But, thankfully, I was spared all that rigmarole. All I did was follow Fred who, in turn, followed a local guy, with a bright yellow jacket and an official-looking ID hung around his neck. We went into an empty, quiet and cool room, off to the side of the main hall, marked ‘VIP Lounge’, where my passport was processed immediately, and we were on our way – no queues, no bribes.
Although we were only ten miles from the capital the road trip would have taken, not less than five hours, due to the circuitous route, and the almost impassable roads.
We left the air-conditioned environment via a second door, this time displaying the sign ‘Helipad – VIPs only’, and there, with engines running and rotors turning, stood an ageing, Mi-8 Russian helicopter. Fred gave the ‘guide’ the very convoluted, and time-consuming ‘Leonian’ handshake, finishing with the palming across of a twenty-dollar bill, and we jumped on board the helicopter. Within ten minutes of strapping ourselves into the dirty, canvas seats we were on final approach for our landing site at a hotel on the outskirts of Freetown. We were already checked-in to the hotel, which had certainly seen better days, but the receptionist was friendly, and handed us a cool glass of Tusker beer as a welcome, before recommending that we take some further refreshments in the bar before retiring to our rooms.
At the entrance to the restaurant and bar was a sign chalked onto a piece of blackboard, which I loved, but never fully understood.
‘Welcome to the MAMMY YOKO HOTEL. No ganja, No pettin, No Bull dancin..
The following morning a Land Rover arrived at the hotel to pick us up.
Fred had already briefed me that we were going to Bo, a small town about one hundred and fifty miles south-east of Freetown, to meet Sam Hinga Norman.
Sam Norman was a paramount chief of the Jaiama Bongor region, and he and Fred were working together to establish a Civil Defence Force, which they had named ‘The Kamajor’, meaning ‘hunter’.
The Kamajor had not got off to a good start. Recently the chief had gathered together seventy-five, young, energetic men to defend his people and, after the first attack by the rebels on his chiefdom, no less than fifty of them, were killed.
Anywhere outside of the environs of the capital, more especially towards Bo, was dangerous. Vehicles, such as the one we would be in, were prone to attack by marauding gangs of the ruthless RUF rebels.
Fred was dressed in ‘jungle-greens’ combat gear, a khaki bandana, and looking, very much, as if he ‘meant business’. I, on the other hand, wore jeans and a T-shirt and was unlikely to deter even a schoolboy mugger.
We discussed our ‘actions-on’, in other words, what we would do should we come under attack.
I was handed a nine-millimetre Browning pistol, and two twelve-round magazines of ammunition, which I stuck into my belt. In the footwell behind the driver, there were two AK-47s, both with two magazines containing thirty rounds of 7.62 ammo. Fred pointed out three small rucksacks, which he explained, contained basic survival equipment and water.
“In the event of a contact,” ordered Fred, in his ex-sergeant major’s voice. ‘I will exit left, and you will exit right. Remember Red, we can survive for three weeks without food – three days without water – and three minutes without ammo’. He continued, as he pulled back a tarpaulin and uncovered two, one-thousand round, boxes of 7.62 NATO Ball ammunition.
‘Let’s go, George my friend’, said The Fijian Warrior, pointing as if he were leading a cavalry charge.
The road eastwards, as far as Mile 91, was reasonable, probably equivalent to a badly neglected B-class road in the UK. Thereafter the route could be very rough, depending on how much of the surface had been washed away by the regular tropical storms.
With an hour or so, to run to Bo, Fred said something to George in the local ‘Krio’ dialect, a form of Pidgin-English native to this part of the world.
We pulled off the road which, by now, had become, not much more than a rough bridle-path, and set off down a much smaller track, through dense jungle. After a short, bumpy ride, we entered a clearing which housed a small village consisting of mud huts with thatched roofs, and the occasional piece of plywood or corrugated-iron sheeting. We stopped and stood by the vehicle, stretching our legs, sipping water and looking around the village, which appeared to be completely deserted.
“Is this your idea of a Motorway Services, mate? What the fuck are we doing, miles off the main road, in a deserted jungle village,” I asked as I peeled a banana.
“Be patient, Red. The people here are like wounded kittens. They will come out when they are ready.”
And slowly, with great caution, they did.
First to emerge from the dense undergrowth was the village elder who, upon recognising Fred, gave a toothless grin and hobbled towards us. They greeted each other like long-lost brothers, hugging and chanting words I didn’t understand. The old man was crying. After hearing the stories, the villagers had to tell, I could see why.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A small crowd of villagers gradually gathered around us. One of them was a young woman, who held on to Fred’s arm, looking up at him adoringly, as if he were some sort of saviour – in a way I suppose he was. She would, surely, have smiled at him, but that wasn’t possible.
Her name was Blossom and she had once been beautiful. Now she looked as though she was wearing some sort of hideous, Halloween face-mask. She was unable to speak. Her top and bottom lips were missing completely, exposing her, perfectly symmetrical, white teeth.
A few months ago, as the men of the village were away fishing and hunting, the women sat around preparing dinner, whilst the children played happily nearby.
Suddenly, deafening shots rang out, and a gang of RUF rebels, some of them as young as twelve, burst into the clearing.
Blossom, with her seven-month-old baby Yaema, strapped to her back, ran into the closest hut and dived under the bed.
Yeama was screaming and the door burst open. Blossom was dragged outside by her hair and made to witness the baying gang getting pleasure from chopping off the right hand of nine-year-old Daniel.
Their attention then turned to the beautiful, young, terrified mother. The bonds on her back were roughly cut away, and her baby was dragged from her. One young rebel held the baby aloft by a leg, and, with one swift slash of his razor-sharp panga, disembowelled the wriggling child, much to the amusement of the other young gang members.
Blossom fell to her knees – distraught. As she was held, the end of her tongue was sliced off. A wooden skewer was then driven through her top and bottom lips, and a large padlock clamped into the holes as she was, mockingly, told not to speak to anyone from the government, ever again.
Blossom was one of a dozen villagers left lying in the dirt, bleeding from appalling wounds, with a further ten lying dead.
The ensuing infection from the rusty padlock, left the pitiful young woman with a large section of her face cut away and, as she tried to explain in mime, her heart ripped from her body, over the death of her sweet baby Yaema.
As Fred translated the spoken words of the elder and the sign-language of Blossom, tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Something has to be done to stop this madness’ he said, holding Blossom closely to his side.
Now, more than twenty years later, the memory of that gathering in the remote, jungle village overwhelms me with emotion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
At the meeting with the paramount chief, in his hometown of Bo, we came up with a proposition to help support the embryonic Citizens Defence Force – The Kamajos. Sam made it clear to us that everything in Sierra Leone could be bought, including weapons and training. What he needed, more than anything, was money.
The area around Bo and Kenema was one of the richest sources of diamonds in the world. Most of the diamonds, that were either dredged from the river beds or dug out from the ground, were smuggled out of the country, resulting in no benefit for the government or its citizens.
The local inh
abitants, who managed to scratch the diamonds from the earth, either sold them to one of the ubiquitous foreign dealers at a fraction of their true value, or they attempted to smuggle them out of the country where they were likely to get a slightly better price.
Our plan was to buy rough, uncut diamonds, directly from the locals in Kenema. After renting an office in the town centre, we would spread the word that we were willing to pay far better prices than any of the local dealers. We would process the consignment through the appropriate government office and pay any due taxes. I would then deliver it, by hand, to a reputable dealer in Antwerp with whom we would be able to negotiate a fair price. After taking out a small amount to repay the initial investment, plus a return of fifteen percent, any remaining profit would be paid to the Chief to fund the Kamajors.
It certainly seemed to be a good idea, and a fair deal all around. The individuals finding the diamonds would benefit, as would the government, the investors and the much-needed Defence Force.
With that plan in mind, it was decided that I should return to London to get the scheme started. Leaving Fred to deal with the tiresome and bureaucratic process of getting the necessary ‘Diamond Dealers Licence’.
It didn’t take me long to convince Tony Buckingham and Simon Mann that the concept had ‘legs’, and with their help, I could get together the one hundred thousand dollars, or so, that was needed to get the project under way.
Since the buying and selling of the diamonds were going to be down to me, we all agreed that the sensible thing for me to do, was to start by learning something about those enigmatic polymorphs of carbon.
I found a dealer by the name of Monsieur Coquoin, who had premises in Hoveniersstraat, Antwerp, who said he would be willing to teach me how to assess the value of rough, uncut diamonds – for a price, of course. I was more than a little surprised to be told that I would need to spend, at least a week with M Coquoin to become, even reasonably proficient – I was thinking, more like a day.
So, spend a week with him is what I did. With French, not being my strong point, I found it easier to refer to my tutor as ‘Monsieur Cock’, which he seemed to find quite amusing and acceptable.
Ready to set off to Africa in my new role as ‘Diamond Evaluator’, Monsieur Cock shook my hand and declared that I was now ‘competant – a peine’. He then convinced me that I must buy all the necessary paraphernalia; magnifying loupe, diamond tester, scales, polariscope and lots of other bits and pieces, none of which I was sure how to use.
CHAPTER FORTY
Our ever-reliable and faithful driver George turned up at the Mammy Yoko Hotel, in good time for us to get on the road to Kenema, where we had now rented a small office. The Land Rover was loaded with all the armaments we might need in the event of an attack, plus several bags of flour and rice, which we intended to drop off at Blossom’s village on the way past. We also had two extra rucksacks. One containing US dollars – about forty thousand. And the second containing the local currency, Leones. I can’t remember how many, but it would certainly have been in the hundreds of thousands.
The office was sparse, just a table and three, or four, chairs. We set out our stall, ready to start trading. I would sit behind the desk, with the bags of money at my feet, surrounded by all the tools-of-the-trade, sold to me by Monsieur Cock. Faithful George sat in the corner opposite me, ready to act as an interpreter if it became necessary.
Fred, looking every inch the Special Forces warrior that he was, stood to my side, a pistol strapped to his waist and his AK-47 slung across his chest, his right hand never straying from the trigger.
As we ‘opened for business’, we were pleased to see that we already had a queue of six or seven potential clients waiting in the corridor.
Trading went well, and by the time we were due to shut up shop, we had a good stash of diamonds, the veracity of every single one confirmed with the diamond tester, the weight, clarity and colour carefully logged. We had parted with, the best part of thirty thousand dollars – no one had shown the slightest interest in the local currency.
We were now prime targets for an attack. The route back to Freetown offered little opportunity for diverging from the main road. To minimise the likelihood of an ambush we left the office in the opposite direction to the capital. A small track lead us to a clearing on a plateau, and as we came to a halt we heard the familiar rattle of the EO’s helicopter. We quickly loaded all our goodies into the back, with the loadmaster and door-gunner training their weapons towards the surrounding jungle.
Juba, one of the Ibis Air pilots, had us safely back on the ground in Freetown in less than an hour. Ibis Air was Simon Mann’s aviation company which provided air support for Executive Outcomes.
Soon after I had completed the tedious palaver of getting authority to export our cache and paid the relevant taxes, I was sipping a glass of bubbly in the forward cabin of a 747, on my way back to Antwerp.
Monsieur Cock emptied the bag of diamonds onto his desk and studied each one, as only a true professional could. Whilst looking over his glasses at me, he said in a slow studious voice, “Fifty-two thousand dollars.”
“That’s a deal,” I said with a smile, not even thinking that I should negotiate.
The smile he returned – the largest one I had ever seen him crack, showed me that the mentor was pleased with his apprentice’s performance.
After expenses, I reckoned we had cleared a profit of about ten thousand dollars.
The operation was looking good, and the chief was delighted with the twenty thousand smackers I was happy to give him – the extra ten was in anticipation of future successful deals.
Our intention was to repeat the transactions on a regular basis, but we were acutely aware of the dangers of ambush or attack if we were ever to establish any sort of pattern of behaviour.
For our second attempt, we passed a message saying that we would be travelling down to Kenema, by road, on a Friday. However, known only to our three-man procurement team, Fred, George and I, we left our hotel in the early hours of the preceding Wednesday, again dropping supplies off at the isolated village.
Another good haul was gathered and we were in good humour as we left the office. George looked particularly happy as he pocketed his handsome bonus, and volunteered to ‘take care of the diamonds’.
We drove off, in an unpredictable direction, towards the planned helicopter pick-up point, totally unaware that we were about to be betrayed, putting our lives in real and imminent danger.
The larger-than-life Fijian was riding shot-gun and munching on a mango as he said cheerfully, “George my friend, I think you are taking us down the wrong track. Leading us up the garden path. As we say in England.”
As we approached a sharp bend, George said nothing. A few seconds later, there in front of us, was a barrier with an old police car parked to one side and four men, dressed in scruffy blue uniforms, standing with the ever-present AK-47s, pointed directly towards us.
George stopped immediately and switched off the ignition, as two more armed officers-of-the-law closed in behind us.
Much as it ran against the grain, especially for a seasoned warrior such as Fred, we had no option other than to de-bus and surrender ourselves to our captors, rather than put up a fight.
I breathed a sigh of relief as we were handcuffed. This could only mean that our captors were not members of the barbaric RUF, but were indeed real police. And real police, in this part of the world, could very easily be bought.
‘Show me your diamond dealers’ licence,’ said one of the policemen, who I guessed was the boss, since he was proudly sporting some sort of official-looking badge and wearing LAPD-like shades, held together with some rather alluring, masking tape.
“George,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Show him the licence please.”
“George… George! Where the fuck is George?”
But faithful old George had gone. As had the diamonds and the licence – never to be seen again.
“Ok mate, just see if you can get the bag out of the Land Rover and give them a wedge of that local money that nobody else wants,” I whispered.
“No Red, we have to make a stand against corruption, starting now, if this country is ever going to make any progress,” replied an indignant Fred.
“Bollocks to that,” I exclaimed, amazed at Fred’s morality. “You can give them the whole fucking bag if it makes you feel better, but let’s get the fuck out of here.”
But no. Fred was a man of principles and there was no way he was going to budge.
We were bundled into the back of the police vehicle as the officers, waving their weapons in the air, cheered and performed a well-rehearsed, victory war-dance, before driving off.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the British Military, all troops prone to captures, such as Special Forces or aircrew, are required to undergo ‘Combat Survival’ exercises and ‘Resistance to Interrogation’ training. It had been pumped into both of us, back in our SAS days, that, when taken prisoner, you must, if at all possible, try to escape. Trying to escape, as soon after capture as possible is considered the best option, while you are still fit, and thereby giving yourself the most likely chance of a successful break for freedom.
As we sat across from each other, handcuffed and feeling sorry for ourselves, in the open-backed truck, we made eye contact, and there was no doubt that each of us knew what the other was thinking.
Our captors had made a rudimentary mistake by handcuffing us with our hands if front of us, and not behind our backs. To either side of the bumpy track was dense, secondary jungle. Secondary jungle is much more overgrown than primary jungle and therefore a lot harder to make progress through, especially without a machete or a panga. But it had the distinct advantage of being much easier to hide in.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 16
