Kim Sengupta was an international reporter of legend and his stories all had a distinct twist

Kim Sengupta, who has died suddenly at the age of 68, was an international reporter of legend, covering most of the main battlefronts of the last 30 years. On the road, he was a companion whose wry stoicism became a trademark.

He outlived a slew of celeb of reporters and media stars from the war zones, and his reportage from Iraq, the Balkans, Libya, Gaza and the West Bank will be the one prized by historians for generations from now.

He reported frequently for the Evening Standard.

He was my friend and colleague for more than 30 years – and while he could get impatient and angry at any kind of injustice, he never seemed to lose his cool. In 2008 he succeeded in rescuing an Afghan student who had been sentenced to death for blasphemy.

He was physically and mentally brave, as proved by his firsthand reporting of the chaotic melee as thousands tried to flee Kabul airport as the regime collapsed in August 2021.

He was a brilliant spinner of yarns and anecdotes – all told with a distinct Kim twist. When speculation was rife about British special forces being in Ukraine a couple of summers ago, he told me of a strange encounter peering through a hedgerow at the Russian front in the Donbas.

The figure in camouflage a few yards away seemed familiar. ‘Don’t I know you?’ asked the legendary journalist. ‘Allo Kim,’ came the reply with Essex accent, ‘you know bloody well who I am, but as far as you and your paper are concerned I am not here —now bugger off.’

His network of contacts, high and low, sources and friends – and somehow these categories seemed to merge  --  was extraordinarily varied, and generated fierce loyalty. He kept up with his translators and fixers years after.

But as much as he cultivated the admirals and generals as well as spymasters and spooks, he had a penchant for the company of warlords. He presented Ahmed Wali Karzai, bossman of Kandahar, with the latest Chelsea FC strip,

Though such an accomplished roving correspondent, he could at times be endearingly hapless. He never drove himself, relying on his companion Katherine for the transport logistics.

He lost passports, documents, even laptops, on a quite regular basis – once his weaselly taxi driver feigned a puncture just north of Kabul, drawing a crowd of village companions among whom Kim’s briefcase and laptop mysteriously disappeared.

So often he was the butt of his own stories. A few years ago, we had been touring the Druze villages in the Golan, round where the latest rocket attacks from Lebanon have landed at Majdal Shams when Kim confessed he thought his legend was blown.