Wilco- Lone Wolf 19

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘And this last lot?’

  ‘Secret for now, sorry, but if you watched the news...’

  ‘That Dutch company?’ he puzzled.

  I nodded.

  ‘Crikey. FBI was interested in them as well.’

  We chatted about Sierra Leone, and he introduced some of his NCOs and men. It passed the time.

  Finally led down, I took sixteen men to a large Gulfstream, a few seats spare, and we had two hostesses this time, food available, Tomo trying it on straight away but getting a hard nudge from Slider. Salome was across the aisle from me, so she would not be sleeping with her head on me, and Gay Dave was next to her, the two of them chatting quietly – maybe about feminine issues.

  Airborne, the seatbelt sign off, we all got a cold meal of sandwiches, but with hot tea and coffee and biscuits. Many men simply closed eyes and folded arms.

  Swifty suggested, ‘Why don't we have one of these at the base? We got a pigging runway we never use!’

  ‘I have thought about it, yes, because we need to hop around quickly.’

  ‘How long is this flight?’

  ‘Ten hours.’

  ‘Shit...’ He folded his arms and eased back.

  ‘Your mum...’

  Without looking around, he said, ‘It’s starting to piss me off, but … I can't wind back time. I sometimes think about when I was a kid, and my parents were good to me. People like Tomo had drunk parents, which explains a lot. Mine were OK, and … well, I feel guilty; not there, not helping.’

  ‘Parents are supposed to let their kids go and have a life...’

  ‘Well, yeah, but in many cultures they send home money and look after their parents.’

  ‘Soldiers don't,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, posted away a lot. And they drink their wages.’

  ‘And your uncles' place?’

  ‘Up for sale, through an estate agent, solicitor ready and given power of attorney to sell when I'm away. I should get almost two hundred grand, but then pay capital gains tax – a shit load.’

  ‘And if you were a civvy next week, with that money..?’

  He glanced at me with a frown. ‘I'm not planning on quitting.’

  ‘Quitting would be the smart thing to do, travel to Asia and sit on a beach with a cold beer.’

  ‘Tried that, hated it. I need to be busy. And armed. Training the Wolves gives me focus, and I like it. Odd to see Stretch gone though.’

  ‘He lied for years, was in pain.’

  ‘Fucking dope. He probably made it a lot worse, be in a wheelchair when he's fifty.’

  ‘I just thought he was old, fat and lazy.’

  Swifty laughed. ‘Me too.’

  A long ten hours later we landed in the dark, a heavy presence of MPs around, and were whisked to a single story barrack room, bottled water available, sandwiches brought in to us by an organised captain. Most of the lads lay down fully clothed.

  Two hours later the rest of the gang turned up, with our crates. I told them to take out pistols and paperbacks only, and I set a stag rotation after a chat to Franks and Dick. The rest of their team had taken a C5, Franks and Dick due to get a Hawkeye ride out to the carrier today with Major Harris.

  At 9am people were stirring, the bright sunlight streaming in. Men started to take a pee, Salome walking around in her underwear.

  Wolf Murphy approached me. ‘Sir, that there lady officer from Israel..?’

  ‘Is a mystery to us all. Don't ask, just appreciate the view.’

  A slap loud enough to hear across the base registered, Tomo rubbing his face, the guys laughing.

  ‘Tomo!’ I called. ‘A few hours and we'll be in Panama, so keep it in your trousers till then eh.’

  Swifty noted, ‘She likes to flaunt it, then pretends to be offended.’

  ‘Yep,’ I told him as Moran smirked.

  Mitch asked, ‘You think she'd let me photograph her?’

  ‘Do you want a slap from her?’ I queried.

  ‘Well … a slap would be OK,’ Mitch said with a shrug, Moran laughing.

  My phone trilled; Pentagon. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Colonel Mathews, you in Belize?’

  ‘Yes, sir, down and rested, be getting a flight to Panama today hopefully.’

  ‘This flight..?’

  ‘Best not to ask, sir.’

  ‘I have SEALs ready, Green Berets on standby, and the Navy are tripping over themselves in the rush to assist you.’

  ‘They hoping to be in a movie?’

  ‘Hell, yes, the Joint Chiefs are milking it something terrible. That film, Camel Toe Base, everyone in the States has seen that, and down in Antarctica!’

  ‘And there was me trying to keep a low profile. Oh, I have a body double now, looks just like me, and he had plastic surgery to add scars.’

  ‘What kind of crazy bastard would volunteer to do that, and to be your body double? Is he fucking mad?’

  ‘He was a nobody, was offered money, and he wants to be an actor.’

  ‘Does he know how often people try and kill you?’

  ‘Yes, and he's still keen.’

  ‘Jesus...’

  I called Tomsk, Big Sasha informing me of a Hercules set to pick us up at 4pm. Back inside, I shouted, ‘Listen up. When we board the Hercules you are fully kitted, kitted for war, and when we get off the plane there's a chance of some trouble. Don't load until the wheels hit, cock rifles as you step off, pistols to be free of a round in the chamber till we step off.’

  Gay Dave stood up. ‘Should I have a weapon, I was taught how to use one.’

  ‘You won't be in any danger, or sneaking through the jungle, but yes – you will have lessons when we get there, and Russian language lessons.’

  ‘Sasha now here?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ I told him. ‘They were doing some dodgy job for London Intel. Might join us in a few days. OK, listen up, and listen well – or we all get killed. When I'm in Panama I use the undercover name of Petrov.’

  ‘The worlds most wanted gunmen, that Petrov?’ Dicky asked.

  ‘Just a rumour. I'm a different Petrov. Don't use the Wilco name or you might get burnt alive. The man we're going to stay with is the world's most wanted drug dealer, and not to be screwed with.

  ‘He will lay on beer and girls, and you can indulge – since you are supposed to be British and American bad boy mercenaries. You American Wolves, if you ever admit to being here you'd get twenty years in Leavenworth, so act dumb when you get back.

  ‘We'll be alongside Russian gunmen, but they fear me, so don't worry, but don't start any trouble. If they ask you where you came from, where you live, don't answer, tell them it is secret, or make up a story. Don't mention past missions, or that you were at Camel Toe or in Yemen or Liberia.

  ‘You simply say that you started out in the military, time with special forces, now you work for whoever pays well. Those that came to Panama before, same story for you, on loan from British Intel. And for those who’ve not been here before, yes – Tomo did fuck three hookers at once.’

  They glanced at Tomo as he smirked, Gay Dave shooting him a look.

  ‘And Rizzo slept through several early morning attacks.’

  They laughed at him.

  ‘Is this good for my career as an officer and a gentleman?’ Ginger asked.

  ‘No, you could get arrested.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘Just blame me.’

  ‘I do,’ Moran told him. ‘We were following orders.’

  They nodded.

  ‘And when you get back, if you're still alive, no mention of Petrov, or chat about the drug dealer, or you will be kicked out and sent to prison.’ I let them think about it. ‘This is serious stuff, high level Intel work. So switch your brains on, stay alert.’

  The four spies approached me. ‘You use a cover name … of Petrov?’

  ‘I am Petrov.’

  ‘You're … what?’ they puzzled.

  ‘London Intel created
the back story and persona, I slotted into the timeline with the original Petrov dead and on ice. Most of his alleged crimes are just backstory created by the CIA.’

  ‘He's the FBI's most wanted!’

  I smiled. ‘Why'd you think I have a double?’

  The Panamanian Air Force Hercules arrived on time, the tower expecting them, and expecting British soldiers to journey to Panama for a joint exercise. With the lads and crates loaded, all in the one aircraft, I went forwards to find the same two pilots.

  ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Petrov! Welcome aboard, but … these are British Army men, the Belize authorities know about it.’

  ‘British mercenaries, we'll go after Nicaraguan gangs killing people in Panama. The British Government cooperates because in Europe this gang killed British police and officials. The enemy of my enemy...’

  ‘Is my friend for a few days,’ the pilot noted.

  The co-pilot told me with a smile, ‘We celebrated National Petrov Day a few weeks ago, free beer! That woman you rescued was on the TV.’

  ‘I aim to meet her again, see how she's doing.’

  ‘You fucked the Lobos Cartel good,’ the pilot noted.

  ‘That British officer helped us, name of Wilco, from Camel Toe Base.’

  ‘We heard about this film, we must get a copy.’

  ‘My teams say I look like him. Anyway, don't fly over land, avoid Nicaraguan air space.’

  They laughed. ‘They might shoot at us.’

  ‘Do they have missiles?’

  ‘No, they have two old propeller aircraft with no fuel,’ they laughed out.

  ‘If the US Navy challenges you -'

  ‘They did, on the way here, we could see a lot of ships. But I trained in America, and we chat on the radio.’

  ‘Don't tell them I'm on board,’ I joked, the pilots laughing.

  Settled, we taxied around, soon in the air and heading south. And, hopefully, not over-flying Nicaraguan air space. Men folded arms and shut eyes, Swifty tackling his puzzle book.

  I sat down next to Swifty, opposite Gay Dave, Salome next to me. She lay down and put her head on my thigh. Gay Dave put his fists on his hips and shot me a playful look. I shrugged, Dicky and Mouri laughing.

  It was dark when we bumped down, the teams awake, kitted and ready, soon up as we taxied around, and knelt near the rear. The ramp came down, and we eased to a halt, soon walking down into warm air, No.3 welcoming me. I waved at the pilots and led the teams to the jeeps and a bus, waved on board, our ride departing.

  Arriving at Tomsk's sumptuous villa, Swifty let out a ‘fucking hell'. He noted, ‘This guy is doing OK.’

  ‘He makes about two billion dollars a year.’

  ‘Beer is on him then.’

  Down from the bus, Tomsk was stood waiting with Frank and a few guards, and I directed the teams to the bunk houses.

  ‘No.2 not with you?’ Tomsk asked.

  ‘Maybe in a few days, he had a job to do.’ I shook hands with Frank.

  Frank frowned at Gay Dave. ‘Who's that?’

  ‘My body double.’

  ‘You have a double?’ Tomsk queried.

  ‘Yes, and he had plastic surgery, same scars as me.’

  ‘My god,’ Tomsk let out. ‘Is he crazy?’

  I smiled widely. ‘Probably. Explain him to the men or they'll think him me.’ I waved over Gay Dave. ‘This is Tomsk, our host.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Frank bit his lip.

  Tomsk noted, ‘He does not sound like you.’

  ‘He's having lessons, and learning Russian,’ I said with a grin.

  ‘Well, he looks just like you, same body, so that’s a start,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘Tiny here?’

  ‘In my hotel, and she already caught a man,’ Tomsk enthused.

  I waved over Salome, and Tomsk led us in. ‘This is Salome,’ I began in Russian. I added, without Frank hearing – not that he spoke Russian, ‘She works with me, Mossad.’

  ‘My god.’ He glanced at her.

  Gay Dave and Salome sat where directed, admiring the décor. I put down my rifle and webbing, pistol still worn as food and drink was offered by Big Sasha.

  ‘So what is your plan?’ Tomsk asked.

  ‘We'll find out all we can about the Nicaraguan cartel, then try and destroy them.’

  ‘I can grab their business. I already took most of it, soon all of it.’

  ‘Much movement overland these days?’

  ‘Not much, no, I stop people using Panama to transit.’ He shrugged. ‘Some gets through, sure.’

  After thirty minutes of food and chat, guests were announced.

  ‘Ah, good, the Canadian man,’ Tomsk told me.

  A man in his forties stepped in flanked by guards, and he had ‘secret agent' written all over him.

  ‘Oh, him,’ Gay Dave let out.

  I had my pistol out and aimed at the newcomer as the guards drew weapons, the man now on the spot – and looking worried. Frank looked worried as well. ‘Who is this man?’ I shouted at Tomsk.

  ‘My contact in Canada, I've met him many times, I trust him,’ Tomsk informed me, puzzled.

  ‘Dave, how do you know him?’

  ‘He knows Claridge.’

  I closed in on the man. ‘Do you know what we'll do to you?’

  ‘I'm not your enemy,’ the man insisted.

  Frank put in, ‘We checked him out carefully.’

  ‘You knew Hollister in London?’ I asked our visitor.

  ‘That fag. Debonet worked with him.’

  I faced Tomsk. ‘Who do you think this is?’

  ‘He said he was working with Canadian police and intelligence then went freelance. He help me set-up a pipeline, no arrests, no one caught, and I get paid on time.’

  ‘He was a Canadian CIA contractor.’

  ‘CIA?’ Tomsk shouted, Frank shocked.

  ‘Yes,’ the man confirmed. ‘Rest is true, and I'm not reporting back.’

  ‘That bit’s correct,’ I told Tomsk, still holding my pistol. ‘His group broke away from the CIA, but they're now the most wanted men on the planet.’

  He frowned at me. ‘Why'd you say that?’

  ‘Because both the CIA and Deep State put you on their most wanted list this week. Hollister and Debonet were dealing with North Korea.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Hollister is talking, save himself a long sentence. ‘You might save your own life if you know where Debonet is.’

  ‘Dead, shot when they found out the drug ship sank. The paymaster was not pleased.’

  ‘Name of the paymaster?’

  ‘Guiselle, step-brother to Kurt Gestino.’

  ‘The CEO of HTZ,’ I noted. ‘They're shut down, so don't expect any payment from them.’

  ‘I wasn't involved with that, just heard things. We moved away from Debonet and Hollister but stayed in touch.’

  I lifted my pistol. ‘Why.’

  ‘They wanted to piss off the Western Governments, rest of us wanted to make money and retire somewhere nice. Hence the drug pipeline; we have cops driving it.’

  ‘Can I trust him?’ Tomsk asked.

  ‘I'd say no more face to face, use the phone.’ I faced our visitor. ‘What’s your name, real name?’

  ‘Henri Claude Chanon. US military, then Interpol Canada, then a CIA contractor.’

  ‘Why come all the way down here?’

  ‘My idea,’ Tomsk cut in. ‘I wanted to photograph him, fingerprints, check him out carefully. All seems OK, but I am careful – you taught me that.’

  ‘And you're Petrov then...’

  ‘Depends on the day of the week,’ I told him, lowering my pistol as he frowned at me. I told Tomsk, ‘He did not declare to you that he worked for the CIA unit, a front for Deep State, and now … now he's more wanted than I am so no good to you.’

  ‘I am useful, I know where the drugs are. So I want some money, and some plastic surgery.’

  ‘What drugs?’ I as
ked.

  ‘They were taken off the ship before it sank.’

  ‘You have a drugs pipeline, so why not grab the drugs yourself? I queried.

  ‘We could never offload them, our pipeline is small, and … now I can't go back. So retirement down here is looming. Besides, to get the drugs would need a small army.’

  I exchanged a look with Tomsk. ‘It’s up to you if you trust him.’ I put my pistol away, the guards easing back. I faced Gay Dave. ‘Well done, good job you were here.’

  He was pleased.

  ‘Twin brother?’ Chanon puzzled.

  ‘Body double, surgically altered.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  I pretended to sip my coffee, a glance at Gay Dave. Dave knew this guy, so why did this guy not know Dave, or that a double had been found, altered and dispatched to Guinea?

  Tomsk proudly stated, ‘I have plastic surgeons and a pipeline for people who want to disappear.’

  ‘I'll need around twenty million dollars, and some surgery,’ Chanon told him.

  I sat. ‘Where are the drugs?’ I asked, playing along.

  ‘In Nicaragua, a well-guarded spot, but the drug gang there don't know about the hidden drugs.’

  ‘And you know this … how?’

  ‘My right hand man was suspicious of what Debonet was up to, and if it would affect us, so he bugged him. Plan was to fetch the drugs later, the crew moving sealed crates, no idea what was in them.’

  ‘A few holes in the story.’ I faced Tomsk. ‘Who tipped you off?’

  ‘Police chief in Nicaragua, I've used him a few times.’

  ‘If you had not tipped off the Bolivian, the boat would have arrived, no drugs to deliver, the crew suspected, tortured, and made to explain where the drugs are. Random chance, and a very small one at that. Why did you tip off the Bolivian?’

  ‘He had been using that same boat, the coffee ship, but these were not his drugs. I figured he would want to know, and stop them somehow, hurting whoever sent them – rivals of mine.’

  I took out my phone and looked up a number as Chanon looked worried. I stepped out as the guards held him, and called Bolivia.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘Ah … long time no hear. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Drugs on a boat that sank, a police chief in Nicaragua. I need the truth, or I come for you, aircraft carrier off the coast, your vineyard on fire.’