by Geoff Wolak
‘Did some come from ... Spectre?’ David asked with a grin.
‘It did, and Tomsk put a bomb on a plane that was going to drop chemicals on us. That plane might have killed us all.’
‘A worry, yes,’ the Director noted. ‘But we have a lead on it, and the chemical. What did Bob Staines do, exactly?’
‘He bribed Russians that The Banker put him in touch with, men close to the arms industry. He warned me about the tanks coming from Mali, and he tortured and killed an Egyptian running Arab fighters into North Africa. Next he’ll help me deal with the middle men.’
‘So it’s working well,’ the Director noted. ‘And off the books. Just that the JIC are interested in these odd sources of information.’
‘Does anyone outside this room know?’ I asked.
They exchanged looks.
‘I should hope not,’ the Director finally stated. ‘These Russian men are working well?’
‘They’re good soldiers, but Casper is a bit too keen sometimes to get in close and mix it up.’
‘A discipline worry?’ David asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘And the new British Wolves?’ she asked.
‘Four are shit hot, they could work for me, rest are good. American recruits are all solid, good men, but they lack the independent thinking. What happened to the two brain dead Wolves?’
‘On ventilators,’ David cut in. ‘They showed some improvement, but have just about been deemed brain dead, next of kin involved before the machines are switched off. It takes a while to make a final determination.’
I nodded, saddened.
‘You can absorb the remainder?’ the Director asked.
‘Yes, they’re good lads. And if they’re with me for a year they’ll get a great deal of experience of various terrains and climates.’
‘So what comes next for this grand plan of the Americans?’ Paul asked.
‘Some action in the horn of Africa, dead Arabs,’ I told them. ‘But there is an issue we’ll hit. If and when I hit the middle men and the gun runners, leaving Libintov in place, there’ll be a short-term dip in weapons supply, but the Russian Government and others are keenly offloading old stockpiles, and someone will come around. So ... do we have a policy, because we’ll never stop the flow of arms?’
‘You’re right, in that we’ll never stop the flow,’ the Director agreed. ‘We do what we can, starting with that which most directly affects these shores.’
‘Very little of it affects these shores,’ I pointed out. ‘I’ve gone looking for trouble, and got us all a good newspaper headline as a result.’
‘What do you suggest?’ David asked me.
‘Well, you know what we did with drugs...’
David cocked and eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to get us all adjoining rooms in the same cell block?’
‘This time around it could be better handled,’ I assure them. ‘We create a fake persona, in fact a few, and Bob has already got some with back stories. Someone acts as that persona, end of a phone, never a meeting. I can get the Russian Government selling weapons to him, Libintov flying the cargo, Tomsk does the money and helps out, and we control who it goes to, our friend in Liberia assisting and acting as a hub.
‘And, when needs be, we deliver doctored weapons at a generous price, kit with trackers in, or mines that go off prematurely – we’d not get the blame, I mean the arms dealer wouldn’t get the blame, the man putting in the fuse would.’
The Director blew out. ‘Would give us a huge advantage, and if the French and Americans cooperate we’d have it sewn up. And this office doesn’t need to do anything other than turn a blind eye to a few things.’
David said, ‘Create the persona, work a small arms deal, then ... we’ll see how it goes.’ All heads nodded in agreement.
Driving back, we stopped off at a service station on the M4. Stepping away from Pete I called Bob Staines. ‘Listen, we have a project, and one that will make Spectre some money. We’re going to get into the gun running business.’
‘Got the contacts, and we’re going to kill off the competition – literally.’
‘Use one of the persona’s you created, then find a Russian actor, old guy, someone who also speaks English or French, someone down on his luck, offer him good money to make phone calls. He’ll be the fake persona, he’ll work deals, I’ll talk him up with various people.
‘Go see Leon, tell him to contact the Russian I met, Steffan at the SVR, and have that man call me, but only after you have the fake persona ready, and the actor, and the actor needs to know we’ll kill him if he talks.’
‘I’ll start looking, might take a while. There is one guy, a taxi driver I met by chance, escaped Russia twenty years back, down on his luck a bit.’
‘Could be ideal. He would need a place to live nearby, and a watcher.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Arriving back at GL4, my phone trilled as we passed the gate; Bob Staines. ‘That was quick,’ I said as I stepped out the car, waving Pete off.
‘Just got a call, a two-man Russian hit team on their way to kill you.’
‘Kill me as Petrov or as Wilco?’
‘As Wilco, you’re named in The Press a dozen times.’
‘Who’s sending them?’
‘Belchov the step-brother, on behalf of someone else.’
‘I’ll deal with it quietly. Well done on the intel. If it pans out, tip your source.’
‘Would have done, yes.’
I called Paul MacManners. ‘There are a couple of Russian hitmen on their way to shoot me full of holes, sent by Belchov the step-brother. I’m going to deal with them quietly ... unless you have other plans.’
‘We’ll take steps this end -’
‘For the sake of my civilian staff, I’d prefer no public court case.’
‘I’ll ... discuss that with the others and get back to you.’
I walked to the guardroom as we lost the light. ‘Listen up, we’re expecting company, a couple of professional hitmen coming for me. No discussion of it outside at all, no police or extra MPs yet, but get ready, we’ll set traps. And don’t worry, it’s me they’re after, not you.’
‘How’d they know what you look like?’ Pete asked.
I raised a finger, and frowned. ‘Good point.’ I made a face. ‘Maybe they’ll just try and kill all the captains here.’
‘Captain Harris will be divorced if there’s any more trouble around here,’ Pete pointed out.
I nodded, sighing.
At Moran’s house I knocked and entered, finding him and Ginger sat watching TV. ‘Get into uniform, get tooled up, round up anyone still here, get to the hangar for a briefing, we have a couple of snipers heading here to shoot me full of holes.’
They jumped up.
‘Captain Harris -’ Moran began.
‘Will be divorced soon, yes.’
Outside, I called Credenhill.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco. Put the base on alert, warn everyone, two snipers heading here to shoot me full of holes, but they may come to you by mistake. Set some traps, men in civvies driving around.’
‘Christ, the families won’t be happy, and they still bitch about the last episode.’
‘Get the Colonel to call me.’ I changed into uniform, grabbed my bandolier and webbing and set out, to find Bongo to open up the armoury. He was gone, so I grabbed the spare keys, Crab and Duffy given the care of the armoury with the young lad for now.
I stuffed my bandolier, took my rifle and signed for it, testing it as men came in, all in uniform now, Rocko taking charge and getting men organised. I told him, ‘I want men with Elephant Guns up on the barracks roof, supplies for them, rotate it – but gather in the hangar first.’
In the barracks I found six veteran Wolves and four new lads with nowhere to go, no one to see, and they had been selected for that very fact. ‘Get your kit on, get to the armoury, we’re expecting an attack here.’ I had turned away, but turned
back. ‘Green, not desert brown!’
Outside, I found a stream of men heading to the armoury. Walking up to the hangar I called Tinker. ‘You at home?’
‘No, up at Cheltenham, chess tournament night.’
‘Get back on the clock, two Russian hitmen heading for GL4, might get some odd sat phone usage nearby, and be careful when you drive in tomorrow. And I’ll be sending people to sit outside your house.’
‘If they shoot someone again...’
‘Go charm that little old lady next door. Or move house.’
In the hangar I found Mutch coming down the steps with Stenson. ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’
‘I’ve ... been making use of the free accommodation and the free food here,’ Mutch admitted.
‘I got me a room here for now,’ Senson told me. ‘Reminds me of my youth, in the Army.’
‘We have two Russian hitmen heading here, so get tooled up, stay alert. They may be here in a day or two, or a week.’
‘You upset someone?’ Stenson asked me with a grin.
‘Belchov. He’s out of pocket after the job in Nigeria, but he has some paymaster wanting me dead.’
‘It’s a long list,’ Mutch quipped. ‘Still, I often wonder why so many people want to shoot someone as charming as you.’
‘Why thank you, Fat Bastard,’ I offered with a smile.
Outside, lads walking up heavily armed, I called Kate.
‘Ah, you’re back, and still alive,’ she began.
‘Listen, there’s a threat against me, a few hitmen on the way, so be extra careful will you.’
‘We’re in a hotel up in town, paid for by a drug company, doesn’t even have my name on the room.’
‘How long you there?’
‘Till the end of the week, then we’re with father for a few days, not back at the cottage till Monday at least.’
‘Good, sounds safe.’
‘Pappa!’ came down the phone, loud enough to puncture my eardrums.
‘Hey Princess, what are you doing?’
‘Watching TV, and from the window I can see all off England.’
‘You must be high up.’
‘Yes. And I had egg and chips and sauce.’
Kate came back on with, ‘Got to go, shower and then out to meet the company reps.’
‘Talk soon,’ I said after the buzz started, men walking up.
In the hangar we now had more than thirty men assembled, Casper and Sasha included. ‘Listen up!’ I shouted as I approached, Rocko stood with his clipboard. ‘We have two Russian hitmen coming here to try and kill me, so we’re going to kill them first, and quietly. The odd thing is ... I doubt they know what I look like, so maybe they’ll just shoot the captains. Moran, Ginger, take your pips off, leave them off.’
I focused on Casper as shoulder epaulettes were removed. ‘You think you’re good enough to bait these men and kill them?’
‘Easy.’
I took my pips off and handed them over.
‘Now I am boss,’ Casper said with a wide grin.
‘Sasha?’ I called.
‘I’m better than him,’ he said, thumbing at Casper, ‘So I will shoot them first.’
I had Moran hand over his pips. ‘Sergeant Major, I want an inventory of men away and men here, rotate them – eight hours each. I want mortars with starshell set-up, I want men on the barracks roof. Rizzo, take eight men to the north woods, a pair of men facing north, south, east and west, rotate at 4am each day.
‘Make sure they have flysheets and rubber mats, rations, and that they’re very comfy, and get radios for all men on duty. Don’t tell the canteen ladies there’s trouble, don’t tell the families in the village, and yes – you can use the pub.
‘I want four men there each night, tooled up, at least two men outside in the bushes, well hidden, rotate it. I want two men to dig a position on the range and to hide in it, brown cloth up. Let’s put a few GPMGs up on the barracks ready, some box fed.
‘I want a pair of men in behind Para portakabin, a pair behind the “E” Squadron portakabin, and that will cover the entrances to this place. If these men are any good they’ll move in at night, for a day shot, less than 600yards I would say.
‘The green fence is supposed to be bullet-proof, but that’s not quite the case, a round will still penetrate but it will spin off, not going where the shooter wants it to go. Don’t stand close to the green fence and think you’re bullet-proof.
‘You new guys, you’re in at the deep end, but if you can cope with Camel Toe Base then this is pigging easy. Sergeant Major, Captains, get the men organised please. Lone Wolves, you’ll probably drive out and watch houses like before, but I think tonight will be quiet, they won’t get here yet.’
In the upstairs office I found the phone book, and called the Major.
‘What, again!’ he complained.
‘I may send a man to your house, sir, but be careful. And drive here in civvy clothes tomorrow, no rank. Can you call Major Sanderson now and explain it.’
‘OK, will do.’
Next call was Captain Harris. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Yes, job on?’
‘Well, here’s the thing...’
‘What..?’
‘We have a security problem at the base.’
‘Oh ... fucking hell,’ he growled.
‘Come in wearing civvies tomorrow, tooled up, be careful, or take a week off.’
‘I have a few things to do, I’ll take the time off.’
‘Stay sharp, and I might put some men outside your house.’
‘Discretely please, and if they find someone outside my house then have them beat the man to death quietly!’
‘Will do,’ I assured him with a grin.
I called O’Leary. ‘It’s Wilco. Unless you have some pressing work to do, take a few days off.’
‘Well, a few bits to do in the office with the Wolves paperwork.’
‘Come in wearing civvies, tooled up, be extra careful.’
‘Oh gawd, not again.’
‘Might go off quietly, might be a damp squid. But ... you know, be careful.’
‘Can’t you do the job without upsetting people?’
‘I tried, I really did, I shot people then said sorry.’
When my phone trilled it was David Finch. ‘You have another threat levelled at you.’
‘Two Russian hitmen, sent by Belchov.’
‘And the intel source..?’
‘Our friend in the south of France.’
‘I see. Well I guess you’re taking the necessary precautions already.’
‘Men are hidden ready, but more than half are on holiday.’
‘We have the ports on alert, so we might chance across them.’
‘If you chance across them then they’re not very good.’
‘No, quite. And you’ve not involved the local police?’
‘If the police come across these guys then we have dead police officers. Better they come here and take a shot.’
‘An odd logic, but yes, I’d have to agree with it. Well good luck, and ... keep your head down.’
With the men dispersed, many of us sat in the office common room, tea made, Mutch’s secret stash of biscuits found and raided, old copies of The Sun read through.
My radio crackled, a warning, so we grabbed rifles and rushed outside, Rocko back in the swing of it and tooled up. At the hangar entrance, the lights off, I transmitted, ‘This is Wilco, say again last message.’
‘It’s Rizzo, and we saw a car in the distance come down a track, man out and on foot.’
‘Be careful, could be a courting couple.’
‘Just one man, so he’s playing with himself,’ Rizzo retorted.
‘Let him get closer, dick out or not.’
I stood just inside the hangar door with Moran and Ginger, Rocko boldly stood outside. We stood chatting quietly about Swifty’s sudden passion for fishing, and his planned role with the Wolves.
‘It’s Ri
zzo, and he’s using a hedge and a ditch to close up on us from the north, carrying a rifle.’
I sighed, looks exchanged. ‘One man, so where’s the other one? And if we shoot this guy we alert the second man.’
Ginger put in, ‘Silenced shot, and if he doesn’t get a shot off it’ll be quiet enough, other man south, won’t hear it.’
‘Most we can hope for,’ Moran agreed.
I transmitted, ‘Rizzo, when you’re sure of the shot, take it, silencer on.’
‘Standby.’ Ten minutes later came, ‘He’s down, two rounds in him.’
‘Close in, use torches, don’t move the body, get me ID and phone.’
I called London.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco. Shots fired, x-ray down, standby police SOCO, but we don’t want the police here till we find the second man.’
‘Well, that could take a while, and you can’t leave a body there, and he might be alive and in need of an ambulance. This is the UK, not the desert.’
‘OK, send SOCO, no flashing lights if they can. And send the contact report up the line and to Mi5 please.’ I transmitted, ‘Rizzo, is he dead?’
‘He’s very dead, and his rifle is a long camera, and his ID says he’s a journalist.’
‘Fuck!’ Moran hissed out.
‘What the fuck was he doing out there!’ Ginger shouted. ‘No one will print images of this place.’
My shoulders dropped. ‘Rizzo, bring me his ID and phone.’
‘Coming in, and this guy is French.’
‘French,’ I said to Moran as we exchanged looks.
Ginger said, ‘Paper in France might print his photos.’
‘Like fuck, they love me over there, and the French Government would be all over them,’ I insisted. ‘Bugger.’ I called London. ‘It’s Wilco, and the man we shot is a French journalist.’
‘Oh Christ.’
‘Send it up the line please.’
Two men appeared at the north fence, just about visible. We saw the flash, the blast reaching us a few seconds later.
I transmitted, ‘Report the explosion!’
‘It’s Wolf Simpson, Boss, and that guy’s car just blew.’
‘His car?’ Moran repeated. ‘He’s no fucking journalist, that’s a cover, he brought a fucking bomb!’