‘How much does he know that I know?’ I asked as Nick sat down and folded his napkin across his knees.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ he beamed at me.
‘Okay, wow. This is going to be a fun evening. What do I do?’
‘Be careful.’ Still grinning at me, his eyes flicked over my shoulder, warning me of Simon’s impending return. ‘Let’s get a bottle.’
Simon wanted to drink rosé – a lot of rosé. The evening was hot, the wine was cold, and we put away the first bottle before the menus were even opened. We occupied three-quarters of a snug, round table. Nick was seated to my left, Simon to my right: I was stuck in the middle.
Simon suggested that we order before the kitchen closed. He wore an expensive watch; his pale, cotton shirt was carefully pressed; in fact, his whole demeanour said I am very rich, and effortlessly so.
We all touched glasses, and then Simon got down to business and asked me what Liberia was like.
I began to talk. And talk. I recounted tales of Nick and me in Liberia together, how we got in, what we’d accomplished. I talked about the films I’d made and planned to make. It was clear to me that I was being vetted for a job – presumably the role that Nick had outlined to me in Conakry – and I presented myself to him with as much care as the third bottle of wine would allow. I stressed the delicate nature of the work we’d done, the relationship with US Intelligence and my own encounters with British Intelligence; most of all, though, I was careful to let him know not only what I had reported, but also what I had not.
‘It was quite tricky with the Guinean connection,’ I told him. ‘My access to the rebels was agreed specifically on the basis that I would not broadcast any details of the assistance they were getting from President Conté and the Guinean Army – it had to look as if it was entirely a local, Liberian uprising.’
I stressed these last words. It wasn’t quite true, but I wanted to hammer home the point: I’m a safe pair of hands, and I’ve done this before. Nick gave me a sidelong glance. He was being very quiet.
‘Of course, I filmed everything, because there’ll come a time when all that can be said openly. It’s a question of not biting the hand that feeds you, while still being honest. You’re nothing without credibility in my industry. When you’ve been seen to tell uncomfortable truths once, the audience – and the commissioners – will believe anything you tell them thereafter. It’s just that some stories take a long time to be told in full.’
The subtext was, I hoped, abundantly clear.
Simon poured the last of the bottle and raised his glass, looking at me and Nick.
‘Here’s to your successes in Liberia,’ he proposed. ‘Long may they continue.’
We drank the toast and beckoned the waiter over. The plates were cleared and desserts piled up, followed by glasses of whisky and Armagnac. Simon rejoined my monologue with one of his own. His dialogue was focused on Iraq, the need for oil security and regime change – and the use of private military companies to guarantee it.
He seemed to think that the era of all-powerful national armies dominating international diplomacy was over – and had been for a while. He cited the achievements of private armies – his private army – in Angola and Sierra Leone by way of example. ‘Resource security’ was the main game. Oil-fields – African or Middle Eastern – were hugely important for the West. But while the Chinese made rapid gains with their quiet diplomacy, the Americans were still working out what to do next on the continent.
He talked about good governance in Africa (apparently a rarity outside of a few isolated oases of best practice, such as Botswana), and how the rise of Nigerian influence in the north of the continent allegedly matched the resurgence of South African power in the south. Well educated and well informed, it was undeniably fascinating to listen to him hold court. Indeed, almost everything he said was perfect primer material for announcing the coup – and despite the growing fog conjured by glasses of spirits on top of the wine, I clung on nervously for the dénouement.
At the beginning of the evening I had felt compelled to be on my best behaviour, in the same way I might if having dinner with a friend’s well-to-do father: scared of saying the wrong thing, or making myself look naïve. By the time we left, though, we were all tipsy, and almost the last guests to leave. As we made for the door, one of the remaining diners got up and took hold of my arm.
‘Monsieur, I know what you are up to, I know who you are,’ he said in quiet French, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Yes, I know what your game is.’
‘Oh, good,’ I replied in French, ‘I’m glad someone knows what’s going on.’
As we stumbled into the night air, Simon turned to me.
‘What did he want?’
I recounted what the man had said.
‘He’s probably French Intelligence,’ I suggested.
Laughing, Simon shook my hand goodnight, and then we peeled off to our respective hotels. The drop punch hadn’t come, and I began to fret that I’d said something to rule me out of the operation.
Back at the Comfort, I fumbled for my key.
‘Nick?’
‘Ja?’
‘How do you think that went?’
‘Perfect, Mr B. Spot on.’
It was too late, and I was too tired to pick his brain any further.
The shower in the moulded plastic bathroom was freezing but invigorating. I had been mulling over the previous night’s conversation. The weirdest thing of all was that I’d been there at all. Everything I had done in Liberia had been defined by impeccable planning, by my almost obsessive desire to maintain absolute control over the project. Now I was up to my eyes in a scheme that was too opaque to understand, never mind control.
As I got dressed and prepared to head back to London, I considered the meeting with Simon. Despite his clubbable good humour and impeccable manners, what Simon had manifestly failed to do was offer me a job, or mention the coup – any coup – at all. I’d surprised myself at how disappointed I’d been when he hadn’t offered me the film rights to his operation outright, despite Nick’s assurance that the dinner had gone well.
The more I considered Nick’s original proposal, the more I worried about my own personal role in the operation. Sweeping aside the moral complexities of what I would be asked to do looked increasingly difficult. When it came to it, I knew I would not be able to refuse Nick’s demands to broadcast propaganda in the way that I had refused the rebels in Liberia. I clung to my original, mercenary, justification: that the ends excused the means. My sustaining comfort was hope – hope, for all our sakes, that Nick and Simon knew what they were doing.
As I headed down the stairs to the lobby – and the waiting shuttle bus – I tried to console myself with another thought, too: much of what Nick had told me could just have been wishful thinking on his behalf. Perhaps there is no coup? Even if there is, who knows if he’s even told Simon that he’s asked you to film it? It wasn’t unreasonable to expect that I might never see the minted Mr Mann again.
Downstairs, the bus was waiting. So was Simon. We put our bags into the luggage racks, and sat together, nursing our growing hangovers.
Simon blamed the whisky. Nick joined us on board, and then, after the short drive to the airport, we waved him off at eleven o’clock, bound for Conakry. I wished him a safe trip.
‘Ja, you too. I’ll be in touch.’
We shook hands. He and Simon said goodbye, and then Nick’s back disappeared through the door leading to the terminal shuttle link. I turned to face Simon.
‘Well, it’s been good to meet you, thanks again for dinner.’
Simon said it was a pleasure. We shook hands and he vanished into the terminal. Damn, I thought. I need time alone with this guy. I walked through the door, and went to check in. Simon was in the same queue: we were on the same flight. Once through immigration, he invited me to have breakfast with him in the British Airways VIP lounge. The smiling hostess waved me through at his request, and we sat and c
hatted over black coffee and biscuits.
He thought that ‘good men like Nick’ were hard to find. Crucially, he thought they were ‘very loyal’. Simon said he trusted him.
‘Me, too,’ I agreed. ‘You know, I’ve trusted Nick with my life. He saved me in Liberia, that’s for sure. Actually, I think he’s the only person I would trust in that situation.’
Simon nodded. I went on.
‘It’s funny, though. Despite everything he’s been through, there’s something about him that’s quite naïve. Or maybe it’s just optimism. Once he’s decided that he trusts you, he’s very open, almost to a fault. I think he wants to put the people he’s responsible for at ease, so they believe everything’s going to work out okay.’
Simon agreed that might well be true. He and Nick, he told me, were developing some interesting plans – business plans – in Africa. I looked at Simon, wondering if this was the moment to ask what businesses it was exactly that he and Nick were in. I opened my mouth to speak.
‘Is there a number I can reach you on?’ he interrupted.
I gave him my card, and punched his number into my mobile.
The moment passed. After we’d swapped numbers, Simon and I exchanged anecdotes about Nick and our own military experiences. We kept chatting until we reached the taxi rank at London Heathrow. We shook hands again as his cab pulled up.
‘Stay in touch,’ he urged, with his characteristic half-smile. ‘I might have some work for you shortly.’
I waved him off, and headed home to Kathi.
‘Everything okay, sweetie?’
Kathi and I were standing in the living room of the flat in London where we were staying. I looked at her and sat down at the dining table.
‘Yeah, everything’s fine.’
I could tell she could see it wasn’t.
‘Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about and, well, you know, this has got to stay between us.’
She nodded, looking at me carefully. I had missed her while I’d been away. Apart from my mother and grandfather, there was almost nothing continuous – or dependable – about my life in Britain, and I was going to rely on her more and more. Kathi made a living from researching and writing about all the things that had become the bread and butter of my career: arms dealers, weapons transfers, rebel groups, spooks and mercenaries were her stock-in-trade. She was both the best and worst person to confide in. What I wanted was a confidant with whom I could share the burden of the experiences I was collecting. She was the only person I could talk to openly and intimately who would have understood.
‘When I was in Guinea, before we went to Liberia, Nick told me about this new job he’s working on. It’s not his gig as such, but he’s been asked – I swear I’m not making this up, by the way – he’s been asked to help overthrow a government. You know, a full-blown mercenary operation.’
Kathi seemed to take the information in her stride.
‘Where, West Africa?’
She wrinkled her nose, as if sniffing out candidate countries ripe for regime change.
‘Yeah, but I don’t know where exactly,’ I said, almost honestly. ‘I don’t know if he’s got the cash to do it … I mean, basically, he’s planning a coup d’état, which can’t be cheap, and it’s just – well, I just met him in Paris with his friend Simon Mann. Do you think that’s a big deal?’
‘Yes, I think we can safely say that is a big deal. God, you are amazing. Of course it’s a big deal!’ She exhaled heavily. ‘But you need to be careful, James. I know Nick’s a good friend, but the people involved in these things don’t screw around. If it’s real, you need to protect yourself. Have you agreed to anything?’
‘Yes.’ I conceded I had. ‘I mean, informally. I told Nick I’d film it.’
‘Okay, well, that’s unusual. I’m serious. You need to be more cautious.’ She was serious. Her gaze flitted around my face. ‘I worry about you, baby. I was out of my fucking mind when you didn’t call from Liberia. Just …’ She paused and walked over to me and shrugged. ‘… you know?’
Up until then, I hadn’t been worried about Nick’s African Adventure from a personal point of view: outside of managing the obvious risks of storming a defended beach at night with several dozen paid killers, it had seemed like a fairly straightforward military proposition. Kathi’s reticence gave me cause for thought.
‘Simon’s a very big deal, if they’re really in this together. He’s very well connected and you know – I mean, sweetie, you of all people should know – that he was basically the brains behind Executive Outcomes. I’m not saying you need to be careful of him, I mean he’s not a stupid guy, but somewhere there is going to be someone involved in this who will not want to be identified by you.’
I lit a cigarette and stared back at her.
‘Is there something else? You seem a bit troubled.’
It was as if she could see straight into me.
‘Yeah, there is something else. It, ah, well, it makes all this running around after stories seem a bit fucking stupid.’
I looked at her and almost couldn’t say it out loud, because the moment I did it would become real. The man who had helped to bring me up with such care and love was dying. I crushed the cigarette out.
‘I spoke to Mum while I was in Guinea. Grandad has been diagnosed with lung cancer. You know, he’s being really stoical about it, but from what I can tell it’s quite bad. He doesn’t want to upset Nan, but they’re worried it’s going to spread into his bones.’
What had started off as a persistent cough had led to a biopsy. At first the tumour seemed contained, but it had been festering for longer than originally suspected. With the right therapy, he might be treatable. But now he was having scans on his legs. If the cancer attacked his bones, his condition could deteriorate rapidly. The thought of losing him was too much, and I told myself that he’d pull through okay. Kathi wove her fingers through mine, and I hung onto her, desperate for reassurance.
* * *
Nick called from Conakry to confirm that the helicopters would be ready in six weeks. As far as Nick was concerned, I was definitely on board – despite Simon’s reticence in Paris. That gave me until the beginning of the third week of August 2003 to prepare. I kept a bag packed, ready to go – and considered my other professional options. After the unexpected success of the Newsnight piece, the BBC invited me to shoot and direct a four-part series for BBC Two called The Violent Coast. It was planned that I would travel to Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Benin and Nigeria for what the series producer said was a mixture of current affairs and entertainment. If nothing else, it would be a great way of keeping up with developments in the region, and working with Tim, who was hired as the assistant producer. If the series went well, I reasoned that I might be able to court the Beeb as a client for the film of the coup. The contract was due to begin on 18 August. I called Nick to make sure I wasn’t ruling myself out of the operation by accepting.
‘No, man, that’s great for you,’ came his enthusiastic response. ‘A team of my guys have gone up to the place we’re looking at to do a recce. We’re setting up some businesses there as a cover. It’s very interesting. It looks like we are going to be very busy indeed. There’s quite a few opportunities.’
He promised to give me as much warning as he could, and keep me up to speed with events. Just as I signed the BBC contract, Sekou Conneh called me. His forces were preparing to attack Monrovia again.
‘Dis time,’ he said, ‘we goin’ to bombar’ de city an’ make Taylah ron.’
It had been long-standing military strategy on behalf of the rebels to force a Government surrender by mortaring Monrovia. As early as June 2002, Conneh, Cobra and other commanders had agreed that it was the best way of forcing a mass rout with the relatively few troops at their disposal.
‘When y’ com’ ba’?’ he asked.
I told him I wasn’t sure I could. To placate him, I told him that Tim might come instead. The truth was that there w
as nothing to be gained from going back, unless something radical and unexpected happened – like a new front opening up in the war, or a surprise Taylor victory.
Every day, I listened to the World Service, following the rebels’ progress. Two weeks later, on 16 July, I switched on the radio to hear not that the rebels were in sight of Taylor’s office, but that a coup had been launched in São Tomé – a tiny group of islands in the Atlantic, off the coast of Nigeria and 300 miles southwest of Equatorial Guinea’s capital, Malabo. I called Nick immediately, and asked him if he’d seen the news.
‘Yes, that was a bit of a surprise,’ he said, chuckling on the phone. ‘It’s caused us a little bit of a problem.’
The Nigerians had waded in – resolving the crisis almost immediately. Their diplomacy was being backed by the real threat of military intervention: Nigeria’s share of São Tomé’s deep-sea oil reserves was reported to be worth $162 million.
‘There’s been a slight delay on the funding, too, but there’s a Lebanese investing now so there’s no rush. I’m going to Conakry in a week. I’ll let you know what the situation is like when I’ve spoken to Sekou.’
Five days later, the LURD had reached Monrovia again, freshly re-supplied by boat from Guinea, and their barrage of the city began in earnest. The US embassy’s Greystone complex received a direct hit. Upwards of 10,000 displaced civilians had sought refuge in tents in the compound: nineteen people were killed and sixty were wounded. Distraught parents, husbands, mothers, brought the dead to the front entrance of the US embassy and heaped them up as a symbol of their grief, demanding intervention. US Marines were flown in to secure the building, and evacuate some foreign nationals – but nothing more. Instead of hope, the Marines carried with them a case of beer and shut themselves away out of sight behind the embassy’s high walls and razor wire.
My Friend The Mercenary Page 29
