Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  I sat in a niece magnolia chair normally used by some oil executive, wondering what this ride would cost. It was so comfy I started to dose off, as did many of the lads. And the pilots, if they knew, would not have been impressed that we all had pistols on us.

  Major Liban noted, ‘The GIGN will be mad at us, very mad, because we are not allowed to operate in France normally.’

  Moran replied, ‘A small ray of sunshine to this job then,’ Liban and Henri laughing.

  A short three hours later, having cut across Algeria of all places, we descended into Napoleon Bonaparte Airport, Corsica, a smooth touchdown, a line of flashing blue lights waiting us.

  With the lads getting off the plane into a stiff cool breeze, I approached the pilots. ‘Refuel, be ready to go.’

  ‘Vee cannot, vee have worked zee hours.’

  ‘Look - we’re chasing a gang of Algerians with poison, the men who brought down the plane in Marrakech. They have enough poison to kill everyone in Paris. You want me to find them – or let everyone in Paris die?’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Vee will alter zee records, but also vee look for another pilot team.’

  ‘Do so, quickly.’

  Down the narrow steps, the lads were loading crates to a bus with tinted windows, for a trip to Ajaccio Docks, seen across the bay.

  The head of the local counter-terrorism police introduced himself, his local team consisting of twelve men. And all twelve were now here.

  I told him, ‘We go to the docks, to the dock manager, and maybe we get lucky. What has Paris told you?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Figures.’

  Sat in the bus, I called Tinker. ‘We’re in Corsica. Give the French a nudge, all ships sailing from Tunis to here in the last few days, then all ships bound for Marseille. And fast.’

  ‘We got a sat phone linked in, and it showed up in Corsica three days ago. It’s never been to that villa of Hammad’s, but it has been to his factory in the south of Algeria.’

  ‘Al Had?’

  ‘You are a well-informed little fucker, ain’t you. I’m supposed to tell you stuff.’

  ‘Has that sat phone shown up anywhere in France?’

  ‘Not yet, he keeps it switched off, whoever he is.’

  ‘Where in Corsica did it show up?’

  ‘Got a pen?’ He gave me an address.

  ‘The minute that sat phone goes live in France I want to know. Thanks.’ Back off the bus I gave our local CT commander the address. ‘Here, fast, escort.’

  Shouts given, we mounted up, flashing blue lights from ten police cars leading our coach out the airport through a side gate, some cars speeding ahead to man junctions for us.

  I turned to Hunt. ‘Got a sat phone hit, switched on now and then. Might get lucky with it.’

  ‘Where we headed?’

  ‘Last known position of that sat phone, might get a clue – or a MacDonalds.’

  We coursed around the bay, and so far I was very impressed with the scenery, the hills, the white-sand beaches and the azure water, a twenty minute ride to the town – our driver being a crazy man, the townsfolk and the winter tourists being greatly inconvenienced by us today.

  At speed, we passed a few marinas, a huge cruise ship, shot through narrow streets lined with dated stone buildings, and to a small square, the police cars surrounding it. I told the lads to wait, but called for Moran, Hunt and Liban. Down from the bus, I stepped into the small square, startled old men staring at us.

  In the middle of the square I stood and made a full circle, the CT commander at my side. I pointed. ‘There, public telephone, get the number.’

  Men were dispatched in a hurry.

  ‘Trace all calls from three days ago, calls to Algeria or France especially.’

  Our CT commander made a call as people gawked at us.

  I listed off, ‘Cafe, cafe, dry cleaners, post office, cafe, another cafe, pharmacy. Let’s go clockwise.’ I led the men to the pharmacy, twenty local police following.

  Inside the pharmacy, the staff all peering out the windows to see what was up, I showed them my image of Sedan, Liban shouting at the staff. All had a good look.

  ‘Oui,’ came from a middle-aged lady.

  Liban explained, ‘He bought some drugs. She will find the receipt.’

  With her glasses on, she studied the computer, finally explaining something to Liban. He told me, ‘He has stomach ulcers.’

  ‘How did he pay?’ I asked.

  ‘Cash,’ came back.

  ‘Anyone with him?’

  Two men,’ came back. ‘All dressed smart.’

  ‘Ask for the CCTV.’ I pointed at the camera before I nudged men outside. To the CT commander I said, ‘Get the CCTV,’ and I walked back into the square.

  ‘Where’s the container port?’ I asked Liban.

  ‘Here there is none.’

  ‘I saw a big boat?’

  ‘Ferry, yes, but not a big cargo boat.’

  ‘So they came on a small boat, or a sail boat, or by car in the ferry, chemicals in the car, but I don’t think they sailed here in a small boat, not three Arabs in suits.’

  Liban said, ‘There is no ferry from Tunis.’

  ‘Call Paris, ask if Hammad had a luxury yacht.’ He lifted his phone. To Moran I said, ‘Ask the police about commercial ships docking around here.’

  Moran came back with, ‘Commercial ships dock in the south, Bonifacio.’

  ‘So why come here just for some Alkaseltzer?’ I challenged.

  ‘Ferry out from here to Toulon,’ Moran informed me. ‘This is where they left from, maybe in a hire car or van.’

  ‘Too many canisters for a car, would have to be a van.’ I grabbed the CT commander as his officers milled around looking useless. ‘Check all ferries from here to Toulon three or two days ago, passenger manifests. Quickly. People with mini vans or trucks.’

  He lifted his phone to his ear again.

  Liban approached. ‘Hammad had a yacht, it is moored in Marseille, now seized, but also a small fleet of boats to move chemicals.’

  ‘I need a list of those boats, and for Paris to check which one landed three days ago.’ Stood there, I tapped Moran on the shoulder and pointed at a side street. He could now see what I could see, and we walked briskly towards it.

  Outside the cafe, old men sat with coffees, Algerian men. I showed the first a picture of Sedan, but he would not make an effort to look at it. Pistol out and cocked, Moran copying, I smashed the man’s coffee cup with my pistol, shocking the old man.

  In Arabic I began, ‘This is the man that put poison on a plane that crashed in Marrakech, and I have no problem with smashing your face in.’

  ‘He was here, a few days ago, he has been many times.’

  ‘Many times. He has family around here?’

  ‘An old mother, a flat above here somewhere.’

  I moved inside, pistol in one hand, picture in the other, and kicked over an empty table, making a racket. All of the old men had turned towards me. I held up the picture. ‘This man is called Sedan, an Algerian who poisons the water of other Arabs, the man who poisoned the plane that crashed in Marrakech, killing innocent Algerians. If we have to take each of you to a cell and beat you we will do so.’

  Faces turned to a man. He stood. ‘I am his uncle.’

  ‘Your family will forever live with the shame of what he has done.’

  ‘We will disown him, we do not condone this murder!’ came with a pointed finger.

  ‘He was here, three days ago?’

  ‘Yes, to see my mother, his favourite aunt.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘To the mainland, on business.’

  ‘If he succeeds in his business, you will be torn apart by the people of France. He wishes to poison Paris.’

  ‘We wish no part of him anymore!’ the man protested, all eyes on him.

  The CT commander appeared at my side. I said, ‘Take him in, he is related to Sedan, family nearby.�
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  I led Moran, Hunt and Liban outside, and back to the square.

  Moran began, ‘So he was here, got a ferry in a vehicle with the chemicals three days ago. To Toulon.’

  ‘At least we know now,’ Hunt noted.

  With the protesting old man being led away, the CT commander joined us. I told him, ‘That pay phone may help us, also his family phone. They are the priorities, so break some rules and get it fast. Take us back to the airport please.’

  Mounted up, we set off again, blue flashing lights everywhere, and I stood up in the coach aisle to brief the lads. At the airport we approached our ride, no pilots seen, the door locked. An officer was sent to the pilots’ lounge, soon back with our two pilots.

  ‘I want to go to Toulon. Right now.’

  ‘It is only one hour, vee can do that.’

  Key in the door, door open, the lads reclaimed seats that had hardly gone cold as our crates were re-loaded. I was called outside, a plane taxiing towards us. From it, the DGSE staff from Western Sahara emerged, so I strode over to them.

  I began, ‘Sedan was here, visiting family, the family taken by the local police. He used a pharmacy, and maybe a pay phone, so they’re checking records. He got a ferry to Toulon, so we’re flying there.’

  ‘There is a military airfield outside Toulon, we will meet you there.’

  ‘Speak to the local police about anything the family might have said, home phone records. And get the CCTV off the ferry terminal in Toulon!’

  They nodded as I turned away. Back onboard, I knelt behind the pilots as they made pre-flight checks. ‘There’s a military airfield outside Toulon.’

  ‘Yes, I know it, I was a military officer,’ the pilot informed me.

  ‘Go there, tell them we are British and French special forces and DGSE. And fast please.’ I faced Moran. ‘Open the crates if you can, everyone needs their jacket on for the mainland.’

  ‘Chilly enough here!’ he complained, all of us in shirts over t-shirts.

  Head count done – combat jackets now on, door finally closed, the engines whined into life, and I could see the wheel chocks being taken away, men with orange wands stood ready. We started moving.

  ‘What next?’ Hunt asked.

  ‘By tomorrow morning we should have something, maybe a phone to trace, maybe a vehicle registration.’

  ‘They have a three day head start on us,’ he cautioned.

  ‘They have to find a place to mix the chemicals, because I’m sure that they didn’t make a rough sea voyage with that stuff ready-mixed. So that means a laboratory, maybe one owned by Hammad.’

  ‘French have moved on all his assets,’ Hunt stated as we joined the runway and powered up.

  ‘Then Sedan needs a lab to use, and they ain’t easy to find and to hire from Yellow Pages.’

  ‘Unless this was all planned out a while ago,’ Hunt cautioned as we lifted our nose.

  ‘I think I upset his plans in Africa, so I’m doubting he’s well prepared here. The man I questioned said he fled in panic after we killed is men in Mauritania.’

  ‘Why can’t we get a plane like this?’ Rizzo complained from behind. ‘Better than the fucking RAF.’

  Many of the lads voiced their agreement with that idea.

  ‘I have asked for one like this to be available, and it’s cheaper than a Tristar,’ I told them. ‘So maybe we get one for Christmas.’

  ‘Two day’s time,’ Moran reminded me, and I had to stop and think about it.

  A short hour later, the sun low on the horizon, we touched down at a base displaying Etendard military jets and Pumas, military security waiting, jeep lights flashing.

  Off the plane, kit left on it, pilots asked to rest the night – some local hotel I suggested to them, we mounted a series of mini-vans, soon heading out the base and towards Toulon, civilian police at the front, lights flashing.

  ‘We going to stop for some food?’ Hunt asked.

  ‘After the port we’ll bed down, so hopefully yes. Need Intel to find the fuckers.’

  It took twenty minutes to reach the port gates, speeding in without stopping, and to the main offices.

  Down from the mini-vans – and being stared at, I told Liban we wanted the Chief of Security and the CCTV footage. Questions asked, loudly, and we were shown in, a long line of men in combat jackets following me, up three flights of stairs and to an open plan office, the few staff on duty more than just a bit surprised to see us.

  Liban shouted questions, and introduced a man.

  ‘I speak some English,’ he began. ‘I studied in Edinburgh. Paris called about the CCTV, we ‘av it ‘ere.’

  ‘I want to watch it, all ferries from Corsica three days ago, leaving Corsica after midday.’

  ‘The ferry is 1pm, so they get ‘ere at 5pm, no.’

  He attended a video machine as I placed down an image of Sedan. Ready, he showed me the chair, so I had Moran sit, our Head of Security soon onto a second machine, where Liban sat, and I sat at a third.

  ‘Oh, can you get some food for us, we’ve been travelling all day.’

  ‘Of course.’

  With the lads sat on seats, and annoying the staff trying to work, three of us studied the CCTV, many eyes watching the images from behind as coffee was handed over. And my eyes were sore after twenty minutes, Hunt taking over as I was handed a baguette.

  ‘Here!’ Liban called half an hour later, and I closed in. He put a finger to the screen, three men stood next to a small truck, police looking inside the truck and at the paper work.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Note the registration.’

  We just about figured the registration from the grainy images. I gave the number to Henri, who called Paris. ‘I want that registration to every police officer in France! And tonight.’

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s Tinker.’

  I told him, ‘We just got the vehicle used by Sedan, just updated Paris.’

  ‘Ah, good. We got a hit on that sat phone, a place in Lyon.’ He gave me the address. ‘There’s a hotel at that spot, so maybe he stayed there.’

  ‘Stayed there?

  ‘Hit was from yesterday morning, we just found the data for it. That happens, and sometimes a delay.’

  ‘OK, we’ll move on it in the morning, might get lucky. Ask the French for all the intel gathered in Corsica, might help us, there was a payphone, and his family would have had phones as well.’

  ‘Maybe he calls his mum every day,’ Tinker quipped.

  ‘He popped in to see his favourite aunt, so why not.’ Phone away, I said, ‘Back to the airfield!’ Quieter, I told Liban, ‘We’re off to Lyon.’

  ‘I know it well,’ Liban informed me. He lost his smile. ‘I have a sister there. Should I be worried some?’

  ‘If you call her and she evacuates they’ll lock you up forever.’

  ‘Aeeyahh,’ he let out.

  I thanked the Security Chief and led the bored gang outside, many still munching on baguettes.

  ‘These ain’t too bad, Boss,’ Tomo told me. ‘Spicy chicken.’

  ‘Mines all fucking salad,’ Swann complained.

  Sasha swapped, keen on the salad.

  Back aboard the mini-vans we set off, police outriders again, twenty minutes back to the base, where Major Liban asked about rooms. They drove us to a barrack block, nice and warm inside, a few soldiers on the ground level puzzling us, and led us upstairs. We found beds with mattresses, blankets in stacks, sheets in stacks, so we made a happy home.

  Settled, I sent Liban out for bottled water, some shampoo, and some extra food.

  My phone trilled, David Finch. ‘Working late, Boss?’

  ‘Not that late, 8.30pm. Where are you?’

  ‘Military base outside Toulon. We just got the vehicle registration of the small truck Sedan is using to move the chemicals, and a hit on his phone in Lyon.’

  ‘I spoke to my opposite number in Paris, and his staff can’t keep up with you. You’ve created a pile of evidence for them, th
ey’re struggling to process it all, but they’re happy with your progress.’

  ‘Be a love and call him back, have him check every laboratory in France that could mix dangerous chemicals, and to fax a copy of Sedan’s face.’

  ‘OK, got that, I’ll send a note. What’ll you do next?’

  ‘Get some rest, and tomorrow we get up to Lyon and follow a lead. So check our transport for dawn, from Toulon to Lyon.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do that now. Rest of French Echo were diverted from Corsica, heading for you.’

  ‘Make sure that the regular SAS have transport waiting in Western Sahara. If we get a lead on something down there they’ll have to deal with it.’

  ‘There is a plane, big enough for thirty men. Now tell me, this villa of Hammad’s; it’s hit the news in Morocco.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘They’re blaming Hammad for the plane coming down.’

  ‘He had nothing to do with it, he’s been in a comma for months, it was all Sedan.’

  ‘Well he’s getting the blame, him and his company, and the Moroccan TV showed that villa, labelling it as being hit by French commandos. You did quite a bit of damage...’

  ‘Deliberate, and stage play for the Moroccans, who will feel that vengeance was justly served. I understand their mind set.’

  ‘Yet you work for us...’

  ‘French did it, so blame them.’

  ‘Moroccan TV is describing a man having been shot more than sixty times, the poor chap.’

  ‘Must be a French thing.’

  ‘And Hammad?’

  ‘On his bed wired to machines, but sadly he passed as we shot him full of holes.’

  ‘I see. And the villa intel was useful?’

  ‘Got us to Corsica, so yes – very useful.’

  ‘And Corsica?’

  ‘GCHQ got a sat phone linked in, and that led me to his aunt and uncle, he visited them. Might get some extra intel there. Here in Toulon we studied the CCTV, got Sedan and the vehicle registration, got that out to the police. Next move is Lyon, a phone hit.’

  ‘So he’s heading north towards Paris. That’s a worry.’

  ‘If he sees a roadblock he’ll just open the cans and be done with it. Whichever way this goes ... it’ll end badly.’