Be careful when you start going out on a limb for mercenaries who start wars for "fun" and get paid in "pots of diamonds." You're liable to get your heart handed to you.
Just ask Robert Young Pelton. In the latest Men's Journal, Pelton chronicles his epic journey to help free his friend and gun-for-hire, Nick du Toit, from an African prison, after he had been convicted of trying to overthrow a bloodthirsty dictator.
The story, "My Friend, the Mercenary From Hell," isn't online, yet. But here's an excerpt, to get your ass out of your chair and over to a newsstand.**
The best way to spring someone from jail, I knew, was to figure out how release would benefit the jailer. That usually meant offering a bribe or a swap, or making an appeal for clemency. A jailbreak was a dangerous last resort, but Nick being who he was, his friends kept in touch and were standing by if he needed to be rescued. I said I would try the diplomatic route first. Why me? One of Nick’s South African army mates went to EG [Equatorial Guinea] just for a visit and the security police, incredulous at his audacity, sent him directly to jail.
In January of 2006, I contacted President Obiang’s Paris-based lawyer, Henry Page. His job had been to convict Nick and arrange for the extradition of his co-conspirator, Simon Mann, who had been the alleged mastermind of the coup attempt. I was frank about my friendship with Nick and my goal. From what Nick’s friends had told me, I suspected that Nick knew more about the coup’s backers than had come out in the trial, and that he had tried to walk away from the plot in its final days. If I got Nick to lay out the whole story, exposing the real planners, would the President reduce his sentence or even pardon him? After all, they were free men; that had to rankle, and cause a few sleepless nights, for Obiang.
Page seemed open to the discussion so I flew to Paris to meet with him at his elegant 18th century office. The product of the best English public schools, he reminded me of a grown-up Harry Potter. His impeccably polite demeanor disguised his willingness to get his hands dirty — as evidenced by his client list. After a few days, Page had a response for me: Yes, the President will meet with you. A first-class ticket materialized and we flew to Malabo.
On arrival, a dark blue Toyota Land Cruiser with presidential plates whisked us to a large Presidential villa supplied for our use. A guide named Juan showed Page and me around and I realized how out-of-date the descriptions of the country I’d read actually were. The scale of oil-financed new development was staggering. So was the poverty. Bentleys splashed through open sewers, while American oil workers in Tony Lama cowboy boots counted the days until the flight home to Houston. At last, Juan got the call we’d been waiting for: I’d been summoned by the President and was flown to the mainland, 45 minutes away.
In the waiting room a slight 30 something Lebanese man answered his cell phone incessantly. Potbellied ministers in ill-fitting suits clutched their portfolios and tried not to sweat too much. At last I got the nod to enter the inner sanctum.
