Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  We landed back at Freetown in a rain storm, buffeted on approach. I thanked the pilots, collected the team and stepped down with white salty boots, jeeps waiting, a short ride to a Chinook with its rotors turning – a surprise in its efficiency, and we sped across familiar terrain and to home, the FOB. And, oddly enough, it felt like home.

  Captain Harris and Mister Hunt were stood waiting. ‘You met some trouble?’ Hunt asked as I drew up to them.

  ‘Someone ... was reporting out, and assisting the bad boys, someone in the plant itself. We got two alive, shot eight others. Also got some prints and DNA evidence, and a lead on the very amateur poisoners. Unfortunately, Paris is lying to us.’

  I stopped Henri as he headed inside. ‘Call Paris, and tell them that if they don’t stop lying about Jillil I’ll end all fucking cooperation.’

  He threw his hands in the air and cursed in French, taking out his phone as he stepped away.

  Captain Harris asked, ‘What’s the problem with Paris?’

  ‘We found prints, reported to be Jillil, the son of Hammad. We were then told that Jillil died weeks ago, body on ice in Paris.’

  ‘DGSE fucking about,’ Hunt noted. ‘Left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing.’

  I cleaned up, and sat with Hunt and Harris for a late afternoon meal served by the RAF Regiment lads, Henri still swearing at many different people.

  After sundown Paris called Henri, and he came to me. He nudged myself and Hunt outside. ‘Hammad and Jillil were supposed to be cooperating with the DGSE from three years back. A year back Jillil had some drugs and car problems, and he was helped, his prints altered in the records – another man’s prints used, an employee with an alibi.’

  ‘So that employee was in Mali,’ Hunt noted. ‘And a complete fucking amateur.’

  Henri continued, ‘Paris says sorry for the mix up.’

  I squared up Henri. ‘Why ... was Paris assisting them?’

  ‘Hammad knew of this Al Qa’eda men that the Americans want.’

  ‘Al Qa’eda have well-trained men,’ Hunt noted. ‘So they’re not involved with this lot. And they would target Americans, not Arabs.’

  I took out my phone. ‘See if Gorskov knows anything.’ I stepped away and recalled a number in the dim bulb light.

  ‘Da?’

  ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘I was hoping not to hear from you again.’

  ‘CIA are now involved,’ I lied.

  ‘What! Why?’

  ‘Hammad has links to Al Qa’eda.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! He had an uncle who had some cousins linked to them, a tenuous link at best. I think Hammad dangled a carrot to get favours from the French.’

  ‘People still think you were involved, and yesterday there was a poisoning in Mali, today there was a shoot-out there, Hammad’s men killed and caught. Paris has confirmed that Jillil died six weeks ago, but no one can find Hammad in his hospital bed.’

  ‘He had a place he mentioned, on the coast of Morocco, close to the southern border, a big villa. If he’s sick and dying he might be there, some of his family buried there – they were exiled from Algeria. He wanted to be buried there, the stupid fuck.’

  ‘If they catch him, then that takes interest away from you.’

  ‘Why are they interested in me?’

  ‘They don’t think Hammad could do this without some good help,’ I lied.

  ‘Well ... yes ... he is a fucking amateur. Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘I will deflect them away from you, don’t worry.’

  ‘Why be so helpful?’

  ‘I may want a favour in the future. You’re no good to me dead.’

  ‘Well ... at least you’re a professional.’

  ‘Do you know where Hammad is getting his poison?’

  ‘From his factories no doubt. He has two in France, one in Algeria, one in Sudan.’

  ‘Sudan? Why Sudan?’

  ‘No idea, filthy place. Ask him when you see him.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  I walked back to Hunt. ‘Hammad has a family home in southern Morocco, and a pesticide plant in Sudan.’

  ‘Sudan! We’d never get near it!’

  ‘Maybe Hammad is counting on that. And it makes you wonder why the French are keen for my team to investigate this...’

  ‘They think you could get into Sudan, and few could pull it off.’

  I nodded. ‘Right, get a paper and pen, note the clothes sizes of my lads, then get to Freetown and get some money from the Embassy, and buy some cheap civvy clothes for us pronto. I then want Arab dress, fake beards, the works. We’re off to sunny Morocco.’

  ‘Fake beards?’

  ‘Be OK when seen from a passing car,’ I said with a smirk. I called London.

  ‘Duty Officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco. I need to know if the Navy has any ships off Morocco, and my team will move to Morocco tomorrow, civilian clothes, close recon of a coastal villa without telling the Moroccan Government of our plans. Update David, have any human assets in the area made ready.’

  I called Moran. ‘You having fun?’

  ‘Pasted two small groups.’

  ‘Get back tomorrow morning, you and Hamble, leave Robby’s troop and the Salties there. No, wait, leave Hamble in charge of our lot. We’re off on a job, fake beards and sandals.’

  ‘Fake beards and sandals..?’

  I cut the call, smiling at the image in mind of how he must be frowning at the phone right now.

  In the morning the lads packed up their crates, pistols kept, and Hunt returned with three Army officers from Freetown, bags in hand, lots of bags. Most of the lads had trainers in their crates, so when dodgy fake jean imports were on we put on those trainers.

  Eight of us had the same style of t-shirt, same logo. Rocko had a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, but Swann had somehow gotten a Kyle Minogue t-shirt.

  ‘Fuzz,’ I called, stopping him changing out of uniform. ‘You can come with us, and probably sit around a lot, or go up to the border and get you score card going.’

  Tomo told him, ‘The border, mate, get some shooting in.’

  ‘The border,’ Fuzz agreed.

  ‘Smitty, go with him,’ I ordered. ‘See Captain Harris, snag a ride up there, report to Dicky and tag along with him.’

  We all took possession of baggy shirts, good for hiding pistols underneath, a few of us had brown caps for heads, and all of us had cheap plastic sunglasses. We looked dodgy enough for every traffic cop to pull us over.

  Studying the map with Captain Harris, there was a French base inside Western Sahara that was close enough. Henri sent the message up the line, so I booked a Chinook and a Hercules.

  David called. ‘You’re off to Morocco.’

  ‘Of to Western Sahara, a French base, then we sneak across the border and have a look at some nice villas on the coast.’

  ‘I have a man, a local, and he’s driving down the coast road as we speak.’

  ‘When he gets close to the border, have him ask about ambulances or local doctors, someone being treated at home, then to look for well-guarded sumptuous villas with gravestones nearby or in the grounds.’

  ‘OK, got all that. And HMS Cardiff is passing, she’s been tasked and will hang around. She has a Lynx. But what’s the plan here?’

  ‘Try and find Hammad, take him alive if possible, if not ... kill everyone in the villa, get the paperwork, leave no evidence of us behind.’

  ‘Moroccans will not be best pleased with us if this goes wrong.’

  ‘Up to you, Boss. But we both know that by leaving the field decisions to me you can deny sending me.’

  ‘I’ll leave the decision up to you then. Ask for what you need.’

  I shook my head as I cut the call.

  Sergeant Crab approached. ‘You off?’

  ‘Got a job for a few days. Keep working the police hard, longer and longer patrols, but there won’t be many lads left around. Grab some RAF Regiment to help out, and Whisky.
’

  ‘They’re getting better bit by bit, the coppers.’

  ‘Give them a weekend off, at that hotel we used at the airport. Check for foot rot and sores.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Extra clothing turned up, some borrowed from the police, and we were almost set.

  Henri got a call. He told me, ‘There is a new big desalination plant in Mauritania, part-funder by my government. It goes online in two days, big show. Do we go?’

  I put my hands on my hips and considered that. ‘Is Hammad stupid enough to try and disrupt the opening ceremony?’

  ‘I say yes,’ Henri told me.

  I nodded. ‘We’ll go there first then, it’s on the way.’

  Inside I updated Harris, and called Tinker for a long chat. The GL4 team would look for Hammad’s pesticide plant in Sudan, as well as doctors listed in southern Morocco.

  Tinker called back an hour later as we awaited our Chinook. ‘The French just updated us, long fax, took twenty minutes to read it all. They identified the men you shot as local bad boys, not employees of the plant. The two men taken alive worked at the plant but have confessed all after a good beating and the threat of being hanged.

  ‘Hammad’s second in command, Sedan, paid them and directed them, a lot of money offered, not so much the political or religious motivation. Men wanted a new house, not to be martyrs.

  ‘The two BMW’s were traced, prints lifted, CCTV of the six men, and at the airport. They all flew back to Algeria, and have now disappeared, Algerian police finding their apartments cleaned out. All six men were with Hammad’s company in Algeria, had been with him for years, no political links found so far.

  ‘So ... this Sedan fella is paying people to poison the water to upset France and cost the French insurers a few quid, on behalf of Hammad, who is missing. French have listed money missing from his company, but his next audit is not due, next accounts not due yet, and when audited the company will probably close down.

  ‘And Hammad took out fresh loans nine months ago, first repayment defaulted this month. So he don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘He’s sick and dying. But if he’s paying for the poisoning, who poisoned him? And who killed Jillil?’

  ‘Good question, since the French deny it.’

  ‘Did Mossad get any results?’ I pressed.

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘I’m about to hop on a Chinook, then a Hercules bound for Mauritania, be out of touch a bit. So how’s the team settling in anyhow?’

  ‘Great, we love it, never had so much to do, and it’s exciting. Major Bradley pops in most mornings for a chat as well. Oh, loads of construction work here now, metal frame all set-up and bolted together, the men starting on the mezzanine floor. Might have some proper offices by time you’re back.’

  ‘What’s the GCHQ attitude like - to assisting me?’

  ‘Keen to help, very damn keen. They don’t see you as being Mi5 or SIS, just you as you. They often ask how you are and what you’re up to.’

  ‘Good to know there’s less squabbling between the agencies.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I said they liked you,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Oh, the RAF dropped some radio detectors along the Ivory Coast border, getting intel from them, your lads intercepting rebel patrols. Regular SAS have moved two troops to that strip, The Helicopter Graveyard.’

  After one final chat to Sergeant Crab, a wave at the police nearby, we grabbed metal crates and lugged them, a Chinook disturbing the peace as fifteen of us waited. Kit aboard, we set off, soon heading west, a short ride to Freetown airport, it’s terminal still displaying bullet holes.

  Kit off the Chinook, kit on the waiting Hercules, a word with the pilots about where we were heading – Mauritania not Western Sahara, and we were off, heading into the setting sun.

  The lads settled down, arms crossed, legs out, eyes closed, and we would flying for almost four hours. Even I dosed for a while.

  Bumping down in the dark, I had everyone put on bandoliers and webbing over their civvy clothes. French DGSE met us, which was not a good sign, but Major Liban was with them – a more positive sign. They stood under the tall lights of a small strip, trucks and jeeps stood waiting.

  ‘Come to do some work?’ I asked him.

  ‘Pah! Come to make sure you don’t destroy this place!’ We shook.

  ‘Did your men get hostages in Niger?’

  ‘Yes, we used your intel, easy job, good newspaper story.’ He led us to the trucks, crates being lugged, a few French soldiers assisting. Kit on the trucks, mounted up, I sat in a jeep with Major Liban, and only now did he introduce the two DGSE men, nods exchanged in the dark.

  They drove us ten miles to the desalination plant, and to an isolated section, into a large metal-walled warehouse, the doors closed behind us. In a corner sat men at desks, computers flashing, radios flashing, and along the wall lay a great many camp beds.

  Kit off the trucks, clattering down near the camp beds and echoing, we made a happy home.

  ‘When does the pumping start?’ I asked the DGSE.

  ‘Day after tomorrow, but they test it now.’

  ‘You know the best place to put the poison in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we have men there tonight, hidden all day, rotate tomorrow night.’

  He shrugged and nodded.

  I turned. ‘Tomo, Nicholson, Rizzo, Stretch, uniforms back on, facemasks and gloves, jackets, weapons, water, rations, sat phone. Rocko, a man on stag on that door at all times, rotate it from now – take no chances here.’ I turned to Moran. ‘See what these French lads have around, men and kit, radios.’

  Moran wandered over to the radio operators and started chatting away in French, Liban at his side.

  ‘Henri, map of the plant,’ I nudged, and he nudged the DGSE to get us one.

  Studying the map, we were currently north in our warehouse, the coast was west, the best place to poison the water was half a mile south. East was just sand dunes.’

  When Rizzo was ready I showed him the map, gave him bearings – ocean is west, dunes and hills were east - and the DGSE would drive the team to the pump house. Regular guards would be pulled back.

  To Rizzo I said, ‘Find a spot away from the pump house but in line of sight, hundred yards, hide yourselves. Phone me if anyone comes snooping. Armed men, phone me then shoot them. Two men awake, two sleep. Reposition at dawn if your OP is naff. Back here after dark tomorrow.’

  The jeep drove out, the large doors clanking shut again. I sat with Henri and Major Liban, and we studied the plant layout. ‘Where’s best to approach from?’ I asked.

  ‘If they have inside help, they are driven in,’ Henri noted.

  I nodded. ‘Here, east a mile, is a track. From there they can walk unseen across the dunes and in.’

  ‘Tomorrow night we put a team there,’ he suggested, and I again nodded.

  I faced Liban. ‘Your men?’

  ‘Still in Niger. I am liaison only.’

  ‘You’re a one-man army, trained by me,’ I insisted, Henri laughing, Liban lifting an arm to flex a bicep.

  A jeep turned up, meals under tin foil that smelt good. ‘Don’t touch it,’ I told my lads. ‘Comes from people who like a bit of poisoning. Let the French eat it.’

  The DGSE, and Major Liban, sniffed the meals, exchanged looks, and reluctantly sent it all back, the radio operators complaining loudly. I sat with Swifty and Moran, and we started to cook rations, some for Major Liban.

  ‘Pity about that grub,’ Moran noted. ‘Chicken.’

  ‘They’re bound to have an inside man,’ I warned him. ‘And maybe he knows we’re here.’

  Moran shook his head, ‘French got here after dark, and only the manager knows. They don’t trust these fuckers either.’

  ‘This is so,’ Liban offered.

  ‘Whoever prepared those meals now knows there are dozens of soldiers here, Dope,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  My sat phone t
rilled. ‘It’s Robby. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yeah, go ahead.’

  ‘Captain Hamble just whacked a “B” Squadron lad in the face with his rifle, threatened to shoot him.’

  I sighed, loudly. ‘Was the man being cheeky?’

  ‘Yeah, very cheeky.’

  ‘Fine by me then. I’ll have a word with the colonel. In the meantime, tell the “B” Squadron troop sergeant that any more shit and they all go back, no more rescues.’

  He also sighed, also loudly. ‘OK.’

  ‘What was that?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Mad Dog Hamble ... hit a regular with his rifle.’ I called Credenhill.

  ‘Duty Officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco. Have the colonel call me back please.’

  ‘He’s here, working late.’

  Five minutes later my phone trilled. ‘Wilco here.’

  ‘It’s Colonel Dean.’

  ‘Small problem, sir. Captain Hamble hit one of yours with his rifle, for being cheeky. Man is not hurt bad.’

  ‘Officers don’t do that, as a rule.’

  ‘I could keep my men separate to yours, sir,’ I threatened.

  ‘We don’t want that, but Hamble needs some self control.’

  ‘Why, I never did. The French don’t talk to officers like that, no one does, just your lot.’

  ‘I’ll shout a little, leave it with me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Phone away, Swifty said, ‘Hamble still wound up then.’

  ‘He seemed fine,’ Moran noted. ‘We had two engagements, and he didn’t go off on one. Robby’s troop treat him OK.’

  I said, ‘I can’t condemn him for stuff I’ve done often enough.’ We gave Liban the story.

  After cooking rations the lads sat around chatting, but I would not let any of them sleep till after 11pm, and at midnight I lay down myself, the DGSE asleep, Liban asleep in a jeep, some French lads left on the radios and computers.

  As the dawn came up I was on stag with Sasha, a patrol made of our immediate area whilst it was still quiet, the breakfast soon on. It had gone off cold in our tin shed, and some exercise was welcome.