by Geoff Wolak
‘Dey fly man, from a small airfield, north, Bangos.’
I turned to uncle cop.
‘Bangos is used by smugglers,’ he informed me. ‘It’s four hours drive across dee mountain.’
I faced our kidnapper, but grabbed a knife off the table. ‘I’m going to cut off your ears unless you know something more.’ I inched closer, our cops not reacting.
‘They fly to Mexico,’ he pleaded. ‘The men who be coming to me, dey work for Carlos, The Jackal.’
A sweaty-faced uncle cop challenged, ‘How you know The Jackal, you be small time cockroach.’ He pistol whipped our victim, opening the forehead skin. I need not have worried about the cops.
‘Nandy Croft, I was helping Nandy Croft, he get Charlie from Carlos!’ our victim pleaded.
Uncle cop faced me. ‘Croft is a big time dealer here, he would use Bangos sometimes. We raid it every month but dey always know we coming. Croft might know Carlos.’
I faced our cops for hire and put my t-shirt back on. ‘I need him held for a few days, no one talking to him, no calls out.’
The sergeant offered, ‘I can do dat, and we shoot him up with methadone. He sleep for a week!’
I counted out five thousand euros, the money being studied intensely. ‘Change the money to dollars. And thanks, I’ll be back in a few days.’
I pointed my team towards the waiting taxi, three to squeeze into the back as our bloody-nosed dealer was cuffed, and roughly thrown into the back seat of the patrol car.
A wave of thanks, and our taxi began down the hill, directed to the same cafe. Inside that cafe, Mertz stood as we approached, drinks organized.
‘Back so quickly?’ our surgically-altered host puzzled.
I stepped away and called Tomsk, ‘What do you know about Carlos The Jackal, in Mexico.’
‘I deal with him.’
‘Shit…’
‘Why?’
‘He grabbed a CIA man I know, here in Jamaica, flown to Mexico. What dealings do you have with him?’
‘He has a secure pipeline into America, so I ship a few tonnes through him. He’s OK, I trust him.’
‘Then call him and ask why he’s kidnapping Americans from Jamaica. And tell him not to kill that man, tell him I know the man.’
‘You won’t go kill him, will you?’ Tomsk worried.
‘I might do, depends on what he does to the American. In the meantime, get me a flight from here to your airfield.’
‘You come visit, good. I sort something now.’
‘There are four of us, No.2 with me.’
‘Ah, good.’
Sat with our host and the others, a cold beer sipped, I told the ladies to hand over pistols and magazines, and that we would be leaving soon.
‘Good,’ Sasha stated.
‘We just got here!’ Tiny protested.
‘We’re off to Panama,’ I told Tiny. ‘We have a job to do, remember.’
‘We go to Mexico as well?’ Salome asked.
‘I might, with Sasha, you won’t.’ I faced her. ‘I don’t want to be explaining your death to … others.’
‘If the job is well planned, no one will be killed,’ she insisted.
‘Mexico has nice beaches,’ Tiny noted. ‘I could sit on the beach and wait for you.’
Tomsk called back half an hour later, as I fed the humming bird. ‘I spoke to Carlos, and he was surprised that I knew, and surprised that you knew the man. Both men are still alive.’
‘Why did he grab them?’
I heard a loud sigh. ‘He has money laundered in a certain Dutch bank…’
‘Ah,’ I let out. ‘And he wanted answers.’
‘He thinks the CIA and the British destroyed the bank, that’s what he was told. He hates that Captain Milton..!’
‘Major Milton, he is now.’
‘You’re still fucking underpaid! What will you do?’
I considered what I wanted to do, and what I could probably get away with. ‘I’ll go talk to him, get the American released.’
‘Why meet him, I can pressure him to release the American?’
‘I … have an idea. You want this guy on board, closer ties?’
‘Well, yes, he can be trusted, and few fucking Mexicans can be trusted! Don’t go shooting him.’
‘We can chat when I see you, there is something else we need to chat about.’
‘I can have a plane ready by 8pm.’
‘We’ll be at the airport at 7pm, get me the details before then.’
Off the phone, I waved the gang up and thanked our host, flagging down a taxi. Inside the car I told them to pack when we got back, Tiny complaining; she has not seen anyone having sex, or tried the pool. Or seen Sasha naked.
Back at the hotel we claimed keys and headed up, soon packing up those few items that we had taken out. Tiny had filled her bathroom with feminine items, making it look like she had been here a month already. It would take her a while to re-pack.
Out on the balcony, I glanced left and saw a familiar face on the next balcony. Walking over, I soon saw our tall hostess naked and in the company of another girl, a pink dildo on the balcony table next to an ice bucket and glasses.
Our hostess had a fit body, nice boobs, but it was obvious that she had implants. She also had several tattoos, which never did anything for me.
‘Nice day for it,’ I loudly stated.
She spun around. ‘Shit.’ She grabbed a towel. ‘Uh … hello again, sir, didn’t know you were in this hotel.’
I smiled. ‘Relax. You’re not breaking any laws or rules, and I won’t be saying anything.’
‘You … want a drink?’ she offered as she dropped the towel.
‘I have to fly, urgent job on in Central America, but it pays well enough. Might see you on the way back. Have fun.’
Inside, I packed my case, Salome packed already, and I checked my passport and fake Russian ID, remembering which one I had to use where. But I was reasonably sure that the authorities in Panama would not arrest me if they thought me Petrov. They might buy me a drink, but they’d not arrest me.
With Tiny still complaining, we checked the rooms, wiped down prints – for all the good that might do, and headed down to reception.
I told the lady, ‘I have urgent work in the Bahamas, so we’re checking out.’
‘Room was paid for a week,’ she puzzled.
‘We might be back this way in time, but I doubt it.’
Keys handed back to a surprised clerk, we stepped out and found the same mini-bus and driver sat there, soon on the way to the airport as I explained a family crisis to our driver.
He dropped us back where we started, and I walked the team in, soon calling Big Sasha. He began, ‘You are Sergei Romanov, just mention that name to the manager at the building for private flights.’
‘Thanks.’
I had the team hang back as I stepped inside, asking for the manager. The girl was put out that she could not assist me herself, but got the manager. ‘I am Sergei Romanov.’
‘Ah, welcome, sir, we were expecting you. Just you?’ came in a refined accent.
I gestured outside. ‘Four of us.’
‘Follow me, sir. Good holiday?’
‘Cut short, family sickness.’
He stepped outside, so I waved the team over and took my case from Sasha as we were led to another room, a posh waiting area.
‘Please wait here, sir, the plane will be ready for 8pm, but maybe we can be ready before. I will check, sir.’
Settled down, we waited, cold drinks provided.
Salome asked, ‘Cover story for Panama?’
‘Not needed. Just say you are my girl, and … they’d let you walk naked down the main road shooting people.’
‘I have often wanted to do that,’ she stated, and I was not sure if she was joking or not, a look exchanged with Sasha.
‘But keep in mind that my character has a woman and child in London, but that they have a distant relationship now.’
&n
bsp; ‘So your cover story is a copy of your real life,’ Sasha loudly noted, grinning.
‘What about me?’ Tiny asked.
‘You can’t be Sasha’s bitch, they know he has a steady girl – a nice one.’
Sasha laughed as Tiny glared at him.
‘I can play at being nice,’ she insisted.
‘He would never take her to Panama,’ I insisted. ‘So … you are also my girl.’
‘That’s more like it, a real man.’
‘Real man?’ Sasha unhappily queried.
Tiny faced him. ‘You’re afraid to see a girl naked! Woosee.’
I grinned. ‘They could pass for being married,’ I told Salome. I studied her for a moment. ‘In Panama you work for me, don’t forget that, eyes and ears closed, no double dealing.’
She seemed offended. ‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning … that Tomsk is a valued friend and asset, so we don’t spy on him.’ I held my stare on her.
She shrugged a shoulder and looked away.
An hour later, and much earlier than advertised, we were led to our ride – squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight, a smaller Gulfstream found, the pilots appearing to be Hispanic.
I shook the captain’s hand as he stood by the steps in his white shirt with gold shoulder bars. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Panama, sir.’
‘I hear it is quieter these days, less crime…’
‘Crime is down, yes, fewer gangs.’
Inside, we grabbed seats, two smiling and keen Hispanic hostesses to tend to our every need, the engines whining.
My phone trilled. ‘Hold the plane,’ I cheekily told the hostess, the door still open. I stepped down, and to where the captain could see me, a wave given. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Miller’s boss.’
‘I found him, he’s alive, I’ll go get him.’
‘Damn, that was fast. When did you arrive?’
‘A few hours ago.’
‘Shit … so where is he?’
‘In Mexico.’
‘Mexico!’
‘Being held by The Jackal.’
‘The Jackal? That king-pin Carlos something?
‘Yep. Carlos had a great deal of money invested in a certain Belgian bank -’
‘Ah … shit.’
‘And he blames the CIA and the British. Question is … how he knew about your man and where to find him.’
‘A leak with the man we were negotiating with, trip was only planned two days ahead, standard procedure.’
‘It would help if I knew what your money laundering Colombian was involved with. And, do you want him released?’
‘Yes we want him released, and he’s the middle man for three cartels in the south of Colombia and in Bolivia. We clean money for them, get our cut, money used for projects such as helping you out.’
‘Ouch, was that a dig?’ I feigned.
‘No, I’m just explaining the benefits to getting the Colombia back – and spending money to save your ass!’
I grinned. ‘I’ll do what I can, he is still alive.’
‘What condition is he in?’
‘No idea yet, but Tomsk told The Jackal to treat him well and to keep him alive.’
‘Tomsk will organise the release?’
‘No, Petrov will go to Mexico for a face-to-face.’
‘That idiot Jackal hacks people up for fun, so why take the risk?’
‘Consider what I did with Tomsk, and whether or not you want the Jackal converted to our side – at the end of the phone, sat on the border, and ear to the ground…’
‘Send Petrov to Mexico. Definitely.’
‘Talk soon.’ I waved at the pilot and boarded, the door closed behind me. Sat down, I turned to Tiny. ‘In Panama you’ll see and hear things that could get you killed. When you get back, Mi6 will bug you, and if you blab you get a nice long prison sentence, sharing with a big butch lesbian.
‘There’s also the CIA, and they have a great deal invested in this project, that was them on the phone. If you blab, they will put a bullet in you, so up your game; you’re about to step up into Formula One, a very dangerous pastime. Just be a professional, play the role, don’t ask questions that you don’t need to ask.
‘And, if you do a good job – with less complaining, you may get more work, big boys work.’
She seemed offended. ‘I can do it, and I don’t blab,’ she insisted.
‘When you get back, they will be monitoring you. And few of the soldiers at the base know about Panama or what I do here, so no talk to anyone save us. And if your boss asks what you did here, you say it’s classified, and that I’d shoot him if he asks again.’
She nodded, looking like a scolded child.
‘Lift your t-shirt.’
She puzzled that for a second, and lifted her t-shirt to show her small but lovely boobs.
I told her, ‘Put your t-shirt down.’ She did as asked. ‘When I give an order, you do it, not ask questions, you trust my judgement, and trust that I won’t let you get killed without a fight. I know the risks in Panama, I know the people, and I would never take you into an unknown situation.
‘But if I say run down the street naked, you do it. If I say stab someone to death, you do it.’
She nodded.
In under two hours we were lined up and descending to Tomsk’s strip in the dark. At least, it was the strip that he made use of, I was not sure who owned it.
We touched down smoothly, soon to a crawl, the door opened, the captain stepping down first. Our luggage was grabbed from the cargo hold by local civilian I did not recognise, but I saw a group of Russian ex-soldiers in uniform at the small huts on the side of the runway.
Down the steps, I said to the captain, ‘Tell your friends you flew Petrov.’
His face lit up, and he shook my hand. ‘A great honour, sir.’
Luggage grabbed, we walked in the sticky heat to the huts, familiar faces stepping out to us, jeeps being started – hopefully with air con units fitted and not music tapes.
The old No.5 shook my hand and smiled. ‘Long time, boss.’
‘Much fighting these days?’
‘No, quiet enough, still some FARC, some trouble up north on the border. We haven’t had a man killed in ages.’
Smiling at familiar faces, Sasha shaking hands and being very rude to old friends, we boarded the large jeeps - the air con working, and we set off, Sasha being suitably rude to our driver.
A short twenty minute drive brought us to a villa I had not seen before, nor remembered attacking. It was elevated - not at sea level, the ocean glimpsed a mile away north as we drove through tended lawns that looked like a golf course, past tennis courts, and up to a huge and sumptuous villa.
‘Nice place,’ Tiny approved.
At the steps, Tomsk was waiting. Stepping down, he hugged me, not easy to do being so short, but he was up a step from where I stood.
‘Got a cold beer?’ I asked.
‘Come, inside,’ he said, shaking hands with Sasha, a nod at Salome.
He led us up the steps, and past tall marble columns. At the first room on the left he said, ‘My oil empire is in there.’
I could see four men in smart shirts, many desks, maps on the walls, computers flickering.
At the next room he announced, ‘My management team and financial team.’
Sombre older men in smart shirts and ties sat behind computers, glancing up as we passed.
The next room was a cinema. He stopped and leant in to me. ‘We watched the film about Camel Toe Base, but … the men here don’t know about you, but they loved it. It was like I was observing your day job. And that actor, just like you, yes.’
In the kitchen we found Big Sasha, four guards in smart suits stood like statues, not sweating in the air conditioned room.
‘Nice kitchen,’ Tiny approved.
Tomsk told her, ‘I had a French designer.’
‘Marcel?’
He stopped, pleasantly surpris
ed. ‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I love his work, had a boyfriend in Paris once.’
‘You’ll see his work in the bathrooms,’ Tomsk enthused.
She ran a hand over a marble top and peered up at the cornice work.
‘Hey, big lump,’ I offered Big Sasha.
He hugged me, soon pointing us to seats at large table, Tomsk at the head, food placed down, wine or beer placed down, Tiny asking about the décor – Tomsk keen to chat about it. Even Salome appreciated the design, and asked about the windows in Russian.
Tomsk explained in Russian, ‘Design on the inside and outside, but in the middle is safety glass – bullet proof, but also photo-reactive, to keep the heat out but let the light in.’
He detailed his hotel, having photos brought in for us to look at, his new golf course, and his beach hotel on the north. He would next build a hotel on a small island he had bought.
After the food, I took him outside, just the two of us sat on a patio, cold beers to hand. ‘The man who was kidnapped was American Deep State.’
‘Deep State? Frank says they don’t exist…’
‘They do, and I’ve seen them at work. Those people from the bank, killed in London, that was all their work, no witnesses, no evidence left behind, very professional.’
‘So I don’t want to upset them, no.’
‘That would be a bad idea, for us both.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Good question.’ I eased back. ‘They’re a group of senators, businessmen, military leaders, all people who think that the idiot in the White House can’t be left to run the country and that they … should run the country.’
‘A dangerous game they play…’
‘Yes, but the CIA know about them and won’t act, they’re too powerful.’
‘Not so powerful, if their man is kidnapped!’
‘He was not protected, just a man off to chat to someone, low profile; bodyguards would arouse suspicion. In New York they’d find him in a minute.’
‘What do they want with you?’
‘They like my success record, as the British officer, and they love things like that film about Camel Toe Base.’
‘Right wing propaganda,’ he noted.
I nodded. ‘The past decade has seen a shit load of American military screw-ups – Somalia and Lebanon, but the last few years has seen me hand them some good TV minutes and good newspaper inches. They want more of that, so that the American people will get behind a war in the Middle East.’