by Geoff Wolak
‘As soon as I start looking they’ll know, and ask.’
‘Indeed they will. I await a call.’
Phone down, Hunt said, ‘Why you tasking GCHQ with it?’
‘First, they have some good people, and second – I think if the NSA told David to keep this quiet he would.’
‘Maybe it should be kept quiet! Guy is dead, job failed.’
‘Question is ... who sent him, and why? And are those arseholes still an issue?’
‘I can’t see the NSA being interested in you. They’d have no reason.’
‘Do they have field agents? Men sent overseas?’
‘They have men like GCHQ, to place listening devices around the world.’
I nodded. ‘Rocko!’ He came over. ‘Could you find that body again?’
‘Yeah, we left a muddy trail. Five hundred yards out. Found his rifle twenty yards away.’
‘Not on the body?’
‘No.’
‘Any signs of what killed him?’
‘Looks like something has been munching on him, so hard to tell. Couldn’t see any bullet holes, and down here last year we fired off into the trees. Lucky hit got him maybe. When them planes and helicopters was attacking we fired off thousands of rounds, so one hit him as he sat taking shit.’ He smiled. ‘His trousers were down. So either he was taking a shit, or the monkeys buggered him.’
‘OK.’ I called my snipers in. ‘7am, be ready to leave.’ I also warned Swifty and Moran to be ready.
Hunt wiped the sweat on his brow and asked, ‘Going after the body?’
‘Might be more than one body,’ I replied.
Hunt nodded. ‘I don’t think the monkey’s buggered him.’
I shot Hunt a look.
An hour later, and Tinker was back on. ‘I told you. As soon as we ran the name they were on, now a major shit storm of threats being made about keeping this quiet. Expect some calls.’
‘Bloody marvellous.’ I had just cut the call when it rang; Langley.
‘Wilco, it’s the Deputy Chief. We want any and all detail regarding that body, all effects. And the body of course.’
‘It’s been decaying in the jungle for a year, not much left. I’m going out in the morning, I’ll bring it back, and any others we find.’
‘Others?’
‘Did he walk forty miles through the jungle alone..?’
‘I see what you mean. NSA are not happy, but I pressed the issue, and they lost contact with their man, and he was under investigation after he went missing because of links to French Intel.’
‘I’d sleep better knowing that French Intel wanted me dead, rather than the NSA.’
‘An odd skew on things, but the NSA would have no interest in you, that I am sure of. Anyway, expect some visitors to come get the body tomorrow.’
‘Agent Manstein?’ I toyed.
‘No, Navy Seals. We’ll be keeping this away from the FBI.’
‘Clear your Seals with London, or they might just get a rifle up their noses and sent packing.’
‘I’ll send a note now.’
Phone down, I stepped across to Hunt. ‘US Navy Seals on their way to grab that body and any evidence, so check with London before I upset anyone.’
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘In at the deep end, major international incident on my first trip.’
‘Time to earn your pay,’ I told him.
At 7am, after an early breakfast, I led my patrol off, Tomo remembering the way, roughly, but their tracks were easy to follow. At the body I had them halt and fan out, any direction but north, Moran carefully wrapping up what was left of our assassin in a poncho and heading back with the body over his shoulder.
The lads found nothing south of the body, so I had them follow behind me as I moved north and beyond where Rocko had stepped yesterday. The tracks ran out, but I found indentations caked into the mud, and I could follow the trail; only one human in boots had ever visited this part of the jungle anytime recently.
‘He was stumbling,’ I told Swifty.
‘Wounded?’
‘Maybe, and his trousers were down.’
‘Taking a shit, or some first aid on a thigh wound?’
‘Bad place for some DIY first aid, but maybe he was heading towards us for help. Rifle was dropped, so maybe he was delirious.’
‘Bleeding out,’ Swifty suggested.
I followed the trail north, just about seeing the indentations.
‘Fuck!’ Swifty let out, and I glanced around, followed his look, and glanced up. A chute. ‘He dropped in here. And that’s French, like ours, HALO kit! Fucker HALO’d into the jungle.’
‘Brave to do that by himself,’ I noted.
‘Mad to do that!’
‘Nicholson!’ I called, and he ran forwards. ‘Up that tree, I want the serial number on the back of the buckle. Rest of you, search around.’
An hour’s search found nothing, no tracks apart from those leading south.
Swifty said, ‘He dropped in, broke a leg, and died.’ He pointed. ‘Broken branch, old.’
I had a look. ‘Sharp ends, dried blood. When blood dries it stays put.’
‘And that’s why we don’t drop into the jungle alone!’ Swifty said.
We started the trek back, carefully checking the forest floor as we went, but it was needle in a haystack time.
Back at the strip I found six Navy Seals stood waiting. Hunt began, ‘This is Captain Hurly.’
We shook.
‘We have the body,’ Hurly began. ‘And the backpack and rifle, now the wallet. Anything else out there?’
‘His parachute.’
‘A chute? He dropped in?’
‘He HALO’d in from height, alone, at night, wounded on landing, bled out.’
‘Crazy fucker,’ Hurly let out.
‘Question remains ... as to who sent him.’
‘Don’t ask me, I don’t get paid enough to think.’
I made sure Hurly and his men had some food before their Seahawk came and fetched them, one badly decayed body in a poncho. With the helo departing, I rang Tinker and gave him the chute serial number.
‘We’ve been making progress,’ he said. ‘Americans asked us to drop the matter, so we put a big team on it.’
I laughed. ‘Good man. What do you know?’
‘He was in France, then Senegal, before that Canada – passed through London a few times, occupation listed as UN consultant and W.H.O., work in Africa, charities – a cover story. Found a photo of him in a magazine, Red Cross Mali two years ago.
‘It’s all an NSA cover story, and a good one, but he made one mistake; he had a Paris metro ticket for a day when they were on strike. So he bought it, or someone did, to say that he was there that day, but they were on strike the day before and after, so no one but a dumb tourist would have bought a ticket – or an agent somehow fabricating a ticket.
‘We got several hotel bookings, shit hotels in Africa, rang them pretending to be Interpol, got his mobile phone number, and a list of people in the hotel at the same time. On two occasions he was in the next room to the same man, and we linked his calls to that man, a French-Algerian. We’re working on that man now.’
‘I can understand the Algerians wanting me dead, but not fourteen months ago - unless they’re linked to Mauritania.’
‘We’ll have more soon.’
‘Has London warned you off researching this?’
‘Not sure anyone has cleared it with London, Director said it was OK to carry on.’
‘If GCHQ is blocked from investigating, carry on anyhow, might keep me alive longer.’
‘I have sources, so I can keep going with it.’
‘Good man.’
I sat with my team in our room as we cooked. ‘French-Algerian man linked to our body, but we never upset the Algerians till after he died.’
‘Middle man for someone else?’ Hamble idly commented.
‘Could be,’ I responded. ‘Could have been Roach.’
‘Fella has been dead more than year,’ Swifty noted. ‘Whoever sent him, we probably killed them already.’
‘My worry is ... it’s someone we missed.’
‘Been a year,’ Moran noted. ‘If they were alive they would have had another go.’
‘Maybe they did have another go,’ I told them. ‘And we mistakenly thought it someone else.’
‘It’s a long fucking list,’ Swifty complained.
‘What I don’t understand,’ I said as I boiled my water, ‘is why a man of that calibre betrayed the NSA to take money from someone else. A man who can HALO into a place at night to do a job is my kind of beer buddy.’
‘Gambling debts, wife and kids, mistress, it all adds up,’ Moran noted.
‘NSA select their men very carefully,’ I insisted.
‘So someone offered him a shit load of money,’ Swifty suggested.
‘Great, we have a rich fucker after us.’
‘Not us, you,’ Swifty insisted. ‘If there’s any assassins about we push you to the front.’ Moran and Hamble laughed as I shot Swifty a look.
The next day I observed the police making progress, our new recruits stripping, cleaning and firing till their fingers hurt, and working up a sweat.
Rocko had placed targets in the jungle north of us, and each police recruit would have to run through the trees, shooting when he saw a target, reloading – no more than six rounds per magazine, swapping to a pistol when out of rifle ammo.
‘How you finding it?’ I asked one as he stood drenched in sweat, his legs muddy.
‘Get’s your heart going, Boss, very different to paper targets on a range in the UK. Getting used to counting rounds, re-loading, always conscious of that finger on the trigger – we get shouted at a lot about that.’
‘Better to be shouted at ... than to kill your best mate,’ I told him.
Two men came out the trees, not happy bunnies at all, Crab shouting at one of them.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Crab showed me the damaged webbing. ‘Stuck a round through his mate’s webbing.’
I faced the guilty man. ‘Do that again a few inches in ... and you’ll face his parents at the inquest, and at the funeral, and have to say sorry.’
The two men exchanged uneasy looks before Crab led them off.
An hour later Tinker called me. ‘We’ve been busy, and had the people here helping out, a brain storming session. Got some old Interpol records, and our French-Algerian is linked to French Intel, yes, but also served time – three months, and if he was useful to them he would not have served time, so something don’t add up there.
‘He’s also linked to a very rich and respectable French-Algerian who had ties to French Intel. This bad boy was once his driver and on the payroll of a security company in Algeria, even when in prison. That company is owned by the rich guy, Hammad.’
‘What does the rich guy do?’
‘Chemicals, pesticides in Africa and the Middle East, awarded by the French President for his industrial excellence, offices and factories in France.’
‘All comes back to French Intel using this man to hire our assassin.’
‘We have a few blanks to fill in. And this guy, Hammad, he’s currently out of favour with Paris after his company was blamed for accidentally poisoning water in Egypt, many people dead or sick. Hammad has used a few harsh words against Paris lately.’
‘Does this unhappy chappy have any interests that I attacked? Sierra Leone, Liberia, Mauritania?’
‘Not that we can see, but his company does sell down there.’
‘Family members killed? Maybe he had a son that turned terrorist and I shot him.’
‘We’ll run that theory, yes.’
‘No pressure from London yet?’
‘Not yet.’
After the call, and now curious, I rang David. ‘You up to speed on our dead and decaying assassin?’
‘Yes, saw the note from the Americans. You have the new team on it?’
‘I figured you’d bow to pressure from Washington and back off investigating.’
‘Just because he was NSA is no reason for us to back off. We want answers as well, just that ... we don’t want to upset Washington, so it’s a fine line.’
‘Anyway, he was paid by a rich French-Algerian called Hammad, pesticides guy.’
‘That name crossed my desk. He could stand trial, poisoned water. And it’s a British firm collecting the evidence against his company.’
‘Why would that cross your desk?’
‘The company is a front for us, a way to wander around the Middle East, and one of ours was killed – Hammad’s men are suspects.’
‘Are you investigating the poison water to try and screw this guy?’
‘No, not at all, they were called in, not our choice.’
‘We think Hammad is linked to French Intel.’
‘We think he used to be, then a falling out,’ David corrected me.
‘When did they fall out?’
‘Eighteen months ago, poison water in Mali – a large charitable project paid for by the French government.’
‘Still don’t explain his interest in me, but I was in Mali back then - shot up the police there, shot up the gunmen at that mine.’
‘I’ll try and find a link to what you did in Mali, but if this man was targeting you ... no fresh attempts have been made.’
‘No fresh attempts that we know about, or linked to him yet. And factor in Colonel Roach; our decaying assassin dropped in during the time I was battling Roach.’
‘OK, I’ll get some people on that, but I do think that whatever happened is in the past.’
Sat in my room that evening, the lads cooking, I began, ‘Our assassin is linked to a man who’s fallen out with French Intel, makes pesticides for Africa, and may be linked to the late Colonel Roach.’
‘In the past,’ Hamble noted. ‘All gone cold, all the players in the ground.’
‘I’d still like to know,’ I insisted. ‘This paymaster fella is still alive and well and sipping the champagne, so I want him in my sights – not enjoying his money and living to a ripe old age.’
Henri stepped in, sat phone in hand. ‘It is for you, Paris.’
‘Ah...’ I said as I stood, a look exchanged with the lads. I took the phone. ‘Captain Wilco, here.’
‘We have spoken before, twice I believe. I hold a position similar to that of David Finch.’
‘And how can I help you?’
‘You are investigating Mohammed Ali Hammad...’
‘I’m not, London is. I am but a humble soldier.’
‘I spoke to David five minutes ago, he knows I am calling you.’
‘Then how can I help?’ I asked with false civility.
‘You found a body, a French-Canadian.’
‘Yes, he parachuted in a year ago, American special forces equipment, French parachute, but it looks like he was wounded and bled to death before he could shoot me.’
‘He had a photo of you.’
‘Yes.’
‘This man was not working for us, but we monitored him because we knew he was NSA. He was infiltrating the Hammad group.’
‘Why does that group need infiltrating?’
‘Hammad had a Pakistani father, and some of his links were ... less than desirable. So Paris was concerned about the man as he grew richer.’
‘Did you poison some water?’ I toyed.
‘No, those were his own staff accidents.’
‘Unless the NSA poisoned his water.’
‘That is possible, but we have no evidence. What we do have evidence off his this NSA man taking money from Hammad.’
‘To come shoot me.’
‘We do not think so. After taking the money some evidence against Hammad went away, other evidence – to help him in the courts – was found.’
‘Any idea why he parachuted onto my base? Or who flew the plane?’
‘No, but we are looking into it. We figured he went ba
ck to Canada and changed identity.’
‘Does Hammad have any interests that I attacked?’
‘Not that we know of.’
‘If you draw up a list of all his business interests, and cross-link them to my rescues, you may find a reason why that man was sent – and I’ll sleep better at night. Maybe a link to Colonel Roach.’
‘We will look, yes. And I wish to state clearly that we ... did not send him after you.’
‘Good to know. Let me know what you find out.’ Call cut, I handed the phone back to Henri and sat, the guys waiting, Henri waiting. ‘French Intel says they didn’t send that man, but we have a clue now who did. Question is ... why? This man has no links to anything I ever did.’
Hamble said, ‘Trail gone cold.’
‘Did you visit this man’s new young wife at night?’ Henri asked, a hint of a smile, the guys laughing. ‘Maybe she was a doctor, and a pain in the ass.’
The guys laughed as I gave Henri a pointed finger.
The next day I had the police sent out on dummy patrols, my sniper team having gone ahead and set-up targets. They had also set a few trip-wires linked to tin cans and thunderflashes.
Donohue landed with his boss, some time out of the office, an hour before the first police patrol came back in, Sergeant Crab leading the damp patrol.
‘How did they do, Sergeant?’ I asked.
‘Useless bunch of fucking cock suckers. They all tripped the wires, most got mud up the barrel, half a dozen misfires, and one shot a monkey that startled him! And shooting that monkey was the only demonstration of any skill to this bunch of useless fuckers!’
Donohue’s boss looked like he wanted to kill his men. He stepped forwards. ‘Sort your bloody act out. The batch before you did better, and so can you!’
‘Get cleaned up,’ I told the downbeat group, Crab leading them off.
I faced Donohue and his boss. ‘Maybe we brought them down too soon.’
‘They all had weapons training, they know what a trigger is!’ he angrily stated as he watched the patrol move off.
‘We’ll keep them at it day after day,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Early days yet. How the rest doing?’
‘They have a maturity and a good attitude,’ Donohue told me. ‘No mistakes on the trigger on a London street. Not yet. A few simple jobs under their belts.’
