by Geoff Wolak
‘It’s Sergeant Crab, you lot coming back or what?’
‘We got sidetracked with a minor problem, sorted now, be back in a day. What you been doing?’
‘They had a weekend off, and now I’ve deputised ten RAF Regiment lads to assist, so I’m working them hard.’
‘Good work, sergeant, be back soon.’
I grabbed some warm apple pie and cold ice cream as the canteen bustled, the DGSE men and their laptops looking harassed, my fingernails in need of a good clean.
When my phone trilled it was RAF Northolt, the Emergency Command Centre. ‘We located the aircraft, have it on radar from a destroyer, Lynx in the air and armed, Four Tornado aircraft circling at low level, but radar also shows a dozen French aircraft circling. We’ve ordered the aircraft to turn back, but the French will not allow it back, they’ve threatened to shoot it down.’
‘Hold on, sir.’ I lowered the phone and faced the DGSE as they turned my way. ‘British and French fighter aircraft have found that plane, as well as a British destroyer, and a Lynx helicopter is on station.’ I lifted the phone. ‘Go head.’
‘We have an update ... pilot instructed to turn back again, still on course, French still threatening it. Wait ... report from the Lynx: pilot of light aircraft shot himself under the chin, aircraft has crashed into the sea, destroyer moving in. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I lowered my phone, many expectant faces waiting. ‘Pilot of the light aircraft shot himself in the head, and plane has crashed into the sea.’ I pointed at the senior DGSE man as he sat opposite Hunt. ‘I want transport back to Sierra Leone.’
‘It is over?’ a DGSE man asked.
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Thank fuck, my wife will divorce me if I am away more!’
Many of the men laughed, clearly relieved, but when Liban patted Henri on the back he made a cloud of grey dust, not appreciated by those nearby.
My phone trilled again. ‘It’s Max.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Paris, in a hotel, a million fucking soldiers and coppers running around. We’ve been told not to go outside, fucking panic here.’
I walked outside after grabbing my grey cement-covered jacket, and started to detail the story from the start. Half an hour later I was chilled.
‘You ran into a room with nerve agent leaking? Stupid fuck. If you die I get no more stories.’
‘Max, your concern for my well-being is heart warming, it truly is.’
‘I can run this?’
‘Yes, you can run it.’
‘Who was behind it?’
‘Al-Qa’eda,’ I lied. ‘Blame those fuckers.’
With Max gone, I stepped back inside and to the warm bustle, a hot drink needed.
The head man for the DGSE approached. ‘The President would like to talk to you and your men, in Paris.’
I shrugged, not really in a position to say no. ‘Sure. So long as we get a nice hotel and a change of fucking clothes.’
He looked me up and down. ‘Like this, to meet the President, would not be so good, no. And the Interior Minister wishes a debrief.’
Again I nodded. I rounded up the teams, and we set off for the airport, our mini-van stinking of cement.
‘Where we off now?’ Rizzo complained.
‘Paris, a nice hotel, some beers.’
They cheered. ‘More fucking like it,’ Slider commended.
After half an hour of sitting around, ten minutes stood in the cold, we boarded our aircraft, our crates still in the hold, the co-pilot not impressed by the state of us.
Door closed, warm air felt from the vents, I relaxed and sighed. Turning my head to Swifty, he looked like he was wearing grey eye-liner. I noted, ‘You followed me into that building.’
‘Stupid thing to do, yeah. You fucking owe me, arsehole.’
‘I know why I did, but why did you do it?’
‘Why? You owe me four quid for the bread and milk at home. If you’re killed I don’t get it back,’ he said, Moran laughing.
‘Good to know your motivation is where it should be.’
Rizzo complained, ‘How come they don’t have nice airhostesses on these planes? They do in the movies.’
‘There’s no pleasing some people,’ I said with a sigh.
Stinking of cement, we powered up, soon lifting our nose, and the lads dosed off. I stared down at the towns and villages, knowing why I ran into that room; it was for them – the women and kids down there. I just wondered if the little fucks would ever appreciate what my men did, and I realised that they never would.
Just over an hour later we glimpsed Paris.
‘Fucking hell,’ I let out, heads turning. ‘There’s not a car on the roads, they’re deserted!’
‘Not been seen before,’ Henri noted, peering down.
‘No people either!’ I added.
Moran noted, ‘It’s Christmas Eve and cold as fuck, so no great hardship telling people to stay inside. Most would be home anyhow.’
I faced him, ‘Captain, you have grey eyebrows, have a shower.’
He rubbed his eyebrows.
After landing we taxied for what seemed like five miles, finally halting next to vans, buses - and a million police cars with flashing lights. Down from the plane, crates lugged in cold air, we claimed a coach, crates in the luggage space, and set off under escort, a twenty minute drive along deserted streets as it grew dark, and to a hotel, no trouble parking.
Down from the coach, a DGSE man walked back to me from his car. ‘There was one floor, newly decorated, no guests, but no carpets in rooms. We ‘ave you ‘ere.’
‘We’ll make do. What about clothes?’
‘We ‘av some coming, yes.’
Crates lugged inside, keys issued – the regular hotel guests disturbed by our presence, and we up-righted the crates in the lifts. I claimed a room with no carpet, but everything else was more or less OK, blue plastic film still on the air com unit and the toilet. It offered two single beds, so Swifty and I would share, our crate opened.
I told him I would get into uniform if I was to meet any officials, and I soon hit the shower, the hotel manager soon to be pissed off with the mess I had made, cement down the plug hole.
As I got dressed Swifty hit the shower, complaining loudly about the mess I had left. I figured on some room service, so ordered sandwiches and coffee, and by time Swifty had stopped complaining and was now dressed the trolley appeared. I signed as Commander Dubonet, GIGN, no words spoken to the young lad.
Swifty shut up as he ate, and after the salad had been removed from the sandwiches. ‘How long we here?’
‘I need to brief the French Intel boys, so a day or two.’
‘So long as we’re not pissing about with nerve agent I’m happy. Be glad to be back in the fucking jungle. Getting shot at is one thing, but that nerve agent stuff scares the shit out of me. I have an image of boils on my skin.’
‘We still have to find where they made it, and shut them down.’
‘French problem.’
‘That plane was on its way to the UK, so it’s our problem,’ I insisted.
‘I don’t want to be storming some factory full of that shit!’
‘We’ll shoot from distance, destroy the place upwind and run. A few RPGs and the fuckers inside won’t be mixing unstable chemicals.’ I raised a finger, grabbed my phone as I chewed, and looked up a number from my pad. ‘That Doctor Summers?’
‘Yes?’
‘Wilco. Found out anything useful?’
‘Well we think we have the parameters for the decay, and we’d say twelve hours from when you shot those men.’
‘Not enough time to come from Sudan.’
‘No, we don’t think so.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘What’s happening that end?’
‘We shot or captured those involved, found a plane on its way to the UK – RAF intercepted it. We’re in Paris now, streets deserted, city on lockdown.’<
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‘Bloody hell, I need to watch the news.’
‘Don’t go anywhere, we’ll need you when we raid the place the chemicals were made. Wilco out.’ I put my phone down. ‘Chemicals came from Al Had in southern Algeria, not Sudan.’
‘Good, because a raid into Sudan is a fucking bad idea any day of the week.’
I sipped my coffee and chewed my sandwich. ‘Christmas Eve, eh. I didn’t get anything for my daughter.’
‘Kate will get her loads probably, spoil her, say some are from you.’
‘I gave her enough money,’ I complained.
Half an hour later a knock came at the door, one of the DGSE men. ‘Ah, here you are. Can you come to meet the Interior Minister?’
‘Sure.’ I put my jacket on. To Swifty I said, ‘Have a drink in the bar. Take the lads down.’
‘Got no fucking cash!’
‘Put it on the room,’ I told him.
Outside, we braved the chill night air, blue lights flashing, and I eased into the back seat of an Audi saloon, soon tearing across Paris, motorcycle outriders ahead of us, but there was little traffic to worry about, Paris was a ghost town.
At the Interior Ministry we sped in through gates, under two arches, and to a door, many armed guards stood getting cold, faces covered in balaclavas. I was led inside and to the warmth, up dated stone steps, along a corridor and into a large room, many white boards and maps set up, a dozen senior officials stood chatting, twenty men and ladies sat at computer screens.
‘Ah, Cap-ee-tan,’ I was welcomed. I shook hands with the Interior Minister, a nod at the DGSE senior man, his boss introduced. ‘We would like a step by step analysis if you please. But first, do you think there is more chemical here in France?’ ‘Here, no, but they could bring it from Algeria.’
‘It was from Algeria? Not Sudan?’
‘From Al Had, southern Algeria, we have confirmed that. Our scientists worked out the chemical delay, and it did not have time to come from Sudan.’
Looks were exchanged, words spoken. I was then nudged towards a white board, and I started at the beginning, a translator stood to my side, a lady looking like a court recorder taking down everything I said – a worry.
I started with the body in Sierra Leone, and worked forwards over an hour, a few questions answered.
The Interior Minister, now with his jacket off and tie loosened, said, ‘You made use of questionable sources, you tortured evidence from suspects, and you benefitted from British GCHQ phone tracing – of questionable legality.’ He waited.
I shrugged. ‘I would have done anything to stop the chemical, anything at all. My career, and my life, is not worth the deaths fifty thousand French citizens.’
He stood, and started clapping. ‘Bravo, Cap-ee-tan, bravo.’ The others joined in, leaving me stood feeling stupid at the front.
After they had settled down, coffee offered, a man whispered in the ear of the Minister.
The Minister began, ‘Reuters has the story, and the British press...’
‘I gave them a version of the story, yes, just in case another version should appear.’
‘The British press describes your team as part French part English, fifty-fifty, so we cannot complain. But why is Al Qa-eda being blamed for this?’
‘I figured you would want to blame outsiders, rather than French-born citizens.’
He smiled. ‘You should be working in my office, with me. But was there an Al Qa-eda link?’
‘None found. If you want motive, then the young man we captured at the airfield in Rennes might help you. Hammad was not behind it, he never knew.’
‘The Moroccans have applauded what you did at his villa, and we are not unhappy that we got the blame. The citizens of Paris are traumatized, yet see this villa and rejoice that revenge was taken. Can you remain in Paris, the President will wish to meet the men tomorrow?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir. But my men have dirty clothes and uniforms. Finger nails ain’t too great either.’
‘Not to worry, he will understand.’
Back at the hotel I found British and French Echo in the bar, most in uniform, something of a party going on, the guests seemingly happy enough. There were even a few tasty ladies in the crowd and chatting to the teams.
I closed in on Moran. ‘Hotel guests not disturbed by us?’
‘We explained who we were and what happened, assured them the threat had been dealt with, so they’re all pleased as fuck.’
I got a beer, on my room number.
‘Ah, Wilco, come!’ Liban shouted, and I joined his group, all stood in uniform.
‘I just met your Interior Minister, gave him a brief on what we did,’ I told them. ‘So now we’re all in trouble.’ They laughed. ‘Tomorrow we all meet the President.’
‘Ah, we shine our shoes, no,’ Liban noted.
I raised my glass. ‘To upsetting the GIGN.’
They cheered loudly and clinked glasses, more beer on the floor than down throats.
Liban said, ‘They will be very upset with us, very upset, so I will sleep with a stupid smile on my face, yes.’
Henri squeezed in. ‘Some people say we are on the news, French Echo.’ They cheered again. ‘We are credited with finding and dealing with the poison,’ Henri added. ‘Not GIGN.’
‘I put the whole story to British newspapers,’ I told them. ‘They have our team as being fifty-fifty British and French.’
‘More of us than you!’ Liban claimed, his men laughing.
‘We did more!’ I shouted back with a smile.
‘Ah, not fair!’
‘When we entered the building with the poison there was one French and three British!’ I added.
‘No, no, Captain Moran speaks French, so fifty-fifty.’
I grabbed Liban in a headlock and poured beer over his face.
Rocko and Rizzo approached half an hour later. ‘Where’re the hookers?’
‘Sorry, guys, have to find your own tonight. Some nice ladies in here though.’
‘There a local knocking shop?’ Rocko asked.
‘You’re not allowed out on the streets,’ I told them. ‘Lockdown and curfew. But you got a comfy hotel and some beer, no one shooting at you, what more do you want?’
‘Some hookers!’
‘Don’t drink too much, meeting the President tomorrow.’
‘President of what?’ Rizzo asked.
I shook my head at him. ‘President of Disneyland, Dope.’
On a toilet break my phone trilled; Tinker. ‘Hey Buddy,’ I offered.
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In a hotel bar, having a few drinks.’
‘Yeah, us too, bit of a celebration going on, hard week’s work. Is it always like this, working for you?’
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘Been a hell of a start for us. Oh, they’ve made good progress with the new offices, starting to take shape, should be nice when ready, one large room as well, big enough for briefings, kitchen an all.’
‘What’s on the British news?’
‘Nothing but the poison, and that plane heading for Plymouth.’
‘Was it on a course for Plymouth?’ I asked.
‘More or less. News had the Nimrods taking off, flying low over Cornwall, film of the RAF Tornados screeching over the south coast, every base on alert, gate guards in NBC suits. Lots of film of soldiers in respirators in London, fucking population a bit concerned.
‘You know, that little fucking light plane had thirty two jets circling ready, one Lynx and two warships with missiles aimed at it.’
‘He shot himself in the head.’
‘Just as well, saves us the cost of a missile. Destroyer is there with a French warship, over the spot, divers ready to go down.’
‘That would be a bad idea, the chemical could leak.’
‘Talk of them blowing it up,’ Tinker informed me.
‘That sounds like a better plan.’
‘My sources tell me that the aler
t will be stood down tonight, but that they’ll watch the Channel.’
‘You tell everyone thanks from me, and to get some rest, but we’ll move on the chemical plant in Algeria soon.’
‘It’s in an isolated spot, but I’d not want to fire a gun inside it or set foot inside.’
‘Well, yeah, could be tricky.’ Phone down, it trilled. ‘Wilco,’ I said as Hunt walked past, a pat on my shoulder.
‘Deputy Chief, can you talk?’
‘Yes, just having a drink in a hotel bar.’
‘Well done on getting the chemical, and the men, another good result for your team. But you remember that chat we had ... about you not throwing your life away...’
I laughed. ‘I forgot. Next time.’
‘You entered a building with leaking nerve gas, covered in cement..?’
‘Cement powder has lime, and that helps neutralise chemicals, so we covered ourselves with it and ran in, cement powder on the canister that was leaking. It may have made a difference.’
‘They evacuated that town, no one sick so far, so maybe it did make a difference. Tell me, is there any more out there?’
‘There’s a factory full of it, could be lots of it out there.’
‘Travel chaos here, flights to Paris all diverted – and during the holidays as well!’
‘French wanted a big show, good for the votes in next May’s election.’
‘How cynical of you, but you’re not wrong. And blaming Al Qa-eda, was that the French?’
‘No, I did that. I figured they’d not want to admit it was home-grown terrorism – or Algerian.’
‘You should be working here with me.’
‘That’s what the French Interior minister just said.’
‘Whatever he offers you, we’ll double it,’ he joked.
‘I’m staying where I am for now. Oh, what happened to that Brazilian tip-off?’
‘Completely overshadowed by Paris, hardly made the news, but a huge haul – DEA are happy for a change. Ten tonnes of cocaine, so someone will be hurting, and adjusting ledgers, a few workers laid off over Christmas.’
‘I think our Bolivian friend was evening a score, and removing some of the competition.’
Phone finally down, it trilled again. I recognised the number. In Russian, I said, ‘Hey boss.’