by Geoff Wolak
‘I'll cobble together a team then,’ I offered. ‘2 Squadron and the MPs can take over my base, a trap set for more assassins.’
I made a choice to test the leak, and lied, ‘We have a Nicaraguan government minister on the payroll with Tomsk, and he'll help out. Industry Minister guy, contact in Panama City.’
‘Sounds like a start point,’ the CIA approved.
Meeting concluded, London to be kept on high alert, I headed around to my usual hotel, my fake name and corporate business card used. I did, however, ask Mister Kitson for a good team to be discretely placed to see who wanted to watch me – or to shoot at me.
At the hotel I checked in with Pete, the staff remembering us, and we dumped small bags in the rooms, soon casing the bar and lounge to see if anyone was interested in us. After a lengthy meal and a few beers, no one had shown any interest. And if the Mi5 team were here they were good; I could not say that anyone stood out.
I called Tomsk from my room. ‘Hey Napoleon, how's the waistline?’
‘Well … so, so.’
‘I'll be with you in a few days, Americans want that Nicaraguan gang destroyed.’
‘Yes?’
‘They'll have aircraft carriers off the coast, Caribbean side I guess, maybe the Pacific side. In the meantime, get the men ready, get extra ammo, telescopic sights, night sights. And get some spies into Nicaragua, find out all your can, start bribing people without getting noticed, but they know we're coming.’
‘They do!’
‘We have a leak here in London, a high-ranking shit selling us out.’
‘But you attack anyway?’
‘Yes, after I get some information – from you – as to where they are.’
‘I have a file on them,’ he boasted.
‘You have a filing system?’ I teased.
‘Yes, all very efficient. My men do it obviously, not me.’
‘Obviously, I've seen your hand writing.’
‘You bring Tiny back?’
‘Yes, she'll go into Nicaragua if I can see a role for her.’
‘I can ... borrow her again?’
‘Why?’
‘More pickpockets, and she's brilliant with them.’
‘I'll loan her to you for a week or two.’
Late that night I took a dangerous wander around the block, no one showing any interest in me.
Tiny called at 11pm. ‘You awake, Boss?’
‘It’s not that late. You in place?’
‘We've been busy, just tortured a guy.’
‘Why? Who is he?’
‘We saw this guy dropped off, hotel opposite, a right tip. But this guy was in a swanky car, with bodyguards. We dressed like Russian hookers and offered him a good time when he entered the bar, led him to our hotel, then clobbered him and searched him.’
‘He could just be getting away from his wife and after some nice Russian hookers!’
‘No, he's dirty, and we already rang in with his phone and all the numbers listed. He's linked in. We gave his ID and driver's licence, and nicked his money of course.’
‘In that case, good work, but random chance.’
‘Or maybe I'm brilliant at reading people,’ she insisted.
‘Get out of there now, indirect route back, wipe the prints.’
‘Already out the door, Boss, and you owe me a good pussy licking.’
‘Behave. Oh, is he still alive?’
‘Well … depends on your definition of living obviously. He looks fine where he's lying, has a slight pulse. Looks like he choked himself with ladies nylons, brain dead, sex doll set-up, some cocaine, porn channel playing.’
I sat smiling for a while, and watched a little TV before dosing off, chair up against the door. I had picked up my phone and punched in the numbers for Cecilia twice, but had twice hit the red button. I could not take the risk.
In the morning I checked the street, thinking myself paranoid, and I enjoyed a good breakfast with Pete. But I did notice a man and woman who looked like they could be Mi5. They did not look like tourists, and he was reading the local Evening Standard not a national broadsheet.
Outside, I walked with Pete in chill morning wind under a leaden grey sky, to where we left the car in a secure lock-up. Pete moved first, and time slowed down.
‘Lookout!’ he shouted, pistol drawn, my hand reaching inside my jacket as I knelt.
Pete stood tall, aimed over the tops of parked cars, and fired quickly, rounds cracking into the wall near me. The sounds of glass shattering registered. I jumped up and moved forwards, aiming over the cars.
A jolt, and I knew Pete was hit. He flew backwards and landed like a dead body. I could see between two cars, four bodies on the street, one moving. I went for the head shot before I leapt onto a bonnet, arms and pistol forwards as the car alarm started up. Two men were aiming my way, both hit once in the chest before I hit both again.
Movement caught my attention, a woman, knelt, bleeding, lifting a pistol my way. I was close enough for the head shot, her head snapping back.
Movement, a man running away between cars, my two shots missing, but he developed a limp and rolled, back up and running with his head down. And I had no shot.
I checked the bodies quickly and eased off the car as it blared and flashed angrily at me, a glance at Pete. Blood pooled next to him, several pints, and it trickled towards the gutter, his eyes fixed, his mouth open in shock.
I checked this side of the street in a hurry, a black man face down in the gutter but glancing up. I checked both ways, the high windows, the windows opposite and the roof, and knelt, phone out as I glanced back at Pete. Only now I noticed his slide back; he had expended twelve rounds quickly.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco, at my usual hotel, Stratford Street, NW1! Shots fired, eight or ten X-rays down, I have a man down, get me some help out here! Final X-ray is wounded, on foot, limping … er … east. I think it’s safe for the police to approach, but they should use caution and search the area!’
The man and woman from breakfast came running, pistols in hands. I aimed.
They held up hands. ‘Mi5!’
‘Get out of here, don't break your cover!’
A glance at Pete, and they ran off.
I called the police, fearing they might shoot me. ‘This is SAS Major known as Wilco, Stratford Street, NW1. Shots fired, man down, ten terrorists shot and killed, maybe some alive, final suspect running east down Stratford Street, wounded. Use caution on approach, but the shooting is over. I need ambulances and SOCO, senior officers. Warn your people, plain clothes SAS on scene.’
David's assistant burst into an early meeting of senior staff. The Director looked up, annoyed. He shouted, ‘It’s Wilco, shoot-out at his hotel, a bloodbath!’
Chairs scrapped back as people rushed out.
Mister Kitson lifted his head as his door burst open. ‘Shoot-out at Wilco's hotel, sir, street full of bodies!’
He jumped up. ‘Shit.’ He forced a breath. ‘He was right, we have a leak. Were our people hit?’
‘No, sir, they called it in.’
I sat against the damp wall next to Pete, and I stared down at him as the car stopped blaring, swapping my magazines as the cold pavement registered with my arse cheeks.
The black man crawled over. ‘He is dead?’
‘Yes, quite dead, hit in the temple. Still, it was quick for him. Where are you from?’
‘Sierra Leone.’
‘I'm Major Wilco.’
‘You! I read about you in the papers, you help my country.’
‘And this is the thanks I get,’ I sighed out. ‘Stay here, you're a witness.’
‘Yes, yes.’
I called the base as sirens registered. The MP Captain answered. ‘It’s Wilco, there's been a shoot-out at my usual hotel in London, update the Intel team. I'm not hit, but Pete … Pete is dead.’
‘Pete is dead?’
‘Let the MPs know, start the damn paperwork, eh. And sta
y sharp down there.’
Sat there against the wall on cold pavement, I realised that I had been right; we had a high-level mole. I had wanted to test that theory, and now Pete was a cold lump of meat next to me, lifeless eyes staring up, a pool of dark blood down to the pavement.
I had called Tinker on a payphone last night and let him know my suspicions, and hopefully GCHQ were on the ball and checking the phones around my hotel, a mobile tower or two hacked for a good cause.
Men came running, black fatigues, but I noticed the Valmets.
‘Wilco, you hit?’ came a shout, one of the CT police I had trained. He knelt. ‘Christ, that’s Pete.’
The second man ran in and knelt. ‘Pete?’
‘Check the bodies, one of you check the windows and rooftops. Go on!’
They both scanned the windows and rooftops, nothing spotted, soon a dozen armed officers checking the bodies, the cars, and moving people back, my arse cheeks now frozen.
Another CT officer knelt next to me. ‘Christ, Boss, you OK?’
‘Get a few officers, paper and pen, I want IDs and phone numbers off the dead. If they have phones, call using their phones, explain it, ask for a trace. Do it now!’
He shouted for help and regular officers started to check pockets.
The Prime Minister was getting in the car as an aide ran out and ducked his head in. ‘Prime Minister, it’s Major Wilco, shoot-out at his London hotel, dozens of bodies littering the street.’
He rushed back inside.
The CT police led me away, soon in a van and blanketed by six CT police I trained, all knowing Pete, and all wanting blood. They drove me to Vauxhall, flashing lights front and back, and I was soon heading up in the lift with David's assistant.
‘You have blood on you,’ he noted.
I glanced at it. ‘Not mine,’ I sombrely stated, no energy.
David stood as I entered the Director's office; she was on the phone. ‘You're not hurt?’
I shook my head and sat, a tea offered to me quickly. I sipped as I stared at the nice magnolia carpet, my arse cheeks still feeling cold.
The Director finally sat. ‘Wilco, are you … OK?’
I lifted my head, no energy. ‘He was a good man, and he saved me.’ I sipped my tea as they exchanged looks.
David began, ‘Us pen pushers don't get to lose friends in the field, we have little appreciation for what it’s like – to make friends, to work with someone for years then see them killed right next to you. And to have saved you, I guess there's an element of guilt; you're alive, they're dead.’
I nodded my head and sipped my tea. Without looking up, I began, ‘I was right, we have a leak.’
‘PM has been shouting, loudly, he wants that mole – preferably hung from the Tower of London.’
‘I tipped off GCHQ, asked that they blanket the area around the hotel. Might get lucky.’
‘We have a list, and a sub list, and it’s a small list,’ David noted. ‘Unless someone is being bugged.’
‘That girl, Tiny, she found a man in Hamburg by accident, and he's linked in. Run his contact numbers, it’s our best bet.’
David eased up and called GCHQ.
The Director faced me. ‘You OK?’
‘It’s … not the loss of a friend, it’s … why.’
‘A mole, and a little shit with his own agenda, yes. Makes me mad, so I guess you're well beyond mad.’
‘There's a link to the Belgian bank, and someone might want payback. Kebowski is not as dead as advertised, and he was linked to the bank.’
‘The board members and power brokers are all gone...’
‘Someone we missed, someone linked in.’
She took a call. Sat again, she said, ‘Interpol has arrested one of theirs, the manager who signed off that Kebowski was dead and cold. He stated that he knew Kebowski and that it was his body.’
‘That’s a good lead,’ I commended as David sat.
David began, ‘We have a solid lead, calls from this chap in Hamburg to a mobile mast near your hotel, last night and early this morning.’
‘The guy in Hamburg won't be answering any more questions,’ I told them.
‘Oh,’ David let out, a look exchanged with the Director. He took a lengthy call. Sat back down, his face ashen, he explained, ‘Mister Kitson got a call from GCHQ, and … has arrested one of his.’
‘Just a pawn, not the power broker or middle manager,’ I suggested, no energy in my voice.
‘He's been with Mi5 for twenty-four years, now in auditing, and well respected, and well linked in government circles.’
‘Would have been better to let me deal with him quietly,’ I suggested. ‘He may clam up.’
‘He has family,’ David hinted. ‘Kids in prominent positions. Be a hell of a stink. He'll be offered a deal, to save his family name. He has a son in the Army, one is a barrister, daughter at the BBC, and his wife was a member of parliament.’
‘Messy,’ I noted. I sipped my tea. ‘Something is not right here.’ They waited. ‘Who'd send a team of ten people down a road to shoot me, a street full of witnesses? A professional would use a sniper from a rooftop, sure to get me. Why the odd set-up?’
‘It is odd, yes,’ the Director agreed. ‘Time constraints, a cheap team, many sent because they were cheap and expendable, and they figured that one might get a lucky shot...’
‘Odd,’ David noted. ‘A single shooter in the hotel lobby could have got you.’
I studied the carpet. ‘Have the bullet dug out of Pete's skull, and today.’
David made a call before returning.
David's assistant stepped in. ‘Got something relevant, especially now that a body double would be useful. Your doppelganger is ready to make a deal, and to cooperate.’
‘Good news,’ I commended. ‘See if he'll come work with me, he can come to Panama and show his face when I go into Nicaragua.’
‘One … small wrinkle.’ The man waited.
‘What?’ David asked.
‘He was staying silent, and … now that he's talking, he's a bit … camp.’
‘Camp?’ I queried.
‘Gay. Effeminate. He was a hairdresser when he was spotted.’
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘My body double … is gay?’
‘We could get voice coaches maybe,’ the man suggested, hiding a smirk.
I faced David. ‘Or he just doesn't say anything. And if he learns Russian, he won't sound … gay.’
David lifted his face to his assistant. ‘Bring him here, please, in cuffs.’
The man stepped out, still hiding his smirk.
‘What sentence did he get?’ I asked.
‘Life without parole.’
‘So I guess he wants to make a deal, better than being a gay whore passed around in prison,’ I noted.
They fetched me more tea, and biscuits, and relayed the fact that the CIA were now furious and wanting blood, our mole under threat from them, the PM wanting a show trial.
At 11am we travelled around to No.10, and we persuaded a red-faced Prime Minister that we needed the intel more than a show trial. He reluctantly agreed. Back at Vauxhall, my doppelganger was getting odd looks from the staff, who wondered if I had been arrested.
I stood next to the man, David and the Director amazed at the similarity. Even the facial scars were correct.
David sat the man down, police hovering at the doorway. ‘You want to make a deal, and Wilco is willing to help you; no sentence, some money, a way out. You would, of course, have to take the same risks as before and pretend to be Wilco, who gets shot at now and then.’
We waited.
The man finally said, in a camp voice, ‘I don't want to go back to prison, beastly place. So I'll take the risk. What would it involve like?’
Oh gawd, I thought. I told him, ‘A few times a year you dress like me and be some place when I'm someplace else. And you learn Russian.’
‘They had me start to learn Russian, yes, them other chaps.’
‘My tea is cold and the coffee needs sugar.’
I nodded at David. ‘Sounds OK.’ I faced my doppelganger. ‘If you cooperate I'll put some cash in your pocket, enough for regular stays on the Maldives in five-star hotels. And if I'm killed, you get let go, cash in hand, no prison. The risk is the same as before, but I won't let anyone shoot you, you're useful to me.’
‘I learnt how to march, and I studied the military stuff they had me learn, it was all quiet interesting.’
I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘Let me down, and I'll strip you naked and set fire to you,’ I told him, and he looked suitably afraid. ‘What is your name?’
‘David, but everyone calls me Dizzy.’
‘Use the name Dizzy ever again … and I'll kill you.’
He stared back. ‘Right. David then.’
I waved the police in, and they un-cuffed him before being sent away. ‘You come back with me and start some work, start earning your keep. My men … well, they won't like you much, but they won't harm you either.’
I faced David Finch. ‘I want an acting coach and voice coach at my base, tomorrow.’
‘You killed all the people I was working for before?’ our camp friend asked.
‘Yes, and it was a pleasure.’
‘I never liked them, they had no respect. I can act.’
‘Work well with me, and you get some respect. Act well, and it’s a well-paid role. You have family?’
‘Elderly mum, not well, that’s all.’
‘You like her?’
‘Yes..?’
‘I'll get you some cash, you take it to her.’
‘Oh, well … thanks. I can walk around without police?’
‘Yes. If you run from us and get caught … well, not worth thinking about what we'll do to you.’
‘I'll stick to the agreement, I liked playing you, I want to be an actor.’
‘When the guys at the base hear that voice...’ I shook my head.
‘I can do a deep voice, but not for long,’ he informed us.
With a heavy escort, we set off down the motorway, my mind still on Pete; his image was lingering. He had gotten off twelve rounds, and had hit eight people, good shooting, very good shooting.