by Geoff Wolak
* * *
As Johno walked into a private function room of a country pub, just outside Hereford, the cacophony of numerous overlapping conversations quickly ebbed away. Smoke filled the upper half of this run-down and poorly decorated room, despite the new ‘no-smoking’ signs. Numerous half-drunk pints were littered about the table, two men playing darts.
‘Johno, you’re looking old and fat!’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘It’s your round, sonny!’
Johno tipped his head, stood in his faded black suit. ‘My round, you say?’ He took a thick wad of fifties out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to the man who had made the suggestion.
‘Who’d you rob?’ the man asked as he examined it. ‘Must be five grand here!’
‘That enough to shut you old wankers up for two minutes?’ Johno asked, kicking the door shut behind him. He had their attention. Stepping to the edge of the table where the men sat, Johno began, ‘Old man Beesely is recruiting, but no one who’s still in. And I don’t want any short-timer who’s contracted to a private agency or pissing about in Baghdad.’
‘What’s the job?’ a voice called.
‘Depends on the individual. If they are young, fit and able - and want to go over the wall ... then they can do so.’
‘You don’t expect any of us to go Rambo, do you?’
Johno glanced around at the ageing faces. Most were now in their fifties, bald or greying. ‘No, we need you for some training.’
‘What kinda training? And where?’
Johno took a breath. ‘It’s simple, no risk to life or limb, lots of cash. You’ll be in Europe; hot showers, warm food and five star hotels. You’ll be training some spooks in field-craft, plus assessing an existing counter-terrorism and hostage rescue team.’
The men glanced at each other.
‘What’s the catch?’ a man asked from the back.
‘First, you’ll be working with me.’
Howls of derision echoed around the room.
‘Yeah, thought that would cheer you up. Second, you’ll be taking direct orders from old man Beesely.’
The men fell silent, a few nods exchanged.
‘Third. The people you will be working with are very secretive, paranoid, and if you accidentally tell the News of the World who you’re working with they’ll kill you, your family, your grandchildren, your pet dog, and then follow your family tree so far back that you’ll have never fucking existed!’
‘Sounds dodgy, Johno.’
‘It doesn’t have to be, you just need to keep your traps shut. They’ll treat you all very well, Beesely will make sure of that.’ He raised a pointed finger. ‘But make no mistake, breach their security deliberately and there will be one hell of a penalty. If you’re on board then you can expect your phones to be tapped, especially mobiles, your homes to be bugged and watched, your movements monitored.’ Many shifted uneasily in their seats, looks exchanged. Johno added, ‘They’ll send someone around to chit-chat to your family, a milkman or a copper. If the missus knows what she ain’t supposed to you, get the chop with no money. It would be up to Beesely to stop them from hurting you.’
‘Why so much security?’
‘These boys are sharp. They protect a lot of wealthy people, transporting a lot of dosh around the world. They run casino and bank security … and they take their work seriously. Fine, let them, that’s not your problem. This deal is twelve weeks at a time, train the boys, create some training programmes, take some of their team to Belize, some to the desert, money is no object. You each get two grand a week in cash, that’s a hundred grand a year in used twenties. Plus all costs are met, all billets and food, any medical bills and transport there and back in a posh fucking Learjet.’
Murmurs of approval bounced around.
‘It’s not so bad,’ a man began. ‘Most of us have done stuff for Her Majesties Government we never discuss. Not so difficult clamming up for a hundred grand a year.’
Grunts of approval were exchanged.
‘And if MI5 put you under pressure on your return?’ Johno firmly pressed.
‘Have to create a good cover story,’ the man suggested, laughing. ‘The missus has been swallowing those for years!’ From the laughter, he was not alone.
‘I’m in.’ Two men raised their hands.
‘Listen, Johno, do you think they could kill my wife anyway?’
Hysterical laughter filled the room; a beer mat flew at Johno, thrown like a Frisbee.
Johno began giving out business cards. ‘That’s my number for you lot. If you know any boys interested in some wet work they can contact Max at AGN Security. Right, now get some frigging drinks in!’
For the flight back Johno had three sleepy guests, the remainder would follow. These three ‘had no lives, no wives, and just a kit bag of clothes and memories’ as one of them had described it.
Johno watched them as they slept off the hangover. These men, now well into their fifties, could train or assess the world’s best counter-terrorism teams, yet in Hereford they were claiming the dole, sitting in the garden deckchair and slowly wasting away. Their wives had long since left, kids grown up and gone, leaving them with their memories of glory and a few fading photos on the mantelpiece, plus numerous novels started but never finished.
Two of these men had been on the Falklands when Johno had landed, sneaking about behind enemy lines, killing at will. The other had been on the Argentine-Chilean border before being caught and swapped six months after the end of the conflict. He had been tortured. Johno now had the power and the money to help his old mentors regain their self-respect.
* * *
Standing just outside the courtyard Otto dialled a number. ‘Minister? Otto.’
‘How goes it?’
‘They have begun to recruit ex-SAS instructors.’
‘As you predicted. Good, keep me informed please.’
