by Geoff Wolak
He nodded and stepped to the police as I called in my team, drivers and vehicles left for the Legion snipers. We drove off as I updated Tinker and London.
An hour later the DGSE joined us, a party in progress, the French singing, the ex-Legionnaires full of questions about past missions.
The DGSE told me that they had made many arrests, some of the men from the illegal club wanted, but that none were explaining quite what happened – or who had killed the three men. The guests were all suffering from a strange form of amnesia, all terrified, the women mortified and in need of medication.
I shrugged. ‘I never went inside.’
They called me rude names, in French.
I had a bite to eat as Sasha gave lessons on how to insult a Russian – using Russian words and hand gestures.
I woke with a bit of a hangover, not remembering how I got myself into bed. Up and showered, I dressed and headed down, finding one of the DGSE men sat with a coffee, two ex-Legionnaires with him.
Sambo stepped in. ‘OK, Boss?’
‘Any food?’
‘I get some now, Boss.’
The DGSE man reported, ‘It is on the local and national news, much complaining about Russian gangs in our country. Some men were wanted and arrested, most just local Russians. The building has been seized for illegal operation, and the police raided the villa they use.’
I asked, ‘And does anyone worry about dead Russian gangsters?’
‘No, we are happy these shits are in the ground. And we have ten stories from ten people about what happened, so it will be difficult in court.’
I nodded. ‘I’m supposed to meet your director -’
‘He is flying down now to see you. He has family here, so he sees them after.’
‘I think my men are not presentable this early.’
The ex-Legionnaires laughed loudly.
The Director arrived in Marseille an hour later, and I was driven to the local DGSE offices to meet him. He welcomed me into someone else’s office, flags in corners, an assistant with him, coffee poured. We sat on comfy chairs around a low coffee table, the Director now in jeans and casual shirt, jumped draped over his shoulders.
‘I had a long talk with your David Finch last night, and we have agreed a policy, and I think we have a good understanding. This small mess here will be cleaned up, don’t worry about it. But from what I gather the statements are all conflicting, only one or two mentioning the Petrov name. Tell me, why were they reported as being so afraid? Women were hospitalised.’
‘They knew about Tomsk, and about Petrov, and I convinced them I had a large bomb in the building about to go off.’
‘Ah, yes. That would explain it. And this man Paschenta...’
‘Shot by a guest that did not want the bomb to go off.’
He smiled. ‘Some Russian roulette I think. And our tip-offs..?’
‘I created them after Tomsk started to tip-off the British and Americans.’
‘I was shocked, because we believed that Petrov was the real power, the driving force.’
‘I was, in some ways. I wanted to get rid of the drug dealers, and the gunmen, and hit the communists as well. We cleaned up that border area, the Panama Government happy.’
‘Do they take money?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And this man who was kidnapped?’
‘Known as The Banker.’
‘Ah, we have been interested in him for a long time. He lives here?’
‘He visits. He lives in New York,’ I lied. ‘He’s a New York Jew.’
‘A Jew! My god, but that fits with what we know.’
‘He now owes me, so I will ask for Intel on gangs, especially here.’
‘That will help, yes.’
‘And so that you know, I have a close working relationship with the President of Monrovia as Petrov.’ He nodded. ‘I am also friends with Libintov and Gorskov and others.’
‘Such a great source of Intel. I am jealous.’
‘If you have a question, just ask us.’
‘And these bombs in Freetown..?’
‘The work of a man called Izillien in Nigeria. He wanted the British and French out, and for the Nigerians to get at the oil.’
The Director nodded. ‘We know some of this, yes. And you killed him.’
‘No, but I have an idea who did.’
Back at the villa in Cyprus, at 10pm, the lads were full of questions, but I was light on answers. Swifty informed me that my lady had come looking, but had flown home to the UK today.
‘Bugger, no nice boobs,’ I sighed.
‘So what’s next?’ Swifty asked.
‘Not sure, but if the unhappy chappies we hit in Eritrea have a camp in Somalia, we could say hello.’
‘Somalia is nice and warm,’ Swifty approved.
