by Geoff Wolak
Back at the hotel I checked my small bag for bombs, and I packed up. I did, however, have my facemask with me. At the airport I handed Graveson my pistol and holster; he would not be coming. I had called Colonel Mathews, and his people would meet me at the airport tomorrow.
At Heathrow I bought extra pants and socks, and shirts that should fit, a stupidly high price paid for them, and I added them to a shoulder bag that I had bought. I grabbed two magazines and two newspapers as well, since it was a long flight.
At check-in I was flanked, the ladies worried till badges were rudely flashed into faces. Boarding pass in hand, direct to Washington yet with no visa, I was led into the VIP lounge and we sat, tea and coffee ordered despite the nice ladies asking to see our boarding passes.
Sat near me was an old rock musician I recognised, the man very rich but now sat in jeans and t-shirt and reading a newspaper. ‘You being extradited?’ he asked I made sure my GPS tracker was off.
I smiled. ‘No, I'm being escorted.’
‘What's the difference?’
‘I work for the government, no pending arrest warrants.’
‘So why the escort?’
‘I'll tell you when we land. And I like your music, listened to it as a kid, my father liked it.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Gloucester.’
‘You sound Canadian.’
‘I get that a lot. Where'd you live?’
‘I have a house now outside Bude.’
‘I used to holiday there. Stayed in the fixed caravan park on the south side.’
‘Well if you go a mile up the hill that's where I am, I can see that caravan park.’
Tiny came in and sat, obviously Business Class or First Class, but she avoided me, one of the minders frowning at her as if he knew her.
My heart stopped as our Delta Force man walked in dressed smart, not clocking me till he hit the middle of the room. I was up and at him, but he side-stepped and hit me on the side of the head, my outstretched arm grabbing him off balance as one of the minders kicked out a knee to a yelp, Tiny there in a flash with a kick to the solar plexus that had him burst, a punch down from me and his nose exploded, two minders diving onto him and pinning him down as the screams went up.
I stood and caught my breath, and rubbed my head as the minders cuffed our man, one with a pistol out. That man had shouted, ‘Armed police, stay down!'
Uniformed officers rushed in, badges flashed in their faces, our man carried out, just one minder remaining, Tiny sat back down and pretended nothing happened. I sat, asking the fraught ladies for ice.
The old musician was staring at me. ‘What did you say you did for a living?’
‘Tax inspector.’
‘I'm up to date, don't hit me.’
I finally got the ice, and held it on my head. ‘So, that house of yours must get the wind in the winter.’
‘I have an internal courtyard, and I covered it over, and from inside you can't hear anything, and I painted the walls white, then had a guy put up a fresco so that it looks like a taverna in Spain. I turn the heating up and sit in it.’
‘Sounds nice.’
The lady in charge in her blue uniform called me. ‘Sir, phone call.’
I stood and took the call.
‘It's David. You caught our man...’
‘I did, after he tried to board the same flight. But let's say we caught him after a long chase across London.’
‘The CIA Station Chief is not buying it, that you just happened to be on that flight.’
‘Stranger than fiction, eh.’
They finally called boarding, and my head was throbbing, my minder agreeing that I would have a bruise by time I landed. He wished me well as we parted. My seat was in the middle of this 747, Tiny up front somewhere. And I felt naked without a pistol. Still, we had all gone through the metal detectors.
Sat down, a smile and a nod at the old man next to me, and I wondered if someone like our Delta Force guy would sneak up behind me and break my neck. Sleeping would not be easy.
‘You want the window seat?’ the man asked me.
‘Uh … why?’
‘I don't like the windows, I prefer the aisle, safer.’
‘Sure.’
We swapped, and now I could rest my head on the aircraft inner skin.
He handed me a cushion. ‘I slept on the flight up from Africa, I'll try and keep going now, straight to work when I get there.’
‘Christ, what a job. I hope you're well paid.’
He smiled. ‘I'll retire early, money put away, some good investments.’
We started to taxi. ‘What do you do?’
‘Oil and gas risk assessment.’
My heart skipped a beat, but this old guy was no threat to me. ‘Risk … of what?’
‘All sorts. Typhoons, fires, staff strikes, terrorist attacks.’
‘Typhoons?’
‘Had a rig sink once, they do sometimes if not balanced right and anchored right.’
‘I have a cousin, does something similar in West Africa, was with Petrobras,’ I lied.
‘They have rigs in West Africa yes, Senegal.’
‘He was hurt on one,’ I lied. ‘Chevron.’
‘Well, Chevron is the parent company, and it's the subsidiary that pumps the oil, another to ship it. When you have a rig, someone owns it, someone leases it, someone operates it. It's all separate.’
‘They had some trouble in that place, Senegal.’
‘Yes, a bomb and a fire. That kept me busy for a month, a lot to do, all sides claiming against the other, and against the American Government.’
After we had taken off, I said to him, ‘You seem nervous.’
‘Been flying as a living a long time, been lucky, but this last year I've had a few close calls. Looking forwards to retirement. What do you do?’
‘I teach parachuting,’ I said with a smile, making him laugh.
‘My days of adventure are over.’
‘Wife and kids?’
‘Had a wife, killed in a car crash fifteen years back.’
‘Time for a cute young Filipino then.’
He smiled. ‘One of my friends went that route, but I'm happy with a good book and a fine bottle of Scotch.’
‘You sound English, but not quite...’
‘Was born and raised in Kenya, rich British parents, school in England, Oxford, then I studied oil in America. Been in oil ever since.’
‘Tucked the money away?’
‘I have a few million sat ready.’
‘And what will you do with it?’
‘Buy a spread in Kenya, that's where my heart is.’
‘I love Africa myself.’
He studied me carefully. ‘A man only gets to love a tough place like Africa when he's spent a great deal of time there...’
‘I have.’
‘I've met all sorts on planes, and in business, and you're an educated man that has taken a few knocks, and you display a strength and confidence. An officer?’
I nodded.
‘More than just a pen pusher I think.’
‘Maybe.’
He took a well-worn book from his case; The Ghost. I reached across and took his pen, then the paperback. ‘Best wishes, Wilco.’ I handed it back, and his mouth dropped.
When he slowly turned his head to me I put a finger to my lips. He reached across and held my arm, nothing said for many seconds. ‘I saw the movie, “Camel Toe”, and that actor looks just like you.’
‘I never met him, made no money, they never consulted with me. But it was very accurate.’
He smiled and nodded his head. ‘You know what, I think I'll try and sleep again. I feel safe.’
I laughed quietly.
When they served food I woke him, we chatted quietly, and it helped to pass the time. At midnight I folded my arms and put my head on the internal skin, and I woke as they served breakfast. I was famished. I was also showing a bruise according to my travelling companion
.
We landed in the rain, and as we docked they asked everyone to remain seated. Two uniformed security men walked to my row, and stared hard at the old man still they caught my smile.
‘Could you come with us, Major.’
The old man eased out, I grabbed my bag, shook his hand as everyone stared at us, and I was led off. Up the ramp we met six additional security men, who flanked me. Passport checked and stamped, I was led down and along corridors to fetch my luggage after a wait, coffee from a machine.
Luggage grabbed, we walked towards a cold wind, and seeing the road and passengers I halted them, facemask on, which puzzled them greatly.
‘Who are you, sir?’ the lead man asked.
‘Major Wilco, British special forces.’
‘Shit...’ They exchanged looks.
At the underground roadway we met three vans, MPs waiting. The sergeant in charge saluted and grabbed my luggage, and I was soon in a van with tinted glass, four MPs with me.
I took off my facemask.
‘Good flight, sir?’
‘Is any flight ever a good flight?’ I asked.
‘Not a long haul, sir, no. I've been to Guam, from Germany!'
We set off. ‘This one was not too bad, two meals and a sleep in the middle. If I get five hours I'm good to go.’
‘And in combat, sir?’
‘Four hours and I'm fine. As a young soldier I just woke up after five hours, even back at base on a weekend. So I got up and started to run, and that led to marathon running.’
‘You were in West Africa, sir, these Wolves?’
‘Mauritania, yes, HALO training. Your people developed the bag technique and I pinched the idea. Four men drop together holding handles on a bag, but we have a tone altimeter, and at the right altitude they break away in sequence, then pull chutes, and the sequences mean that they don't collide.’
‘MPs were killed at your base, sir?’
‘Yes, two of them. The last one died in a bomb blast, the one before in a shoot-out in London. He hit eight people in about five seconds.’
‘Saw us the video, sir, and your man in Bosnia. You all shoot like that, sir?’
‘Yes, or you get killed. In Paris, I was in a van with five French spies, and they had the drop on me, but I pulled quickly, cocked and fired, and killed them all. When you're life is on the line you move quickly.’
‘That a black eye, sir?’
‘Yes, got hit before I flew.’
‘We can get something at the Pentagon, sir.’
‘Thanks, but it'll just take time. How long is the ride?’
‘It's right short, sir, but the road swings around some.’
Then I could see it, the distinctive shape. Through security, a glance it at me, and I was led in, a major meeting me with a smile and a handshake, two MPs only to escort me to the E-Ring along dated corridors as people glanced at me, and in to Colonel Mathews dated office.
‘So, this is where it all happens,’ I loudly stated, his office more of a command centre, glass screens with writing on, white boards, a dozen computers and a dozen staff.
He walked over with a smile. ‘Odd to see you here, and out of uniform.’ We shook.
‘Was a snap decision, a time constraint.’
‘What happened to your face?’
I sighed and took in their faces. ‘A Delta Force guy working for the other side.’
‘What!'
‘I guess you haven't seen the news yet, or they haven't released it. He tried to board my plane.’
‘God damn! Another sell out!'
‘He had a day job as a Delta, but was reporting back to rogue CIA agents.’
Mathews exchanged an angered look with his major. Facing me, he said, ‘You need food, some sleep?’
‘I had five hours, and some food, but could always eat more.’
Mathews ordered some food. He finally told me, ‘White House knows you're here, asked about your itinerary.’
‘I have plenty of time, nothing planned, no super models lined up.’
After a coffee and a quiet chat, my phone trilled, Tiny. ‘What's the plan, handsome?’
‘Get a hotel close to the centre, settle in, cab to the Pentagon, ask for a Colonel Mathews, E-Ring. I'll let them know you're coming. Got a nice dress?’
‘Well, yes. Evening or formal?’
‘Go for sexy, with a coat over it.’
Phone down, Mathews was staring at me. ‘Sexy?’
‘Lady spy who your Navy owe a few quid to.’
‘Ah, her.’
‘Tell the men on the gate, she's called Tiny, or Susan.’
He made the call.
I was led to General Boltweir, but found him jet-lagged. ‘I just flew in from Hawaii, slept on the damn plane, and they told me in damn transit you were coming to see me!'
‘Not you I came to see, sir, I was hoping that by being here the White House would invite me over, and they have. I need a chat to the big white chief.’
‘About these FBI shits?’
‘Yes, sir. President wants all your dirty laundry washed in public.’
He sighed long and loud. ‘I know what you're getting at, but … most of us would like to see them hang, or get the electric chair.’
‘And the rank and file of the FBI and CIA, sir?’
‘I know, I know, don't blame the foot soldiers.’
‘Get some rest, sir, I'll be here a few days, for that cold beer you promised me.’
‘A cold beer would be good right now. OK, let's meet in a few days, I have a shit load of paperwork anyhow.’
We shook.
Back in the E-Ring we had a coffee, many senior officers popping in for a chat, some chatting about the Wolves, some to chat about Kosovo, all asking about Panama.
Tiny finally turned up and was let in. Coat off, the men in the room had to avert their eyes, after a good look at the sparkly silver dress.
‘Colonel Mathews, this is Tiny, a British spy ... and not someone you'd turn your back on.’
They shook.
I asked her, ‘Did they spot your leg knife?’
‘Nope,’ she said with a smile, lifting the dress to show it, no knickers on.
Colonel Mathews cleared his throat and lifted his gaze. ‘Coffee, ma'am?’
‘I want to see your Navy boys about some money.’
He laughed loudly. ‘I've told them you're here. And Admiral Kurkhold is in town.’
‘So he can buy us dinner then,’ she told him.
After another coffee we were led to the Navy section, past the signs for the Secretary of the Navy and on, and to a large room, all faces turning towards us as we entered, most of the men and women in black naval uniforms or white shirts and blouses.
The admiral I had met at GL4 stepped forwards and we shook as everyone observed.
I finally said, ‘Sir, this is Tiny, the British agent that saved your carrier, the Nimitz.’
They shook. ‘We're very grateful, but not allowed to pay a bounty, but we do have a plaque and it's real gold.’
‘How heavy?’ she asked, making him laugh.
The crowd lined up around us, and when I saw the cameras I placed my facemask over her and stepped well back. She was handed the heavy plaque as the cameras flashed, and I was glad that she never showed them her leg knife. Facemask off, I put it on myself and stood with the senior staff, then the junior officers, then the enlisted ranks, six photographs taken in total.
Facemask off, a hand through my hair, the Admiral asked, ‘That a black eye?’
I took in their faces. ‘You haven't seen the news yet, but a Delta Force guy was arrested last night in London. He sold you out, working with the FBI mob. He was the one gave me the black eye.’
Faces fell.
‘A Delta?’ the Admiral wanted clarifying,
‘Working with rogue CIA agents in London and the FBI.’
‘Jesus. We have a colonel facing a court martial, now this.’
‘We are cleaning house,
sir, and quickly. The head of the snake has been cut off.’
He led me to his office with just two senior officers, coffee made again, and we all sat around a large coffee table.
‘These sell-outs, the colonel and now this Delta, and the others, what the hell motivates them?’
‘I can tell you … that for some … they want the White House to be more aggressively dealing with your perceived enemies.’
‘That's not their choice, we have laws, and we vote on the president.’
‘For some, that isn't working, sir. They want more, and faster, and … there will always be people who think that war is good for you. The others, they just wanted money, but they wrapped it up in ideology and politics and recruited people like your Delta with words about nationalist fervour: our country is in danger, can't leave it to the politicians, we need to act ourselves.’
‘We have checks and balances for a reason, to stop presidents doing stupid things and starting wars on a whim.’
‘Your arms industry buys-off your politicians, sir, and they influence congress. And sometimes … they go further, much further.’
‘I thought we were beyond the JFK assassinations and the mob.’
‘Different times, different people, same ideas, sir.’
‘These Wolves are now back here, yes?’
‘On a break, sir, but they're ready to fight. Maybe to be used in Kosovo.’
‘We have our carriers getting ready to support land operations and to hit targets inside Serbia. Your men will go in?’
‘Already there, sir, reporting out what's happening on the ground. The Serbs attack the Albanian civilians and the Kosovans attack the Serb civilians, and my men kill those doing the attacking on both sides. We're peace enforces more than peace keepers.’
Back in the main room I chatted to most of the people present, including Marines officers, talk of Colonel Dehavilland – who was in South Carolina at the moment. Tiny was very popular and she chatted to many, and I signed a dozen copies of The Ghost, then signed two dozen copies of the VHS tape boxes, Camel Toe Base.
A captain told me, ‘We were all in and working sixteen hours a day for a week when you were in Panama, some tired faces in here, some three-day old shirts. But the odd thing was that we bonded, the various ranks.
‘People were sent out for shirts, others for food or razors, and we all helped each other, all tried to encourage each other. Might be a bunch of pen pushers in here, but it felt like being at war.
