Cry Havoc

by Simon Mann

  The difficulty is, what the President needs is the IDs of the Plan X palace coupsters. My difficulty is, the Boss was clever enough not to give me those IDs. Lists, of the Goodies and the Baddies, were to be sent to me only once I was in Malabo. If I cannot come up with those names, then the Pres is not going to be happy. If he isn’t happy, then I stay in Black Beach. Simple.

  Snippets mean so much to my inquisitors. How did I know that Juan and 20 men were going to Israel for Close Protection training, back in November 2003? But I did. It’s there, in my notebook. How did I know? they wonder. So few people knew at that time.

  How could Severo locate the President as he had done from that Barcelona hotel suite. And how could we say that we could move the President (one time) to position him for the Op. It means that there was someone inside the President’s circle plotting. Who? Is he there still, today?

  Time, though, I have.

  Slowly the thought comes to me that between March 2003 and March 2004 the Boss and I had many meetings. Many things happened. So, if I play back the tapes in my head of that year, then surely – like a lead scout – I will pick up the sign that I need in order to get on the trail of the IDs – those that the Pres wants.

  I start. I play a part of my tape, and make notes, then notes of the notes. I play it again.

  As I say, time I do have.

  There was a meeting with the Boss when we were talking about getting into EG using a fishery protection contract as cover. Who else had been there? Amil Hammam, son of Rafiq.

  The meeting had been odd. What had it really been about? Had Amil been checking me out? Yes, that fits the feeling I had. So, if he was checking me out … then he was a part of the team. The more I think about this, the more sure I become. This jungle ‘ground sign’ that I have picked up – Hawkeye, Boy Scout – leads somewhere that is worthwhile for Equatorial Guinea’s intelligence agency. I make notes. I state my case.

  Three weeks later, I am stating the same case. I have every day since I began. At every chance I have, poor Miguel has another earful. I know that if I cannot convince him, then I never will the others. Risking their anger, I go on and on. I am the dripping tap to out-drip all others.

  Amil Hammam walks in. Under guard.

  Hammam wears a pinstripe suit, New & Lingwood shirt, Ganes shoes. His heel tips ring with steel and confidence. The Hermes tie is crisp. A merchant banker, who closes one deal as the next opens.

  They seat him at the end of our table. I am on his right. Miguel on mine. On Hammam’s left, Obono. Then the General. I sit there in my stinking uniform and cuffs and leg-irons. I can’t believe that they don’t know that to question Hammam with me present is an inquisitor’s no-no.

  I can’t believe that they fall for his asking to be questioned in English. As clear as day he speaks Spanish. Making them translate into English, through Miguel, is giving Hammam time. He crafts his answer.

  The questions go on. After two hours he is under pressure. The Jermyn Street veneer is slipping. He went to public school, after all. What do you expect?

  He leans back in his chair. Looks each one of us in the eye, takes an important breath, then launches his counter.

  ‘I think it is time to tell you…’

  Eye to eye.

  ‘… that I am in fact … a double agent.’

  Miguel and I look at each other. All I can think of is the joke: the wide-mouthed fly-eating toad (and you don’t see very many of those around these days, do you?). I struggle.

  I look at the Attorney General and the Chief of Security. They are looking at each other, amazed. Not laughing.

  The days pass. Hammam’s descent is rapid. He too is in a stinking uniform, but never handcuffs and leg-irons. He is failing, but he is not cracking. He is not coming up with the IDs of the plotters. The inquisition is failing, even though I am sure he’s lying. I need the names. My ticket home – maybe.

  I don’t know that Hammam lived in EG, not now and not when I met him previously. I don’t care. He is an enemy. They are all my enemies.

  I ask the General if I can wear a wire. If they can leave me with Hammam, then he will tell me everything. All along he has tried to play the public school card: two white boys up against these stupid blacks. He is so far off. He makes me laugh. He makes me itch to hit him.

  ‘The General is sorry, Simon,’ says Miguel next day, ‘but they do not have a wire for you to wear…’

  Crazy.

  Do I believe that, or not? I shouldn’t, but I do. These guys are smart, but they have gaping holes in their logistics. But Miguel isn’t finished.

  ‘But, if you wish, they will permit you to question Hammam… You will do so with Detective Sergeant Rodriguez and me.’

  This is my chance. I take it. Hammam is a jerk, and not all here (double agent, forsooth). But Hammam is my enemy, and – just maybe – my way home.

  We start. We’ll be in English throughout. Obono and the General by now trust Miguel and me.

  ‘I am your friend, Amil … even if I don’t sound like it. I am your friend because I’m going to help you get out of here … and the only way that’ll happen is if you do as I have done: tell them the whole truth.

  ‘You have said that you are a double agent. That means that you have worked for the coup against the President. It is an admission of guilt. What you have to do now is show the police here – me too – that – on balance – your efforts for the President against the plotters outweigh those for the plotters against the President.

  ‘Guilty, or not guilty. Do you see that?

  ‘Hammam, you don’t get it. You’re gonna be here for ever, unless you do as I say. Start helping them.

  ‘OK, Amil, we’re not getting anywhere like this. Let’s start again. I want to get the background on you. Where were you born? What date?’

  I ask him about the family home in London, the villa in the South of France. The family-owned yachts. What are they really for? What is the private jet really for? The stash of weapons at home? Specific Hammam dodgy deals and dealers. Amil is floored. He’s trying to figure out how I know so much.

  Then I get personal. His mum’s darkest secret; his dad’s weirdest kink. The strange thing is, an ex-girlfriend of mine once worked for Amil’s father. She, of course, told me everything about the weird and wonderful Hammams.

  I unsettle him. Rattle him. Catch him out. The family secrets cut deepest. I twist the knife. The questioning goes on in a much more vindictive and vicious way and eventually he breaks down.

  That night, escorted, and on the way back to our cells, Hammam starts to talk wildly. ‘Help me, please… What should I do…? You can help me, I know… You see, I know the main man in the plot. Here in the palace.’

  Hammam pauses. The guard is frowning at our talk. He doesn’t speak a word. We walk through the chained gates into the poorly lit yard.

  He gives the name. ‘He knows everything. That’s how they knew. That’s how they know so much. How the Boss could say that he could move the President…’

  Back in my cell, I straight away write down word for word what Hammam has said to me. Next morning I tell Obono and the General that it’s Christmas. I know that this is what they really want. The insider’s name has already come up. I hadn’t known who he was, but they told me. He is someone who has lived and worked in the palace. ‘So, now you owe me a pardon,’ I grin. They know I mean it.

  Then they start to tell me things. They are sure of US and UK involvement in the coup plot. The plot also reaches to the top of somewhat murkier international organisations.

  I write a letter to the President and give it to the General, keeping it secret from Obono. I ask for a pardon, stating my case. Once out, I will work against the others on his behalf, but I have earned my pardon anyway, because I have fingered the viper in the President’s bosom. I say in my letter that, as an ex-intelligence officer, I know the value of that information: it is worth a pardon anywhere. The risk of doing this is great. If Obono learns of the l
etter, I can be sunk.

  I’m having trouble with Obono. Now it gets worse. He is told about the letter. He doesn’t like my going behind his back. He becomes angry with me in an interview. He calls me a racist. In my letter to the President I imply, he claims, that Africans take bribes. Thank you, stars. I wrote the letter with the fear of such an intercept in mind.

  I roll my sleeve up. The Attorney General has made me angry. I don’t care any more.

  ‘Do you see this?’ I point to my arm. ‘This skin is black. I was in Chikurubi for four years … and my skin is honorary black. Don’t you call me a racist.’

  Obono and the interpreter (not Miguel) are stunned. So am I. What had I meant, really? I wasn’t sure – other than that I had meant it. I am very angry. This is dangerous. Yet being called a racist, after all this, is too much.

  At my EG trial I had happily gone along with them: pleading guilty to attempted murder, terrorism and God knows what else. That was all pantomime. Everyone knew it. Even if my sentence is 35 years.

  Then there is Niek du Toit.

  Niek never became helpful to the EG Police, even when I showed him my notebook and statement and told him to cooperate. I told him that whatever he thought he was doing didn’t matter: his unhelpfulness was damaging the chances of our other three, all held with Niek.

  That wasn’t fair. I wanted to get us all out of there as best I could.

  Niek didn’t budge, so I had to work out why. He knew that once he started to talk, then everything would come out … but so what? So what? Unless his plan had not been our plan…

  Around these debriefings with Obono and the General, I have built my routine. My astronomy is a daily task, weather permitting. I watch my wall marks of the sun at 0700 move round the room. I am lucky to be able to see sky from my cell.

  Sometimes I stand in awe. The fantastic heat and humidity blast away. I watch as a Cumulonimbus (Cb) forms, then grows. The instability of the air is so great that the Cb can roll up and away into a nuclear mushroom – reaching up to 40,000 feet and higher – inside an hour. Sometimes the sight takes my mind back to writing Straw Hat, back in Chikurubi. The Cbs of the Congo River were the dragon’s breaths.

  There are times that I feel so lost and alone that I fear my sadness will stop my heart from beating.

  My handcuffs go. My leg-irons next. Incredible feelings. Sleeping, shitting, exercising. Everything is better. I can walk again. I start. Walking is who I am again.

  The General has given me a mosquito net. I look after it like a holy object. Then I get two sets of sheets. Luxury. My body can cope with the heat better now. Because I am out of handcuffs and leg-irons, I can shower when I want, and I can wear only underpants … all day and all night.

  Until they want me for more inquisition. Days. Weeks. Months.

  This is true solitary confinement now. The inquisition is over, apart from rare visits, such as the British Consul, or New Scotland Yard. You may ask what they are doing there. To which the answer would be: ‘Evenin’ all. Just making some enquiries.’ No exercise yard. No friends. Even the guards aren’t allowed to talk to me. Solitary confinement is a pig. My spirit plummets. For six weeks straight, I don’t leave my cell. I don’t talk to another soul. I walk. I talk to myself. I imagine that my sister and my UK lawyer are in there with me. I curse them for hours.

  My anger grows and grows until I again write one of the hundreds of letters that I don’t ever send. That I know I won’t send.

  A TV crew come to interview me. It’s grist to the mill. Another chance for me to show these people that I am ‘all theirs’. Another chance to work towards escape.

  Then a shock. Two shocks. The TV crew are working for the BBC, but the production company belongs to Jamie Oliver. Now worth £30 million, and rising. But – ha ha ha – ‘Didn’t Jamie used to work for you?’ The crew laugh at me. They know that he did. I tell them they are right. It’s true. In the old days, Amanda and I used to have lots of dinner parties. Jamie – before fame – when he was working at the River Café – used to come and moonlight for us. And, yes, we were friends with Marco Pierre White. I know that, in truth, Marco has been one of the friends who has supported Amanda and helped her. Not everyone has.

  Second shock. The one leading this motley TV crew is none other than Henry Paige – the English lawyer hired by EG – except that he is now working for Jamie Oliver’s production company. I never thought that I would meet Paige without a confrontation. But there isn’t one. We chat.

  You remember when ‘Uncle’ set up comms between Wilna Lubbe and me? You remember how I couldn’t be disloyal? How I refused to write a letter of instruction to their lawyer?

  Now Paige, with no axe to grind, answers my questions. But didn’t I know, he asked, that the terms of the Charlie Wake deal had again been put on the table? When Michael Grunberg had asked? Remember how Charlie turned up at Chikurubi in 2005, with Colonel Miala, the CIO’s man in charge of my case, and EG Attorney General Obono? His translator, reeking of scent? Amanda and ‘London’ knew nothing of it. The offer they made was straightforward. If I gave all the information that I could give – and handed over all documents – the contract between Severo Moto and me – and the bank statements – then Equatorial Guinea would make no extradition request against me. When my time is up in Zimbabwe, I will go free. May 2007.

  Paige called over Obono. Did he recall when Paige had asked if those terms were still available, following Michael Grunberg’s enquiry? Why, yes, of course the Attorney General remembered. He had taken the enquiry to the President himself.

  Back in my cell that evening, the TV interview is nothing to me. All I can think of is what Paige and Obono had said.

  There was a deal to be done then.

  All there is now – for sure – is 34 long years to serve out.

  My food comes from the General’s hotel, El Paraiso. One meal once a day, plus a 1.5-litre bottle of water, bread rolls and six fruits. This food is good, but the reason for my being fed like this is not. Poison is a traditional way of dealing with problems in West Africa. There are plenty of people who want me dead and buried.

  A long list: London, Madrid, Pretoria. I am a problem.

  My hernia operation comes. It has only taken two years from when the doctor in Chikurubi told me that I urgently needed it. I go to the best and only private clinic in Malabo. The First Lady owns and runs the place. The President pays my bill.

  We arrive at the quiet and smart clinic: me, and an escort of 20 armed troops. The General says that this is for my protection. The clinic struggles to cope with the heavily armed soldiery lying on its polished linoleum.

  They give me an epidural. I thought that was for having babies. I am conscious all the way through. I can feel what is happening, but with no pain. My wrists are strapped to a cruciform. The doctor tries to tell me that this crucifixion is what they would do to anyone. Not just me.

  After, the pain starts. Terrible indigestion. Guts feel ready to pop. Twenty-four hours later I am back in my cell, alone. Thank God my cell is clean. The worst news is that the Tunisian doctors have diagnosed that I need the same operation again, this time on my right side.

  Straight back from the clinic, straight back into my solitary cell, I discover that the General has given me a great gift: a plastic garden chair and a good-quality electric fan. Life will never be so uncomfy again. The blown air keeps away the mosquitoes. Combined with the fly killer that I am now able to buy, this now means that I’m winning the war. No Fly Zone.

  And I am on prophylactics at last. Retrospective prophylactics – an EG first: sulfadoxine 500 mg/pyrimethamine 25 mg per tablet. Three tablets taken together, once every three months.

  My pain against ‘London’ is terrible. I now believe that, had they listened to me, I would have been free in May ’07. Instead I may die here. I write a list of my gripes against them.

  Yes, I am grateful. I am grateful to anyone who has tried to help me.

  Then there is Timothy
Robarts, my old friend from North Foreland Court. He has never given up doing whatever he can, making a constant flood of magazines flow my way.

  And yes, I can forgive. I have become Jesus in the forgiveness department. Guards. The CIO. Even the two white South Africans who not only turned state’s evidence against me, all those years ago, back in Zimbabwe, but perjured themselves as well. Their lies had been deadly dangerous to me. Their lies had turned the Croc away from any thoughts of fighting our Zimbabwe case. A white witness is worth seven black – in defence or prosecution – my black Zim friends had assured me.

  But I can forgive.

  What gets me about ‘London’ is not their mistakes. Anyone can make mistakes. Me especially. What gets me is their fucking arrogance. For example: a dying man has the right to decide whether or not to allow a possibly life-saving, but very dangerous, medical procedure. Only he has that right. Others can beg and plead with him. Others can advise. Only he can decide.

  But this would be news to ‘London’.

  I have to write again to Amanda. I don’t write and say that she is ‘free’. For me to say that I set her ‘free’ would be wrong. It tells of an ownership that neither of us ever wanted. Instead, therefore, I just say that I hope that she is having fun … getting on with her life. She will know what I mean. God it hurts, writing that.

  Then there are the coup bosses. What do I really feel about them, aside from the rhetoric that I use to my captors?

  Imagine a Central Asia climbing expedition, high on China’s remote Kunlun Mountains, north of the Karakoram. The expedition has backers and sponsors. I am the climb leader. I find myself putting in more and more of my own money, because the chief backer isn’t putting up money as promised.

  I am advising the backers that the climbing season is coming to an end. The weather is bad. Heavy snow has made the climb extra dangerous. But the backers are begging us to go ahead anyway. Some of the backers are also the organisers. They hired me. Those organisers are also a part of the climb. Together we have lived and breathed the climb these past 12 months. These men have come up to base camp with us. They have posts within the climb’s planning and command hierarchy.