Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

‘Not your boss, and I just been seeing the news in Europe. They say it was you who tracked down these Algerians.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just as well, I hate Arabs. But I heard a rumour, so I paid some money. There’s some poison on a ship, ship name Jillil II, heading to Beirut.’

  My face dropped. ‘When did it set sail?’

  ‘Today some time.’

  ‘Anything else like that, let me know. Chat later, and thanks.’ I called back Langley.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Listen carefully, ship called Jillil II – belonging to Hammad, set sail today to Beirut, maybe from Tunis, and it has poison on board.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Intercept it!’

  ‘I’ll be all over out.’ He cut the line.

  I called again, to SIS London. ‘It’s Wilco. Ship called Jillil II sailed from North Africa today, bound for Beirut, and it has the poison on board. Alert the fucking Israelis, I’ve notified the Americans, send a note to the French right now – I’m having a night off.’

  Phone away, I joined the party. I closed in on Moran. ‘A ship sailed today, to Beirut, with the chemical onboard.’

  ‘More of that shit out there,’ he noted.

  I nodded. ‘We’ll need to hit that factory, or wherever it’s made, because I doubt it’s where we think it’s being made. Maybe some place close to the factory.’

  An hour later a car came for me, half expected, and we sped across Paris again, soon back to the same office. There were fewer people, but the Interior Minister was still here.

  ‘We have news of more chemical, on a ship this time,’ he began.

  ‘The intel came from one of my sources.’

  ‘Ah. Well that ship is halfway, and I think the Israeli Air Force will be most displeased with the cargo. I have spoken to my opposite number there, and they will intercept it. I have asked the Algerian authorities to move on the facility in Al Had, but they insist it was inspected a week ago, no dangerous chemicals.’

  I nodded. ‘There will be a facility nearby, hidden. I have a phone fix from the area, that will be the place.’

  ‘Then we raid it, you and French Echo.’

  All eyes were on me. I gave him a disappointed look. ‘Minister, my official ... recommendation will be that several hundred French paratroopers land, TV camera nearby. We need to be ... thorough.’

  He hid his smile as he stared back. ‘Indeed, we must be ... thorough.’

  ‘My men will HALO drop in at midnight, your men drop at dawn, helicopters to cross the border, ground vehicles with chemical experts to follow.’

  ‘Nothing less would end this, yes.’ He nodded. ‘I will speak with the President now.’

  As they led me out I called Credenhill. ‘It’s Wilco. Have your men in Western Sahara make ready for a HALO drop into southern Algeria, joint operation with the French. Move the teams from Kenya, get the chutes, and a Hercules or two. Update me tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s fucking Christmas!’

  ‘They can have some turkey after the job is done.’

  I called SIS London whilst stood near the cars. ‘It’s Wilco. French will launch a large-scale raid of Paras into Southern Algeria soon, British and French Echo requested to HALO in, regular SAS to HALO in, Hercules needed. Send it up the line urgently. And I know that GCHQ got a sat phone position in Al Had, Algeria. I need it verified.’

  ‘You do realise it’s Christmas?’

  ‘People have been reminding me recently, yes. Wilco out.’

  Back in the hotel bar, I grabbed Liban and led him to one side. ‘A ship is heading for Beirut with the poison on board.’

  ‘They are still active?’ Liban puzzled. ‘We missed some people.’

  ‘We missed some people, so your government will send a large parachute force into Southern Algeria, we’ll spearhead it.’

  ‘Not tonight I hope,’ Liban told me.

  I smiled. ‘I fucking hope not, my lot are drunk.’

  At 1am I was back in my room, room service ordered. My phone trilled, Langley. ‘Wilco here.’

  ‘That boat has been stopped, Israeli jets turned it around after hitting it with 30mm cannon, a few holes made. Some of our destroyers closing in, so we’ll know by dawn what she’s carrying.’

  ‘Then we wait the dawn.’

  Sat there, tapping my chin with the phone, Swifty still downstairs, I called Tomsk. ‘Are there any Russians linked to this poison?’

  ‘A Russian company made special containers, glass and some special metal, to transport the stuff. They had to have a man travel with it, because the fucking Arabs were so worried about a leak. ’

  ‘Israelis shot at that boat, US Navy moving to intercept.’

  ‘So they all owe me.’

  ‘That they do. And this Brazilian tip-off.’

  ‘From your friend, the German. But I did some digging, and the cocaine came from Peru, his rivals – so you do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘The Peru gang are out of pocket,’ I noted.

  ‘They will be hurting badly, they lost three month’s supply. I may offer to assist them.’

  ‘They can hardly say no right now.’

  ‘They have a big hotel in Grand Cayman, I fancy it.’

  I laughed. ‘Why not. And I think you’ll get a good price. But don’t meet them face to face.’

  ‘Hey, I won’t make that mistake again. Listen, one of my friends has been arrested in Miami, do you think the Americans could let him go?’

  ‘I can ask, but the CIA don’t have that much influence in local prisons. What’s his name?’ I made a note, and called Langley, getting put through to a private residence.

  ‘Back on so soon?’ the Deputy Chief began.

  ‘Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  I gave the detail. ‘I want him out of prison, a fake heart attack, some hobo’s body incinerated, on a plane to Panama, or no more tip-offs.’

  ‘Hey Buddy, you’re on our side, not supposed to strong arm us.’

  ‘You got the ship, you got Brazil, now pull your finger out and make one guy disappear from the system – or you’re Girl Scout panties.’

  ‘Girl Scout panties? Ouch.’

  ‘Go fake a heart attack, and then consider what it would be like to have me work for you every day. Be more than your missing stapler you’d have to worry about.’

  He sighed. ‘Leave it with me.’

  I woke to find that The Sun newspaper had a six page spread, the full story, the timeline from Sierra Leone, and that the TV news was running nothing else.

  Calling in to SIS, they updated me, the ship Jilllil II boarded only to take the crew off, the ship sunk after a missile hit, the US Navy not wishing to piss about with the chemical. The only solid evidence they had was a mystery Russian man who could not explain his purpose on the ship till he had been offered the electric chair.

  Just to upset a great many French soldiers, 1st Battalion and most every Para the French had were on call-up, many already on a plane – turkey left behind, families left behind.

  I called the Air Commodore early, and he was arranging a Tristar full of chutes and para instructors in a hurry. Credenhill had dispatched all of “D” Squadron from Kenya, so the Colonel wanted some publicity for himself.

  I called Max and told him to get to Western Sahara, and that we’d meet him there.

  ‘There’s no fucking taxis running!’

  ‘Let me make a call and get you to the airport.’

  ‘There ain’t no fucking planes flying!’

  ‘No? Come to my hotel.’ I gave him the details. ‘Walk if you have to, tell them you work for me.’

  ‘Hey, you’re down the street from me,’ he realised.

  ‘Then get packed and come down, explain to the police on the door.’

  An hour later Max was let in, but not given a room since we were leaving. I explained him to the DGSE, and he travelled with us towards the Palace, chatting to the lads about what had happen
ed. I borrowed a combat jacket from Slider, and he had pinched a French one, none of the promised clothes having turned up yet.

  With sore heads, the lads peered out the windows at cold empty streets.

  ‘Fucking Christmas day,’ Slider complained.

  ‘Got anywhere to be?’ I asked.

  ‘Should be home with my parents, my mum cooking, all the nephews and nieces around.’

  ‘Do they know what you do?’

  ‘They think I’m still in the Marines. You see you nipper much?’

  ‘Not much, no, I’d rather keep busy and not think about it.’ I lifted my head. ‘Rizzo, what’d you normally do for Christmas?’

  ‘Avoid my fucking family. Mum always hits the booze, kid brother is a jail bird, cousin died of heroin – right fucking family they are.’

  ‘And yet ... you turned out OK,’ I said, the lads laughing

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Rizzo protested.

  ‘You kill people for a living,’ Swifty told him.

  Moran noted, ‘We all need our fucking heads examined.’

  ‘There any booze where we’re going?’ Rizzo asked.

  ‘No, but maybe a cup of tea. We’re off to see the President of France, so best behaviour – or you get your wages docked by about six months after a punch to the head. And if he tries to kiss you on the cheeks ... don’t fucking hit him!’

  We drove up the deserted Champs Elysees, the guys recognising it off the TV, and turned right, past the parks, soon to a high metal gate – heavily guarded, a guard in traditional dress reminding me of Buckingham Palace. We slowed to negotiate a narrow gate, inside and around through an arch, and halted to find French Echo lined up in a block, many senior officers stood waiting.

  My scruffy rabble became less of a worry when I saw that French Echo were in combats as well. I led my rabble down from the coach, and we joined French Echo, or at least stood near them whilst looking like a rabble, Max ready with camera till an usher descended on him and asked who he was. I explained that Max was our official unit photographer.

  After five minutes were we nudged inside, a uniformed major leading us inside, down high-ceilinged corridors lined with paintings of men on horses – the horses all on two legs not four, and we entered a warm room, a table at the end, a huge mirror, more paintings, and a hundred dignitaries and officers stood around in formal dress – and at Christmas.

  The Interior Minster welcomed me with a handshake - and no kisses, and directed my lads to line up on one side. French Echo lined up at an angle, a few photographers stood ready. I just hoped that they knew not to photograph us.

  A man closed in. ‘British Ambassador,’ he announced, and we shook. ‘Well done, good show, not least because my family is here in Paris. Has the danger ... really passed?’

  ‘We’ll go raid the factory in Algeria, then we should know if there’s any more chemical out there.’

  ‘And the Algerians are not ... looking at that place?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a secret place nearby that we’re yet to find.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Large doors opened, ushers holding them, the President and his team striding in wearing dark blue suits, a table being placed in the centre of the room for him, many boxes and papers on it. The photographers snapped him, and not us.

  The President took in the faces as they all stared back, waiting, and he began talking. The ambassador started to translate for me, quietly.

  ‘This week has been traumatic for the citizens of France and of Paris ... but we have prevailed ... right and justice on our side. We are all very thankful for our police and army ... and the security specialists. In particular ... we are we are here today to thank Echo France unit ... who distinguished themselves in North Africa ... and they followed the trail of the terrorists to Corsica and France ... but let us not forget that their team involved British elements to it ... for which we are all very grateful.’

  I hid my smile, a glance at Moran.

  ‘We must give great thanks ... to the British Intelligence services for their contribution in this endeavour ... and to the British Government for the use of their specialist men ... British Echo soldiers ... who often work hand in hand with Echo France.

  ‘Echo France will now be given a unit citation, and created into a formal unit brigade. Major Liban.’

  Liban stepped forwards, a nod given since he had no headwear on, a paper award handed over.

  The ambassador whispered, ‘He is now Lieutenant Colonel, head of this new enlarged unit.’

  The dignitaries applauded, and I joined in, Moran now translating for the lads. I hoped that Rizzo would not wolf-whistle as Liban chatted to the President, questions answered. He finally stood to one side of the table.

  The President turned towards me.

  ‘May we call Captain Wilco,’ the ambassador whispered. ‘Captain Morgan, Sergeant Henri Gatt, Sergeant Swift.’

  I smiled and the mispronunciation of the names, glanced at the lads in question and led them across, Max closing in. We all stamped to attention and nodded, the photographers now behind us and snapping away, the ambassador stood close.

  The President began, the ambassador translating, ‘Captain, your exploits reach the ears of most French citizens ... and we are all very grateful for the many French hostages that your men rescued ... in particular in Angola and the Congo ... and we are very grateful that your team spearheaded the pursuit of the terrorists ... from North Africa to France.

  ‘I am led to believe that it was your personal decisions that led to the terrorists being found and ... dealt with. Furthermore ... when you found the poison gas you were gravely concerned for the safety of French citizens in a nearby town ... and that you ran into a building with escaping nerve gas ... apparently with bags of cement to try and neutralise it ... a very great risk taken on behalf of our citizens.’

  He opened a box, a medal with red cloth inside, a green clover and something that looked like a bunch of flowers in green, the same as my previous medal from him.

  ‘Captain ... for numerous individual acts that benefitted our country ... for making personal decisions ... and for running into a building with nerve gas ... I am happy to award you our Legion of Honour, Grand Cross.’ He walked around and pinned it on my combat jacket, the dignitaries and officers applauding as we shook, my medal status having moved from grade five up to grade two.

  Next came Moran, questions answered in French, a long chat, a similar medal pinned on his chest, followed by Henri – more questions answered in French, finally Swifty as Max photographed my medal close up, my face not in the frame.

  A turn of the head by the President, and an officer brought over four of our standard facemasks. Puzzled, we put them on as the President came around to line up with us, the photographers taking many snaps, Max at the fore.

  Facemasks off, I led my lads back to where we had been stood, the President starting to decorate French Echo with medals, but they did not seem to be the Legion of Honour medals we had received. The President then moved towards my rabble, a worry, more boxes handed over, medals pinned, no questions asked – which was good because it would be hard to explain Sasha.

  The ambassador explained, ‘They are Medals of Gratitude.’ He finally explained, ‘We are to all move next door now.’

  I waved my guys to follow, after the President had left, and we followed behind French Echo to another room, food laid on, and I wondered how pissed-off the British Prime Minister would be that the French were milking this.

  I grabbed a coffee, and some biscuits, the Ambassador translating as senior French officers asked questions of detail about the operation, and the planned raid in Algeria, Moran in full swing with French officers.

  Liban finally closed in. ‘You are now a national hero, no,’ he teased.

  ‘Would have preferred some cash,’ I whispered, making him laugh.

  ‘Henri is one of only a few Sergeants to get this award,’ he informed me.

  ‘And you�
�ve been promoted, so I’ll have to show more respect, eh.’

  ‘Pah! And now I have a desk maybe. But at least the GIGN will be upset - now they will never get work in North Africa.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s me,’ came Kate’s voice.

  ‘Oh ... I’m ... in the Elysee Palace, with the French President.’

  ‘I’ve been watching it on the news. You have been trying very hard to get yourself killed this week...’

  ‘Anything waiting for me back in England?’ I tersely replied.

  ‘Let’s not have this talk again. Hang on.’

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘Hey princess, did you get lots for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes!’ And she listed most all of it.

  Kate came back on. ‘She now has a puppy as well, called Digery – don’t ask.’

  ‘Did you get her something from me?’

  ‘Yes of course, she thinks you got her a horse and pony jigsaw and a horse and pony colouring set.’

  ‘So a leaning towards things equine then.’

  ‘She’s a little show-jumper in the making.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘She may take after you, a thrill seeker. So will you be popping in?’

  ‘I have a job to finish off, could take a week.’

  ‘Well, try and pop in and see her, she does ask about you.’

  ‘I will do, yes. Bye.’

  Phone away, Liban was waiting. ‘It is never easy to balance family and work. I have two ex-wives and three daughters, so I know.’

  ‘Easier to go fight in a war than to get along with the women in our lives,’ I noted.

  ‘We leave in an hour,’ he informed me. ‘For Western Sahara first. They have made the deployment look like a scheduled exercise, and have told the press that we will hunt down the poisoners in Mauritania – no mention of Algeria.’

  I nodded. ‘I doubt there are many armed men guarding the place, but we need to capture the scientists alive.’

  Medals in pockets, we were soon on coaches heading to the airport, a plane to reclaim, the pilots freshly rested, but probably not pleased to be working today. The lads claimed familiar seats, our clothes in need of a good wash and, as we climbed away from an unusually quiet airport in an unusually quiet Paris, my mind was on my daughter, an image of her riding a pony.