My Friend The Mercenary

by James Brabazon

  Frank took my hand with a grip that suggested he could bench-press my body-weight without drawing breath.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure to help out. This is George, from the embassy.’ He nodded towards the other giant by way of introduction, and added, presumably referring to the rebels, ‘He’s met some of these jokers before as well.’

  ‘So you’re a journalist, then?’ George wanted to know.

  I smiled my Yes, but I’m okay really grin that anyone in the media who encounters the military learns to flash on demand. George, it turned out, was a soldier’s soldier. While we exchanged pleasantries, he explained that he’d been in the middle of the Battle for Mogadishu, the notorious Black Hawk Down episode in Somalia nine years before. Oozing an avowed dislike for armed Muslims, he was looking forward to the next big scrap coming up in Iraq: hacks of any description were clearly not part of his social circle. Cobus cut across him.

  ‘James isn’t like a normal journalist, he’s all right. We had some great times together in Sierra Leone. I was educating him into some of the finer points of Freetown’s nightlife.’

  I liked the way Cobus was selling me. He made me feel like one of their team.

  ‘Great,’ said Frank, ‘not one of those fucking tree-huggers. What is it that you want to do, James? What do you want to achieve?’

  As he spoke to me, he pulled a small brown envelope out of his backpack. It concealed a deck of photos. Frank knew full well what I hoped to achieve, but he wanted me to repeat my pitch. I recounted my mantra: I wanted to prove the rebels existed, see how much territory they controlled, find out what their agenda was. As I talked, Frank collaged the table with tessellated snaps of young men posing with Kalashnikovs. Frank and George peeled off their Oakleys to scrutinise the out-of-focus, over-exposed images. Nick scanned them carefully, too, picking out a shot here or there for closer attention before passing them on to me. Dressed like LA gang-bangers, most of them looked barely out of their teens – and terrifying.

  It turned out that these pictures, combined with exaggerated LURD reports and radio intercepts that were difficult to translate, were about the extent of Frank’s on-the-ground intelligence. Starved of accurate information about the conduct of the insurgency against President Taylor – US foreign policy was leaning towards his removal from office – Frank, in his role as a senior field officer in United States Intelligence, saw my proposed trip as a perfect platform to obtain vital information about the rebels and their war. Indeed, he had already interceded on my behalf with the exiled Liberian rebel hierarchy based in Guinea, a member of whom, I was assured, would be joining us shortly.

  Frank was keen to go a little further, though, and implied that, in return for helping to facilitate access to the rebels, I might like to provide a full intelligence briefing when I got out. It seemed like a reasonable request. Frank was helping me; I would help Frank – that was only fair.

  It was time for another introduction. Frank stood up and raised his palm.

  ‘Here we go,’ he whispered.

  I looked up from the table of two-dimensional rebels to see a real one walking towards me. Wearing a pretty patterned shirt and designer sunglasses, and carrying a small leather briefcase, the LURD commander looked the picture of middle-aged urban sophistication.

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ boomed Frank, ‘how’s it going?’

  Joe was going just fine.

  ‘Ah, Frank, tings movin’ nah. I’ all righ’ to see you in Conokry.’

  His deep Liberian accent, the first I had ever heard, was immediately mesmerising. It was a voice from another era, a way of speaking English that had been brought to Liberia in the nineteenth century by freed slaves from the southern states of America. Endings of words, and other consonants, too, were dropped or swallowed in a unique Old American drawl: ‘now’ became nah, ‘it’ lost its ‘t’, which Joe pronounced ih; ‘th’ became a hard t or de – not unlike the accents of my Irish cousins.

  Introductions were made all round. Joe in turn introduced himself as Joe Wylie, the LURD rebels’ senior military adviser. He sat next to Nick, as I launched into my sales pitch again.

  ‘I’ all righ’ nah to go to de bush, you go’ green ligh’ to go Voinjama side,’ Joe interrupted me. ‘Boh befo’ we go, deh certain, er, modalitie’ dat we got to mak’ correc’.’

  As Joe’s conversation snaked around the twin subjects of ‘modalities’ and ‘sensitivities’ with increasingly obscure jargon, I reflected on the ease with which the rebel and the Intelligence man sat in each other’s company. The relationship between Frank and Joe seemed close. Ultimately, I suspected Joe would bend to Frank’s wishes, but it was equally clear that Joe wanted to run my trip.

  ‘Joe,’ I asked, in an attempt to cut through the bullshit piling up between us, ‘what don’t you want me to film?’ The Americans seemed to like this direct approach.

  The sensitivities became clearer. In return for allowing me into their territory, and to interview their leaders, I would have to agree not to disclose details of the armaments the rebels received from the American-backed government in Guinea. This condition was enthusiastically endorsed by Frank.

  These weapons were being supplied in direct contravention of a UN Security Council Resolution. They weren’t messing around. Frank’s motivations were suspicious; Joe’s downright dangerous. This realisation alone pushed me closer to Nick. I knew precious little about him but, if nothing else, he was paid to be on my side.

  Coffee and croissants arrived for Joe. On the one hand, the request was reasonable – I could imagine British or American forces applying the same restrictions to reporting on the details of their supply lines in wartime – and on the other, it was, happily, unenforceable. I had no idea what actual support the Guinean Government was giving the rebels: the only way to find out was to agree to the demands of the rebels and the Americans and get in on the ground.

  All this talk of ‘modalities’ left me feeling uneasy. Talking sense with Joe was like trying to eat soup with a fork: I could see there was another issue on the horizon, but didn’t know how to get to it. I suspected I was, very slowly, being asked for a bribe. It was Nick who eventually broke the impasse. He wanted to know how we were going to get into Liberia, and when; who would come with us, and what we could expect in terms of security along the route. Joe’s answer was uncharacteristically illuminating.

  ‘We pick you u’ fro’ here an’ carry you all de way, no problem. Everyting safe.’ The flecks of grey at his temples burned white as the sun climbed above the hotel. ‘As soon as we finalise de whole operation, we ca’ roll. Y’ know we’ll mak’ you mobile, an’ mah boy’ will protec’ you. Boh y’ gotta give os someting – y’ gotta pay-hay.’

  It was a request for cash, up front.

  ‘Y’ don’ pay-hay, y’ nah goin’ anywhere. Dey ten-thirty de whole deal,’ he clarified, looking me in the eye.

  ‘Right, I see. So basically we’re hiring the vehicles from you?’

  I was trying to frame this in the most positive light I could find. That was indeed the case. Security along the route needed to be paid for, too. I looked doubtful. Guinea, after all, was one of the hardest places to navigate in Africa. I had been informed by an old Africa hand before I left London that official scrutiny, and general suspicion of foreign visitors, did not end at the airport; rather, it began there and grew exponentially the further one moved from the capital. I could expect dozens of roadblocks if I travelled by car, all manned by bored, officious soldiers who more than likely would not have been paid on time, or possibly at all.

  I put this to Joe, who asked to see my passport. I fished out the battered red book from a pouch behind my back, and half-heartedly proffered it to his outstretched palm. He flicked to my visa page, and pointed out, at the top of my visa stamp, two letters scrawled in shaky Biro: ‘PR’.

  ‘Do you ha’ any trou’wo a’ de airpor’?’ he asked.

  Nick and I confirmed that no, we had not had any trouble at the airport.<
br />
  ‘Yor visa ha’ been issue’ by top bra’ fro’ way, way, way up.’

  PR stood for ‘President of the Republic’. The fact that our trip had been underwritten by the top brass in the president’s office was a real shock: although it made our travels possible, it also made us entirely dependent on his favour. Joe told us that the ‘modalities’ would be finalised when he returned the next day, with a price ‘fro’ de Lady’, which meant nothing to me. I nodded wisely.

  Again, Nick pressed him for territory the rebels controlled, but he was vague and talked only of large areas and thousands of rebel troops. We concluded he simply didn’t know.

  ‘There’s one other thing, James,’ Frank added. ‘Taylor is flying a couple of civilian helicopters, including an Mi-17 that’s giving Joe’s guys a lot of trouble – observing their movements, deploying militia behind their lines, that kind of thing. The LURD got lucky and managed to shoot one down with a twelve-seven last year as it came in to land. Nick might help them out with some training, teach them how to bring this one down, too.’

  Nick smiled slowly in recognition. This might have been news to him, too. I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘Can I film it?’

  As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. It sounded like I was endorsing the plan for Nick to train the rebels. I felt sick. Journalists did not take sides. They certainly didn’t help shoot down helicopters.

  ‘I don’t think that should be a problem,’ Nick answered, apparently thinking on his feet. We all slid around under the canopy of the umbrella to benefit from the shifting crescent of shade. ‘We’ll set up a decoy and prepare a simple rocket-propelled grenade ambush along the funnel that the chopper takes in over the target.’

  Despite myself, I felt a surge of excitement. Perhaps I would get to film a mercenary operation in progress – that was almost unheard of.

  What was apparent was that Nick was already part of the arrangement I was brokering with the Americans and the rebels. Trusted by Cobus and Frank, he was welcomed by them both. My lot was being thrown in with Nick whether I liked it or not. The fact that I was his boss, that I was responsible for his being paid, fuelled the uneasiness. Whatever he did in Liberia, I might, professionally, end up being accountable for.

  I was standing at the threshold of what promised to be an actual scoop and it was too late to turn back: contracts had been signed, airfares paid, and fees were mounting. We all shook hands.

  After Joe left, Frank filled Nick in on what the rebels were armed with, while I took notes. He thought they had another seven or so 12.7s (a large-calibre machine gun), in addition to the one they’d shot the helicopter down with, and a couple of (even larger) BZT 14.5mm anti-aircraft guns. What they didn’t have were light support weapons – hand-portable, belt-fed PKM machine guns to back up infantry attacks. Instead, they relied solely on rocket-propelled grenades.

  ‘We’ve got that locker out near the airport here,’ Frank remembered, turning to Cobus. ‘It’s got a couple of PKMs and a shitload of ammo. We’ll try and get that to them, keep them sweet. Anything to stop them complaining.’

  I stopped taking notes. The Americans were interested in arming the rebels, however lightly. What I wasn’t clear about was whether this was a personal thing between Joe and Frank, or agreed policy directed against Taylor. I phrased the question carefully.

  ‘Frank,’ I asked, ‘have you been working with Joe for a long time?’

  ‘Joe and his guys are okay; they’re crazy but they know the deal. Man, Joe still frickin’ owes us for ’98. We pulled his ass out of the embassy in Monrovia before Taylor cut his balls off.’

  Frank recounted the rescue of the Liberian fighters from the US embassy four years before – the same operation that Cobus had first mentioned to me in South Africa. Frank had played a key role in the operation.

  ‘I loved working with Cobus and those guys,’ he reminisced. ‘Man, it was fun.’

  That night I quietly recapped on my situation under the sagging web of my mosquito net. Within twenty-four hours the strain of responsibility had ballooned into a heavy burden of uncertainty. One concession had led to another: I had promised not to implicate the Guineans, or the Americans, in a war that they both supported; I had agreed to act as a de facto agent for US Intelligence, and give an as-yet-undisclosed amount of (someone else’s) money as ‘security’ payment to a rebel commander; and I had agreed to allow someone in my professional charge to help shoot down a helicopter on the basis that I could film it. I hadn’t even dared to ask about the weapons locker and the shared history with the rebels, or the Americans training Liberians on the island not far from our hotel. When I started out on my career eight years before, an enthusiastic graduate with a camera and an over-developed sense of curiosity, I hadn’t imagined I would end up here.

  One way of looking at it was that I was already fatally compromised. The other was that I was playing a difficult game rather well. So far I had not blown it, nor acceded to any demands with anything other than a nod. I went round in circles. My gut feeling told me Nick was okay, although I could not spell it out to myself in any way that really made sense. Drinking beers with him and making fantastical plans to shoot down Government helicopters was one thing – but physically walking into war side by side was another matter altogether.

  The next morning Joe pitched up with a retinue of other, equally well-dressed rebels, and then quoted me their fee: $10,000, in cash, up front. I laughed. So did Nick. I sent Dudley and Mandla upstairs to pack their bags in a show of defiance; we were leaving if the price didn’t tumble. Other trouble spots were flaring up in the news. Iraq was beginning to dominate the headlines, and Indian and Pakistani forces were trading heavy fire over their borders, seemingly in preparation for war. I’d go there, I explained. Anywhere. A story in India or Iraq wouldn’t be an exclusive, but it might actually earn money. Cobus weighed in, assuring Joe that I really would leave. I also reminded him that the LURD’s national chairman, whoever that might actually be, had personally invited us in.

  Later that afternoon, Joe returned with a revised quote: $3,500 for vehicle hire for the duration of our trip, including all security to and from Liberia and unspecified ‘expenses’ for Joe. He had a deal. If I’d had to pay for private car hire, it would have cost about that much – and no one was going to hire me a car to drive into rebel-held territory. I called the production company, and then handed over a wad of US dollars – ‘presidents’, as Frank called them.

  Two days later, in the dark early morning, a Guinean Army truck and a new four-by-four roared up outside the hotel. It was time to leave. Downstairs, I was greeted by an enthusiastic Joe Wylie and a Guinean driver in military uniform sporting a red beret.

  ‘This is Bengura,’ yawned Cobus. ‘He is the president’s personal driver.’

  Nick, who had shed his chinos in favour of a pair of long black shorts and leather hiking boots, stopped supervising the loading of our bags and came over to listen. I noticed in the red glow of the truck’s side-lights that his calf muscle was disfigured with a knot of scar tissue.

  ‘You mean the LURD chairman’s driver?’ I was both impressed and confused.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘he is Conneh’s driver.’

  It was the first time I had heard the LURD leader’s name spoken.

  ‘Yes,’ added Cobus, ‘and he is the Guinean president’s driver. You’d better be nice to him, though; he probably drives like a cunt. The Red Berets are their fucking elite troops, God help them.’

  With that Cobus and I shook hands, and then embraced. He and Nick did likewise, laughing in Afrikaans. Dudley, Mandla, Nick, Joe and I crammed ourselves into the four-by-four while Bengura, who stank of alcohol, hauled himself into the driver’s seat. I lit a Marlboro, and gave him the packet. A waving Cobus receded in the wing-mirror as the new dawn smeared the windows of the hotel a ruddy pink, and we turned our faces to the east.

  Eighteen hours later we ar
rived tired and disoriented at the walled compound of the LURD rebels’ headquarters in eastern Guinea. Young men in jeans and T-shirts milled around. Joe assumed an air of authority. Older men came out to greet him and then us, smiles and laughter all round. Except for a lone Kalashnikov propped up in the corner of the wide open porch, and the indecipherable crackle of a field radio, there was no sign that this was the main operations centre of a rebel army.

  Nick unloaded our bags, and then nosed his way around the squat white bungalow. Plates of rice topped with fiery chillies and stewed cassava leaf appeared from inside. We ate, and I strung a hammock between two pillars either side of the veranda, rocking myself into surreal, mosquito-pestered dreams that dripped with insecurity and tension.

  Nick woke me at dawn.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted me as I fished my ear plugs out. ‘We’re off.’

  We piled back into the vehicles, joined in the truck by half a dozen rebel soldiers wanting a lift back into Liberia.

  We were not driving for long before Bengura swung the four-by-four off the main road and into a large Guinean Army base outside the village of Badaro.

  ‘We goin’ pay our respec’ to de garrison commanner,’ one of the rebels who’d hitched a ride informed us. ‘My name Oscar, an’ I de liaison for de Lor’ an’ de Guinea Army.’

  I shook his hand. Like all the rebels I’d met so far, Oscar pronounced ‘LURD’ as Lor’.

  Dudley was holding a smaller, mini-digital video camera, so he could more easily capture our arrival in Liberia. Joe reminded us that filming in Guinea was not allowed. Seventy-two hours after agreeing to Joe’s conditions for access to the rebels, I was faced with my first dilemma. I went round the car to Dudley.

  Leaning over next to him, while making sure that Nick and Joe were out of earshot, I re-tied my bootlaces.

  ‘Can you get this?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure.’ And then, ‘Fuck. The fucking recording lamp is on.’ A bright red eye on the top of the camera blinked at us. ‘I’ll have to put it over my shoulder and cover it with my arm. We’ll get audio at least.’