Wilco- Lone Wolf 16

by Geoff Wolak

  I loudly told him, ‘Open your jacket with your left hand!’

  He glanced at me again, surprised, then back to the judge, his hand reaching for a pistol, but I waited, I wanted to be sure. Since my pistol was aimed at his head I had the drop on him, and from the corner of my eye I could see Pete with his pistol aimed at the man.

  He went for it, whilst not taking his eyes off the judge, my two rounds knocking his head back and splattering blood up the wall as screams went up. But there had been three shots fired. I ignored the melee around me, reached over a picked up a revolver, easing it from the man’s lifeless hands.

  Turning to the right, I walked to the podium as armed police came in – the police confused as to what to do, and I placed down the pistol as the judge peered up and over the podium from where he was hidden. His eyes went to the revolver.

  ‘You might want to review security here. I’ll be back when you do.’ I pointed up at a hole in the wall. ‘Bit of polyfilla and some paint and that will be good as new.’ His eyes moved to the hole in the wall above his seat.

  I led Pete out, a nod at Max, and picked up David’s stunned assistant as we walked left down the same corridor.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ David’s assistant gasped, glancing back.

  ‘Hired assassin, but he was not there for me.’

  ‘Not for you…’

  In the basement we reclaimed the vans, and as we pulled off Pete started laughing loudly. He finally turned to me. ‘Thirty seconds, and you shoot up the fucking courtroom and delay the proceedings. I can’t wait to see the news. Don’t take this this the wrong way, Boss, but it’s fucking great working for you.’

  I shot him a peeved look.

  In light rain we drove to Vauxhall and parked, people glancing at me as we headed for the Director’s office, even more so than usual. She was on the phone as I entered. David stood up, his arms wide, and he let them fall, a sigh issue. He slumped back into his seat.

  ‘Got the kettle on?’ I asked, and he lifted a phone.

  The Director finished her call, came around and sat, letting out a long exasperated sigh. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Man with a pistol, I clocked him. Not least because he had black rotten teeth and brown finger ends.’

  ‘Rotten teeth?’ the Director repeated. ‘Some of our reporters are a bit rough, but they have dentists at least.’

  ‘He wasn’t there for me,’ I told her. I faced David. ‘Go all out, find out what Lord Cohen was mixed up in, and trace the shooter. Someone got that man a good fake ID, and someone handed him a revolver after he went through the metal detectors. Check the CCTV from the corridors.’

  He got on the phone.

  I faced the Director. ‘Still some people out there, in the establishment. Game is not over yet. And if they wanted Lord Cohen dead then poison and a heart attack would have done it, or a man with a gun outside his house. Someone … wanted a loud and bloody message sent. And that shooter would have been killed afterwards by the armed police.’

  She nodded. ‘The hearing will be delayed, not least because there’ll be an enquiry into this enquiry, the security, and the body.’

  Tea and coffee delivered, and biscuits, David began, ‘We got a letter from Oman, secure ambassadorial delivery. It details what Maddocks gave up. One arrest, three investigations for Mister Kitson, some new ideas, and we’ve tied in Jeremy Michaels.

  ‘We also have a company in Africa, Westman Security, so we’re looking at them. They operate in Nigeria and Ivory Coast. Mostly, Maddocks was up to no good for Bob Littlewood, and other dead individuals.’

  ‘Any gold?’

  ‘Yes, but we lost it down the back of the sofa,’ David confirmed.

  ‘Always the first place you look when you lose something, back of the sofa,’ I quipped. ‘And Tutger Kruger?’

  ‘Is on the run, not least because the FBI listed him as their most wanted. Home in Belgium was cleaned out, family disappeared.’

  The Director put in, ‘Your doppleganger is still not talking – in any language, which annoyed the judge greatly. The man is on indefinite remand. And his plastic surgery was valued at half a million, so someone went to a great deal of trouble to discredit you.’

  I puzzled that. ‘For that kind of money they could get ten good assassins. Why so much effort? Unless…’

  ‘Unless … what?’ she pressed.

  ‘Americans are making films and documentaries, I’m mentioned. If I get discredited the films cannot be shown, ever.’

  ‘So whoever it is … they’re not CIA or Deep State,’ David firmly stated. ‘Nor Pentagon, so we have that at least.’

  ‘So who, with money, would want to piss of the Yanks?’ I thought out loud.

  ‘I’d say Russia,’ David began, ‘but they don’t have half a million to play with. The bank?’

  I tipped my eyebrows. ‘The bank has less than the Russians to play with right now!’

  ‘What about Jeremy Michaels?’ the Director posed. ‘Now listed as just about the richest man in this country, inheriting all of his father’s wealth.’

  ‘And mad at me,’ I put in. ‘But my double would have taken a long time to find, a lot of surgery, so the project started a few years back.’

  ‘Could have been the bank then,’ David noted. ‘Someone else took over. Or a chance meeting. Someone who knew your real identity met a man in a bar and offered him a great deal of money.’

  I nodded. ‘Could be, yes.’

  Back at GL4 there was a package for me, but paper - and no bomb inside. What I found was a series of statements from witnesses, stating that Lord Michaels had wanted Princess Diana killed. It was time to upset Jeremy Michaels, as well as Lord Michaels widow. I invited down Max, as well as the guy from The Telegraph I had met.

  At 5pm they arrived, and I led them to side room, three boards on easels set up, the witness statements on a table. The boards detailed the links between Lord Michaels, the security firms, and attacks in West Africa, names and dates, share holdings, a great deal of information from Tinker and Reggie.

  ‘Guys, I have something to do. You two sit here for a while, and … don’t pinch secret information, that’s naughty.’

  I left them glancing at the boards, and both drove off half an hour later without saying goodbye.

  The news that evening had nothing but my court room incident, the lads in the canteen all laughing. Later, in the recreational sheds, the Wolves were discussing it.

  In the morning the shit hit the fan, and knocked the fan clean over, a BBC crew heading for GL4. The Brigadier was nervous as I donned my facemask and stood in front of the tanks, a great backdrop for any interview.

  I held up a hand to the TV crew. ‘I will make a statement.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘I have seen what has been published in various papers today, and the information detailed about Lord Michaels is accurate and correct as far as I know.

  ‘When I met with the former head of the French DGSE, the man that was murdered, we discussed Lord Michaels and his conspirators, and the French knew that Lord Michaels had been behind the attempt to blackmail the Royal Family over the Diana murder plot.

  ‘To the best of my knowledge - and I have been warned off discussing the matter - Lord Michaels and his son Jeremy openly and publically spoke of having Princess Diana killed, and the French knew of his links to corrupt men inside Mi5.

  ‘The CIA were also investigating Lord Michaels involvement in plots to kill British, French and American servicemen in Liberia and Sierra Leone. They believed that Lord Michaels owned several security companies that were active in West Africa, and that those companies were directly implicated in attacks on British servicemen. Lord Michaels had interests in mines and oil, and wanted access to lawless Liberia.

  ‘We also know that his security companies were actively trading in blood diamonds, to make cash and to use it to fund coups in Africa. The evidence suggests that the British Army putting down the coup in Liberia were fighting against me
n paid for by Lord Michaels and his associates.

  ‘The families of servicemen killed in Liberia have a claim against the Lord Michaels estate for compensation, and the people of this nation need to query how a man with the blood of British soldiers on his hands became a lord. Sorry, but I cannot take questions at this time.’

  I jumped into a jeep with MP Pete and returned to the hangar. Jumping down, my phone trilled quietly; I had turned down the volume.

  ‘It’s David, and the man you shot in the court room could normally be found on a park bench in Watford, drunk and drugged up. His name was Peter, most common known as Birdie by his fellow drunks.

  ‘He was illiterate, had learning difficulties, and had been in and out of mental hospitals all his life, so it begs the question as to how he got from a park bench to that courtroom with a revolver in his hand, a good fake Press ID, and got himself on the invited guests list.’

  ‘It’s a bleeding mystery, ain’t it,’ I quipped. ‘And Lord Cohen?’

  ‘Has some links to Lord Michaels, yes, but has no financial ties to anything we can see.’

  ‘Could Lord Cohen have been put under pressure to stitch me up, and said no.’

  ‘That is a possibility.’

  ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘Just the police so far, not the Press.’

  ‘I’m on my way up, get me Lord Cohen’s address and some SO13 guys.’

  I told MP Pete to get his car, and to get in civvy clothes. I would do likewise – just as soon as that TV crew left us.

  We drove up in the rain, but made good time, soon to the back of the MOD building as it grew dark, vans met, SO13 guys in with us, and three vans drove off to north London, to a posh suburb. I just hoped he was in.

  Pulling up outside the large house, I had two SO13 guys follow me with Pete. I rang the bell and waited.

  Lord Cohen opened the door, tea towel in hand. ‘Major Wilco!

  I shoved him back as I entered. ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded as I walked in, and into his dining room. He had several guests around a large table, none of them known to me.

  ‘Evening all, I’m Major Wilco.’

  Lord Cohen appeared behind me. ‘What are you doing in my home?’ he demanded.

  I turned to face him. ‘Well, here’s the thing,’ I quipped. ‘We identified the man in your courtroom with the pistol. They called him Birdie, and you could normally find him on a park bench up in Watford, with the rest of the homeless drunks.

  ‘So it begs the question as to how he got a shower and a shave, a new suit, a very good fake Press pass, how he got himself on the invited guests list, and how he got a gun past the security. Of course, the gun was handed to him after he passed through security.

  ‘He was then sat ready to kill, to kill you … Lord Cohen.’

  He stared back, still holding the tea towel as his wife asked questions, but his eyes betrayed him.

  I added, ‘Some in Intel have theories … theories that you were asked to stitch me up, but said no, hence the men wanting to kill you in a loud and public way. They could have poisoned you, a heart attack, or they could have had a man shoot you as you opened your front door.

  ‘But no, they wanted a homeless man to shoot you dead in your courtroom, and they wanted the fact that he was a homeless man found afterwards, a message.’

  I faced the puzzled guests. ‘Yet to be seen who the message was for.’

  Lord Cohen’s wife was now very worried.

  I faced my host. ‘I’ll give you till the morning to consider if your life means anything, if the lives of your family mean anything to you. I can whisk you out of the country, to a safe place, a change of identity, a life in the sun.

  ‘You may miss home, but … being alive is better than being dead, better than watching your family get slaughtered by your co-conspirators. The clock is ticking.’

  I handed him a bit of paper with the SIS switchboard number. ‘Call them if you want to live beyond the end of the week.’

  I left a stunned man being questioned by his agitated wife, and we drove back to GL4 – but via the M40 towards Oxford, so it was quick enough.

  In the morning SIS called. ‘Duty Officer here, and Lord Cohen and family are in protective custody.’

  ‘Good to know. Is he talking, or just wanting some protection?’

  ‘They say he’s going to make a sworn statement.’

  At midday David called, ‘Point One: Lord Cohen has … dropped in it … a group of senior freemasons linked to the late Lord Michaels, and that Lord Chesterton threatened him if he did not try and trick you. Lord Chesterton is being arrested as we speak, so it will be bad all round.

  ‘Point Two: The CIA have taken the very unusual step of backing your statement that Lord Michaels was under investigation in West Africa, blood diamonds and mercenaries.

  ‘Point Three: Jeremy Michaels tried to hold a press conference this morning, but was stabbed in the neck. He might not make it.’

  ‘He got the point then, eh.’

  I heard a sigh. ‘Please, stick to the soldiering.’

  ‘Is there a point four?’

  ‘Not yet, but the day is only halfway through. Oh, side point, Lord Michaels family home was attacked, and his grave.’

  ‘So Point Three “A” then, really,’ I teased.

  ‘It’s on my list as 3a, yes.’

  ‘And the Prime Minister..?’

  ‘Would rather be on a different planet. I don’t think he’s getting much work done, a sore voice from shouting.’

  Doctor Abrahams called that evening, at home in London, but said that she would stay at the family home this weekend. It sounded like an invitation to play with some large boobs, or a trick – and she would kill me for the Russians by smothering me with those large boobs.

  The base was quiet, many men off, many American Wolves heading home or in Europe, some up in London to see the sights. Rocko, Monster, Rizzo and Stretch, were on their way to Tenerife, and I hoped that they would not trash a bar down there. Swifty had packed a bag and was off to Majorca again, by himself again, German girls to shag - again.

  Two captains from 14 Intel had turned up, office space found away from my Intel team. One lived close by, the other would use a hut for now. They had files on their people, standard forms, and they spent time with Major Bradley after a tour of the base. I called David Finch and asked that the captains be checked out, extremely well checked out.

  I sat with them for an hour and briefed them on operations, training, and facilities in Africa. Since both had been with 14 Intel just a year I was happy enough.

  I was knocking out laps twice a day and using the gym, so I was getting fitter as the days passed, Smitty hanging around and often joining me, Tobo’s men running together.

  I dreaded it, but I drove home to Gloucester Wednesday daytime, finding my mum sat stony-faced, my dad talking about killing himself. And that dragged on for an hour, the old clock on the wall slicing off the seconds very slowly, and loudly. That damn old clock was taunting me.

  Leaving, I recognised a face in the street, a fat old lady. ‘You were the nurse.’

  ‘Aye, Love, that’s right. This your mum’s place?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yeah, we go way back.’

  ‘Listen, my father has cancer -’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Love.’

  ‘- and my mum is a bit down, you know.’ I pulled out the wad I had intended giving my mum – but had held off doing so. ‘I need someone to drop in an hour a day, chat to her.’

  ‘I could do that, aye, I have time now, nothing but time.’

  I handed over a thousand pounds. ‘Take her out to lunch, trips, Benidorm, anything. More where that came from.’

  She pulled a face and pocketed the money. ‘Easy enough, and there’s another old lady I look after down the road, could organise a taxi somewhere.’

  ‘Please do so, starting right now.’


  Thursday evening, 8pm, and Salome knocked on my door.

  ‘Are you lost?’ I asked.

  She walked in uninvited, looking good and smelling good. She sat and waited at my kitchen table, so I got the kettle on.

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘I … went back to Israel, argued with my father, walked out. Again. He is a general.’

  ‘A general? Do you not follow his orders like a good daughter?’

  She shot me a look. ‘He doesn’t like me doing this work.’

  I made her a black tea, some cold water added. ‘My parents never cared either way. Now, my father is sick and dying, my mother soon to be alone, and calling me often. Still, she has good neighbours, and I paid a local lady well, a retired nurse. She drops in and makes excuses to chat to my mother.’

  She cradled her tea and nodded, blowing on it and sipping. ‘You are a good son.’

  ‘If I was a good son I’d quit this and move back and help them.’

  ‘You have your life, they cannot ask that you give it up. Parents should not make demands on children, they should support them in their choices. In the ’73 war he was nearly killed, leaving my mother alone. How can he say my work is dangerous?’

  ‘You the only daughter?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He wants grandchildren. Can’t blame him. But you’re not the settling type.’

  ‘I would be terrible with kids.’

  ‘Oh, you never know, you’re OK with Tomo.’

  She laughed and spilt her tea. ‘Twice he asked me for a shag. And he calls me Luv.’ She studied me, and sipped her tea. ‘Are you good with your daughter?’

  ‘When I see her, yes, but if I was around all the time and telling her off – she’d not like me so much.’

  Salome nodded. ‘I think that Doctor Abrahams liked you.’

  ‘What’s not to like, eh? I’m famous, a hero, nice car.’

  ‘That junk car? Ha!’

  ‘You like men with nice cars, money to waste on you?’ I teased.