The Wonga Coup (31 page)

Mazanga Kashama was happiest to have clothes again. ‘The moment you get in, you are stripped naked. They give you shorts and a shirt … I spent 434 days without underwear. Now I have three days wearing underwear!' Like many others he expressed his pleasure at being free by describing the misery of jail, the blood-sucking wildlife behind bars and the starvation: ‘These people, their skin peels off like a snake.' But the former footsoldiers were generally furious with Mann and the other plot leaders and financiers. One raged: ‘If everything went all right they were going to benefit. Now our fingers are burnt. Employers don't want to hire us. They don't want to associate with mercenaries. We suffered. What are they [the financiers] thinking of us, as dogs? It is like using a condom, use and throw. Or because we are blacks? Somehow they will pay. They will have to pay us.'

Mann provided some food for the footsoldiers in prison, but it did little to buy off their bitterness. ‘If I met Simon Mann, one thing's for sure, I'd kill him. He lied to us a lot … We're just a sacrificial lamb. We protected his ass in Chikurubi. That was our mistake.' Those returning to Pomfret, the dilapidated asbestos town, were knocked again. South Africa's ministry of defence announced that it was to be bulldozed. There is nothing to endear one to the old army base, and the fear of asbestos dust should have seen it flattened years earlier. But the government clearly had another reason for acting: they wanted to crack down on the Buffalo Soldiers, the men of 32 Battalion who were such willing hired guns. One minister talked of South Africa as a ‘cesspool for mercenaries'. A government insider said the veterans ‘made the mistake of
fighting on the wrong side yet again'. Residents were promised housing elsewhere, though scattered around the country. But even with Pomfret razed, the problem of men being recruited as private soldiers will persist. Ex-army types with no other job prospects are sure to be lured into similar work in future. ‘Soldiers-of-fortune are as old a profession as prostitutes,' suggests a defence analyst in Pretoria.

For those released after fourteen months jailed in Zimbabwe, there was soon something else to worry about. South African prosecutors had seen Thatcher, Pienaar, Crause Steyl, Horn and Carlse all strike plea bargains by admitting guilt. A handful of others involved in conflicts elsewhere had also struck plea bargains. In April 2005 charge sheets were drawn up and lodged with a court in Pretoria against Mann, Wales and Tremain should they ever set foot in South Africa. But the country's anti-mercenary laws had still never been tested in court.

The authorities chose to launch a test case against eight of the men who had been released. These men were regarded as officers, against whom a prosecution stood the best chance of success. Raymond Archer, Errol Harris, Louis du Prez and Simon Witherspoon formed one group. Their lawyer said the men would not deny the plot, but could show that the South African government gave the ‘green light' for it to proceed. Four black defendants, Victor Dracula, Mazanga Kashama, Neves Matias and Maitre Ruakuluka (known as Celeste), formed a second group. Prosecutors said privately that their political masters wanted a trial to prove the law's worth. ‘You should never be blasé and think it wouldn't happen again, or to think the law is going to stop these guys,' explained a prosecutor. ‘A court case is the only way we get versions out. It would be interesting if the defence calls witnesses sympathetic
to them, suggesting that there was a perception of a green light from government.' The trial was finally held in 2007, but the judge threw out the case after two weeks, noting that some defendants had believed that the South African government backed the plot.

Prosecutors wanted to crack down on them, in part to prevent them attacking each other, they said. There were fears that bitter men might settle scores between themselves. Smith had taken to sleeping with a Glock handgun under his pillow. Morgan added extra security to his remote, rural home. Smith regularly confronted drunk and aggressive ‘moustaches' who said they were going to kill him. These were often friends and relatives of those behind bars in Zimbabwe and Equatorial Guinea. There were rumours of a hit list of those who had helped foil the coup. Morgan was advised his name was on it and told to take precautions. The police warned troublemakers they would be arrested immediately if there were any attack.

Another effort was made to stamp on mercenaries. As South Africa's 1998 law against them – one of few in the world – had proven so difficult to apply, the country's rulers promised a new act by 2006. It was even tougher, requiring anyone who sells any service in a conflict zone to be licensed. Intended to stop South African ex-soldiers fighting in Iraq, it could also hinder aid workers and journalists in war zones. Confusing matters, the law made an exception for ‘freedom fighters' who joined an ‘anti-colonial' war abroad. It promised to be no more useful than the old one: now both mercenaries and freedom fighters would have to be defined. South Africa also wanted to prosecute anyone visiting the country, even foreign tourists, who might have broken this law abroad. The chances of enforcing it looked slim.

At the end of July 2005, the pilots Niel Steyl and Hendrik Hamman were let out of Chikurubi. Apart from Mann, they were the last to be released from Zimbabwe. They were also driven to South Africa, to Beit Bridge. Grey-haired Niel agreed to an interview for this book four days later. His release was emotional. His brother Crause had flown to the border with Zimbabwe to collect him. ‘We stopped at a liquor store and the television was on. I could watch the last three minutes of the rugby match against Australia. Our boys won!' He drank beer and flew home to a private runway near Pretoria, where a welcome party was thrown.

He gave a harrowing description of life behind bars, confirmed he had lost his job and missed some $170,000 of earnings. But did he regret signing up to the Wonga Coup? Not at all. ‘I would do something with Simon again. But not for money, for the kicks. It's not “Hell, I'm never going to do this again.” Life is for living. Sometimes there's a fuck-up.'

In Equatorial Guinea the first men were freed in mid 2005. Obiang marked his birthday with a decree pardoning the six bemused Armenian pilots. He called it a sign of goodwill. The less important inmates in Black Beach, such as Bones Boonazier, also hoped for early release. Officials were charmed by his wife, whom they found humble and unthreatening. Bones was reportedly allowed frequent visits and could even spend occasional nights with her at a Malabo hotel. It was rumoured that Bones and du Toit refused to speak to each other, Cardoso was depressed behind bars while Allerson handled the situation reasonably well. Bones was indeed released in 2006.

Where did that leave du Toit? A lawyer acting for Obiang suggested the president felt the men on the ground ‘have been punished enough'. Du Toit was likely to be released last: he needed to be punished to set an example. But few expected him
to serve more than a couple of years. And a gracious pardon could make Obiang look good, while ensuring he did not die of malaria or ill treatment in Black Beach. Unfortunately, officials in Equatorial Guinea took a fierce dislike to his wife, Belinda, reportedly calling her ‘The Snake' because she dared speak in public about the awful conditions in Black Beach. They refused her the privileges enjoyed by Bones and his wife.

Mann's lawyers, and those jailed with him, said he coped well with prison life, charming the guards and other prisoners, and keeping fit. It was suggested that his lawyer, Samukange, brought him roast chicken to eat. The old Etonian continued to deny being part of a plot, to quote his London lawyer Kerman: ‘Simon Mann has specifically said he was not involved in any plot to procure the violent military overthrow of the government of Equatorial Guinea.' Yet he was also said to be writing a book about the whole affair.

There was a flurry of excitement in mid 2005 when Zimbabwe's attorney general said he would extradite Mann to Equatorial Guinea to face trial for ‘high treason'. Kerman said later he was deeply concerned by the prospect: ‘I worry about it all the time. But President Mugabe has said, has given his word, that Simon Mann will not move as long as he is in Zimbabwe serving time for crimes in Zimbabwe. [But] in Africa, and in Russia, anything can happen. It's the sort of place that one morning Mugabe might wake up and say “Get rid of him”.' Few expected extradition would happen, certainly not before Mann's term was complete in Zimbabwe. Mann himself was confident he would never set foot in Equatorial Guinea. He once boasted to a visitor he would be free by May 2006. It was widely thought by friends of Mann that regular payments made to senior prison officials in Zimbabwe kept the celebrity inmate treated well.

There have been rumours of efforts both in Zimbabwe and in Equatorial Guinea to break the men free. In Zimbabwe one idea was to arrange for Mann's extradition to South Africa in December 2004, for a payment under the table of some $5 million. It is unclear why, if the deal were really on offer, the money was not forthcoming from London. In Equatorial Guinea, Smith continued to peddle warnings of coup attempts against Obiang. He and others suggested there was a ‘plan B' attack scheduled for mid 2004, with another intelligence report confidently predicting ‘what will happen is that a bullet will be put in Obiang in the middle of this cacophony', provoking American intervention.

That did not happen, but in May 2005 there was a curious arrest at Malabo airport. A South African of Angolan origin, a man called Apollo Naria, arrived at immigration and declared he wanted to see his ‘old friends' in Black Beach prison. Officials stared at him unbelievingly. Was the visitor a veteran of 32 Battalion, a Buffalo Soldier? He was indeed. A second lieutenant in 32 Battalion, he explained. The police promptly arrested and interrogated him. Fearing that he had come to do reconnaissance for a jail break they threw him into Black Beach prison, too.

‘You are a good friend and we welcome you.'

Condoleezza Rice, American Secretary of State, to Obiang, Washington DC, April 2006

It is hardly appropriate to draw sweeping lessons about the whole of modern Africa as a whole from a story of a failed coup in a single small country. Too often writers try to comment on Africa without distinguishing between the great variety of people, politics, histories and cultures to be found there. Equatorial Guinea has little in common with well-run Botswana, for example, just as the aristocratic and minor celebrity plotters in the Wonga Coup have little in common with most outsiders who live and work in Africa. Yet this story touches on themes that are relevant not only to many resource-rich African nations, but to poor countries all over the world. The core message is simple enough: where the extraction of valuable resources like oil or diamonds is managed carelessly, as happens in too much of Africa, the consequences are usually grave.

The story of the Wonga Coup began, ultimately, in Angola's civil war. It was in Angola that the soldiers of 32 Battalion cut their teeth, and it was in Angola that Mann's Executive Outcomes was born. Angola's war, at least in the 1990s, was
a battle for control of oil and diamonds, not one of ideology. Similarly, the scrap for Equatorial Guinea was all about controlling oil revenues: the dictatorial old guard of Obiang defended itself against a threatening new force that posed as democratic. But the rival sides shared a common goal of syphoning off short-term profits from the massive – and relatively new and poorly controlled – output of oil. Nobody intended to use the oil for a more decent purpose, such as developing an economy to lessen poverty and improve the lives of ordinary Africans. But at least the coup attempt threw into sharp relief how different participants in Equatorial Guinea's oil bonanza – usually the same actors present in other parts of Africa – behave. Not all African leaders are corrupt, but just as Obiang steals in Equatorial Guinea, crooked leaders rob their countries in Kenya, Nigeria, Cameroon, Angola and many other places.

Not all western banks are willing to stash the stolen funds of crooked leaders, but the exposé of Riggs Bank in America shows how easily it was done behind the respectable doors of a Washington DC institution. Few other banks have been subjected to the sort of scrutiny that eventually destroyed Riggs. If they were, others would surely be shown to be culpable, too. And, perhaps, not all oil companies are equally willing to pay bribes to crooked politicians. ExxonMobil, Amerada Hess and Marathon were exposed by the US Senate and shown to be channelling money in crude ways to the families of politicians in Malabo. Few would doubt they – but also other oil firms, mining firms, telecoms firms and so on – also pay bribes and fuel corruption in other parts of Africa. But we know about these payments because of the unusual scrutiny that fell upon one corner of Africa, in part because a group of mercenaries tried to snatch control there.

By 2005 the story of the Wonga Coup was not yet over. The
men in Zimbabwe and Equatorial Guinea were behind bars. In South Africa Mark Thatcher struck his deal, admitted breaking the anti-mercenary law, paid a fine and left. He sold his Cape Town mansion making a good profit (‘It washed its face,' he says grudgingly). Those involved had much time to ponder why the plot had failed so spectacularly. There were many reasons. From the outset it was too big and complicated: three teams co-ordinated over thousands of kilometres; roughly a hundred people to be marshalled to the target; weapons and ammunition bought on the way. The logistics were messy: a specialised plane from the United States; footsoldiers recruited in South Africa; guns from Zimbabwe; finance raised in Britain; an exiled politician in Spain; a launching pad in the Canary Islands; the target in Equatorial Guinea; abandoned plans to go via Uganda, Congo and Namibia. Crause Steyl concluded that trying to put together a ‘semi-government' had proved over-ambitious and unwieldy.