Bodyguard

by Craig Summers

  Intelligence told us that security was at its tightest. Border crossings were heavily patrolled – getting into Harare and Bulawayo, in particular, was a real nightmare. They were ramping up surveillance in rural areas, too. We knew that it would be slow, hard work, just to nail a couple of quality pieces. Robert Mugabe’s boys, Zanu-PF, were in complete control. We had also been told to watch out for another group – The War Veterans. They were setting up roadblocks and checkpoints with Mugabe’s Central Intelligence network. One hundred per cent vehicle checks and body searches were now the norm. Inside the country, we had two BBC guys, but Firle Davies and Brian Hungwe were probably under observation. We didn’t tell either of them that we would be bringing John in – the less they knew the better, even if they did work for us. If Simpson got caught, it would be a massive propaganda story for Mugabe. There might also be repercussions for Brian and Firle.

  John was too big a name for him to get a real beating but we knew that Mugabe would parade him, portraying him as a spy. All of us would be thrown into prison in Harare and the British Counsel there would have to pick up the pieces. That would also have been a massive story for John. Me, personally, I would have seen it as a failure of my professional ability. This time I didn’t want to get arrested and thrown into one of the most notorious, filthiest prisons in the world. Riddled with AIDS as they were, bending over in the shower was not an option.

  Nor did I want London bogging me down in debriefs and paperwork – every op had a knock-on effect for the next one, and it always meant more questions and answers and less time on the road chasing the story and building up my air miles! My biggest concern was that once we were there, there was no way John wouldn’t want to go live in Harare. When we worked together, he would always listen to me but he expected me to have a plan B. We were obviously in the business of putting pictures and people on the box at a moment’s notice. I knew we would have to have that conversation, and I knew too there was no point arguing with him. If we were there, he would expect it. To this day, I have never stopped John going on the telly.

  Craig Oliver at the Ten told me it was in my hands. If I felt we could get away with it, then so be it. The BBC buck was being passed. Everybody knew John would want to broadcast but nobody really wanted to commit to it. Only after the event with the power of hindsight would they all pile in, sifting through the wreckage of any international incident. Somebody would pick up the broadcast – he would get monitored on BBC World and the next thing we would be on the run, always changing our addresses and moving around. John wouldn’t tolerate packaging stuff up and sending it back, only to wait a week before it aired.

  On 18 June, I landed in Johannesburg. Ian Pannell had discreetly stored a transmitter, laptop, camera, cables, external hard drives and some radio gear at a safe house in a secure compound in Borrowdale, in the suburbs of Harare. Our cover story to get in was that we were a British company called Sport and Leisure Tours, looking for lodges and safari game parks for sports fans to retreat to in between matches. The Lions were due to tour in 2009 – I would show them Africa as they recovered from getting walloped on the pitch. I knew my rugby and cricket. It was perfect, my favourite cover story to date.

  As soon as we arrived in Joburg, I met with Dirk, an advisor from LGI Security who had been a policeman in Bulawayo. Dirk had helped Ian, and was going to be our security man for this trip. We had to find the quickest way in overland. There was no point flying directly there – John wouldn’t get through the airport. Our plan was to hide him in the back of the 4x4s with a big hat on. He was just an old man travelling with us – there was no point in dressing it up; we just had to conceal him.

  Before we left, I set up a number in London and recorded an answer phone message on a faceless untraceable number inside Television Centre to say we were currently out in the field and would return your call soon. If anyone in Central Intelligence went so far as to check out the number’s authenticity, then frankly, we were already past the point of being in the shit. I also put a load of images onto my camera to show the work I had been doing was genuine and well underway. I loved it. I loved it. I loved it.

  Secretly, I half hoped there would be a genuine enquiry or two when I got back! If we ran into grief at a checkpoint and got questioned, I felt that the potential of them getting too interested in our story was small. We also had two Zimbabweans and South Africans driving a Zimbabwean registered vehicle. We couldn’t do any more if we were going under the radar. When we made it to Harare, John would stay put in the safe house. We would shoot the rallies and election posters under the guide of our South African cameraman, Nigel. John was not to go out. That, at least, was the plan. First we had to get there.

  Dirk flew straight into Harare – being a local, this wouldn’t attract any attention. Waiting with me was TT, also from Dirk’s company, and Steve Fielder, a tobacco farmer whose land had been taken off him. Nigel and I flew up to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. John and my old mate Oggy from Friendly Fire were due in the next day. On arrival, John couldn’t have been clearer. We had about ten days on this job. The elections were coming. Don’t even ask John about going live in Harare, I was saying to myself. It was definitely going to happen.

  From Lusaka to the border at the Kariba Dam, we knew it was three hours max. We had to put our foot down, of course – we were being met on the other side. Standing on the basin of the Zambesi River, this was one of the largest dams in the world, approximately 130 metres high and 580 metres long. It took twenty years to build, took the lives of eighty-six men, and cost nearly $500,000,000 – in lay terms, about half of Simpo’s wage. It was massive.

  By comparison, the border post was nothing more than a glorified shed. That’s why we chose to cross here. Our information told us that it was still barely computerised, and, at six or seven hours to Harare from the other side, easily the quickest way in. John, Nigel and I went first; Oggy and the rest of the gang followed. Our vehicles suited our story. The traffic was pretty busy – quite a few people were coming back and forth across the border. Getting out of Zambia wasn’t a problem. It was never going to be. It was on the Zimbabwe side where the fun and games would start.

  ‘Have you got any money on you?’ TT said. We were back in the land of cash payments. TT went over to butter up Customs, laughing and joking with them. It was that kind of place – sleepy border mentality of the staff, busy border crossing. Result: nothing happens very quickly.

  Then I spotted it. I glanced at TT, thinking, ‘Fuck – they are not on the point of joining the twenty-first century are they?’ There was a computer on the end of the desk. Admittedly, it did look like one of the early Amstrads but maybe they had got their shit together after all. Tediously, they were still writing the names of everyone passing in a big book. I was waiting for the Amstrad to whirr into action.

  This was the moment of truth. I handed the passports to the immigration officer. One by one he wrote down every fucking middle name you didn’t know you had. Then he opened up John’s. He was travelling on his Irish passport. It was more discreet. We were all in the game of multiple passports, and plenty of visa stamps or journalist accreditation was always a bit of a giveaway. Paddy Simpson was less visible.

  It was one of those moments where you daren’t speak but also feel the need to fill the air with waffle so as to not show your nerves. Seconds turn in to moments. We’ve all been there.

  ‘Simpson …’ he began to recite out loud what he was writing.

  This was it. The whole world knew John Simpson. It was just a question of whether Immigration were paying attention or not.

  ‘S-I-M-P-S-O-N,’ he spelt out. Then his mobile rang. The timing couldn’t have been better. ‘I gotta take this call,’ he apologised.

  The chief got up and began shouting into the phone. Now, that was more like it. The officer who lifted the barrier up and down at the crossing took over. I couldn’t believe our luck. Lifting John’s passport open, he didn’t have a clue.

 
‘Blah blah Simpson,’ he wrote, misreading John’s middle name for his Christian name. I was trying not to laugh.

  TT and I looked at each other. He gave me that look that I had seen so many times before, so I slipped the guard five US dollars. In a magic handshake, the money was gone. We were now in Zimbabwe.

  Outside, the two 4x4s were waiting for us. We also had a forward vehicle to sniff out the roadblocks and any trouble ahead. Our plan was to stop overnight at a lodge: I didn’t think it was the right thing to do to drive into Harare for the first time late at night.

  We stopped for lunch about half an hour beyond the border. That’s where John started buzzing. ‘Look Craig,’ he began, ‘what do you think the chances are of getting to Harare tonight? I’d like to get in today. That would give us three days or so to gather stuff before the election.’

  I knew this was coming. ‘I don’t know, John. I’ll talk to the guys.’ Obviously I couldn’t really make that decision alone. TT, Steve and Dirk would know much better. The problem was the daylight. These places can be very different when the light goes.

  ‘Isn’t John tired?’ they asked, knowing he had only just flown in from London that morning.

  I told them that when John sniffs a story, we had to go. He wanted to push on. But we would have to go now. There was no time to waste. We were up and out five minutes later, abandoning lunch which had just been served.

  We changed who would sit where. Steve drove the front vehicle – the local should lead. Behind were Dirk and Nigel shooting general shots in the countryside. The rest took up the rear. We all had comms between the vehicles. If there looked like being trouble ahead, Steve would radio back and we would take an alternative route. That could only mean one thing – through the bush. John was tired but he was also in the zone, sitting there quietly in the back scribbling furiously into his notebooks. I had seen this in him many times – a lovely gentleman turning into a furious hack when he got an instinct.

  Steve spotted the first roadblock an hour down the road. ‘I’ve told them what you’re doing … pretty relaxed … they probably won’t even stop you.’

  TT told me to get John down, hide all evidence of journalism, and make him to pretend to sleep. I had my five dollars just in case. I was expecting this to be the first of seven checkpoints. We slowed down. One cursory look into the car, and we were through. Happy days. I could tick that off. One down, six to go.

  I didn’t want to get too complacent but if all the checkpoints were like that in the rural areas, then we were laughing. The next couple followed just the same patterns. They looked like lazy officers who couldn’t be bothered and weren’t really paying much attention, if any. Was it really this easy? Why hadn’t we tried this before? I put it to TT that if it was like this all the way, it was going to be a doddle. Would it be like this in Harare? Probably not. The War Veterans in the capital were actively looking for white journalists – they were pretty rattled at the moment. With the elections coming, there couldn’t be a more tense time to arrive. This made my mind up.

  ‘We need to think about an evacuation plan,’ I said. My thinking was that if we had an injury or had to flee under the radar, I knew that most of the farms had airstrips. What would be the chances of getting hold of a small light aircraft and one of the farmers flying in from Bulawayo, heading south and taking us into South African airspace? TT and Dirk, being both ex-military and police, had serious contacts at the border. They didn’t see this as a problem. Craig Summers was impressed with both of them. If the shit hit the fan, I knew I could rely on them.

  On the horizon, the lights of Harare came into view. I knew now we would make it before night fell. That was no longer a concern. I was just wary that the checkpoints into Harare would be a different kettle of fish.

  ‘They’re stopping everyone,’ Steve radioed back. ‘There’s no way round.’ And there were still three checkpoints after that. ‘Play the game,’ he advised. ‘And see what happens.’

  Steve cleared the greeting party. Once through, he pulled over up ahead out of sight to spell it out to us. ‘They’re looking for food. They aren’t interested in anything else. Sort out some Pringles or something and you’ll be fine. That’s all it will be.’

  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.