by Simon Mann
Money will buy you only so much.
We set up for a drink at his house in London, the following Thursday at six thirty. Just as he was about to say goodbye I told him that, since we must be going to talk about Africa, I would bring my partner and friend, Tony Buckingham, if that was all right. Except, my tone said, if it wasn’t all right, then I wasn’t coming. TANGO SIERRA. Tough shit.
He wasn’t thrilled, but he agreed.
So round we both went. The house was smart but quite modest, in an affluent part of the city. Mrs L and Mr L both looked as though they had been blown up by bicycle pumps. As we arrived, she greeted us like long-lost explorers.
Then, with lots of cherry stones, and wah wah, she asked what we would like to drink. The two of them went into a knockabout: pouring drinks, fetching ice. They asked after my mother and father, who they knew so well, of course, and how super they were.
Then we were told how bloody badly their damn horse had run that afternoon, in the 3.30 at Newmarket.
Tony, of course, was loving this. Plenty of ammo. Family and class insights galore. He’d rip the piss out of me later. As if the Lipmans weren’t enough, I was choking on the chintzes.
Edward paused, checking with himself that he’d played all the family calling cards. He needn’t have worried: he’d played most of them twice. Mrs L vanished.
Edward took a draft of his gin and tonic. He was looking at me all the time. Wishing Tony anywhere else.
‘Now, Simon, Angola.’
‘Angola.’ I agreed.
‘We – that is … well, we have a business idea to put to both of you … a quid pro quo, if you like …
‘We know you’re helping the MPLA. We know about what happened at Soyo. What we want to know now, though, is this…
‘How much would it cost, to make you, you two, and all your men, go away? To get out of Angola altogether? How much would that cost? … You know: to buy you out?’
Edward fidgeted.
Tony and I glanced at one another. Disbelief. A silence lengthened in that prissy, over-baked sitting room.
Edward waved his bucket-sized gin and tonic: ‘Of course – one feels sorry for all the people caught in the war: but … well … this is business …’
Silence again. Edward gave Tony a quick look. So Tony spoke: ‘Ask Simon, Edward. He’ll tell you.’
Edward looked at me.
‘The MPLA are the government of Angola. They were freely and fairly elected, under International Supervision. What UNITA are doing is thuggery, banditry, murder. UNITA attacked us. Devon Oil and Gas. Our Soyo Joint Exploration Venture.
‘The MPLA are our friends, and our partners, Edward … now they are our Brothers-In-Arms as well. Our flag is nailed to the MPLA mast.’
Edward was shocked. We were shocked. There was nothing more to say.
Tony and I put down our untouched buckets on the dinky side tables. We said our goodbyes. The air that greeted me outside felt fresh. I needed it. The offer was an insult. Without a word to one another, we walked.
We’d just seen a show of strength. For God’s sake. The phone call from the Senior Partner of Franklins. Blackwell knew what was behind the meeting damn well. But, even if he didn’t, it’s part of the MBC/Lipman warning. They’re telling us: watch out! We can fag the Senior Partner of Franklins to act as our bloody secretary. We are the big time. Big hitters.
If you don’t take our offer then watch out.
Why buy us out of Angola? We knew why.
At that time, UNITA controlled Angola’s mineral production.
The way MBC saw it, if the MPLA won the civil war, and gained control over all Angola’s mineral mines, then they would be in trouble. Their highly profitable, and strategically all important, power play in Angola would be over.
Lose control of Angola and the whole of MBC’s control of the world market, always tenuous, could start to slip.
So what does Edward Lipman come up with? Ah, yes! Cheap at twice the price. Buy out these two arseholes helping the MPLA. Just do a deal: buy them out.
What if they say no? Ah. Well. Then – unfortunately – having given them every chance – and, after all, the MPLA are Marxist Leninist Moscow-backed bastards – then we’ll just have to – you know – well, and don’t worry – we have an outfit (no link to us, of course), who has an outfit, who know some people, who will – er – take care of, er, Mr B – and, er, Mr M – and all their works: rest assured.
This is business.
We slunk wordlessly into a pub in Shepherd’s Market and ordered a large brandy each. Tony took a large mouthful and looked at me in horror. ‘Shit – Simon. We’ve just turned down a blank-cheque deal from one of the most powerful companies in the world! I mean, to them, “If you can’t buy them out, take them out” is a fucking company motto.’
I took a swig of my firewater. I knew Tony was right. My mind revved.
‘But what can we do? What should I have said, Tony?’
Tony smiled at me. ‘You said the right thing. There’s nothing else we can do. You were one hundred per cent.’
Tony took another mouthful. Spoke again. ‘We’re committed now … but what kind of fucking mercenaries are we? We should be taking our cheques and headin’ for the high hills.’
‘No, we have to crack on. Try to become too powerful for them to touch, but quickly: “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead”. MBC are not the only ones gunning for us now. That’s our only option against them all.’
‘Well said, Tony. I’ll get us another glass of this firewater. Then let’s drink to it.’
Brothers-In-Arms.
Throughout 1993 and early ’94, I spent most of my time in Luanda. Amanda was now technically ‘living with me’, at 36 Portobello Road. I paid. But she did the house up – brilliantly, beautifully. No Colefax and Fowler there.
My being away was tough on Amanda, but she had known what she was getting into. She knew that I had to see this Angolan conflict through. To a speedy victory, we both hoped. To peace.
To that end, Crause and I had been busy putting together an unusual air force. By late 1993, we had set up a support-helicopter wing of Mi-17s, with South African pilots, that was attached to the EO spearhead battalion. We had also bought two Beechcraft King Air Super 200 turboprops and two Boeing 727-100 airliners.
The two Boeings and one of the King Airs supported EO, always with one eye on the critical casevac issue (casevac being distinct from medevac, medical evacuation). The other King Air, call-sign Papa Whisky, was our spy plane.
The South African defence contractor Denel, without knowing the purpose, installed a day-and-night digital imagery capture system. A bunch of SIGINT (signals intelligence) devices were also on board. Papa Whisky’s SIGINT and ELINT (electronic intelligence) role was to help us gather intelligence on the enemy by intercepting radio signals and other electronic radiation.
I too flew Papa Whisky sorties, partly to check how the systems were working, partly to cheer up the mixed South African and Angolan crews. It was hard graft, and dull, but also frightening.
A detailed effort had gone into assessing the risk of a hit by a SAM. All precautions had been taken. But the thought was always present, as we sat there for hours on end, day after day, at between 15,000 and 20,000 feet, photographing.
Throughout every one of these sorties, there was a nasty sensation around the arse. The bottom of the spine. A nasty fear … slithering sometimes around the gut. The nasty thought that UNITA might have bought a Strela-3 SAM. Something that would deal with our altitude and blow us out of our grid-search flying pattern.
After each sortie, the imagery was downloaded onto a Local Area Network (LAN) of Apple Macs. These were located next to General João de Matos’s office, at FAA HQ. Here the imagery was enlarged, processed, enhanced, interpreted, managed, stored. Carefully, it was compared with previous imagery of the same area.
Information was gathered from as many sources as possible, then was all ground through the In
telligence Management System. Mainly it was Papa Whisky’s imagery and SIGINT that formed the hard core of usable intelligence: Combat Intelligence.
One thing we were all sure of: Papa Whisky was effective. It found targets.
More importantly, in a war like this, UNITA hated Papa Whisky. To UNITA, the machine had supernatural powers. They believed it could see things way beyond what was technologically possible. Papa Whisky’s mythological status suited us fine. It seemed to bring us supernatural luck.
The Papa Whisky digital imagery, combined with a long SIGINT operation, in the HF and VHF bandwidths, led to a breakthrough. The intelligence staff (South African, with Angolans under training) believed that they had pinpointed a UNITA TAC HQ. Or, at the very least, some sort of replenishment depot.
That night, we strapped two 250-kilogram iron bombs onto the wings of one of the EO-owned and flown L39 jet trainers. Our most experienced South African pilot, Pien, strapped himself into the craft. By flying at night, using Night Vision Goggles (NVGs), he would achieve surprise. He would be safe from any air defence. And he was going to hurl those great bruiser bombs straight at the target.
I’d flown with Pien on these night sorties before, back-seating for him because the cockpit lighting was not set up for NVGs. The back-seater used a lumo-stick – tucked up the sleeve of his flying suit – to read his instruments. He would call out to Pien what Pien wanted to know. Pien had no instrument lit, because the lights would dazzle the NVGs. It sounds hairy. It was hairy.
Crause wanted to fly Papa Whisky. To watch and film. There was competition to fly on that sortie. All seats taken, standing room only, so I stood down and waited for news at HQ.
News didn’t come. They had taken off late, the air base ops room told me. I returned to my hotel room at the Tivoli. I tried to sleep. Instead I fought with my elbows. And my over-active imagination. At 0300, attackers burst into my room. Pien, Crause and all the rest were in high spirits. They flatly refused to tell me what had happened. Instead, they took me to the FAA HQ Ops and INT centre.
They called together the various FAA watchkeepers and duty officers. Then they set up their video. The bluest of blue movies could not have had a keener audience. They switched the tape on. Papa Whisky’s normal GPS and avionics video feeds came up. The image contrast intensified. I could make out the light grey, dark grey of terrain.
I could see an insignificant-looking cross-track in the centre of the screen. We watched for a while. Then – bam! – the whole screen just turned white. Then it flicked, flickered, strobed, shone white and more white. It was as if the very continent of Africa had atomised.
The audience cheered.
Pien yelled, ‘Simon, honestly, man! The whole fucking place blew up – it was awesome.’
Crause, who had been at 15,000 feet, 12,000 feet above ground level, told the same story. His eyes were wide. He could never have imagined anything like it. Lekke.
The next morning at 11 I was back in FAA HQ. I had a scheduled meeting with Joaquim David and General João de Matos. They wanted to know if I still wanted to go ahead with the next step of my air plan. It was a vital step, but one that had made the two of them baulk.
Our best chance of bringing this war to an end – of bringing about peace – was by threatening a massive use of force. Overwhelming firepower. We needed to convince UNITA that they were surely doomed to defeat.
We needed to show them that we had the money, the power, the weaponry, to blow them away. Literally. I was aiming for what would later be coined a ‘shock and awe’ blitz. I wanted to give UNITA a shock that would bring this thing to an end. Once and for all.
There was one way open to us to make this happen. The purchase of some fuck-off bombs from another country. I researched the market. The answer was a Russian fuel-air bomb, the 500-kilogram ODAB 500. These produce a wider, more intense and longer-lasting blast wave than condensed explosives. Put bluntly, they do more damage. They are like a poor man’s tactical nuke, without radiation or fall-out.
Other than political.
One reason for this plan, that I would not be dwelling on, was that far too many top brass, in FAA and MPLA, wanted the war to carry on. Just like UNITA. They made money, or they did not want the pressures of peace – schools, hospitals, civil rights.
One FAA general, I had on good authority, was busy making a packet by flying diesel out of Luanda and into a UNITA-run diamond mine. Diamond mines need plenty of diesel. These guys were bandits and garimpeiros (seekers of gold or precious stones) first, generals and politicians a poor second.
I wanted a knock-out punch that would fry the venal bastards…
Now I had to persuade JD and DM – who were not of the warmongers’ bunch – to put up the money so that we could buy the ODAB 500s.
Last night’s fireworks must only help my cause.
The HQ building was still in a state of excitement. Not everyone had seen the video yet. The Reconnaissance Interpretation Cell (RIC) was doing a fine trade. I went into DM’s large, dark office. JD was already there. The Angolans were both very pleased. They had seen the video.
Many times over, they laughed.
I went for the jugular. In that case, buy the ODABs!
My two friends were straight away serious. No, they were not buyers.
I laid into them. The ODABs could end this war… Why? … JD held up his hand for me to stop.
‘Simon, listen. How is it in English? “You are preaching to the converts” – yes?’
I nodded, confused.
‘Your friend, and mine also, Tony, is a businessman. Very much a businessman. We, João de Matos and myself, have been unable to persuade the President to release funds to Tony – or rather through Tony – as payment for the ODABs.’
DM took up the slack: ‘The problem is this: you will not be able to persuade the Russians to sell them to us. Apart from anything else, you see, we owe the Russians hundreds of millions. The President thinks we will just lose the money, to the Russians … or to Tony.’
JD again: ‘Much as João and I want the ODAB 500s, and much as we agree with you about their importance, Simon, we think the President is probably right.’
‘Can I speak to the President?’ I tried. ‘Could that help in any way?’
They both shook their heads glumly.
‘Are you sure, Joaquim? General? Have you really given it your best shot?’
JD could read how disappointed I was. Kindly, both his hands made that very Luandan gesture: ‘I’d like to help, but I can’t.’ As ever, it was made with a sorry smile.
I cursed. My heart sank. This was not the first rebuff. Not a big surprise. But a huge disappointment.
I’m a soldier. This war needs winning.
War hurts.
I would have to risk my Plan B. And … a big argument with Tony. Assuming DM and JD would accept it first, that was.
‘OK. Will you help me if I try a different way?’
They looked at each other. DM smiled and shrugged. He and JD were two of the very few top brass really keen to finish this war. Others seemed keen to keep it going. Keen to milk more money out of it.
‘My plan is this,’ I began. ‘You know these things have to be bought government to government. You understand that?’
They nodded.
‘OK,’ I continued. ‘What if that is how the deal is structured? You – Angola – only pay out cash on delivery to you, here, in Angola. How about that?’
They looked confused.
‘Tony and I will put up the money, up front. We’ll buy the ODABs.’
JD and DM eyed me. Eyed each other.
‘You serious?’ asked DM, with eyes that said: ‘Please say you’re serious!’
‘Serious,’ I nodded.
They went away. I waited. And waited.
Then the news came. The ODAB purchase could start. I would have all the paperwork and support I needed. Sovereign state to sovereign state. EUCs (the all-important End User Certificates, require
d for any kosher arms deal). Letters of Commission from the President. Embassy help. Anything.
Then, in London, my least predictable hurdle. I would have to work hard to push businessman Tony into such an unbusinesslike deal. I explained to him that half the money at risk would be mine. That helped. To my amazement, he said yes. Tony, too, wanted an end to the bloodshed. He asked me again, ‘What kind of fucking mercenaries are we?’ Which was fair enough. Cuddly ones?
I knew who I had to talk to next. I had already arranged for a legitimate arms-dealing friend, Nick Potter, to act as the wheeler dealer. He, in turn, already had a Moscow Mr Fix-It, whom Amanda was later to pitilessly label ‘Giorgio Armani’. How he loved those shades.
Next I needed the heavy muscle, to open the right doors for Nick. What the Russians call ‘roof’. My man for that was an Israeli, David Kimche. He, I knew, was busy in Moscow. He wielded power there, both in his person and by dint of his Russian associates. I had met David through Nicholas Elliott, one of the great British spooks of the 20th century. Elliott went to Eton, where he became friends with my father and my uncle. He was the son of Claude Elliott, a renowned headmaster at the school and a great mountaineer. Claude was the man behind Mallory’s ill-fated Everest climb of 1924.
David Kimche had been Nicholas Elliott’s opposite number in Mossad. He had also been Golda Meir’s Personal Under Secretary on foreign affairs.
Being an intelligence officer, David had dug up facts on me. He knew, for example, that my mother’s father, Marshall Clark, had been once busy in Palestine. In World War II, Marshall had been the Senior Engineer in the South African 6th Armoured Division.
Straight after the fighting in Italy was over, Marshall was given a new task: to reopen the Alexandria–Damascus railway line. Over several years he did so, and was awarded the CBE. The railway ran beyond Damascus, to Aleppo, and that too was reopened. Marshall had quite a job. Arabs and Israelis both wanted to blow the railway line. To tyro terrorists a railway line is a gift.
Today, the line is blocked in the Rosh Hanikra Grottoes that should link Israel with Lebanon. Instead, the Israel Defence Force has blown in enough of the tunnel to ensure that the line will never run again.