by Geoff Wolak
‘Oh.’ He considered that. ‘You trust the intel?’
‘Job is not dependent on CIA intel, but the job is ... very illegal, yet very necessary. We can’t arrest this guy, but we can burn down his factory, just that it’s kind of illegal.’
‘Who is this guy?’
‘Man behind the coup in Senegal, also has a hand in Liberia.’
‘So you’re government is all over him.’ He nodded.
‘Keep this to yourself, don’t be surprised at things we do. Much of what we do is to deal with people who are beyond the courts. We know who they are, but we’d never get a conviction, and in many cases never secure an extradition. So we hurt them where we can.’
‘Like the cartels.’
‘Just like them. How much do you know about that job?’
‘What I read in the papers, and some of the lads here mentioned Colombia, and Brit soldiers were reported there, and no one other than your team would go into a place like that.’
‘We did the leg work, sneaking around, all very illegal under British law, and I’m yet to give a full report on what we did.’
‘The average Joe Stateside things it was all down to our boys’.
‘And I’m happy to keep it that way. And if you stay with us you’ll be on more jobs for Intel than for the Army.’
‘Mahoney stuck two years, and never complained about the legality of what you did, so ... if I want to be here I go with the flow, and break the law. But if we get caught I’m blaming you.’
I smiled. ‘Why not. Always blame the guy above you.’
We all ate in the canteen in our desert browns, but most with standard green combat jackets on, talk of Niger and the deserts, and news arrived of an 8am flight from Bristol, a commercial flight. I was tempted to try and get an executive jet, but we were not in a hurry – and there were too many of us.
Most of the lads returned to checking kit later, rations and ammo checked, brown cloth taken, radios tested, batteries tested or swapped, first aid kits checked. It was all routine, and we were ready by 8pm as Sandra was driven in, a room found for her near Henri, desert browns issued, but she now had her own boots.
Her first question to me was about parachuting in, and I could have predicted it. ‘No parachutes,’ I assured her. ‘You will be sleeping in the deserts with scorpions and snakes.’ I left her looking worried.
At 6.30am we boarded RAF buses, much of the snow having melted, the main roads clear enough, and we made it to the airport on time, in through a side entrance, soon handing our crates to airport workers in yellow jackets, the 737 boarded, cute air hostess for the lads to look at.
Half an hour later we sped down the wet runway and off, and once above the clouds we were treated to some welcoming sun streaming in the window, most of the lads closing eyes. Swifty got his puzzle book out, still looking for the “Liion”, Nicholson tackling an Arabic phrase book as we all sat in the centre of the aircraft. I sat back, thinking about who Sandra had gotten together with on her last job with us.
Five and a bit hours later we landed at the same military base we had made use of previously, the busy highway seen on the west, desert scrubland on the east, the small firing range.
Exiting the aircraft we found the air warm, a damn sight warmer than the UK, buses and trucks waiting, keen local soldiers assisting us. We were soon back to the same billet, but this time they had mattresses. They were old and dusty, but soft enough, and bottled water had been stacked.
The same FCO guy wandered in. ‘All OK?’ he asked, and I shook his hand.
‘Thornton, right.’
‘Yes, good memory.’
‘We’re waiting intel, could take a week or two. But whilst we’re here we could protect an oil installation or two, I heard there had been some attacks.’
‘East of here, near the border with Nigeria, new plant, had a few bomb attacks, shots fired.’
‘And who are these unhappy chappies?’
‘Not Islamists, because they asked for money to stop the attacks. One or two killed, blacks not Arabs.’
‘Just a gang then.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘If you have any detail, maps, by all means bring them in and we’ll have a look.’
With Thornton gone, Captain Harris off to meet the local officers, I called David Finch. ‘We’re down and in the same barracks we were before. Got a location for me?’
‘East, near the border, Mwgele – he spelt out, however you say it. A little checking, and it’s being funded by our friend, plus others, some money from the government there. Hard to pin down the funding, but we think his company is responsible for 60%.
‘Now, there’s something else. Whilst digging we found hints that some of the money may have come from an elusive chap known as The Banker.’
‘Well that’s where money comes from, bankers.’
‘He’s a bad boy we’d like to get a line on, he funds terrorist groups in the Middle East.’
‘I’ll ask around.’
‘What’s your plan?’
‘Settle in, look at a map, sneak and peek, then make a tight plan.’
And settle in we did. When ready – a man on stag, I led them across to the same cafe, now with US dollars in hand, most of the lads having been here before, Mitch a newcomer. Chicken and chips were enjoyed as we sat on benches – traffic whizzing past, cold Fanta cans opened, and we took back chicken for one of Sasha’s team on stag.
Thornton dropped in a file, and I sat and studied it, reports of attacks on the plant, a map of the area, even a schematic of the plant itself. I looked up a number from my sheet and called Mutch, down on my sheet as “fat bastard”.
‘Hello?’
‘That you, Fat Bastard?’
‘Is that my codename, because I’d prefer something else, something sexy.’
‘Do you look sexy?’
‘Well ... not really, no.’
‘Listen, plant is Mwgele.’
‘I figured, and they’ve been having attacks.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Heathrow.’
‘Get here, settle in, make contact, then we chat.’
‘OK, I’ll be there before midnight, place in the capital to start.’
‘I hope your snoring doesn’t keep the other guests awake.’
‘It may well do, I get the wall banged now and then. Where are you lot?’
‘In a military base about ten miles northeast of the main airport, on the highway.’
Off the phone, cleaning my rifle, Sambo appeared, bags in hand, a familiar local captain with him. Sambo saluted, I thanked the captain, and I led our new recruit inside.
‘Everyone, you remember Sambo from the Foreign Legion. He’s going to assist us on this job.’ I found him a bed as lads smirked. ‘You have civilian clothes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For this job I need a spy, civilian clothes. What languages do you speak?’
‘French, English, my native Mandingo, some Arabic, sir.’
In Arabic, I asked, ‘How good is your Arabic?’
In Arabic he replied, ‘Enough to get by, sir, I was in Mauritania five years now.’
‘Good,’ I said in English. ‘You can drive a car?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For now just settle in, and we may go for a run, some range practise as we wait for some information.’
‘I understand, sir.’
I pointed. ‘This is Sandra, from the Congo. She is a fearless killer, likes parachuting, and shooting at pots and pans.’
‘Pots and pans?’ Sambo queried as Sandra shot me a look, hands on her hips, the guys laughing. And she still had no bra on.
‘Henri, Jacque, I want Sambo and Sandra on the range with the folding stock AK47, plenty of practise.’
Most of the lads slept in the afternoon heat, but at 7pm I sent them out for a run, Sandra wanting to try and keep up with everyone. Back to the billet, all soaked in sweat, they got into the communal showers i
n groups of ten, Sanda in with them and not at all bashful. With his top off, Sambo looked like me, but without the scars.
Mutch called after landing. ‘This is Agent Scorpio; the eagle has landed.’
I laughed into the phone. ‘Get a room, Fat Arse. And I have a driver for you.’
‘What’s his codename?’ came testily back.
‘Mandingo.’
‘Black?’
‘Very. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’
Digging out a map, a tourist map, I had Sambo study it carefully, to memorise road names, towns and places. ‘You will pretend to be a taxi driver. I’ll get you some help with local names.’
Rocko faced me, a folding stock AK47 in his hand. ‘What the fuck did Bongo do with these?’
‘There’re supposed to look old and knackered.’
‘That they do, now.’
‘We may do a job where we pose as mercenaries with old kit.’
‘Ah,’ Rocko let out.
After a late night meal over the road in the cafe I had them bed down, and told them shut up.
In the morning I grabbed the helpful local captain and had him teach Sambo a few words and place names, but he also drove Sambo down to and around the bustling capital. Thornton, meanwhile, had hired for us a beaten up old taxi with a current license, the license holder in prison, his wife keen for some cash.
At 4pm, Sambo now in civvies – and told not to wash again for a few days, our Legionnaire drove off in the taxi, furry dice swaying, to meet Mutch. Codeword was Lard Arse.
Unfortunately, Sambo was stood waiting outside the hotel with a sign for “Mr Lard Arse”, getting a few looks from guests till Mutch appeared. They drove off, and met me outside the camp, at the cafe.
Mutch sat opposite me. ‘His name is really Sambo?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a grin.
‘Well I’m Scorpio, not Lard Arse,’ he insisted.
‘Drive around, get some practise,’ I told Mutch. ‘Sambo will study some local names, get into the character. Tomorrow, if my supplies turn up, you go to that plant.’
Sambo said, ‘This morning, when I am at the traffic lights, a white man got in, French man. We chatted in French and I took him to the airport. Twenty dollars.’
My smile spread wide. ‘Good work. Keep it.’
‘And the mission here?’ Mutch asked.
‘Have a look at the refinery set-up, a way in, but be subtle. Ask about local troubles, the rebel groups, and then tell me the best place to hit them for maximum financial loss.’
‘That I can do. I’m superbly qualified.’
‘Will they let your taxi driver inside?’
‘Sure, why not, it’s a taxi. If they drop me at the gate it’s a two mile fucking walk to the main building! And I’m not walking two miles!’
‘Visiting just after dark would be best,’ I told Mutch.
‘It’s not a 9-5 operation, they work all night.’
‘Plan on tomorrow night, I’ll check my supplies.’ I turned my head to Sambo. ‘Any good with explosives?’
‘Explosives!’ Mutch repeated.
I nodded at him.
Sambo said, ‘Some, yes.’
‘You keep the fuses away from the explosives, and these explosives – you could put a cigarette out in them and they don’t go bang, they need a good detonator. When inside the plant, turn on the receiver, wait twenty or thirty seconds, put in the detonator, leave the bomb anywhere, but not near people.’
Sambo nodded. ‘It is a decoy, sir?’
‘Yes. What you don’t know ... is that the refinery belongs to the man who funded the rebels that British and French fought against in Liberia.’
‘Ah, he kill my brother French, so I fight this man, sir.’
I nodded. ‘He was the man who funded that base in Senegal you were at.’
‘A bad man, yes.’
‘And my role?’ Mutch pressed.
‘To advise me on where to hit them, and how.’
‘The light gas output flow control. It’s shielded, a guard, sensors. Tough metal, hard to blow, couldn’t shoot it, but you can open the cage, break the locks and turn the emergency pressure dump valve. Open the dump valve first, same panel, wait for the flow to build, but the alarms will sound out. Longer you wait, bigger the bang. Wait too long and it evaporates.
‘If it burns, it will burn back up the pipe, to the steamers, secondary explosions, but there are safety valves. Then you need to hit the output storage tanks. Again, break the locks, open the valves, but there are electronics in the control room to stop you. Need the control room empty first, and the electrics shot up.’
‘Good, you know your stuff.’ I turned my head to Sambo. ‘Tomorrow, two small bombs.’ I turned back to Mutch. ‘Day after, you call and say that the SAS are here, and get is inside for an hour or two. That’s the plan so far. Go back and have a think.’ I faced Sambo. ‘Drive carefully.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t come back here later, get a room in his hotel.’ I gave him $200, my number on a piece of paper. Facing Mutch, I asked, ‘What’s your hotel like?’
‘A three star tip. I figured I would hide away, blend in. You know, spycraft.’
I nodded, trying not to smirk. ‘Take care of your taxi driver, and if anyone asks - you hired him for a few days.’ I turned to Sambo. ‘If anyone at the plant asks, you came here to work for an oil company, just driving for them. Try not to talk to anyone as you wait, pretend to sleep, speak Arabic or French.’
They drove off in the piece of shit, silver and blue dented taxi, fury dice swaying.
Inside, I gathered the men – plus one lady. ‘OK, listen up. Close in, bunch up, I don’t want anyone else hearing this.’ Some sat on the beds, others stood shoulder to shoulder, Sandra at the front. I glanced out the windows behind me. ‘OK, we’re making some progress towards the job at hand. This job ... is very illegal, but necessary, and nothing to do with hostages.
‘The man who funded the coup attempt in Senegal is also the man who sent those planes from the Ivory Coast, the man who sent men to GL4 to shoot at us – and those men damaged Captain Moron’s house – not mine.’
He curled a lip at me as Swifty grinned at him.
‘That same man is trying hard to persuade the government in Sierra Leone to kick out the British and French, and the UK taxpayer would lose the contracts we were promised. That man ... owns a large oil refinery a few miles away.’
They exchanged looks.
‘Tomo, any ideas ... on what we could do?’
‘Go blow the fucking thing up,’ he replied with a cheeky grin.
‘Funny you should say that – but yes we will. Unfortunately, the government here would lock us all up for the next hundred years, so we need to be careful, very careful, no mention of this again – we’re here for hostages, and might be called in to protect a refinery.
‘If a single person here finds out it was us ... we’ll never be leaving this country, so no chatter nor blabbing. I have the use of a top flight secret agent ... and he’s on his way to have a look at this place, our good buddy Sambo posing as a taxi driver. And, this morning, whilst Sambo was on his way to meet this secret agent in his pretend taxi, a man got in ... so Sambo took him to the airport, twenty dollars earned.’
They all laughed loudly.
‘The cover story was tested and it worked. OK, no chit chat about this, we wait on a go signal - and some supplies.’
An hour later FCO Thornton turned up with a small van, a delivery for us, a man with him, a cool white man in shades that had ‘spy’ written all over him. He handed me a small box so I called out Stretch, the box containing phone detonators.
‘Wooow,’ Stretch let out. ‘These are the good ones. IRA style.’
I pointed Stretch at the large non-descript box as it was carried inside by soldiers, our spy giving Stretch a quick lesson on the phone detonators. I thanked the soldiers, and Thornton, and sent them off.
Stretch opened the box
. ‘Shit...’ He stood. ‘Enough Semtex to level half of London.’
‘Safe to sleep with it?’
‘Yeah, that stuff won’t go pop without a very hot detonator, and it’s wrapped properly.’
I thanked our spy type and he sloped off.
‘Stretch, tomorrow I want two modest-sized devices, but keep the detonators out, Sambo will attach them at the last minute, and some wrapping to disguise them. Now, tell me, will a round fired from a Valmect set off Semtex?’
‘Well, yes and no. When the round hits, it compresses the stuff, which makes it white hot, and it can go off. We tried it, and it never went off, so ... fuck knows.’
‘I’ll want one big bang and a few medium sized ones.’
Several lads assisted to carefully move the box down to Stretch’s bed. They’d sleep better not knowing what was in it. As for the local military, they’d have me shot for keeping it in here; I was stretching a few regulations.
We made it through the night without any huge explosions, and I woke to find that I was still alive, and not in small pieces spread far and wide. I organised a run before we visited our favourite cafe, a leisurely breakfast enjoyed – chicken again, and back at the room we “waited intel” as I told them.
After I got word that our taxi was on its way to us I had Stretch make up two devices, Sandra asking what was in the box, and almost fainting when told. A few of the lads were not happy either, Mitch letting out a long list of expletives.
After a call from Mutch I walked with Stretch to our waiting taxi, two devices in a Tesco’s carrier bag, detonators out. If Sambo was stopped and searched he’d get twenty years to life. Leaning in through an open window, Stretch explained what to do, Sambo confident before he drove off.
As we walked back, Stretch said, ‘I got the two numbers for the devices, but if there’s no phone mast we can still set them off by being inside five hundred yards.
Now we would wait for Mutch, codename Scorpio, to do his thing.
I sent the teams out for either a run or some range time in turn, always men to keep an eye on the explosives. I updated David Finch, and I chatted with the Major, whiling away the time as the sun streamed in through the windows.
