As America continued to writhe in pain, no journalists in the UK could get out because US airspace remained closed. I did more stories from the office and told Jim, the news editor, that I would have a good chance of getting a flight in the morning because I had purchased a ticket on 11 September, so I would be a priority.
Just then an email pinged on to my screen from my cousin Mikey in Minneapolis. He was devastated and could not comprehend why anyone would want to attack America. I could give him a number of reasons but didn’t think it was appropriate. I just wanted to give him a big hug and tell him he was going to be OK, but the truth is things will never be the same again.
I love America and, on the whole, most Americans. I love places where I don’t have to queue for fast food and where the service is instant – which rules out most of London. However, I don’t think Americans are as resilient as the British and they must be amazed that anyone outside their country could or would dislike them. The Brits have developed quite a thick skin over the centuries. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, charging into people’s countries with a bible in one hand and a sword in the other? While we have lived with terrorism for thirty years and have developed a sort of devil-may-care attitude, I don’t think the average American will ever recover from this.
My cousin and I continued to email each other throughout the day and I felt very sad. Until 11 September, all he had on his mind was his forthcoming wedding day in October.
That evening I left the office at around eight with the city editor, Richard Phillips, and a great pal of mine, Mark Watts, who is now a regular on the business and city news teams.
It was pouring with rain outside, so we decided to bluff a waiting taxi driver that we had called his cab company. Not entirely convinced, he let the three of us in and we were just about to make good our escape when Martin Townsend came bounding down the steps of Ludgate House to jump in his taxi.
As it dawned on us that we had been caught red-handed he called the three of us bandits and said it was nothing less than he expected from the bunch of mavericks he employed. We laughed nervously and at least he offered to drop us off on his way home. We dived out sheepishly in Fleet Street and headed for a pizza and some cheap wine.
Richard said it was a really embarrassing episode and I responded that whenever I put my hand in the cookie jar I always get caught. It was a bit of light relief on what had been a bloody awful day.
After that the guys headed home, I headed for Gerry’s, where the atmosphere is good and you can behave as disgracefully as you like and no one will raise an eyebrow.
Friday, the following morning, I was back at Heathrow, where I met a remarkable family of incredibly strong women from the American Midwest. They reminded me so much of my mum, Joyce, and two sisters, Viv and Jill.
They had refused to leave Heathrow Airport on 11 September, even though transatlantic flights had been suspended, and were determined to be the first ones out. They had established a routine of sorts, and airport staff had kept them supplied with pastries and coffee.
I took them for breakfast and asked them if they had enjoyed Britain and what they had seen. Their minds were back home and they were worried for everyone and everyone was worried for them.
Their flight had actually taken off but it had been diverted back to Heathrow once the full scale of 11 September began to filter through. It wasn’t until they had reached the airport terminal that they had discovered the real – and horrific – reason for their U-turn.
As I queued for my replacement ticket to New York I began to feel a little uneasy when I heard the airways staff asking how much of a priority it was to fly because they had a lot of Americans to get home. Many of those poor souls came from New York and did not know whether their loved ones were still alive.
My mother called me on my mobile and asked me where I was and whether I had got a ticket. She is always very supportive of my work and, like everyone else, wanted to know what was happening in New York, where I would be staying and what I would be doing.
I assured her I was fine but said if I was out there for a while I would miss Daisy’s weekend break starting on 28 September. Mum told me not to worry and said she and Dad would pick her up from the Lake District.
The waiting seemed to take forever but I was about two minutes away when my mobile rang. It was my boss Jim. I told him that I was minutes away from getting a ticket and I would call him back as soon as I had. His reply stunned me. He told me to forget New York and head to Islamabad instead. I was dumbstruck. All my clothes had been packed for downtown New York, not some bloody souk somewhere in fucking Asia, I felt like saying.
Jim was a bit of an unknown quantity at that point. We had known each other for only a few weeks and we got on very well. He was a total breath of fresh air and had no problems dealing with female reporters, as some news editors do.
But now I was beginning to question his judgment. He quickly detected an air of reluctance but he said that the story was now beginning to develop in Afghanistan and Pakistan and that was the place to be. Still not convinced, I muttered that I would go and find a ticket for Islamabad. British Airways had cancelled flights to the Pakistan capital for that day but someone pointed out that I should try the Emirates airline in the next terminal.
In a very sulky mood, I headed off for the Emirates desk and asked for a ticket to Islamabad. They offered me London to Lahore via Dubai and said I would be better off booking an internal flight from Lahore to Islamabad. I called Jim back and told him I had my ticket. Off I went, still kicking my heels, and boarded the Emirates plane, which was, I have to say, surprisingly luxurious, and so I made myself comfortable and watched an in-flight Bridget Jones movie. I think I preferred the book, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.
I then had several games of chess on the computer screen installed in the headrest in front of me and, by the time I’d finally beaten the computer, we were ready to arrive in Dubai.
I love Dubai. It holds very many pleasant memories for me. During the build-up to the Gulf War, when I was working for the Sunday Sun in Newcastle, a photographer, Michael Scott, and I had basically thumbed lifts on RAF Hercules transporter planes around the Middle East.
The plan worked very well and we even kipped on board several of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessels cruising the Strait of Hormuz. Everything was fine until our last flight home was cancelled and we were stranded in Dubai.
I still had Husband Number Two’s American Express card, and so we used that and spent a great week chilling out in a top hotel until we could bum another free lift on an RAF flight.
I put in an expense claim for about £2000, which nearly gave my editor John McGurk a coronary. ‘I just can’t pay this, hen. I have not got the money and there’s nothing in the budget,’ he said. I told him that it would have to be paid and added: ‘I used my ex-husband’s AMEX card and if you want to tell him that he’ll have to foot the bill for my trip to the gulf, that’s fine.’
A few days later he found the money after he and his then deputy, Chris Rushton, had scoured through the editorial budget. They spotted a few spare grand in the budget and used that to pay me back. In return, Scotty and I supplied the Sunday Sun with acres of picture stories, which lasted right throughout the Gulf War.
McGurk, who went on to work for the Daily Record and later at Scotland on Sunday as editor, is now an editorial director in Edinburgh for Scotmedia.
But back to 2001, and, by the time I reached Dubai Airport, I was coming round to the idea of Islamabad and perceived it more as an opportunity and a challenge. After all, I loved New York and to see it and its people in so much pain would erase all my happier memories.
Yes, Jim’s right, I told myself. Islamabad is the place to be. This is where the next chapter of this horrendous story is waiting to be written into the history books.
Just then my mobile began ringing. It was my mother, Joyce. Imagine her surprise when she had called to ask if I had arrived in New York and I told her
where I was. She asked why I was going in the wrong direction and so I told her in a very upbeat manner – my attempt at preventing her from worrying – that I was on my way to Islamabad. I might as well have said I was going to dance with the devil. She went ballistic.
I may be 43 (as the whole world knows now) but she still looks upon me as the baby of the family, her youngest daughter. I tried to calm her down but her motor was running and she was full of hell. Believe me, although she’s 73, when Joyce kicks off she’s frightening. Whenever I am up to my neck in trouble there’s usually a man to blame, and Joyce was gunning for Jim Murray. She was going to ring him up and give him a piece of her mind. He’d as good as sold me to a Russian pimp in her eyes and she thought she would never see me again.
She told me to get on the next plane to London and my dad chipped in that I should get a sensible job and move back home. Although I fully understand her concerns about the type of work I do, I was in fear that my street cred was heading for a cul-de-sac with my new boss. I begged her not to do anything and warned her that if she called the office I would be a complete laughing stock.
I remembered the last time they’d begged me to get a ‘proper job’. They had stayed with me for a weekend during the time I was working for the News of the World, and I arrived back at 2 a.m. from an S&M party in Harrow dressed in crotchless fishnet tights, a PVC skirt, halter neck, a dog collar and some handcuffs dangling from a spiky belt.
I sneaked in and the kitchen door slowly opened to reveal my mother making a hot chocolate drink. She muttered something about my getting a proper job, something respectable. I informed her – in case she thought I had become a happy hooker – that I was working undercover for the News of the World. She looked at me and said she knew that but she still wished I would get a proper job.
I know I have responsibilities, Daisy in particular, but I love both my job and my daughter, and don’t feel that having a child should prevent me from following my vocation. No one seems to understand my job, and that is why it is nigh on impossible for a journalist to have a relationship with anyone outside journalism.
My first husband, Kim, whom I’d known since I was fourteen, looked upon journalism as something of a dirty career, something of which to be ashamed. I’m sure he’d have been much happier had I worked nine to five in an office. When we got married I had just turned down a job in Fleet Street with the Daily Mail and taken up a position with the Northern Echo instead. Kim’s umbilical cord was wrapped around the Tyne Bridge and there was no way he would ever go ‘down there’!
Less than a year later the marriage was on the rocks – an eight-year relationship down the pan. Two years later in 1983 I married Jim McIntosh, police sergeant in the regional crime squad. He was very dashing, very exciting and twenty years older than me. He was well into his career, and mine was taking off. By this time I’d moved to the Newcastle Journal and then to the Sunday Sun, where I got my first taste of reporting for a Sunday newspaper.
Once again, Fleet Street beckoned, but if Kim was welded to the Tyne Bridge then Jim must have been joined at the hip with him. There was ‘no way’ he would consider a move to London.
I absolutely idolised DS McIntosh, so telling him he was a chauvinist did not really enter into the conversation. Fooling myself, therefore, I spent the next few years pinballing round the regional press and with each move gaining a promotion and more respect in my own back yard. By 1990 Jim and I were poles apart, and then I did the unforgivable: I joined the Territorial Army. In 1992 I met David, Daisy’s dad, and we stayed together until 1996. After that, I was married to Ronnie Hermosh, an Israeli, for two years. This split, unlike the one with David, was far from amicable and we are no longer in contact.
I was mentally exhausted from the conversation I’d had with my mother in the middle of Dubai Airport. After closing the line I wandered over to a wonderful seafood counter and ordered some caviar, lobster and blinis with a nice chilled Chardonnay. It was my way of sticking up two fingers to my mother because she hates my ‘little extravagances’. I tucked in with sheer delight savouring every drop because I reckoned I wouldn’t be doing this once I reached Pakistan.
I have a dislike for hot and spicy food, and I don’t eat fruit and vegetables, so I wasn’t quite sure what I would be eating for the next few weeks. That reminded me – cigarettes, I must get cigarettes.
Sipping the last drop of wine, I smiled to myself and thought I’d won the battle with Joyce but not necessarily the war. I prayed to God that she wouldn’t call the news editor. Could you imagine the humiliation of it all? How long would that little nugget take to reach Private Eye or some poisonous little diarist in the broadsheets?
I love my mum and dad but I wish they would stop worrying about me. I wondered whether I would be like that with Daisy when she got older. I doubted it. Daisy is not one of life’s chancers: she’s a belt-and-braces child and whatever she does in life I can’t imagine it will have any risk attached to it. Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. It’s horses for courses.
I cast my mind back to when we went to Kenya and we went on a safari. At one stage we came across a giant tortoise being fed on bananas. The owner asked Daisy if she wanted to ride it and she shook her head vigorously. I whispered my favourite encouragement, ‘Seize the moment’, but she still would not budge.
Eventually the Kenyan picked her up and she sat on the animal’s back. Within seconds the look of terror melted away from her face and she started laughing and asked for her picture to be taken. I asked her later why she didn’t want to get on the animal’s back and she said she thought it might run off with her. We both laughed and I reasserted my beliefs to her: ‘You must seize the moment because sometimes we never get a second chance to say yes.’
As the flight took off from Dubai the time difference began to kick in and I dozed off until we reached Lahore. I waited around Lahore for an internal flight and noticed two guys who must be television journos. I could tell from their behaviour and the gear they were carrying. We exchanged pleasantries and they said they were from Czech television and were determined to get into Afghanistan and would try through Peshawar, in northern Pakistan. I wished them well and we all caught a flight to Islamabad.
Once in Islamabad I received a text message to say that Express Newspapers had booked me into the Best Western Hotel and gave me a reference for a care-hire firm. Car hire? I’m one of the world’s worst drivers – I give women drivers a bad name – and I was adamant that I would not be driving while I was over here.
A taxi was summoned and off I went to Best Western. I’d been on the go for about 36 hours, apart from all the waiting around at Heathrow. I was in desperate need of a bath and I must have smelled like the inside of a camel driver’s jockstrap! I was not in the best of tempers.
The man at the reception desk looked puzzled. He said my reservation had been cancelled and no one was expecting me to turn up. It’s probably one of the oldest tricks in the book. Some reporter had turned up out of the blue to check in and found the hotel fully booked, so they must have put in a cancellation call for Yvonne Ridley and – hey presto!
Regardless of the scale or depth of a disaster, some hacks show no regard at all for their fellow journos. It’s all about self-preservation and looking after Number One. I remember when the Lockerbie disaster happened in December 1988 that there were all sorts of undignified scenes and infighting going on over hotel-room bookings and bed-and-breakfast reservations.
In particular, there was one Daily Star reporter who had taken over a room from a breakfast television presenter who was in a state of shock to discover his suitcase had been repacked and was in the hallway. The hotelier was equally shocked because he had received a call saying the presenter needed to check out quickly shortly before the Star’s man arrived.
So, by a similar cheap trick, some bastard had shafted me. I was actually too tired to throw a wobbly, and anyway, before I could, another taxi driver appeared and I was sent to the Marr
iott, which was also fully booked. It seemed every newspaper and radio and television station around the world had descended on Islamabad.
The Marriott receptionist obviously felt sorry for me – or just wanted me out of his beautiful lobby area quickly since I probably resembled something normally found in the gutter – because he made a few calls and I was sent to the Crown Plaza.
It couldn’t have turned out better for me. It was full of journalists from all around the world and none from the UK. I’m afraid I am a bit of an isolationist and have never felt entirely comfortable hunting with the pack. I didn’t know anyone and could be left to do my work without interference or having those awkward conversations with fellow hacks who want to know what you are up to.
During my time at the News of the World you would never, ever ask the person sitting next to you what they were doing, such was the level of security. It is one of the most professional outfits I have ever worked for, although it has a reputation for making things up, but this is simply not true.
From my own experience there, I discovered the newspaper occasionally holds back 20 per cent of the details on a hatchet story just in case the ‘victim’ complains or heads for a lawyer. If they do either, the remaining 20 per cent is then usually dolloped out the following week.
From there I moved to the Sunday Times and worked with David Leppard, who headed the ‘Insight’ team for several months, before being offered a contract in the main newsroom. Working with Leppard was a joy, although he is a real secret squirrel and almost paranoid when it comes to protecting contacts. I was full of admiration for his operation and learned a great deal about investigative reporting in my short time with ‘Insight’. I could imagine Leppard would be a lone operator in my current circumstances, too.
And so, to bring us back to the Crown Plaza, I was, as I say, delighted to end up there alone. I called the news desk and Jim Murray was pleasant enough. Good, that meant that my mother had restrained herself from making a phone call demanding that he fly me back and put me in charge of a knitting column.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 2