American Warlord (17 page)

One foreigner in particular began spending a noticeable amount of time with the president, a man who went by the name of Dave Smith.
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He was white, in his forties, and much younger than many of the other businessmen surrounding Taylor. Lynn presumed he was American—he claimed to live in Boston—but he spoke with a “European accent.” Lynn knew that he had been introduced to Chucky through his father. Beyond that, much of Smith’s background remained a mystery. Even as an admittedly naïve American teenager, the name “Dave Smith” didn’t strike her as a very inventive pseudonym.

“I thought he was CIA or ex-CIA,” she said. She assumed, at first, that he was there to monitor Taylor, to figure out his next move: Would he assume the role of a statesman? Or would he prepare for the next stage in the battle? Initially, she said, Chucky shared this view, but later Chucky came to see Smith as a mentor. He portrayed himself as possessing a broad base of military knowledge—not the type Taylor’s commanders had gleaned from fighting a bush war for more than a decade, but a sophisticated understanding of intelligence and warfare.
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This was a world that Chucky had access to only through Hollywood action movies and Tom Clancy novels. Smith taught Chucky the fundamentals of combat, how intelligence agencies like MI6 and the CIA operated, and how to correctly operate a firearm. He provided him with books on warfare and tactics. The two men also discussed the Geneva Conventions, the treatment of prisoners, and what qualified as torture.

Chucky had shown no interest in schooling, but when it came to security issues, he was a devoted student. “He was never in the military here. He was never militarily trained,” Lynn said, but “he became more military-oriented.”

One afternoon Smith arrived at the house to see Chucky. While Chucky kept him waiting, Smith and Lynn were alone. The scene was strange: an American girl barely out of high school waiting awkwardly with a middle-aged soldier of fortune. Despite the amount of time this man had been spending with her boyfriend, Lynn still had very little idea who Smith actually was. She had grown to doubt that he was CIA, given his involvement with Chucky—now she suspected that Smith was involved in trafficking weapons into Liberia.

Smith dropped his amiable facade when he found himself alone with Lynn. He asked her point-blank: “What are you doing here?”

The question caught Lynn by surprise. She didn’t know how to respond. It was pretty clear to her why she was in Liberia, but she did not feel the need to justify it to a stranger, particularly in her boyfriend’s home.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in Liberia. You shouldn’t be mixed up with these people.”

Lynn was taken aback.
These people?
Did he mean Charles Taylor? Chucky, a boy she had known since junior high? She felt she could rely on her own experience. The president she knew was a warm, fatherly figure—not the depraved warlord portrayed by his enemies. As for, Chucky—what could Smith know about him that she didn’t?

She knew Chucky was surrounded by killers, but she believed he had never killed anyone. All she could think was:
What the hell is he talking about?

There were aspects of Chucky and his father’s lives that Lynn did not see, either willfully or because they kept her in relative isolation at Chucky’s villa. But the fact was, Taylor’s use of violence to maintain power had changed little since his warlord days. During his first year in power, his newly installed security forces were associated with robberies and killings.
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Before long their crimes became difficult to conceal from the public. In one case, on June 28, 1998, a thirty-seven-year-old market woman disappeared in Paynesville, a suburb of Monrovia.
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Local residents last saw her being led away by members of the president’s Special Security Service, a unit commanded by Benjamin Yeaten, a loyal and notorious commander who had followed Taylor to Libya as a teenager and risen through the ranks during the civil war. Soon afterward the woman’s remains were found, hastily buried behind her home. The U.S. embassy reported that “Mrs. Flomo’s throat had been slit and her heart and breast had been removed in what was purportedly a spur-of-the moment ritualistic killing.”

Hers was not an isolated case—nor was it distinct to Taylor’s forces. Murders like this had long been shrouded in mystery, acts ascribed to secret societies that took place far out of sight of the community. Yet their existence merited only routine mention in annual State Department human rights reports. The extraction of organs was traditionally ritualistic, but, according to Stephen Ellis’s
Mask of Anarchy
, over the course of the civil war, these killings became associated less with the traditional societies than with politics.
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“So-called ‘heartmen,’ ” Ellis writes, “defined by one modern Liberian newspaper as ‘groups of organized killers often contracted by political aspirants and businessmen to kill people and extract their body parts to perform rituals.’ Heartmen are said to supply hearts to ‘juju men to make their clients succeed in life for high jobs in government or in private employment or for protection against enemies.’ ”

Within six months of his inauguration, Taylor was implicated in a killing for the first time as president. On December 4, 1997, a burned-out truck was found along a rural road deep in Nimba County. Inside sat three bodies, burned beyond recognition.
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At first glance, the deaths appeared to be the work of bandits, who often stalked the remote, unpoliced roadways. But one sign indicated that this was more than a simple highway robbery. Close to the vehicle lay the severed head of a former Taylor loyalist, Samuel Dokie.

Dokie had made the mistake of publicly criticizing the newly elected Taylor. Like other former NPFL leaders such as Tom Woewiyu, Dokie could no longer stomach Taylor’s style of politics and had actively campaigned against his old ally. Shortly after the election, Dokie was emphatic about the implications of Taylor’s victory.
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He told a
New York Times
correspondent that “Taylor is Qaddafi’s surrogate” and that his popular election was “Qaddafi’s biggest victory in Africa.” Unlike other leaders, including election rival Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Dokie did not leave the country following Taylor’s election. His statements and continued presence in the country suggested he felt he had no reason to fear Taylor, now that his estranged ally had been elected president.

On December 3 Dokie’s family was detained at a checkpoint in Nimba County. The next morning a small convoy arrived at the station where they were being held. SSS director Benjamin Yeaten appeared from one of the vehicles and approached the local commander. A wan, spectral man with bloodshot, searching eyes and cheekbones that rose out of his face, he viewed Taylor as a father figure as much as Chucky did. Hailing from Nimba County, he had come of age amid the bitterness of Doe’s repression there. He had been one of the youngest but most determined trainees at Tajura, Libya—just eighteen years old in 1987—and eventually rose in the ranks of Taylor’s militia.
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He had distinguished himself as a loyal and brutal follower throughout the civil war. For his service, Taylor as president granted him a coveted role in his new government: head of the Special Operations Division and Special Security Service, the president’s black-fatigued immediate ring of bodyguards known as “ninjas.”
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Yeaten often appeared alongside Taylor, an ill-fitting suit hanging off of his gangly frame, holding a leather briefcase with an automatic weapon inside. Despite his newly official status, the U.S. embassy noted, dimly, that Yeaten was among “known human rights abusers.”
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At the Nimba County checkpoint where the Dokie family was being detained, Yeaten and the local commander began arguing, according to witnesses. The commander refused to hand over the family to Yeaten, but eventually allowed Yeaten to take custody of them. Instead of proceeding to Monrovia, the SSS vehicles turned toward Gbarnga. The family was never again seen alive. Soon afterward graphic photographs of the family’s remains appeared in Monrovia newspapers.
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The corpses were unrecognizable with the exception of Dokie’s head.

The publicity following the killings complicated things for the president. Taylor addressed the nation, ordering an investigation and indicating that he would punish whoever was responsible. Yet he seemed to preempt a conclusion, suggesting that the killings were likely a botched robbery. Anxiety heightened, and in the weeks that followed, the investigation failed to find a perpetrator. Rumors, which Taylor would vehemently deny, began to circulate that Taylor had ordered Dokie killed and had himself eaten his liver.
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Unexplained killings were becoming more common around the capital. Even figures who had survived the bloodiest days of the civil war were disturbed by them, yet neither Taylor’s opponents nor his insiders had any authority to appeal to, fearing—accurately or not—that the president and his forces were behind the violence. They aired their fears to embassy officials.

Further details of Dokie’s death drifted back to Monrovia. The family had been brought to the Bong County residence of Charles Taylor’s mother and had been tortured, their eyes gouged from their heads, an embassy report stated. Grace Minor, a senator and close confidante of Taylor’s, toed the party line that the investigation should determine who was responsible.
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With an embassy official present, she said, “Let justice be done.” Then she stunned the room by muttering, “Even if it is his mother who is involved.”

Taylor was following a familiar script as a sub-Saharan Africa leader. Having assumed control of the government, he was consolidating power through the use of violence. The choice of his son as the leader of one of his security forces was also typical. Even Smith himself, the shadowy mentor who appeared at the right moment to lead the protagonist forward, seemed a stock character.

Despite the guidance he’d received from Smith, Chucky could barely qualify as an amateur military leader. But there was a logic to the choice: a son would obey his father, would act in his father’s interest, and would remain loyal. He fit neatly within the patronage system at work in Liberia. The question was how an American son would respond.

Chucky set about creating the new security unit, bringing a specific vision of what this force would be: disciplined, well trained, and not given to the petty corruption and thievery typical of armed men in Liberia.
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The men would be well paid to ensure their professionalism. Arguably, Chucky wanted a more Western military force—one that was accountable to the chain of command and could rely on the presidency for support. In this respect, he was working against the grain. While young recruits like Menephar were eager to join an elite force to make a living, the older-generation fighters had known only one system: the top-down tribal patronage networks that both rewarded and were supported by bribery and theft.

Chucky’s first significant task was to convert the hillside at Gbatala into a training base for the new unit. He turned for help to Smith. The men determined what they would need: a classroom, a kitchen, officers’ quarters, barracks, an ammo dump, a guardhouse, obstacles, and a firing range. The group that had originally met at Chucky’s house drove out to Gbatala to begin construction. The buildings were spare by necessity, constructed from brick and cinder block; they were threadbare but functional. There was no electricity or plumbing at the site; the men relied on a generator for power and drew water from a well.

Building by building, the base began to take shape. One of the few earlier structures still standing was the base commander’s house, atop the first overlook above the roadway. It was a single-story white-walled structure with “Executive Mansion SSS Cobra Base” painted in faded block letters on the exterior. Behind it sat a smaller barracks consisting of several separated rooms. A shed nearby would serve as the ammo dump. Farther up the hillside, a building consisting of a classroom and three adjoining offices was erected. Like several other structures, it was painted in a cartoonish forest-camouflage print that did little to conceal it. If anything it drew attention to the fact that it was a military structure. In white block letters, it read “College of Knowledge.”

A narrow path threaded through the brush behind the classroom over a wooded berm, down a slope toward a swamp. Just beyond the water, the men dug more than a dozen holes, each barely larger than a grave, then covered the pits with bars and sheets of steel. They called the place “Vietnam,” a name meant to inspire fear in the recruits: the holes were where they would be thrown for indiscipline. The location would also serve a secondary purpose: to house prisoners.

The first group of recruits arrived in June 1998, some thirty-five men, many of them teenagers, but also old-timers from Taylor’s militia.
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The two white men, Dave Smith and a man known only as “Robert,” met the arriving recruits. Several fighters would later identify Dave as British and Robert as American; none recalled either man’s last name. “We’re going to teach you guys how to become a SWAT force,” the trainers announced. Each man was given a mattress, eating utensils, a bucket, towel, soap, and a set of civilian clothes. The training was rigid and organized. The white trainers drilled the men on conducting patrols, clearing houses, freeing hostages, building cordons, carrying out searches, and setting up and manning roadblocks. Much to Menephar’s surprise, none of the recruits were beaten.

What also surprised Menephar was the equipment laid out for the men. He’d come of age as the arms embargo was established in Liberia, fighting with Soviet-style hand-me-downs of varied vintage and origins. But nearly everything on the base was brand-new. The men had access to an array of firearms—M-16 and MP18 rifles, MP5 9mm submachine guns, MP22 automatic pistols—as well as RPG-7s. Chucky ferried the weapons and ammunition to the base in his jeep, Menephar said.