My Friend The Mercenary

by James Brabazon

  Liberian dissident websites in America talked of a new rebel alliance against Taylor, dedicated to removing him from office and empowering the marginalised indigenous tribes. There were no photographs, few names and no verifiable facts. Apparently, no European journalists had met them, and no one had filmed them. Opaque in the extreme, they styled themselves the ‘LURD’ – Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy – apparently under the leadership of a former used-car salesman called Sekou Conneh. Conneh’s position – and even existence – was questioned by many serious commentators. Only a few references to him existed in print, one of which was a bizarre press release allegedly issued by his ‘press secretary’ – a man clearly not overburdened with work.

  The United Nations’ most recent report – a 116-page update on the 2001 Security Council Resolution that had re-imposed a stringent arms embargo and travel and diamond sanctions against Taylor’s government – devoted less than one page to the LURD. Containing few hard facts about the organisation, it referred to a leader called ‘Kone’ and described their command structure as ‘factionalised’, with support from Guinea for its limited incursions declining. The report concluded that ‘the activities of LURD may have peaked’.

  Only two factors convinced me of LURD’s actual existence: first, Cobus was adamant that the Americans were in contact with them; and second, only a genuine committee of die-hard, unsmiling insurgents could adopt such a bizarre and awkward name.

  ‘One thing I want to discuss’, I remembered, ‘is filming you, Nick.’

  He and Cobus looked at each other, and then back at me.

  ‘It’s inevitable that you’re going to end up on camera, at the edge of a frame or in the background, at some point,’ I explained. ‘It’s going to make my life impossible if I’m always making sure you’re out of every shot. Basically, you’re going to have to trust me that your face won’t be in the final programme.’

  Nick nodded. I, of course, had no idea what the final programme might be.

  ‘That’s fine, man. I don’t see any problem with that. Just don’t mention my name. You can leave me off the credits for this one.’ Nick relaxed back into his chair. ‘This beer is not bad, not bad at all.’

  Cobus handed the small, spiral-bound notepad back to Nick, and they exchanged some words in Afrikaans. I steeled myself, convinced of my decision.

  ‘Great. Well, we’ve got a deal.’

  I reached over to shake Nick’s hand. He took mine again, and I felt an enormous sense of relief wash away my earlier doubts.

  ‘I’ll sort out the finances with Cobus. All we need now is for the rebels to agree.’

  ‘I’m very confident they will,’ Cobus answered. ‘The Americans have got a lot of leverage. One of their senior guys is apparently quite friendly with them.’

  I let the subject drop, and swallowed the growing ambiguity of my position with my last mouthful of beer.

  That evening I reflected on the meeting and the complicated web of interests. It was clear that, without Nick, I was powerless. Without me, Cobus had no means of getting his man in on the ground with the Americans. And without either Cobus or me, Nick had no job. I thought I had come to interview Nick – in fact, we had all interviewed each other. I had no idea why the American military wanted to facilitate my visit, and I didn’t want to think about it.

  I was all too aware of the potential pitfalls of working with both the Americans and the South Africans. Although there were countless matters still to resolve – not least the issue of who Nick really was, and what he had seen and done to earn his rank and reputation – I was on the brink of what might be a real scoop and had no appetite to ask awkward questions. There would be plenty of time to get to know Nick once we were in Liberia.

  The following week I hooked up with the crew: a cameraman, a shaven-headed white South African called Dudley Saunders, and an irrepressible Zulu soundman by the name of Mandla Mlambo. I’d worked with Mandla in Zimbabwe earlier in the year; Dudley came on unofficial loan from the South African Broadcasting Corporation – the SABC. He had filmed his fair share of the horrors that engulfed the country’s townships at the end of apartheid: ‘necklace’ burnings, beatings and riots among them. None of us had travelled to Liberia before. We drank beers, and tried to imagine what might be in store for us.

  I wrote two long letters to the LURD rebels (‘to whom it may concern’), and faxed and emailed them to Sierra Leone care of Cobus, as planned. I asked for access to their leadership, their bases and their forward-deployed fighting forces. In return I promised objectivity, a fair hearing and the potential for mass-media exposure – but I was careful not to give any guarantee that this exposure would be entirely or even partially positive. The facts would have to speak for themselves.

  Cobus took the letters to Conakry in person and saw that they were delivered, a week later and with American endorsement, into the hands of Sekou Conneh – the LURD’s national chairman. Conneh replied, immediately, with an emphatic ‘Yes’ to Cobus through intermediaries in Conakry.

  I applied for the notoriously difficult Guinean visas for the crew, and had them authorised on the spot. The production company shipped in flak jackets from Nairobi, and cut a deal with Cobus. Dudley and Mandla would be put onto three-week paid contracts. There would be no fee for me for going to Liberia. I was kept on the books with a modest retainer; the only money I might receive for going would be a share of profits after future, and as yet unimagined, sales. The BBC expressed interest, but gave neither promises, nor cash. In short, the production company was taking an enormous gamble on the trip, with cash it did not have to spare.

  Nick, who lived in Pretoria, drove to Johannesburg to meet me. We bought tents, dried food, water purifiers, mosquito nets and enough medical supplies to equip a small hospital. Everything was written down and ticked off meticulously in his notebook.

  It was strange to see Nick again, this time without Cobus. Tidily dressed and with a sober eye for detail, he made it feel more like I was preparing for a camping trip with my dad rather than getting ready to go to war with a soldier of fortune. As we unloaded the last of our purchases, the mobile phone in his breast pocket suddenly started playing ‘Eye of the Tiger’. He fished it out and answered in Afrikaans. His voice quietened, the hard edges of the language softening in a sing-song to-and-fro. I guessed he was talking to a child.

  ‘Rocky,’ I said, when he’d finished talking. ‘Great film.’

  ‘Ag, it’s my daughter, man. She calls me Tiger. It’s like a family joke.’

  We shook hands, and I left more easily in the knowledge that behind the inscrutable Special Forces persona and violent professional credentials was a young family and a reason to come home.

  In my final week I travelled first to London, and then on to Glasgow for a last weekend with my girlfriend, Rachel, who I’d been seeing on and off for over a year. Our first date had been a blind date arranged through a mutual friend over the phone. I’d flown somewhat desperately on spec to Glasgow on the off-chance that she might be even half as intriguing as her text messages suggested. She met me off the plane. Half English, half Italian, she had olive skin, bright green eyes and a disarming figure: she was the kind of girlfriend that other people had. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  Nick and I kept in touch on a near-daily basis. His quiet enthusiasm was infectious; his planning left apparently no room for error. I only hoped that on location he would start behaving less like my dad, and more like a bodyguard. Dates were confirmed. We would all fly in to Guinea Conakry together on the same day. Cobus would fly in first from Freetown; then Nick, Dudley and Mandla from South Africa; and then me, from London, arriving last on 29 May 2002.

  I said goodbye to Rachel and acquired a satellite phone and a brick of US dollars in cash to clear the anticipated hurdles of bribery and corruption ahead. I was off to war on the nod of a rebel leader who may not exist and an American spook whom I’d never met.

  Nick emailed me a final shop
ping list. As I scanned it, my eye settled on the last item: ‘Balls of Steel’.

  2

  DEAD PRESIDENTS

  I stepped off the Air France flight at Conakry airport into a wall of damp heat. By the time I had managed the hundred yards between the aircraft steps and the terminal building, I was wet with sweat. Soldiers in drab olive uniforms lounged against dirty walls, white-ringed circles of sweat spreading out under their arms. They toyed with their rifles, adjusted black berets, lit cigarettes. Two of them were shouting at a young man in a frayed brown suit. I stared at my feet. A queue formed in front of a small, wooden cabin that served as passport control. A man with a pistol in his belt pulled a woman and her child out of the line and made them stand to one side for reasons that were as obscure as they were menacing. No one spoke. A single fan creaked overhead, stirring the flies. I shuffled along and discreetly checked my British mobile for reception: nothing. My South African phone was lifeless, too. I comforted myself that Nick and Cobus would be waiting for me on the other side, and held my passport out to the woman at the head of the queue.

  ‘Occupation?’ she demanded in heavily accented French.

  ‘Producteur,’ I replied. ‘Producer.’

  She looked at me blankly, beads of moisture welling on her top lip. She clearly had no idea what a producer did. That made two of us.

  ‘Quelle est la nature de votre voyage, monsieur?’ she persisted.

  Good question, I thought. I plumped for business.

  ‘Affaires.’

  She scrutinised my photograph and laboriously thumbed through a dozen pages looking for my visa. I braced myself for an argument. When she found it she looked at me quickly, thumping an inky stamp down onto the pages.

  ‘Bienvenu,’ she smiled. ‘Welcome.’

  I was in. I picked my way carefully through the assembled passengers to the wheezing luggage carousel and waited for my bag. Looking around, I felt indescribably conspicuous. The only other white people on the plane had long since vanished. Ten feet away from me a mob of customs officials with rolled white sleeves and tight blue trousers were busy filleting the suitcases, cardboard boxes and cloth bundles that my fellow passengers were desperately trying to drag past them towards the blinding glare of the exit. All manner of re-saleable goods – including cartons of cigarettes, French liqueurs and, somewhat hopefully, a big bar of chocolate – were liberated from their rightful owners and spirited away behind the trestle table they used like a butcher’s block. They were going to have a field day when they searched me.

  I shouldered my rucksack, picked up the camera bag destined for Dudley and headed for the light. Amazingly, no one stopped me. I was tempted to turn around and ask them what the hell they thought they were playing at – and then I was outside again, and very much alone. Cobus and Nick were nowhere to be seen.

  I waited. Soldiers strolled past me. A series of smartly dressed men of indeterminate occupation asked me for a light. I was quickly becoming the centre of attention. This did not augur well. A mixture of fear and anger ran through me. After another ten minutes, I’d had enough. I walked over to a dilapidated yellow taxi and woke the driver. At least I knew where we were staying.

  ‘Hôtel Petit Bateau, s’il vous plaît.’

  He stared at me, apparently uncomprehending.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  I pressed a folded ten-dollar bill into his hand. His eyes focused.

  ‘Okay, ça va. On y va.’

  He turned the ignition, and I clambered in.

  Conakry revealed itself to be a low-rise smudge on the tip of a headland that jutted into the Bight of Benin. The Republic of Guinea is a poor country, and its capital city certainly played the part. Despite possessing perhaps up to half of the world’s known aluminium ore reserves, as well as an abundance of gold, diamonds and timber, the people of Guinea were among the poorest in Africa. Labouring under the authoritarian regime of an old-fashioned ‘blood and iron’ dictator called Lansana Conté, they had few pleasant prospects ahead. The national motto of Work, Justice and Solidarity could, a plethora of reports by international human rights groups implied, more accurately have been replaced with Corruption, Favouritism and Instability.

  At the very tip of the headland I found the hotel, isolated, clinging onto the side of a pier. If it had been possible to keep going, and I wished it had, the next landfall was Venezuela. Flanked by fishing boats and enveloped in the rank smell of low tide, it looked structurally unsound – a ramshackle collection of apparently unconnected glass panels, exposed masonry and white-painted cement pillars.

  Dudley and Mandla were waiting for me in the lobby, lolling on a sofa that looked as if it had been dragged kicking and screaming out of the 1970s. Nick and Cobus had left to meet me only half an hour earlier – everyone’s plane, except mine, had been delayed.

  ‘We got all the kit in no problem. Cobus and the security chief at the airport just waved us through,’ Dudley rumbled, evidently still impressed. ‘Could I suggest we have a beer? I think there is precisely fuck-all else to do here.’

  He’d clearly reached the same decision about Conakry as I had during the short drive in. By the time I’d checked in and joined Dudley and Mandla on the terrace, Nick and Cobus were walking towards us.

  ‘Sorry, man, the flight was a right fuck-up. Did you get through okay?’

  Nick folded himself into a chair next to me as we shook hands. A contrite Cobus settled next to him.

  ‘No problem,’ I reassured him.

  It was true. It wasn’t a problem, but I was nervous about what lay ahead. Whatever happens, I thought, exhausted from the flight and the humidity, I’ll at least have the safety of their company.

  ‘Good to see you,’ I said, looking at them both, and then, pointing at the perspiring glasses of draught lager on the table. ‘Beer?’

  ‘That’, replied Nick, ‘is a very good idea.’

  For the second time we clinked glasses and said cheers.

  By the time I went to bed that night, we had already, between us, eaten our way through the hotel menu. Des grandes bières pression and poulet frites were the best of a poor offering. I noted that, for a thirsty man, Nick drank very little and ate without the sarcastic complaints of the rest of us.

  Nick’s conversation – punctuated with asides to Dudley in Afrikaans – focused on what we would need to learn from the rebels when we met their representatives the following day. Cobus reassured us that the Americans would make sure we were properly briefed the next morning. Prior to leaving for Conakry, it had been impossible to conduct any kind of meaningful risk-assessment or work out an accurate filming schedule. We had no idea what territory the rebels controlled in Liberia, or how securely it was held; consequently, we had no idea where we were going, or how we would get there.

  Although troubling in many respects, this lack of clarity was also compelling. Five weeks before we’d arrived in Conakry, the UN Security Council had released a report compiled by its Panel of Experts on Liberia. Their investigators had managed neither to cross into rebel-held territory, nor to meet any LURD representatives in Liberia itself. ‘Access’, they concluded, ‘was impossible.’ It seemed that the war in Liberia had none of the trappings of modern media conflicts: no satellite TV reporters on rooftops, no pictures produced by local cameramen – nothing. In order to get it, I would have to be on the spot, personally. It promised to be more like the old-fashioned assignments undertaken by photographers like Capa or McCullin than the video-game footage of the Gulf War.

  An overland crossing from either Sierra Leone, or, more likely, Guinea itself, seemed probable – especially given that the Americans claimed the rebel leader was based on the Guinea–Liberia border. Flying into Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, and then moving up-country clandestinely to meet the rebels was off the cards. The one ‘fact’ that Cobus thought indisputable was that there really was some kind of front line, and crossing it would be impossible, whether it was 200 yards or 200 miles from Monrovia
.

  Moreover, the criminal regime in Monrovia did not admire the foreign media. Two years before, a television news crew working legitimately on behalf of Channel 4 in London were arrested on charges of espionage and held for nearly four weeks. More recently, the outspoken independent newspaper editor Hassan Bility had been arrested and detained indefinitely without trial. If the government got wind of what we were up to, we would not be let off lightly. I didn’t fancy our chances in front of a Liberian court martial, and neither did Nick, given that he had jointly overseen the somewhat extensive eradication of the Taylor-funded RUF in Sierra Leone seven years before.

  From Guinea’s Atlantic coast, where I was now getting soaked on cheap local beer, the country curved inland like a fat banana, bordering Liberia and then Ivory Coast in the east. It was over this thickly forested border, presumably under the noses of the Guinean Army, that we would most likely have to slip. And from there on, everything was unknown.

  The following day US Intelligence – in the shape of two musclebound, square-jawed, sunglass-wearing leviathans – arrived early for breakfast. They sat at a far table on the terrace, the scene before them was picture-perfect: bright morning sunshine lit up scrubbed white tables; an inviting, deep-blue sea dazzled behind. The hotel had turned out to be an oasis of functional anonymity at the edge of the bustling, dysfunctional capital city. Nick, sporting the smart–casual chino look, was sitting with them, his ubiquitous notepad already a mass of neatly ordered ciphers. Cobus appeared with a cup of coffee and guided me in as I neared their table.

  ‘James, this is Frank. Frank, this is James Brabazon, who we’ve talked about. I think you should be able to help him with this project.’

  Cobus was the consummate networker.

  ‘Hey, James, how you doing?’