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(Free-Press-Release.com) November 18, 2011 -- Two thugs from Mugabe’s Central Intelligence Organisation [CIO], the secret police, beat me up with punches and kicks. I try to cover the bits that would hurt the most. If they want to really hurt me, they could. I stick to our cover story. We were on our way to provide security at a gold mine in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
They keep harping on skin colour. Are you as tough as a black? How do you like being a prisoner with Africans? Do you think blacks smell?
My crew in South Africa have all been arrested. They are talking as hard and as fast as they can.

My 69 men in Zimbabwe are being questioned vigorously. I can tell them the truth, or they can beat it out of me. And they can beat it out of the men with me. Without a lawyer, this is duress. Worthless as evidence in a fair trial. But that’s for another day. I have a higher priority: my men. If I tell these goons the story, there will be no need to torture them. I tell them about our mission: to oust Obiang and replace him with Severo Moto.
The nights in the CIO tanks were hell. I was never sure that they were not going to pull out my fingernails, or put electrodes to my testicles.
Now I am in the embrace of the Zimbabwe Prison Service. Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison. The Harare Hilton.
Chik Max has an outside-of-Africa feel about it, a white man’s machine-age brutality. Echoes of efficiency. Checked in by Reception. Property signed for.

Two freshly washed and ironed uniforms (khaki drill shirt and shorts – white is for convicted men), four clean blankets, a plastic plate and cup, a bar of soap and a roll of lavatory paper.
A single bare bulb lights the space. All day. All night.
My door flies open. Three officers, one of them a sergeant, and half a dozen black prisoners, all crouching down.
An old sawn-off black plastic dustbin containing white, thick goo. Sadza. The staple diet of Zimbabweans (and many other southern Africans), made from ground white maize corn and boiling water. A second grubby dustbin holds stewed green grass.

I grab my plate and shove it at the prisoner running this whirlwind: slap, slap. Back it comes. And an old orange-squash bottle, Mazoe brand, filled with water, flies in. Slam – my door crashes shut. Locks.

Letters and messages to Amanda get through. She replies. I think of our love, of our love story. Why not write it as a love letter to her? I have some


Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2049085/Simon-Mann-breathtakingly-audacious-plot-overthrow-African-tyrant.html#ixzz1e3aUwigG

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