The Wonga Coup (10 page)

Du Toit's main business appears to have been arms trading. He founded a company called Military Technical Services
incorporated (MTS), based in Pretoria, and became a familiar face among traders, striking deals with various suppliers of small arms, including a state-run company called Zimbabwe Defence Industries (ZDI). He worked with another South African, Henry van der Westhuizen. The two were heard boasting they would somehow ‘change the face of Africa'. A British journalist who travelled with du Toit in Liberia in 2002 describes him as ‘an arms dealer, mercenary, chaperone'. Pictures at this time show him to be middle-aged, sporting a grey beard and dark hair. His hands are unusually large and he looks like a typical Afrikaner farmer: a bronzed and careworn Boer who has spent long days at outdoor work.

Du Toit and Mann apparently considered investing in and running a diamond mine in Liberia early in 2003, but decided that was too risky. Instead, by the middle of that year they were collaborating on plans for a coup – often called ‘the project' – in Equatorial Guinea. Mann later recalled he contacted du Toit ‘who was an old acquaintance and friends of a good friend of mine' as early as May or June 2003. ‘I talked through the project with him. He also thought it was a good idea. We agreed to try and set up legitimate businesses in Equatorial Guinea. If the project went ahead, these would be useful. If the project did not go ahead, then hopefully they would make money.'

(There are allegations that du Toit was also involved in dubious activities with rebels elsewhere. A document of unproven veracity suggests he struck a deal with some rebel soldiers in southern Congo who called themselves the PDD, for ‘Peace, Development and Democracy', on 15 May 2003. It stated that the he would supply ‘military and financial support to the PDD', to enable it to launch a coup in Congo. In return, du Toit would get access to mineral riches. The Congolese
rebel leader was named ‘K. S. Nyembo', but his group – if it even existed – was insignificant in that massive country.)

Thus, by mid 2003 – some months after Mann and Moto had first met – du Toit was in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea. His cover story was that he was working for a South African security firm called Omega which was investing in new businesses. In fact he was establishing himself, and a team of front men, as the forward group for the Wonga Coup. Lucie Bourthoumieux, a French lawyer who worked for the government of Equatorial Guinea, recalls how warmly du Toit was received at the time. ‘He had been welcomed by the authorities … Malabo is a small village. It had just two or three hotels. He came saying he had money to invest, an easy way to be accepted. The authorities … they took him as their friend.' Du Toit recruited two old military colleagues to work for him. One was Sergio Cardoso (who had worked with Morgan in Congo), the other Abel Augusto. They were allegedly there to investigate the fishing industry. They met advisers close to Obiang and the president's younger brother, Armengol Nguema. Others followed. None were hired for their knowledge of the fishing industry, for none had any inkling of that sort of work. Du Toit hired exsoldiers and fierce fighters with histories of performing well in battles. But their only experience of tuna was eating it.

Du Toit also met the president's brother Armengol and they discussed agriculture and fishing. Dealing with Armengol, who has a fierce reputation as head of security in the country, meant playing for high stakes. The American State Department has described him as a torturer whose ‘minions urinated on their victims, sliced their ears and rubbed oil on their bodies to lure stinging ants'. He is barely literate (his signature on documents confirming a business relationship with du Toit is shaky, like that of a very old man), but he is not stupid.
Even those close to the regime say Armengol is ‘not known as a mild-mannered man or a man that can be crossed without consequences', and confirm he presides over a ‘heavy-handed intelligence service'.

But du Toit's actions soon rang alarm bells. Smith, with an eye on Equatorial Guinea and the veterans of 32 Battalion, felt a greater urge than ever to warn of a coup. He noted du Toit and his companions ‘throwing around' money in Malabo. Though he was often rubbished, Peg Leg said evidence of future trouble was building up. If none of that were enough, an event unfolded that should have given a dazzlingly clear warning.

In July 2003, Sao Tome and Principe, a tiny former colony of Portugal that pokes out of the Atlantic near Equatorial Guinea, saw its government toppled. The poor country is famous for nothing but, after years of searching, experts now say it has every chance of striking huge deposits of oil. Locals long knew of oil seeping from rocks in the jungle. In the 1990s American companies started looking for oil and gas fields deep offshore. Predictably – for Sao Tome suffered coup attempts – soldiers made a grab for power. They succeeded while the president, Fradique de Menezes, was abroad. They secured ministries, a radio station, the airport and other typical targets and claimed to be opposing ‘tyranny and injustice'. A few shots were fired and some grenades exploded, but no one was hurt.

That attack by the self-proclaimed Junta of National Salvation sent a stark warning because some of the Sao Tomeans involved were ‘Buffalo Soldiers', that is men who had fought as part of apartheid South Africa's army, in 32 Battalion. At least one man, Alercio Costa, had also served in Executive Outcomes. And though the Sao Tomean coup was reversed in a few days, thanks to fierce political pressure
from Nigeria and the United States, the putsch set a precedent for the region: hired guns could snatch power in an oil rich country. In Sao Tome the Buffalo Soldiers had a near mythical reputation. To this day they gather behind the red door of a building known as the House of Buffaloes, described by one journalist as a ‘frat house for mercenaries', where they reminisce over old battles and plot new ones.

The event inevitably concerned Smith. In the following weeks, using contacts with veterans of 32 Battalion, he learned that the old Buffalo Soldiers had not hung up their boots after the coup in Sao Tome. Costa, one of the three leaders, subsequently contacted other 32 Battalion and Executive Outcomes veterans living in Pretoria, South Africa. He also repeatedly met Sergio Cardoso, the man who had been with Morgan at the diamond mines in Congo and who now worked in Equatorial Guinea with du Toit. Cardoso met others who had been part of the coup in Sao Tome. He was learning how they did it. Then several other ex-members of 32 Battalion met Cardoso: Domingo Passaco, a former staff sergeant and special forces operative (4 Reconnaissance); Georges Allerson, a former sergeant and member of another special forces unit; Neves Matias, a specialist Small Team Operator and another veteran of the special forces. These men included some du Toit recruited to work in Equatorial Guinea, while others were recruited by Mann in South Africa. They were getting advice from colleagues who had conducted the (briefly) successful coup in Sao Tome.

As the year moved on, Smith knew the veterans were meeting frequently and shuttling around west Africa to share information. In November, he heard a tip from a former Buffalo Soldier. A veteran called Netu came to his home in Pretoria. He had been at a hotel in Pretoria where he had
heard that veterans of 32 Battalion were being recruited for a well-paid job. He had arrived too late and missed recruitment for it. Frustrated, he told Smith what he knew: soldiers were being recruited for a coup in Equatorial Guinea. Smith was unamused. ‘Yes, I was angry', he says. ‘Others were pissing on my patch.' He resolved to stop it.

‘Beware, beware the Bight of Benin,
For few come out though many go in.'

Old slavers' rhyme in west Africa

Throughout the planning of the coup, Mann and the other plotters faced a dilemma. On the one hand, those conspiring in a secret plot should not leave lying around many documents and contracts that might be used as evidence against them if things go wrong. On the other, mercenaries and crooked politicians are a treacherous lot. It is imprudent to leave terms of a contract unspecified and unsigned, or to trust that verbal agreements will be kept later without papers to back them up. Those who hired the coup plotters – the men who did nothing to risk their own skins or freedom, but who were willing to finance the scheme – were not inclined to keep (or show) any documents about the case. But Mann and the others wanted some guarantee of the rewards they would get. That explains why there exists a startling variety of contracts, documents, plans and dreams that the plotters committed to paper. This thickly strewn paper trail, written between July 2003 and the date of the coup attempt, gives a clear idea of their hopes, fears and ambitions.

The first pair of contracts were sketched out on 22 July 2003,
between Mann and Moto. The timing is intriguing: a few days after the coup in Sao Tome, and a few months after Mann and Moto first met and discussed the idea of a coup in Equatorial Guinea. The two documents show a formal relationship has been established between the two men. Moto is the client without much ready cash; Mann is the professional hired to make his customer president of a small oil rich country. Once in power, Moto would be wealthy and powerful. So it is at this stage, when Mann had relatively more clout, that he haggled for a good reward.

Copies of these documents, in the author's possession, are signed and initialled by Mann (though not by Moto). In these the melodramatic Mann calls himself ‘Captain F': it was said that he is fond of code-names. Moto is declared – a little prematurely – as president of Equatorial Guinea. Juicy rewards are promised for Mann and his party: $1 million dollars each for Mann and three other plot leaders (whom Mann would name). For six other junior officers, some $50,000 each; for seventy-five footsoldiers, $25,000 each. In total Mann wanted over $7 million in cash for overthrowing the government of Equatorial Guinea. He and his men would be named citizens of the little country and would be made immune from prosecution for any killing or nastiness they inflicted; they would also be protected against any foreign government that tried to extradite them to face justice elsewhere. Finally, Mann would have the job of providing Moto's personal bodyguard, in the style of the French mercenary Bob Denard in the Comoros, who controlled presidents by controlling their guards.

But the second contract, also marked 22 July 2003, promised Mann greater riches. It seems he kept this contract secret (it is marked confidential) from the other coup plotters – perhaps he learned a tough lesson in Executive Outcomes when others,
like Tony Buckingham, prospered more from the corporate army than he did. In this contract Mann is brazen. He demands a minimum of $15 million for himself, within days of installing Moto as president. In addition, all his costs are to be covered (indeed twice over) by the client, and anything Mann has bought for the mission – planes, boats, weapons, champagne – is to be repurchased by the client. Any late payments by Moto would incur high rates of interest, while Mann would get a diplomatic passport and an honorary rank in the military ‘as deemed appropriate'.

That is just the beginning. This secret second deal orders that, immediately on taking office, the new government must begin a ‘phased programme of military procurement and build up'. This must happen ‘as quickly and as aggressively as possible'. Arms buying might even begin before the coup, and Mann expects generous pay for conducting it. Mann, through a company he would form, would be the sole provider of a range of military services. He would also recover money – hundreds of millions of dollars – stuffed in foreign bank accounts by corrupt politicians. He would control private security operations and supply consultancy, procurement and outsourcing services to the government. The men of his presidential guard, a hundred of them, would each get a salary of $6,000 a month, with an upfront payment of $1.8 million ‘required immediately on our arrival'.

These secondary business opportunities would make Mann and his cronies extremely rich. The second document sets out in black and white what a modern mercenary expects for overthrowing a small government. But it also shows the sort of thievery that many African politicians are routinely found to commit – the only difference would be the colour of Mann's skin. And while Moto would appear to run the
new government, Mann intended to keep as much control as possible. Crause Steyl believed that an admirable goal: ‘Simon is a smart person. He would have made a good shadow president.' Equatorial Guinea's new wealth would be milked as furiously as possible. Mann was not just being greedy – his pay would simply reflect the huge risks in doing the job. But it is a damning document, undermining any idea of him as a hero involved in a caper to help ordinary Africans.

While Mann was busy calculating what he would get paid, another plotter, Greg Wales, was (almost certainly) drafting the first of a pair of remarkable political documents. Wales, the accountant and close friend of Mann who once worked with Executive Outcomes, considers himself a businessman, an academic, a wheelerdealer, a friend of mercenaries (though not a gun-toter himself) and a writer. He likes to meet in London cellar wine bars, usually over several bottles of chardonnay. He wears black-rimmed, half-moon spectacles with a string attached, and frowns frequently when trying to look serious. He usually dons the near-uniform of English expatriates in Africa: crinkled linen suit and pale blue shirt. Like most who were connected to the Wonga Coup, the ex-accountant is prone to rambling lectures.

He had the job of thinking out the political consequences of attempting a coup in Equatorial Guinea. It was up to him – along with a few others with good political contacts in Africa, Europe or America – to consider the reactions of governments and businesses with interests in Equatorial Guinea. Wales specifically asked the author that he get credit for using the old rhyme ‘Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin' in connection with the Equatorial Guinea coup plot. He makes no bones about his desire to see Obiang overthrown and Moto installed. He says he wishes the ‘game' had succeeded. He
believes Spain supported it. Wales says he met Moto in Spain in 2003, along with someone from Spain's then ruling party and an American lobbyist from Washington DC. He found Moto both friendly and ready to ‘talk the talk' of democracy and economic reform for Equatorial Guinea. Everyone present at the meeting assumed Moto would be president within three months and Wales made it his business to stay close to him. He denies he planned any military operations and he threatened to sue a British newspaper that suggested he helped finance the plot. However, there is no doubt he was involved in the political side of the affair. He says he thought his job was to ‘keep Moto in line' for the first thirty days of the new president's rule, and he sees no reason to apologise for it.