by Geoff Wolak
‘No accident, I’m guessing. Did you..?’
‘No, someone got there first.’
I sighed loudly. ‘Covering their tracks. I have an awkward conversation to have with the Director.’ I walked back to the hangar.
Phone in hand, I studied it as I stood at the hangar mouth before demanding the Regimental helicopter. I called the SIS switchboard and told them I was on my way up in a hurry to see the Director, then asked to be put through to Mi5, and Mister Kitson.
‘Wilco?’ Mr Kitson answered.
‘Yes, sir. Do me a favour, and trace any and all calls from any of your staff to Belgium or Holland, then look for any tangible links to Bastion Defence Services in Belgium, but as soon as you do they’ll know you’re onto them.’
‘I have a select team that can do it. And if they don’t do it well they’ll be rendered to Oman I’m sure.’
‘I have no idea what you mean, sir. Oh, I’m up in London in an hour, can we meet at Vauxhall, we have a problem, sir, kind of … end of the world problem.’
‘Now I’m worried.’
The Regimental Augusta set down on the grass twenty minutes later, the RSM in it and I joined him in my casual suit, pistol under my arm. With a roar of power, we spun around and sped off low level as I got the headsets on and working.
‘Off up to London?’ I asked Baker.
‘Got an Intel briefing, usual stuff. You?’
‘The usual double-dealing, assassination attempts, bombs…’
‘Don’t know how you can be so flippant about it, it worries me greatly.’
‘Sarcasm defeats stress, Mister Baker, remember that.’
‘So my ten year old daughter must be very stressed.’ He made a face and nodded. ‘I’ll get her a stress counsellor.’
I smiled. ‘Ten year old girls get sarcasm from their mothers. It’s a rite of passage, and essential training on the journey to becoming a rude teenager.’
He nodded. ‘I have one of those as well.’ He faced me. ‘Are we … making any progress against the shits in Intel?’
‘Yes, slowly.’
‘The chap that turned up in Oman..?’
‘The bomb trigger man. I would hazard a guess and say that he was surprised when they took the hood off and he found out where he was.’
‘More than just a little surprised, yes. Seen the morning papers?’
‘Nope.’
‘The Sun newspaper has a picture of fifty heavily armed Paras, weapons aimed at the camera, GPMGs, 105mm, the works. It says, You want Wilco, come get him.’
‘Nice to be popular,’ I quipped.
‘You’re not popular with the Wives Committee. They voted to have you castrated.’
‘Ouch,’ I winced.
‘Penned an official letter to the CO. He’s considering it.’
I shot him a look.
Making good time, we touched down on Horseguards, a marching squad of Guards disturbed. Their loud RSM looked like he wanted to castrate me as well. Vans were waiting, and they whisked me over the bridge to Vauxhall. I was met again by David’s assistant.
‘Kitson is here, they’ve been having a chin wag,’ he told me.
I nodded.
‘Any … developments?’ he nudged.
‘Unfortunately … yes.’
He waited. ‘And…’
‘End of the world shit storm on the horizon.’
‘Ah.’
He led me in, and I asked him to leave us, surprising the man. Door closed, I sat and faced the three of them. ‘If it’s not a rude question,’ I asked the Director, ‘do you fully trust Mister Kitson?’
She regarded the new head of Mi5 as he cocked an eyebrow at me. At six foot he was a tall man, but thin, jet black hair that did not seem to go where he wanted it to go. He reminded me on a rugby player, and he presented a face that I trusted, a manner and tone that I had always trusted – despite my question today. ‘Yes I do, we’ve known each other a long time.’
I nodded, and gathered my thoughts. ‘They killed Diana.’ Shocked faces stared back at me. ‘The driver was on your books, and he met your man in Paris, Paul Dickson, a few hours before he drove very quickly, his drink spiked with a psychotic-episode inducing drug, same one given to the ex-trooper that shot at my men on the Brecon Beacons a few weeks back.
‘And Paul Dickson just wrapped his car around a tree outside Paris, dead, no accident. They do like to cover their tracks. So that leaves us in the position that they have a hold over us, over you, since there may be some evidence out there they can use against you.’
The Director looked pale. ‘If it got out, especially now, just the hint of it and this country would see rioting, not just a brick through the window. There have been conspiracy theories for years about Charles wanting to kill Diana.’
I nodded. ‘I will go, today, to Paris and ask a big favour. At your end, try and trace any and all calls from your Paris branch into Belgium, Holland or Nigeria, and fast, eh.’
Mister Kitson blew out. ‘I’ve been in the job two days and I’m about to be lynched in public.’
I faced David. ‘Get some cash, used notes, get into Dickson’s place here, find a bag in his kitchen that should have his prints on, dump the cash and an illegal pistol, wiped for prints, residue of Coca Cola on it. Then, Mr Kitson, you raid that house an hour later and find what it is you’d like to find.
‘David, you then write a note of complaint to Mr Kitson about lack of cooperation and not warning you given that you met to discuss the on-going investigation today. Complain to the Cabinet Office. I will arrange for Dickson to look dirty in Paris.’
Mr Kitson turned his head to the Director. ‘Why does he not have a desk here, it would save time.’
She turned to David. ‘With dispatch, please. The set-up, not the desk.’
‘And a helicopter to Paris,’ I added. ‘I have some grovelling to do. Contact the head of the DGSE and see if he’ll meet me, turn me back if he’s on holiday somewhere nice with his mistress.’
The vans drove me all the way up to RAF Northolt, Uxbridge, time to think, and to worry, and to plan and scheme a little. A small private jet sat waiting, just myself as passenger, but before the door closed an old RAF Group Captain boarded, files in hand.
He sat next to me. ‘I’m your company there and back, paperwork to hand in. We got a priority slot and so we’ll upset a few 747s about to land.’ He looked me over. ‘Firearm?’
‘Even in the shower.’
‘Oddly enough, I can believe that.’
As the nose lifted we chatted about Brize Norton and the re-sizing of the RAF. He called it re-sizing, I called it down-sizing, which it was. Brize Norton was due to be expanded, many more units to be housed there as other bases closed down.
In average summer weather we made good time to Paris, half an hour’s flight time, and came in to land without circling, so I guessed that we had that priority slot ahead of some lumbering 747 full of suntanned French tourists.
Out the windows I could see blacked-out vans and a police escort, and there was a time when this would have seemed bizarre, but now it was routine – if not a nuisance. I waved goodbye to the Group Captain, and he would be waiting with his plane; his responsibility. How many nights had I stood guard at Brize Norton gate, and here was a Group Captain waiting on me.
I eased into the vans and took a seat, a nod from a bored bodyguard, his three mates sat in a row at the back of the bus, and we set off, police car ahead of us as we exited via a side gate, soon a main road sign-posted for Paris. Only then did I realise it had been Orly Airport. Still, I guessed that it was closer to the city centre as we headed north.
My front seat guard adjusted his pistol, and five minutes later I caught that same action from the corner of my eye. And my minders were sat behind me, odd for a bodyguard detail.
Bollocks!
I was in the shit, in a foreign city, and they had the edge, a shiver running through me, closely followed by a great deal of anger. I ease
d my pistol out, the pistol not yet cocked.
My phone trilled, the front seat guard now very interested in that innocent ring. I answered with my left hand, pistol in my right hand and now wedged upside-down between my knees, the slide coming slowly back.
Cars and vans tooted each other loudly as the congestion started on this four lane road.
‘It’s Bob.’
In Russian I began, being rudely observed, ‘I’m a DGSE van, from the airport to the city, about to be shot dead. Make the call urgently.’ In English I added, ‘And you have a nice day too.’
Phone down, the van suddenly jolted, a quick hit of the brakes by our driver and a loud curse as a moped cut in front of us. Pistol cocked now, I eased the slide slowly forwards, inch by inch, a false smile for the guard before I stared out the window.
Was this too public for them? Would there be a turn off, an underground garage? And I could not remember the route to the DGSE offices, so I would not know what building they took me into. No, I was sure I would remember the building.
Note to self, bring some fucking lads along next time. But then they would be curious about what I was doing.
Bollocks.
A right turn in heavy traffic, and I glanced at a van near us, an MP5 seen held, an angered man grabbing it and lowering it, words exchanged. Why did they need a second team, or was that team the threat and these guys were OK? No, my minder here was twitchy, so why so many men just to kill me?
My daughter’s face came to mind, and for the first time. Was this the end, at the hands of these idiots, persuaded to betray their country and to end my life in some shallow grave? The anger came back, and I followed the van out the corner of my eye.
Ah, maybe the men in the van would shoot me, my guards here seen trying to protect me. I would die in the crossfire. A good set-up, it seemed.
Left turn into a two-lane road, less traffic, my guard fidgeting again.
“Amateur,” was what I wanted to shout in his ear. I was about to be killed by amateurs.
The van ahead hit its hazard lights for no reason – and did so without stopping, soon turning right.
Amateurs!
The guard’s pistol was whipped out and he spun around. My left hand knocked the pistol away easily – a loud round discharged thought the roof, and with a stone cold stare I put two rounds through the seat, and through his chest, a look of absolute shock and pain etched into his face. A lung full of hot 9mm brass will do that to a man.
Turning, arm up high, I went for three quick headshots – just six feet to cover, the last man ducking so I fired twice through the seat, and seats were not bullet proof.
‘Six,’ I said, louder than I had meant to, six rounds fired, six to go. Back to the driver in a panic, as he both tried to control the van and get to his pistol, a loud shot to the back of the head, his blood spattered on the windscreen, my brass cartridge tinkling off the floor.
Up, and urgently moving back just two steps, I found the last man holding his neck wound as he tried to duck down and hide, my shot to his heart causing the release of gurgling air. I pocketed a fallen pistol, but I should have been watching the road, now jolted down the minibus as we smashed into a parked car. This was Northern Ireland all over again.
Up, but hurting – and now cursing myself loudly, I edged to the door and urgently forced it open, the glass cracked, and with the door open - my body now badly exposed to incoming fire, I reached for my second magazine with my left hand as I took aim, starting forwards as the van reversed to me at speed, a loud whine, bright white reverse lights displayed.
Careful aim, head shot, the slide seen coming back in slow motion, my brass flying out. A saucer-sized area of glass turned white. Careful aim left, head shot, the glass shattering. Magazine held ready.
‘Two left.’
Careful aim, headshot as the man readied his MP5, final man ducking down. Wide-eyed, I jumped left just in time, the van about to squish me, and it slammed into the first van with a loud crunch behind me.
The driver was right there, a startled face, a puzzled face, a face that said, ‘I should not have got out of bed this morning.’ My pistol against the driver’s side window, the tap of metal on glass, and I fired, blood spattering across the front seat.
With the slide back I knelt, magazine out, fresh magazine in. How many times had a practised just this. Pistol checked, I eased along to where the final man should be sat, aimed in, and I fired three rounds through the thin skin of the van – a hollow echo, ducking left quickly, around the front of the van, a sneak peek up. Someone was still moving.
I ducked down and moved quietly around the van, an outstretched arm to the door release, a click and I yanked it as I ducked away.
A burst of fire, poorly aimed. Another burst.
I jumped up and aimed in from the side window, seeing a startled face turn to me, three rounds fired, the glass gone, his face knocked back. ‘Six.’
The police car was back, slowly approaching, so I stood in the middle of the road whilst breathing hard, pistol down like some Wild West gunfighter, and the looks on their faces said it all; they wanted to go home to their wives, and this had been a bad idea.
They slowed to a crawl, and finally eased to a halt, unsure of what to do, their thoughts now on their own mortality. Ten seconds passed, words quietly spoken. I could see their lips moving. Twenty seconds had passed. I started towards them.
Whoever had paid them or motivated won out in the end, because they sped towards me in first gear, a high pitched whine. Two rounds for the driver, and I dived and rolled, back up and firing into the side windows as they passed. Their patrol car raced to the end of the street, getting faster and faster till it ploughed into a bakery at thirty miles an hour, a loud smash, glass flying, the patrol car buried deep inside the shop.
I took out the guard’s pistol as I checked the street, faces staring at me, people staring down from apartments. To the back of the van, I grabbed the first MP5 after I put my pistol away. It was loaded and cocked.
No one was moving in the back of the van as I studied their bloodied faces. Phone out, I called SIS London. ‘This is Wilco in Paris, a few miles south of the city centre. French Secret Service just tried to kill me, I killed … four, five, nine, eleven of theirs.’
‘What!’
‘If I don’t make it, give the fucking French some shit. Put me through to the DGSE now, and fast!’ I stood waiting as people stared at me.
‘Allo?’
‘Speak English?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Major Wilco, on my way to see your director, but your escort men tried to kill me, I killed eleven of them. I’m at -’ I looked up. ‘- Rue de Basil Artege, between Orly Airport and the city centre. Send police, don’t try and disarm me. Look for the police car crashed into a bakery, or pastry shop, or whatever the fuck it is – yellow sign.’
It was a minute before the police arrived, a long awkward minute as people stopped to stare, but the police arrived at the bakery crash site, not coming to me. They saw the crashed vans as I waved them over, and two officers ran down, wary of me.
‘You speak English?’ I asked.
‘Some, yes,’ came from a man.
‘I am Wilco, British soldier decorated for saving Paris from the poison, Hammad. Legion of honour.’
‘I know who you speak of.’
‘These men are DGSE, they tried to kill me.’
They peered into the back of the second van at the mess, clearly shocked.
‘I need you to take me to the DGSE headquarters. Now please.’
Another patrol car appeared, plus an ambulance, my two officers reluctantly waving me to follow.
‘No radio calls,’ I told them, and they exchanged a worried look. I slung the MP5 under my arm so that it would not be so conspicuous, and they opened a rear door for me. I eased inside, so did they, and only then did I realise that police doors could not be opened from the inside. I was in the shit if someone from the DGSE tu
rned up, someone not working for the Director. At least, I hoped the Director was clean.
With a sigh from me, we sped off, onto the main road, just three blocks and we turned towards gates, armed police in facemasks guarding the place, and it did seem familiar. They explained me away, my face puzzled and examined, and I was let inside after a radio call.
Pulling up, an officer jumped out and opened my door as I nervously observed the pistol on his hip. I eased out and stood, was pointed towards guards at a door, and I walked towards them. An official stepped out.
‘You are Major Vilco?’
‘Legion of honour,’ I pointed out. ‘And I just killed eleven DGSE agents that tried to stop me getting here. Go clean up the fucking mess, eh.’
Startled, he led me in, jabbering away on his phone as we walked for a minute, climbing up a flight of stairs as people coming down puzzled me – and my MP5, and to a first floor office with a head poking out. The head nodded at my guide.
‘Major Vilco. What the fuck you do?’ He led me inside, the Director on the phone, and looking harassed, a handful of harassed men all startled to see me. I handed over the MP5.
The Director slammed down the phone. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Your escort from the airport tried to kill me.’
‘They are all our men, we checked!’
‘They’re now dead men, so check again.’ I took in the faces before I settled again on the Director. ‘We need to talk in private.’
He led me to side office whilst looking like he also wanted to shoot me, a lady tersely kicked out. There was booze, so I poured one – but handed it to him. I waited.
He took the drink, gulped it down, and sat.
I sat facing him. ‘What do you know about the Royal Bank of the Netherlands?’
He stared hard at me for several seconds. Forcing a breath, he began, ‘We have investigated them several times, always found to be clean.’
‘That’s because they’ve penetrated your organisation at every level. For all I know … you work with them.’
He stared back for a moment, then lowered his eyes and lowered his glass. ‘I am not part of any secret society, I don’t plot the overthrow of our government.’
