Wilco- Lone Wolf 16

by Geoff Wolak

  Back with the Engineers major I reported the find.

  ‘Escape tunnel?’ he puzzled, wiping his brow.

  ‘If it was … it never went far into the treeline, unless some trees were cut down later on.’

  ‘Tunnel is concrete, so they dug a trench, made the tunnel, dirt on top,’ he insisted.

  I stared at the treeline, considering that, dumping my kit. Back down the ladder, I closed in on Morten and Abrahams. ‘Well?’

  ‘Two more were shot,’ Morten reported as he stood. ‘They’re all Europeans, none have ID, so whoever shot them took it. This was no mass suicide, no pistol here, and no casings, so the gunman was careful.’

  ‘Careful,’ I scoffed. ‘He left them here to be found!’

  ‘People find bodies all the time,’ Abrahams noted. ‘But they don’t catch the killer. There’s no forensics here to link a murderer, no blood or hair, no fingerprints. In the UK, the police find a warm body and get good forensics. A twenty year old body is hard work, often done through dental records of missing people.’

  Morten put in, ‘Lot of missing Europeans probably. Could have been Australian or American as well.’

  ‘Have a look at shirt manufacturers and trousers, log them all for me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Morten said as he knelt. A quick look, and he said, ‘Marks and Spencers. British.’ Next came, ‘German. Looks French. British again, German or maybe Dutch.’

  ‘So a mixed bag,’ I noted. ‘But there is a Foreign Office list, people who went missing here during the civil war. That’s a place to start.’

  ‘And did all these people get replaced by spies?’ Abrahams floated.

  ‘If they did, then we have some arrests to make,’ I quipped. ‘Oh, teeth fillings. Expensive or basic?’

  ‘A mix,’ Morten told me. ‘One was gold, so he could have been South African.’

  Up top, I called David Finch. ‘We found a basement for the building, plus an escapee tunnel, plus twenty bodies – all Europeans.’

  ‘Oh gawd. More sleeper agents maybe. Any IDs.’

  ‘None, they were taken. Some are British, rest are European.’

  ‘Mine workers are often a mixed bunch, yes.’

  ‘Get the FCO list for missing peoples, and get the relevant people down here fast.’

  ‘I’ll make a call now, the families of the missing will be screaming at the FCO soon enough.’

  Thinking, I had Max put the story on Reuters straight away, listing twenty European bodies. Maybe someone in the bank would be crapping himself, some grey-haired assassin wondering what evidence he left behind all those years ago.

  A shout, and I ran, rifle ready, men following, but it was not a rebel patrol, it was a muddy Engineer holding up a muddy old wallet.

  ‘We found a bunch of items, sir.’

  He led me to the spot, some fifteen yards from the tunnel exit, another engineer digging away, a rusted old .22 revolver unearthed with plastic and faded paper IDs.

  I held up a laminated ID, a quarter of it destroyed by water, but the name was clear; Roger Alison. And we had a Roger Alison sat in the JIC. I called David Finch. ‘Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Roger Alison, dob 11/2/1948, Hinkley, Gloucester.’

  ‘Dear … god.’

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, and Mister Kitson has been observing him, the lady picked up and framed, but she’s not talking.’

  ‘Go tell him we just found his dead body. I’d love to see the look on his face.’

  Ten minutes later I studied a German ID, and called SIS and gave the detail. And waited.

  ‘He’s … the German Defence Minister.’

  I laughed. ‘Update David Finch.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘I’m stood over his dead body, it’s been here twenty years.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Germans won’t be pleased.’

  ‘Day ain’t over yet, a few others won’t be pleased either.’

  The only other ID that was not ruined was British, Charles Kennedy. We had a politician of that name, but the politician was too young to be this guy. Our dead guy would be … sixty three now.

  I called SIS. ‘Run a name, Charles Kennedy, dob 13/12/1952.’

  ‘Hold on … Irish gentleman … was Ireland’s Minister for energy, now sits on the European Commission.’

  ‘Update David Finch, please. Tell him that Mister Kennedy is not feeling himself today.’

  I called Bob Staines and gave him the detail. ‘See what you can find out about him, links to the bank.’

  Bob called me back an hour later, as the sun hung low on the horizon. ‘He died yesterday, car accident.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  I called Tinker. ‘Listen, Irish man, European Commissioner, Charles Kennedy, died yesterday. Add him to the list, he was a sleeper agent. See what links he had to the bank.’

  ‘That names sounds familiar, I’ll have a look. But if he was a sleeper agent, who was he working for, and who was he spying on?’

  ‘All good questions. When you have some good answers, call me.’

  Call cut, my phone trilled, number withheld. ‘Here we go.’ I hit the green button. ‘Home for fallen women. Are you picking up or dropping off?’

  I could hear Miller laughing. ‘Picking up most likely.’

  ‘How’s life Stateside?’

  ‘I have files on top of files, but I just saw Reuters. More sleeper agents?’

  ‘Looks that way, but they were very sloppy, real sloppy, so I’m puzzled.’

  ‘We all use sub-contractors, and sometimes those men make mistakes, cut corners. Hard to get good help.’

  ‘That I can understand, yes.’

  ‘How, exactly, were they sloppy?’

  ‘Bodies left to be found, IDs buried under six inches of muddy soil.’

  ‘Yeah, that is sloppy, but maybe the guy had a time constraint, rebel soldiers nearby.’

  ‘He could just as easily have burnt the IDs.’

  ‘Maybe he needed to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Were you ever a field agent?’

  ‘Hell no, I study trends and make plans. You’d not see me in a jungle.’

  ‘So what can I help you with today?’

  ‘Prince Kalid of Oman visited Monrovia. I just wanted to cut a long process short and get it from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘The short version is … Doctor Abrahams, Indian Jones lookalike, came down here in 1977, to this area, got killed and buried, blood diamond hidden in his sock, diamond as big as your thumb.’

  ‘Shit, that would be worth a lot, enough to kill for.’

  ‘And he was killed for it, or maybe to silence him about something else. His daughter is here, and with her help I found an ancient tribal site, eight more diamonds, all bigger.’

  ‘Shit … that’s a lot of money, Buddy. What’ll do with them?’

  ‘I gave one to the President here, the rest to Prince Kalid. He’ll cut them, and then buy extra weapons from British Aerospace.’

  ‘That’s … odd. A sane man would have gone to live on an island in the Caribbean, after buying that island and shipping in two hundred hookers.’

  ‘I’m not driven by money. And, finally, Prince Kalid will help and assist the President of Liberia with oil and mining, and we have the old NordGas survey of where the various ores can be found. Their original plan has them building a hydroelectric dam, roads, the works, a long term strategy to pump the oil.’

  ‘Busy little bees, weren’t they.’

  ‘And the senator, a heart attack?’ I nudged.

  ‘His heart attack was nothing to do with us, but it will save some embarrassment, as well as open up a marginal democrat seat.’

  ‘Two birds with one poison,’ I quipped.

  ‘More efficient that way. But finally, we have some signals intel for you, your place in Liberia mentioned, Russian bad boys.’

  ‘Russians, eh. I’ll hide my vodka.’
>
  He laughed. ‘They’re in Conakry, Guinea.’

  ‘Ah, that dovetails nicely.’

  ‘You knew about them?’

  ‘Yes, but we figured them remnants of the bank.’

  ‘No link to the bank as far as we know.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll see on Reuters later, German Defence Minister .’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m stood over his rotting corpse, his zombie alive and well in Berlin.’

  ‘Shit, another one?’

  ‘Twenty more.’

  After a pause came, ‘Twenty!’

  ‘Yes. You know who they are?’

  ‘What we know … is who they were recruited by, and he was killed by the CIA twelve years back. It was an old CIA programme shut down in 1974 that got re-opened with private sector money and some of the original CIA players.’

  ‘Any politics involved?’

  ‘If there is we can’t see it. On the surface of it, it looks like oil and money, nothing more.’

  ‘And NordGas..?’ I nudged.

  ‘Don’t seem to be linked, other than the close association of oil - and the bank’s keen desire to break some laws. But the bank was not interested in oil then. And they never placed sleeper agents, had no need. How’s Rene Bastion?’

  ‘They’re feeding him cocaine, and he’s talking. Probably with a smile on his face.’

  ‘We have some loose ends, so tell me what he says.’

  ‘Don’t forget, I am loyal servant of the Crown.’

  ‘Ha, you do your own thing.’

  Just after dark a Chinook set down, its lights on, but finding a huge white open-cast mine would not have been hard for the pilots. Out walked a dozen men, most wearing beige utility waistcoats, bags lugged.

  I found them rooms, and offered some of them comfy beds, others would get camp beds or rubber mats. Morten and his team had set-up tents at the far end of the runway, but I would not allow them to be there after dark, so the medics were now cooking for everyone. Fortunately, most of the soldiers were out on patrol.

  Doctor Abrahams briefed the new arrivals on what she knew, and what she had found, our guests being a mix of British and American doctors or forensic experts, some UN, two Red Cross, some of the men from a private company paid by the UN.

  After food a few men wanted a look, so they donned masks and gloves and headed down to our basement – a guard posted on the entrance.

  Salome walked in with a 14 Intel patrol, Ginger with her, as I sat in the HQ room.

  ‘Any wounded?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Ginger responded. ‘We found some dead bodies, killed three men wandering around a few miles northeast.’

  ‘And how was our Israeli guest in the bush?’ I asked Ginger, loud enough for Salome to hear. She turned, but said nothing.

  ‘She’s a good operator, quiet in the bush, reads the ground.’

  ‘And who had command?’

  ‘I suggested that the major take point, and command.’

  ‘And did you feel … safe with her decisions?’ I pressed.

  ‘No different to anyone else, no mistakes.’

  ‘Good,’ I told him, facing her. She shrugged a shoulder and queued for some food.

  Doctor Abrahams had observed the whole thing. She whispered, ‘What’s the issue with her?’

  ‘Attitude, born out of being an Israeli.’

  ‘I’ve been on many digs there, and they are difficult, yes. She’s … very pretty, slim.’

  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘I never noticed.’

  ‘Ha,’ she coughed out.

  Rifle up, kit on, I walked out past Doctor Abrahams, but squeezed a boob unseen as I did. She did not react, nor scream at me.

  In the morning the work began, that of moving the bodies and performing the stage one forensic tests, obvious signs and indicators at surface level. In this case, we had a group of people shot dead, two shot in the back. One man had been shot three times, not willing to go quietly it seemed.

  From the tunnel they removed bodies as the Engineers continued to fix our runway, the keen local labourers back with us, a great deal of concrete to sweep. The Engineers would be seen to lay down, peer at something then chip away, a few holes filled with cement, but otherwise the runway was reported to be in good condition.

  From the tunnel came the body of a woman, our only female victim so far. Morten had a look at her remains, and came and found me, and not with his happy face on. He took me to one side. ‘She was pregnant, and stabbed repeatedly in the stomach.’

  ‘That’s a crime of passion, and that helps us, because the child was not his – not the killers, but she may have been his wife and cheating. How old was the foetus?’

  ‘Three months I’d say.’

  ‘So she would have known. That could help us track down our killer. Any knife found?’

  ‘No, nothing down there.’

  ‘No knife found yet up top?’

  ‘They’re widening the search.’

  ‘Take your mind off it, go do some hearts and minds.’

  He nodded, and sloped off.

  An hour later a Puma dropped off a water pump, hopefully the right size, plus two petrol generators, wires and bulbs conveniently included. We were starting to look organised. I had the generators rigged up outside, near the main HQ room, and after a few trial and error attempts – one nurse given an electric shock and issuing a loud scream, we had bright lights in the HQ room.

  The Engineers fitted the pump, got it going – it had a petrol engine, but water was not forthcoming.

  The major told me, ‘It’s getting a vacuum, so it’s blocked at the other end. We’ll need to dig it out.’

  I nodded. ‘Take some armed men, post sentries. Tell Mister Haines where you’ll be.’

  Back inside, I had a look at the satellite images, the forensic team having been looking at them, areas cut in quadrants around the mine. One of the doctors pointed out a square, and there were no squares in nature.

  Estimating the distance and bearing, I rallied Henri and Sambo, plus a few Wolves that had been sat around doing nothing. We plodded off northwest, radio contact made with Haines as we approached the treeline. I found a track and used it, first north then west and down a gradient, and forty minutes of hot wet jungle brought us to roughly the right spot.

  I pointed at a Wolf. ‘Drop your kit, get up that tree, look for a square, don’t break you neck.’

  Kit off, he started up as men sat on logs and sipped water. I scanned the area, seeing nothing square, the moist green leaves blocking my view. Our Wolf saw nothing, so ventured higher. He finally shouted, and pointed due west.

  I waited for him to get down via the vines, and for him to grab his kit before we plodded slowly west, and I found the concrete square by accidentally kicking it. ‘OK, clear away the dirt!’ I shouted, and started to kick away the loose topsoil, a large spider disturbed.

  Wolves grabbed branches and cleared away the topsoil and the small bushes, some bushes uprooted and launched into the forest. Soon we had a concrete square some three metres wide, and a metal hatch. In it sat a rusted old padlock, a hefty one.

  Backing away, waving men away, I told Henri to shoot it. He made four attempts, finally breaking the hatch ring and not the lock. With the old padlock tossed away we eased up the brown-rusted hatch, a Wolf getting his torch in for a look, no booby traps seen, no wires dangling.

  Hatch fully back – its underside covered in grey cobwebs, we peered down a deep concrete silo, the silo as wide as the concrete roof. Selecting the smallest man, kit off, we tied a green chord to his belt and he started down.

  ‘Ladder is solid,’ echoed back up. Five minutes later he started back up. In the daylight he reported, ‘Tunnel goes towards the building I think, and the other way towards the river – I could hear water.’

  ‘What kind of tunnel?’

  ‘Ten feet high, rocks chipped away, rail tracks, some old kit.’

  ‘Get back down there, torch on, ex
plore both ways without getting killed or trapped or … creating paperwork for me.’ I sent a second Wolf down, for safety, as the animals of the forest shrieked, disturbed by our presence.

  We waited, eyes on the trees, radio contact made after the Wolves had trekked towards the river then back. They found it flooded at that end, so headed the other way.

  Back to the start after fifteen minutes, they began their climb back up, faces shining as they hit daylight.

  A Wolf handed me a rock. ‘Lots of that stuff down there, Boss,’ he panted out. ‘No skeletons though. Goes in a long way and splits, some old equipment.’

  I put the odd grey rock in my leg pocket. Second Wolf out safely, the hatch down with a bang loud enough to launch birds from the trees, and we headed back up, alert as if on patrol – a very non-stealthy loud patrol. I made radio contact with Haines before we broke through the tree line, soon kicking up white dust.

  Wiping my brow, I closed in on the Engineers major, his pump sat at the northwest corner of the building. Rock out, I asked, ‘Know what that is?’

  ‘Looks like uranium ore.’

  My eyebrows went up. ‘Radioactive?’

  ‘In a small way, yes.’

  ‘Common around here?’

  ‘There are mines at this African latitude, yes, like Niger, and Namibia has uranium mines.’

  ‘Valuable? Other than for making bombs?’

  ‘Depends on the density.’

  I handed him the rock. ‘Look after that, put it somewhere safe.’ Phone out, I called David Finch. ‘It’s me. Send me a mining expert, one who knows all about uranium.’

  ‘Uranium! Where the hell did the uranium link come into this?’

  ‘There’s a hidden mine, and the Engineers major says the rock is uranium.’

  ‘Bloody hell, they were mining uranium? They’d need the cooperation of a nuclear state!’

  ‘Such as … France?’

  ‘Yes, but France gets it uranium from Namibia and Niger, has done for decades, doesn’t need a secret mine.’

  ‘Maybe it was not secret, just not advertised.’

  ‘We’d know, because all uranium mines are subject to international treaty and inspection.’