Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘What happened before I received those Lone Wolves ... was that they were profiled by Bob here, and I found a group of men with good attitudes, and not a single one was disciplined, and I can trust all of them on a job in the jungle.

  ‘That profiling is down to you, to work out who would be suitable to storm a building. And men wanting to shoot niggers should not be included – because a year from now you’ll get a bad newspaper headline, people forced to resign.’

  He had been taking notes. ‘So we select good men, test fitness and endurance, and profile them.’

  ‘They don’t need to be fit, they need a strength of character to keep going, so a 24hr walk would test that. They don’t need to run marathons. If a man can walk ten miles with a heavy pack, push him to fifteen, judge his attitude yourselves. If that man is shot and hurting, will he keep going ... or will he shut down?

  ‘And you only need ten to twenty good men for a hostage situation, so if it’s elitist – great, keep the standards up, make them compete.’

  ‘So it is fixable,’ the Commissioner noted. ‘Just that ... it was not thought through in the first place, our side of things.’ Donohue shrank a little. ‘Given that we only need a small team, men from all regional forces could be considered, and we may find some ... superstars.’

  Dennet put in, ‘Seems like a better approach, yes.’

  ‘We have standard profiling techniques,’ Bob added. ‘We could help screen men with bad attitudes, if you wish it.’

  ‘Well, we most definitely wish it, yes,’ the Commissioner told Bob. ‘We want this back on track, so I suppose this had been a good first step, shake out the cobwebs, and we know what the route map is, the end being a small elite unit that others desire to join, therefore standards are pushed higher. And the profiling will help us avoid an officer taking pot shots for fun.’

  He faced me squarely. ‘Are you ... willing to assist us further in the future?’

  ‘Of course. When you’re ready, we’ll be ready.’

  ‘That’s good to know, we just need to organise things our end.’

  ‘That can be done quickly,’ Donohue assured the Commissioner. ‘We have all the old applications to SO13, and they list fitness and attitude. Got a few ex-soldiers as well. And I can think of ten existing officers that would fit the bill, at least to enter a selection process.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I cut in. ‘Attitude is key. A man with a good attitude can be made into an excellent operator, but a superstar with a bad attitude is a bomb waiting to go off.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Commissioner noted. ‘Any ... questions, or indeed complaints?’ he asked of the assembled group.

  The Cabinet Office guy curtly told the Commissioner. ‘You’re ready when Wilco says you’re ready.’

  The Commission had to control his disappointment in that statement with a false smile.

  The JIC man put in, ‘We’d not have your team listed as an asset till we’re damn sure of no fuck-ups with the world’s media watching us.’

  Ten minutes of silly questions and idle chat finished things off, men standing, some rushing off to other meetings.

  General Dennet stood with myself and Bob as we grabbed coffee. ‘The young officers have all handed in an assessment of the usefulness of the course, all very positive about what they learnt – which was some real soldiering, shots fired. I dare say that some already tell tall tales of their actions down there – and how you and they were best mates.’

  I smiled widely. ‘That was the point, sir, some experience and some credibility, some respect from their men.’

  ‘We checked on the legal issues of handing over men we capture in Sierra Leone, and all the legal eagles can agree on is that it’s a grey area – so no fucking use at all.’

  Five minutes later, the JIC and Cabinet Office men gone, the Commissioner closed in on me for a private chat.

  ‘What would you see as a reasonable timescale?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not down to time, it’s down to ability and attitude. If you have a good man he can be trained in a month, and if he meets the grade early ... then he meets the grade. I’m not saying that they need years of training and experience.

  ‘Traditionally, it’s the years put in that gets the skill level and attitude, but some men have that attitude and ability to start with.’

  ‘So it could be a faster process.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We just need the superstars.’

  Bob led me off a few minutes later, and back to his team’s office. ‘We have a job, but ... you’d have to go into a prison as an inmate.’

  My eyes narrowed. ‘Which ... prison?’

  ‘Wandsworth. We have a Russian in there, and we need to know what he was up to. He’d hear about you in the block and buddy up for some protection, and hopefully confide in you.’

  ‘How long would I be in there?’

  ‘A week or two, less if he confides in you, and we’d send in regular visitors on the pretence of questioning you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible really.’

  ‘I should practise my Russian with Sasha,’ I told them.

  ‘It’s held up in the past, and Petrov was raised abroad.’

  ‘Still, give me a few days with Sasha so that I think like a Russian.’

  Back at GL4, I sat and discussed the police with Moran and O’Leary before I tackled some paperwork. At 4.30pm I figured I’d best call Colonel Rawlson, before he called me.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I had a meeting with the police today, told them their faults, and they’re going to introduce a selection process and psychological profiling, and hopefully present some men for training at some point.’

  ‘How long will that take them?’

  ‘It’ll be a long process I guess.’

  ‘And then years of training on top, and even then they won’t have the quality on the trigger we do.’

  ‘No, sir, it will take a while.’

  ‘OK, thank you, Captain.’

  Phone down, I quipped, ‘Pleasure, sir.’ I grabbed Sasha, we retreated to my dining room, and he corrected my accent as we went. And we were still at it around 11pm, when I called a halt, my head full of Russian.

  In the morning one of Bob’s team turned up, the back-story gone over at length, and in Russian, Sasha assisting, place names corrected, my accent improving, and by 6pm we felt that I was ready, or at least as good as I would get, Sasha offering to come into prison with me. Since the normal procedure was to split up such pairs it would have looked odd.

  The next morning I drove back up to London with Bob’s guy, a change of clothes, no personal belongings, shoelaces removed from shoes, and I was driven to the rear of Paddington Green police station, soon in a prison van, and soon cuffed.

  A fifteen minute ride – thinking about picking the cuffs, and I was led out and down by four officers, paperwork handed over.

  ‘Category “A”,’ they informed the prison officers. ‘This Russian fucker kills people for fun and eats body parts.’

  Ankles cuffed and chained, I was led in, the paperwork handed over.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Fuck ... your ... queen ... in ... ass.’

  A heavy sigh preceded an equally heavy door being slammed behind me, and I was led through several dated metal doors, all clanking open and then clanking shut. Eight officers stood around me as they un-cuffed my ankles.

  ‘Trousers off.’ They waited.

  I shrugged and made a face. ‘No touch me up, eh.’ Shoes off, socks off, trousers dropped, and finally my pants were off.

  ‘What the fuck happened to this guy?’ a man asked as my ankles were again cuffed.

  Wrists un-cuffed, my old jacket was removed, then my shirt.

  ‘What the fuck..?’

  ‘I like M and S sex, no.’

  ‘I think you mean S and M, not Marks and Spencers,’ a guard corrected me, the rest laughing.

  With my hands cuffed, my eight guard
s now very wary, I had to squat, my arse hole inspected before I was led into a new room, a medical bay of some sort.

  The old doctor turned around, and stopped dead. ‘What the..?’ He looked me over, front and back. ‘Someone been using you for target practice?’ he asked me as he ticked boxes on a form. ‘Looks like torture as well.’

  ‘He’s some big shot Russian contract killer,’ a guard put in.

  ‘Well he’s certainly seen some action, those are gunshot wounds.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘Any medical problems?’

  I burst out laughing, the guards joining in.

  ‘OK, silly question. Any medications at the moment?’

  ‘Some time I like pain killer.’

  ‘I would have never have guessed. Any injuries from the police, any complaints to be made?’

  ‘No, police is English softy boys.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Bond, James Bond.’

  The guards laughed.

  The doctor looked me over. ‘Where the hell do I start?’ He sighed. ‘Anything going to need treatment in the next few weeks?’

  ‘No. I am good. Thank you for the asking.’

  The guards laughed again and I was led out, un-cuffed, prison clothes to put on, a blue-grey colour, soft daps for my feet, not a bad fit. I was issued with two sheets, a blanket handed to me, all neatly folded up inside plastic.

  Toothbrush issued, toothpaste, bar of soap, shampoo, razors, a document about my rights as a prisoner, and I was led through many clanking old doors, my first glimpse of fellow prisoners – all keenly interested in the new boy.

  Eight guards marched me to a Spartan green and yellow cell on the ground level, my hands still cuffed, and in I went, room to myself, not much of a view from the high window. Un-cuffed, the guards backed off, the door left ajar, the sounds of other prisoners echoing.

  Bowl cleaned out, water in from the tap, I took my top off and had a wash.

  The door creaked open. ‘Who we got here then...’ The voice trailed off.

  I turned, a look that suggested I would kill my visitor, and I stepped slowly towards him as he realised his mistake. A shuttle kick, and out he went, landing on his back. I stepped outside as someone came to his assistance, but I just stood and stared down at him.

  Two men lifted him, his ribs probably broken.

  I pointed at him as the other prisoners nearby simply stopped and stared. ‘You ... say sorry, or I eat your eyeballs,’ I said with an accent.

  He hesitated, his position here under test, so I took a step forwards.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he squeezed out with a pained expression. ‘I’ll knock next time.’

  ‘Good.’ I added a few swear words in Russian, turned and entered my cell as the prison guards came running, and I continued to wash as they carried off my visitor.

  At 5pm I lined up for food, the others avoiding me, my dinner slopped onto a metal tray, and I clocked my mark as he clocked me. Tray in hand, I went back to my cell and sat alone eating, wondering what it would really be like to be here and, given all the laws I had broken, being in a place like this was a distinct possibility. It made me shudder.

  I sat there on the bed, thinking, and definitely preferring the idea of a quiet night in with my nurse, or a steamy jungle. A wry smile took hold as I considered how much I liked the jungle, a close second to my nurse.

  But I wanted to do well here, I wanted to play the role well and get a pat on the back, a job well done.

  An hour passed, and I realised that my competitive spirit was pushing me on here, even into stupid and dangerous situations. ‘But what else would I be doing?’ I asked myself. Painter decorator? Married? Kids? I shook my head. ‘Nah.’

  No one bothered me that evening, and I slept well enough, but was stiff in the morning, a little exercise needed. Collecting my tray from the hole in the wall, I could sense that something was amiss, a few odd looks picked up out the corner of my eye.

  As I turned away from the hole in the wall, a Russian voice quietly said, ‘Watch the black man, he has a knife.’

  Walking back, I could see a group waiting, a black man with a hand inside his tracksuit bottoms, as if playing with himself. Since I did not want to go without breakfast, I put the tray down on the pool table, turned, and walked right for the group, perplexed looks coming back at me.

  They were foolish enough to let me get close, a swift kick catching the black guy as he went for his home-made blade, my kick hitting the knife, my punch taking down the first man on the right, second punch to a man that seemed surprised – and not expecting it.

  As the black guy rolled around, the blood poured out of him. His knife had been in a bad spot when my kick landed.

  Breakfast tray up, whistles blown in the distance, I walked around the black guy and to my cell and started to eat quickly, before they came for me - the guards. With a melee outside, I wolfed down the dodgy scrambled eggs and sausage, soon finding four guards stood outside my cell.

  ‘You bring salt?’ I asked them. ‘It need salt.’

  A look exchanged, and they locked me in.

  Half an hour later, and my cell was unlocked, a group of guards stood there, a man in a suit in front of them.

  ‘You speak English, I understand.’

  ‘I grew up watching Kojak.’

  ‘You’ve been here a day, and four men hurt.’

  ‘I not hurt men, they come to me, want to show me big balls, no. Then ... man with knife in pants, I kick pants, he bleed. Self ... injury, no. I vant quiet life, you vant quiet life, so you ask these softy boys to stay away.’

  ‘And if no one bothers you?’

  ‘I eat, I sleep, I get fat like wife.’

  He smiled. ‘You are allowed exercise time. And for now, no solitary for you, because they did want to show off – and learnt their lesson. But please, don’t eat any body parts, that creates lots of paperwork for me.’

  ‘OK, Boss-man.’

  He withdrew, the guards going with him, my door left open.

  At 11am a guard opened my door wider. ‘Exercise time, comrade.’

  I followed him out. ‘Comrade was old Soviet Union. Us modern criminals are not communist, we no share – like Americans.’

  I made it to the exercise yard with no one trying to jump me, and followed the cattle as they meandered in a circle, many stealing a glance at me from under their eyebrows.

  My mark drew near. ‘Was my information ... useful?’ he asked in Russian.

  I looked him over. Glasses, skinny, he was no fighter. ‘Da! How many Russian here?’

  ‘Just us, one Ukraine.’

  ‘Ukraine, pah!’

  ‘I think I know who you are.’

  ‘I am nobody. And soon to be gone.’

  ‘How will you get out?’ he challenged as we walked.

  ‘I make deal with British.’

  ‘You’d sell out those you work for?’

  ‘No, never. But I know enough to bargain, get a house arrest outside, safe house.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I give them some information about Russian spies here, one a month for a while.’

  ‘You would sell out Mother Russia?’

  ‘Fuck Mother Russia,’ I spat back at him. ‘I’m wanted there more than here. I did jobs for them and they sold me out.’

  ‘Your accent. Your grew up in Canada?’

  ‘It is good to talk to another Russian, I thank you for your help, but I won’t be here long.’ I went to walk off.

  He closed in. ‘I have information to give, but I don’t trust them. What if they keep me here after I talk?’

  ‘Don’t talk to police, not to group called Mi5, talk to Mi6. If they make a deal they will stick to it, and these three fight like cats and dogs, always trying to fuck each other over. I know a man, and he’ll fuck over anyone to get promoted.’

  ‘Could I trust him?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘How did they catch you?’

  ‘Th
ey did not catch me ... I was using a false identity and that man was wanted. Fucking idiot forger. They have no idea who I am.’

  ‘Why come to England at all?’

  ‘Two reason. I have woman here, daughter. And I have bullet in my brain that will kill me soon.’

  ‘Ah. I knew Yuri Sempov.’

  ‘I killed him. Contract job.’

  ‘He’s not dead...’

  ‘I knocked him out and injected him under the hair with drug. He is alive and conscious inside his own skull. Cannot hear, see, smell, touch or taste, but he is in there.’

  ‘What a fate.’

  We walked with the rest of the cattle, eyes everywhere.

  ‘Tomsk likes it for his enemies.’

  ‘I have information of interest to Tomsk.’

  ‘What good is that in here? Got a phone? And Tomsk could not get you out of here.’

  ‘But if Tomsk likes the information, he gets me some other information, about Russian spies here.’

  ‘You’d sell out Mother Russia?’ I teased.

  ‘Fuck Mother Russia,’ he said. ‘If I could get a reduced sentence, open prison...’

  I made a face and shrugged. ‘Mi6 will bargain, the others will trick you, don’t trust them. What are you charged with?’

  ‘Money laundering.’

  I made a face. ‘That’s twelve years at most, out in six. With a deal, six years, out in three, a good deal and out in two.’

  ‘I can handle two years, I have money waiting.’

  ‘What do you have to interest Tomsk?’

  ‘A man that was very close to him, he’ll travel to Panama soon and try and kill Tomsk, immunity from prosecution by the Americans and an escape route.’

  My heart skipped a beat, but I controlled myself. ‘Be hard for that man to get to Tomsk, and to get away afterwards. Tomsk would want proof, and help you after it happens, but he will stick to his word.’

  ‘And a deal with the British?’

  ‘If Tomsk gives you names of say two spies here, yes – half sentence.’

  ‘You ... could work a deal for me?’

  ‘Like fuck. They would suspect me. You have nothing to offer them?’