seek local knowledge wherever you go; TT and Dirk could pull rank in my eyes, however much John wanted to revisit the Empire! On the other hand, John would soon get frustrated not gathering news
material
himself. It would keep him sweet to give him a little treat out.

By lunchtime that day, we were installed lock, stock and barrel in the new compound – once we had avoided the added security of a ferocious Rottweiler keeping guard. John relaxed in his new imperial suite, while I took a sleeping bag and tossed it on the floor anywhere that would have me. Dirk and TT stayed in the house across the road. I told everyone to always be packed and ready to make a quick exit. In the middle of the day, it was always about the night and the Ten.

John had to write – BA’s
High Life
magazine were waiting on copy and obviously that was crucial! Oggy and Nigel were talking about getting some shots downtown. This was now the norm – John and Oggy would suggest something crazy and I would consult with TT and Dirk.

‘What do you think?’ I would ask them.

‘Crazy,’ they would invariably reply. ‘But we can pull it off.’ I loved that. There was no point doing anything by half.

They wanted to film drive-by shots at Zanu-PF headquarters in Harare. ‘You get one shot at this Nige,’ TT said. ‘They have their Central Intelligence guys on the side of the pavement outside and the corner of the road, and where we are going to drive down will put us real close to where these guys are.’ It sounded like close to the knuckle stuff. ‘Film from the back seat from the side window. Craig, you sit in the passenger seat, and we will shoot over your shoulder. You’ve got one chance, Nige.’

Two vehicles went out. TT counted us down to the building. ‘It’s on the left. Two hundred metres, one hundred metres … that’s it now.’ I have never seen so many dodgy people hanging around, shifty behaviour the norm.

Dirk rang the mobile to ask if everything was OK. I told him we needed posters. We drove past and pulled over further up the road. Nick had tipped us off that near the racecourse there was loads of ‘Vote Mugabe’ propaganda. We did exactly the same again, in and out in seconds – always keep the car moving. That was all we could risk before heading back to the compound.