by Geoff Wolak
‘You think you could ask Sandra not to shower with us?’ The lads laughed at him. ‘And Sambo, because he makes me feel real small.’
Hamble noted with a grin, ‘Some dick measuring going on.’
I sipped my beer. ‘None of us measure up, so just live with it, Mitch.’
‘Odd fucking unit this is,’ he noted, shaking his head.
A plane landing caught my attention and I eased up, peering out the window. It was a Bombadier. ‘I think that could be our ride. Rocko, did you order up a private plane?’
‘I used Moran’s credit card.’
‘What would that cost, anyhow?’ Swifty asked.
‘Thousands,’ I told him.
‘So not my credit card,’ Moran noted.
Thorton appeared a minute later. ‘Your plane just got here, early by half an hour.’
I turned around. ‘Pack up now! Move it! Crates outside! But get some warm clothes on first, we’ll be back in the snow!’
I put a shirt on over my t-shirt, then my jacket over it, the lads copying. Sambo had a jacket, and put two shirts on as a truck arrived. Crates loaded, we made the short journey to the small airliner, the co-pilot assisting us to load.
I shouted over the wine of the engines, ‘Are you carrying anything for anyone else?’
‘No, why?’
‘We’re expecting someone to try and put a bomb on, so search it.’
‘Hold is empty, as you can see. I’ll check inside.’
‘You landed at the capital?’
‘Yes..?’
‘Could anyone have put something aboard?’
‘Well ... maybe.’
Crates loaded, the co-pilot returned, happy that there were no bombs, straps and elasticated netting used to secure the crates, the lads allowed aboard, enough room for us all.
I thanked Thornton and the local liaison captain, shook hands, and boarded the plane last, the co-pilot closing the door. And Bob Staines would not have approved of this, all of us travelling together.
Door shut and locked, air con flowing, I told everyone to search for bombs, and they opened overhead lockers and examined safety equipment, nothing found, toilets searched as we started to taxi, seatbelt sign on. I waved everyone down, we buckled up, and were soon tearing down the runway, the nose lifted, and we were off, soon at altitude and peering down at the lights of towns and villages.
A long five hours later we landed at Bristol Airport in the dark, a civilian coach waiting, no less than three police cars – armed officers as escort. It was 4am, so I knew that sane assassins would be in bed, and that no African assassin would be out in this snow.
At GL4 we stepped down at the hangar, and a cold Sambo walked to piled-up snow to feel it, his first look at snow. Since he was shivering, I figured the attraction would pass quickly.
Crates inside, dumped down and left - an armed MP stood observing us, the lads all walked off to huts and to homes through an inch of snow, and I found Sambo a vacant room, not too close to Bongo, new bedding in plastic. He had a new quilt from a bag, but I told him to sleep in his clothes if he was cold, and to find the canteen when he woke.
In our kitchen, Swifty found milk and fresh bread, and a note: today is Friday.
Tea made, we sat, boots off, snow left up the hall from the door, and we sipped in silence.
‘Never seen snow,’ Swifty quietly noted.
I sipped my tea. ‘Give him a week and he’ll never want to see it again.’
‘Any jobs planned?’
‘With these Nigerians kicking off, most likely. In fact ... very fucking likely.’ I sipped my tea. ‘Friday. Curry later.’
‘Definitely.’
I sipped my tea.
‘Hamble was pissed off,’ Swifty noted a minute later.
‘Tomo could have radioed a message, but he saw the opportunity. It’s fifty-fifty. I’ll talk to Tomo anyhow.’
‘That refinery job sounded fun.’
I smiled. ‘Like Sambo, I like blowing things up. But remind me not to try and drive through a fence.’
‘I did that once on a live job. Dragged the fence, rolled the car, back upright, wheels locked tight.’
‘We’ll have to set up some fences and try it.’
‘1997,’ Swifty noted. ‘Fuck, I joined up in 1982.’
‘The years do roll by quickly,’ I noted. ‘You remember basic training?’
He smiled. ‘They told me I was useless.’ We laughed. ‘Two left feet, couldn’t shoot straight.’
‘When they told me we had to make our beds every morning I thought they were joking. I spent more time cleaning kit than soldiering, then as soon as you pass basic training they don’t give a fuck.’
‘Yeah, waste of time.’
I eased into a warm bed because the house was extra warm and the sheets and blankets had been folded back. Lying there, I felt guilty about the hostages. I should have been cautious, not throwing a party. And I had not thought through casevac for them during the raid planning, I was too focused on the refinery job. Still, I had told Moran and Hamble to check the local hospital.
‘Bollocks to it,’ I let out, and tried to get some sleep.
I woke at 10am to find sunshine, and that much of the snow had melted. I had a quick shower, banged on Swifty’s door, and headed out wrapped up warm to the canteen. I found half the lads awake and eating, and I sat with Sambo.
‘You sleep OK?’
‘Yes, sir, not so cold.’
‘I’ll talk to Paris about you today, or Monday.’
‘OK, sir.’
After breakfast, I wandered into the hangar, the Major not here again, and up to the Intel Team, Captain Harris not in yet. I cornered Marcel. ‘The Foreign Legion soldier, Sambonville, he’s still with us. Ask Paris if we can keep him for a while.’
‘How long?’
‘No idea. Ask them today.’
In the main area, I tapped Mutch’s huge stomach. ‘Keeping fit?’
‘Not really, no.’ He handed me a copy of The Sun. ‘Nigerians got a pasting.’ I sat and skimmed through it.
Lesley began, ‘Local press in Niger are attacking the Nigerians as well. And an odd story from the refinery attack, because the government are blaming Islamists, the police are blaming local black gangs, and the mine workers are blaming Russians.’
‘Russians?’ I queried. ‘What the fuck would Russians be doing there?’
She added, ‘Some of the mine workers were killed with 5.56mm, used by the South African mercenaries, who were killed with 7.62mm. Blood was found, so the police think some were killed and carried off.’
I continued to skim the story. ‘Hostages are due some compensation, they were with me when shot, in my care – the care of the British Army.’
Mutch grunted, ‘They should be damn grateful we got them out.’
‘They were, then they got shot in the leg.’ I lifted my head to Tinker. ‘Get the ID on the Nigerians from the Niger police, run the names. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of them. Oh, listening devices still in place?’
‘No, removed sharpish.’
I nodded, thinking.
Major Sanderson stepped out. ‘Anything we should be doing?’
‘Hostages, sir, plus anything around Liberia, Sierra Leone or Ivory coast that affects us, Nigerians looked out for.’
My phone trilled. ‘Excuse me. Wilco.’
‘Duty officer, SIS. A bomb had gone off in Freetown, some of our soldiers wounded, twenty locals killed, fifty wounded.’
‘Shit. Were we the target?’
‘Target was a bus load of soldiers, but they missed it by two seconds, back of the bus hit.’
‘OK, thanks, Wilco out.’ I faced the team. ‘Bomb in Freetown, so now you have something to do. All out effort on further attacks of that nature. Think ... Nigerians. Start with people movements, local snitches, hired help, bomb type, bomb maker.’
‘Just like Northern Ireland,’ Sanderson noted.
‘Yes, sir.’ I po
inted at Tinker. ‘Listening devices left in places where a bomber would like to sit waiting some soldiers. Think like a terrorist, have a man think about how he would bomb our lads, weak spots, put a device nearby. Have CGHQ cross match all recent phones to Freetown, and link Nigerian calls to Sierra Leone, and Ivory Coast, and Guinea.’
Major Sanderson organised white boards as I made a coffee. Thinking.
I called David Finch as I sat alone in the common room. ‘It’s Wilco. Given the bomb in Freetown, I may need to re-consider my plans on going after Izillien; he may get a bus load of soldiers.’
‘It is a worry, yes, but they’ve been told to tighten up down there. It would take a while for the financial hurt to affect Izillien, time for a bomb or two. Anyhow, can you get to London for 5pm?’
‘Should think so, motorway is clear of snow.’
‘Meet you at the MOD building, CIA are flying in, big pow-wow.’
‘Then you’d best brief me on what the British desires are first.’
‘It’s a grey area, as usual. We love the intel, we need the intel, but ... it’s a grey area. We can chat before the meeting.’
‘I’ll shine my shoes,’ I quipped.
Sat there, thinking, I had no way to call back The Banker, his number had not been displayed. I called Tomsk, and asked for the number. It was a voice message board. I called the number.
‘Please speak after the tone,’ came in Russian.
‘This is Petrov, call me urgently.’
I waited, ten minutes, finally a call.
‘Petrov? A problem?’
‘There is growing pressure, from several quarters, to finish off Izillien.’
‘His refinery bill will be much higher than he reported to me, that I do know, and I don’t like being lied to. He has signed a contract with a middle company, and I doubt he checked the small print, because after his death all of his assets can be seized.
‘I have made more from the interest payments than I loaned out, and he – this week – signed over a company to me as surety. So, if there are many people pressuring you do something, I can limit my losses to a modest gain.’
‘Do you need more time?’ I offered.
‘Nothing will change in a few weeks. What has Tomsk said?’
‘He wants me to leave Izillien alone, if you desire it.’
‘And the others?’
‘Izillien is setting off bombs, bad for business.’
‘Yes, and those actions lack maturity. But, as I said, I am ready to cut my losses with him.’
‘Very well, I’ll talk to the interested parties.’
‘I saw on the news that Nigerians attacked British soldiers in Niger...’
‘And a bomb hurt British soldiers in Freetown today. Izillien thinks he can take on the British and French, and drive them out of Liberia and Sierra Leone.’
‘Foolish, damned foolish. Be good to get rid of him, I’ll have a lower profile.’
‘Good day, sir.’
Call cut, I made another brew, and sat thinking as Lesley came in, tomato cup-a-soup in hand.
‘On the phone?’ she asked.
‘It’s OK, just sat thinking, then calling, then thinking some more.’
She boiled the water for her soup. ‘None of the team hurt on this job?’
‘Captain Hamble got a cut on his forehead, that’s all. We were lucky, damned lucky, could have been worse.’
‘And the Nigerians? I don’t understand their logic?’
‘Their oil industry wants to take over Liberia and Sierra Leone, any way they can.’
‘Ah. But not the Nigerian Government?’
‘No, private businesses.’
I checked my watch, and stepped back into the Intel team room. ‘I’m off up to London if you need me.’
‘We have a great deal to get done,’ Major Sanderson suggested. ‘We’ll be busy.’
I changed into civvy clothes, jacket over my holster, coat over the top, grabbed MP Pete, and we set off early – just in case.
Half an hour later, approaching London, my phone trilled. It was Mike Papa.
‘Papa Victor here. How are you, Mister President?’
Pete glanced at me.
‘I have a man being held, he was buying explosives. I like to know what is going on, ear to ground, and he was the man who made a bomb for Freetown – which is bad for business I think.’
‘It is bad for business, yes.’
‘What would you like done with him?’
‘Keep him alive a few days, find out everything he knows, write it all down, offer him some money – or his skin burnt off.’
Pete glanced at me again.
‘I have a man who is good with this sort of thing. I will let you know what he says.’
‘Soon please. And if you can go looking for such men, I know a few people who will be grateful.’
‘I am happy to assist, yes. And I have mentioned to a few that you attacked that refinery. The news said modest damage, but an oil man here called his friend over there, who said the damage was extensive. I noted also, that you did not kill a single worker, just security. You are indeed a cool professional.’
‘Thank you, Mister President. Talk soon.’ Call cut, I turned to Pete. ‘President of my squash club. So watch the damn road.’
‘You play quash?’
‘You want a cell to yourself?’
‘No, Boss, cells are not big enough to play squash in.’
At the MOD building, the sour-faced clerk said, overly loud, ‘Welcome back, again, sir.’
I studied him for a second, then glanced at his name tag. ‘Thank you, Clarence.’
His friends laughed loudly.
‘It’s C. Lawrence. Sir.’
I leant in and had a look, the letters very close. ‘Get a new fucking name tag, Clarence.’
Upstairs, I met David’s assistant; we were early. He began, ‘We’ve been working hard at altering evidence against you, and this recent episode with Sierra Leone has put the heavyweights behind it. MI5 had their file on you seized, a written order from the Home Secretary that they keep nothing but one page on you.
‘JIC notes on you were taken, emails deleted and purged, so we’re doing a good job of it. French have cooperated, two soldiers and some DGSE chaps reprimanded for excess force, statements that had your name on them lost in the system.’
‘Progress then,’ I commended. ‘Seize anything on the refinery.’
‘No one knows anything, nothing written down. Oh, Nigerian Ambassador got hit on the head by an ex-soldier, with a golf ball, a good thirty yard throw.’
‘I bet the ambassador was tee’d off.’
He stared back at me. ‘Please, stick to the day job. I’ve heard that twenty times in the past hour.’
‘Did his bodyguard not shout fore!’
He stared back at me, and shook his head a little.
‘OK, I give up,’ I told him. ‘How badly hurt was the ambassador?’
‘He’ll be off his game for a few days.’
I nodded, and sipped my tea.
‘Off his game...’
‘Ah, yes, good one.’
He shook his head at me.
‘So who’s coming to see us, and why?’
‘Deputy Chief, plus Assistant National Security Advisor.’
‘Assistant ... to the National Security Advisor? That makes him the assistant to the assistant ... to the President.’
‘And he probably has an assistant as well.’
‘And I’d probably not be allowed to take the piss...’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Have the CIA finally notified the White House?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Are they coming to arrest me?’
‘We’d hope not. They’d not want you on the stand any more than we do. And ... maybe best to distance yourself from setting up the DEA and the FBI.’
‘I now know a guy that does good plastic surgery and gets great fake IDs for people.’
‘Might be someone we can make use of,’ he noted. ‘Oh, no pistol worn.’
‘Why?’
‘There’ll have Secret Service men.’
‘And ... their men are more trustworthy than me ... on British soil?’
‘We take it up the arse from the Americans every day, so just play nice, eh.’
I stood, jacket off, holster off, and it was placed in a drawer and locked. ‘Now I feel naked.’
The desk phone went. ‘OK.’ Phone down, he informed me as he stood, ‘Vans are here.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Vauxhall.’
I followed him out. ‘Time to show off the shiny building, built at the taxpayers’ expense.’ In the vans, I said, ‘I expected David to brief me on what not to say, what to definitely not say, and when to refuse to answer.’
‘Director will field questions, Home Secretary will be there, Defence Minister, Head of Mi5, GCHQ.’
‘Wow, all those egos in the one small room.’
He shot me a look, and grinned.
Under a dull grey sky we made our way through the traffic, but with a police escort, over the bridge and to Vauxhall, into the underground parking – now with armed police in yellow jackets seen, and up in the lift.
David met me, now in a smart dark grey suit, smarter than his usual, and led me in, his assistant not in on this meeting it seemed. We passed several Secret Service types, both of us frisked, and finally we stepped into a large room with a huge oval table, two dozen people stood around chatting, a few seated.
I shook hands with the Home Secretary, the Defence Secretary – who congratulated me on the hostages in Niger. A warm mile exchanged, and I shook hands with the head of GCHQ, soon shaking hands with the head of Mi5.
‘You’ve haven’t sent me any lads,’ I pointed out.
‘They had a go at The Factory, Leominster, but when I check your availability you’re always in the middle of some crisis.’
‘I’m not avoiding you, but they do keep me very busy – and they had me working over Christmas.’
He laughed.
Colonel Mathews closed in, now in uniform. ‘Hello again, sir.’
‘No white robe and fluffy slippers?’ he quietly asked.
I smiled. ‘That was off the record.’
‘Damn right. I’d be lynched. Good work in Paris, and you got back yesterday I heard, hostages in Niger.’
