Wilco- Lone Wolf 17

by Geoff Wolak

  In the morning, Bob had to report that a night security guard had been silenced at a small airfield, and that the man would be missed – and investigated. Still, such an investigation would take days, no evidence left behind.

  I knocked out some laps with the a few of the British Wolves, Tobo’s men running as a group, the MOD down at 11am to discuss plans for No.1 Field Recon. Lt Col Sanderson, to be made up next week, would answer to the UKSF Directorate, who would have oversight.

  The Brigadier would be in charge of the base and Echo, as now, not much oversight of No.1 Field Recon, and Billy would organise the smooth operation of the base and stores – with Rocko when he was back. The MOD had decided on a black beret with a cap badge of a parachute, crossed rifles, and the Latin words “furtim patientia”, meaning stealth and endurance.

  A new sign had been brought along, six foot square, and was now being fixed to the front gate. It was green, with the cap badge at its centre, “No.1 Field Reconnaissance Company” underneath. A similar sign would be on the hangar doors.

  Mike Papa called at 5pm. ‘I have three small planes, from a man that was very keen to sell them for cash and to leave the area very quickly. They are at the airport.’

  ‘Contact the Sierra Leone government, say that you’ll donate the aircraft to them, and ask that they loan them to the British Air Force, to fly out of Freetown airport to protect the northern border and Liberia as well. It must seem that the aircraft belong to the Sierra Leone Government, not you, the UN still lists you as a criminal.’

  ‘OK, I will send them over. And there are crates on the way, rockets, ammunition for wing guns or something.’

  ‘Great, send it over to Freetown. How goes the oil business?’

  ‘These oil companies spend money as if it grows on trees. They pay for equipment and supplies for their men each day - cash, and Tomsk brings in ships each day, pipes, metal. He brought in metal legs from a pipe in Nigeria that was not needed, so now they will put the pipe on metal into the water.

  ‘And the pipe that will go inland will cost a hundred million or more, Tomsk to bring it in from Nigeria. We have the 1977 map, and they had surveyed the land where to put the pipe, so we copy it.’

  I laughed. ‘NordGas helping us, kind of them.’

  ‘My oil people say they have been shut down, assets in Africa sold off, directors hanged and shot.’

  ‘Yes, I may have damaged them a little.’

  ‘More than a little it seems.’

  ‘We hope your country will suffer no outside interference now.’

  ‘That would be an unusual day, yes.’

  The next day the Air Commodore was on. ‘The embassy in Freetown contacted us, three aircraft to be loaned to us, labelled as the Sierra Leone Defence Force. Complete with rockets and ammunition, and the service logs.’

  ‘Did you find some pilots?’

  ‘We have a training flight of pilots who teach single prop engine, some about to retire, so they were keen – very keen. Team heading down, support team as well. We’ll test the aircraft first, certify them.’

  ‘Then you need to practise some dog-fighting skills, sir, because they may meet similar aircraft in the skies over Guinea – and get shot at!’

  ‘We teach that as well,’ he proudly stated. ‘Only … for fast jets.’

  ‘If you have anyone left, who was in the Battle of Britain, fetch them out of the retirement home and take some advice.’

  He laughed. ‘I have some old movies to watch!’

  My secure package arrived, the bank’s blueprints, and I spent an hour in my house scanning them, before burning them in my small and little-used garden. Gathering up the ashes, I flushed them down the toilet, and I diligently double-checked the garden and the original padded envelope. That I burnt as well.

  After hiding the evidence I spent a few hours in stores, Crab and Duffy back from seeing family, and glad to be back from seeing family.

  Since No.1 Field Recon would be twice the size of Echo, at least, two-thirds of the stores area would be assigned to them, one-third to Echo. Since the stores area was huge, only the middle two shelves ever used on each rack, it was not an issue.

  The MOD had assigned two grey-haired stores men, up from Bulford Camp in Wiltshire, and the men had lots of standard forms to fill in. They would handle Field Recon, Crab and Duffy would handle Echo.

  One of the stores men, taking a break, told me, ‘My old colonel was in Sierra Leone, back in the seventies.’

  ‘Back then?’ I puzzled. ‘Didn’t know the Army was there at the time.’

  ‘At the embassy, he was a major, security consultant afterwards. His wife was killed down there.’

  I stared at the man. ‘His name?’

  ‘Smallhampton, all one word.’

  Upstairs, I found Tinker. ‘Track an ex-Army officer, name of Smallhampton.’

  ‘Why does that name seem familiar,’ he wondered. A quick look, and Smallhampton had worked with Sandline.

  I called SIS. ‘Trace an ex-Army officer for me, Smallhampton, was linked to Sandline.’ I waited.

  ‘Terrance Smallhampton, now … sixty four years old, works for Rolls Royce.’

  ‘Bugger. I need his dead wife’s family DNA matched against the woman found in the mine basement in Liberia, and fast. Send a note to David Finch. Then look for a link with Lord Abrahams at Rolls Royce, a link back in 1977.’

  ‘This does not sound good.’

  Off the phone, I walked around the airfield, thinking. Could Lord Abrahams have known about his brother’s Russian leaning, and killed him, a career in Rolls Royce saved. And did he kill the young Doctor Abrahams for some reason, his own niece?

  David called me an hour later. ‘We’re worried, about Lord Abrahams.’

  ‘If I had a brother with Russian sympathies, and a promising career in Rolls Royce or British Aerospace, I might silence him.’

  ‘The two men are closely linked, went to school together, so they knew each other in 1977. We’re checking old embassy records and FCO records, trying to trace anyone who worked down there at the time.’

  ‘Does the dead wife have living relatives?’

  ‘Yes, and DNA testing has come a long way. One is in London, police with her now.’

  ‘Get me Lord Abrahams phone number, his mobile.’

  ‘Why … in particular?’

  ‘If he takes his own life or disappears it’s better than a messy trial.’

  ‘I’ll … get back to you.’

  The Duty Officer gave me the number half an hour later. I called it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lord Abrahams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Major Wilco.’ The pause was too long. ‘I was just wondering if you knew, in 1997, about your brother’s Russian connections, and … did you kill him, aided by Smallhampton perhaps?’

  The call was cut.

  I called David. ‘I just spooked Lord Abrahams, and yes … he killed his brother.’

  ‘Oh gawd.’

  ‘We wait to see what he does.’

  That evening at 9pm David was back on. ‘Lord Abrahams crashed his car, drunk, now a bit dead.’

  ‘Closes a chapter. Go after Smallhampton.’

  ‘He’s disappeared, as in … he never came back from a lunch date in Cheshire, his new wife worried and calling the local police. I say new wife – in that she is his second wife, but is fifty-eight years old.’

  Thursday night I was worried, pacing up and down, thinking through the plan, and what could go wrong. Prince Kalid would have made sure there were no loose ends from his side, the secure transport from Leon would not be traced – dead security guard an issue, and the middle man was Algerian.

  The al-Qaeda men were genuine, and would be identified afterwards. And if taken alive they might say that they had been planning to steal some money with the help of an insider.

  The sniper outside was a loose end, but Bob had confidence in the man. The two police vans had been bought for
cash by a middle man with a fake ID, and wiped down of any prints. Weapons were old and had been wiped down, ammo wiped down, no track back.

  My phone trilled, number withheld. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Wilco, it’s Castille.’

  ‘You in place?’

  ‘Yeah, two teams kitted ready, helos ready. What we looking at here?’

  ‘First off, the intel source has to be protected, so if I’m being cagey … that’s because I’m being cagey, understand?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This intel source could get us leads in the Middle East, so it’s a very valuable source, your ears only, absolutely no mention to anyone unless it’s Colonel Mathews.’

  ‘Who we up against?’

  ‘Five, maybe six al-Qaeda trained men, AK47s, so watch yourself; they will fight to the death and blow themselves up.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘But the intel says something odd, in that these guys are going to do a job and steal a shit load of money.’

  ‘Money? If these idiots are stealing money then they ain’t gunna blow themselves up! They want out, an escape route, a nice beach hotel waiting.’

  ‘I think so, yes. My source has mentioned Amsterdam and Brussels as being target areas.’

  ‘Diamond factories? Jewish diamond factories?’

  ‘Maybe, I have no intel on that yet, I’m waiting a call through a middle man.’

  ‘And the team’s skill levels?’

  ‘They’ve been to Afghanistan, had rifle training, so should be moderately switched on. But there’s a wrinkle, and this is where you risk a stay in Leavenworth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘CIA could stop them now, but will let them move first,’ I lied, but only partly.

  ‘A reporter to hand no doubt,’ he sighed. ‘If the Dutch found out…’

  ‘Yes, an issue, so never mention it. Shoot the fuckers, keep your boys safe, get a medal.’

  ‘How certain is this job?’

  ‘Intel is solid, for tomorrow or the next day. Be ready from midnight tonight, sleep in your kit. Have pilots and helos ready.’

  ‘I’ll sort that now, it’s a well worn routine, as well worn as the spine of my favourite novel.’

  ‘Mary Poppins?’

  ‘Where Eagles Dare.’

  ‘So no flying nannies then. Good luck.’

  Bob called me at 11pm, everything set, Leon keenly assisting, police radios in Antwerp to be monitored, the arrival of the board members to be monitored – some driving themselves probably, no bodyguards to hand.

  In the morning I went for a long run to help clear my head, and after a long hot shower I enjoyed a large breakfast with Henri and Sambo.

  During the day, it was a case of “no news is good news”. At least, no news from Bob Staines about some Arab terrorists caught by the Belgian police as they slept in a safe house.

  David called at 2pm. ‘Smallhampton was stopped in Belfast, train tickets for Ireland, his wife abandoned in haste – the second wife.’

  ‘He’ll stand trial?’

  ‘His health is … not good, shall we say.’

  ‘He is getting on a bit, yes. Is … everyone satisfied that I’ve been here at the base and not setting off bombs in Africa or shooting people in London?’

  ‘They are, police statements to that effect. And six more arrests this morning.’

  ‘I have to wonder about the judge, for those trials…’

  ‘There are three lady judges that could sit, no chance of them being masons, but they could – obviously – be married to a mason.’

  ‘Check them out first then,’ I suggested.

  ‘We will do, we don’t want a collapsed trial.’

  ‘My double not talking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Make him a deal, I could make use of him.’

  ‘Might be useful yes, certainly as Petrov.’

  ‘Ask him to volunteer to play Petrov, and go sit in an American jail for a decade or two,’ I flippantly suggested.

  ‘That might be a difficult one to sell.’

  At 4pm Bob was on. ‘Birds gathering at the nest.’

  At 4.35pm he was back on. ‘All known and expected birds now in the nest, protestors are ten minutes out.’

  At 4.55pm he reported, ‘Robbery reported to be in progress, at the Antwerp Museum, all available police en route, protestors making a noise at the bank. One has a sign, “Save the whales!”’

  I laughed. ‘Did you get the right rent-a-mob?’

  ‘I hope so, or it could be embarrassing if they start demanding equal rights for women. Hold the line…’

  I ambled around the perimeter track, hand in pocket.

  ‘… package on its way … nearing the bank … CS gas thrown by someone, guards at the gate, two at the doors, armed with pistols on hips.

  ‘Police vans taking a side gate, moving to the front doors, no alarm given yet … two guards shot and wounded, they’re down … men leaving the vans and inside, shots fired … smoke inside the ground level, people fleeing.’

  ‘I have a call to make. Standby.’ I called Castille. ‘It’s Wilco, target is Antwerp Commertz Bank, south of the city down the A12, area known as Hemiksen, big ten-storey glass building sat on the river, isolated, large car park. Six men, AK47s as described, and they’re already inside.’

  ‘Shit…’

  ‘Good luck. And keep your head down.’

  I called Bob. ‘Delta Force are ready, but they need final permission from the Belgian authorities, which could take hours.’

  Bob reported, ‘Belgian police have turned around many teams, armed teams and police snipers heading to the bank, Belgian Government in emergency meeting it’s being reported.

  ‘Staff have been seen leaving the building, a great many, so it looks like the attackers are sending them out … wait … top floor window shot out, no … floor below the top one. Board meeting is on that floor, top floor is a café.’

  ‘I think the notes taken for the board meeting might be left incomplete.’

  ‘A pause for coffee, yes. Wait … a man in suit just took a flying leap out of the window.’

  ‘Question is, Bob: did he jump or was he pushed?’

  ‘That is the question that people always ask … after a top level corporate departure. Seems he didn’t negotiate a golden parachute for himself.’

  ‘Golden parachute?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Term used to describe a pay-off for executives after a hostile takeover. I think I can safely say that this qualifies as hostile.’

  I smiled. ‘Call me if something happens.’

  Call cut, my phone trilled straight away, David Finch. ‘It seems that the bank in Antwerp is under attack…’

  ‘My men are still all accounted for, Boss, honest.’

  ‘I would hope so, the PM has already asked. Wait … getting reports of Arab gunmen.’

  ‘Boss, some of my men look a bit rough after a few days without shaving, but they would not be mistaken for Arabs.’

  ‘Indeed not. Any clues here..?’

  ‘The bank pissed someone off I guess, someone who has Arab gunmen to hand.’

  ‘Our friend in Oman?’

  ‘Do you want to accuse him?’

  ‘Hell no.’

  ‘I doubt he could move Arab gunmen into Europe undetected. Besides, the bank was already on its knees.’

  ‘The board were holding a meeting apparently, some very senior European figures in the meeting, EU Ministers.’

  ‘Then questions may be asked about their known associations afterwards.’

  ‘Embarrassing questions, yes, some loud voices to follow.’

  ‘Let me know how it turns out.’

  I called Bob. ‘How many board members in the building?’

  ‘About thirty.’

  ‘Any women?’

  ‘As assistants, yes, no lady board members.’

  ‘An all-male preserve, eh. I wonder if it will be like the Titanic, men singing as the ship goes down, w
omen in the boats?’

  ‘The men will be under the tables, and screaming for mercy. Plus offering large sums of money for their release no doubt.’

  ‘I almost feel sorry for them. Oh, where were the bodyguards?’

  ‘There were not many seen, not the usual thirty, and they were reported to be in the canteen.’

  Max called ten minutes later. ‘You seen the news from Belgium?’

  ‘Just heard yes, some terrorist attack they say.’

  ‘And on your favourite bank…’

  ‘I can’t say that I’m unhappy, but I have no quote, and you’ll not mention any link to them yet, but you can mention that they owned NordGas - and join the dots.’

  Bob called fifteen minutes later. ‘Helicopters landed, four of them, American Blackhawks.’

  ‘Delta Force, awaiting some permission – which may take a while coming.’

  ‘Another man left the building, taking the fast way down.’

  ‘Might ruin his suit. And the staff?’

  ‘Police have them corralled and are checking IDs, looks like a thousand of them apparently.’

  I sighed. ‘So we have that at least.’

  ‘My sniper saw a lot of men in the board room after the windows were broken, but he’s now gone.’

  ‘Looks like a plan coming together. All we need now is for Delta Force to do a good job.’

  The TV news started to detail the “hostage” situation in Antwerp just as the Deputy Chief called. ‘Wilco, we got Delta Force in place, but … this is the fucking bank that was trying hard to kill you!’

  ‘Just a coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence!’ he shouted. ‘Someone might question the likelihood of such a fucking coincidence.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll help me out with some back-dated intel, the bank being mean to poor Muslim people in … Mali and Nigeria, people forced out of their homes and killed as mines were expanded.’

  ‘Might not have to fake it, I’ll check.’

  ‘Are you … unhappy at the advent of al-Qaeda men in Europe?’

  ‘Hell no.’

  ‘Then my next move, into Yemen, might get some support Stateside?’