Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  Three days later I drove into the base and cornered the Major as he stood chatting with the RSM.

  ‘How’d Rizzo do?’ the Major asked as I approached.

  ‘Surprised you moved him up the list, sir.’ I waited.

  ‘I could see he was training hard, and ... well, we need a higher score than “B” Squadron overall. How’d he do?’

  ‘91%.’

  ‘That’s better,’ he commended.

  ‘But not as good as Rocko from the Paras, or Captain Moran,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Moran is on selection as we speak,’ the RSM noted. ‘Doing well.’

  ‘I have high hopes for Moran,’ the Major admitted. ‘An officer that’s better than the men. Haven’t been many of those over the years.’

  The RSM put in, ‘There are two new ranges being altered to run the scenario, one in Catterick and one in Thetford Ranges. They want more people put through, but now each candidate has to pass a timed 24hr march with a backpack.’

  ‘About time,’ the Major complained. ‘I want all our lads through it, and any under 80% get a kick up the arse.’

  A week later, and with the furore over Somalia settling down, the Major informed me that I was summoned to London, in civvy dress. He was being coy, I could tell, and I worried about some sort of “thank you” from suited twats in the Cabinet Office.

  Reaching London early, I stopped for breakfast before heading around to the MOD building, finding Bob waiting.

  He smiled. ‘This way, they’re waiting.’

  ‘Who is they?’ I probed.

  ‘Surprise.’

  I sighed, dreading this.

  At a large function-type room we entered to quite a crowd, not least a heavily pregnant lady smiling at me, always a worry. All faces turned towards me, several groups of men and women as if at a wedding. A grey-haired man turned around, and I recognised him; Bosnia, the agent.

  I smiled genuinely and we shook. ‘You made it back, sir.’

  ‘Slipped across the border with my family.’ He pointed at the heavily-pregnant lady, and it registered, the lady in the woods refusing a blowjob to an angry Serb.

  ‘You look much better,’ she said, accented.

  ‘I was on the operating table for days, weeks in rehab,’ I said as she moved in and hugged me, a hand on my shoulder from her beaming husband.

  Easing back, a tear in her eye, she pointed out the four other men who I had saved, now stood with their wives, and I shook each hand, getting bear-hugged a few times. They introduced the duty officer who took my call that day, some of his colleagues, and then the Director herself stepping in with a posse behind her.

  ‘Ma’am,’ I offered, and we shook.

  ‘Finally we meet,’ she began. ‘A face to the name.’

  ‘And dodgy reputation,’ I offered, Bob stood beaming at the attention he was getting, his boss next to him.

  ‘Well done on Somalia,’ she offered, ‘although the Red Cross are ... a bit cross with us for the body count.’

  ‘Fewer bandits and kidnappers, Ma’am.’

  ‘I said that just now, to...’ She turned, and in stepped the old guy from Somalia, now cleaned up. ‘He’s one of ours...’

  ‘Ah...’ I let out as he closed in and shook my hand.

  ‘Damn glad of your help, young man,’ he offered me. ‘Couldn’t believe you came with just four men, and then I heard one call your cover name and I almost fainted – read your reports many times, and there you were, in the flesh, shooting up the fighters.’

  ‘I see now, sir, why you took such an interest in that weapon’s stash.’

  ‘I had an idea to steal some and shoot my way out, least in my dreams.’

  We laughed.

  The Director turned again, a man handing over a box, and my heart skipped a beat. ‘These we award to our own, never to be displayed in public, it’s ... our internal reward system.’ And she pinned the medal on me as the applause began.

  I turned and faced the crowd as a photographer closed in and snapped us all. ‘Photos?’ I queried.

  ‘Internal,’ the Director stated. ‘Don’t worry. But they may be released after the thirty year rule.’ She thanked me again and headed off with her posse, food brought in on trolleys, tea and coffee, even liqueurs. I chatted to everyone several times, and was in that room more than an hour before Bob led me back to his office, his team assembled, my medal put away.

  ‘We had a call from Yuri,’ they said without pause. ‘He wants to meet. Tomorrow.’

  I sighed. ‘I ... can stay up overnight, I’ll call the Major.’

  A man handed me a shirt, my size, making me smile. ‘Your usual hotel is booked.’

  Kidnap

  Yuri had another man to deal with, but this time the going rate was £30,000, to be paid afterwards – making me smile as I sat in his car. Details in pocket, I left Yuri to drive off, but as I crossed the road I was hit, but not hard, bouncing off a bonnet and ending up on my knees.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ came an American accent, soon followed by a pistol to the face from an angry driver. ‘Get in the fucking van!’

  I turned, still knelt down and a bit sore, to see a van reverse a short distance, two men hop down and assist me in – whether I wanted that assistance or not. I considered fighting, but I had a pistol in my back, soon in my side as we sat on benches, and no less than three pistols aimed at me. But as they chatted with American accents, it dropped. These idiots thought I was Petrov, and why wouldn’t they?

  Fuck, I thought, they had tailed Yuri.

  Fact was, I was mildly amused by it, and I knew I could bring this to a halt at any time, so I stopped worrying about being shot.

  ‘Inside pocket,’ a man said. ‘Take it out.’

  ‘Vot pock-et,’ I asked, heavily accented.

  He pointed his pistol at my nose.

  I smiled, and that disturbed him. ‘You don’t vant me dead, so don’t play child games.’

  He nodded. ‘How about a knee wound, buddy?’

  ‘Zat ... would spoil my squash game,’ I said, the guy next to me laughing.

  He reached in and grabbed my pistol, then the documents Yuri had given me, opening them as we drove along London streets. ‘That’s our mark, Caspov.’ He lifted his face to me. ‘Why did Yuri Bedlov give you this?’

  ‘He is to be ... new squash partner,’ I said, getting the back of a pistol to the forehead, the skin opened. ‘No? Oh, then I don’t know jack shit, Mister Hawaii Five-Oh.’

  ‘They get Hawaii Five-Oh in Russia?’ the man opposite asked.

  ‘How vud I know?’

  ‘Grew up in Canada,’ the man next to me stated. ‘Never spent much time in Mother Russia.’

  ‘And who you believe me be, Kojak?’

  ‘Kojak had no hair, dumbass. Dumbass Comrade Petrov.’

  ‘I liked Kojak when I was boy,’ I idly commented. ‘Always had small dog wid him.’

  ‘Small ... dog? No, dumbass, he had a lollipop.’

  I frowned, blood trickling down my nose. ‘Not right for grown man to have zee lollipop.’

  We dipped down, it darkened, and we parked, the doors opened from outside, my handlers being very cautious of me. I was led to a lift, but handcuffed first. They hit a button, the doors closed on me, and we ascended.

  ‘Vot ... no music?’ I asked, making them smile.

  ‘You’re a cool, dude, you know that.’

  ‘Dude is American-izm, I am Russian, real man.’ That got me a pistol whip to the side of the head.

  ‘Real man that, Comrade.’

  We opened to a half-built open plan office, and I was led left and to a side room, a large oval table, tea and coffee, chairs, some nice new carpet, blinds on the windows, a few boxes.

  I sniffed. ‘Nice new carpet smell. Always like it.’

  ‘Sit down,’ they barked, and I was un-cuffed, and re-cuffed through the chair back.

  ‘Am I chairman of board?’ I asked, getting a backhanded slap.

 
They attended the coffee machine.

  ‘Vite, please, two sugar,’ I told them.

  ‘You want scolding hot coffee down your pants, buddy?’

  ‘Only if vite wid two sugar.’

  One man looked like he was about to react when the other stopped him. ‘He’s baiting you.’

  They made their coffee, chatted quietly, sat and enjoyed their drinks – a few glances my way, a few glances at the leaden grey London skyline, and thirty minutes must have passed. I thought back to the Petrov legend, but he had not been to the States and killed anyone – nor killed any Americans. Finally a mobile phone went; someone was coming up. Five minutes later, and in strode a big guy, looking like he owned the place, a smaller and balding man behind him.

  ‘So, this is famous Petrov. Been after your ass for a long time, buddy.’

  ‘You cannot fuck me up arse. Geneva convention.’

  The big guy laughed. ‘No fucking conventions here, buddy, just us. Your body will never be found.’

  ‘My body ... we be living long time yet.’

  ‘Oh yeah, why you so sure of that?’ he asked as he pulled up a chair.

  ‘Because you want something. You think ... I know Russian agents here and ... places.’

  The big guy studied me for a moment. ‘You’re right of course, we want to know what you know, especially about a hit on our staff in Romania in 1988.’ He accepted a coffee.

  ‘Romania, where is that?’

  He smiled dangerously, and I wondered why I was prolonging this. Still, the Petrov legend had to be maintained, and so far I was enjoying this, apart from being slapped.

  ‘Maybe I am wrong man.’

  Chuck turned his head to the two men who had sat with me. One un-cuffed me from the chair, the other stood with pistol prone, and they yanked my jacked off, holster, then tore the shirt off.

  ‘Fuck me...’ the big guy slowly let out, whistling. He beckoned forward the balding man, who ran an eye over my scars, a finger on some, an examination of my head, finally my knuckles and shins.

  ‘No doubt,’ he began. ‘Kick boxer for certain, many years, gunshot wounds, some going back say ten years, some say a year, extreme physique, signs of torture, gunshot wounds to the head – I’d say three.’ He faced the man in charge. ‘He’s taken a beating – or ten.’

  ‘Tattoo?’ the main man asked, and I puzzled that.

  My examiner viewed my arm. ‘Where it should be, the skin has been removed.’

  ‘I don’t like tattoo,’ I began. ‘Painful.’

  They laughed.

  ‘He’s your man, alright, Chuck,’ my balding medical examiner said before leaving.

  They sat me down, the cuffs yet again adjusted, my torn shirt hanging around my waist.

  ‘So ... Romania,’ Chuck pressed.

  ‘Vot about it?’

  ‘We can do this the hard way...’

  I stared back defiantly. ‘And I have not had hard way before.’

  He appeared momentarily unsure of himself. ‘Yeah, guess you have.’ He stood. ‘Stress him. I have a dinner date, followed by a restful night’s sleep.’

  ‘Say hello to rent boy for me,’ I offered, angering him. But he controlled it, and left me to be ‘stressed’ at the hands of the two men that had babysat me so far.

  As soon as he was out of the room I felt like I should have ended it, but I could see the Major’s face, and hear his words. “Don’t crack, you represent us.”

  I faced my jailors. ‘If you want stress me, bring in TV, Eastender’s People.’

  They smiled sadistically, so I guessed that watching crappy TV shows was not their idea of torture, and I soon had ice cold water poured onto me followed by hot water, the men rolling dice to see who did what, a good slap after each.

  It was going to be a long, long night, but my two captures had never been tortured, and the alternating process of hot and cold on the skin deadened the affected areas till whatever temperature was poured on you it felt just like water – of no temperature.

  Bob Staines called my room, eager for an update, but found that I had not checked in. He panicked, figuring Yuri had killed me, a call in to Special Branch – and to Major Bradley. As I was getting the hot and cold treatment, my arms tied back to the point where I’d have arms like a gorilla, SAS counter-terrorist teams were cocking weapons and donning their gear.

  As it grew dark outside my jailors took a break, putting on some of the lights – keeping most off, and had a sandwich each, washed down with an enviable cup of steaming coffee – although by this point I was not sure what was hot or cold any more, my skin red, my rotator cuff tendons stretched to the point I could now box people stood behind me.

  Whilst my arms were being stretched, Yuri was in a restaurant having dinner with a Russian hooker, his men with him, MI6 agents sat nearby. Kidnap by Yuri had not been ruled out, but they knew that we was not sat over me at that very moment. And Yuri had no motive, and so his expensive dinner was not interrupted. If he knew how many armed men were in vans outside, it would have put him off his main course.

  At what I figured to be 9pm a third man joined us, a slap just for fun, a kick to the skins before he made himself a coffee. And since Chuck had left, no questions had been asked. This was ‘softening up’ for the morning session.

  The new guy took to putting his foot on the chain between my arms, but I took his body weight easily enough, when he thought he was tearing up my tendons. I grimaced as I took his weight, and they thought that they were succeeding in hurting me.

  When Bob Staines could just about wait no longer – a raid planned on Yuri, he got a break, CCTV footage of me getting into a car with Yuri, and getting out again a few blocks away, getting hit, then jumping into a van, false plates. The van was lost after a few blocks, no CCTV coverage.

  And, since Petrov was a valued asset, and his relationship to Yuri was valued, Yuri was left to finish his desert before taking his lady home, unaware that my arms were being stretched. The question remained as to who had kidnapped me, the list being a potentially long one.

  At Chelsea Barracks the Major paced up and down, Rizzo, Smurf and the lads kitted out ready, and cursing a great many people.

  I guessed that an hour had passed since the new guy arrived, and the other two now sat reading newspapers, a bit bored with the task they had been given, just the newcomer still enjoying it. He would stand on the chain, I would take his weight and grimace, and he considered that he was doing a good job, quite satisfied with himself.

  Another hour, and one man remained, although I could hear talking coming from the large open plan office. It grew quiet, and my mind turned to escape, and if I should even bother. Whatever happened, in the morning I would reveal my true identity and end this nonsense.

  He checked my cuffs, secure through the metal chair, sneered at me and got comfy, but tried not to sleep as he sat in a comfy chair the other end of the boardroom table. I considered my options.

  My cuffs were not UK police issue, they had a length of chain between them that could be adjusted, and I had been feeling that chain for hours. It did not feel that thick or strong. I could also get my hands to the cuffs, so all I needed was something to pick them with – plus the essential ingredient of some timely and practical lessons on how to pick cuffs.

  I manoeuvred the chains against something sticking out of the chair, a bolt maybe, and took the strain, wondering what I might do if I broke them – and what my captor might do if I broke them. Him shooting me came to mind.

  I deliberately rattled the chair, and he came over.

  ‘Settle down!’

  ‘Arms ... not so good, better position good.’

  ‘Arms ... not so good, is the whole fucking point, dumbass.’ And he kicked and slapped me before sitting down, the blood on my face now dry.

  As he sat, I rattled the chair again, but now he could not be bothered. I had won that round, and I had set a precedent, a precedent whereby chain noises and rattling chairs would not cau
se him to come running, or to shoot me, now pleased with myself.

  As I sat there, I realised that I wanted to escape to impress the lads and the Major, and I worried if that was a good thing. Was I becoming Rizzo? It ate up half an hour’s deliberation about my own sanity.

  Another hour, and I could see his eyes closing. But just when I thought things were going my way, the sadistic bastard came back in, a pistol whip opening a fresh wound, the man soon stood on the chain. He relived the other guy, and tormented me at length, enjoying it. If I could have broken loose at that point I would have hurt him, or thrown him through the window.

  The torment ended when the other guy came back, soda can in hand, and he sat down and got comfy, no intention of exerting himself on me. I was back to testing the chain and rattling the chair.

  Without meaning to, I slipped forwards and found my arse on the floor, my arms behind me, my head down. Now, if they could have done that themselves, then it would have been a stress position. I listened, but my captor - beyond the long table, was not paying attention.

  I pulled at the chains, then exerted myself to the point of being beyond pain, and the back of the chair bent. I stopped, wide-eyed and listening. Nothing. I pushed backwards, and the metal resumed its previous state. I pulled, pushed, pulled and pushed, finally feeling it give.

  Getting a leg under myself, then a knee – thumbs on the chair edges, I eased ever so quietly back up onto the chair, and I resumed my previous position, my captor now with headphones on, listening to something as he stared out at the bright lights of the city, an occasional glance my way.

  An hour later, and I saw his head dip. I also saw someone glance in on occasion, so overpowering the first jailor would be just the first step. And the door could be locked.

  I realised why I was enjoying this; it was a test, a puzzle, and I wanted to prove that I could do it.

  Wedging my elbows behind the chair back, I eased the chair back forwards and back till the left support gave. Easing it back, I slipped the chain through.

  Now what?

  My hands were behind my back, I’d never get them under my legs – could I? Just then I needed a piss, so had to go where I sat, hot pee down my legs.