Saudi Bodyguard

310 Pages·2010·1.69 MB·English

by  Mark Young

Saudi
Bodyguard
Copyright 2010 by Mark Young
Published by LLamekuf LLC at Smashwords
The moral right of Mark Young to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, e-book,
digitalised or otherwise including future technologies, without the
prior consent of the copyright holder.
ISBN: 978-1-4675-0263-4
Acknowledgements
Sue, Stacey and Wayne
They supported me throughout the years regardless of the
‘trials’ and tribulations we faced. I wish I could turn back
the clock and save them the suffering they endured.
Foreword
My brief is extreme—I must protect my charge at all costs. I am by profession a
‘Bodyguard’: I work at the upper echelons of personal protection. I am willing to
place myself in the firing line at the critical moment and to sacrifice my life for
that of my charge. Should the situation occur, I am prepared to intercept without
hesitation the bullet meant for them.
As a youngster, I saved my younger brother Scott from a beating and this sowed
a seed in me. From this seed grew my strong desire to protect others my dream
of becoming a bodyguard.
I received martial arts training from arguably the best Karate coach in the world.
My career has revolved mainly around the Saudi royal family, with other Arab
royals and a couple of celebrities thrown in for good measure. I witnessed sexual
perversion, greed, corruption and physical brutality—all incidents that have left
their mark on me for life.
As I know these people for ‘what they are’, it instils a caution not to reveal too
much personal information because it may put my family at risk from the
dangers lurking behind the scenes. Over the years, I’ve watched and suffered as I
wrestled with my daily duties battling against my core beliefs and morals.
Initially, I couldn’t wait to become involved with the Saudi royals. After my
experiences, I never want to be involved with them again. I observed as their
cheating, double standards and hypocrisy—which knew no bounds—were used
against their own people and the people who served them. Money flowed before
me as readily as the oil flowed from the oilfields in Saudi Arabia. British
Government officials fell over themselves to get in favour with the ruling family,
lying and cheating their way to untold riches. I couldn’t speak out, as the power
these people hold would have been used to destroy me without hesitation. An
example of a politician’s involvement with the Saudis became known when the
Guardian newspaper and Granada television faced a libel action in June 1997,
brought by Jonathan Aitken, Member of Parliament. Aitken’s case collapsed
when evidence showed that he, his family and friends had lied to the court. He
was a puppet of the Saudi Government for years, and they pulled his strings at
will.
My experiences brought me to the conclusion that it is not the Saudi royal family
that needs protecting from the people; it is the people that need protecting from
the Saudi royal family.
So here begins my story. I know it sounds controversial. Some of it may even
seem beyond belief. Nevertheless, this was my experience. So please, read on.
Chapter 1
My Early Years
My early life was hard. At five years old, my three brothers and I were
taken into care by the social services. They claimed we suffered
cruelty and neglect at the hands of our mother. I found the separation
from my parents traumatic and was a little boy lost. I pined daily for
Mum and Dad. The Council run home we were placed in was large
and set in sprawling grounds. It housed thirty or so other children.
On my seventh birthday, I received a visit from my parents who had
bought me a new toy, a shiny red fire engine. It had a siren and bells,
which rang loudly—I loved it dearly. That evening the staff took it
away, saying it made too much noise. I never saw it again. At
mealtimes they took pleasure in forcing us to eat our greens and
vegetables to the point of throwing up. It wasn’t a good place to be in.
The staff, I found cruel––crueller than our mother was supposed to
have been! Mind you, they never had a chrome-tipped riding crop like
the one Mum had used on us liberally when her mood dictated. Those
lashes smarted and raised welts on our bodies.
After two years, the social services returned us to our parents. We
found Mum drinking too much and having an affair with our father’s
best friend, a man named Derek. This led to our parent’s separation,
and ultimately to their divorce. On the day Mum left Dad, she took
my younger brother Scott and me with her to London, but for some
reason she left our two older brothers behind. I was seven years old,
Scott was six. Our older brothers, Billy and Tony, were nine and ten. I
never found out why Mum left my brothers but guessed she thought it
fair, if she took the two younger boys then Dad could have the two
older ones!
In one day, I lost my father and older brothers. My life was never the
same. Dad was a strong and fearless character, having served in the
special forces of the British Army and later in MI6, part of the British
Secret Services. When he discovered Mum’s affair he had gone after
Derek who ran and hid from him. Derek enjoyed bullying us boys
even though he knew that if our Dad ever heard of it he would be in
serious trouble.
If Derek thought we had misbehaved he would often go to the tree at
the bottom of the garden and break off a thick, long twig, and if it had
buds breaking out on it, so much the better. A few lashes with that
would make him feel better and us much worse. I often wondered why
Derek had become involved with my mother given that he was so
afraid of my father. Mum moved us around all the relatives’ houses
and after exhausting that avenue, she then moved us from one rented
house to another. After some time passed, we finally settled down in a
house in Brixton Hill, South London.
By now I had toughened up and was always involved in some fight or
other. Once while playing cricket, I got into an argument with the
batsman. He threatened to hit me with the bat so I dared him to. He hit
me so hard I went to hospital with concussion! From then on, I never
dared anyone to do anything again.
Even after we had settled in Brixton, I still missed my older brothers.
So, it was with great joy when I heard that one of them, my brother
Billy, was coming to live with us. However, my joy was short-lived as
within a few weeks, Mum and Derek sent all three of us off to St
Vincent’s Convent in Mill Hill, North London. I was now eight years
old. This was another home and the nuns ran this one from the Sisters
of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul to the Lazarist Fathers.
At nine and a half years old, I was back at home with my two brothers
in Brixton. Within weeks, I stood in front of my mother and stepfather
as two Criminal Investigations Department Police Officers
interviewed me. Along with six other young boys in the area, I’d been
sexually abused by a woman living nearby. As the police officers
asked me their searching questions on what had taken place, I wished
the ground would swallow me up. The woman concerned pleaded
guilty to all charges against her and was jailed.
Shortly after this I lost my brother, Billy, once again, as he was taken
off by the social services to another council home. They said he was
unruly and uncontrollable: a juvenile delinquent. It was years before
he came home as he was moved around various homes in the Lambeth
area of London. By this time, he had become seriously
institutionalised and would be in and out of prison for years to come.
My formative years were spent in despair. The only upbeat moment
that I remember was when Mum gave birth to a daughter, my half-
sister, Lisa. Mum’s drinking got worse and I found myself taking on
the responsibility of caring for my younger brother and sister.
At the age of ten, I found Mum slumped on her bed drunk and with an
empty bottle of sleeping pills next to her.
I telephoned for an ambulance and the operator told me to keep Mum
walking, making sure she didn’t fall asleep. I struggled to rouse her
and tried my best to move her with her help of course. I wasn’t strong
enough and while I shouted at her to move, tears streamed down my
face. Finally, I had to sit her down in a wooden chair. Then to my
horror, I noticed a puddle of blood forming on the floor beneath her. I
screamed at my Mum not to die—I thought I had let her down by not
moving her and that because of my failure she was now bleeding to
death. Only when I was older did I find out that she had been having a
heavy period at the time. The image of her sitting there in that chair
wearing red trousers, which highlighted the colour of the blood,
haunts me to this day.