The Circuit (4 page)

My head was still sandwiched between the APC and the barrel of the Russian’s M16. I scanned the area as best I could and fixed on a block of apartments three storeys high. I was looking for signs of life, anyone who might see what was happening. I wanted a witness, someone to tell the tale because I was convinced the Russian would shoot me in the head.

‘Who are you!’ the lead Russian demanded again.

‘I’m a field producer for CNN.’

‘No you’re not,’ he screamed. ‘You’re a spy.’

‘If I was a spy working in Ramallah wouldn’t that put me on your side?’ I argued.

The Russian, in a moment of clarity, considered my answer. ‘Show us some ID!’

I asked them if I could get my ID out of my back pocket – I didn’t want to provoke them with unannounced movements. I reached into my pocket and handed the lead Russian my press card. In the left corner was my picture. In the right, the official seal of the Israeli Press Office.

The Russian looked over the card, smiled smugly and threw it in the mud.

At that moment, I was certain he was destroying my credentials so he could claim – after he killed me – that he hadn’t realized I was a member of the media. I looked at my muddied press card like a drowning man watching a life-raft drift out of sight. It seemed like an eternity.

‘Pick it up!’ the Russian ordered.

I wasn’t sure of his endgame but I did as instructed. As I scooped up the card the Russian slammed the heel of his boot down on my hand. I felt the bones in my fingers snap.

‘Fucking hell,’ I muttered through clenched teeth.

‘If we see you on the streets of Ramallah tomorrow, you’re a dead man,’ he said. ‘Now fuck off.’ The lead Russian nodded at his mate to withdraw his weapon. I took the cue to get the hell out of there.

My hand throbbing, I walked away thinking just how stupid and arrogant I’d been. I thought my twenty-three years of military experience had fully prepared me to negotiate a hostile environment as a security adviser. I was wrong. By failing to realize the crucial differences between operating as a civilian and operating in the Regiment, I’d unnecessarily compromised my safety and, in doing so, failed to serve my clients to the best of my ability. I was lucky to have got away with only two broken fingers.

CHAPTER 2

I never gave much thought to politics when I was in the Regiment. I was a soldier, not a politician. As far as I was concerned there were two kinds of characters in the world: goodies and baddies.

When I joined The Circuit politics still weren’t at the forefront of my mind. I read the newspapers regularly (
Daily Telegraph
and
The Times
) and watched news on television to keep myself informed. When the Israelis launched Operation Defensive Shield, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the Arab–Israeli conflict: the Israelis were the good guys and the Palestinians were a bunch of terrorists led by the filthiest terrorist of them all, Yasir Arafat.

As a soldier, I’d come to admire the Israelis. When I was a young lad in the Regiment, IDF Special Forces conducted the legendary Entebbe raid in July 1976 to free Israeli hostages held by Palestinian terrorists on an Air France flight at Entebbe airport in Uganda. At the time the Ugandan leader Idi Amin was backing the terrorists, so the Israelis had to conduct the raid in utter secrecy. The Jewish commandos carried out their operation with all the professionalism and guile of any first world force, freeing all one hundred hostages and losing only one of their own.

The Entebbe raid was a source of inspiration for me throughout my military career. It was at the forefront of my mind during the Falklands War, when I was sent to Port Stanley to carry out a similar task with the Regiment.
³

Obviously, I held the Israelis in very high esteem. My feelings about the Palestinians were equally as strong, albeit not in a positive way. The western media had always referred to Arafat as a ‘terrorist’ and his multi-party confederation, the Palestine Liberation Organization, as a ‘terrorist’ organization. The label meant only one thing to me. The old adage of ‘one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter’ was a load of liberal crap as far as I was concerned. Having fought the IRA, I’d seen first hand just how ruthless they could be. IRA, PLO, it didn’t matter; they were all gutless bastards who killed and maimed innocent civilians to achieve their aims.

Operation Defensive Shield was entering its second week when AKE, a commercial security company owned by a former Regiment mate of mine, sent me to Ramallah to look after CNN. AKE already had a cracking lad in situ, Will Scully. An era behind me in the Regiment, Will and I worked together many times on The Circuit in the 1990s. As advisers go, Will is top drawer. If I had to put a team together, he’d be one of the first people I’d call.

I talked to Will prior to leaving to get a better idea of the assignment. I was heartened to hear that he was revelling in it. The only reason he was coming home was because of a family commitment. The job wasn’t all giggles though. Will warned me that the toughest part initially would be getting into Ramallah; the Israelis had locked it down and, though journalists were allowed to leave, no one was allowed to enter.

As it turned out, the hurdles went up as soon as I landed in Israel. I was singled out immediately by security at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. Mind you, it’s not as if I blended in. A forty-seven-year-old man travelling alone must have stood out among the families and groups of religious tourists. I felt like all eyes were on me as I walked to passport control. I knew I was about to be picked on.

A big fat man in his late twenties and a skinny young woman plucked me out of the passport line and ushered me to one side. Without so much as a ‘Welcome to Israel’ they started grilling me: what was I doing here? I handed them a covering letter CNN had given me prior to departure and told them I was a field producer temporarily assigned to the Jerusalem bureau. They asked to see my passport. Luckily, I’d recently renewed it and there were no incriminating stamps from Arab countries. The pair then asked me a string of questions, repeating many of them to see if my answers varied. Two questions in particular could have landed me on the first flight back to the UK. They asked me several times if I spoke Arabic. I do speak respectable colloquial Arabic having studied it in the 1970s for operations in Oman, but I kept my language ability to myself. They also wanted to know if I planned to travel to the West Bank or Gaza during my stay.

‘Not me,’ I said. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’

I eventually cleared security and went to the arrivals terminal where CNN had arranged for a driver to meet me. There were hundreds of people milling around with name boards, but none for me. I called the number I had been given for the driver but there was no answer. I then rang the CNN bureau in Jerusalem to get a physical description of him. The woman on the other end of the phone told me ‘Ahmed’, my driver, was approximately five foot eight with a large belly, thinning hair and a moustache. Over half the men in the terminal fitted that description.

Fortunately, the woman in the bureau was able to tell me Ahmed’s vehicle make and plate number. I headed out to the car park with my bags, a black canvas duffel and a day sack slung over each shoulder. Normally, I never leave the reception area of an airport until I’m met by my point of contact. But I’d already learned first hand that the airport had fairly good security. Moreover, my flight had been lousy and I was keen to get on with it.

I walked up a row of vehicles sixty yards long and back down another. On my third pass I found Ahmed’s sedan with Ahmed inside, stretched out in the passenger’s seat and out for the count. I stood by the door and rang his phone. I could hear his catchy Arabic ring tone through the window but he slept right through it. I had no choice but to hammer on the windshield with my fist. Ahmed nearly launched through the roof. When he saw me he opened the door with such haste that a cold cup of coffee he’d rested on his lap shot out into the parking bay.

‘Are you Bob?’ he asked.

‘Aiwa’ (yes), I answered in Arabic.

Ahmed drove me straight to my hotel, the American Colony in east Jerusalem. Just a few minutes’ walk from the Old City, the hotel is a favourite with the international press corps. Built as a palace in the late nineteenth century, it was taken over by a group of Americans who remained neutral towards the city’s various factions. To this day, the American Colony remains something of a little Switzerland where Arabs and Jews can mix over drinks or a meal in the beautiful gardens or inside in the bar and restaurant.

I booked in at reception and was shown to my room. When the porter opened the door, my eyes widened with delight. The room was a palace within a palace; the ceilings were at least fourteen feet high and decorated in hand-carved, nineteenth-century Ottoman motifs. The furniture was hand carved as well in traditional Arab designs and the bed could have accommodated a platoon. No wonder journalists flocked to the place.

I enjoyed my opulent surroundings to the fullest knowing that the next day I’d be facing some Spartan conditions in Ramallah. I dropped my bags, ran the water in the enormous bathtub and bounced onto the bed.

The rest of my day involved meeting with the CNN bureau chief in Jerusalem, getting my Israeli press pass and calling Will on the phone to arrange an RV for the handover.

That evening, I sat down to a monster dinner of surf and turf in the hotel restaurant. The place was full of journalists who looked like they spent most of their time in a pampered environment like the American Colony. Hostile environments were another matter. I’d never seen members of the media up close before and had always assumed that war correspondents would look the part; characters like Sandy Gall who were mature but fit enough to travel over the mountains of Afghanistan. Most of the journalists I saw were smoking and drinking and looked very unhealthy, including the young ones. I imagine that if any of them had to run three hundred yards to get away from an incident they’d probably drop down dead. I certainly couldn’t see them engaging in E&E (escape and evade) for a protracted period over a given distance. But the people-watching didn’t put me off the assignment. I was still excited by the prospect of returning to a war zone for the first time since retiring from the Regiment.

The next morning I was up at seven (a long lie-in by my standards) to shower, dress and arrange for transport to Ramallah. The Jerusalem bureau had given me the number of a taxi driver who worked frequently with CNN. I was told he could find his way around the West Bank blindfolded.

The driver said it would only take twenty minutes to get from the hotel to Ramallah and he’d collect me at nine. It seemed strange that someone working regularly for a news organization operating in and around a hostile environment should be on such a relaxed schedule. Ramallah is only ten miles due north of Jerusalem but Will had warned me that IDF checkpoints can add hours to the journey. The driver was waiting outside the hotel at 9 a.m. sharp. Since Ramallah was under military lockdown, we bypassed the main route leading north into the city where the fixed Kalandia checkpoint is located and travelled by a back road to bring us in from the east.

We arrived only to discover that the IDF had set up a checkpoint east of the city as well. It was manned by an armed Israeli patrol that didn’t appear to be letting anyone through. We watched them turn away three vehicles in quick succession. When our turn came, I was ready with my credentials. I held my passport and Israeli press card against the window for the soldiers to see. One of them leaned over, looked at my documents and stepped back. I expected him to wave me away. Instead, he lifted his M16 and fired a short burst on the ground near the side of our car. Firing at us was a scare tactic and it worked on my taxi driver. He practically shit himself. The driver turned the car around and started heading back towards Jerusalem. I offered him 200 US dollars to get me into Ramallah via another route, but he refused. ‘Those fuckers shoot at anyone,’ he said. ‘I go back to my family in east Jerusalem and you go back to hotel.’

I called Will to let him know what had happened and told him I’d try to get to Ramallah the next morning – with a different driver. I booked back into the hotel and went outside to the taxi stand to see if I could find a willing candidate. I found a group of drivers standing around. I asked them if anyone was up for driving me into Ramallah the next morning. A young, slim lad with a broken nose and cheeky expression stepped forward.

‘I do it,’ he said.

His name was Walid and he claimed to know several back routes into the city. I asked him if he would get scared if Israeli soldiers tried to stop us.

‘Nobody scare Walid. Walid brave man,’ he said, thumping his chest.

‘You’ve got the job, mate,’ I said and we shook on it.

I woke early the next morning after a restless night’s sleep. In my mind, I couldn’t stop replaying the incident with the soldier at the checkpoint. It was the first time in my life I’d been fired on without having the ability to fire back. I had never operated in a hostile environment without a weapon. It felt like my arms had been cut off. It was a strange and horrible experience but one I’d get used to soon enough.

I loaded my black duffel bag into the back of the ‘brave’ Walid’s taxi but kept my day sack containing my medical kit with me up front. I wanted self-aid at hand in case we ran into any more trigger-happy IDF soldiers.

We travelled the route I’d taken the day before, approaching the city from the east. The checkpoint was still up and a queue of cars had formed. As we inched towards it, I studied a large chalk quarry beside the road. It appeared to stretch right into Ramallah. I asked Walid if there was a track in the quarry that led to the city. He said if there was then the IDF surely would have blocked it off with one of its giant armoured bulldozers.

As we neared the checkpoint, it was apparent from the vehicles turning around that the Israelis weren’t letting anyone through. When it was our turn to try, we were told to leave as well. I got out of the taxi and asked the checkpoint commander why I couldn’t get into the city when I held an Israeli press pass.