Colonel Gaddafi's hat / by Alex Crawford.

Formerly CIP. Uk

It started, as it often does, with a phone call in the dead of night. You arrive, into a panicked, hot airport; you are detained, shadowed, kept away from the action and the truth of it. But slowly, slowly you push and probe. You weave contacts with insight until the real story emerges. And then you just have to chase it down. After that it is all aobut instinct. And fear. And pursuit. And surviving to act as a witness. 'In the storeroom there are people just like us, about half a dozen who have jsut been caught up in the fighting. We don't have a single weapon between us. There is a young boy next to me. He's probably the youngest, about 15 years old - the same age as my son, Nat. He's crying. The oldest is a man of about 55. He is staring ahead into space, clutching a briefcase which has his laptop in it. The laptop has saved his life already, taking a bullet which then ricocheted past his thigh. It took a chunk of his skin with it and he's bleeding, but it's only a light surface wound. That's not what he's going to die of. 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 secondes. 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.'