Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Use your imagination.’

  ‘Or I just shoot them.’

  ‘That would make my life much harder.’

  I sighed. ‘Sleeping at your desk tonight?’

  ‘I’m a posh hotel, good room service, so it’s not all bad.’

  ‘I’m in an old dusty hut from the last war.’

  ‘Each to his own.’ He hung up.

  ‘Each to his own?’ I repeated with a frown.

  I plodded through the dark, past the canteen, and found the DGSE men, who were now eight men. They were breeding like rabbits. ‘Americans were on the Algerian plane that crashed, so ... the FBI is on its way. We’re ordered to hand over what we know.’

  Arms were thrown into the air, curses thrown up as well, and loudly. I turned away, smirking, and reclaimed my bed.

  In the morning the DGSE had grown to ten – two of them now tasty ladies in heels, and French Echo now here, the base buzzing.

  After breakfast my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘We spoke on the phone, Doctor Summers.’

  ‘My test results are good, no dick rash?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, funny. Porton Down, not the clap clinic. We’re in Mauritania, at the desalination plant, isolated spot. We arrived during the night, tents set-up, straight to work, catch some sleep later.’

  ‘Fun day out of the office for you,’ I noted.

  ‘Back in the Cold War we did this a lot, but these days it’s a once-a-year exercise – if at all. Our tents were a bit dusty.’

  ‘Found anything?’

  ‘The chemical mix is decaying, suggesting that it has a finite shelf life, but so far it’s an amazing find, something quite new – and very deadly.’

  ‘Some sort of nerve agent?’ I asked.

  ‘No. As the name suggests, nerve agent attacks the nervous system, spasms and fitting and a quick death. The men who died had chest pains and symptoms of a heart attack, difficulty breathing, so quite different. We’ve obtained some local rodents and chickens, soon to be tested.’

  ‘Just to make your life even more fun ... FBI are on their way to take charge.’

  ‘Oh, well, we take orders from London.’

  ‘And London wants us all to play nice.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well I guess we’ll discuss it with London first, but we’ve done a few joint exercises with the Yanks.’

  ‘Will you be able to tell where that chemical came from?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Or who made it?’

  ‘Not like anything we’ve seen before, so ... not really.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ I cursed. ‘Well if there is anything you can tell me, call. Oh, why was there vapour leaking?’

  ‘Tin was corroded, poor choice of container. It had a rubber covering, air tight, but the rubber was eaten through as well.’

  ‘And how long would that take?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Try,’ I pressed. ‘If I find a canister, how long before it starts leaking.’

  ‘Well, as long as it took the terrorists to arrive here from ... wherever they came from.’

  ‘Take a stab at it.’

  ‘Let me think on that. I could put some in a tin and see what happens, measure it.’

  ‘Do so please, let me know.’

  A C160 touched down with a roar as I observed it with Henri, Hunt and Harris soon coming around to us in a jeep, bags in hand.

  Hunt began, ‘Talk about in at the deep end. This is all over the news, London is at panic stations, Paris is traumatised, everyone wary of a fucking plane coming down. Now the FBI getting up everyone’s fucking nose.’

  ‘But the good thing is -’ I began. ‘- I get to blame you.’

  Henri laughed, Hunt not looking pleased. ‘Any damn food?’ Hunt asked.

  I pointed at the brick canteen. ‘That building, grub is OK. Then find a hut. Ours have some spare beds.’

  My phone trilled so I stepped away.

  ‘It’s Tinker.’

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘We have Hammad’s villa, about twenty miles up the coast, and once our guy asked - everyone local knew it straight off and pointed it out.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I grabbed my pad as I returned to the huts and sat on my bed. ‘OK, give me the name place and coordinates.’ Detail down, I said, ‘Thanks. What about phone tracing.’

  ‘Right, last group you shot in Mauritania, they got the phones off the bodies first, and using a pencil end they dialled a DGSE number from each, and the French let us know the numbers – suddenly more helpful than they’ve ever been.

  ‘We traced the calls back a town in Algeria where Hammad had a big factory, and the phones were all pre-pay from the same souk, owner picked up by the Algerian police – but not much use. Calls were made to busy markets, so not much use yet. One regular call to France, to Paris, but hard to pin down a street. Still, it’s a lead of sorts. We’re widening the net as we go.’

  ‘And Sudan?’

  ‘It was listed in the phone book, the factory.’

  I laughed. ‘The simple solutions are the best.’

  ‘It’s a regular pesticide factory, won a few awards, employs lots of people where it is, all very open and ... well ... not hidden.’

  ‘Someone in the back of the factory has a room and makes the poison,’ I suggested. ‘What’s the name and address of this factory?’

  He listed it for me.

  ‘We have some photos, even an aerial photo from the CIA.’

  My brow furrowed. ‘Why did the CIA have that photo?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘If they had a photo like that then they had looked at the factory before. Press them on it, send it up the line. And send the photos to The Sun newspaper so long as they’re not classified, to Max, say they’re from me.’

  ‘Is that ... wise?’

  ‘Trust me, do it.’ Call cut, I hit the numbers from my list, for Max. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Get a paper and pen, Grumpy.’ I detailed the factory in Sudan and the plane crash, stretching the intel a bit, quite a bit.

  ‘Big story,’ he agreed.

  ‘Photos on their way to you. Do me a favour, go over the top with the blame.’

  ‘Oh ... OK.’

  ‘Then get on a plane to Western Sahara. Call my base and ask for the location.’

  ‘Something big on?’

  ‘We’re going after the men behind the poison on that plane.’

  ‘Shit ... I’m on my way.’

  ‘And put that story on Reuters.’

  Call ended, I plodded along sandy tracks in brilliant sunshine to the DGSE building. ‘Who’s the senior man?’

  ‘I am,’ came from a grey haired man that looked to be in great pain - after a night with no sleep and no breakfast. He was not the most handsome of chaps.

  ‘I have the location of Hammad, we go when you have helicopters. Drop us a few miles inland, we walk in. Helicopters come back later.’

  ‘And French soldiers?’

  ‘We’ll take French Echo, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Oh, you have existing permission to launch counter-terrorist raids in Morocco?’

  ‘Yes, but now we are supposed to tell them, but ... we go. Paris wants the poison.’

  ‘See what helicopters are available, but a C160 could land on a road. Got a map?’

  They led me to a table, the map of this area laid out. I put an arrow next to the villa, an isolated spot a mile from a village, flat land, hills a mile inland.

  ‘Here,’ I pointed out. ‘Straight road, no people. C160 lands us. We walk three or four miles.’

  ‘At dawn?’ they posed.

  I shrugged. ‘They may leave today, so we have no time to waste.’

  Heads were nodded, aircraft to be made ready, two aircraft.

  Back at Echo I got them ready, but we would all be in greens for this. Many men made use of brown t-shirts and b
rown caps at least. Major Liban stepped in, reporting his men kitted ready.

  My phone trilled, so I stepped out of the cool dark interior of the hut and into the brilliant sunshine. It was a number I did not recognise. ‘Hello..?’

  In Arabic came, ‘I work for Cheltenham. I have a report.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I replied in Arabic.

  ‘The villa sits on the coast, five hundred yards to the sea. Five hundred yards behind, inland, is the main highway. There is a turnoff some four hundred yards north of the villa, a road then a track. There is also a tunnel under the road, an old river course.

  ‘South of the villa is the old summer residence, now all broken down, next to it the graveyard and the tended gardens. A man lives in a hut there, the garden keeper.

  ‘The villa has walls, armed men on guard, dogs. I could not get close to it, but I did not make myself seen.’

  ‘You’re sure it is the correct place?’

  ‘I found a similar graveyard ten miles away, took a name, and visited the graves here, the old man explaining my mistake – wrong place. I thanked him and left after taking tea. Once talking I could not shut him up. It is Hammad, who is sick in bed, and no longer visits the grave ... and has forgotten to pay his grounds keeper for many months.’

  ‘Good work, we’ll take a look tonight,’ I lied, not sure if I trusted this guy. ‘Leave the area please.’

  Off the phone, I trekked to the DGSE room and updated them.

  A man ran in, a sentence given in French, but I understood the “FBI” part of it.

  As a group we stepped outside, eyes squinting at a small plane setting down, a jet-engine Cessna Citation.

  ‘Now the fun starts,’ I told them, but they were not amused. ‘What has Paris said?’

  Sour faces reported, ‘That we share some information, yes.’

  ‘Prepare the C160, we leave soon,’ I said before walking back to the huts. Enquiring after Hunt, I remembered sending him to the canteen, so plodded that way, rifle slung. Inside, I stood near him. ‘FBI just touched down.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, chewing his food. ‘You expect me to brief them? How the fuck do I explain where the intel came from?’

  ‘I’ll give them a brief overview if you like, they don’t need to know our intel sources. Finish your grub.’

  ‘I need to be there,’ he insisted, standing, his meal unfinished.

  ‘For all you know the FBI want a shower, a shit, and a meal first.’

  ‘Yeah, true.’ He sat back down. ‘Could have flown in from the States.’

  I plodded back to the hut, jeeps pulling up five minutes later. So much for the shower, shit, and the meal.

  Agent Manstein stepped down with four colleagues, all in beige utility waistcoats, caps on heads sunglasses on. ‘Captain Wilco,’ he said as if describing an unwelcome disease.

  ‘Agent Manstein. What an unexpected pleasure.’ We did not bother to shake. ‘How can I help you this fine morning?’

  ‘We were told, by your government, that you would brief us since you are – apparently – leading this investigation.’

  ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, then I’m off on a job.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Secret job, so read about it in the papers.’

  ‘Your government promised cooperation!’

  ‘On intel pertinent to the poison, or on the detail of live British Intelligence operations? Because I’m doubting they meant for you to have access to classified missions.’

  ‘Is it relevant to the poisoners?’ Manstein pressed.

  ‘We’re following up on a lead, a place south -’ I lied. ‘- that may throw up some evidence, maybe even a prisoner.’

  ‘If you’re going to arrest someone involved then due process is required -’

  ‘Like the Russian arms dealers I handed to you whilst applying no due process at all..?’

  They exchanged looks. Manstein said, ‘We don’t want a trial screwed up by some smart lawyer who can prove your arrest was illegal.’

  I nodded my head theatrically. ‘In which case we’ll not arrest anyone. Simple. Just a recon anyhow.’

  My lads started to group behind me, French Echo walking in.

  ‘Just a recon,’ Manstein repeated. ‘Fifty heavily armed men on a recon.’

  ‘Most of these guys are rookies, and this is training for them.’

  ‘Yeah, they look like rookies.’

  ‘You want a brief now, because I could be killed later..?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Manstein got out with forced civility. Notepads were taken out.

  I began, ‘At the FOB in Sierra Leone, which you’ve been to, we found a decaying body, a year old, Henri Gohort, French Canadian working for the NSA, send to assassinate me.’

  ‘Seems outlandish.’

  ‘OK. The guy that the CIA says was NSA ... had a sniper rifle, photo of me, and a parachute. So he was on his way to Disneyland Paris I guess. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘The NSA assassin ... was believed to be on Hammad’s payroll, or a double agent of sorts. What we do know is that he was in the right place at the right time to poison some water. For further details, go ask the fucking NSA. You’ll find them in America someplace.’

  ‘And Gorskov?’

  ‘London believes that he used to have dealings with Hammad, a pipeline to Europe for rough diamonds and gold, but London is sure that Gorskov was not involved in anything. We are also sure that the DGSE used to be in bed with Hammad, because Hammad boasted that a distant relative was with al-Qa’eda, a very distant relative.

  ‘The DGSE arranged for Jillil, the now-deceased son of Hammad, to get away with some drink driving offences, fingerprints swapped, but that a year ago Paris dropped Hammad. Soon after that the water was poisoned, starting in Egypt.

  ‘Hammad is reported to be sick and dying, no one knows where he is, and Jillil is in a morgue in Paris, river water still in his lungs. The men who poisoned the water in Mali were traced back to Algeria, we have names and photos and fingerprints, as well as two prisoners and eight bodies – my men shot them.

  ‘We also have eight bodies, or had before incineration, in Mauritania, and we have a sample of the poison, which is so deadly that not even a rubber suit would protect you. And that takes us up to today.’

  ‘And Sudan?’ they pressed.

  ‘Hammad has a factory there, as well as factories in Algeria and France. No evidence yet as to where the poison came from.’

  ‘We have a team coming in to look at the poison,’ Manstein threatened.

  ‘Tell them to be careful, because five men in rubber suits and respirators died trying to get near the stuff.’

  ‘You’re not taking respirators on this ... trip?’ Manstein noted.

  ‘They wouldn’t work if we did. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

  I led Echo off, French Echo behind us. Tomo tried his Russian on Manstein as he passed, who understood what was said, making me smile.

  We plodded around to the apron, two C160 sat with engines turning. ‘Make safe weapons!’ I shouted, and I unloaded, watching the lads. French Echo copied. I waved over Liban and his captains. ‘We land on a road twenty miles north of the border, we walk west three miles and raid the villa. Simple. Helicopters are ready for casevac.’

  They nodded. ‘How many men at this villa?’

  ‘Maybe four civilian guards, some dogs.’

  A wave from the crewman and we boarded, British Echo on the first plane, French Echo behind, and the planes offered plenty of space for just us. I went forwards, and knelt behind the pilots. The co-pilot had a map in front of him, so I pointed, and he held it up. I put a finger on where to land, and he nodded. It was a simple short trip.

  Ramp up, everyone sitting now, I nodded at Swann, Tomo in some heated debate with Leggit next to me, Swifty shouting something in Moran’s ear opposite, and we taxied around, a pause, power on, brakes off, and we were off, nose lifted.

 
I peered through the windows at the sun-baked sand below, and caught a glimpse of a blue and inviting ocean. We never got above three thousand feet, and fifteen minutes later the lights flashed. I indicated for everyone to hold on.

  A sharp bank, nose down, straightening up, the ramp burst open, brilliant sunshine invading the dark hold, a bump and we were down, up and running. Magazines in, weapons cocked, I ran into the sand twenty yards and knelt, a quick look around whilst squinting, not seeing any locals.

  A burst of power behind us and our ride powered away, barely gone a second when the second C160 landed, a skid on the sandy road, ramp down, brakes applied, and French Echo ran out and knelt, weapons made ready. Another roar of engine and the second C160 pulled away.

  ‘On me!’ I shouted, and ran to a sandy ridge, a four hundred yard dash to a low ridge, steep hills further away. I waved everyone behind the ridge, French Echo running in, and I scanned the road and the immediate area. I could not see anyone close by.

  Turning, I walked to the front of the column, a glance at Swifty and he lifted up and followed. We had the advantage of being behind a sandy ridge, hidden from the road, and so I followed the ridgeline at a brisk pace west. ‘Radio test,’ I called.

  Cresting a higher sandy ridge half an hour later I could see the coastal highway below, traffic moving, and the vast and endless blue ocean. And this would have been better done at night, some open ground to now cover.

  To my left sat low hills leading down to the coastal highway, on my right ran the road we had landed on - joining the coastal highway six hundred yards north, and below me sat the dried river bed and its tunnel under the road.

  In my ten o’clock position was the attractive white-walled villa, period Moroccan, further away the gardens and the ruins. Fortunately the traffic on the highway was not heavy, just the odd truck.

  I transmitted, ‘Sniper team, up the hills on the left, get as close as you can without being seen, take position on the villa. Go.’

  I glanced left over my shoulder as Tomo led them off at the sprint, kicking up dust. Facing the rest of Echo, I said, ‘Nothing for it, we have to risk being seen, but the snipers will take out the guards.’ I moved up and over the ridge, a wave at Liban, and we kicked up dust as we ran down.

  Once in the dried riverbed I was happier, some cover afforded to us, and the trucks were moving too fast for the drivers to glance our way. Then again, who would they report us to, I wondered.