Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Yes, sir, came across an accident, four American servicemen high on weed. They probably never felt the crash.’

  ‘High on weed? Jesus. I’d court martial them.’

  ‘The local police are dealing with them, sir.’ I showered and changed my shirt, grabbed my toolkit and headed to the indicated room, welcomed by another American, this one an officer. He handed me an M16.

  ‘You brought this into the hotel, sir?’ I queried.

  ‘In a bag.’

  I sat. ‘And the problem?’

  ‘Feels ... sticky.’

  I pulled back the slide a few times, and it did indeed feel ‘sticky’. With the weapon stripped I ran my fingers along the slides, finding plenty of sand. ‘It’s full of sand, sir.’

  ‘Sand. I just got here, came from upstate New York.’

  ‘You were handed this, sir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then shoot the fucker that handed it to you, sir. You would have suffered miss-fires.’

  ‘I’ll kick some ass when I get back.’

  I cleaned it thoroughly, oiled and checked it, the slide no longer ‘sticky’. He gave me $20, and I made a note to find something to spend dollars on. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The next morning the Air Commodore was staying put in his room and preparing a report, so I headed down to the gym, but with my dollars in hand; I had seen a sign for massage. I figured it would be a man, and I was right, the guy from Thailand and very effeminate. Still, I needed a massage, but kept my swimming trunks on, and I tried not to imagine that he was a girl.

  It was a great massage, the guy very skilled, and he informed me that he had studied for six years in Thailand. I paid him $40, which was damned steep, showered then hit the pool, two ladies in bikini’s doing lengths and being ogled by the servicemen present.

  I found the major in the bar at 3pm, and I sat eating a bar meal with him. He’d be off to Dhahran himself tomorrow, his people tasked with placing listening devices on the border with Kuwait, the recorded military communications sent back for translation in London.

  ‘Why don’t they translate it here?’ I asked.

  ‘Security for one, and ... the various Intel agencies don’t like to share what they find. If London get’s something juicy the agency involved justifies its budget, and they all compete like crazy, like ... rival firms all wanting the same business.’

  I dined with the Air Commodore that evening, a fruit juice in the bar afterwards, and when he returned to his room to attend more paperwork I returned to my room to attend more weapons, two British NCOs wanting pistols checked since the men in question has been in a sandstorm. They had also flown over without not so much as a bit of 4x2 cloth nor drop of oil to clean their weapons with, making me shake my head a great deal.

  As the days ticked off the calendar I got into a routine, and pretty soon it all became very routine. I was practising my Arabic on the staff, and I had found a helpful young waiter who was also keen to assist me, and I gave him a few quid when he got me porn videos to sell on to the guys in the hotel.

  Getting into his confidence, he one day asked me if I wanted a massage with a Thai lady, not a man, since I had mentioned the massage man down in his cubicle near the gym – and whinged about him being a him. I was taken aback, but after a few seconds thought I decided that I hadn’t had any fun for a while, and that I owed it to myself.

  When his lunch break came around the next day we set out – I was in civilian clothes and unarmed, the lad directing me, and we travelled about a mile to a tall yet run-down building. It wasn’t actually run down as such, it was just that most buildings were glass-fronted and gleaming, and this was a traditional block of flats.

  He led me inside and up to an innocuous apartment, and if you didn’t know which apartment it was then you would not have found it, which I guess was the whole point. It had no apartment number, but he knocked, the two of us soon let in.

  ‘I speak English some,’ the mamasan said.

  ‘Massage,’ I said. ‘One hour. Girl, with ... girl bits, no man.’

  She offered me a broad smile and a horrid set of black teeth, making me hope that it wasn’t her doing the massage. To my relief she lined up five girls and, given that girls were very short on supply around here, they all looked very appealing. One was very cute, dimples in her cheeks, and she was about five foot tall, if that. I pointed, and paid over the equivalent of £30, soon stripping off whilst the girl put down a fresh towel on the massage table.

  ‘My god, what you do?’ she asked me with a heavy accent.

  ‘I am soldier.’

  ‘My god, you very big muscle man.’

  I got down to my underwear. ‘Everything off.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all off, lie down.’

  ‘First, I want know ... you know, you not lady boy?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said.

  ‘I want to see, please.’

  She shrugged, lifted his short skirt and pulled aside her knickers.

  I bent over and had a good look. ‘OK, you ... have the right bits, no balls.’

  I eased face down, naked as she knocked on a music machine, Thai music gently reverberating around the small room, and she lit a few candles, turning down the lights. Climbing up, she was soon sat on my arse and kneading my back and shoulders, and I moaned with pleasure.

  Despite her size she was excellent at her job, and she finished the hour with a blowjob, whether I had asked for one or not. Dressed, I thanked her as she binned the towels, the mamasan thanking me with a bow, and I collected the young lad – who had sat waiting.

  ‘You didn’t have a massage?’ I asked as we descended in the lift.

  ‘I come Saturday, favourite ladyboy, very nice,’ he enthused.

  My eyes bulged. ‘Oh ... uh ... yeah ... well ... you know ... Saturdays are ... the weekend, day off and .... and all that.’

  We drove back, and I made a note not to get too friendly with the guy.

  A week later, and the Air Commodore told me that it was his birthday, and he complained that he was stuck here – no booze.

  ‘Well, sir, if you promise not to say anything I’ll organise your birthday, one to remember.’

  He squinted at me. ‘What have you got your fingers into?’ he curiously asked.

  ‘Do you trust me with your wellbeing, sir?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘So tomorrow, day off, yes?’

  He took a moment, but then nodded. ‘OK, tomorrow is a day off, your show.’

  After breakfast, and both in civilian clothes, I took him to a hotel that offered a rooftop bar, and we swam for half an hour and sunbathed for an hour, quite relaxed at the end of it. Driving for ten minutes, I parked up at what looked like a factory unit and led the curious Air Commodore inside.

  ‘Wilco,’ came and American accent. ‘Damn glad you’re here, got a shit load of weapons for you to have a look at.’

  ‘Not today, it’s my boss’s birthday, but I’ll get back soon.’ I led the boss inside, and to an indoor firing range, well insulated from the outside world. People waved and said hello as I grabbed ear defenders for myself and the boss, soon approaching an American with an M16.

  ‘Hey, Wilco. How ya doing, man?’

  ‘This is my boss, it’s his birthday, and you owe me, so ... weapon and ammo please.’

  ‘Sure, buddy, here ya go.’

  I gave the Air Commodore a quick lesson, and he fired off thirty rounds, the targets electronically wound back to have a look at. Later, sat with a cool beer – a real beer, I had him strip and clean the weapon as we chatted to others, the Air Commodore enjoying playing with guns. He had a go at a .44 Magnum pistol before a dated .22 bolt action rifle, a Henry Martini.

  Upstairs, we ordered kebabs and chips in the spacious lounge, and pints of beer, soon enjoying both, chatting to servicemen men from many nations.

  An hour later we mounted up, the Air Commodore curious as to what was next, and I drove back to the apartment block with the Th
ai ladies.

  ‘This is not some sort of brothel is it?’ he asked as we entered the lift.

  ‘Certainly not, sir,’ I lied.

  The mamasan let us in, and the boss took a minute to decide that a massage would be OK. And just a massage. I grabbed my favourite little lady and went next door for an hour, and not just for a massage.

  We met up in the reception area an hour later, green tea provided.

  ‘How was it, sir?’

  He made a face. ‘When in Rome.’

  I smiled. ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Outside, and now 3pm, I drove to the outskirts of town and parked up, a roar assaulting our ears as we stepped down, and ten minutes later I was racing the boss around a track, both sat in large go-karts with roll cages. I nudged his kart, and he rammed me from the rear, curses exchanged.

  Hot and dusty, we washed hands and faces before enjoying a cool fruit juice, sat on the roof of the offices and watching the sun go down as people raced around, an officer introducing himself as we sat there.

  After the sun had set, I drove the boss to a hidden restaurant, and he was surprised to find some of his staff present. They appeared nervous at first. We sat, Indian food and beers ordered, Tiger Beer, which the bottle said was non-alcoholic.

  The boss tried some. ‘This beer...’

  ‘Not quite as non-alcoholic as represented, sir.’

  He sipped it. ‘Not such a bad place to be posted after all, so long as you know what’s where - and have the contacts. Of course, to make the most of a place like this you need to know a naughty rascal or two.’ He held his playful stare on me.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Four hours later, and were still there, the Indian food much appreciated, the cold beer going down nicely. I got the boss back for 10pm and he was tired, but very happy, and very grateful.

  ‘Best birthday bash I’ve had for twenty years,’ he told me. ‘Well done. And thanks, I owe you. But, you know, not a word...’

  ‘Never, sir.’

  The next day we got word that we’d soon be heading back.

  ‘Remember that favour,’ I said.

  He adopted a worried frown. ‘Yes..?’

  ‘I could stay here for a bit, there is a motor pool ... which I could join.’

  ‘Well, I’m due back here in a few weeks. You’d ... drive someone else till then?’

  ‘And service weapons, sir.’

  ‘Not that keen on going back to Brize Norton?’

  ‘I’m starting to like it here, sir, and back in the UK I’d be on guard duty or driving.’

  He made a face. ‘OK, I’ll sanction it, but there are those that could order you back. Still, if your CO doesn’t know ... then he doesn’t know.’

  ‘If it looks like you’re going to be back in the UK for months, sir, call me back.’

  He nodded. ‘OK, will do.’

  A few days later I drove him to the airport, and he wished me luck. Back at the hotel, I went and found Sergeant Spence, head of the motor pool.

  ‘Hey Wilco,’ he said as I entered his adopted office, a previous staff room.

  ‘Listen, my boss has gone back for a bit, and someday soon they’ll kick me out of that room -’

  ‘You AWOL or something?’ he asked with a curious frown.

  ‘No, I’m assigned to the motor pool by the Air Commodore, but my immediate boss could ask for me back – if he knows. So, find me something to do, and maybe a room when the time comes.’

  He pointed to a desk. ‘Sit there, your new home. I’ll let everyone know that the armourer is here, work what hours you want.’

  I set-up shop, and was soon cleaning weapons a few hours a day, my kit packed in case I was kicked out of the room – which was now just me, no company. I ate well, I ran each day, I used the gym, and once or twice a week I indulged myself with a Thai massage. Life was good.

  With a little nagging from the Americans, and money changing hands, Sergeant Spence released me to the indoor range and gun club two days a week, which was an easy number – as well as great fun.

  Local Saudis starting bringing in an assortment of weapons, and one brought in a GMPG, leaving me wondering what the hell he had it at home for, and did he use it on his neighbours. Another Saudi wanted his AR18 altered from single shot to fully automatic, which was easy enough, the finished weapon tested on the ranges. And they all tipped well.

  But it was not to last, and one day an Italian colonel requested a driver, and I was the only one available, soon taking him back and forth to Dhahran most days. Sergeant Spence got some serious shit from people wanting my services, and he had to explain that the Italian colonel had grabbed me. I serviced weapons around 10pm most nights, and most nights I was tired from the damn driving.

  One day I dropped off the Italian at the Thai massage tower block, but he insisted I wait with the vehicle, so I didn’t even get a massage. He was not that talkative, and a bit of a snob.

  The next morning, when I went to his room, he appeared dishevelled, he was not ready, and a teenage boy was in with him, walking around naked. I pretended that I had not seen anything, and waited in the corridor for fifteen minutes.

  The young lad walked out, avoiding eye contact, and the Italian finally got himself ready. On route he seemed to be sniffing cocaine, and I was tempted to dump him on the side of the road. With the colonel in a meeting for a few hours, I decided to go and seek some advice.

  Across town, I halted at a building that I had heard about, but had not visited yet.

  ‘Hey Wilco,’ an ex-SAS guy said as he passed me in the foyer. I then spotted another familiar face, cornering him.

  ‘Listen, I have a problem, need some advice from the senior intelligence agent present.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you,’ he said, and we got the lift up, chatting about the gun club.

  On the tenth floor he led me to a room, a knock and he opened the door. ‘Bob, customer.’ And he left me to it.

  ‘Who ... exactly ... are you?’ the man puzzled as he stood. He was in his forties, balding, yet tall and fit looking, now in a short-sleeved shirt and tie.

  ‘Wilco, RAF Regiment, driver and bodyguard, sir.’

  ‘And...?’

  I closed the door, and sat. And waited. He sat. ‘I drive around an Italian colonel, Bioti, and ... he shags young boys and does cocaine, sir.’

  ‘Ah...’ Bob let out. ‘And ... no need to call me sir.’

  ‘I was just seeking some advice, because I am tempted to throw him off the hotel balcony.’

  ‘You found the right department, but not quite the right man, and we do ... assist in such matters, but we have to be ... delicate.’

  ‘I could delicately kick his teeth in.’

  ‘They are our NATO partners, and what our Saudi partners get up to would shock even your guy. So -’ He focused on me. ‘- just how discreet are you?’

  ‘I know every whore house and beer joint in the town,’ I explained.

  ‘Then I’ll have to stay on your good side, since not even I know that,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll chat to the right people, we’ll watch the Italian, but please ... call us first, don’t hit the idiot.’ He handed me a card.

  ‘Universal Exports?’ I asked before I had seen the card. Bob Staines his name was.

  He laughed. ‘Us spy types have ... very interesting paper work to tackle on a daily basis.’

  A man entered the room, dropped a file, and then paused, staring at me. ‘Wilco, right?’

  I stood. ‘Yes sir.’ We shook.

  He continued, facing Bob and thumbing towards me. ‘This is the guy who shot at the London Marathon.’

  Bob snapped his head around to me. ‘Really? I was there, my cousin was running.’

  ‘My claim to fame, unfortunately,’ I let out with a sigh.

  The second man added, ‘You could have been a world champion boxer as well...’

  ‘I stopped ... after killing a few people in the ring.’

  ‘Pity.’ He glanced at B
ob. ‘And you speak ... which languages?’

  I was getting suspicious. ‘German, Russian, Arabic.’

  The two men exchanged looks.

  ‘Put that idea right out of your minds, gentlemen, I am but a humble driver.’

  I promised to get in touch if things got worse with Bioti, and back at the hotel I asked Sergeant Spence if he could swap me with someone. He couldn’t, they were all booked for now.

  A few days later, and Bioti had me drive home a young boy, and I was quietly seething. The day after, Bob Staines came to see me, and led me to a quiet corner of the bar for a fruit juice.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I had my people in London check you out,’ he began.

  I was curious about how I was perceived, and what my file said about me. ‘And what did they find?’

  ‘What they found ... was a remarkable individual, a superb athlete and a high IQ, but also someone who has difficulty fitting in.’

  ‘Does that make me a prime candidate for your lot, a refugee amongst other refugees, all meeting in the dead of night?’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe. It certainly gets you on our radar. As you may know we recruit from the services ... when we have a need, and when we find people we like.’

  ‘What about those people’s fondness for you?’ I countered with.

  ‘Well, we can’t force someone to work with us, not unless we we’re at war. But ... we have a short-term need here, and you’re suited and ... ideally placed as a driver and bodyguard.’

  I waited.

  ‘We are also understaffed and struggling.’

  ‘Ah...’ I let out.

  ‘There could be some extra pay for you, and ... we can help you, given that you are a serviceman. I know the problems you’ve had back at RAF Brize Norton, I’ve done my homework.’

  ‘If I was financially motivated, then that would be a contra-indicator as to my suitability to being a spy, would it not?’

  He smiled. ‘It would, but we’d offer a little extra over your military pay, not enough to tempt you towards retirement.’

  ‘Good to know that my opinion about British civil servants – and their stingy attitude - is well founded.’