Chapter 35

Late 1987

Three weeks later, I headed for North London, wondering what riches were in store for me this time. It was a bitterly cold, late October night. The prince I was awaiting was King Fahd’s youngest brother, Prince Humoud Bin Abdul Aziz. He was already en route from Heathrow airport. I had not met this prince before. As it turned out, he caused me all sorts of problems—not least because of the attention he attracted.

On approaching the property, my awareness levels and observation skills went into overdrive. Darkness had fallen and I noted the street wasn’t well lit. I cast an eye over the property as I drove past it. I parked a hundred yards or so away. Removing my basic kit from the boot of my car, I made my way slowly towards the house. No vehicles parked in the street. Every property had its own driveway with entry and exit points. I searched the bushes, trees and likely hiding places in which a person could hide. I did not expect or find anything out of the ordinary. Later I’d retrace my steps, if necessary, with my 500,000 candlepower halogen hand-held searchlight. For now, I wanted to draw as little attention to myself as possible. The nearer I got to the property, the more switched on I became. My awareness levels increased and on entering the grounds, I searched any nooks and crannies I came across. I used my searchlight on site, which was just as well as I probably wouldn’t have noticed the swimming pool as it was covered in green slime and algae. What a disgusting sight that was—it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for years. You couldn’t see the bottom and I wondered if someone had fallen in and died. If so, you would never find them; gone forever, I thought.

The house was dirty and unkempt. It was disgusting.

Inside the house, I checked the windows, doors, and entry and exit points. I spent time checking the alarm and noticed no installation of CCTV cameras. There was however, a large safe in the lobby area, and I wondered if they bothered using a bank. Moving upstairs, I checked the house thoroughly. Under beds, inside cupboards—I searched everywhere as the place had been empty for some time. I did not want the principal to come face to face with a potential attacker or even squatters. That wouldn’t be good form, old boy, I thought. Once satisfied, I decided to have a cup of tea before he arrived. One problem, I couldn’t find a clean cup. Dirty, yes!

I found some cleaning materials and set about degreasing the cleanest one, which proved to be a mammoth task. For good measure I disinfected it, bleached it, and poured boiling water over it, even then I was apprehensive about using it. Never before or since had I seen one of their houses in such a disgusting state. Time was getting on and I knew the prince’s arrival was imminent. Finally, a car drove in. No one forewarned me what I would be facing. I suppose they thought I would find out soon enough, and I did!

It took my breath away—what a monstrosity! The front end of the car was from an Aston Martin Lagonda and the rear from a Mercedes Benz 500 SEL. It had all the bells and whistles, including TV and video. The windscreen leaked, where it did not fit properly. Mercedes Benz would not carry out any work or servicing on the car. This monstrosity was going to attract so much attention.

My gut was in turmoil; it did somersaults. I considered running off down the road! Worse was to come. Two cars followed with the prince’s entourage. The monstrosity stopped by the front door. I opened the door and stepped to one side so the prince would pass between me and the open door. This offered my charge cover from both sides in case of attack.

It looked good, anyway! Most assassination attacks occur when the intended target is either entering or leaving a building and getting into or out of their car. As the prince passed by, I searched the vicinity.

Was the prince wearing women’s perfume? I followed him into the house, positioning myself off his right shoulder; it gave me something to do.

I went to close the door but several young men tried to follow us in. I directed them to the rear door. The less time the front door was open, the less time the prince was a target, I reasoned.

Prince Humoud turned to face me. He said hello, introduced himself, and my jaw hit my chest. The prince not only wore women’s perfume—he also wore women’s Paris fashions!

He had on a black silk trouser suit and thickly plastered makeup—eyeliner, mascara, and rouge with eyebrows pencilled in. I was gob smacked. I never thought I would see one of the King’s brothers looking like this. I tried to conduct myself in a way not to cause the prince embarrassment. He was an embarrassment himself, and I felt like I had the breath knocked out of me. The boys followed through one at a time. What had I let myself in for, I thought?

Obviously, the prince was ‘different’, and he did not care what people thought. Given his position and the strict Arab background he came from, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The boys who accompanied him were his mobile harem, and I wondered if he was the ‘Saudi Queen’. I had not met such blatant behaviour from anyone in the higher echelons of the royal family, and admit I found it hard to cope with.

The prince said he spent most days sleeping. I did the night duty. He said he kept cash and jewellery in the safe. I wondered who else knew this and what potential risk it posed.

I contacted Peter, as he would be doing the day duty. I discreetly explained the evening’s events to him; he scoffed in disbelief.

When I arrived the next evening, I asked if he had met the prince. “Not yet,” He said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had hoped to introduce them.

When the prince emerged from his room, he turned down the heating thermostat. Just the chance I needed. I quietly said, “That’s the prince.” I went to introduce them.

Peter said, “Oh, no!” Were my fears about to materialise?

He said they met at dinner. The boys went to eat in the dining room and Peter assumed the prince would eat in his room. The boys invited Peter to join them. The prince entered and sat next to him. When Peter couldn’t reach the salt, he had nudged the prince and asked him to pass it. Worse, the boys bitched among themselves and Peter had joked about it with the prince, saying they acted like a bunch of poofters!

Peter said he wasn’t sure if he could do the job. I don’t know if he was homophobic, but he said everything was so dirty and because of their sexuality, he was afraid he might catch AIDS. I must admit the thought had crossed my mind more than once. Peter said he would stay for a couple of days to see if his fears eased. At least he was up front with me.

I laughed aloud when I realised the prince had not taken offence at Peter’s dining etiquette! Peter was quick to say he would not go out of the house on protection duties with the prince in case he was seen with Prince Humoud. I laughed at that too, though it brought to mind my own predicament.

Surely the prince would go to town and as the Arabs all visited the same places, this caused me concern. I was acutely aware I could lose some professional credibility if I was seen with the prince. News soon travels round the circuit and this was news I could do without.

Prince Humoud was soft in nature. I found him sensitive, warm and considerate. His main interest was his vast video collection. I went out of my way to be helpful, polite, and understanding of his situation. I felt the prince recognized my efforts. During my shift, the prince said I could watch videos if I wanted. I appreciated that, as it cut down on the boredom.

So one evening, I decided to take him up on his offer and put on a videotape. While I waited for it to start, I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The hygiene was still revolting. I went through the routine of decontamination.

On my return to the lounge, I saw two young bodybuilders having sex—on the videotape, that is. This vision jolted me. Caught off guard, it shocked me. My concern was that if one of the occupants of the house entered the room while the bodybuilder entered his mate, I would have been a marked man! I rushed to turn off the tape before anyone saw me and drew the wrong conclusions.

It had not crossed my mind that there would be gay pornographic videos in the prince’s collection. Perhaps the prince wanted me to view the videos, getting some thrill out it? If that were the case, I never found out.

Prince Humoud spent much of his time watching his videos. He had a major fixation with his collection, most of which were, thankfully, normal action type movies. On the times we did venture out, we got a mixed reception. A few times incidents flared up, and it was my job to fix them.

On one occasion, we were in Leicester Square and as we walked near Chinatown, two youths approached. They both looked European, and I could smell trouble long before it came. Looking them up and down, I naturally weighed them up and looked for the edge.

Hoping that nothing would kick off, I just knew in my heart of hearts that it would. The leading youth swore at the prince and called him a transsexual misfit and threw in a few rather choice expletives. He lunged forward, making a grab at the prince’s chest. Whether he was aiming to strike the prince or steal his brooch, I didn’t know!

I shot out a ridge hand strike. I caught him a perfect strike to his throat, he gasped for air, grabbed at his neck and dropped to the floor. It would take him a few minutes to recover, by which time we would be long gone. The other youth pushed aside the prince’s ‘friend’ and kicked out at the prince. Missing him, he went off balance. An opportunity to sweep his legs away and deflect the attack from us presented itself. Unfortunately, as I took his legs away he spun in the air and came down face first towards the ground. His nose ruptured on impact and blood gushed forth. I wasn’t ecstatic, but that was the luck of the draw.

The princes do not like any confrontation. My intent was to deflect the attack away. Either way, we were out of there.

We flew along in our motoring monstrosity. If anyone took notice of the car and gave details to the police, they wouldn’t have much trouble finding us. Prince Humoud looked like a clown when he ventured out. It was obvious he would draw attention. He loved dressing up in flowing silk trouser suits, gold chains, and brooches, and he piled on his makeup so thickly I wondered if a builder’s plasterer had applied it. When I knew we were going to town, I would cringe and pray. Prince Humoud’s visit was for two weeks and I thought I could just about handle that after the night’s events.

However, when we arrived back at the house his secretary was waiting for us and told us the prince’s stay had been extended to six weeks. I wanted to cry. What else could go wrong? The rain lashed down and the wind blew, perhaps in sympathy with me. Maybe God was crying too.

The rain and wind picked up that night; it was becoming rough. I felt a real storm was brewing and I wasn’t wrong.

Suddenly in the night, there was an almighty crash. Jumping up, my adrenaline gushed and I moved deftly to the prince’s bedroom. Checking he was safe, I stayed by his side, my first duty that of protecting my charge.

The noise died down a little but the sound from the wind and rain made me think half of the house had gone. Moving the prince to a more secure position out of harm’s way was my priority. I shouted to the driver and secretary to check if anyone had suffered injury and after that, to check the extent of any damage if it was safe to do so.

My mind raced—who would want to dispose of Prince Humoud? Perhaps his own family, disposing of a liability, I wondered. The mind plays tricks with you at such times. The driver called me, shouting it was safe. I marked the driver’s card for future reference as he conducted himself well.

Prince Humoud and I emerged from our hideaway. Behind the house on the far side was the offending article. A tree had uprooted and fallen through the roof of an upstairs bedroom. What a prat, I thought. Nonetheless, safety and security come first. This time a tree, next time who knows what? Rain and wind lashed through the roof.

The prince told the secretary to get the insurers out and get the damage fixed. I didn’t think he would concern himself with insurance issues, as the secretary would normally deal with that. This provided an amusing tale as events unfolded over the next few days.

The following evening the insurers sent a representative. He and the secretary looked over the damage. After inspecting the mess, the agent said, the policy’s a month out of date! The insurers were not going to entertain the claim, even though the secretary said he would pay any amounts due. The agent said that wasn’t possible.

The secretary, sensing he was in trouble, tried a bribe. That did not work either, and the agent left. The secretary had to tell the prince he’d made a mistake and forgotten to renew the policy. Prince Humoud asked the secretary to call the manager of the insurance company and ask him to come to the house the following evening.

When the manager arrived, the secretary tried to cajole and convince him to support the claim. He said they’d used their insurers for several years and had made no claims against their policy.

The policy should have continued and would have done so, if not for a clerical error. The manager said that was the point, because of the error they had reason not to honour the claim. In effect, he backed up his agent. I enjoyed this banter while it went on. Game over; checkmate! The secretary now had to tell the prince.

The prince smiled and told the secretary to call the manager back to the house again, this time to speak with the prince. I was thinking, Just let it go; the insurers are not going to back down. The prince has money; he should just pay for the repairs.

The next evening, the manager arrived and the prince left his room and went to the kitchen. I followed him; I wanted to hear the gossip and used my guise as his bodyguard to get in there.

I listened intently, keen to know where this saga was heading. The prince explained about the tree and the damage. The manager explained about the lapsed policy. The prince asked how long the manager had worked in the office and if he enjoyed it. The manager replied 18 months at the office and yes he enjoyed his work. The banter went back and forth, and then the prince served an ace. He said the insurance company would sack him. The prince was serious, and the manager asked Prince Humoud to explain himself. The prince sent the secretary to his safe to fetch some business papers. On his return, the secretary gave a large brown envelope to the prince.

He opened the envelope and showed the manager the documents. The manager’s face drained and became devoid of all colour. I wondered what the hell was going on. The prince asked the manager what he found in the papers. The manager said loud enough for me to hear that the owner of the insurance company was the prince!

What an ace; served better than Pete Sampras, I thought! I had been just as shocked as the manager had been. The prince asked the manager if there was a way he might find to repair the damage and save his job. The manager, being a bright chap, said he’d arrange the repairs, apologized and saved his job.

Money is power and once again, I had been reminded of the fact. Despite the prince’s lifestyle and his idiosyncrasies, it proved even he knew that it was useful to throw your money where it will be heard.

I did not know if I were coming or going; it was all becoming so farcical. Then I was told the prince’s son and daughter-in-law were flying in the next day from Italy. This was a shock so I asked some of the lads about it.

The prince, they said, had met the son in Italy. The son was begging in the street and the prince felt sorry for him. Prince Humoud found out who this boy’s parents were and then arranged with them to adopt the boy. This was how he came to have a son.

It was strange to see the prince with his son and daughter-in-law. He adored them both; there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. In turn, they adored him—it was surreal. The son had an interest for all types of gadgets. He was twenty-two years old, and I nicknamed him Mr Gadget. His wife was twenty-one and attractive. It seemed the prince also longed for a grandson.

The prince bought them two apartments, one in Paris, France and one in Rome, Italy. He was generous to them. His son was reclusive and rarely ventured out. The prince was protective of them just as a biological father would be.

The next evening, the prince decided to go to town—Piccadilly, to be exact. This instilled dread in me, as I knew the place to be full of drug addicts and people of questionable character. Just like him, I suppose. I believed a night of action was in store and surprise, surprise, I wasn’t wrong. When the monstrosity pulled up in Piccadilly, we were immediately in trouble.

A gang surrounded the car and peered in through the windows. The doors were locked. Shit, if I got out and tried to move them on, I would probably get the crap kicked out of me. As the car provided a safe environment, I thought it was best to stay in it.

I thought I would play it cool and see what developed. I told everyone to stay put and keep calm. The gang became bored and moved on. We drove off towards Leicester Square and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

We got out the car and walked over to the Statue of Eros. There were a few strange people out and about—but no one took any notice of us! I looked at the prince. His jet-black hair was long and wavy and was shoulder length. His face had makeup plastered all over it. He also wore his usual dark flowing silk Paris fashions. Plenty of gold jewellery adorned his clothes—chains, brooches and the like. He was the perfect target for pickpockets and robbers. We wandered around enjoying the sights for an hour or so.

Then we turned a corner, and there lined up along the street were about twenty motorbikes. Standing next to them were the bikers. My heart sank, we were clearly in the shit. My first concern was the prince, and my next concern was ME! My mind raced. Then I heard one of the bikers say, “Hi, I like your gear, where did you get it? I want something like it for my woman,” and the bikers laughed. This broke the ice, and the prince spoke with them. We must have chatted for about half an hour. The evening ended on a peaceful note and I thanked God that it had.

Then to spoil it all, the prince said that he wanted to bring his children to town for dinner the next evening. I could have died. Did I need this, I thought?

In the morning, I went out and bought a groin protector and a gum shield. I thought we had been lucky so far; however, I thought I should get some insurance for the family jewels. My family jewels, that is, not his!

That evening found all the boys bubbly and ready for the night ahead. Four cars were ready to take us to town—safety in numbers; that’s good, I thought. None of them would be any use if we got in to trouble, of that I was sure. When the prince finally emerged and walked by me on his way to his son, I swear I nearly collapsed. He was surely taking the piss now; he was wearing a tiara!

I tried to cry off ill and called Peter to come in and cover me. He swore, saying I must be fucking mad to be going out with that! He refused to cover me.

I cannot be having with this, how can I get out of it? This has to be a wind up—how did I end up on this job? I asked myself. Never again, I thought. This was extremist stuff.

I knew this guy was the King’s brother, but considering his position, I thought he was a disgrace. The house was never clean and the dishes were filthy; the conditions were bloody awful.

Before going out the prince retired to his room. He called me in, and as I entered, he was half lying on his bed. He patted the side of the bed and asked me sit. There was a large screen stereo TV and video recorder on a unit at the base of his bed. The pop video ‘Relax’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood was playing. He told me this was the uncut version from Paris; I hadn’t been aware there was an uncut version. There was one scene he wanted me to watch, but I wasn’t having any of it. Later, I found out the scene was one of some men ejaculating over the backs of some others.

The prince asked me many personal questions and I answered them. I have a knack of talking a lot and saying nothing, which was useful on many occasions. Prince Humoud seemed excited and asked if I ever had sex with another male. “No,” I answered. He asked if I’d be open to try it, and I said no. He said he would like me to go to bed with him. I said I have no problem with other people’s sexuality, and I was okay to a degree with his. However, I told him I wasn’t into men. He said he liked to take it rather than give it. I explained that either way, I had no interest in a sexual relationship.

Looking at his tiara, I stifled a laugh. I told him I did not understand why he wore those types of clothes and jewellery or why his car looked the way it did. We had a real in depth conversation. He explained his love of Fantasy and Fantasia. His reasoning wasn’t bizarre at all. Everyone around him accepted it without question. I explained it wasn’t my scene. After our chat, the prince decided not to go to town. I couldn’t begin to describe my relief. He put it off until the next night—perhaps I spoiled his evening. Whatever it was that had changed his mind, it was fine by me.

I started to question myself and my mind would not rest. The question I asked was will I genuinely feel able to take a hit for this guy? This question became more and more difficult to answer.

Then, as though someone had turned on a light, the answer came to me and it was short and to the point: the answer was NO, and therefore it would not have been right for me to continue the assignment. I contacted the office and told them I was pulling out at the end of the shift, and gave a brief explanation why this was so. They accepted my reasons.

Now I always ask myself, how far am I prepared to go for my charge? If I cannot give my all, then I walk away.

They brought in another bodyguard to cover the duration. I wondered how he would get on with the prince.

Within two days, the prince packed up and left; he went back to his beloved Paris. Perhaps he would feel better now, as he had told me before that Parisians were much more accepting of Fantasy and Fantasia.

When Prince Humoud Bin Abdul Aziz came back to England on more visits, he always asked for me. After getting a negative response several times, he finally gave up asking.