by Simon Mann
‘Of course. Good luck in Angola. We would like to see that won. The MPLA were our … associates. Perhaps, when they win, they can pay Russia some of the money that they owe?’
‘I’ll ask,’ I said, with a smile.
As we stood to part, the General, now frowning again, said farewell.
Maria turned to me with a kiss, and a whisper. ‘Kimche is your friend – in principle – but, in practice, he must not go against his proxy masters in Langley … he has to betray you. He has no choice. Please, Simon, please, the CIA have bought many people here in Moscow … some are killers. You must use your skills … you must be careful as you work.’
I left the Kempinski and walked back to my shabby three-star, along the Moscow river, opposite the Kremlin. My route took me past the British Embassy, the building which had so infuriated the old comrades with its elegance, its pride of place.
I thought about the meeting. About this wild tale in which I was now a part. The General had made it clear who had been blocking the purchase – the CIA. How they were doing so was easy to see.
Why wasn’t difficult either: the CIA – or the Barrel Boyz within – must want UNITA to win. Or for the war to go on and on. Naive though I was back then, I suffered few illusions on that score. With the Yanks pushing and pulling, it was no surprise that dear old David Kimche had run for cover. The only thing for Tony and me to do was to fight on.
Slowly our progress drew us closer to the place to which all roads led: the Final Release Committee meeting at the state arms export bureau, then called Rosvooruzhenie, now Rosoboronexport.
This, Giorgio kept repeating, was the big hurdle. We only reached this far because all the other rules, committees, agencies and forms had shown Green Lights. Now the Committee would look at whether or not they should allow release to take place.
The Final Release Committee meeting would be held at Rosvooruzhenie’s offices, true enough, but the Chairman and two other members came from the Foreign Ministry. They would be ranking KGB, scarcely veiled.
On the day itself, I woke and dressed feeling calm.
I had reached the point where I knew I’d done my best. That was that. If this thing was going to work, then today it would start to do so. If it wasn’t, then it wasn’t.
Then today would be the day to go home and think again.
At breakfast I ran through everything with Nick and Giorgio. Nick and I both needed to put all thoughts of the General and Maria out of our minds. There could be no hint of our ‘roof’, if we really had any. We must play it straight. We must play to win, but straight.
We met in the Roz boardroom. Present: the Roz apparatchiks, the Angolan Ambassador to Moscow, his Military Attaché, the Admiral (or so he was introduced: – Navy – Foreign Ministry – KGB – anyone’s guess), his interpreter and his two nodders.
The Admiral started by demanding to see the credentials of the Angolan Ambassador and his Military Attaché. He then asked who I was. I answered: an officer in the Armed Forces of Angola, brigadier general; an agent, specially commissioned by the President of Angola, to carry out this procurement; the man who will physically, himself, fly with the ODAB consignment, from Russia to Angola, to ensure safe delivery.
I handed the Admiral those papers. Copies were already in his file.
The Admiral sneered at them, sheet by sheet, then quizzed me: ‘How do we know you not terrorist?’
‘If I am a terrorist, then the Ambassador to Moscow and the President of Angola are lying.’
‘How do we know you not bribe – not bribe Ambassador…?’ – he nodded in that man’s direction – ‘…not bribe President?’
The nodders nodded. I was stunned.
I had heard, from Nicholas Elliott, the joke that the title ‘Comrade’ was Russian for ‘kaffir’. But this was embarrassing. Looking at the Ambassador and the Attaché, I could see that they were used to such insults. To such diplomatic outrages.
They were going to take no part in this exchange.
I tried: ‘Admiral, please. Insulting the people of Angola, whom the President and Ambassador represent, is not going to help.’
I smiled my best, and least sincere, Old Etonian smile. ‘The point, Admiral – surely – is that your colleagues, Rosvooruzhenie, and ourselves, have tried to pre-empt these objections: my flight to Angola is in your aircraft, paid for by Angola [not true: Tony and I were paying for it, as we were the bombs]; the air crew are yours, and the flight will be met, and checked, by your Rosvooruzhenie agent, their country manager, in Luanda [true].’
The nodders looked to the Admiral.
He focused on the file and started sifting, paper by paper, leaf by leaf: each, from his grimace, more worthless than the last.
He darted his stare at Nick: ‘You! Arm dealer?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Glencoe Arms Limited? Your company?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where is licence of British government – for Glencoe – for arm dealer?’
‘There is no such licence, sir. Under British law no such licence can exist: if a company is within the laws of all parties, then it can trade, in arms or anything else. Nobody has a UK arms dealer licence.’
Nick frowned at one of the Roz apparatchiks.
The man timidly brought the Admiral’s glare to the three sets of letters that endorsed what Nick had said. One set was from the Russian Embassy in London, one from the British Embassy in Moscow, and the third was from the chief of Roz itself. Each was separately written in Russian and English. Each had been attested and stamped by a notary.
The Admiral, however, wanted to see a licence, or a permission, from the UK. His bureaucratic mind could not imagine a world without such an explicit sheet of paper. He smiled unpleasantly. The nodders nodded. Then they too smiled unpleasantly.
This was it. I nudged Nick, for him to run out our last great gun. This was to fire our golden cannon ball – something we had planned, just in case we came to this point. A last shot.
Nick dished out new papers to everyone around the table: a letter, with translations, stamped by a notary, and with a very distinctive letterhead.
The letter said again what Nick and the other letters had said. It ended by stating that, therefore, there was no reason why the Glencoe-sponsored, government-to-government, Russia-to-Angola sale could not go ahead.
‘Why not in file?’
‘Just arrived this morning, sir,’ lied Nick.
He waved a DHL delivery slip. In fact the delivery slip was for another paper – one sent purely to achieve a DHL delivery slip, dated that morning.
The Admiral looked carefully at the slip. We had tried to anticipate any nit-picking problem that could become a barrier, if such a barrier was what an opponent sought. We had not wanted this letter to be on file, unless it was needed.
The Admiral stared at the embossed notepaper, taking in the understated self-confidence.
‘House of Lords. House of Lords. What is House of Lords?’
‘I think Simon can best explain that, sir,’ Nick replied brightly. Just as I’d feared.
Sweating, I placed my two elbows down on the table, hands and fingers held up straight, to form the two upper sides of a triangle.
‘The British system of rule – and law – sir – is a pyramid…’ I waited for the interpreter.
‘At the very top of this pyramid…’ I wiggled my top four fingertips, while staring at them. Seeking their meaning.
More interpretation.
‘…is the House of Lords! The top!’
This was met by a big ‘Da – Horoshiy!’, then its echoes from the nodders – as if what everyone really wanted was a lesson on the English constitution.
They wanted to know more and more about the two Houses of Parliament, the Crown, the Law, the Church, but always came back to the Lords.
Russians, better than anyone else, love a pyramid. The pyramid is what squashes us, the proletariat, the hoi polloi, those unlucky enough not to be a
part of the party, the apparat: the vast 3D triangle of flesh-crushing stone above us.
Now I could see, horror of horrors, that the Admiral wanted to join that most exclusive club, the House of Lords. He was about to ask me to fix it for him. I was fearful.
Then what?
But – unsignalled – from that moment the meeting rolled downhill. It ended with smiles and handshakes all round. We should hear their decision the next day, we were told. To Giorgio’s amazement.
Once we were outside, Nick could not help himself. He laid into me. Over one of our many shared bottles of wine, I had told Nick what I thought of hereditary power in general, and of the Devon Oil and Gas ‘Unit Lord’ – Viscount Fotherington – in particular.
I had talked endlessly to Tony Buckingham about having this peer on our payroll. I just couldn’t see the point of it, even if it was Nicholas Elliott who had asked us to take him on, and even if that unquestionably meant that Fotherington had been or was some kind of spook.
Now we were getting our money’s worth out of the Viscount: the headed notepaper had been all important. Absurdly, I smiled to myself about our old Unit Lord, Charles Greenock, back in 1 SG, British Army of the Rhine (BAOR). He who coined the term. His uselessness, as a soldier, had been without dispute. Like Fotherington. Then all had to be forgiven.
During a midnight swimming-pool party, high in the Bavarian Alps, Charles pushed a very cross and pompous brigadier into the pool. In his dinner jacket. Before the brigadier belly-flopped and swam, the wretched man had been trying to place all us party people under arrest. But that is another story.
Noon next day, Giorgio appeared in the hotel, shouting, ‘Baobab, baobab.’ This had become our slogan, for a successful delivery to Angola, a land of baobab trees. We could go. The Admiral, the Final Release Committee, had finally released: 20 ODAB 500s.
I called Maria to circumspectly give her our news, and thanks. We would settle up in London someday soon, I promised. That was because, as Angolans have it, ‘…as pernes do cabra deve passar … the legs of the goat must pass.’
Back in Luanda, after a wild journey in our chartered Il-76, and with the ODABs just delivered, I met up with Stavros, in town on DOG business. We had a quick drink together in the dear old Tivoli, many times winner of that unusual award ‘War Zone Hotel that Tries the Hardest’.
Stavros needed cheering up. I told him of our Russian highlights. Stav the Greek, I knew, hated the Russians more than Poles do. What he liked best, however, was the description of the time when I had enough of Nick’s determination to recruit all and sundry for MI6, and for his arms-dealing network.
I had explained to Nick: you are on our payroll. You have a job to do: buy the ODABs. No sideshows. Especially not the kind of sideshows that could easily get us shot.
Then it was time to celebrate. JD and DM picked us up from the Tivoli in a Toyota Land Cruiser that seemed several sizes up from the one that the poor people get. They took us to the best restaurant in town, the Barracuda. Very smart: five crossed hammer and sickles.
A bottle of vintage champagne popped straight away, and off we went. DM was beside himself with the success of my mission. JD, as ever, was courteous and slow, but he too was excited.
‘Simon – João and myself – we say to you, “Sorry.”’
‘Why?’
‘We thought that you couldn’t do this – and we told you so. Tony the same. Well – now we have our ODABs – they are here. But I will tell you why we are so thankful … why we are surprised.
‘Firstly, UNITA, and UNITA’s friends, are powerful. They have a long arm. We thought they would be sure to stop you in Moscow, to harm you, to kill you even.
‘Secondly, there are people here – in the MPLA – people who are making money out of the war – they do not want the war to end.
‘Thirdly, we, Angola … we owe the Russians so much money! We never thought they would allow this deal, when we owe them hundreds of millions … or so they say, with their crazy and not very Marxist-Leninist system…
‘Fourthly, Russia, we know, is under pressure to stop arms proliferation.
‘Lastly, 20 ODABs … is so small a deal. Nobody was to become rich by this … and that way it is so much harder to make the deal happen.
‘João de Matos believes – and I agree – that these ODABs can tip the balance of this war such that UNITA will want to stop fighting…’
I replied, ‘Well, we’ve done it… Next thing is to use them wisely.’
I looked both Angolans in the eye. An atrocity could be laid at my feet, if things went wrong. I prayed that the ODABs would not be used to commit some ghastly act against innocent civilians.
DM spoke. JD nodded and turned to me: ‘Rest easy: what we plan for the ODABs is to twist their arm – yes – but with no bloodshed. You’ll see.’
‘Good. Because I am in your hands.’
They nodded.
I went on: ‘In Moscow, as you know from all the delay, I had trouble…’ – they nodded again – ‘…but, luckily, I had friends in Moscow – the right ones, it seems…’
‘Surely.’
‘…they warned me that I was in danger. Moscow is a perilous place just now. And that UNITA had friends. The biggest reason they wished to help us was because they did not care to have their business tampered with by a foreign power. In short, they said that the CIA, the US, were the friend of UNITA. They were trying to block me, in Moscow!’
I watched for the reaction of my two Angolan friends. Stavros, I knew, was watching too.
Neither showed his hand.
I continued: ‘So … to what extent are the CIA still helping UNITA? Did the CIA help push UNITA back into war?’
A hush fell over our table, stark against the background buzz of the busy dining room. DM broke the spell, talking rapidly to JD. He looked knowingly around the high-ranking, big-bucks diners.
Some Barrel Boyz here, for sure.
He laughed.
JD nodded and spoke. ‘João likes your question! But not in here. Not now. Let us enjoy dinner. Then we can go … there is a new nightclub – João’s girlfriend will be there – and some of her friends.’ JD paused. ‘Your question will keep for a more private … a safer place. We will talk about it soon.’
The next day I lunched with Stavros, who was flying out that afternoon on the Sabena flight to Kinshasa, then Brussels.
‘Don’t, Stavros. No lectures, please,’ I said.
‘Simon – you’re living very dangerously…’
‘Stavros,’ I interrupted, ‘if you eat that prawn cocktail, you’ll be living dangerously! In Angola ten million people have lived dangerously, in civil war, for 20 years, every fucking day. Now we’re going to finish it. By winning it. End of discussion.’
A bottle of Mateus Rosé in an ice bucket appeared. I poured. Once the glasses were filled I noticed only a few chunks of cork floating in each. Things were looking up. I raised my glass.
‘As Abthorpe would say, Stavros, here’s how!’
Once the deadly dangerous Cocktail de Maresco had been eaten, Stavros asked me if I’d heard about a Mr Andy Smith – and the diamond-mining plans. I knew no details, but had been warned by Michael Grunberg, the clever, able accountant who we’d just appointed to run our London offices. I expected to be briefed the following week, back in London.
‘Tony’s met this guy Andy Smith – seems he’s a mining hotshot. Apparently JD has asked Tony to come mining here, in Angola – Tony wants to do it – Smith wants to run it – wadda you gonna say?’
‘I will say: how can we go mining before the war ends? Then again: if we can make money by securing concessions now, which we can flog off later, then, why not?’
Stavros considered, then said, ‘I thought that’s how you’d see it. Nothing wrong with that – and I won’t lecture ya, OK? But maybe the goddam agency are our enemy, maybe not – BUT maybe one of the mineral traders is as well.’
‘You and I have talked about it often
enough, Stavros – but so what?’
‘So what? So s’pose one of the mineral traders was there pushing UNITA, after the elections, with or without anyone else – so s’pose, OK…?’
‘I’m s’posin’, Stav.’
‘Jeez – fuckin’ limey faggot… So s’pose this: Tony and you, having fucked up their plans for a quick UNITA victory, or their plans for a long, slow war, now – and – FOR YOUR NEXT TRICK! – become mineral producers, as well. C’mon, buddy. They’re gonna go abso-fucking-lutely ape-fucking-shit.’
I toyed with the cold water condensing on the outside of my wine glass. He had a point. And another one.
‘An’, Simon – I mean, sure, – Angola want people to go mining again – or will do, as soon as it’s at all possible – so don’t ya think that’s one of the reasons they want you an’Tony to go a-mining’, while things are still hot? So that then they can use your example as a stick to beat everyone else with.’
‘Must be why Tony’s calling it Branch Minerals, Stav: Branch – stick!’
‘Jeezus, Simon!’
Of course, I knew Stavros was half right on both counts. Maybe better than half.
I grinned at Stavros. He understood that grin. Didn’t like it.
‘You know, Stav? You’ve just made mining more attractive to me.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Simon! You and Tony are having a lovely time right now. You’re doing a good job well, you’re earning money, and you’re winning. Hooray.
‘But, buddy, one day, UNITA, or the Agency, or a mineral trader, or some sonofabitch an’ a bachelor are gonna catch you out. You’re gonna see that one interferin’, over-reachin’ limey is like a beetle ’neath their Cuban. Scrunch, pop… That’ll be you.’
‘Fancy a Marlboro, Stav?’
CHAPTER NINE
JANUARY 2004: EG COUP
Time is running out for us.
I had hoped that our putsch – Plan C, to down the ruling gangsters of Equatorial Guinea – might take place on Christmas Day 2003, when everyone was looking the other way. Instead, Christmas is crisis time for the coup.