by Geoff Wolak
Near the mine I found Doctor Abrahams. ‘I’m leaving. Are you hanging around?’
‘It’s a big mine to survey, and if I can find someone’s family I’d like to.’
‘I’ll contact you when I’m next back in the UK, for that expensive dinner you promised me. We can meet in Oxford at your father’s place, it’s close by.’
‘In which case I’ll cook,’ she said with a smile.
‘If it’s chicken, I like the breasts.’
She cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Up north, to cause some trouble.’
‘You stay safe, I need you alive for that novel. I’ve already penned an outline.’
‘Does the lady that gets rescued have a big pair?’ I teased.
‘She’ll … have a fuller figure and won’t be a skinny model type. The readers will associate with that.’
‘I look forwards to the first draft of a novel designed for fat bored housewives.’
An hour later my Chinook loudly announced its arrival, and we had pinched away much fresh fruit and tins, as well as Gerry cans of water. The men walked aboard as I stood directing them, all laden with extra ammo and many carrying odd items. Monster had pinched a camp bed, now folded up, Rizzo had three green mats, and Swifty had ten tins of pears.
Men aboard and head-counted, one lady present, our ride rolled down the runway and lifted up, nose down and arse end up as we gained speed, soon skimming over the lush green foliage as we headed north and then northwest.
After thirty minutes we sighted our new home, a long and isolated runway some twenty miles north of Kankan. Down and out, the Chinook powering off, we took in the nearby foothills, those hills at least two miles away from this strip, not much in the way of trees around us, and those trees that did grow around here were stunted; this was semi-dry sandy soil, not far from the border with Mali to the north.
An old concrete air traffic control tower with no glass greeted us, the building having been used for target practise, nothing else here save a rusted old car turned brown.
I led the men across to the tower, sending Tomo, Swan and Nicholson up to the roof to set a stag, the rest of us dumping kit outside the building; it would need a sweep-up first. I shouted at the teams, and they started to drag out litter, branches, a dead cow, branches used to sweep the floors.
With some rooms habitable we dumped the supplies inside.
‘Slider, take seven men, go east a mile, then go all the way around looking for tracks. Move off when ready.’
Peering east, the runway running more or less north to south, I shouted, ‘Robby, your men plus Sasha and his boys, those trees, dig in facing out, get comfy. It does rain here. Check radios.’
After a radio check, a Gerry can pinched, they walked east four hundred yards. I climbed up to my snipers.
‘Nothing here, Boss,’ Tomo complained. ‘What we shooting at?’
‘South is the access road, and GCHQ had a signals hit on that road, so someone is using this strip now and then, dodgy cargo.’
Peering east, I could now see men in the trees and rigging up flysheets. The trees offered green foliage at the top, the dirt here a dark brown, some grass growing. But out to the foothills in all directions I could see nothing, no farms or houses. Across the runway I could see natural ditches, not man made.
I called SIS as I stood there. ‘It’s Wilco. Update all interested parties, I’ve inserted to a deserted airfield twenty miles north of Kankan, Guinea, close to the border with Mali. The area is deserted, no hostiles so far. Update Freetown and GL4 for re-supply here. Wilco out.’
Phone away, Nicholson noted, ‘Snipers paradise, this. No one will get close.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ I told him. ‘Rotate it, get a brew on, could be days before someone shows up.’
Back down below I found a swept floor, Monster setting up his camp bed, Rizzo with his green mats, Swifty sat cross-legged and getting a brew on. I sat next to him, Parker and Ginger at my elbows.
‘What’s the plan?’ Ginger asked as he started to cook.
‘We wait. Intel says they use this strip, maybe for valuable cargo, so we’ll pinch it away. And, after we do, they’ll know we’re here and come bomb the shit out of this place.’
They looked up.
‘Who’s they?’ Ginger asked.
‘That’s the sixty-four million dollar question. Who’s still pissing about down here? I thought I had dealt with them all.’ I lifted my head. ‘Rizzo, after chow, rally ten men and walk down that runway, remove stones, we may need a Hercules to come fetch wounded.’
He nodded.
An hour later the second Chinook touched down, the Wolves walking out – Max in tow, his heavy kit lugged,
‘Max, did I invite you?’
‘I figured you’d not mind.’
‘More going on back at that mine than here.’
‘Bollocks, where you go trouble follows.’ He walked inside.
I had the Wolves drop the supplies they were carrying, the building not big enough for everyone. ‘Form up in the same teams as your inserts yesterday! Instructors, move inside,’ I shouted, and men formed up into lines.
‘Any wounds I need to worry about?’
They were OK.
‘You all got fresh rations and water?’
They did.
‘Ammo levels OK?’
They were.
‘OK, Robby and Sasha are in the trees over there.’ I pointed. ‘Slider is out walking around this place, so don’t shoot at him, because he gets grumpy. Right, this runway is almost north to south, so north is twelve o’clock. British team One, go to the two o’clock position, into the trees, dig in and get comfy. Go!’
They walked north and veered right.
‘British team Two, ten o’clock. Go!’
They also walked north, but veered left a little.
‘British team Three, eight o’clock. Go!’
They walked southwest.
‘American team One, four o’clock. Go!’
They moved southeast.
‘American team Two. Go due south down the access road till you see the highway, it’s about two miles or so. Then set an OP where you can see the highway and the access road, ideally high up and secure. Go!’
‘American team Three, go due west till you hit the hills, look for any used tracks, go up and observe the area. Go! Team Four, go due north, same deal in the hills. Team Five, due east, same deal. Team Six, stay here, find some space or rig up ponchos. Get some chow on, relax, nothing doing till the bad guys get here.’
Inside, I noticed holes in the walls, uniform and level small holes, so grabbed cord from several men and threaded the holes, soon tying off ponchos. Swifty tried a hammock when it was ready.
‘Comfy,’ he noted.
With eight hammocks set, green mats underneath, we could squeeze more men in.
At 3pm two Chinooks roared in and landed, 2 Squadron walking off with heavy backpacks, tents carried, Gerry cans lugged. From the second Chinook came the medics, tents lugged or dragged, one jeep driven off with a bogey in tow, that bogey stacked high with goodies – including spades that I had asked for, and pickaxes.
With the supplies dumped down, the Chinooks roaring away, I waved them all over. ‘Mister Haines, Sergeant, in the building. I want one GPMG up on the roof. I want trenches dug between here and the runway, GPMGs in them covering the runway, rotation set up. I want ponchos over the trenches, so make a happy home.
‘Medics, set up your tents on the dirt behind the building, but I also want a slit trench dug for you to hide in should we be attacked here. Move out, people!’
Half an hour later I observed as men with shirts off hacked at the soft sandy soil with pickaxes, trenches being made quickly. Monster helped the medics start their trench as two tents were raised and occupied behind the ATC building.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s American team Two, sir, and we found twelve bodies, local blacks, all got a round t
o the back of the head.’
‘Stay there, jeep coming down soon.’ I walked around to the Medics. ‘Mister Morten, we found some bodies, so take the jeep and an armed man, go take a look down the south access road, look for the American Wolves – don’t go as far as the highway.’
He grabbed a fellow doctor, some kit, and mounted the jeep, that jeep driven by a 2 Squadron lad. They sped south.
‘Bodies?’ Swifty asked.
‘Someone killed twelve blacks, so … the blacks helped move some cargo and got silenced.’
‘So we’re in the right spot then,’ he noted. ‘Unless they have strange union rules around here; late paying your union dues, bullet to the back of the head.’
‘It’s the right spot, yeah, but if they don’t have a shipment for a month…’
‘We’ll get a tan.’
Morten drove back as it got dark. Stepping down, he reported, ‘All shot in the back of the head, twelve of them. Teeth suggest they were better off than most, clothes were good, boots, so they were not your village peasants by any means.
‘Two of them had dollars hidden in their socks, so I checked all the socks, one had a letter for his wife.’ He handed it over. ‘It’s in English, and seems to express his doubts about his employers. Since they shot him, he was right about them.’
‘Thanks, Doc. Go back at first light, look for any other evidence scattered around.’
He nodded and headed in. I called SIS. ‘Track a woman, Hope Sarah Oballango, 24 Square Gardens, Tambacounda, Senegal. Have someone question her as to where her husband is, who she thinks he was working for, and quickly please. Grab any letters sent home from him. And if she asks … his rotting corpse is here.’
At 9pm, men sat around in the dark and chatting, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘Duty Officer. We checked with the embassy in Senegal and they checked with the security police, and that man was one of theirs, a spy. They lost four men when this chap was lost.’
‘They can collect the bodies from here if they like, arrange a plane, good runway here. But try and find out what they were working on.’
Off the phone I said, ‘The bodies at the south end, some were spies for the government of Senegal, so … the plot thickens.’
‘Something dodgy going on,’ Swifty noted. ‘More than just fake trainers and stolen Sony Walkmans coming in by plane.’
In the morning I took a lonely piss at 6am, finding a very quiet runway, 2 Squadron men on stag, everyone else sleeping.
After breakfast I had Slider grab men to dig a slit trench for us near the ATC, in case we were attacked. The ATC building was an easy target, sat isolated.
My phone trilled at 9.15am, as men dug a trench. ‘It’s Wolf Brigson, sir, and we got a hot-rod souped-up car heading your way.’
‘A hot rod? Oh, OK.’ I stepped to the edge of the ATC building and peered south, soon seeing a car tearing up the runway.
‘That’s a classic Mustang,’ Mitch noted. ‘In good condition by the sound of that engine.’
The car sped up the runway till the driver saw us. He slowed and turned towards us, a black driver. Showing no fear, he pulled up in front of me, his engine growling till he cut the power. Easing out, he was smartly dressed and perhaps forty years old, a little overweight.
He took in the 2 Squadron men with a frown, and our snipers.
‘67 Mustang Corvette,’ Mitch noted. ‘You’ve replaced the shocks.’
‘You are ... American army?’ the man puzzled.
‘British Army,’ I informed the man. ‘I’m Major Wilco.’
‘Wilco, the man of many stories in the newspapers. What are you doing here?’
I ignored his question. ‘Nice car, you must be doing well.’
He proudly stated, ‘This is my highway. I have petrol stations, garages, lorry parks, hotels, cafes, and hospitality for the drivers – beer and women. I am Fred. Short for Fredanto.’
‘With such businesses,’ I began, looking over the car, ‘you would have an ear for the gossip, and the indiscretions.’
‘Indeed I do.’ He waited.
I pulled out a wad of euros, his eyes widening. I handed him a 500euro note. ‘For your petrol. And if you know something useful to me, there is much more where that came from.’
He examined the note and pocketed it as the lads admired his ride. ‘A month ago, more, a man came, white man called Leon.’ My eyes widened. ‘He met with General Kibili.’
‘General Kibili is dead, I killed him.’
‘You were in the capital, yes,’ he acknowledged with a nod.
‘And Leon was … Russian, fat and bald?’
‘You are indeed a well-informed man.’
I handed him two notes. ‘What else do you know?’
‘They met with a third man, scars on his face. I am not sure from which country he came, a white man with darker skin.’
‘Describe the scars.’
‘As if someone played noughts and crosses on his face.’
‘Interesting.’ I handed him two more notes. ‘This runway is used by smugglers?’
‘Yes, often. I sometimes have to drive away fast, but they know my car and leave me alone. I look after their needs.’
‘Their needs?’ I pressed.
‘Beer, food, girls.’ He raised a finger. ‘I will not touch weapons, drugs or blood diamonds.’
‘And what do these men smuggle?’
‘Weapons, drugs and blood diamonds,’ he stated, as if I was stupid.
‘And who controls the smugglers?’
‘Ah, they would kill me if I talk.’
I started to count out from the wad, getting to twenty thousand euro, where I stopped. I waited.
‘The man in charge never comes here, only once I think, French man, Mupont. They say he lives in Algiers.’
I handed over the money. ‘If the information is no good, I know where to find you. And if you have any more information, call me.’ I wrote down my sat phone number and handed it over. ‘You could make a million, for the right information.’
‘A million?’
I could see his grey matter firing away.
‘I will make some calls.’ He jumped into his ride, reversed back and tore off.
Mitch put in, ‘What if he warns them about us?’
‘Then they attack - and we kill them. Otherwise, we go home.’ I stepped away and called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco. Trace a French man in Algiers, dark skin, name of Mupont, smuggling goods in Guinea – has a face crossed by scars. Update David Finch that Ludwig was in contact with General Kibili in Conakry, a meeting a month ago.’
David called me back as the sun rose higher, men digging our slit trench in turns. ‘If Ludwig met with General Kibili, and Kibili was the bank’s choice as heir and successor in Guinea, then Ludwig was more than just someone on the fringes.’
‘Agreed. So we need to dig more. Let me make a call and get back to you.’
I called The Banker. ‘It’s Wilco.’
‘Ah, Ludwig is on a slow boat to Cyprus. Should be at the airport midday tomorrow.’
‘Are they questioning him as they travel?’
‘He was found drugged up and out of it, so as soon as he is cold turkey they can start.’
‘I’ll arrange a plane.’
My next call was Prince Kalid, a plane to arrange, a large fat man to see hanging from a rope – then shot.
I called back David Finch. ‘Ludwig is on his way to Oman via Cyprus.’
‘Well I don’t think he’ll like the hospitality shown there.’
‘No, but he will talk.’
‘Then we await some answers. And this Mupont chap?’
‘With a bit of luck he’ll land his plane right in front of me. GCHQ got a phone hit near here, a phone used in Sierra Leone two years back, Liberia, Senegal, and linked to some bad people.’
‘Could be a gang boss, yes, smuggling weapons in return for blood diamonds.’
‘Perhaps best if you don’t ask the Frenc
h about him, you never know.’
‘OK, I’ll be cautious in the investigation.’
Doctor Morten drove back in, stepped down and wiped his brow. From his pocket he produced a silver cigarette holder. ‘Worth a few quid, vintage, real silver, and inside -’ He opened it. ‘- it says, to Richard Devauden, a fine son and heir. Cigarettes are Player King Size, which my dad liked. They stopped in 1980 I think.’
‘Mister Morten, I’ll make a detective out of you yet.’
‘I’m going to do a course in forensic pathology, might come in handy.’
I called Tinker as I held the silver case, rubbing dirt off it with a thumb. ‘Listen, trace a Richard Devauden, father and son, I think they have money. Do it on the quiet, and any links to the bank.’
‘OK, I’ll make a start.’
With my kit off, trousers down, Morten had a look at my legs, happy with the stitches, which could come out soon. Sasha was also ready to go, Rizzo’s arm needing more time.
By sundown we had done little more than dig trenches, sit around and eat, but at least we were a long way from the French-Canadian team and a base that was now full of civilians – and probably full of spies.
At 8pm Tinker was back on. ‘Richard Devauden the younger, father is now dead, owns a lot of land near the Welsh border. He was a Guards Officer, SAS for two years back in 1976, then a private security firm which no longer exists, then - wait for it – he went to work with Lloyds of London, a private firm that runs syndicates, and syndicates organise insurance risks, it’s not Lloyds that pays out on risky ventures.’
‘Is he still doing that?’
‘Yes, now fifty eight years old I think.’
‘Send a note to Mister Kitson, to have a good look at him. Tell Mister Kitson that our friend was in Guinea, in the vicinity of smugglers linked to the bad boys down here and indirectly linked to the bank.’
‘I’ll pass a note now.’
My phone trilled at 10pm, as I sat on the roof, feet dangling, a nice cool breeze and no mosquitoes. ‘It is Fred.’
‘Hey Fred, what news?’
‘There is a white man getting drunk with some of my girls. I gave him a little something extra.’
‘Good work. Russian?’