by Geoff Wolak
Now what?
My hands were behind my back, I’d never get them under my legs – could I? Just then I needed a piss, so had to go where I sat, hot pee down my legs.
Any attempt to break the chain would wake my jailor, but – but I was on the edge of the nice carpet, so could I get to him quietly and knock him out. Not with my hands behind my back. What about a kick?
I made a face and sighed loudly. I could kick the guy to death, and get his keys, but then I’d be the one in trouble, another enquiry. Just then I noticed things on the table. A tea spoon, a pen, a long screw, a paper clip.
First, the paper clip. I eased up, my back aching and my legs a bit numb, took two big steps and turned around, fumbling for the paper clip, getting it and stepping back quietly. I opened it out, bent the end and set about the lock, ten minutes taken up before a face peered in. I pretended to be asleep.
Resuming my lock-picking activity, I used up what could have been half an hour without luck, finally getting frustrated.
Then I remember an exercise with a rope I did years ago. It came back to me in a flash, and I eased forwards till my nose touched the nice smelling new magnolia carpet. I brought my knees forwards one at a time, till they were as high as they would go, almost to my head, and I stretched my already stretched arms around my arse and down to my shoes.
Taking a deep breath, and trying to relax, I lifted a toe and got the chain under a few inches, soon the second toe, then an almighty - and very painful, struggle to get the chain up my shoes and up my shins. Half way up my shins I rolled over, whether I wanted to or not, the chained hands coming past my knees. I eased up and sat back down, but now I was stuffed if they looked closely.
Nothing for it. I stepped to the light switch and knocked one off, my jailor not waking. I sat back down, the back of the room now a little darker by a few degrees. Sitting there, I realised that my position in the chair now looked unnatural, and that the seconds were ticking away till a face would appear at the window.
Bending forwards and reaching down, I put the chain under a leg of the chair before applying my full weight, pulling on the chain at the same time. A link opened and I stopped, lifting it up to inspect it, soon uncoupling it whilst realising that I could re-couple it and make it appear that I was cuffed still. Placing my hands behind my back, I slipped the link back together, and waited – head down.
Ten minutes later a face appeared, a long look taken, but soon he vanished. As he did my jailor snored loudly, woke himself up and jerked upright. Standing, he yawned, checked his watch and cursed, then knocked the kettle on. He also knocked all of the lights on. I lifted my head towards him.
‘Still with us, buddy?’ he asked.
‘Vorter,’ I asked.
‘Not a chance. Got some hot coffee you can have in the face if you’re thirsty.’
‘Spaceaba.’
It was late, very late I guess, but Chuck returned.
‘Not in comfy bed?’ I asked, heavily accented.
He moved aside to allow another man to view me. That man took a moment. ‘It looks like him,’ came an accented voice, and I considered the legend, and the pictures from Petrov’s past. How many times had I studied those pictures.
Staring at the man, the smell of baking hit me. Something about baking, a black and white photo, a man with a large wife.
The man stepped forwards, a line in some language I was not familiar with given. I was about to be rumbled.
‘How are you ... bakery boy?’
The man stiffened, offended. ‘I was never a bakery boy, I owned the bakery.’
‘Did you put white floor on your ... fat disgusting wife and bake her thinner?’
He slapped me hard, a curse given, Chuck pulling him back.
‘I guess that would be a positive ID,’ Chuck laughed, my cursing friend led out, Chuck following him, no doubt off to that comfy bed he mentioned.
The lights stayed up, and my jailor stayed awake, playing cards, sometimes with company. And I sat there all night long, not letting myself fall asleep.
I saw the dawn come up, and I heard them return.
Chuck sat in front of me, and took a moment. ‘You look like hell. Ready to talk, old buddy?’
‘Talk no, deal ... maybe, but only with British here.’
‘British? Why ... the Brits?’
‘I have woman, child, here, London.’
‘Ah...’
‘I want stay here.’
‘That could be arranged, if ... the intel is valued and viable.’
I peered into his rested eyes. ‘I have file ... twenty names, SVR in west. And pictures.’
Chuck gave an approving nod. ‘Now we’re talking.’
‘Bring British here, make deal, you get some files ... I get some money.’
‘You’re in no position to barter, buddy.’
‘You get files, I get money, or suck ... my ... cock.’
He angered quickly, but controlled it.
‘British ... here ... today, right to live here, London. Then ... nice little talk with tea and ... crumpets.’
Chuck seemed hesitant, but stood and walked out. A few minutes later one of my jailors brought me a glass of water and helped me sip it. Progress.
Waiting was agony, my back killing me, my shoulders aching beyond description, and a long two hours later – another pee taken in my trousers, a group appeared, Pamela Houghton at the head. I eased up my head, smirked and winked at her as she controlled her reaction.
She faced Chuck. ‘So, you ... believe this is Petrov?’
‘We had a doc verify the wounds, the scars, the gunshot wounds to the head, and the tattoo removed, and last night we brought in an old acquaintance of his and confirmed his ID,’ Chuck proudly listed off. ‘Picked him up with a kill contract from Yuri Bedlov, the mark known to us.’
She nodded, and I could see her hiding her smirk. ‘OK, Wilco, you can stop the pretence now.’
I had slipped the chain link out, and now stood, my hands free.
‘What the fuck...’ Chuck began, his men pulling their pistols.
‘Trooper Milton, 22 SAS Hereford, currently on secondment on MI6,’ I stated in a refined British accent.
‘You’re a fucking Brit agent!’ Chuck screamed.
I smiled widely at him. ‘Sorry, old chap, but you need to tightened up a bit.’
‘How long have you been loose?’ Pamela asked, her colleague smirking.
‘Since early evening yesterday, Ma’am,’ I lied. ‘Made myself a coffee whilst that guy slept, had some of his gum.’
‘I was awake the whole time,’ the guy protested, being stared at by Chuck.
‘Fingerprint the cups,’ I lightly suggested.
Pamela faced Chuck. ‘He could have escaped at any time, and killed you all very ... very quietly.’
‘Son of a bitch...’ Chuck loudly began.
‘Careful, Chuck, he could close that gap and kill you before you blink,’ Pamela lightly cautioned. She faced me. ‘Why allow yourself to be picked up so easily?’
‘Been trying to get these idiots to pick me up for months, Ma’am,’ I lied. ‘Left a trail of breadcrumbs even they could find. Bob Staines wanted to know what they were after – and they told me.’
Pamela smiled, and faced Chuck. ‘Who was questioning who?’ She faced me. ‘Bob hit the panic button last night, your lot on standby.’
I nodded. ‘Had to look real, Ma’am.’
A man stepped in. ‘Building is surrounded.’
I said, ‘That would be my lot, I’m afraid, they did have a noon cut-off,’ I lied. ‘Tracker in my heel, Chuck.’
He looked like a ten year old boy who had just been scolded. ‘We want access to the asset,’ he finally stated through gritted teeth.
‘That is something we can discuss...’ Pamela offered him. ‘After lengthy high-level apologies for kidnapping a British citizen on British streets.’
‘We thought he was a Russian contract killer!’ Chuck protes
ted. ‘And the asshole allowed himself to be taken!’
She smiled. ‘We best leave before the SAS storm in,’ she suggested, and she led me past Chuck.
‘Did you sleep vell in comfy bed?’ I asked in an accent, frustrating him to the point of a red face.
I waved a cuffed-hand at the guy who liked to torment me. ‘I’ve had rough sex that hurt me more than you did. Not gay are you?’
Well, if looks could kill me – he would have done, right then and there in front of witnesses.
In the foyer, one of Bob’s men threw a blanket over me. It was hardly needed with the dried blood on my face, but when I stepped outside I appreciated it, it was damned cold this morning. On the street, I could see that the area had been cordoned off, the Major waiting with Bob, and what looked like the whole squadron stood in black balaclavas. We walked up to the Major.
‘What the fuck happened?’ he loudly demanded.
‘I was playing at being a Russian agent, but a little too well. Yanks grabbed me, CIA.’
‘CIA? Those fuckers? On a British street!’ I nodded. ‘They tortured you?’
‘They tried and failed, and I played them. They were 100% convinced I was the asset.’
‘Yeah, well that’s something, it shows the legend holds up.’ He ordered a stand down as Rizzo and Smurf closed in.
‘Can we shoot someone?’ Rizzo asked.
‘No!’ the Major bellowed at him. ‘All units back to base.’ He faced me. ‘Get to the ambulance.’
Pamela asked the Major. ‘How did you know? Since I doubt he has a tracker in his heel.’
The Major glanced at Bob, who smiled coyly. ‘We’re not as dumb as we look,’ he told her.
‘Keeping tabs on me, Bob?’ she toyed.
‘Certainly not,’ he mock insisted.
‘We’re going to want access to the asset, and so will they. He stood up under scrutiny, which is rare.’
‘I trained him well,’ Bob stated.
‘Funny, thought I trained him well,’ the Major insisted, and I walked with Rizzo and the lads to an ambulance.
‘You smell,’ Smurf noted.
‘Bet I do,’ I agreed, the lads jeering and making rude comments, and wanting some action.
The ambulance took myself and my minder to a private hospital, very posh – and with very few sick-looking people milling around, a private room with an old guy in a suit, gloves on and my head examined. He cleaned me up as Bob arrived with Commander Wilson, the doctor ignoring them. I got two stitches, answered questions – was I unconscious, and that was that, not so much as a form to sign.
Again with a blanket over my head, I got a ride back to the MOD building, Bob’s team waiting, and it looked like they had been up all night.
The same guy handed me a shirt. ‘You’ll have to sign for the loss of the old one,’ he quipped, making me smile, but I wasn’t completely sure he was joking.
On the following Monday morning I was driven to Sennybridge by Smurf, my official bodyguard till my arms did what arms were supposed to do, and I stepped down from the jeep with my left arm in a sling, plasters on my forehead, even more of a spectacle than usual, in for even more questioning as usual. One of the Army sniper instructors was set to run the show, the first time, and I would sit and assist, which was just as well.
The Major called me at home late on a Thursday a few weeks later, after I had got back from a day in Sennybridge. ‘Wilco, you fit and in one piece?’
‘Yes, sir, got something for me?’
‘Big flap on, some intel about a possible attack in London.’
‘Aren’t “B” Squadron up there..?’
‘Yes, yes, but we’re to do some close protection of the VIPs, taking no chances. Bunch of fancy-pants do’s this weekend, top brass don’t want any of them bombed or shot up.’
‘I’ll iron a few shirts, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, Chelsea Barracks, kick-off time around 7pm.’
‘I’ll be there, sir. I’ll drive up because Bob wants me around on Monday.’
‘Good timing then. Night.’
The next day we drove out of Chelsea Barracks at 7.30pm in a blacked out mini-bus, myself and Swifty, Rizzo and Smurf plus the Major. At the nominated function we checked under tables as the bomb sniffer dogs keenly sniffed the carpet, we checked around behind curtains, in the kitchens, and then stood around for six hours getting a few looks from a bunch of gay older men that all of us wanted to punch out.
The lads went back to Chelsea Barracks, and I taunted them before going to my usual hotel room, the beds far better than those at the dated barracks.
We met up again at 7pm on the Saturday, Rizzo warned to be on his best behaviour because this function would host top military leaders, plus a load of politicians and civil servants. I checked my pistol in the mini-bus, spare mags, and we were soon back to looking under tables and inside pots and pans in the kitchens, Rizzo with his nose in tonight’s culinary offerings and annoying the chefs.
The early bird guests started to arrive, invites in posh blue envelopes handed in. I was at the top of the stairs, two uniformed officers nearby and chatting about what a waste of time this was – it was invite only and the staff had been vetted, when I recognised a face now in a tuxedo. He approached with his wife, a huge smile etched into his face.
We shook. ‘Air Commodore.’
‘They have you working tonight, do they?’
‘Close protection, sir.’
‘I’m feeling protected already.’
He wife pushed past and hugged me. ‘It’s been too long, dear boy, you should drop in some time.’
‘They keep me very busy, Ma’am.’
‘So I hear.’
‘I’ll catch-up with you inside, sir, once everyone is settled.’
He nodded and led his wife inside.
Five minutes later, after the passing of the Defence Minister and Home Secretary, General Dennet appeared in a tux as well, wife and daughter in tow.
I smiled as he closed in. ‘Evening, sir.’
‘You working here tonight?’
‘Close protection, sir.’
‘I would have thought they’d have ... less able people for such things.’
‘I was on the scenario last week, sir, be back on it next week – I’m earning my pay.’
‘Thetford Range is working, had a few through it, but it has no hills. And they have a version of the scenario with SA80s and less ammo used, which was inevitable – standard infantry rifle and all.’ He turned. ‘Oh, sorry, this is my wife and youngest. Ladies, this is infamous SAS soldier called Wilco.’
‘Feel like I know you already,’ his wife said. ‘Your name crops up a lot at various functions, and I thank you for protecting my husband in Bosnia.’
‘He’s good to work for, Ma’am, I got a full English breakfast each morning to set me up.’
‘And ... you are all better no doubt ... from your ordeal.’
‘All better, Ma’am, thank you.’ I faced the General. ‘I’ll chat to you inside, sir, once they’re all settled.’
He nodded and led his family inside. I looked away, and when I looked back my eyes widened, and I smiled. ‘Group Captain.’
‘Wilco! By ... god it’s good to see you again. Been kind of dull without you turning Brize Norton upside down.’ We shook. ‘What you doing here?’
‘Close protection, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, various ministers here. But these things are always very dull, especially the speeches.’
‘I’ll catch up with you inside for a chat, sir.’
He nodded and led his wife inside.
‘Paid your hotel bill in Riyadh yet?’ asked a colonel as he passed, making me smile.
The Major wandered out, stood for a moment, a few people greeted, then headed off. He had been gone a minute when I recognised the Prime Minister and his posse coming up the stairs. An aide whispered in his ear and he made a direct line for me.
‘Well done in Somalia,’ he offered, and
we shook.
‘Team effort, sir.’
‘And well done for ... Northern Ireland, a good result, very good, just a shame about the two policemen killed.’
I stopped smiling. ‘Yes, sir, but I like to feel that ... those responsible met their end.’
‘I have a feeling they did, quite rightly an all. Keep up the good work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I stood and watched the tail end of guests arrive, speeches started, one of Kate’s relatives saying hello.
‘This is Rizzo, anything happening?’ came a bored voice, and I put a finger to my ear piece.
‘Boring speeches,’ came Swifty.
I lifted my left wrist. ‘I have an empty staircase if you’d like to swap?’
‘Nah, me and Smurf are in the kitchens, some grub to nick.’
When Rizzo announced that the main course was being served, I decided to wander, but as I went for the door the Prime Minister and his posse came out. I smiled and nodded, and he tapped me on the arm as he passed, soon down the stairs and out, and not staying for the main course.
I entered the rear of the room, ushers stood near the door, and I could see the Major exit the kitchen and follow the wall of the large room around to me, glancing at faces as he went.
‘All quiet, sir?’
‘Waste of time,’ he whispered.
I nodded, and five minutes later he stepped outside and to the stairs.
After a toilet break, an hour later, I found the crowd now stood mostly in small groups, drinks in hands, quiet chit-chat going on, the four-piece orchestra playing quietly as the waiters cleaned up. Wandering around, I nodded at a few people, General Dennet cornering me for a ten minute chat on the scenario, but he spoke to me more like an equal than a lowly enlisted man, something of debate about the scoring system.
He stopped when my face went to kill mode, something I was yet to see in reflection or photograph, but something that General Dennet reminded me of later.
An Asian lad, a waiter, tapped a bulge at his belt buckle, another Asian water nodding a signal towards the stage.
I lifted my left wrist. ‘Asian waiters heading for the stage. Standby, standby.’
The General swung his head around, now very concerned, and soon there were four Asian waiters near the stage, looks exchanged. Drawing my pistol, right in the face of General Dennet’s wife, he grabbed her out of the way, and I could see the waiters about to jump up on the stage, something in each hand.