by Damien Lewis
Rugby is something akin to American football, although it’s played with a larger ball and with no helmets, pads, or protection of any sort. It is intensely physical and brutally tough. I’m only five feet, ten inches tall, but I’m half as wide, which is the kind of physique that made me ideal for playing as a hooker in the scrum—the guy who swings forward with his feet to grab the ball once it’s thrown in.
One year we were playing the British Special Forces Team, which is made up of players from the Special Air Service (SAS)—the equivalent of Delta Force—and the Special Boat Service (SBS)—the equivalent of the Navy SEALs. Needless to say, our opponents were some of the fittest, hardest, toughest soldiers in the world. Normally we managed to beat them, but we’d win by dint of our skills only—the Special Forces boys being all over us in terms of fitness and physicality.
The opposing packs had gone for a scrum-down, locking horns in a contest of sheer power and strength. As we butted heads I’d made an appropriately insulting comment to my opposite number, but in Welsh, the national language of Wales. I’m a native Welsh speaker, English being my second language, and I didn’t for one moment expect my opponent to understand. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, looked to be around thirty years old to my twenty, and he had a rock-hard barn door of a physique.
“You might be Special Forces,” I growled, “but you’re still full of shit. I’m gonna snap your neck . . .”
He fired right back at me: “Go screw your mother, asshole.”
He was a fellow Welsh speaker! I was amazed.
We got talking as the game progressed, and it turned out he hailed from the same Welsh valley as me—Carmarthen. After the match we made our way to the bar and spent the rest of the evening downing beers and swapping stories. We stayed in touch and by the time I got out of the military in 2003, Robert had set up his own PMC—Blue Mountain Group. The company is named after a line from James Elroy Flecker’s poem “The Golden Journey to Samarkand,” which is the unofficial collect of Britain’s Special Air Service Regiment: “Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow . . .”
If I’d had a tough childhood, Robert’s had been tougher. But what I admired about him most was that he had made it into several Special Forces outfits during his time in the military. Most soldiers struggled to make it into even the one. Robert had served in the British military’s equivalent of the U.S. Marine Corps, the SEALs, the CIA Special Activities Division, and Delta Force. The man was a living legend in such circles, although if you met him you’d never have guessed it. He was good to everyone, no matter who they were or their background, and polite and courteous to a fault.
There’s always a danger that if you work with your closest buddies and you mess up, it messes up the friendship. For that reason I’d always avoided working for Blue Mountain. But right now Robert had landed the security job to die for: he’d been contracted by the U.S. State Department to provide a guard force to the Benghazi Embassy. Needless to say it was a massive coup. If it was successful, it could go massive. But if it failed, it could spell the end of Blue Mountain. The stakes were as high as they could be, and in that context he’d trusted me to go sort out his Libyan guard force. I’d run larger security contracts than this, but rarely with so much riding on it.
Robert had put a massive amount of trust in me, and the last thing I was about to do was let him down—hence the thirty thousand dollars’ worth of Libyan dinar had to make it through the airport. That having been decided, I unloaded the cash from the travel bag and stuffed it into my khaki green day pack. Hopefully, with that slung over my shoulder it would be a little less obvious what I was carrying.
Having watched me repack the cash, Mohammed made a wiseass remark from the front seat. “Okay, so you’ve made sure you counted it all?”
Very funny. Mohammed the joker. I ignored him.
We were five minutes out from the airport, and I was steeling myself for whatever was to come. I was ninety percent certain I was going to get pulled. In truth, there was no way to hide such a large volume of cash. I put a call through to Steve on my cell phone, which I’d fitted out with a Libyan sim card so I could make such calls via the local network.
“I’m nearing the airport. One thing, mate: you never told me it was a suitcase full of Libyan dinar.”
“No, no, mate, you’ll be all right,” he reassured me. “If the worst comes to the worst just hand it over.”
British soldiers use the word mate the same way Americans use the words buddy or dude. That, it seemed, was the best advice Steve had for me. It was easy for him to take that stance. It wasn’t his best friend who owned the company, a man to whom I had unshakable loyalty.
Mohammed dropped me at the airport. He cracked the driver’s window. “Have a nice trip—hope to see you again soon.”
I didn’t detect a great deal of sincerity in those words. I wouldn’t put it past the guy to be readying himself to call his friends in the Zintan Brigade and give them a heads-up that a white-eye foreigner was coming through, a green day pack stuffed full of a king’s ransom in dinar slung over his shoulder. If he made that call and negotiated a third cut of the cash for himself, he’d earn a year or more of his present wages in a matter of minutes.
But either way, there was no going back now.
I stepped into the chaos of the airport. The check-in desk for the Benghazi flight was under siege. I decided to go get a brew and wait for the crowd to die down. As I made for the nearest café I spotted a familiar figure. It was Stuart Beevor, a buddy of mine from the private security world. Stuart was ex–Parachute Regiment—the equivalent of the U.S. Rangers—and he was a top operator. I knew he was here in Libya working for another PMC, but it was sheer chance to run into each other at the airport like this.
Stu and I were great friends, having worked together in Iraq. He was well-known in our circles, if for no other reason than the epic battle he’d fought when still in the “Paras,” as the Parachute Regiment is known. In 2003 he’d flown in with a helicopter-load of Paras to rescue six British soldiers who were under assault from hundreds of Iraqi insurgents in the town of Majar al-Kabir. As it came in to land, the twin-rotor Chinook heavy-lift helicopter was hit by heavy ground fire, and Stu had taken three rounds in his back.
The Chinook was practically shot down, and with Stuart very seriously injured they’d lost their sergeant, the key commander as such a unit goes in to battle. At that moment they’d have had every right to call off the mission, but fellow British soldiers were surrounded and in desperate need of help. Stuart had told his men to get out there and do their job, leaving him and two other wounded to be treated as best they could on the bullet-ridden helo.
The lightly armed Paras had fought their way into Majar al-Kabir and successfully broken the siege, only to find that the six British soldiers they’d come to rescue had been overrun and executed by the Iraqi gunmen. In due course Stu was medically discharged from the Army, after which he’d taken several years to recover from his wounds. But once a Para, always a Para: he was now back on his feet and working the private security circuit.
I made the sign for a brew—hand in front of my face, tilting it like supping from a mug—and we converged on the café. Over small glasses of Libyan coffee—thick, sugary-sweet, and strong—we had a good catch-up. Stu is normally hopelessly scruffy, but today he was dressed smartly in chinos and a button-down shirt. It turned out he was collecting an important client from the airport. He’d been here since the start of the revolution, and as far as Libya was concerned Stu was an old pro.
“So, you’re off to Benghazi,” he remarked, “birthplace of the revolution and all that . . .”
Benghazi being the largest city and historical power base in traditionally restive eastern Libya, it had been the launch point for the 2011 uprising against Colonel Gaddafi’s rule. The city had long been seen as a focus of resistance to his regime, though some claimed it was also a hotbed of Islamic extremism.
“I got a co
uple of good guys down there right now,” Stu continued. “Word is there’s a hard-line militia called the Shariah Brigade turning up on the streets. My guys figure they’re coming out of Derna, which is jam-full of Al Qaeda types. They’re even trying to implement Shariah law.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sound like another Mosul in the making,” I said. Mosul is the northern Iraqi city where Stu and I had served for years as private security operators, and it had proved a heavy posting. “I thought Benghazi was where the revolution started, so it’d be full of the good guys?”
Stu shrugged. “You’d think so. But no. Most Western companies pulled out of there before the revolution, due to insecurity. They’re reluctant to return even now.” Stu scribbled down the numbers of a couple of local guys he used if he ever needed anything done in Benghazi. “If you’re in the shit, phone these boys. I’ll let them know you’ll be there for a while, so they’ll know who you are if you call.”
“Cheers. Will do.”
He nodded at my bulging green rucksack. “So, what’s with the bag?”
“Thirty thousand dollars’ worth of Libyan dinar. Wages for the guard force down at Benghazi.”
I saw his face drop. “No, no, no, mate—this is bad shit. Listen, as soon as those Zintan Brigade lot ask for it—’cause, trust me, they will—you hand it over, okay? No messing, or it and you will disappear. Don’t be a hero, just hand it over, okay?”
I gave a brief nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
I had a great deal of respect for Stu, but he knew me well, and he was well acquainted with my ultra-stubborn, loyal-to-a-fault nature.
“Listen, mate, I mean it,” he continued. “Just give it over. People have gone missing for that kind of money, so just hand it over.” He paused. “What the hell were you thinking, anyway, trying to get through with that?”
I told him how the cash had been dumped on me at the last minute. I explained how I didn’t have much of a choice but to give it a go, for our Benghazi guard force was overdue for getting paid.
“Whatever, mate, trust me—it ain’t worth dying for.” Stu drained the last of his coffee. “When you get to Benghazi give me a shout. I want to be sure you made it, plus I can fill you in on all the int from down there.”
Int is military-speak for intelligence. By now Stu was sure to have a network of sources all across the country, which could prove very useful. We parted company promising to speak in a couple of hours’ time.
I made my way to the check-in desk, which by now was blissfully empty. I was flying business class, and as they processed me I could see Stu shaking his head at me worriedly. He watched me all the way to the first security scanner, at which point I had to slip off the green day pack and dump it on the conveyor.
I walked through the security arch trying to keep my cool. The Zintan Brigade guy sitting on the far side let me reclaim the day pack, but as I did so he glanced up at me and smiled. I could read the look in his eyes: he knew. I grabbed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and said “Shokran”—Arabic for “thank you.” As I turned toward the stairs leading to departures, I saw him pull out his cell phone. No doubt about it, he was phoning through a warning to the next guys.
I made my way up the stairs feeling almost sick with nerves. What would I say to Robert if I lost the cash? What were we going to pay the Libyan guards with, if the money was taken? And if we weren’t able to pay them, was the Benghazi contract about to come crashing down around our ears? We were still on the State Department’s two-month probationary period, during which time they could cancel the contract at a moment’s notice. In fact, Blue Mountain had won the business for the simple reason it was one of only two companies with a license to run private security operations in Libya. We were treading on thin ice as it was, without having a guard force in open revolt over unpaid wages.
The second security check was just prior to the boarding gate. I could see five Zintan Brigade guys up ahead clustered around the scanners, dressed in a ragtag of assorted half-uniforms. Five sets of eyes were glued to the day pack as I swung it into the scanner. I stepped through the body arch and went to grab the bag as if all was as it should be. As I shouldered it, a small, skinny guy about five feet, six inches tall stepped forward and blocked my way.
“Sir, you follow me, please.” He gestured to a corridor that lay off to one side. “This way, please.”
I felt another figure behind me. I glanced around and there was a monster of a Libyan taking up the rear. He was six feet four and barrel-chested, if a little overweight. Still, the only way to beat him would be to get in close and get him down on the ground quickly. More important, he had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
“Sure. No problem,” I told the skinny guy, who was obviously in charge here.
I followed him in a tense and heavy silence. We turned this way and that, twisting down a series of corridors. I felt as if we’d been walking through the airport for a good thirty minutes, time was dragging so slowly. Then Skinny Guy stopped before a steel door, unlocked it, and walked in.
He held the door open for me. “Come, come.”
I stepped inside and felt as much as heard the big guy slam the metal door behind me.
“Sit down,” Skinny Guy ordered.
There was only the one bare desk and chair, so I knew where I was to sit. I plunked myself down, the bag of cash on the floor between my feet. Little and Large didn’t sit down. Skinny Guy stood before me, ready to start the questioning. The big guy stood behind me where I couldn’t quite see him, but could feel him staring at the back of my head.
“Where are you going?” Skinny Guy began.
“Benghazi.”
“What for?”
“I’m a paramedic. I’m going to Benghazi to train some of the Red Cross staff, and pay some of their wages.”
Whenever I was traveling on private security contracts I was always a “paramedic” to the locals. Being a medic didn’t seem to rub them the wrong way so much as being a private military contractor might.
He indicated the bag. “What is in there? Please, place it on the table.”
Here we go, I told myself. I had no choice but to obey.
Skinny Guy nodded at the bag. “Please, empty the contents.”
I started to haul out the big slabs of Libyan dinar. Skinny Guy was trying to act as if all this money was no big deal to him, like he’d seen this amount and more every day since they’d taken over at the airport.
“How much?” he asked me, once I was done unloading.
“Thirty thousand dollars’ worth.”
“What for?”
“To pay the Red Cross workers.”
“Okay,” he announced. “You can go.”
I started to put the money back into the bag. Christ, they couldn’t be letting me go that easily.
“No: you can go,” he snapped. “The fucking money—it stays!”
I shook my head. “Sorry, no, I can’t do that.”
“Listen to me,” he hissed, “you leave the money.”
I was trying to avoid making eye contact, so as not to provoke him, while at the same time standing my ground. “I can’t leave it. I signed for the money . . .”
“You don’t seem to understand,” he snarled. “You leave the money because nasty things can happen in here. Very nasty things. So, you fucking leave the money.”
I was still staring at the floor as I continued to argue. From out of nowhere he stepped forward and punched me right in the face. For a small guy he swung with power and hit as hard as he could. I’m used to how Arabs tend to fight. They have a way of slapping each other open-handed, as opposed to using the clenched fist of a Westerner. This guy was different. His bunched knuckles caught me just above the jaw. My head snapped back and for a moment I saw stars. I spat out a mouthful of blood as Skinny Guy turned away to his side of the desk. He was nursing his right hand, and I figured the punch must have hurt.
In a fair fight I’d flatten the guy with one blow, then rip his head off wi
th my bare hands, but I was powerless with Jaws standing behind me cradling his AK-47. Skinny Guy turned to face me again. I spat out some more saliva mixed with blood.
“Right, I offer you a deal.” He gestured at the heap of Libyan dinar. “We keep half. You take half.”
“You’re getting fuck-all.”
I had no idea where that had come from. I was so angry that he’d punched me and that I couldn’t fight back, and the words had just come from out of nowhere. Somewhere in the back of my mind there was also a little, stubborn voice reminding me that today, April 5, was my thirty-ninth birthday, and I was having to put up with this kind of shit from the likes of him.
Skinny Guy exploded. “Right, that’s fucking it! I’ve tried being reasonable! We’re taking it all! You—fuck off! Get out while you still can.”
Without saying a word I stood up and pulled out my cell phone. I pressed the last-call redial. I wasn’t sure which number I was dialing and I didn’t really care. This was a piece of pure theater and it was all about ratcheting up the pressure and calling the guy’s bluff.
“What are you doing?” he screamed, angry spittle flecking his lips. “Who are you phoning?”
“The British ambassador.”
I saw a moment’s doubt flash through his eyes. “Why?”
I shrugged. “It’s his money you’re stealing.”
I still wasn’t making eye contact, in part because I didn’t want him to see that I was bluffing. Without warning he sprang forward and punched me for a second time in exactly the same spot. I was standing with a wide, boxer’s stance, so I didn’t so much as flinch, but boy did it hurt. As I spat out yet more blood he snatched my cell phone and slammed it down on the table. He was practically dancing around with rage now.
I saw him pull a pistol out of his belt, cock it, and place it on the desk, the muzzle pointed at my groin area. Keeping one hand on the weapon he yelled out some rapid orders at Jaws, in Arabic. Jaws came around from behind me and stood shoulder to shoulder with Skinny Guy, as he continued to jabber away furiously. If I took a punch from Jaws I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty and that I probably was going down.