by Geoff Wolak
The F18s confirmed they had good footage, and set off for home at a far greater speed than the RAF.
When the prop fighters landed they updated London, and London updated me. I told everyone in the Intel Section, ‘The rebels are boxed in, nowhere to go, trucks damaged, men killed and wounded.’
‘So what comes next?’ Harris asked.
‘Good question. I’d say they fuck off home, maybe taking the bus.’
‘We have a suitable target.’ He showed me the map. ‘Here, twenty miles on from the convoy, is a group of a thousand rebels, an old official barracks, airstrip, town nearby, rebels married to local girls.’
‘Then we can insert the Wolves to go have a look, see what they’re up to.’
Tinker rushed out of his office. ‘We got signals intel, a very indiscreet chat on a mobile phone, General Gomoto to President Delomoine. Column halted and shot up, what to do, we cannot go for the diamonds now like this. Transcript on its way.’
‘Might be enough to convict the president,’ I told them. ‘If it is, the US Navy will grab him, and we don’t lose men killed in the fighting.’
My phone trilled, an odd number. ‘Major Wilco?’ came an American accent.
‘Yes?’ I stepped to the corridor.
‘I’m responsible for Miller, his boss in a way. He’s been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped? I didn’t think he went into the field.’
‘He does now and then, delicate negotiations. He was grabbed in Jamaica, chatting to a Colombian gentleman.’
‘You have vast resources, so why tell me this?’
‘You have excellent contacts in the region, and we have no penetration of Colombian gangs. Will you assist?’
‘Of course, but I have a conflict in Guinea to sort out.’
‘We’d be grateful, he … knows a great deal should he be tortured. What he knows is a threat to you as well.’
I considered that. ‘Can you fax me what you know?’
‘What number?’
‘Hold on.’ I stepped back in and to Tinker’s office, getting the number off the fax machine. ‘Send me a good facial likeness to show people as well. Is he on any meds?’
‘Meds? No, why?’
‘His kidnappers might pop out to get them, keep him alive.’
‘Hang on … there’s a cover story he uses, or is supposed to use in times like this. Good job you reminded me. Uh … anti-epilepsy drugs.’
‘Great, that helps. I’ll wait the fax, keep ringing me each day, I may need you to run traces for me.’
The fax came through ten minutes later and I scanned the detail before pocketing it, the second page being the facial image. In it he appeared a little younger.
Outside the hangar, I called David Finch. ‘My contact in Deep State has been kidnapped, they want my help. Any objections?’
‘Plenty. Take some unpaid leave.’
‘Boss, can I have some unpaid leave?’
‘Yes, I’ll make a note.’
‘Thanks, Boss, I’ll get a tan and read a book, in Jamaica to start with.’
Inside, I told them, ‘I have a job for Intel, no questions asked, I can be reached by phone some of the time if it’s urgent, the issues in Sierra Leone and Guinea are down to you lot. Send the Wolves to take a look at that group of rebels as a start point, get Moran involved and earning his keep.’
I stepped out, and found Salome. ‘Get civilian clothing on, we’re off to Jamaica for a holiday, a kidnapped man to find. Take nothing that can identify you as anything other than my girlfriend.’
She cocked an eyebrow at me and stepped away just as Sasha drove in.
I shouted at him, ‘Get ready for a job, in Jamaica, swimming trucks and sun tan cream. We leave today.’
‘I just get back, eh,’ he complained.
‘Go get ready.’
I called Bob Staines as I stood there. ‘I need a private jet, me and two others, UK to Jamaica, today.’
‘Taking a holiday?’
‘A Deep State man was kidnapped.’
‘So they’re not so clever after all.’
‘Not as clever as you, no. Get the plane, and some cash to draw when I get there. Oh, and book me in as lead for a party of three or more, so a suite maybe. Nice hotel, not flashy.’
Jogging to my house, Tiny drove in and waved. I glanced at her before I rushed inside, soon naked and opening my wardrobe. I wanted to look like Petrov, so selected simple items, soon packing my case in haste with things that a typical tourist might take. I shoved in jeans, towels, swimming trunks, socks and pants
I placed my Russian ID pack in my case, and I’d be in trouble if someone had a close look at it. Trainers in, gym kit – yes, more socks, casual t-shirts and shirts. I could buy more items when we got there.
Packed ready, Pete knocked and entered. ‘You off somewhere?’
‘Brazil,’ I told him. ‘Oh, go find Tiny - I just saw her arrive back, bring her here. Go!’
I double-checked how I looked, double-checked my pockets, then opened my case downstairs and went through it all again.
Tiny entered with Pete. ‘You after me, Boss?’
I stood. ‘First, are you willing to come on an undercover job, posing as Sasha’s girlfriend?’ I held up a finger. ‘And to help you make up your mind, you’ll be in a nice beach hotel in Jamaica.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she enthused.
‘Second, will your boss release you?’
‘I’m still on leave, another week.’
‘Call him, find out, tell him it’s an important job.’
She took out a mobile and stepped outside.
Pete asked, ‘Need me along?’
‘You’re not a spy, and you don’t speak Russian.’
‘But I would appreciate a nice hotel in Jamaica,’ he cheekily pointed out.
‘Bollocks,’ I carefully stated.
Tiny returned. ‘He says yes, but we need forms filled in. He’d need to know where I’ll be, who with…’
I faced Pete. ‘Her boss does not get the whole spy thing, does he.’ I faced her. ‘Pack a bag for a beach hotel, passport, no military ID or anything that can link you back here … just a passport. And no weapons!’
She rushed out.
I walked down to Sasha with Pete, and he was busy packing. ‘Where are we going?’ he complained.
‘Brazil,’ I lied. ‘Nice beach front hotel. The girl, Tiny, will pose as your girlfriend.’
‘What! What if my real girlfriend finds out!’
‘How the fuck will she find out!’ I shouted. ‘You’re on a spy job, and not even the fucking CIA could find out, so how will she find out?’
‘Well, OK, so long as she doesn’t find out.’
‘Idiot! Get ready. Towels, gym kit, shirts for a hot climate, socks and pants, passport, no weapons. No condoms needed.’
When Salome was ready she drove over to me, suitable summer clothing on.
‘Do you need to check with your boss?’ I asked.
‘No.’ It was final and definite.
Sasha walked up with his suitcase, tea made as we waited, soon an expected Tiny arriving. She had not unpacked her case, so she had simply taken out a few cold weather items.
Stepping out of the house, I called Bob.
He began, ‘Birmingham airport, 5pm. Go to the private jet terminals on the cargo side, not the main airport. Look for Manson Flights. Flight is in the name of Michael Milton plus party. If they ask about medical insurance, it was made by phone with Robinsons. Note this number and code.’
I wrote it down.
‘You don’t need a visa, you get a visa on arrival good for 90 days. You’re booked into the Hedonism Hotel -’
‘Hang on, I saw that on the TV.’
‘You don’t have to have sex in front of others, just watch. I figured it would be a good cover,’ he said with a lilt.
‘You’re a little shit, you know that.’
‘Limo will be waiting at the airport, hotel will ha
ve travellers cheques for you.’
‘Thanks. I’ll call if we get into trouble.’
‘Keep the British end up.’
‘Fuck off.’ I hung up and stepped inside, thinking – and probably looking worried.
‘Problems?’ Sasha asked.
‘The … hotel that Intel booked us into … it’s a place where … people have sex in front of others.’
Sasha looked shocked, but Tiny said with a huge smile, ‘Oh wow, saw that on the TV.’
‘We’re not forced to indulge,’ I told them. ‘Besides, we’ll be busy.’
Salome shrugged a shoulder, not fussed.
‘Can I walk around naked?’ Tiny asked.
‘No,’ Sasha told her. ‘You are my bitch.’
I told Tiny, ‘Russian men don’t treat their ladies well, they’re … macho.’
‘I had a boyfriend like that once. I broke his nose eventually.’
Sasha shot her a worried look. ‘We are play acting.’
I told them, ‘We don’t need good back-stories, we’re bad people and would never answer questions, and if observed we would look suspicious, that is the whole idea. Be rude.’ I faced Salome. ‘Just be yourself!’
With Sasha laughing I stepped outside and called Tomsk. ‘Listen, I’m on my way to Jamaica, a CIA man was kidnapped by a Colombian gang. Have you heard anything?’
‘Jamaica? No, but I ask around.’
‘Do you know anyone there?’
‘Smertz is there, he has a hotel.’
‘Smertz?’
‘Russian casino owner, on the run, wanted by Interpol and the FBI. I arranged the plastic surgery and new ID.’
‘Contact him. I want some help, some weapons, some cash. I’ll be at that Hedonism hotel, Negril.’
‘The hotel where people have sex in front of each other?’ he puzzled.
‘Yes, I … booked it to avoid any spy types,’ I lied.
‘I was thinking of one like that here, but they think the church will object.’
‘Offer up some small boys, and the church will not object.’
He laughed. ‘I call him now, arrange something. What name do you use?’
‘Petrov.’ I spelt it.
‘OK, no need to be rude, I sort something. You visit here?’
‘If I have time, yes. Officially, I am on holiday. Oh, ask the Cali Cartel about a man called Charlo de Santos.’
‘That name sounds familiar.’
‘Ask them, I want to know everything about him.’
Pete organised a mini-bus for us, a non-discrete police escort, and I grabbed cash from my hidden stash; pounds, dollars and euros. As we boarded the mini-bus I handed out dollars to the team.
Setting off, I told them, ‘If the flight crew ask questions, be vague, say that I’m rich, father in oil, anything. Pretend to sleep.’
‘Food on the plane?’ Tiny asked.
‘Not sure, so get something to eat as we drive up, but it’s an expensive private jet, so I would think so. I’ve flown on a few, but they had no cabin crew on them at the time.’
‘How long is the flight?’ she asked.
‘Ten hours, maybe with refuelling.’
‘I’d sleep, it’s a night flight,’ Tiny noted.
On the short drive up to Birmingham Airport we stopped for a café meal, some bizarre back stories suggested by Tiny. Her favourite was that we were a recovering group of drug addicted former porn actors. When I considered that David Finch might get a report from Jamaica, I actually considered the back story; it would shock him.
Pete finally found the right place, our police escort parking far enough away as to not cause an interest in us. Pete walked in with us, but at least he was in civvy clothes. I approached the posh desk.
‘Uh, sir, the petrol money,’ Pete announced, and I was on the spot, which was his intention.
I dug out the money, and tipped him well, glaring at him as he smugly took the money and left us. I faced the cute lady in a smart blue outfit. ‘Milton party.’
‘Just four, sir?’
‘Yes. Do you need our medical insurance details?’
‘On the form please, sir.’
I stood in front of the counter and filled in the form, taking the paper from my pocket with the medical insurance code on it. ‘OK, all done,’ I said with a smile. ‘Anything else?’
‘All arranged by your agent, sir. If you’ll follow me.’ She led us through to a smart lounge, two ladies on hand with champagne and nibbles, if we wanted either. Tiny knocked back a champagne flute in one go, Sasha asking for tea.
After ten minutes the captain appeared. ‘Ready when you are, sir. Flight time to Jamaica for us is roughly nine hours.’
I glanced at the gang and they stood, our luggage already having been taken. We walked through a stiff cold breeze to the jet, a sleek and sexy Gulfstream.
‘This is way to travel,’ Tiny muttered.
Inside, met by a pleasant yet very tall hostess, her hair up, we found seats, asked to sit in the middle. The seat I chose swallowed me up and gave me a big hug, Sasha soon nodding his approval of the comfy seats as seat belts clicked shut. Door closed, the engines started to whine, a second hostess starting on some food for us, smart magnolia menus handed out.
I saw men in orange ear defenders messing about outside, and soon we jerked forwards before settling, slowly taxiing around. I wondered about take-off slots and waiting, but it seemed we had a slot available between groups of tourists heading to Benidorm and Tenerife. A turn, and we joined the runway. A roar, and we powered off, and I was forced back into my seat; this was no lumbering Tristar.
Through the turbulence we found clear skies, and after levelling off the snacks were issued as food was warmed up.
In Russian, Salome asked, ‘What is the plan?’
I responded in Russian, ‘I know his last position, so we start there. I also have a contact on the island, from Tomsk.’
‘Motive?’ she pressed.
‘A good question. He has no money, but he does have knowledge. He was meeting a Colombian, and they don’t use their brains, they use their balls.’
‘I understand some of that,’ Tiny put in. ‘But Russian is not one of my languages.’
‘Jamaican Creole?’ I teased her.
‘That’s not a real language, it’s slang,’ she pointed out, nibbling on the snacks.
After a main course of chicken I downed a beer, the food and drink complimentary, and Tiny nodded off. Outside was soon dark, and Sasha folded his arms and closed his eyes. I peered out the window, but there was nothing to see. If I glanced up I could see stars, wondering if I could see the curvature of the Earth.
At midnight I checked my watch, Salome now asleep, and I closed my eyes, thinking about Miller in a small concrete room, his fingers cut off already. I had also considered if this was a trap, but to get rid of me would be very easy for Deep State, they need only release a taped conversation between myself and Miller. No, they had no need to set a trap for me.
And after the good job they did in London against Lord Michaels’ gang I was worried that such a team of professionals could get to me. The world over, good teams were damn hard to put together and to keep together, and a fuck-up was far more likely than a good result – a good result being no evidence left behind.
I woke as the light came through the small window, no one else stirring yet. I stretched forwards over the table, and yawned. Walking back to the hostess’s area, I found one awake, one asleep.
I held up a flat hand when she went to get up. ‘Take it easy,’ I whispered, and I used the sumptuous toilet, having a wash whilst there. Outside, she offered me a tea.
I nodded, and walked down the aisle a few seats and sat. She joined me with a cup and the silver pot, pouring. She added sugar when I nodded. ‘When do you sleep?’
‘Officially, we’re not supposed to,’ she whispered. ‘We come on duty, fly, off duty and sleep, two days at least at the other end. It’s a sixteen hour shif
t roughly, and roughly three days off. What do you do, sir?’
‘Father is in oil, so I spent a lot of time on planes when I was young, visiting him in some hell hole. Now I work with him, risk assessment. If I go to some place like Sierra Leone for five days I get two grand, the going rate.’
‘Good work,’ she approved.
‘Did you start out on tourist flights?’
‘Yes, but I hated it; horrid Brit tourists off to Tenerife. Then I tried long haul, and that was tough, twelve hour flights, then switched to luxury yachts, which was great fun, the owners away a lot. And a chance meeting with the owner of this airline and I switched back.
‘Problem with these flights … is stopping them getting too drunk, opening the doors mid-Atlantic, or taking a drug overdose. We often get to where we’re going and need an ambulance, we can’t wake them.’
I smiled widely, imagining stoned Rolling Stones members. After a second cuppa I headed back and eased in slowly so as not to wake anyone.
They woke as we hit a storm, the plane thrown around a little. On the nine hour mark we were in final descent, and through the clouds we could see a blue inviting ocean and sandy beaches, hotels hidden in the trees, boats on the water, a huge cruise liner seen.
Down smoothly, we taxied past lumbering 747s, soon to a halt, the doors opened, warm air invading the cabin as Sasha stood and scratched his balls, yawning. Down from the plane we were walked to a single-storey building and to a counter, passports handed over and stamped, our hotel noted.
Led through, all warm now after getting used to the plane’s air conditioning, our limo was waiting, room inside for eight, our cases being packed into the rear.
‘Can we do this every month?’ Tiny keenly asked as she sat, a hand run over the upholstery.
‘This is normal for Echo jobs,’ I told her, getting a look from Sasha.
‘Normal is a hole in the ground!’ he complained.
A question from the local black driver, were we ready, and we set off, soon seeing the shit part of Jamaica till we hit the highway, other shit parts glimpsed, a twenty minute ride. During that ride I saw two police stops and one body; this was no island paradise unless you were behind high walls.
