Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  He nodded. ‘Five thousand soldiers are mobilised, heading to Paris.’

  A loud Puma helicopter landed on the small square outside, the cafe windows resonating, men in yellow spacesuits clambering down.

  ‘That’s torn it, press will know it’s the poison,’ I said.

  ‘We have issued orders to the press,’ our DGSE man informed me. ‘Emergency powers.’

  I stood. ‘Next stop, Rennes.’ To Henri I said, ‘Steal some this cake for us.’

  I gathered British Echo, a headcount done, Major Liban head-counting his men before we headed briskly back to the coaches, many a concerned face peering out from the nearby windows. Once aboard, our convoy negotiated several police roadblocks as we headed east to the airfield, inconveniencing the morning commuters as we did.

  It took forty minutes to get back, followed by thirty minutes sat in a room before the cold planes and cold pilots were ready, seats re-claimed by the teams. We took off as it started to rain, the day darkening, and our small plane was badly buffeted for a while, the lads concerned, never that confident about French aviation.

  Just over an hour later we landed at Rennes International Airport, southwest of the city, a large modern airport, and taxiing to a halt we found another sea of flashing blue lights. Brakes applied, chocks in place, door open, and the cold wind invaded the cabin. Jackets on, hands rubbed, we stood around outside for five minutes before coaches arrived.

  The DGSE main man took a call, approaching after the call, as I stood with Moran, Liban and Hut. ‘The hazard material team, they move the chemical from Lyon by helicopter, to a quarry, and bury it in two metre of concrete.’

  I exchanged a look with the others. ‘One way to deal with it.’

  ‘Will it leak over the years?’ Moran wondered.

  ‘No, it decays, so the man from Porton Down said. Still, that concrete will take a thousand years to break down.’

  Coaches boarded, we set-off, a half hour drive to a suburb of the attractive French city, halting in a side street. Down from the coach, I waited for the DGSE men, asking my snipers to stay on the coach for now. But seeing French Echo scaring the locals I had my snipers come with us.

  Around the corner we found the Arabic cafe, men sat outside despite the air temperature. Inside, I took in the startled faces, and zeroed in on the frightened owner.

  I held up the now-crumpled picture of Sedan. In Arabic I began, ‘This man put poison on an Algerian plane that crashed in Marrakech, killing Algerians. Do you think him a hero?’

  ‘A hero? No!’

  ‘He was here, with his men, yesterday,’ I guessed at.

  ‘I have not seen that man.’

  I loudly announced, ‘Every man here will be taken in for questioning, seven days. Unless someone can tell me about a truck or van hired to go to Paris tomorrow.’

  ‘I have a van, hired to go to Paris tomorrow, my nephew driving early,’ an old man volunteered as uniformed police lined the pavement outside.

  ‘Who hired him?’

  ‘Algerian men, yes.’

  ‘Does your nephew take on work that is illegal?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Some things that are not best advertised, but no drugs or guns.’

  ‘What is he taking?’

  ‘Cheese, past its sell-by date, no labels on it or paperwork.’

  ‘Where will I find him?’

  ‘Around the corner,’ he pointed. ‘Down the street, right, blue van outside the apartment. Apartment Twelve.’

  I saw a man with a mobile under the table, my pistol out, other pistol’s drawn. I rushed in, a whack to the head, the phone taken, the man dragged by Henri. ‘What link does this man have to your nephew?’

  ‘He is not from around here, he is a driver, he visits sometimes,’ the old man explained, staring wide-eyed at the man as Henri kicked our victim before searching him, a pistol in the man’s throat.

  I made a note of the number that had been entered and not yet called, writing on the bar top. I called Tinker from the suspect’s mobile whilst being observed by worried faces. ‘It’s Wilco, track back this mobile number, update Paris, top priority.’

  Recalling the recent numbers called or received, I wrote them down, but when men started to whisper I said the next man to utter a word would be shot dead. They shut up, police faces peering in from outside, those inside terrified.

  The DGSE main man appeared at my side as I wrote down numbers. When done I handed the page to him. ‘Top priority.’ He stepped outside.

  I pointed my pistol at the old man. ‘You come with us, rest of you have some questions to answer, a night in a cell.’ Outside, I told a second DGSE man to question everyone here. He made a call for vans as I led the old man down the street, the man’s jacket done up, a hat placed on for warmth.

  Reaching the corner, I could see the blue van. ‘Snipers!’

  They ran forwards, women grabbing kids and fleeing in panic.

  ‘Get behind the cars, watch that building opposite.’ I faced the old man. ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Third floor,’ he said, pointing.

  I had a look at the building, and the balconies were easy enough to climb. ‘Swifty, Moran, up the outside of that building, third floor.’ They ran across the road. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, Stretch, Slider, opposed entry when Swifty and Moran are in place. Sasha, hold this street.’

  I led the old man across the street, and if anyone in the apartment was looking out the window they would have seen us. At the main door I asked the old man to press the buzzer, the lads against the walls. ‘Tell him there a flat tyre on his van.’

  ‘Hello?’ came in Arabic.

  ‘Mosha, it’s Dav. Your van, a flat tyre.’

  ‘Yes? OK, I come down.’

  I hid myself, but any quick look at the street would have been a problem. Faces peered out of nearby flats. The door finally opened and I swung in, pistol aimed, a shoulder to the door, a throat grabbed, a skinny young man thrown onto the pavement hard, a knee soon in his back. I turned my head to the lads. ‘Get inside, apartment twelve.’

  Heavy footsteps echoed around me as I caused a great deal of pain to Mosha. ‘Did you pick up the cheese yet?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the van,’ he strained out, spitting blood onto the pavement.

  ‘It’s not cheese you idiot, it’s nerve gas, enough to kill everyone in this city, and that means you die in prison as an old man.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he pleaded, and started crying as I lifted him.

  ‘Keys for the van?’

  He fumbled to get them from his pocket. Looking up, I could now see many uniformed officers closing in. Turning to Liban, I gave him the keys. ‘Drive the van out of town, slowly, windows open, some place isolated, leave it.’

  Liban swallowed, a look exchanged with Henri, and unlocked a door. Sat inside, he glanced over his shoulder and wound down the windows. Henri shouted at the uniformed police for an escort, and a car sped to a screeching halt a minute later, Liban soon following it – but slowly, three police cars behind it as the DGSE team ran to me.

  I shouted, ‘Get the chemical team to follow that van!’ and turned to my prisoner, his face bloodied from the impact with the pavement. In Arabic, I said, ‘You can talk to me, or I make sure they never find your body parts. How did they know to contact you?’

  ‘My uncle, he contacted me,’ the terrified young man got out, shivering now in the cold. He only had a t-shirt on his top.

  ‘You know the name, Sedan?’

  ‘I heard it before, rich man, works for a large corporation south of Paris – I asked about a driver’s job there.’

  ‘You have a reputation for driving illegal things?’

  ‘No, but I did drive some things before, unlicensed fireworks.’

  ‘Where were you to take the van?’

  ‘Rue de Gul, off Rue de Pasteur. I was to leave the van, keys in it, at 6pm tomorrow.’

  ‘I understood all that,’ a DGSE man told me in Arabic.

 
‘Get a van like that one, men inside.’ He nodded. ‘The lad will know little else. Take him.’

  Uniformed officers grabbed the man and cuffed him as Swifty led out a tearful teenage girl and a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Take them in!’ I shouted at the police.

  Moran stepped out. ‘No large canisters in there, boys are searching now.’

  ‘Waste of time, go get them, please.’

  Moran ran back in.

  The DGSE man who spoke Arabic asked, in Arabic, ‘How much more is there?’

  ‘Hard to say. How lucky are you feeling?’

  He tipped his eyebrows.

  I called Tinker and gave him an update as I stood in a cold wind, soon on to David. With the team all here, a headcount done, I pointed them at the coaches, but what I wanted was a base of operation to hold up for a day. The DGSE indicated an army base northeast, so we headed off there, a fifteen minute drive, surprising the guards on the gate as we arrived.

  A room was found, huts, a canteen made available, and the lads got a much-appreciated warm meal. I had just sat down when I heard helicopters roar in low, at least four.

  Henri peeked through the window, and returned to his meal. ‘GIGN.’

  Men in black CT outfits came in five minutes later, pistols on thighs, a grey-haired man coming to sit with us.

  ‘I speak English,’ he began, the man offering a hard and weather worn face. ‘Commander Dubonet, GIGN.’

  ‘Why come here, we found the poison?’

  ‘The Interior Minister told me ... that I answer to you today,’ he got out, as if getting the words out was done reluctantly.

  ‘I’m just a captain, so I won’t be giving you any orders, but might ask nicely for your assistance. Pass the salt.’

  Those in earshot laughed as the man lifted the salt and placed it down next to me.

  ‘Excellent progress in Anglo-French relations,’ I commended.

  Liban stepped in.

  I turned my head up to him. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I need some new underwear, I think.’ He sat. ‘Dubonet,’ he noted. ‘What a ... so you are here.’

  Henri laughed as I continued with my meal.

  I told Major Liban, ‘Commander Dubonet is here to assist us.’

  ‘Ah, then we learn from the professionals, no.’

  Dubonet ignored Liban. ‘How much more poison is there?’

  I chewed my food. ‘The man in Morocco we questioned said several barrels in a glass case. That case was small enough to get on a van from Corsica and be carried by six men, so ... I say we have half or less of it already. From midnight tonight you need to stop every van and truck driving into Paris. And don’t look for Arabs, they paid a Chinese couple to drive some in.’

  ‘There are thousands of soldiers around Paris, all police on duty, we can seal off Paris tomorrow and issue a curfew.’

  I sighed. ‘What will happen then ... when they see your ring of steel, is that they open the poison in a town, ten thousand killed. Your only hope is that the rest of the chemicals are already sat with drivers, not with the Algerians. The drivers won’t open the containers. And Sedan will not know till noon tomorrow about the vans being intercepted.’

  ‘How many more vans?’

  ‘I say two. Approaching Paris from the south and west, because the chemicals have probably been handed to the drivers by now, somewhere as they drove from Toulon to here.’

  ‘The ring of steel – as you say – will find these vans, the drivers unaware of what they have.’

  I nodded. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  The DGSE main man stepped in, wrapped up warm, a nod at the GIGN commander. He informed me, ‘We have the mobile phone numbers. There are several that could be of interest.’

  ‘Can you get us some unmarked cars? If we’re to get Sedan, we need to sneak up on him in small teams.’

  ‘I will arrange cars now, or we just hire some.’ He stepped out. I turned to Liban. ‘Each car, one of yours driving, three of mine in the back.’ I turned to Henri. ‘You and Jacque drive one each.’

  Henri nodded. ‘These men, they are somewhere near here you think?’

  ‘Maybe, because I think this was the last stop. Next is just the ocean.’ I faced our GIGN commander. ‘If you stay with your men, with the helicopters, you can join us quickly if we find something. Give me your phone number.’

  He wrote it down for me. I made sure Liban and Henri had copies.

  ‘We wait?’ Dubonet asked.

  ‘We wait for some information from British or French Intelligence, then we go. We have the mobile phone numbers of a man I think was involved here, so the DGSE may get a location of someone he called, and soon.’

  Dubonet got himself some food with his men whilst we waited, the canteen full.

  Half an hour later and our transport had arrived, a dozen Audi saloons fuelled ready to go, four mini-vans with tinted windows. The canteen became command central, the DGSE guys taking calls and making calls, laptop computers studied. At least the food was good as we waited, the warm apple pie and cold ice cream much appreciated – seconds taken.

  When my phone trilled many faces turned towards me. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tinker. We got a hit on that sat phone, but it was from 2am this morning. Got a paper and pen?’

  I readied my pad. ‘OK, go ahead.’ He gave me the coordinates and a village name. ‘Thanks.’ Off the phone, I turned to the DGSE guys. ‘You have a map of this area?’

  They found one in the admin offices here on the base, returning to me ten minutes later.

  I laid it out on a table, and found the location by the coordinates. It was just a road, northeast of us. To Major Liban, I said, ‘Take your team in cars and vans, this road, turn right at the junction, look around for anything out of place, something might come to mind. I’ll go left at the junction. Have some of your men go into this village and have a look around, ask about Arabs.’

  ‘Something?’ the DGSE asked.

  ‘Hit on a phone, northeast of here, but it’s just a road; they called from a car. We’ll look around, and ask questions, come back here in an hour and wait for something solid.’

  They nodded, noses back in their laptops. Seeing my four snipers sat with their rifles, I had them wait here.

  Outside, Henri and Jacque grabbed Audis, two of Liban’s men in uniform grabbing two more, and we mounted up. I was in with Henri, Swifty and Moran in the back. Behind us I could see Liban, Jacque driving, Rocko and Slider in the rear. I waved them on as we turned, heading out the gate, a four vehicle convoy.

  As I read the map we skirted around Rennes to the north, and twenty minutes later joined the road in question, soon heading northeast. I stared out of the window as we progressed, a motel noted, possibly to have a look at on the way back.

  We passed innocuous factories, houses, farms, no Arabs with dangerous chemicals seen, and reached the given coordinates, easing to a halt on the side of the road, nothing but farms around us, the land flat. I stepped out and stood tall, taking in fields, a tractor and distant woods, others stepping out of their cars.

  Hearing a steady drone, I glanced up and around, finally seeing a light aircraft landing behind the trees. Map out, there it was, a small airfield a few miles northeast of here.

  I waved the guys back into their cars, and got back in myself. ‘There’s an airfield northeast, so maybe Sedan flew out, suitcase full of cash, because I don’t think he’s planning on being a martyr.’

  ‘Pah!’ Henri let out. ‘He pays others to do his dirty work, he is no fighter, this man.’

  We pulled off, and I directed Henri left at the next junction, checking that we still had three cars behind us. A mile on and I saw a Cessna come in to land, and we turned left again, following small signs for the airfield and soon glimpsing the orange windsock through the trees, the runway, hangars across the runway, a few light aircraft dotted around.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted, and Henri hit the brakes, the guys in the back nearly in the
front – and complaining. I peered out of Henri’s window at a sign. ‘There’s a sign for a company, and it’s one of Hammad’s!’

  ‘It is on the airfield,’ Henri noted.

  I waved Henri on, along the side of the airfield, but as we passed through dense trees I had him halt on the side of the road. I jumped out, jumped a low fence and ran, men behind me. At the edge of the tree line I knelt, Swifty and Moran there a moment later.

  ‘Small factory,’ Moran noted.

  We peered across four hundred yards of fields to a corner of the airfield, but no movement was seen.

  ‘There,’ Swifty said. ‘Is that an Algerian?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, seeing a man in smart suit, but obviously a citizen of the Maghreb. He checked a car, being cautious.

  ‘We can’t go in shooting,’ Moran warned. ‘They may have some of that shit with them. And there’re six or more, probably armed.’

  ‘We get behind them,’ I said as I stood. ‘Back to the cars!’ I shouted, and ran, straddling the fence. Inside, Henri having waited at the wheel, I directed him on – but slowly, as I called SIS London.

  ‘This is Wilco, in France. Track this position, it’s a small airfield northeast of Rennes. Update the French that Sedan is here, have the area sealed off a mile out but not to approach, no helicopters. I’m going to try and get in quietly. Wilco out.’

  The road was tree-lined, so it afforded us some cover from being spotted as we drove parallel to the runway, catching glimpses through the trees. We lost sight of factory buildings, and finally turned left, halting a few hundred yards down a narrow road.

  Easing to a halt, I jumped out, waving everyone out. ‘Form a line, in your teams, in your pairs!’

  Seeing two of Liban’s men in uniform, I ran back to them as Sasha readied three of his team – who had squeezed onto the one back seat. ‘What weapons do you have?’

  ‘Valmect,’ the first man replied, getting a rifle from the boot. Bandolier on, webbing, he made ready, his colleague joining him.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ I told them.

  Over a small fence and into the trees, I had the teams form a line, Sasha and his team on my left, Rocko, Rizzo on my right, Moran and Swifty far right, the soldiers behind me. I waved them on, checking my pistol, readying the spare magazine, and I knew that I had fired three rounds recently.