Wilco- Lone Wolf 15

by Geoff Wolak

  After a restless night I boarded the Regimental helicopter early, in my suit but with no tie, the Brigadier catching a lift and off up to London to talk to the generals in the MOD – in uniform and with clean shoes.

  We set down on Horseguards, vans to take me to around to the Foreign Office, a short enough trip – broken windows seen. Once there I signed in, David’s assistant meeting me and leading me upstairs.

  ‘He speaks fluent English,’ I was informed. ‘Went to Eton, Oxford, and did three years in the Guards.’

  ‘His ex-SAS bodyguards, the dead ones..?’

  ‘Looks like they were clean, set-up, and a sloppy set-up really, as if they wanted to make them look dirty after they were killed.’

  ‘More and more sloppy actions all the time. I’m losing my respect for this bunch.’

  ‘They use sub-contractors I guess.’

  In a large room we found the prince sat waiting, a simple grey suit, many Arab bodyguards dotted around the walls, two ex-SAS men, plus a gaggle of Foreign Office staff. He appeared to be in his late forties but still with thick black hair, a thin curved nose and an air of authority.

  I closed in on the prince as he stood, but he did not look angry. ‘We talk outside, privately.’

  He dismissed the complaining Foreign Office staff with a wave, his bodyguards hanging back. In the long wide corridor we started to walk slowly, the bodyguards well back.

  ‘There exists a bank in the Netherlands, The Royal Bank of the Netherlands, parent company being Antwerp Commercial Bank.’

  ‘I know them, I have regular dealings with them,’ he puzzled.

  ‘They’re very active in West Africa, they start coups and put in place puppet regimes, get mining and oil concessions, and my actions there – on behalf of the British Government – have cost them billions.’

  ‘So … they want you dead. But why do they not blame the Government here? You follow orders.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow orders. I work part-time for the CIA, for French Intel and others, I work shady deals that these governments could never admit to, I clean-up messes quietly, I even deal with the Russians.’

  ‘Ah, I had wondered. Now it makes sense. And they blame you personally, hence the attempts on you. I hear there have been many.’

  ‘Yes, and middle managers in Mi5 have been dealt with quietly on previous occasions.’ We turned left down the next corridor. ‘Recently, they got word that your tower in E2 was faulty, and that it would cost billions to take down.’

  He stopped dead, horrified. ‘Faulty? What do you mean, faulty?’

  ‘Badly built, it will be condemned soon, then demolished. They knew, so were ready with thermite to bring it down and make it look like an act of terror.’

  He gasped, wide eyed. ‘They operate the management company, they built it - their consortium, they insure it!’

  ‘And they’d make some money when it was blown up, Arab terrorists blamed. And the plot to kill your son was a trick, he was never the target, I was, but they had to make it look like someone wanted your son dead, that way no one thinking I was the target.

  ‘In the school, the teacher who shot at me had been there three months -’

  ‘He could have killed my boy any time,’ he puzzled.

  ‘Yes, so why didn’t he? Because he was there to blackmail other fathers who have kids there, threats made. And then Mi5 got sloppy, a bomb in a van, hastily placed, and it missed me. Your boy meant nothing to them.’

  He angered quickly, staring at me. ‘You know who?’

  We walked on.

  ‘Well?’ he pressed.

  ‘I’m under orders not to touch them. They’re well connected, Lords and politicians, rich and powerful men. They’ll never stand trial, but we might get the foot soldiers.’ I glanced at him. ‘Speak to the bank and you’ll be dead within days.’

  He considered that. ‘They have the most rich and powerful people in Europe on their board, European ministers and others, great assets, all the contacts they need.’

  ‘What are you prepared to do to help me?’

  ‘Help you? You said you cannot touch them.’

  ‘Officially, no, but I could give you a name and an address…’

  ‘I have men who can deal with someone, yes, even if well-guarded.’

  ‘They must never suspect you or me.’

  ‘I have sub-contractors I can use, I even know some al-Qaeda men that would like the work. They would get the blame, not us.’

  ‘Then I think … that when I know who you should chat to I send you some details. And there are others on our side, a powerful man who lost a son to them recently.’

  ‘Then this man is my brother in this fight.’

  ‘Don’t bother questioning the new Prime Minister, he knows little of how the intelligence underworld works. If you are willing, come to my base, be filmed, it will rattle them.’

  ‘I will visit where my son died yes. They said that you spent the night sleeping next to him. This is the action of a father, not of a killer.’

  I looked away. After a moment I said, ‘I have a daughter, and I once stayed awake all night watching her breathe.’

  ‘All fathers have done that, and worried.’ He nodded. ‘I will drop my claim for compensation from your government.’

  ‘Claim?’

  ‘In my part of the world it is normal. I asked for one billion pounds.’

  ‘You’d screw the British taxpayers for these Dutch bastards?’ I angrily asked.

  He took a moment. ‘No, now that I know the truth. And my building?’

  ‘You’re fucked either way. They control it.’

  He raised a finger and smiled dangerously. ‘I have an American pestering me to sell shares. I think I just consented.’

  I nodded. ‘The bank will be most displeased with you.’

  ‘More so when I get moving. I will dedicate the remainder of my life to their misery.’

  ‘I’m sorry your son got caught up in this,’ I offered as we ambled along.

  ‘My son, my business, they would cut off my head as well as cut out my heart. They will pay, I am no fool. You have warned me in time, at least to keep my head and my bank balance. I have always trusted the SAS. Tell me, my bodyguards here who died..?’

  ‘They were killed, then made to look dirty. They didn’t sell out.’

  ‘That is good to know, I was concerned. And my other English men, they talk of you as if you walk on water, they have books about you. I trust you more than my own father, Major.’

  ‘Come to the base soon, but tell no one of our plans, they will try and bug you. And they will try and blind you to what’s going on. Your best plan … is to act dumb with both eyes open.’

  ‘Both eyes open,’ he agreed with a nod, and we ambled back. ‘I will play the stupid Arab for them, and we will see who is the clever one.’

  Outside, I called the Cabinet Office. ‘It’s Major Wilco. I just met with the Crown Prince of Oman. He’s dropping his compensation claim, and doesn’t need to meet the Prime Minister now, but will travel to my base to see where his son was killed.’

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Check the detail, civil servant. Wilco out.’

  After landing back at GL4 my phone trilled, David Finch. ‘Wilco, what the hell did you do?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘The Crown Prince?’

  ‘We had a chat, and he’s on our side.’

  ‘He’s dropped his compensation claim, no public condemnation. He just stood in front of the cameras and let us off the hook!’

  ‘There we go, making progress,’ I quipped.

  ‘A few stunned faces around the corridors of power, I can tell you.’

  ‘The Prince just needed to know why his boy died, he’s a reasonable man.’

  After lunch in the canteen, chatting to Tomo and Nicholson, I wandered back up to the hangar, stopping to stare at the oil slick for a moment. Alive one day, a stain on the road the next. A shiver went through me.
In the Intel room they were all looking shocked.

  Tinker turned to me. ‘The fucking Belgian police released our bomber, some mix-up with the paperwork. London is furious.’

  I sighed theatrically, a glance at Reggie, turned and walked back out. Outside I called SIS. ‘This is Wilco. Contact the Crown Prince and have him call me please.’ Next call was Bob Staines.

  ‘I just heard,’ Bob told me. ‘Belgian police let our man go, I’m trying to find him in a hurry, underworld reward.’

  ‘That police station. Have a well-paid man damage some windows and police cars. Make a mess, and today.’

  ‘OK, I have untraceable middle men there. And the extradition paperwork was probably OK, this is a conspiracy.’

  ‘Yep. Fortunately I have a man who’s good with conspiracies, was a spy chief, best we had – so they say.’

  ‘Good to have some recognition.’

  ‘Recognition … for being a world class sneaky shit?’

  ‘Should have seen me in school; I’d have you favourite pen away, another boy blamed.’

  When the Prince rang back I told him, ‘The police in Belgium let go the man who killed your son. Shout a little please, shout loudly.’

  ‘They will hear me across the world, my friend, trust me.’

  And he was a man of his word, the Belgium Ambassador to Oman worked over and put on a plane with his staff, their embassy burnt down, the news full of it. The British Government protested to Belgium, and proved that the paperwork was correct, the Belgium Interior minister shouting at his police.

  At 5pm, the Belgium Interior Minister had the added worry of six wounded officers, the Inspector for the station killed, two dozen windows shot out, a dozen police cars damaged. I threw my hands in the air at what Bob had done, or what the middle man had assumed Bob wanted done.

  A Belgian-Moroccan immigrant was caught and killed in the cross-fire, and I was now impressed with what Bob had done – where the blame lay at least. The other boy got the blame again.

  I went and sat with Sasha, vodka bottle open, numerous toasts made.

  Sasha sighed. ‘I did not know Casper long, but it stings, and I will miss him.’

  I nodded, small glass in my hand, my throat on fire. ‘When I found you, after the missile hit, it was a shock … like I would lose my only friend. I would have carried you a hundred miles.’

  He nodded and knocked back his drink. ‘What a game we play, when others sit in an office all day – and complain about it.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t think they would swap for bleeding out in the jungle.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head and finished his glass. ‘I was saved for a reason, to put some shits in the ground, or to let them bleed out in the jungle.’

  ‘But do we make a better world? We keep killing the foot soldiers when the paymaster lives in luxury.’

  ‘Politicians and presidents live in luxury when we go out to fight for them. At least here you choose the targets mostly, and we put some more idiots in the ground.’

  I filled our glasses, and we toasted again.

  Bob called at 9pm as I sat in my house, MP Pete minding me. ‘The Banker got involved today, and we figured that the trigger man’s solicitor was probably on the payroll, so we have the solicitor in a lock-up, naked and strung up, not having a pleasant time. He’s already given up names, and your trigger man was handed a new ID, heading for Nigeria. Name of Van de Bere.’

  ‘Good work, Bob, you have shined a bit. Keep getting info from the solicitor, and raid his offices, filing cabinets. See who pays him, track back through the shell companies.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, but we have his keys and security code.’

  ‘Bob, steal his favourite pen.’

  I stepped out, MP Pete close by and worried, and I stood thinking in the dark. I looked up an old number and hit the buttons.

  ‘Hello?’ came a base baritone voice, the Nigerian Interior Minister.

  ‘Minister, it’s Petrov.’

  After a long pause came. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I discovered some Islamists heading to Lagos, with bombs. I was wondering … what you wanted me to do.’

  ‘We want them stopped, kill them.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘And in return … what do you want?’ he reluctantly got out.

  ‘There is a man flying into Lagos in a few hours, a white man, silver hair, name of Van de Bere, fake passport. I want you to hold him, make him uncomfortable, no outside contact. Some others will want to extradite him today.’

  ‘That is easy enough. Just that?’

  ‘Just that, and I will stop the Islamists. And Minister, if there is someone you need dealing with, in West Africa, we can work a deal.’

  ‘There … may be yes.’

  ‘If I do it, Minister, no will ever suspect you.’

  ‘That … that is true, yes.’

  ‘Make a note of this number.’

  ‘I will write it down, yes. Thank you.’ He hung up.

  Next call was Langley. ‘Wilco, you still in one piece?’

  ‘Yes, for now. Listen, I have a suspect in Nigeria, to be held soon after being picked up at the airport in Lagos, and I want to render him to Oman, and their rulers will be most happy with you.’

  ‘We have the means, yes. What does London want with this guy?’

  ‘Not London, other interested parties, although London would like to see him hanging from a rope. I’m trying to get the Nigerians to trust Petrov and hire him to kill people.’

  ‘Ah, be interesting to see who they want killed, yes. OK, what do you want us to do?’

  ‘Contact the Interior Minister, tell him you know about the man – a white South African, Van de Bere – fake passport, lands in a few hours. Then fly him to Oman. They’ll recognise him.’

  ‘This fella, did he … happen to slip extradition today in Belgium?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘We’re on it.’

  ‘And I may have some al-Qaeda chaps for you soon as well.’

  ‘Better and better, buddy, my day is looking up.’

  ‘Oh, what’s happening about the claims, your men shooting civilians in Guinea?’

  ‘There are enquiries under way, no solid evidence. Airport workers say that our men were reserved rather than trigger happy, and our medics were filmed, a one hour special – so how can they say we’re trigger happy.’

  I received word, and the next day the police were out in force at the base, RAF Pumas bringing in Government mandarins, Foreign Office staff and others, and I had arranged a wreath from a local shop. Many of the officers were in their No.1 dress uniforms, I was in jungle stripes, bandolier on, webbing on, rifle slung. This was my uniform as far as I was concerned, the Major shaking his head at me.

  The Prince’s party arrived by private jet into Brize Norton, driven around under heavy police escort, and I met them as they pulled up in front of the hangar. I had my Facemask on, as did most of the men since we had TV cameras ready, Max here and snapping away.

  The Brigadier called “ten shun” and saluted as if for a visiting head of state, which the prince was technically. I shook the prince’s hand out the car and led his party along as others trailed behind, and at the oil stain he halted, the wreath stood isolated. He couldn’t help but cry, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief as the cameras filmed him.

  He finally knelt, a hand on the oil stain, examined and wiped with the handkerchief, Max snapping away. When he stood I led him on, into the barracks and up on the roof, Max in tow. My guest stared out at the airfield in a cool breeze on a pleasant day.

  ‘This was the parachute school,’ he noted.

  ‘Yes, we took it over a few years back.’

  ‘I was here, twelve years ago, more, a young officer.’ His features darkened. ‘I did not think I would be back like this.’

  I pointed to the woods. ‘Man with the phone detonator, the man lost in Belgium, was stood there. The convoy came in, around, pick
ed up your boy and turned around, just a few seconds, drove down and exploded there.

  ‘The detonator man drove off, threw the phone in a lake, but a man out fishing saw him, and we got the car and plate, tracked him down. He was a South African white, a freelancer for Mi5.’

  ‘And now disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

  He stared at me within my mask. Whispering, he asked, ‘You have him?’

  I nodded.

  He took in the airfield. ‘Then I shall look him in the eye. Also, I have sold my shares, all of them, and my Arab friends also sell their shares. The bank will get a shock.’

  Down from the barracks roof, I showed him the indoor ranges and then introduced the Intel team, no cameras around, facemasks off.

  Outside, he stepped to the cameras, and we held back, facemasks on. ‘It is sad to visit the place where my son was taken from me, a mark on the road, but insult is added to injury by the police of Belgium who let go the man who killed my son.

  ‘I do not hold Major Wilco responsible, he has my thanks for what he did to try and save my son. The SAS have a long tradition in my country, bodyguards for our leaders, and we will continue that tradition, we do not blame the British people. Thank you.’

  A final look back, a nod, and they boarded the cars, the convoy rudely driving over where the boy died. Out the gate, we sighed and breathed again, the TV crew packed up and now booted out.

  My phone trilled, so I stepped away, checking over my shoulder. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Deputy Chief, and we have your boy on a plane.’

  ‘The Crown Prince just left my base.’

  ‘Package will be delivered around midnight your time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’re looking forwards to good relations with Oman.’

  At 1am the Crown Prince rang. I was still awake, watching the news or flicking channels, Sasha passed out near me and snoring. I had taken his boots off, and now wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘I am greatly indebted to you for the … parcel delivered, and to the Americans.’

  ‘If you can … question the man, and send us a report, that might assist us with our enquiries.’

  ‘He is being questioned as we speak, and was most surprised when he woke to find where he was.’