My Friend The Mercenary

by James Brabazon

  He was interrogated almost every day until the trial began – the Zimbabwean Central Intelligence Organisation were brought in to get a statement from him, too, which they then altered to fit Simon’s confession. Halfway through his trial, Nick’s defence lawyer was killed.

  ‘One day he was with us in perfect health, urging us to refute the charges – the next day we were told he’d “died of malaria”.’

  They were on their own. Although they didn’t receive the death penalty, most of the prisoners came close to death.

  ‘We all had malaria, cerebral malaria. I had it six times. In the new jail, in March 2008, I went into a coma for five days.’

  It reminded me of my other grandfather, Martin, the jungle fighter and would-be mercenary, who had the last rites read over him in Burma after a severe bout of malaria.

  ‘They came in to bring my body out,’ Nick shrugged, ‘but I was still alive. I don’t know how, but I came round and then they said, “Vok it, this guy needs medicine,” so they allowed me to have a course of drugs given by the South African consulate. Ja, that was close.’

  It was getting late. We had been talking for hours. Downstairs, I could hear Nick’s daughter pottering in the kitchen. The years in jail, the torture, the near-death from malaria, these were only the physical parts of his punishment. The legacy of the coup would be felt most sharply here at home. Nick had been in jail or away plotting in Equatorial Guinea for more than a third of his daughter’s life; his relationship with his wife was damaged – possibly beyond repair; and he would certainly remain notorious in South Africa until the day he died – a fact that, amongst many things, rendered him almost unemployable. Nick would serve a life sentence, come what may.

  In October 2006, Nick and the other men were transferred from the Spanish colonial cells where they were originally held to a newly built wing of the prison. Although he now had a trickle of cold running water and a toilet in his cell (along with an infrared security camera that recorded his every limited move), he remained in solitary confinement for more than four years of his five-year, eight-month sentence. He read the Bible, and began to feel increasingly drawn to the promise of salvation it offered.

  ‘After the trial, when I knew it was not death but a long sentence, I realised that I was changing, that slowly I was developing a true, deep faith in God. We would read verses of the Bible to each other through the cell doors when the guards weren’t listening. That’s how we supported each other, how our faith grew.’

  Apart from that, and his military training, there was precious little else to hang onto.

  ‘If you’ve been through selection, like I had to for the Recces, you’re conditioned to survive. In my mind I was strong. I thank Special Forces for that.’

  For three and a half years he was chained hand and foot. For the last twenty months of his incarceration the leg irons were removed in the cell. He remained almost permanently handcuffed until two weeks before his release. His diet did not improve.

  ‘At first, we were fed like dogs. Then they brought us these disgusting stews. James, it made the rice and slop we were eating in Liberia look like a really fancy restaurant.’

  Nick and the other three South African prisoners lived mostly on rice, dry bread and the occasional bit of fish, chicken gristle or pig’s tail. Three years into his sentence, Nick stopped eating the rice.

  ‘It wasn’t like rice as we know it. It was all broken up and mixed with grit and small stones. I’d just had enough. I said, “I can’t eat this shit any more”,’ and that was it.’ He lost thirty-seven kilograms, nearly 40 per cent of his body weight.

  Over time, eleven of the other men arrested with Nick had been released – owing to bad health or political expediency. Clemency for him and the remaining men had seemed remote in the extreme.

  ‘Then the attorney-general said in March that a possible release was being discussed with the South African Government. We were really waiting for Zuma to come to power here. Obiang and Mbeki didn’t get along at all. Even so, we never thought we’d get a pardon. I was hoping at most that we’d be extradited and serve out our sentences in South Africa. If it wasn’t for Zuma, we would never have been released. Without him, most probably Simon wouldn’t have got out, either.’

  We stood up and walked down the short flight of stairs to the kitchen-diner below. Marzaan had made redbush tea and strong instant coffee – a souvenir that Nick had brought back from Malabo.

  ‘You know,’ I told him, ‘Simon said that in jail he felt more like a guest than a prisoner. It seems like you had an entirely different experience from him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nick smiled, sipping his coffee. ‘He’s rich. He had a treadmill in his cell, and drank wine with his meals. I don’t know what it was like for him in Zimbabwe, though. Not all that great, I think. Ag, you know, it could have been worse for all of us. There are other jails in the world where we would not have survived.’

  It was an amazingly generous assessment. I wondered if Nick held a grudge against anyone.

  ‘Everyone assumes you’re going to want revenge, to get something out of Simon,’ I told him. ‘At least, that’s what they’re saying in the press.’

  He smiled.

  ‘No, I’m not bitter about Simon. I wish him well. We were both professionals. It just didn’t turn out right. It’s one of those things. It was better that way, better it didn’t.’

  ‘Nick, this is a strange question …’ I gathered my thoughts. ‘But are you glad you served six years? That you went to jail?’

  His answer was immediate.

  ‘Yes. Obviously, it was not ideal. But if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have changed and would have carried on in the same way. And if I had done that, then most likely I would be dead by now.’

  He sipped the hot coffee. Already I could not remember what Nick had looked like before he was arrested. It was as if he’d always been this way. Like a schoolboy in his first uniform, his clothes looked too new and didn’t quite fit. But he had been a healthy, well-trained soldier in his forties at the time of the coup – ready to fight his way to the presidential palace if necessary.

  ‘Thank God we didn’t kill or injure anyone,’ he said, considering the military operation he had planned. ‘It wasn’t right, what we tried to do. It wasn’t right at all. It was just greed and vanity.’

  ‘It’s a very good thing that plane didn’t land in Malabo,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Most likely it would have been successful. They weren’t prepared for anything like that, even if they knew.’ He looked up at me. ‘We had some serious firepower. Seventy guys – that’s a Fire Force who’s not afraid of anything. A lot of people would have been killed.’

  He paused, lost in thought for a moment.

  ‘But that’s all in the past now. I just want to move on, and put it behind me. I’ve made peace with my brother-in-law, and with the guys I was locked up with in EG. Simon has to rebuild his life, too. We all do.’

  There was, though, he thought, one positive thing that had come out of the plot to steal Obiang’s millions. Before the coup, most people in the West outside of the oil industry didn’t even realise that Equatorial Guinea existed: what the plotters achieved, by accident, was to expose the regime to the glare of the international media’s uncompromising spotlight. Obiang’s horror show was dragged reluctantly into the light of day.

  ‘Things have started to get better,’ Nick said, draining his coffee, ‘but there is still a long way to go before there is democracy and free-and-fair elections. We had no right to meddle in God’s plans for the country, but perhaps what we did will make it better for the people who live there after all. You have to do it politically, but if you want to make Africa a better place, you have to get rid of the dictators.’

  Storm clouds were piling up in the night sky outside. Summer nights in Pretoria promised a spectacular sound-and-light show. It was time for me to head back to my hotel. We’d made all sorts of plans for the weeks ahead: there were
cars to fix, a job to find, and the wedding of his stepdaughter to celebrate – the mundane and the wonderful trappings of a future rescued from a slow death in jail. We shook hands, and I said goodnight to my friend the mercenary.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that should be my friend the ex-mercenary.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing My Friend the Mercenary was possible only with the help, support and encouragement of family, friends and colleagues, to whom I am deeply grateful. Errors of fact or interpretation are mine alone.

  John Nimly Brownell, President of the European Federation of Liberian Associations (EFLA) guided me on how to reproduce Liberian–English dialogue. Where absolute clarity to the unaccustomed ear was essential, I have made changes to his rendition of Liberian speech.

  Cobus Claassens provided many insights and clarifications about the Executive Outcomes deployment in Sierra Leone. Frank employed his keen eye for detail with humour and precision.

  Without Tim Hetherington’s professional expertise, his loyalty and his friendship, it would not have been possible to successfully film the attack on Monrovia, nor personally assimilate its aftermath. His help with this project, including access to personal notebooks, diaries and his photographic archive, was crucial.

  Carla Garapedian gave important insights into the craft of writing this memoir, and told me to ‘stop thinking about it, and start writing it’. Access to her notebooks and diaries from the time of our investigations together in 2004 – 2005 was essential.

  I am indebted to Chris Yates, Aviation Analyst at IHS Janes and Principal of Yates Consulting, for his detailed and illuminating work on flight N4610; Kevin A. O’Brien, Fellow of the Department of War Studies, King’s College London, for his interesting analysis of the role of Special Forces within the SADF; Khadija Magardie, for spending many hours of her time giving valuable criticism of this manuscript; and Julian Rademeyer of Media 24 in South Africa, for answering a barrage of questions, as well as for his professional integrity and understanding.

  Sam Kiley gave characteristically forthright and illuminating comments and clarifications. I am also grateful for his role in having the documentary film My Friend the Mercenary commissioned in the first place.

  Jonathan Kaplan gave me much needed assistance with this book, and with the original magazine article that spawned it. I am most especially thankful for his brilliantly apposite explanation of the concept of Bad Intelligence, a phenomenon not uncommon in this book.

  Andrew Mueller gave helpful advice at every turn and provided endless hours of encouragement – largely focused around discussions of the central, pressing question of what could possibly go wrong?

  Aidan Hartley, a companion on many of the trips that followed the events in this book, gave advice about how best to approach the world of publishing.

  Mat Smith, formerly of Arena magazine, commissioned the original magazine article that led to this book. Piers Hernu commissioned me to travel to Sierra Leone at the outset. I would also like to thank Peter Oborne for his encouragement to write about my journey in Liberia in the first place, and I sincerely appreciate the efforts that Dominic Prince made to begin the process of having this project commissioned.

  I am grateful to Tim Butcher – who is very familiar with the contradictions of working in Liberia.

  I would also like to thank Patrick Smith, Adam Roberts, Anne-Marie Dias Borges, Nicholas Walton and Patrick Wells.

  Mei-Ling McNamara was the best researcher I could have hoped for. I was frequently amazed by her patience, impressed by her diligence and deeply thankful for her hard work.

  At Channel 4 and Quicksilver Media, I would like to thank Eamonn Matthews, Siobhan Sinnerton, Evan Williams, Ed Watts, Ed Braman and Kevin Sutcliffe for their help and friendship. I would like to thank Tina Carr and the Rory Peck Trust for their unfailing support.

  This book relies heavily on the wealth of information generated by the original filming trips made in 2002–2005. I am grateful to everyone – producers, commissioners, cameraman and technicians – who made those programmes possible.

  I am also grateful to David Henshaw at Hardcash; Will Thorne; Jacques Pauw; Jonathan Stack; RYP; Karen O’Connor; and Flora Gregory.

  To the many people who contributed in-depth interviews for this book – both on and off the record – I am very grateful. I would also like to thank J, A, C, and R – all formerly of 22 SAS – and the personnel at Subsahara Solutions LLC. While writing this book I was in contact with sources close to both Simon Mann and Ely Calil. I was told that they both might be in contact; ultimately, neither man decided to be.

  The helping hands extended by June and Will Simpson, Patrick Leigh Fermor, Barry Dunnage, Philippe Wibrotte, Roy Simmons, Lizzie Shirreff and Michael Birt have been invaluable.

  At Curtis Brown I have been lucky enough to have two agents – Camilla Hornby and Karolina Sutton – both of whom did painstaking work on this manuscript. Their professional candour, enthusiasm and care have been invaluable.

  All the staff at Canongate championed this project, and guided me through the twists and turns of writing this book. I am particularly grateful to Nick Davies, my editor, for his extraordinary diligence and increasingly flexible definition of the word ‘deadline’.

  My mother, Christine, encouraged and supported me unconditionally. My father, Michael, first whetted my appetite for travel on the sodden roads of Connemara. My grandmother Joy provided a helping hand and peace of mind whenever it was most needed. My grandfathers, Don and Martin, gave me everything they had, and, more than that, a chance to grasp something they never could. My children, Max and Bella, were the inspiration to tell this story and to tell it straight. My wife, Jess, is many wonderful things – not least, I discovered, a patient editor. She passed uncounted hours helping me craft this manuscript. Without her love, dedication and vision, writing this book would not have been possible.

  I remain indebted to the people in Liberia who opened their lives to the scrutiny of my lens; who supported me – at times literally – when I thought that I could not carry on. Almost everyone I met while filming was either killed or forced to flee their home. Anything I managed to achieve there in the months of marching and filming pales into insignificance in comparison to the daily struggle for survival that characterised their life in the war.

  When I first started to write, there was no prospect of Nick du Toit’s release. He began helping me with this memoir within hours of his return to South Africa. Some people have asked – knowing what I know now – if I would still have gone to Liberia in the first place. I would, as long as Nick was with me. On first reading the book, he wrote this by return:

  ‘James, I read the draft. Not too bad. You never shared your inner feelings and doubts with me, but it’s good you do bring it out in the book. It makes me look like an asshole at times, but the Epilogue does put things a little back into perspective. Thanks also for your loyalty to me. In the end what matters is our friendship, which nobody can take away from us, and I’m sure that you trust me enough to go with me again. Not that I’m planning anything like that.’

  On my maternal grandfather’s knee when I was two years old – photographed in Streatham, South London, 1974 – the year before Nick joined the Recces. Don fought across North Africa and into Italy in WWII with Montgomery’s famed Desert Rats, but rarely talked about it. © James Brabazon.

  With my grandfather Martin Brabazon – fierce jungle fighter, skilled boxer and accomplished musician; photographed in his council flat in London in 1996. It was from his lips that I first heard the word ‘mercenary’. © James Brabazon.

  On assignment in Kosovo, August 1998. Photographing the battle between Serbs and Kosovars in the Drenica Valley was my first commissioned foreign assignment, and my first professional experience of war. © James Brabazon

  (above) Nick fires his AK during target practice in Fassama, Liberia, early June 2002. At fifty yards he put most of his shots through the same bullet hole. />
  (left) Cobus Claassens photographed before a night ambush in Kono, Sierra Leone, while fighting for Executive Outcomes in the mid-1990s. Several of the men who fought with him went on to work on behalf of the U.S. military in West Africa – and were recruited for the Equatorial Guinea operation. © Cobus Claassens

  (above) Frank, my contact in US Intelligence, on military operations in West Africa in the 1990s. (above) Nick fires his AK during target practice in Fassama, Liberia, early June 2002. At fifty yards he put most of his shots through the same bullet hole.

  As well as providing LURD rebels deep cover for their military operations, the Upper Guinea forest is home to half of the mammal species known to the African continent. Under President Charles Taylor, log production increased by more than 1,300 per cent. Some of the cash proceeds were illegally used to buy weapons. © Tim Hetherington

  An exhausted Nick on the retreat from Tubmanburg, after walking for three days straight. Bopolu, 21 July 2002. © James Brabazon

  Walking on the road south towards Tubmanburg, June 2002. Ambushes were common and it was too dangerous to travel in the vehicles. Nick’s AK rests on the bonnet behind me while he takes the picture. © James Brabazon

  Members of General Deku’s LURD Special Forces unit pose for a photograph outside of Fassama, June 2002. Most of the people in this picture are now dead or missing. Deku is pictured centre left, holding a walkie-talkie. © James Brabazon