Wilco- Lone Wolf 10

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Down!’ I shouted, Sasha ducking into a rock.

  It was all deathly quiet.

  Easing up, I ran to the rock, torch out, two bodies highlighted; Nigerians. Torch off, I knelt and waited, five long minutes, no movement heard or seen. Whispering, I said, ‘On me,’ and pushed on north, soon over a low stone wall and crunching dried crops, our burning truck over my right shoulder.

  Stretch said, ‘We left that Semtex.’

  ‘Good, because we won’t look like professionals.’

  The lads snickered quietly as Stretch lambasted our professionalism at length.

  ‘Sandra, you OK?’

  ‘I will be cold like this.’

  I gave her my jacket, a bit big for her. ‘You’ll stay warm, because we’ll be walking all night.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Finding a track, I led them due west a mile and then north again, conscious of our tracks being followed. I started to zig-zag a little, the ground here flat enough.

  At one point we glimpsed traffic on the road, off to our right, to the east, as we plodded on north at a brisk pace. I used the colour of the ground underneath me to avoid the rocks and ravines, and as I plodded on I remembered what I had told them about rations. I had my usual cooking kit with me, some rations, as well as the usual tea bags, so we could at least have something.

  Two hours on, and the dawn would soon be up, so I found a ditch and we ducked into it. I got my cooking kit out and handed it to Stretch. ‘Get a brew on.’

  Stepping away, I called Moran. ‘Hello?’ came a sleepy voice.

  ‘You in your OP?’

  ‘Yeah, where are you?’

  ‘Walking back. They found our truck and torched it.’

  ‘You’re walking?’

  ‘A few miles, then to get some wheels. What’s happening your end?’

  ‘They told us about signals intel on this village, so the hostages are here, and there’s a factory – looks abandoned, so maybe they’re in there. We’ll get eyes on all day and then think about it.’

  ‘I should be with you after dark.’

  ‘How’d it go down there?’

  ‘No wounded, and we set fire to the refinery, right old mess made. They think it’s local blacks.’

  ‘Went off OK then.’

  ‘Not out the woods yet. Go back to sleep.’ Back with the team, I said, ‘We’ll walk as far as we can, then get a ride in, but we don’t want to be seen close to the refinery.’

  Tomo handed Sandra a chocolate bar, Stretch boiling the water.

  ‘Sandra, you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I am resigned to it.’

  I frowned at her choice of words. ‘Good. Sambo?’

  ‘I can walk far, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘We made a mess back there,’ Tomo enthused. ‘Will need a bit of a sweep up.’

  I pointed, and they all turned, smoke seen rising on the southern horizon.

  ‘Will they fix it?’ Stretch wondered.

  ‘Yes, but the current ownership will probably change. All of you, check if you have anything on you that could link us.’

  ‘All got oil on our boots,’ Tomo noticed.

  I fetched out pads from my first aid kit and cleaned my boots, others using whatever they could to wipe their boots. Water boiled, tea made, everyone got a few mouth-fulls, some chocolate Rolos from me, and we finally stood.

  One foot forwards, and I led them off, and half an hour later I glimpsed the highway, tempted to get a ride, but it was a risk, so we plodded on north, a few stops for toilet breaks.

  Cresting over a ridge I could see a cafe and truck stop, petrol station, a few houses. I turned that way, but out of sight of anyone at the truck stop. Dollars from my pocket, Sambo and Sandra checked over, I sent them off for food, soap, towels and water.

  They walked bent double down a ditch, straightened and came up behind the trucks, passed the trucks and into the cafe. They emerged ten minutes later with bags, walked back beyond the trucks, and ducked into the trees, emerging in the ditch bent double as the snipers covered them.

  Back to us, and behind the ridge now, they issued fried chicken, and I sat with a good sized chunk of breast, a can of Fanta to wash it down with, half an hour used up. With a towel and soap, we washed sticky hands and then oily boots, plenty of soap rubbed into the oil, which left our boots smelling like soap.

  Rubbish discarded, packets of biscuits carried, we picked up the pace north as the sun climbed higher.

  At 9am I called Thornton. ‘It’s Wilco, and we have a small problem. One of the trucks broke down, was abandoned, we’re out and walking, need a pickup. Got a map.’

  ‘Hold on. Go ahead.’

  ‘See the refinery that suffered an attack the other day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Road northeast, goes north.’

  ‘Go it.’

  ‘Past the town, ten miles on, past the truck stop and service station, and we’re walking north. Need a truck, or something we can hide in, reliable and discreet driver.’

  ‘I’ll get something organised now, be a few hours to reach you.

  ‘Assume that we are walking north, but west of that highway a mile.’

  ‘News is full of the refinery fire...’

  ‘Someone must have dropped a match, you know how these things are. And you know how to avoid a firing squad.’

  ‘Indeed I do. I’ll get back to you.’

  Phone away, I sipped my water, the chicken having made me thirsty.

  Six miles on, a few goat herders seen and avoided, and my phone trilled. ‘It’s Thornton. I have a truck and driver, and it’s on its way, should be there in two or three hours I guess.’

  ‘We’ll be further north, so the driver will have to call me. What’s written on the truck?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have to ask, all done over the phone.’

  I led the hardy team on for an hour, the day warming up, Sandra taking my jacket off and handing it back before we stopped for another brew.

  ‘We far enough north?’ Stretch asked.

  ‘If we were stopped by the police we could still find it hard to explain what we’re doing around here. Where the lads are is two hundred miles away, far enough.’

  Biscuits were downed with the tea, everyone tired but in good spirits, Sambo answering questions of his upbringing in the Gambia. At ten years old he had undertaken a perilous overland journey similar to Sandra’s, to France as an illegal immigrant, but he did well enough in school, and at twenty – after a job in factory, he joined the Legion and had spent the past five years in North Africa, hardly any time in France.

  Pressing on, we came across the main road west, and had to sneak closer and then run across it and into a ditch, avoiding traffic. An hour’s plod in the heat, and my phone trilled.

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘I’m your driver,’ came an English accent. ‘Where the heck are you?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Driving east, about to turn south.’

  ‘Turn north, go three miles and call me. What does your truck look like?’

  ‘Blue, white writing in English, white cab.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  Turning east, I led the team towards the highway, and seeing an orchard of brown and parched trees we moved into it and all the way up to the road.

  My phone trilled. ‘OK, I think I’m coming up to three miles north.’

  ‘Look for an orchard on your left, black man and woman, both have blue shirts on.’

  I sent Sambo and Sandra to the road, a truck stopping ten minutes later, the rear opened. At the sprint we ran to it and in, the roller door pulled down. I moved forwards and banged the cab twice, and we pulled off.

  Fortunately there was a slide above the cab, and I opened it, keeping an eye on where we were headed, but also getting some air for the team.

  Nicholson said from behind me, ‘Wilco, did you see what was written on the side?’

  I turned, and frowned. �
��No.’

  ‘Fire and safety equipment supplier.’

  They laughed loudly as I smiled, shaking my head.

  A warm hour later we turned east and northeast, and I phoned our driver. ‘Pull up here.’

  After easing to a halt, roller door lifted, we jumped down, the team sent north into the scrub to hide. I stepped to the driver. ‘Thanks. And ... you were never here.’

  He nodded, turned in a circle and headed back west in a cloud of dust. In the scrub with the team I called Tinker. ‘Track back this location, then tell me how to find Moran.’

  He called back five minutes later, as I led the team northeast. ‘He’s twelve hundred yards on heading ... zero two five.’

  ‘OK I’ll find him. What’s on Reuters?’

  ‘The blaze is reported locally, not mainstream here. It’s down as a terrorist attack, but they say it was limited damage.’

  ‘Whole fucking place was alight.’

  ‘Then they’re hiding it.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls and see what I can find out about Izillien.’ Plodding north, Stretch and the snipers counting paces and checking compass bearings, I called Gorskov.

  ‘Da!’

  ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘Ah, and did you have a ... quiet night last night?’

  ‘Not really, I smell of oil.’

  ‘They are reporting limited damage on the news, but my friend says the damage was extensive.’

  ‘Should be, I used enough explosives. Listen, if you hear anything about Izillien’s reaction, let me know.’

  ‘I will do, and today I will have a silly smile all day long.’

  Next call was Petrobras.

  ‘Alo?’

  ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘Ah, I have just been getting the news, the real news and the story put out; I have a contact in that refinery. They will be offline for months, many months, a very great cost which Izillien can ill afford.’

  ‘Who does your contact report as being behind it?’

  ‘They say black terrorists, but radio messages were heard, your name mentioned.’

  ‘I wanted to leave a calling card.’

  ‘I think our friend will be ... vexed.’

  ‘Wait till he sees what I do to his house.’

  Branco laughed.

  ‘Also, pressure is now being brought on The Banker, to further add to Izillien’s problems.’

  ‘I think, seeing the news, that Izillien’s creditors will be most worried. I also see on the news that the President of Sierra Leone met with an accident, his helicopter crashing into a river.’

  ‘They may find a bullet hole or two.’

  ‘Remind me never to upset you.’

  ‘If you have more information on Izillien, please call.’

  Red button pressed, I called David. ‘It’s Wilco. How’s the news this morning?’

  ‘Most agreeable, in several places. You and your team OK?’

  ‘Yes, all OK. I’m just about to join the hostage effort in the north, no witnesses nor evidence to worry about I think, but I would bet good money on Izillien sending men to attack us – us being British SAS.’

  ‘You need to withdraw?’

  ‘No, we need to shoot them full of holes. Don’t worry, we’ll be careful, but get Thorton to have a good man looking for those who are looking for us. Wilco out.’

  Moran stood and waved us into a gully.

  I stepped up to him. ‘We got no rations, and no combats for Sandra and Sambo.’

  ‘Local captain has a jeep, I have his number, he could pick us up after dark, get some kit. How’d it go?’

  ‘Textbook,’ I said, the lads laughing.

  ‘You rolled a jeep,’ Tomo reminded me. ‘After nearly taking our fucking heads off, and they torched our ride so we had to walk all night, and we almost choked to death after nearly being blown sky high.’

  ‘Since there’ll be no official report, we stick with textbook,’ I insisted. ‘Bed down, get some rest, help Sandra.’

  I stepped away and called Mike Papa in Monrovia. ‘It’s Papa Victor.’

  ‘Ah, some news, a helicopter crash. So it is ... business and usual.’

  ‘Business as usual is always desirable, yes. I’ve just visited an oil refinery in Niger, belonging to Izillien.’

  ‘And is this oil refinery ... still in one piece?’

  ‘They are afraid to reveal the true damage, the news watered down. But it will be out of operation for six months as they rebuild it.’

  ‘A costly project that sounds like, yes.’

  ‘Do me a favour, and spread the word far and wide that I was responsible.’

  ‘You wish it to be known, a warning maybe.’

  ‘A calling card.’

  ‘I will spread the word, yes.’

  I got a few hours rest, then joined Moran and Swifty in their OP, peering down a slope into the valley.

  Swifty reported, ‘We’ve seen food taken into that factory, and they ain’t feeding goats in there. Always two guards at least.’

  I turned my head to Moran. ‘I think ... Captain Hamble should plan and lead it, and that we only get involved if necessary.’

  Moran took a moment to study me, then nodded. ‘I’ll have him make sketches and maps, ready for a dawn raid.’

  After easing back from the OP and taking a shit in the sand, my phone trilled; Tomsk.

  ‘You’re up early,’ I noted.

  ‘It’s ... 9am ish. Listen, had The Banker on the line, and he knows it was you in Niger, and now he’s very worried about Izillien defaulting.’

  ‘Be even more worried when I kill Izillien.’

  ‘Well, I want a good relationship with The Banker, money laundered and cleaned up, he has some good schemes. And someday if I want to ... retire, he has plastic surgeons, good IDs, all sorts. He’s helped people fake their deaths and escape. He has clients living in New York and the fucking FBI don’t know!’

  ‘Have him call me, because the British want Izillien dead. Maybe we can work something out.’

  ‘Be nice to him, eh.’

  I called David Finch. ‘Small problem, in that my friends in low places do not want Izillien killed.’

  ‘Well, we want him stopped, and poor, not dead, so ... not a great issue.’

  ‘If I back off, Izillien may come back five years from now, when you’re Director.’

  He coughed out a laugh.

  I added, ‘You could be on the receiving end of his vengeance against the British at the time.’

  ‘Well, we can assess things in a few weeks, see how Izillien’s finances are. For now, don’t go to Nigeria.’

  ‘OK, Boss, we wait a bit.’

  ‘Was that a genuine Boss?’

  ‘Always is, Boss, except when I’m taking the piss. Wilco out.’

  After a brew with Sandra and Sambo, both now awake and with it, my phone trilled, an odd number. ‘Hello?’

  ‘You answer your phone in English?’ a man asked in Russian.

  In Russian, I replied, ‘Most of the time, yes.’

  ‘I’m The Banker, call me Leon.’

  ‘Jewish heritage?’

  ‘Yes, but we kept it quiet, as people did during the Soviet ear.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I have done some research on you, and Tomsk, and I have great resources to call upon. I’d assume that Tomsk’s rise to power was more down to you than him, you and your odd association with the world’s intelligence agencies. It’s rumoured that you can pick up the phone and have an American carrier battle group change direction.

  ‘I’ve also noted that you negotiate with people more than you shoot people, and as for the government of Panama - they’ve named a school after you. Tell me, did you organise the embarrassment of the DEA and FBI?’

  ‘That depends. Did it make you smile?’

  ‘It did yes.’

  ‘Then yes, I organised it.’

  ‘And last night’s problems in
Niger...’

  ‘To cause our good friend Izillien some money problems.’

  ‘On behalf of...’

  ‘Well, let’s see. Petrobras for one, the British, the French, the government of Senegal, the Americans, my friend in Monrovia, Gorskov, Tomsk, Libintov ... need I go on.’

  ‘So Izillien has upset just about everyone. That is disappointing.’

  ‘Tomsk wishes good relations with you, so for now I hold off killing Izillien.’

  ‘And does Tomsk ask you these things, or order you?’

  ‘He asks me.’

  ‘I see. Well, you are a very well connected individual, so we should assist each other.’

  ‘I think that would be a good move. A cold beer in the Riviera some day.’

  ‘Do people think I live on the Riviera?’

  ‘Just a guess.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a man that guesses. But we should meet and chat. But if we did, would outside agencies be interested in me?’

  ‘Interested - yes, follow me or bug me – no, they would not wish to upset me.’

  ‘An interesting position you hold. And you move around the world without leaving a trace, so it seems. I doubt anyone saw you arrive in Niger, or will see you leave.’

  ‘That would be very unlikely. I leave a trail when I want it found.’

  ‘Your name has been linked to the refinery, your name spoken clearly over an unsecured radio. I would assume that was deliberate, a message for Izillien.’

  ‘A calling card.’

  ‘I have to telephone him soon, not a call I’m looking forwards to.’

  ‘Do you fund terrorists?’

  ‘No, is the simple answer, but I often lend to those that pass the money on, sometimes against my instructions. I would not knowingly lend to terrorists.’

  ‘And Izillien?’

  ‘Has a clean company front that I loaned to before he began to be a little underhand, and since then the debt has been serviced, but rolled on.’

  ‘The CIA are mad at you.’

  ‘They ... actively seek me, and are mad at me?’

  ‘Yes. But I can help with that, as I did with Tomsk. He will never stand trial.’

  ‘How ... exactly could you help with that?’

  ‘You pass me some information, a terrorist group or a bad boy you don’t like, I pass it to them from you. Once they take the bait they would never risk putting you on the stand, they would be in trouble for talking to you and not arresting you. Pass a few bits of info, and they’re in more trouble with their own regulators than you are.’