Colonel Gaddafi’s Hat

Dedication

To Rick, Nat, Frankie, Maddy and Flo, without whom I can do nothing

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One: Libya Bound

Chapter Two: Dawn Attack

Chapter Three: Under Siege

Chapter Four: Escape From Zawiya

Chapter Five: ‘Why Do I Keep Crying?’

Chapter Six: Return to Libya

Chapter Seven: Battle for Misrata

Chapter Eight: Citizen Army

Chapter Nine: Zawiya Hits Back

Chapter Ten: Riding the Rebel Convoy

Chapter Eleven: Green Square

Chapter Twelve: The Only Working Hospital in Tripoli

Chapter Thirteen: Inside Gaddafi’s Lair

Chapter Fourteen: Running on Empty

Chapter Fifteen: Revenge

Chapter Sixteen: Farewell to ‘New’ Libya

Acknowledgements

Picture Section

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Saturday, 5 March 2011

I look over at Martin and catch his eye and I know instantly he is thinking the same as me. We’re going to die.

We actually can’t get out of this. The tanks are outside. Right outside where we are sitting. Gaddafi’s soldiers seem to be all around us. This is it. I had often wondered how I would go, what the end would be like. I hoped it would be after my four children had had their own children. But no. We are actually going to die alongside strangers in this mosque in Zawiya, a long, long way from home.

Martin’s face is shiny with sweat. His big eyes seem even bigger than normal. He’s looking at me from across this small room. We stare at each other without saying anything for several seconds. I can see my own fear reflected in his face. He looks terrified. I think I must look the same. I know I feel it.

Oh God. I don’t want to die. My youngest child is only 8. Nat is my oldest and he hasn’t even finished school yet. I haven’t said goodbye to any of them. I haven’t seen them grow up. I haven’t seen how they’ll do at school, who they’ll marry, what jobs they will choose, where they will live. I glance over to Tim. He has his head in his hands, looking at the floor. He has three sons. He’s thinking all these things too. Christ, this is bad.

Quick, awful, selfish thoughts hurtle through my mind. Will it be quick? Will it hurt? But these are quickly replaced by regrets. Regrets at all the love I am about to say farewell to. All the children’s hugs I will miss out on. All the things I won’t be able to do now. All the places I won’t be able to see. All the adventures I planned with my family but never did. Oh God.

And then there’s all those special occasions I’ve missed because of reporting far, far away – birthdays, school plays, anniversaries, friends’ dinner parties, holidays cut short. How will my children cope? How will Richard, my husband, cope? Will my friends miss me?

Then I stop myself. Shit, I think, if we’re going to die I’m bloody well going to let everyone know what happened to us, what’s happening to these people around us. My phone still has a signal. Unbelievable. I ring the office in London and ask to be put on air.

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