The Wonga Coup (13 page)

So by late 2003, heckles were up. As oil wealth grew, loyalty became less predictable. Decisions were taken in the shadows. As more power and wealth were invested in one man, Obiang, it grew more tempting for others to kill him. And by 2003 Obiang reportedly grew frail. A deadly competition to succeed arose. Though simplified, one could see the domestic battle as one between two brothers, Obiang's two sons. On one side Teodorin, the playboy elder brother, an arrogant and power-hungry man. Few liked him. He once ran a recording studio in California, then took charge of tropical timber exports from Equatorial Guinea. His power in government steadily grew. Oil companies were said not to trust him. He was quick to argue. He threatened his father. Backed by his powerful mother, Obiang's first wife, he knew he was favourite to succeed, if only Obiang relinquished his grip. By September 2003, said Johann Smith (who was close to the ruling family), relations with Obiang were fraught. After one confrontation a furious Teodorin stormed out of the country. There were whispers he had plotted against others in the ruling clan. In private discussions he said he would be president soon and would renegotiate oil contracts struck by American firms.

The second son, Gabriel, represented another part of the ruling family, opposed to Teodorin, who feared that if he took power they would be pushed aside, possibly killed. Gabriel was considered an outsider because his mother, Obiang's
second wife, was from Sao Tome. Younger, educated in America, less obnoxious and more capable than Teodorin he was favoured by foreign oil firms. This second faction of the ruling family included some powerful men. One was called Augustin Ona, an uncle of Obiang, who would crack from the strain, apparently attempt suicide and be arrested later that year. Another was Armengol, Obiang's brother, the man who struck a business deal and joint venture agreement with Nick du Toit.

‘It sounds to me like a gentleman's plot from the eighteenth century. You each put in 100,000, then try to get it back tenfold.'

Henry Page on the financiers

One Monday in 1985 a group of white men wearing crumpled business suits and carrying suitcases arrived at Hammond airport, near New Orleans, USA. They expected to board a charter flight to Suriname, a small former Dutch colony in South America. Their cases were stuffed with semi-automatic weapons. They also carried revolvers, compasses, walkietalkie radios, shotguns and commando face-blackening cream. Packed in bags were thousands of rounds of ammunition and a book –
Ambush and Counter Ambush
– for last-minute revision. Once in Suriname, they planned to pose as bankers, arrange a meeting with the president, overpower him and take charge of the country. Somehow, they believed, Suriname's military would accept the
fait accompli
and let them get away with it.

In the annals of ridiculous coup attempts, the one by Tommy Lynn Denley, an American former customs agent and one-time policeman in Panama, must count as one of the most stupid. Homer Simpson could have done a better job. Denley recruited thirteen others from small American towns like Sugar Tree, Tennessee and Oak Forest, Illinois. He apparently
hated left-wing rule in Latin America. But money was also a big concern. There were rumours that a Dutch foundation would pay ‘hundreds of millions' of dollars for the removal of Suriname's Marxist regime. Financiers were apparently pledged tenfold returns. That rate seems to be the standard to lure investors to coup plots. Whatever the fantasy of reward, operational funds were short. An original plan had called for thirty hardened fighters to fly via Nicaragua. That was later dropped in favour of a smaller group flying direct from the United States.

But the FBI infiltrated the plot early on. Undercover agents even chartered the plane and arranged other transport for the hard-up conspirators. Just before departure, Denley and his men were separated from their guns and arrested. They later pleaded guilty to various federal offences.
Newsweek
magazine noted in 1986: ‘Amateur mercenaries have a wellestablished tendency to fall for crazy plots and get in over their heads … in the course of recruiting, seeking financial backing and buying munitions for the coup, Denley made so many waves that he picked up almost as many federal infiltrators as genuine recruits …'

Denley perhaps got his idea from a similar plot four years earlier, also in the United States. In 1981, ten white supremacists from Canada and the United States vowed to take over the Caribbean island of Dominica. A man called Michael Perdue dreamt up ‘Operation Red Dog', to sail a team of hired guns 3,200 km (2,000 miles) from New Orleans on a yacht, the
Manana
. A former head of the Ku Klux Klan in Canada took the code name ‘Red Dog 3' and served as a forward agent, to guide the mercenaries to a darkened dock with a flashlight. But, vain and careless, they bragged of their plans to a Canadian radio station. One explained: ‘I consider myself
a little bit of a rebel in society … And I'm also, of course, going to benefit financially from it, which will afford me a good life … I hope I'll be fixed for the rest of my life after Dominica.' They also gave documents and more interviews to a Canadian woman who planned to write a book about the escapade. They said they would use assault rifles, 12-gauge shotguns and sticks of dynamite wrapped with roofing nails to ‘blast' police guards and seize the local radio station and government. They expected little resistance from the ninetynine men of Dominica's army.

But the working budget was small. An ex-minister of Dominica who wanted his old job back may have pledged funds, perhaps $150,000. The island would be used as a base to promote white supremacist views and the mercenaries would make money, too, by selling false passports, running guns and logging trees. There were elaborate plans for an airport, a casino, hotels, off-shore banking and – an imaginative touch – a holiday playground and money-laundering venue for American mobsters. One Canadian mafioso paid $10,000 upfront. In return he expected to become a major in the defence force. But police heard of the plot, infiltrated the loose-tongued gang and arrested Perdue and the rest before they boarded the
Manana
. They were tried and jailed.

These two cases tell an obvious story: low-cost rent-acoups rarely work. It is much the same in Africa. Toppling someone else's government is tricky and expensive. Frederick Forsyth was alleged by the
Sunday Times
to have put £100,000 (the equivalent of roughly ten times that today) into the 1973 plot against Equatorial Guinea. (He now admits giving some cash, but claims it was only for information.) Three years on, Bob Denard – as mentioned earlier – had a budget of roughly $1 million, probably from the French government, to seize
power in Benin with ninety men. He failed, but succeeded in the Comoros a couple of years later with a smaller team, a fishing trawler and a crate of good champagne. Mike Hoare originally budgeted $5 million for his coup attempt in the Seychelles, though that dropped as his plans for 200 soldiers were reduced to a few dozen and a shoestring budget. Hoare concluded that coups ‘cannot be carried out on the cheap. The unexpected beats you. It is horrifyingly expensive.'

As lessons in failure, these attempts might have been useful for the Wonga Coup plotters. Doing the job well required money. If you lack funds, you are more vulnerable to other problems. There is the need to recruit, train, accommodate and sustain a fighting force that is loyal only to cash. The bigger the army and the more training needed, the greater the cost. Reconnaissance trips to the target country are essential. More elaborate efforts entail setting up a front company, or some other cover.

Then there is transport. Amateur rent-a-coups are more likely in small countries (Benin, Suriname) and island ones (the Comoros, the Seychelles, Dominica, Equatorial Guinea). That means crossing the sea. Hoare's cheap ruse – disguising his fighters as rugby-playing tourists and buying plane tickets to the Seychelles – meant he lacked a means of escape when things went sour. As Forsyth said in 2005, attackers should approach by sea: ‘A ship can drop over the horizon and be entirely on its own.' There are no controls on the waves, but there is time to test weapons and give late orders. Bob Denard, in the Comoros, and the Dominica plotters of Operation Red Dog favoured that method. But finding and buying a suitable craft is not easy. Fishing trawlers were initially preferred by Hoare, though he later dropped the idea. Mann and du Toit bought at least one trawler, too. Flying your own plane is the
other option, and a few aircraft – DC3s in the past, the Boeing 727 more recently – are popular among hired guns.

Weapons are moderately costly. In Forsyth's meticulously researched novel he said an attack force should overthrow the government in Equatorial Guinea, then a larger army would keep power: ‘The [attack] force should not be less than a dozen men, armed with mortars, bazookas and grenades, and all carrying as well submachine carbines for close-quarters use.' Attackers expect to use surprise and limited force, not to engage in many battles or prolonged fighting. Plots usually involve elements of an invasion, but should unfold quickly and quietly. Each soldier needs a rifle, plus ammunition. One can be bought almost anywhere in Africa for the price of a good restaurant meal. A machine gun or two, and some grenades, might be thrown in. If you are French, champagne is essential. Even cut-price attackers are likely to need radios, first aid kits and other basics, plus appropriate clothing. Bigger spenders add items like a helicopter gunship. All attackers expect to be better trained, organised and led than any defenders. In order to keep power, the army will need heavier weapons, but these might be seized in the country of occupation.

There are incidental costs. Some information comes from the advance guard, but other material is bought from rag-and-bone intelligence men. There are bribes to pay, perhaps so no one interferes when the mercenaries depart for the attack. While a scheme is prepared, there are costs of entertaining contacts, communications and other sundry items. Then money goes astray. After all, this is about plotting a big, if international, crime. Ordinary bankrobbers swindle each other, or pocket funds that should have paid for the getaway car. Coup plotters are no different. No one audits the finances. No one can run to the police if their investment is stolen. Only
the fabled honour among gentlemen thieves, plus a shared hunger for success, keep conspirators in line. Many of those even loosely involved in the Wonga Coup were afterwards quick to talk, somewhat bitterly, of money owed them.

Nobody, perhaps not even the organisers of the Wonga Coup, is exactly sure of its budget. Estimates range from $3 million to $20 million. James Kershaw kept the closest eye on Mann's finances, but claims he thought the money was for a mining project in Congo. He refuses to talk in detail. Mann was usually involved in several different business schemes at once and was casual about his accounts. Money flowed between his companies, serving different ends. So it is hard to prove that a particular deposit was intended for a coup plot rather than, say, for a legitimate gold mining project in South America.

But the plotters used at least $3 million, probably more. Where did they find it? The best source of funding, as Bob Denard knew, is a friendly government. For his Seychelles attack Hoare got limited aid – weapons and training grounds – from apartheid South Africa. But few freelance plotters enjoy such backing. A rich plotter might fund everything himself. But with risky projects it is natural to share the gamble. Some treat it as a business. Entrepreneurs raise capital with bank loans, by mortgaging property, selling shares or getting venture capitalists involved. Business-minded buccaneers do the same. Francis Drake used some of his own money to fund fleets to plunder Spanish gold. But he also promised good returns to individuals – including his sovereign, Queen Elizabeth – who put up matching funds. Henry Morton Stanley, the nineteenth-century explorer-conqueror, funded his trips to Africa with sponsorship from British and American newspapers. Later, a single investor, Belgium's King Leopold, paid him to
stake out a massive private empire in central Africa, now the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Mann followed Drake: he put in funds himself, used savings, possibly having taken a loan against shares in a diamond mining firm in Angola and – he claimed to other plotters – having raised a mortgage on his London home. As an investor he could claim a large share of the riches afterwards. But he also asked friends and colleagues – very private investors – to help. An inner circle were also plotters. Equatorial Guinea accused Ely Calil, the wealthy Lebanese–Nigerian oil trader, of being the lead financier of this sort, though he stoutly denied it. David Tremain faces arrest in South Africa, where investigators say he helped finance the plot, but also attended planning meetings and more. He has stayed silent on the matter, issuing no comment or denial. A South African charge sheet, which explains what they would be charged with if arrested, accuses him and Greg Wales of ‘raising funds to finance' mercenary activities, conspiring with Mann and making plans to install a new government in Equatorial Guinea. Then a second circle of financiers, with less precise – if any – knowledge of the scheme, were promised an excellent rate of return, perhaps tenfold, if they asked few questions. Henry Page, a lawyer acting for Equatorial Guinea's government, later suggested: ‘It sounds to me like a gentleman's plot from the eighteenth century. You each put in 100,000, then try to get it back tenfold.' This circle included a fascinating cast of investors.

Mann wrote a detailed confession in March 2004 giving useful information about money. He – and his lawyers – say this document should be ignored. It was obtained under duress
and perhaps after torture. It was not used in court against Mann, presumably for these problems, though a lawyer acting against him in Britain denied torture took place. He noted the free-flowing handwriting did not suggest ‘someone treated like Guy Fawkes'. Though obtained under dubious circumstances, none suggested the confession was fabricated.