‘You mean he was killed by Government troops?’
‘Ja, that’s correct. When we were there the big man didn’t want us to know that they were nearly beaten.’
Nick was glad that the film had been a success – he’d heard about it from Piet in Monrovia as well. I told him that I was trying to get funding for another trip to Liberia. He laughed.
‘Happy new year,’ he signed off, ‘regards to your family. I think this could be a very interesting one.’
Things were definitely looking up. Later that week I got a call from a producer at the BBC’s Newsnight programme in London. They wanted to buy Journey Without Maps and re-cut it for immediate transmission in the UK. During the edit I decided to do as Kathi had said, and call her in San Francisco. I told her I needed to fact-check something in the script – in fact, I wanted to find out if she had any plans to visit London. She didn’t. I’d been thinking about her since our meeting in Amsterdam. I didn’t know any women who were so attractive and had compelling histories of working on warfare in Africa. I didn’t even know if she was single. In a bid to keep her on the line, I mentioned the Chatham House briefing paper.
‘James, you need to be careful. Don’t worry, but your work in Liberia ruffled some feathers. You’ve messed up a few egos.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, you’ve reported on things that the UN Panel is supposed to know, but didn’t. They claimed it wasn’t possible to get into Liberia with the LURD, and then a month later you rocked up in their HQ – with a camera. You’re kinda beating them at their own game, and some people don’t like it.’
‘How do you mean, “don’t like it”?’ I was confused.
‘Well, one of them denounced you as a mercenary.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, he claimed that you came from the dark side.’
I burst out laughing.
‘The dark side? That’s fucking excellent! Help me, Obi Wan, you’re my only hope!’
‘James, this is not funny. They accused you of bringing weapons across the Guinea border. They’ve largely dismissed your reporting.’
I stopped laughing.
‘I didn’t take any weapons across any border.’
My mind was racing. Except, of course, for the Kalashnikov I took to Frank in Conakry. Shit.
In the end I decided to pay Kathi a visit. I was due in Los Angeles to do some filming with Robert, and from there it was only a short hop up to see her in San Francisco.
She was waiting for me in arrivals.
‘Hi,’ I said, and then realised I had no idea what else to say.
I leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, and fluffed it. She said an awkward hello, too, and then drove me back to her apartment. There were important issues to consider – mercenaries, spooks and United Nations inspectors included – but foremost in my mind was resolving the tricky conundrum of how, exactly, I was going to get her into bed.
I had only a few days before my next rendezvous: Robert, the writer, had arranged for me to attend a training course for journalists at a Marine Corps base in Virginia, and from there I was due in New York for meetings with Jonathan and the Discovery Times Channel. To my surprise, the television commissioning log-jam had been broken, and funding was agreed – if the rebels looked like they stood a genuine chance of attacking Monrovia. The idea was to film their assault from both sides: Jonathan inside the city with Taylor’s men, and me running with the rebels. For that to happen, the LURD needed to recover a lot of territory. According to Nick, they had barely been able to claw back the area around their headquarters on the Guinea border.
I was surprised and delighted to discover that Kathi’s old-fashioned, high-windowed apartment – that looked out over Alcatraz Island and the Bay – had only one bedroom.
‘There’s a sofa bed,’ she conceded, waving her hand half-heartedly towards a couch visible through the open doorway to the living room, ‘but you might be more comfortable in here.’
Thirteen years older than me, and deeply professionally involved in the most important story of my life, she was not an obvious choice of lover. She was, however, straightforwardly irresistible.
Over the following days we nosed around the city’s tourist sights, drank a lot, and chatted over lengthy meals in countless restaurants. Our conversation was always about West Africa, mercenaries and arms dealers. It was hardly romantic, but it was exhilarating. She knew a great deal – and asked an awful lot of questions. Here was the common ground I was missing with Rachel. Sipping bottles of Anchor Steam beer and eating barbecued oysters with her by the ocean, I felt like I was falling in love. Her experience, interest and contacts in Liberia proved insightful and concrete enough; but the details of her life, clouded by enigma, remained a mystery to me. As America edged towards war in the Gulf, I became tangled up in her, and her tales of intrigue and betrayal in Monrovia.
I was becoming more itinerant than ever. After meeting Jonathan in New York, I flew back to London in early February, Kathi by my side. I made my way to Chatham House for the Liberia briefing, before travelling to Brussels to meet Nick. The briefing went unexpectedly well, despite an initially frosty reception for Kathi by the host. I sat on a podium with a Liberia expert and delivered a forty-minute speech about who the LURD were, what their objectives were, and how they sought to achieve them. The room was packed with journalists, analysts – and spooks. A couple of Americans who weren’t keen on giving out business cards furnished me with cryptic email addresses and British mobile-phone numbers – and a suggestion that I stay in touch. One worked for the Defence Intelligence Agency, the other for the CIA. They had both seen my film, and they both knew about Nick. Kathi worked the room, collecting phone numbers and anecdotes; I smiled at everyone and tried to work out who my friends might be.
As far as getting back into Liberia was concerned, the only friend I could rely on was Nick. My commission with Discovery depended on the rebels getting their act together and launching a credible offensive against Monrovia. Personally, the contract was a huge deal: my own first proper advance commission for a TV film. Although part of me dreaded the physical consequences of returning, the prospect of a third trip filled me with familiar nervous excitement and anticipation. The scope of what we were planning appealed to me as well. With Jonathan filming behind Government lines, I hoped that we would be able to achieve together what I had failed to do alone: create a rounded, balanced picture of the real nature of the war, and its impact on the civilian population.
It was impossible to predict what might actually happen in Liberia, but just being on the ground with Discovery’s endorsement promised a breakthrough for my career. It was also a risk: if the rebels failed to attack, there would be no film. Getting any sense out of Sekou Conneh was almost impossible. My only, vital, source of information about the rebels’ prospects of victory was Nick.
We met in central Brussels and ended up in a large-windowed café where we ordered a late breakfast. I was dying to know what Nick had been up to; I filled him in on Chatham House, then he briefed me on his latest trip. He’d been back to Liberia again in January. It was now 7 March.
‘On that first trip I only went as far as Kolahun. That was a bit of a fuck-up. No diamonds and a lot of walking at night. Mostly it was just waiting around.’
‘No change there, then.’
I was relieved. The diamond exploit in Liberia was an unwelcome and complicating factor in my relationship with him. I suspected, nonetheless, that he was sugar-coating the truth. The United Nations was monitoring both Taylor and the LURD – both of whom they knew were dealing in contraband stones. There was more good news.
‘Sekou’s forces has made huge advances. Foya is still under Government control, but it’s completely isolated, an island. They’ve re-occupied all the land they lost when we went down there, right to Tubmanburg.’ He held his teaspoon daintily, making concentric circles in his coffee. ‘This time, though, they’re doing it properly. Sekou says he’s
going to finish off Foya before they try and hit Monrovia.’
‘What about supplies?’
‘Ag, well, that’s the problem. They’ve got enough for now, but they realise it’s impossible to win while they’re carrying everything south from Voinjama over that fokken river. Foya makes their supply lines very vulnerable, too. Their main plan is to take Robertsport. The harbour is quite good there – silted up, but still able to take a shallow-draft cargo ship if it’s unloaded with canoes. Dragon Master says that Guinea will give them what they need. If they can get a ship in, then they’ve got a straight run to Tubmanburg and the capital.’
‘And if they can’t?’
‘Ja, well, I’m working on that with Piet. He’s trying to arrange an ammo drop for Taylor. It’s hard landing planes at Robertsfield at the moment – the UN are monitoring Taylor much more closely now. He managed to land over two hundred tons of weapons while we were there last summer, though.’
‘You know, I think our film might have had something to do with the UN’s interest. It’s really ratcheted up the pressure on him.’
‘Ja, quite likely. You’ve been very busy. Well, it works for us anyway, because if the only way to get Taylor ammunition is to drop it from an aircraft, then we can make sure that the pilots get the wrong co-ordinates and just drop it a little bit further on our side.’
I couldn’t help but admire the sheer audacity of the plan: Nick supplying the rebels with weapons bought by Taylor for the Government army. It was cunning – but also very dangerous.
‘Piet would really do that?’
‘Ja, he really would. He’s looking at what happens when Taylor leaves. I think he’d like some new friends. Besides, it’s safe. The nearest upper radar coverage is in Ghana, miles out of range.’
‘And what about the diamonds? Really nothing?’
My curiosity was getting the better of me.
‘Useless, man. Very low-quality, no one is interested. I’ve just been in Zürich, trying to get some investment money. Actually, that was fokken great. They took us, me and Henri, my new business partner, to a bar with these dancing girls.’ He raised his hands, cupped inwards to his chest in imitation of an impressive cleavage. ‘Ja, it was all very nice, but no diamonds. I’m still working on the helicopter.’
For a moment, the modest, hard-working man I knew from the jungle looked lost. It seemed he was enjoying life, or perhaps he was just trying to live more how an arms dealer was expected to, to impress his Russian buyers.
I steered us back onto more familiar territory.
‘What about this Congo job? Is that still on?’
‘I think so. My contact has got some big plans connected to the rebels in Katanga. It’s going nicely.’ And then, almost as if remembering the final item on a shopping list, he added, ‘I’m trying to get hold of some SAM-16s, too. It’s quite difficult. They’re quite sensitive, much better than those SAM-7s we found, with a dual infrared tracking system.’
This was something else entirely. Highly effective surface-to-air missiles, SAM-16s are more than capable of downing not only airliners, but modern fighter planes, too.
Quite sensitive? I thought. Fuck me.
‘Mate, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not know. Fucking James Bond has got my mobile number and my girlfriend would wet her knickers if she even had the faintest idea we were having this conversation – which, by the way, she never will.’
‘That’s probably just as well. You wouldn’t want to upset her.’
He wrote a name and number on a piece of paper, and pushed it across the table to me.
‘Here, if she wants someone to fuck, she can screw this guy. He cheated me on a deal a couple of years back. He’s no good.’
‘Thanks. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to explain how I came by it, but anyway … When is this Congo gig going ahead?’
‘The one in the east, or the one in Katanga?’
‘Bloody hell, you’re going to keep me in work for years at this rate. Either of them.’
There were no fixed dates, but he promised to let me know. His Congolese contact was, by the sound of it, nothing if not shifty. The entire enterprise seemed at best fanciful, and likely impossible. The days of mercenaries marauding around Katanga were a distant memory.
Our shadows moved across the table, and we ambled to a restaurant for a late lunch. Glasses of strong Belgian lager made me light-headed, and more relaxed. Mainly, we chatted about getting back into Liberia, and the new film I wanted to make. This time I wanted to document very carefully the movement of weapons from Guinea to the LURD, as well as getting to grips properly with the rebels’ command structure and political agenda. If they did make it into the capital itself, I thought it was very important that the assault – and its consequences – be filmed. Conneh maintained that I would be the only journalist allowed in, which conferred a unique burden of responsibility to make sure I was there to capture it.
Nick was enthusiastic, and his general prognosis was positive. Now tight with the rebels, he would work on securing arms, or at least the means for arms to be delivered, for them. As soon as an attack on Monrovia seemed imminent, we’d get to Conakry, and then make our way to the front line.
‘A guy who was with me in the Recces has been up in Ivory Coast, fighting Liberian insurgents in the west, near Man. Taylor invaded to try and fuck up their president, Gbagbo, but he’s pushed too far in and seems quite weak. There’s another group, MODEL, that’s been trained by South Africans there who are pushing into Liberia now.’
‘Another Liberian rebel group, you mean?’
It was news to me. The war was escalating.
‘Ja, it seems that way. I think they were part of the LURD, but belonged to that Christian – what’s it, Krahn? – group. They’ve formed their own unit – lightly armed. Gbagbo used them against Taylor. Their main objective seems to be a port south of Monrovia.’
Taylor’s forces were over-stretched, and now possibly encircled. Worse, he faced two rebel groups, both of which were being supplied by neighbouring countries. He was swallowing a bitter dose of his own medicine.
After lunch, and more beers, we shook hands and then wished each other well as I bundled myself into a taxi.
‘See you in Conakry,’ I said, as the car pulled away.
‘Ja,’ he replied, ‘and good luck with that woman.’
My life was becoming a complex web of deceit and uncertainty. My only confidant about the fighting in Liberia was Nick, who was increasingly involved in the rebels’ war and now helping their push towards the coast in preparation for their assault on Monrovia. From Kathi, I withheld all but the most innocuous details of my relationship with him. From Nick, I hid my deep unease at his diamond dealing, and uncertainty at how I would reconcile his support for the rebels with the truthful telling of the story of the war that I was beholden – both professionally and morally – to recount. It was like being stuck in the middle of some preposterous intelligence ménage à trois.
At home, Kathi took a great deal of interest in my phone calls and comings and goings. I didn’t mention Mick, or two other subsequent meetings with US Intelligence operatives who had approached me in London. Despite the compulsive nature of our relationship, there was part of me that instinctively mistrusted her. Nothing was as it seemed. I had no idea what Nick might really be plotting with Piet and the rebels, and Kathi was absorbed in her own, mysterious, work – at times to the exclusion of all else. Nothing and no one could be relied upon absolutely – with the exception, as always, of my grandfather, Don. By phone, and fleeting visits to the bungalow in Kent, I kept him up to date with my plans, and, along with my mother, urged him to see a doctor for the cough that was troubling him.
As a return to Liberia loomed ever larger, I called Mick at the Foreign Office. We agreed to meet in a bistro tucked away in St Martin’s Passage – a quiet alley in the bustling heart of tourist London. The manager, a close friend of mine, sat us at a private table near the wi
ndow. I felt comfortable there, and safe.
‘So, Mick,’ I began, after the menus had been tidied away, ‘a little bird tells me that the British Government thinks I’m a mercenary. Apparently, I’ve been gun-running over the Liberian border.’
As I spoke, I felt a curious mix of emotions: fear, excitement and gnawing uncertainty.
‘I think there was, certainly, that impression. Yes.’
He looked at me with dull grey eyes. He was the most ignorable, forgettable man I’d ever met.
Bloody hell, I thought, Kathi was right. Where do I even begin with this?
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s ridiculous. I went in with a professional soldier – which, as you know, is not unusual. The BBC hires ex-SAS bodyguards all the time. It’s an industry norm. He picked up a weapon in-country, and never used it.’
I thought of the ambush on the back road, the long grass scythed by machine-gun fire. Mick fiddled with his napkin, and drank some water.
‘As I expect you know, I have quite a close relationship with the Americans, who were interested in what I was doing. What I don’t understand is why no one else is. All this mercenary rubbish is very damaging, and I want it to stop. I’m a journalist.’
He said nothing.
‘I’m just trying to do my job,’ I added, for good measure.
‘Like I said,’ he countered, with monotonous exactitude, ‘there was that impression. But I think you could interpret the fact that you were invited to submit the Chatham House paper as a sign that you’ve been brought in from the cold, as it were.’
I stared at him in disbelief. Brought in from the cold? What is this, a plot from a fucking thriller?
‘I expect you’ll find that all has been forgiven. Giving a briefing paper like that is very … mainstream.’
My Friend The Mercenary Page 23