by Geoff Wolak
‘Good work.’
As I was settling for bed, Rizzo called. ‘Saw the news, they shot your dad?’
‘Yeah, but he had cancer and a few months to live, and he was suicidal – weather permitting.’
‘Yeah, well that’s not so bad then.’
‘How’s your holiday?’
He gushed out, ‘Found a great lap dance place, nice bunch of girls straight from Romania, all like twenty years old, great blowjobs.’
‘Staff Sergeant, you’re a credit to the British Army. How’s that arm?’
‘Better, but I got sunburnt and it stings like fuck.’
‘Trashed any bars?’
‘Nah, taking it easy, keeping fit, long walk each day on the promenade before a full English breakfast.’
‘Why do they call it a full English breakfast, no one in England stops to cook in the mornings before they go to work, it’s tea and toast and out the door in a rush.’
‘They serve it in cafes in the UK...’
‘For big hairy-arsed men working on building sites, so they should call it the full British working men’s café breakfast!’
I woke to find that London was reeling, and that the British breakfast news was reporting World War III on the city streets. No less than fifteen men had been shot dead overnight, three found poisoned, four suspicious heart attacks listed by David Finch in an early call.
After a hearty breakfast, a full English breakfast based on what I had added to the plate, I sat enjoying the TV news till Bob Staines called.
‘More squabbles in the Netherlands,’ he reported. ‘Some squabbling in Brussels. Thirteen men dead, all squabbling with each other. Gun used to kill one man was placed on a dead second man, his gun use to kill a third, that man’s gun used to kill a fourth.’
‘No.1, you’re a sneaky shit.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And that French police officer?’
‘In a safe house not far away, and he gave a video interview last night, details being checked. So far he looks legit, the names all pan out.’
In the Intel Section, Captain Harris – not a major just yet, loudly began, ‘Just what the fuck is happening in London?’
All eyes were on me.
‘I would hazard a guess, and say that one faction in a criminal organisation is killing off another faction.’
‘And when just the one faction is left, will they be a quiet faction or an aggressive one?’
‘I would hazard a guess … and say that they’ll be a very quiet one. But I don’t get memos on the topic.’
Major Sanderson, not yet a Lt Col, began, ‘I was asked, formally, if I knew of anyone here involved.’
‘And…’ I nudged.
‘The men are all accounted for.’
I nodded. ‘I’m afraid I have to report, that Staff Sergeant Rizzo and company … in Tenerife … have found a nice lap dance bar.’
They laughed, Major Sanderson shaking his head at me.
Later, I took Moran, Ginger and Billy to look over the new huts. One was wired up and plumbed in already, so we turned on lights and taps as if newly-weds entering their new home for the first time.
‘Cosy enough,’ Billy suggested. ‘I’ve stayed in these huts, and they’re warm enough. Wooden floor, wooden roof, well insulated. But they wouldn’t hold up to a mortar attack.’ He faced me and waited.
‘Sandbags maybe, or … maybe we just stop annoying people,’ I told him.
‘And the killings in London?’
They waited.
I took in their faces. ‘If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say that the Americans like me, that they like what I’ve been doing for them, that they want more good TV minutes, and that they want me – and you lot – alive and well for years to come.’
‘CIA?’ Moran asked.
‘I never said that. I said the Americans want us alive and well.’
They exchanged looks.
I told them, ‘Keep that to yourselves. And, a few weeks from now, this should all be behind us, and we can get back to shooting the world’s terrorists – the job we’re paid to do.’
My phone trilled so I stepped outside. ‘It’s Kate.’
‘How are my men behaving?’
‘They’re wonderful, never knew you had such nice men. Nicholson had our little princess fall asleep on him after reading her a story. He was really patient with her.’
‘I sent those two because there are few others like them. Keep them with you.’
‘What the hell is happening in London?’
‘Friends of mine sorting out some people, after which I might live longer.’
‘All those people shot dead were involved?’
‘Yes.’
‘My god. Father had met Lord Michaels, at a charity bash in the city.’
‘I doubt your father discussed killing Diana.’
‘No, unlikely – he’s a doctor.’
‘Let me know your travel plans.’
‘I was going to have a quiet weekend at the cottage, I have some work to read up on.’
‘Keep my men inside, but I’ll put some men in the bushes as well. And lock your damn doors for a change, eh.’
I found two veteran Wolves and had them issued with ammo and radios, extra radios for Nicholson and Swan. They would wear my sniper outfit and so would be warm enough, ponchos and webbing taken. When ready I had MP Pete drive them, but called SIS and notified them of the placement, and to notify Gloucester’s CT commander.
SIS could object, they could order the men removed, they could pass it to the Home Secretary – who could roast me alive for placing the men without his permission, so I would wait a reaction. Gloucester police could also raise objections.
Upstairs, I notified Captain Harris of the placement and he updated a board, the Wolves line manager filling in a form.
Most of 14 Intel had taken a holiday, just two men hanging around, no ladies in tight t-shirts seen walking around.
At 2pm I grabbed the Guinea soldiers and led them to a classroom, Henri sat at the back. ‘Navigation,’ I began. ‘In the jungle … it is very difficult to navigate, to follow a compass bearing because you have to watch where you walk, and you can’t see far because of the trees.
‘So, forget about walking in a straight line. From where you are, try and work out the next feature, say 400yards at most, if not 200yards. On the map, maybe there is a river and you can keep the river on your left for a mile. It may not be a straight line, but that does not matter.
‘From a hill you can see another hill, and an area with trees cut down on your left. You walk to the area with the trees cut down, then walk to the hill you saw, then you look at the map again. You cannot plan a straight line route in the jungle, you have to use the hills and the rivers.’
I handed out maps and papers and pens. ‘OK, have a look at the map, and from Point A at the bottom - how would you move to Point B at the top? What features will stand out?’
I walked around with Henri, pointing out good features, and the men made a plan, all keenly attentive.
At 5pm David Finch came on. ‘The Sun newspaper has a man in their offices, being protected, and the man wants five million pounds and a ride out of the country. Mi5 are negotiating with him as we speak, by phone. He’ll tell all from Panama, of all places.’
‘Send him to Panama by all means. If it’s a trick then Tomsk will find him in ten seconds. But who is this guy?’
‘Works in Barclays bank, clearing section, claims to have information on Cayman Island bank accounts for Lord Michaels and others, details of money laundering, payments to Africa.’
‘Then he may just provide the police with enough evidence for a posthumous sentencing of Lord Michaels. Will the Home Secretary let the man fly?’
‘Not sure at this juncture. It would be a whistle-blower situation, but whistle-blowers are not allowed to have been involved in a serious crime. If he has been involved it will be a deal with a short sentence, not a holiday in sunny
Panama.’
I called Max. ‘It’s me. You have a man wanting a reward?’
‘Yeah, and so far it all pans out, we checked the bank codes.’
‘Get him outside your offices without being seen, because I’m not sure the Home Secretary will play ball here. You can tell the police the man escaped or something. Find him a safe house outside the city, somewhere south towards the coast, then let me know, I’ll get him to Panama. Does he have family?’
‘No.’
‘Call me back.’
I called Bob. ‘I have a man with The Sun newspaper, and he’s singing about Cayman Island bank accounts. I’ll need him safely rendered to Panama. First step, the English Channel.’
‘We have a helicopter pilot to do that, no problem, then fake papers and a flight from Madrid.’
‘Tomsk will meet him at the other end.’
Max called me back an hour later, our man being driven south towards Brighton. Bob gave me an airfield name, I gave it to Max, and at 9pm a helicopter lifted off in the dark, no flight plan logged, but seeing as it flew across The Channel just above the waves a flight plan was not an issue.
David called me at 10pm. ‘The man chatting with The Sun newspaper has disappeared.’
‘I get the feeling he may show up someplace warm, and provide some very useful intel. And the British Government can grab some slush funds, maybe a large pile of money.’
‘I see. Well, point two on my list: we have two prominent men and their families in protective custody, willing to cut a deal. They’ll get jail time, but not much. One is the business partner of Jeremy Michaels, one is the accountant of Richard Devauden.’
‘And Richard Devauden?’
‘Is missing. Point three on my list: the Dutch and Belgian police have twenty-eight dead bodies on their hands.’
‘And I always thought that Holland and Belgium were such quiet countries.’
‘Yes, quiet, but not quiet today.’
‘Oh, side note, Point 3a maybe,’ I quipped. ‘Senior French police officer took up the offer of some money, and is singing like a bird,’ I reported.
‘Then the French conspirators will be worried. Point four: Home Secretary has not objected to you placing men to protect Kate Haversham, he back-dated permission.’
‘Good to know.’
‘Would you place someone like that without telling us?’
‘No, hence I did tell you, I don’t need another enquiry.’
‘Good to know,’ he quipped. ‘Point five, and final point on my list: three bombs have gone off in Ivory Coast, at the offices of companies linked to NordGas, sixty seven people killed, a hundred more wounded.’
‘Someone is sending a message, a loud message, I just hope that it’s heard.’
‘Side note: the MOD is reporting a sour mood amongst British soldiers worldwide, most of whom want to kill the men who are attacking you.’
‘David, I like to think that they’re attacking us, not me.’
‘Seems to be just you. Further side note: the mood in the Metropolitan Police is beyond sour, the rank and file wanting action taken – action against their own senior staff.’
‘I may have woken them up a bit. Good. Did I tell you about our nice new huts?’
‘You did, yes.’
In the morning the news was still full of the story, but now it was not so much dead bodies on the streets as evidence coming to light. And the Telegraph was in touch with two people wanting a few million quid to spill the beans.
At 8am David called. ‘Regimental helicopter will fetch you, soon, Prime Minister wants a chat.’
‘Will it be a loud chat?’
‘Most likely.’
‘I’ll clean the mud off my boots, just in case there’s a camera.’
I grabbed a quick bite in the canteen, the Agusta setting down at 8.40am. I walked out to it, in uniform – pistol under my arm, but I had brought along MP Pete and a CT officer with a pistol. That man was in black fatigues, a blue “police” cap on.
Strapped in, we lifted up and spun around, soon pissing off the villagers as we loudly thundered over their houses. On the way up we chatted about Swan and Nicholson, and the legal issues of their placement, rules of engagement - and why Tomo had not been sent.
Touching down on Horse Guards Parade, police were waiting, and they walked us in. I was soon shown into the same room, the PM sending out an aid, just him and the Home Secretary in on the meeting.
He waited for the door to be closed. ‘Major, do you have any idea who’s been running rampant across this city?’ he formally asked.
‘I do.’ I waited.
‘And…’
‘Is this off the record, or do I need legal counsel present?’ I cheekily asked.
They exchanged looks. The PM sighed and eased back. ‘This is off the record.’
‘A few weeks back … I had a visit from the top US Army generals in the States. They like what I’ve been doing, they like the TV minutes and newspaper inches I got them, and they want me alive and well – not shot dead.’
‘The CIA are behind it?’ the Home Secretary asked.
‘No, not the CIA. Others.’
‘Others?’ he pressed.
‘Others,’ I repeated.
‘We have a city full of dead bodies!’ the PM shouted.
‘And if Lord Michaels had brought down that building, what would your nice city look like?’
They stared back, angered. The PM began, ‘We can’t just sit and take this!’
‘Sit and take it?’ I repeated. ‘The British Government has been taking it up the arse from the Yanks since World War Two, and if you push back at them it will cost this country greatly. They know how to apply pressure, starting with this country’s T-bonds and the pound’s exchange rate.
‘And what you two don’t know … is that your former Chief Cabinet Secretary, Richard Bell, had been reporting back to them for thirty years.’ They looked horrified. ‘I discovered him, threatened him, and he resigned. Then there was the sleeper agent in the JIC, also reporting back to … others.
‘And I’ll bet my life on the fact that there are five or six senior civil servants still currently reporting back to … others.’ I pointed at the desk phone. ‘When you use that phone, our American cousins get a transcript in hours.’
‘Jesus,’ the PM let out, standing and walking to the window.
I told him, ‘If you ever want to have an affair, Prime Minister, don’t use the phones in here.’
‘Ha!’ he coughed out.
‘Where the hell will this all end?’ the Home Secretary asked.
‘The bank will be pushed back, those wanting me dead will be dealt with, no evidence left behind, and Lord Michaels’ gang will be broken up. After that, things will go quiet.’
I eased forwards on my seat. ‘This has come about because my successes in West Africa hit the bank in their profit and loss column, and the British men involved with it got to be aggressive and open.
‘That has been largely dealt with, and their confidence and their arrogance has been knocked back. If it hadn’t been knocked back they would have brought down a building, and after that … god knows what else they might have done.
‘Now, today, people see the dead bodies, the newspaper stories, and realise that it’s just not worth it, breaking the law in the way they have been. And if you had asked the police to investigate, they would have got nowhere fast. This way it’s loud, and a worry to the average citizen in London, but it is the only way.
‘Lord Michaels had no respect for you, you were his choice for this job and he would have tried to push you into some bad deals. Your sponsor is gone so, Prime Minister, maybe you can just be yourself, free from outside influence.’
He sat. ‘But not free from American influence…’
‘Never, Prime Minister. Never. But the Yanks don’t want to screw you, they’ll hand you money, and military kit. They want us in NATO, and assisting in wars like the Gulf War, they don’t w
ant us set back, they don’t want you tarnished, and they have a great deal invested here. They won’t twist your arm unless it’s something like another Gulf War.’
The Home Secretary put in, ‘We’d probably be a part of something like that anyhow.’
I began, ‘Prime Minister, it will hurt if you resist them, hurt unnecessarily. They’re the big brother we all have to live in a small room with, and in West Africa they’ve helped greatly.’
‘Because they had an agenda…’
I smiled. ‘That agenda was good TV minutes, nothing more sinister. They have enough oil already.’
‘Can you identify the people reporting out?’ the PM asked.
‘If and when I do I’ll remove them, as I have done. That way you can plead ignorance and keep the Americans happy.’
‘And the sleeper agents..?’
‘Were not sent by … others, they were sent by a small American group operating with the bank and NordGas, more about money than politics. We should be able to identify all of the sleeper agents eventually, but only a handful are British.’
‘Can you avoid releasing statements to the Press!’
‘If so ordered by the MOD, then yes, but that would be like leaving your best soccer player off the pitch. I found out about the bombs through my underworld contacts, Mi6 never knew. I found out about the Paris poison. Clip my wings and bombs will go off.’
‘And if you’re killed?’
‘Then 80% of the current vital intel this nation gets will dry up.’
‘A damn stupid situation for us to be stuck in!’
‘I never chose this job, it chose me, and one thing led to another. Mi6 trained me, and sent me, and I came back with underworld connections, a great benefit. Blame Mi6. But keep in mind those good newspaper inches we’re getting, they’re currency.’
‘And Prince Kalid of Oman?’
‘Is now like a brother to me.’
‘He bought more planes because you asked?’
‘Well … kindof. And my next job with the Americans will be Yemen, from the Oman border. Assuming you approve it, of course.’
