by Geoff Wolak
‘Yes, sir. Any ... good looking French lads around?’
I pointed them inside, ‘You start with our prisoner, not very good looking, and don’t untie the fucker.’
After a bite to eat with Swifty in the cool interior, I was on the roof when my phone trilled, most of the Seals up here.
‘Scorpio here.’
I smiled widely. ‘What you got, Agent Scorpio?’ I asked as I stepped away from the men.
‘I spoke to the board of that company, in Zurich, said I was a senior man in British Intel, and they shat themselves, now investigating just what the fuck is going on.
‘A middle manager in the oil subsidiary has been picked up in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, irregular contact with outsiders – including Peter Bowles. I’ve spoken to my contacts in the industry and the wires are alive with gossip and rumour.
‘What we do know is that contact has been made with a Nigerian oil company that has close links to a certain other company that had its board meeting rudely interrupted and its directors blown to bits and splattered up the walls.
‘That company is in the hands of new owners, a French company, links to Russian money...’
I knew it was The Banker’s company, but said nothing.
‘... so the tangled web is widening.’
‘Good work, keep at it. But why was Peter Bowles coming here in person? Sane people don’t come to this lovely spot.’
‘Not a clue yet, unless it was for him to hire some men to damage an oil installation or two.’
‘Trust me, the men around here couldn’t blow up a paper bag.’
‘Well, something may turn up as the day goes on, I have lots of people to chat to.’
Call ended, I selected The Banker. ‘It’s Petrov.’
‘Ah, how are you, and how is my boy?’
‘You’re boy is on a ridge a mile away, border of Mauritania and Senegal.’
‘And there was me just hearing rumours about that place.’
‘You got a problem, with Izillien’s company. Someone in that company is in touch with others, and a British man - Peter Bowles - working for ExCorp Oil. He was planning to steal their exploration data and sell it to someone, maybe to you.’
‘Not to me, and I have a board in place I trust.’
‘A middle manager with an ambition?’
‘I’ll check in a hurry.’
‘What have you heard about this place?’
‘That weapons and blood diamonds would be swapped there at first, but when the detail was checked it said that the weapons and blood diamonds would be swapped last year.’
‘Could well have been, before I destroyed the camp here.’
‘No, the information says that both diamonds and weapons went missing, pilfered away.’
‘So ... the local boys still think it’s around here someplace. Could this English man have known about it?’
‘Only if he was connected to Izillien back then.’
‘Would make sense if he came looking for it, local boys to keenly assist, but a hell of risk for an office worker – to trust the local gunmen.’
‘Would seem foolish, yes.’
‘Dig into that company quickly.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
I called Tinker. ‘Find me a link between Peter Bowles and Izillien.’
‘Izillien? Jesus.’
‘And fast.’
Phone away, a Seal asked, ‘You have an agent that calls himself Scorpio?’
‘He’s six foot six, three hundred pounds of belly. Would you peg him as an agent?’
‘Looking like that ... no. This dude’s code name is Scorpio?’
‘No, we call him Fat Bastard, but he doesn’t like that code name for some reason.’
‘Can’t think why,’ they joked.
I negotiated the concrete steps down and entered the dark interior, my eyes adjusting slowly. I knelt in front of our prisoner, the nurses to one side. ‘Did you ever deal with the Nigerian, Izillien?’ I could tell from his eyes that he had. ‘You can make a deal, or you get the electric chair in the States after a few years in a max security penitentiary getting fucked up the arse by the other inmates. Talk to me and you get a British trial.’
He considered his situation.
I nudged, ‘You came here to find blood diamonds and weapons that were pilfered away last year.’
He shook his head. ‘Under your feet.’
‘What ... is under my feet?’
‘I found a similar hidden location, and it detailed this one, but I kept it quiet. This place was built in 1967, Soviet money, bunker underneath.’
‘And ... in the bunker are rusted old weapons?’
He stared back. ‘Components for an old nuclear device.’
I stared back down at him, the nurses shocked. I stood. ‘Listen up!’ I bellowed. ‘Grab sticks, start digging the sand away in here, start searching for a trap door! And fast!’
I stepped outside, found dried branches that were big enough and firm enough, and back inside I started to dig down, finding a concrete base as other men dug down with hands and boots. More branches were brought in and utilised, sand moved around, the concrete base revealed in places, under two feet of sand.
After half an hour came, ‘Here!’I rushed over. The man added, ‘Wooden.’
‘All of you!’ I shouted. ‘Clear the sand back!’
Men were down on hands and knees, pulling back the sand in a mad scramble in a shaft of light coming from the stairs, and I assisted them. We soon saw the wood, lines of wood, parts of the door, the edges, the hinges, and it was a set of strong double hatches.
With the sand cleared away I said, ‘Could be booby trapped.’
A Seal pointed. ‘Bob is bomb disposal, he’s shit hot with stuff like that.’
I waved the man forwards, others waved backwards. Torch out, he used a piece of paper - delicately inserted down the line of the join, slowly moving along its length.
‘No wire. Lift this side an inch, no more.’
Men knelt in the dim light available, the first hatch eased up and held.
Bob got his face to it, and inched along using his torch. ‘Another inch. Easy.’ He peered in. ‘No wire, but a real bad smell. Smells like Davey’s socks.’
‘Fuck you, man,’ came through the dark, men laughing.
‘Ease it up real slow.’
The hatch creaked, dust fell, and it was finally open and resting on the sand. Bob eased down a few steps, and ducked under. Back up he said, ‘Old grenade trap.’ He disappeared, back with a grenade in hand. ‘That won’t pop, it’s rusted tight.’ He walked to the door and lobbed it, no blast coming back. ‘Rusted the spring and the release.’ He ducked back into the hole.
After five minutes he came up, gagging. ‘Some stagnant water in there, real bad smell. There are shelves, old weapons, but cans and tins, bags of grain, looks like diesel oil.’ He handed me a clipboard. ‘Your Russian men might be able to get something from that.’
‘I read Russian, dope,’ I told him, and studied the papers. ‘1967, survival supplies, seeds to be used to re-plant after a nuclear war, mention of Angola, Cuba.’ I lifted the pages. ‘And a nuclear device.’
A chorus of expletives echoed around the room, the words overlapping and unintelligible. ‘Get back down there, look for the nuclear device.’
A wide-eyed Bob ducked down. Tomo stood back six inches.
I laughed. ‘I mention nuclear device and you step back six inches. You’d need to be ten miles away, dope.’
‘Don’t want my balls irradiated.’
‘Last year you slept on this sand, none the wiser,’ I teased.
‘Might need a check-up with a doctor then,’ he complained.
‘Relax, it’s thirty years old,’ I told him.
We waited, worried looks exchanged by the men.
Bob came back up, gagging again. ‘There’re components for a bomb, casing, explosives, timer, no uranium, no plutonium rods, it’s all open and la
id out like it was when it was ready to be put together – but it wasn’t.’ He handed me faded old documents.
‘Keep searching, careful what you touch.’ I stepped out to much complaining, a keen desire to re-locate somewhere else. I called London.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco, got a problem. This Peter Bowles guy seemed to come here to find a lost shipment of weapons and blood diamonds linked to last year’s failed coup attempt in Senegal, and Peter Bowles is linked to the late Izillien in Nigeria.
‘What Peter Bowles found, somewhere else, was detail of an old Soviet era hidden weapons dump here, with survival gear and seeds and a manual on how to start again after a nuclear war. What he was after, though, was an old Soviet nuclear device.’
‘Nuclear device?’
‘Yes, and it’s here.’
‘It’s there!’
‘Yes, but missing some uranium and plutonium, it’s old and rusted, and it would be no use to anyone. On the off chance, send me some scientists and some Geiger counters, and fast. They can land at a French base about thirty miles northwest of where I’m stood, civilian airfield there. Send this up the line, get me the experts, and no need for a panic.’
Stood there, I glanced over my shoulder, consider Colonel Mathews, and called News International in Wapping, London. ‘It’s Wilco, Max on his way down?’
‘Yeah, on a plane.’
‘Get a paper and pen, you have an exclusive.’
‘OK, ready.’
‘American special forces, Seals and Deltas based in Mauritania, flew last night in Hercules aircraft to the far east of Mauritania, to the border area with Senegal. In support were a small number of British and French special forces. The men HALO dropped at night and snuck up on a location housing heavily armed gunmen, and took the facility – killing the gunmen for no wounded.
‘That facility is now in their custody as experts are brought in, the facility housing an underground bunker dating from 1967, built by the Soviets and containing survival rations and equipment, as well as components of a nuclear bomb.’
‘A bomb!’
‘Yes. Add this quote: British and American governments refuse to comment on how they knew about the old facility. British SAS captain Wilco is on scene with a few of his men. I want that out on Reuters right now, your exclusive for tomorrow’s front page, but get it out now.’
‘Christ. And this bomb?’
‘Dismantled, old and rusted, no uranium, but leave that bit out for now, would spoil a good story. Run with it, I’ll get Max some pics when he arrives. Oh, if he calls in, tell him to fly to the same place he flew to before, the Foreign Legion base. Wilco out.’
Moran stepped out, sweaty and dusty, and hacking. ‘I had a look, and that bomb is all rusted to fuck, no heavy uranium anywhere.’
‘Soviets would never have left the uranium here,’ I scoffed.
‘So they would have started over, after a nuclear war?’
‘Back then they took it all very seriously, Cuban Missile Crisis and all that. NATO buried stuff like that in caves all over Europe.’
I called Colonel Mathews, now back in the E Ring. ‘Sir, we have a situation.’
‘Wounded?’
‘Not yet. You’ll see a story on Reuters soon, hope you keep your head, but that base and your men will on every front page in the world.’
‘What! What the fuck’s happened!’
‘We found a hostage, only he wasn’t a hostage - he was on the make, an oil explorer about to sell out his company secrets. Somewhere ... during a dig, he unearthed an old Soviet era bunker, and that led him here, where he fell out with the local blacks and they had him tied up.
‘When he caved in, facing the electric chair, he pointed to a hidden bunker here, old Soviet era, 1967, and inside ... a rusted old dismantled nuclear bomb, no uranium.’
‘Jesus mother of fucking Christ. What the fuck is out on Reuters?’
‘US special forces fly from their base in Western Mauritania to Eastern Mauritania at night, HALO drop, secure secret Soviet era facility, but that US and British governments refuse to comment on how they knew about it. Facility is now safe and secured by US forces, British and French support teams making the drinks.’
‘That’ll get the juices flowing,’ he laughed. ‘And that bit about not commenting, great, White House won’t look like idiots. I’ll need to send this up the line.’
‘Oh, and your Wolves, they dropped just as armed men appeared, your Seals shooting the armed men, the Wolves face down in the dirt.’
‘How the hell did you manufacture that!’
‘I didn’t, sir, just bad timing.’
‘Bet the shrinks will have questions for them now!’
‘You can bet the farm on that, sir. Let me know if it looks like you won’t keep your head, I’ll have to start again with someone else.’
He laughed. ‘Going to be an interesting day, the phone red hot – you can bet the farm on that. Get back to you later.’
I took Moran, Mitch, Castille and the Seal team captain outside and we stepped away. Forming a circle, I began, ‘Something doesn’t add up here. This pale-faced idiot steals oil survey intel from his oil company, intent on selling it to his rivals. But the spooks say that this other company is legit and they didn’t know about it, enquiry under way. He drives five hundred miles across bandit country – by himself – then drives up to armed rebels in the hope they’ll strike a deal and help him dig up something valuable.’
Moran put in, ‘As soon as they know what’s here, what do they need him for – they’d just shoot him.’
‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘He’d have to be suicidal to think he could trust them, and he had a million quid’s worth of stolen intel and a beach-front property in a non-extradition country picked out, so I think he wanted to live to a ripe old age.’
Castille said, ‘You don’t come to a place like this without an invite, a cleared route. He knew the main man in that camp ahead of time, a meeting arranged, safe passage.’
‘To do what?’ I posed. ‘Dig up some old rusted crap, find the diamonds or the weapons? First hint of that and the rebels get a shovel out and start digging for themselves. And it’s been suggested that he wanted to hire someone to set off a bomb where he used to work, bet the stock market fall.’
The Seal captain put in, ‘So the guy in charge over there is not as crap as you make out, and his paymaster has more than half a clue - and some ability.’
I nodded. ‘Last year the paymaster was a Nigerian oil billionaire, intent on screwing over his oil rivals in Senegal.’
The Seal captain said, ‘Same deal, different players, or similar players. What happened to this Nigerian?’
‘A friend of mine shot the fucker.’
‘So his No.2 takes over, same deal,’ the captain suggested. ‘Use the oil intel, make some money, use some of that money to attack the other oil installations and make even more, same old African corruption. Did the deal take place?’
‘Our pale-faced friend is not so informative,’ I told them.
Mitch put in, ‘What we have ... is someone over the hill with brain, and a backer, and the ability to go blow up an oil installation – but surrounded by low grade gunmen, the cannon fodder.’
‘Most of the oil installations here are offshore, I’d have to check, and I’m assuming that the gunmen here wouldn’t drive a thousand miles without being seen and stopped.’
‘Some intel missing,’ Castille stated. ‘Something closer, something within the abilities of these guys.’
The Seal captain asked, ‘So is that oil place in danger? And is it any of our business?’
‘Our business, yes,’ I told him. ‘Any terrorist action inside a thousand miles of the base. This is commercial, but setting off bombs and using armed men is terrorism. And these oil installations are normally foreign owned. I’ll make some calls.’
I stepped away and called GL4 as the others debated the situation here, and I was soo
n staring at the bleak sandy landscape. ‘Tinker, have a look at the map, find me the closest mine or oil installation, and who owns it, and get back to me.’
‘I’ll chat to Scorpio, he worked there.’
Smiling, I cut the call.
As the sun started to dip my phone trilled, Paul MacManners. ‘I assume it was you that prepped The Sun newspaper.’
‘It was, what’s on the wire?’
‘The wire is red hot, TV news all across the world, the American special forces getting the glory, White House press statement later.’
‘That’s the deal we had, you knew that. Any experts on their way?’
‘Yes, many, Americans sending people; the world at large thinks it a proper bomb. We briefed the Prime Minister and he smiled after we explained it was a dud.’
‘Any progress on Peter Bowles? I think that the camp near me has a half-decent man in charge and a rich paymaster, and that they were going to bomb some oil installation – but not with a rusty old nuke.’
‘He’s left a trail, plane ticket and condo booked, cold beer waiting for him, we’re still going through it. He’s there with you?’
‘Tied up, afraid that I’ll hand him to the FBI.’
‘I don’t care if you do, but the Director did mention that it may be best if he stand trial here.’
‘Who has jurisdiction in Mauritania?’
‘The French do, they have a security mandate.’
‘So ... do I respect that?’
‘Well, yes, if they push it, we can’t upset them. What’ll you do about that camp?’
‘Go take a look, because maybe there’s a prize turkey hanging around.’
‘A prize turkey that has missed the massive news coverage..?’
‘You’re assuming he has a way out, somewhere to go. But as I said to Captain Moran, this is one big live-firing exercise, a first test, teams working together, and training for the Wolves.’
‘The new Wolves batch is with you?’ he worried.
‘They parachuted in at dawn, shots fired, great training for them.’
‘Bloody hell. I thought they were a bit fresh?’
‘Less fresh now than yesterday,’ I joked.
