No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  Not all my work was BG. I had educated Forester (as if he didn't know already) that people from my background possess skills which are in demand, not only with individuals but with governments, too: the ability to procure any military equipment, and teach and train all aspects of a military operation, not necessarily just army ones. What's more, I had a personal portfolio of all sorts of highly skilled ex-service contacts: RAF fighter pilots; staff officers to give projects that seal of approval; communications experts. And if I didn't know someone with a certain skill, then I knew a man who did.

  Forester agreed that we should spread our wings, giving the company a much wider area in which to operate. My first main break came when I was approached, through a friend, by a guy claiming to represent one of the contestants for the rule of Liberia, a country on the west coast of Africa. At the time, 1991, it was experiencing a full-blown civil war. The two main fighting factions were busy chopping up both their country and their people into bits. My friend with the Liberian contact phoned and asked if we were interested in having a talk with the chap. I agreed, and some days later a guy under the name of Charles Von Douttenberg (which I later discovered was an assumed name) pitched up at the office.

  He was mid-30s, fit-looking, with jet-black hair brushed back and held firmly in place by about two tons of gel and dressed in a well-tailored three-piece, double-breasted suit with a pocket handkerchief to match his tie, carrying a very expensive-looking light tan briefcase, the type top executives have, and a well packed out World War II ex-army hessian gas-mask bag. That threw my line of thought a bit; hardly an accessory I associated with the rest of his attire.

  Without interrupting, I let him talk at length about what he wanted from us. He was very articulate, knowing a lot about Liberia and its internal problems. He said he had been over there in the past on 'other business' and had met and got on well with the now 'slightly' deposed leader. After an hour or so of trying to establish his credentials, he finally came to the point.

  'Now listen, Steve, I'm sorry I've done all the talking. The fact of the matter is that I've been asked by the main man himself …' (He raised his two index fingers either side of his head, like kids might do when trying to imitate a pair of rabbit ears, then bent them forward a couple of times, to mean that what he had been asked to do was through a friendly third party and was top secret. I gave him a minus mark in my mental file on him for that. Up until then he had been going great guns.) '… to stand by a team of SAS-trained guys just in case he needs a hot extraction from the field.'

  I put another minus mark in his file for the American Vietnam War term — 'hot extraction'. A bit gung-ho and out of context for the meeting, it gave the impression that he had very little real tactical knowledge.

  'Steve, does Cadogan have the expertise and ability to carry out such an operation?'

  The answer was a simple Yes. It's what I and the people I work alongside are trained to do. It's no great drama for us, it's our job. The dramas come about when someone has to start parting with their money. A job like this, carried out by a team of professionals, never comes cheap, it never has and never will. Same as anything in business — you get what you pay for.

  He wanted to know if we could mount an operation in the capital Monrovia to get the President's family out; not him, just his family. This all sounded very exciting, just the job for Cadogan. The sums of money he mentioned were huge, plus the benefits of any booty that this proposed 'snatch squad' could lay its hands on. At the time Monrovia was making big headlines, almost under fire from advancing forces and in danger of falling in a couple of weeks. Charles wondered whether we could we get a team together at very short notice, should the finance be in place. Of course.

  One thing, though. I'd not quite made a judgement on this guy Charles. You see, anything can be done, but it can only be done at a price. Now, this operation was well risky. It would require a lot of planning and preparation, which meant time — and that we didn't have much of. Men I could get at very short notice, that was no problem, but equipment and supplies were a different matter altogether. Still, if this man could get the cash — and we were talking a large sum of money — I was sure we could oblige. Just before the meeting came to a end, he asked me would I like to see $20,000 worth of Liberian currency, and he made a move on the gas mask bag. It was a strange request. I said, 'No, not really,' which, I think, blew him down a bit.

  However, for all the superficially convincing things he said, I was not particularly interested in him at this stage. By now, I had met some extremely strange people in this business, and a lot of them turned out to be Chinese Knife Fighters with big ego problems. It was far too early for me to get cock-stands about an operation where my share of the profits would buy me a 60-foot Sunseeker yacht and provide the wherewithal to live happily ever after. I decided I would save my curiosity for the second meeting, scheduled for the next day.

  For this, Charles arrived at the office bang on time in another expensive suit, but without the gas mask bag. We went to lunch over at the Grosvenor House Hotel. He paid, which was a good start, and we talked in greater detail about his proposition. The long and short of it all was that if we were to do something, I would have to get a guy on the ground to carry out a recce and to meet with the main man, ASAP.

  This meant two things. One, it would show whether this operation had some 'legs' and whether his contacts were as good as he was making them out to be — Cadogan's man would confirm that. Two, that he was to finance the entire recce, upfront. Surprisingly, he agreed, saying that he had the sum of money I had asked for in cash; could we get on with things as soon as possible? He wanted to fly out to Liberia the following morning. (Actually, that wasn't possible. It would be at least two days before anyone could fly out.)

  I agreed to all his requests, which weren't too numerous, and after 'banking' the cash, I called up an old ex-SAS mate of mine, Dave T, to confirm the job was a goer. I had touched base with him the night before to see if he was available for 'dodgy' fast-ball to accompany Charles on this fact-finding mission. Dave had said Yes.

  So we were up and running. This was a real 'live' operation, and a very risky one, especially for Dave. All parties had been paid up-front. Unusual — but then, this was a very unusual operation.

  The recce was to take about a week. When they had been gone three days, I still had not heard from Dave or Charles. The previous couple of days I had managed to gather as much info as I could on goings on in Liberia, so at least I had a working knowledge of the country's problems and would be able to discuss things with some degree of understanding on their return.

  On the morning of the fourth day, I had just popped out of the office to grab a bite to eat from a local takeaway sandwich bar, when I saw Dave strolling towards me. On his own. No sign of Charles. I was gob-smacked.

  'Jesus, Dave! You're back early! What happened? Where's Charles? Why didn't you give a call to let us know where you were?'

  'The job's fucked! It was a total fucking nightmare from start to finish!'

  I suggested we get a brew and a bit of scoff. Dave looked like he could do with a large injection of carbohydrates. I took him down to an Italian restaurant nearby for a debrief. He told me from the start how, when they boarded the 747 at Heathrow, there was only a skeleton crew aboard, all volunteers. The flight was to pick up the last ex-pats waiting to be evacuated at Monrovia airport.

  'We basically had the whole fucking aircraft to ourselves,' he explained. 'I don't know who or what they thought we were. Idiots or MI6 or something, I guess. Anyway, the crew didn't quiz us, they sort of ignored us for the entire flight.'

  Dave went on to tell how Charles had all these great get-rich-quick plans, and if we were successful the main man would be very generous, over and above our fee. On paper it looked the dog's bollocks of a contract. Dave went on: when they finally landed in Monrovia, Charles sorted out all their paperwork. He had, of course, been to Liberia many times before so at least Dave was not
going in blind. Charles had pre-booked the hotel. Not many people pre-book hotel rooms in a city that's just about to have the shite bombed out of it!

  They sat in the hotel for three days waiting to be seen by the main man. Dave said that being in Monrovia reminded him of how the Americans must have felt during the last days of the fall of Saigon in Vietnam. Almost by the hour, the sounds of battle seemed to get closer and closer. On the second day, Charles was trying like hell to get to see the 'man' but every time he was refused by his personal bodyguards. It appeared that Charles had no real clout with this guy at all. Meanwhile, Dave spent most of his time around the hotel swimming pool, kit packed, ready to bug out, as and when.

  Should a rapid bug out be necessary, they had identified a couple of boats to commandeer for their escape. Dave was an accomplished yachtsman and said that there were many lovely-looking craft in the harbour, their owners gone by air long ago. He also said that at the airport there were a lot of light aircraft, just parked up. To him they all looked airworthy but there was one problem — he couldn't fly!

  Come the third day, the fighting was getting still closer. Too close for comfort so Dave opted for the IA (Immediate Action Drill), a rapid exit out of the country. By this time, Charles had lost all face in not being able to get the meeting jacked up and decided that getting out was his priority, too. Events had overtaken them far too quickly. Small arms fire was now being heard all around the capital. Soldiers, civilians and even kids were carrying weapons. In this desperate situation, they didn't have too many options. Rumour had it that the last commercial flight, an Air France 747, was due to land and turn around almost immediately that afternoon. At the time they had no idea where it was flying to; nor did they care. They managed to get on it just in time. Hours later the two rival factions fought each other to the death in the streets of Monrovia.

  Dave had a lot of stories to tell about his time with Charles, some serious, some comical. He reckoned Charles meant well and that the job had actually been a goer, but they were overtaken by the events on the day. I asked Dave what he seriously thought about Charles.

  'Well, on the flight back, all I wanted to do was to tell him to shut the fuck up, because I wanted to get my head down, I was so bollocked, but he kept on about how we could all make some money. He said that the "man" had a flat in Chelsea Harbour, London and that he knew the exact address. Charles said he had been there previously and that the "man" kept about eight million pounds in cash and jewels, in a safe, and that it was up for grabs since he was out of the country.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I told him, "That sounds great, but do me a favour first, go to the toilet, look in the mirror and give yourself a severe talking-to!'"

  I never saw or heard of Mr Von Douttenberg again, although I did make some enquiries as to his previous history — just to log in the back of the brain for future reference, you understand. One lead I chased up (which in hindsight I should have done in the first place) was a business card Charles had given me from his recent, previous employer. It was a management company in London, quite a big one, too. I dialled the number. A lady answered and then put me through to a department. A moment's wait. Another lady answered. I asked if she could tell me a little bit about Mr Von Douttenberg.

  'Is he still working for your company? If not do you have a telephone number where I could contact him?'

  I detected a note of flirty amusement in her voice. 'I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to disclose any information on present or past employees,' she said.

  'But I have his business card, that's why I'm telephoning you, to see if he is there. I need to speak with him!'

  She was very hesitant with her reply.

  'Yes, Mr Von Douttenberg did work for the company for a short while, but I'm afraid he is no longer employed with us.'

  Feeling that I was winning this voice over, I pushed her for a bit more information.

  'Well, thanks very much for your time, you have been very kind.' I left a pause. 'Oh, just one last thing, would it be possible if you could tell me if he left on his own account or was he ..?' My curiosity was getting the better of me. '… or was he … ?' I tried to think of a word more suitable than sacked. I stuttered, but no word came,'… was he sacked?'

  'One second please,' she said.

  She had cupped her end of the receiver but I could make out her talking to her female friend telling her that someone was on the line asking about Von Douttenberg. I heard giggles. She came back on.

  'I'm sorry about that, I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than I have already. I'm so sorry, goodbye.' She hung up.

  The tone of her answer was all I needed. I got the message. In my opinion, it was very plain that Mr Charles Von Douttenberg was seriously off his head. He's probably still out there, cutting around in his Armani suits impressing the arse off some other twat. God bless his little cotton socks!

  8

  THE ARAB EXPERIENCE

  D uring the Iraqi occupation of Kuwait in the early 1990s, many jobs came my way. One was sourcing vast amounts of gas masks for the population of Saudi Arabia. It seemed that Saddam Hussein in his wisdom might have a go at all his Arab partners, one way or another, so the Saudis, especially those close to the Kuwait and Iraqi border, needed protection from a gas attack. This then became a requirement for all of Saudi Arabia, since Saddam had the ability to launch Scud missiles well inside the Kingdom. Every man and his dog from Ankara in Turkey to Jakarta in Indonesia, as well as Cadogan in London, was chasing the now infamous gas mask deal.

  The requirement was for three million masks with spare filters, to be delivered immediately. It was a vast order and, potentially, there was a lot of money to be made even if we got just a small piece of the contract, so I started sorting out prices, checking availability and double-checking the specifications of certain models. I was in contact with some Russians who said that they could supply the latest military gas mask, the right quantity at the right price (whatever that was). I never actually got a quote from them, but in addition there were Danes who flew over especially with their samples, the Israelis with all their ex-army stock, and the Brits, who demanded an absolutely outrageous price for their old version of a particular mask that used to be issued to the British Armed Forces — the renowned S6 respirator — one of the best gas masks in the world at that time, later superceded by an even better version, the S10. I even sourced civvy masks from Korea. All the manufacturers had something to offer and were responsive to our requests, apart from the Brit who expected you to plead with them to return your calls with answers to your questions. I only experienced such arrogance from Brit companies.

  My client contact was a Saudi Sheikh, their equivalent of a Royal, a Prince. I understood that there are hundreds of princes in Saudi Arabia but my contact was an HRH (His Royal Highness) and there aren't too many of them around. For most of the others, this applies:

  Statement: 'I'm a Prince in my country.'

  Reply: 'Not over here you aren't, mate!'

  You have to know 'who is who' and once dealing with the right people, you also have to know, 'who owns who'. This was the biggest problem for all of us middlemen. Everyone thought they had the horse's cock of a client and no one else was in the running. It was like a game of poker. You stayed in the game as long as you could, or dared, trying to suss each opponent out to see if they actually had a better contact than yours or if you were actually sending your precious samples off to a competitor, thinking that they were the last in the long line of middlemen. Cloak and dagger stuff. Long-distance telephone calls were essential and some companies racked up bills of thousands of pounds chasing this deal. We did, too, about five grand's worth.

  I guess greed was an important ingredient, we all thought we were going to make a killing. But, as I half expected in this 'what-the-fuck' business, the war took off at an astonishing pace, and the gas mask deal was dumped. Apparently, if the civvy population needed gas masks, the Americans would supply them. The client had
played games with us, the dealers, and now no longer required us. The only winners were the telephone and airfreight companies.

  Our contact in Saudi sent his apologies for not closing any of the deals. He did explain that his boss the Sheikh was the key player. I didn't doubt it — he sent one of his aides, from the Saudi Embassy in London, to the office with a cheque to cover all the 36 samples sent, and on top of that, had booked a table for four of us at Mr Kia's, an immensely prestigious Chinese restaurant in Mayfair. That night I ate and drank in style, but knowing that my 60-foot Sunseeker had once again set sail without me.

  During this hectic time, I was also chasing other deals for Saudi Arabia: thousands of blankets sourced in the Far East; thousands of tents and battlefield kitchens for the UN who, apart from dealing with the refugee problems in the Gulf, were also working in and around the Kurdish regions of Northern Iraq. Once again, nothing was ever certain. I wasn't sure that our contacts were high enough in the chain of command, so I adopted a double-bluff policy of saying that we could meet and deliver under the requirement terms with a price that was well above what I knew I could get away with. In taking this stance I blew away all hangers-on who might have had their fingers in this particular pie. This worked well for a couple of deals, but it was getting increasingly difficult to keep a track of what was actually happening on the ground. Then the powers that be stepped in and dealt government to government, which in turn blew us middlemen away once more.

  The illegal occupation of Kuwait by a million or so Iraqi troops was very much the talking point of the day. Newspapers were full of it, and most weekends when I was back in Hereford I saw that my mates who were still serving relished the thought of flying over into Iraq and getting stuck in. A part of me also wanted to get involved, and I pondered the lost opportunity of not going to war with these guys I had known for many years. Still, such thoughts only occurred briefly, and then only when I happened to meet up with them socially. To be honest, I was happy doing what I was doing. The notion of wanting to go off to war again was very shortsighted. War is shit, make no mistake about that, and war can get you killed no matter how glamorous and exciting the media make it appear. For the money you get, it just ain't worth it.