by Geoff Wolak
He smiled. ‘All we’re looking for is that you follow someone, or drive someone around and listen in, maybe drop off a package or a person somewhere.’
‘No tall buildings to scale?’ I teased.
‘No,’ he said with an amused grin.
‘And ... would anything get back to my RAF bosses?’
‘Not unless you wanted it to. Would you ... want it to?’
‘Hell no.’
‘So, how about we start simple, and a few days from now you drive a certain Arab gentlemen - who will believe that you speak no Arabic.’
‘How do I get my motor pool sergeant -’
‘We’d get a priority request in, and shout a bit.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll take each task ... in isolation ... and judge the tasks as we go. Since it benefits the war effort I’m happy enough to give it a go. And then ... then you can get me off driving cocaine sniffing Italian arse bandits.’
‘We can help with that, yes,’ he chuckled.
A few days later Sergeant Spence told me I had to drive an Arab officer from Bahrain. I pretended to whinge, but then set off in uniform and with pistol on my hip, a full tank of petrol. I picked up the officer, a Colonel Ali, at the Holiday Inn, saluting and carrying his bags, and he never gave me a second glance; it was as if I was a lowly servant.
In the car, he found the piece of paper I had left, twenty common Arabic words. ‘You try to learn Arabic?’ he asked as we set off.
‘Yes, sir, but I learnt German for many years, so it’s not easy.’
‘German and English are very similar, I have been to Germany, many words the same.’
‘Problem with Arabic, sir, is that the words all seem to join together.’ I joined the highway, heading for Dhahran.
‘Yes, it can take time to master it.’ He pushed numbers into his satellite phone, and I watched the road, listening in. My Arabic was OK, but he spoke quickly, and in an accent. Fortunately, he was annoyed at the person the other end and raised his voice, pronouncing a few words carefully. I got the gist of it.
The long straight highway soon became very boring, but after an hour I swerved across the road, into the dust and sand, before swerving back the other way.
My passenger was terrified, but looking over shoulder at a lorry that had overtaken another lorry, coming at us head on. ‘That idiot, he could have killed us!’
‘You have to be careful on this road, sir.’
‘I am glad you had fast reactions, young man.’
Cursing in Arabic, he went back to his phone calls, before having a kip. He was awake as we reached Dhahran and I dropped him at the air base, not due to pick him up till late the following day.
Fuel topped up, I headed back, only having to swerve once, and when I got back Sergeant Spence informed me that one of the motor pool guys I knew had been killed, head on smash on that damned highway. We held a wake that evening in the Indian restaurant.
The next day I set out at 3pm and it was hot as hell, the air con on full, but I made good time to Dhahran, no life-threatening incidents along the way. My passenger, or as Bob said ‘my mark’, did not appear till 8pm, and then informed me that he would visit friends here before driving back late. My job was to spy on the guy, so I resisted the temptation to tell him to fuck off.
He directed me to a large yet isolated building, and I could not decide if it was one house or a block of flats. A guard let us through the gate, the building surrounded by high walls. Parked up, he beckoned me to follow him, and as soon as we entered I realised that it was a brothel, but that the girls here were Indian - and looked terrified, the smiles forced.
‘Wait in there,’ he told me, and I was led to a room with low sofas, and cushions on the floor.
Fresh tea was brought in for me, and an Indian girl that looked about eighteen. She was frightened, but keen to please, and my spy hat was on so I figured I would play along and pretend to act like a British soldier would – drinking and whoring.
She gave me a blowjob without hardly a word, and then cleaned me up before pouring the tea. When she was about to leave I slipped money into her bra, and put a finger on my lips. She bowed and left, and I sipped my tea.
Almost two hours later I was summoned, my colonel now looking a bit drunk, and we set off out the gates, soon through the side streets and onto the highway of death.
‘Thank you for the girl back there, sir,’ I said. ‘Very good of you.’
‘No problem, you saved my life on this fucking road.’ He tossed me the equivalent of thirty quid.
‘Thank you very much, sir, much appreciated,’ I said whilst wanting to throw it back at him.
Driving at night gave me fair warning of other cars, but it also meant that the damned lorries would blind me when they passed, and most flashed their main beams, as if to say – can you see me?
I wanted to shout, ‘Yes, I can fucking see your headlights, I’m not blind, you arsehole!’ I was so close to taking out my pistol and shooting at some of them by time we reached Riyadh, my passenger snoring.
He had made a few calls, and had been indiscrete because he was drunk, so after helping him into his hotel I arranged to meet with Bob Staines in his hotel the next morning at 8am.
In his hotel bar, Bob got me a fruit juice. ‘What happened yesterday?’
‘I went across to Dhahran to pick him up, and he was late, and then he directed me towards a brothel full of Indian girls.’ I took a moment. ‘Tell, me, those Indian girls – they’re prisoners?’
‘It’s a Saudi matter, we can’t get involved.’
I nodded. ‘Anyway, he was a bit drunk on the way back and blabbing down the phone. Spoke to Hassan, then Jaleb, and told Hassan that they would all get a good payoff for the intel he picked up today.’
‘Good work,’ Bob commended. He sipped his coffee. ‘What we know now, thanks to you in part, is that he’s selling secrets to Saddam’s people. It won’t affect the war effort much, and it won’t cost lives, but still ... it’s naughty.’
‘I’d happily break his neck for you,’ I offered.
Bob smiled. ‘That’s not how we do things.’
‘He got me a girl at the brothel, and he chucked me a few quid.’
‘Excellent, you’re getting into his confidence, so stay close to him.’
I picked up Colonel Ali the next day, a few short trips around Riyadh, and the following day we headed back to Dhahran, a few words picked up as I listened in. When we stopped for a cold drink, I asked for his assistance on a few Arabic words and he was keen to try and teach me. I pretended to be thick, and I was developing my spying skills, quite the actor.
At Dhahran airbase I greeted familiar faces, soon sat on a familiar seat and waiting, whinging about life to other drivers. My paperback novel advanced a hundred pages before Ali appeared, and I had to yank my mind out of an African wilderness adventure and back into the here and now. As expected, he directed me towards the brothel, and we soon parked up. I was shown to the same room, tea brought in, and the same girl appeared.
Having to keep up the pretence I indulged in a good blowjob, and again slipped her money as she poured my tea. Waiting, I heard raised voices, and so stepped out into the main reception area and onto its highly polished marble floors. The colonel was backing up, three men wagging fingers and shouting at him.
I drew my pistol and cocked it loudly, the men now focused on me. ‘Everything OK, Colonel?’
He stood at my side, and in Arabic said, ‘This idiot will do what I ask, and I’ll have him shoot you! I’ll pay for the damned girl, be done with it!’
The men backed off, and Colonel Ali led me out.
‘What was that about, sir?’
‘They ... wanted to charge me double, common thieves.’
‘Oh, right sir.’ I put my pistol away and we mounted up, soon heading back through dark streets, and soon onto that damned highway, lorries flashing their lights at me.
He chucked me more money. ‘Thank you, you helped back t
here.’
‘Anytime, sir, my job to look out for you.’
‘Yes, good.’
He stared out of the window, made a few calls, one interrupted as I swerved off the road and back on, a cloud of dust thrown up.
‘Those fucking lorry drivers!’ he shouted, looking over his shoulder, before explaining what had happened to whoever it was down the phone.
We got back at 9pm, and he dismissed me for the evening, so I called Bob Staines. He came over to my hotel, and up to my room. I made him a coffee.
‘Anything new?’ Bob asked, sat facing me on the posh chairs.
‘Trip to Dhahran today, then the brothel, but something went wrong at the brothel, and it sounded like he hurt a girl there, the owner wanting compensation.’
‘So, he has vices on top of vices,’ Bob keenly noted. ‘If we can snare him we’ll use that.’
‘Video him shagging some Indian bird and then beating her up,’ I suggested.
‘We may well do, but we have limited resources here, and the brothel would be hard to get into. Did he make any calls?’
‘Yes, and he’s meeting someone who’s arriving at the airport tomorrow night at 9pm, flight from Switzerland.’
‘Excellent, that narrows it down. I’ll have a man at the airport and we’ll get the manifest. It may be his Iraqi contact, a Jordanian - we think - that lives in Switzerland.’
‘At the brothel, they were ready to lynch him, so I drew my pistol. Then Ali tells them in Arabic that I’m a fool that will do anything he orders.’
‘You’re the one who has fooled him,’ Bob noted.
‘I left a piece of paper in the car, basic Arabic words, and he found it, so now he thinks he’s teaching me the basics.’
Bob eased back. ‘Clever, very clever, you’re cut out for this sort of work.’
‘Put that idea out of your mind.’
He took a moment to study me, and then handed over £200. ‘Beer money. And ... well done.’ He stood. ‘Oh, your boxing.’ He took a moment. ‘How good are you?’
I stood. ‘Against ... who?’
‘There’s a secret bare knuckle fight, and one of the organisers is someone we’re interested in.’
I let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Does the Saudi Government not have people like you?’ I teased. ‘Pants on outside their trousers?’
‘Not many, and they are ... a bit limited in their abilities. So ... fighting?’
‘If it’s bare knuckle, then I’d get cut up, and people would ask questions. The Air Commodore is due back in a week or so.’
‘You could try not to get hit, and win quickly, as you did before. There’s also ... a purse.’
I stared back, squinting at him, my head tipping up. ‘How much ... of a purse?’
‘At least five grand, if not more, it depends on how well you do. Winner stays on, and if you stay on all night, twenty grand.’
‘Twenty?’ I repeated, my eyes wide. ‘And how much goes to Queen and country?’
‘We’d want some for ... local expenses, but you’d do well out of it, and I’d tell the powers that be ... that you’re risking serious injury to aid our cause – and therefore need a few quid.’
‘Here’s the thing ... I would be risking serious injury!’
‘We’d only get a result if the promoter adopts you as family and organises more fights. So the first bout is ... the tester if you like.’
I peered out of the window at the twinkling city lights. ‘Ten grand in my pocket, Thai massage girls, Indian food, a nice five-star hotel room, and this war could drag on to Christmas. You’re not selling it well, Bob.’
He laughed loudly. ‘I’ll take that as a provisional yes. Start training, next bout is Saturday night, 7pm.’
‘What about Colonel Ali, should I ... drag him to the fight?’
Bob considered that. ‘If he thinks you’re a big dumb ox, then that works in our favour, yes. See if you can get him together with the promoter, since they both like their vices.’
With Bob gone I headed down to the gym, a quick forty minutes before they closed, most of the time spent on the sit-up machine, leaning back and punching the air with weights in my hands, starting light and getting heavier.
At 5.45am I hit the treadmill, and I clocked ten miles before switching to the cross-trainer for half an hour of manic pumping, soon back on the sit-up machine and punching the air as the sweat dripped off me. Showered, I enjoyed a relaxing swim, and at breakfast I made sure that I downed two large portions of eggs.
Picking up Colonel Ali, I mentioned the bare knuckle fighting, and he could hardly contain himself, about to piss himself on my back seat he was so excited. He was definitely up for it.
Whilst he was in meetings, I went back to the gym and worked hard for two hours, preparing all of the basics needed to fight. Asking around, I found out where the local boxing gym was, and after I dropped off the colonel at 6pm I headed over there, paying a modest fee to get in. Top off, tracksuit bottoms on, they stopped to stare, boxing being more of a hope to most Saudis than a serious sporting event.
I clobbered the punch bag for an hour, combination moves practised, and then practised again, sweating buckets at the end of the session. A few of the local lads wanted my autograph, believing me a professional boxer. Showered, I headed down to my male masseuse, needing a professional rub down – without the happy ending.
In the hotel bar, afterwards, I bought three tuna sandwiches and just ate the tuna, leaving the rest, one weapon to service before bed.
Saturday came around too quickly, and I was nervous, but then stopped and wondered why. Bob turned up at the hotel with an Army Sergeant, Matt Crow, a boxer, and he was my access man.
‘Good to meet you,’ Sergeant Crow said, shaking my hand. ‘Saw you box, pity you stopped.’
I nodded, reluctant to add further comment on my boxing career.
‘You fit?’
‘Always,’ I told him.
‘Unlike boxing back in the UK, the aim here is to end it sharpish, or you get hurt, and you bust up your knuckles. Given that it’s you fighting, not an issue.’
‘I’m aiming not to be busted up,’ I warned them both.
I set off with Sergeant Crow, Bob would not be attending, and we drove across town, my nerves worrying me. At the venue, tucked out of the way in an industrial estate, I walked straight into Chuck.
‘Wilco? You fighting?’
I nodded. ‘I need the money, ex-wife and three kids,’ I joked.
‘I knew you boxed some time back, but the fellas said you had some ... issues or problems?’
‘I wasn’t injured, if that’s what you mean. I killed a few men in the ring.’
‘Should ... I be betting on ya?’
‘You should.’
‘Don’t fucking lose, buddy! But...’
‘But what?’
‘Friend of ours is fighting, motor mechanic sergeant, big black fella, six feet six and three hundred pounds.’
‘He’ll be slow. Bet on me.’
Getting changed in dilapidated rooms, I took in some of the other fighters, a few black Americans, many short and stocky British enlisted men that looked like boxers, one Arab that was big and well toned, and one small Thai fighter.
‘That Thai guy fighting?’ I asked Sergeant Crow.
‘He’s shit hot.’
‘Can you kick your opponent?’ I asked.
‘You can do anything you like, including gouge his eyes out.’
‘Oh.’ I was now even more nervous, but at least I could get into Kung Fu mode and not boxing mode.
When dressed simply in trainers and tight-fitting shorts, a few of the guys were staring my way, and their obvious fear helped my nerves. I was up second, and the first guy on was not the previous champion, but a newcomer like me, the champion on fifth.
From a distance we got a view of the brightly lit ring over the heads of spectators, and it brought back memories - most of which were not good, and I glimpsed a black America
n knock out a white guy quickly. I was up, and sooner than I had hoped for, Sergeant Crow leading me forwards through the cheering crowds, and I clocked Colonel Ali waving at me. That left me wondering if he bet on me, how much, and would I get a share.
I was nervous as hell climbing into the ring, but controlled myself as I took in my opponent, no bigger or more skilled that those I had beaten previously. He also got a good look at my body, and my relaxed demeanour. I stared at him, wondering if he had ever seen me fight, and realising that he hadn’t. So ... I’d keep it simple.
The bell rang.
He stepped forwards and so did I, but I kept my hands at my sides, a direct course taken for each other. At the correct distance I moved my upper body right, slid left and twisted as he punched with a right, and bounced back with a trademark left hook, connecting with his jaw and sending him flying. He hit hard, and I knew he would not be getting back up, so I returned to my corner, Sergeant Crow smirking up at me.
‘Knockout,’ came from behind me, the crowd both cheering and booing in equal measure, and I was about five hundred quid better off. Maybe more.
My next opponent was shorter than me, a British enlisted man by the look of the tattoos, and he did not look confident, more angry than able. He wanted to hurt someone.
They counted down, the bell went, and I remembered that there were no rules. Stepping in, a large stride, I made as if I would kick him in the balls, and as I committed he edged to the side – looking surprised, his hands going down as if to maybe block and kick or grab my leg. I twisted my hip, and caught him full in the face with my shin, knocking him back, but not hurting him badly.
Without a pause I kicked again, this time to the solar plexus, and sent him back towards the ropes with a grimace. Bouncing off the ropes, he came back without control, and I lunged in with a left hook, taking him down. And out.
Sergeant Crow was shaking his head and smirking as I returned to my corner.
‘Knockout,’ came from behind, this time a little more cheering than booing as they carried the guy off.
Up next was another black American, the guy almost as tall as me but twice as wide; he looked too heavy for speed and manoeuvring. It also looked like his chin was on his chest, and would stay there. Considering his physique, I was damned sure that he could never lift his legs to kick me.