by Geoff Wolak
‘That kind of house call,’ Mitch noted. ‘I’m guessing we won’t be expected, nor welcome.’
The food was basic but OK, and enough, and I made sure that Tomo rotated and got a meal, a keen Crab and Duffy on stag. An MP was duly sent off, and jeeps arrived with a truck, a sergeant now in possession of a dozen CS gas canisters, the kind used in riots.
With MP drivers to hand who knew the city, all armed with pistols, the lads got kitted out, pistols checked, and formed up outside in the dark, jeeps adopted, the truck mounted up. Crab, Duffy and Fuzz would guard the building while we were out, Hamble tasked to go see the Army with Mitch and check local intel.
Sambo and Sandra were in civvy clothes, pistols hidden down the backs of jeans. I would carry no rifle, nor would Swifty or Moran, we were the breach team.
Through the dark we set off northwest out the gate, our MPs familiar with the vast sprawling city and its un-named roads, and they knew of the particular brothel we wanted – our young British soldiers kept away on account of the fact that 100% of the ladies had AIDS.
Some sections of the roads here offered us orange street lamps, most sections did not, but where the lamps we working the industrious locals had set-up roadside stalls selling all sorts to passers-by, the smell of cooking all pervasive as we drove by.
For fifteen minutes we passed nothing but shacks and shanty town, and the whole place looked like it might wash away in a heavy rain storm. We glimpsed the water on our right, hills on our left, and tooted around a few horses and oxen.
A mile on the buildings started to get larger and more uniform, the traffic got worse, and we turned left onto a bustling Dock Street, pulling up a hundred yards short of the brothel. I eased out and had a look at the colourful neon signs, and the police station opposite – a blue sign, ignoring the crowded pavements.
Getting back in, I said, ‘Drive around the block left and back here.’
We set off, and as we passed the brothel I had a good look, a few guards seen, none armed, a lower area of street cafe and bar, a bar inside with huge neon signs, rooms upstairs, something of a disco seen on the second level.
Turning left, I took in the police station; two storey brick, twenty rooms, police cars outside.
Back at the start point I eased out and walked back to the third jeep. ‘Rocko, take a few men, drive a back street way to the police station, bring down the phone and power lines without too many people seeing you – which will be hard, back here when done.’
Their jeep drove off as I got back into my jeep, Moran and Swifty and in the back.
‘What’s the plan?’ Swifty asked.
‘First, we blind the police and piss them off, keep them busy, then Sanda and Sambo will upset the brothel owner and clear the front, then we go in the rear and have a chat with the man who likes his bombs.’
Ten minutes later, girls on the street knocking on windows and offering us some trade, I saw the police sign go out. Officers appeared on the streets, but in no panic and no rush. Most went back inside, a few drove off in no hurry, and Rocko’s jeep returned and parked up.
I eased out and walked back to the truck. ‘Sandra, Sambo, down.’
They were in civvy clothes, and followed me to a jeep, a sergeant handing over four CS gas canisters. I handed them to Sambo and Sandra. ‘You go into the brothel, shout that “Jesus is the true saviour, you are all sinners”, pull the pins and throw, then run out, off to the right and around these blocks and back here. Sambo, protect Sandra, try not to shoot anyone.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go.’
They walked off and across the street, dodging the traffic, hands full. As I observed, they stepped inside, out ten seconds later and running. Security men ran into the street, but did not give chase, the establishment’s early evening patrons none too pleased at being gassed, all falling out onto the street, many being sick, most with eyes closed, women screaming.
Two police officers ran over, but made no effort to help anyone, they simply spoke to the security men as more and more staff and patrons ran out, all knocking each other over, the police knocked over and into the street.
An upstairs window opened, and a man jumped onto the roof of a car. The owner of that car was not too impressed, a fight starting as more men tried to jump from the second floor. One hit the same car, its owner – fresh from beating up the first man, beat the second man, the police now rushing in, Swifty laughing.
The car owner was having none of it, and surprised us by knocking out cold the two police officers. When a third man landed on his roof he grabbed that man and smashed his head through a glass window.
‘Fuck me,’ Moran let out. ‘That guy is ticked off.’
The mad car owner got into his damaged ride, and reversed.
‘Look!’ Moran shouted, just as a lady jumped, landing on the same car.
The irate car owner screeched off, woman on his roof, rounded a corner and launched her into a stall, and sped off.
‘Let’s not piss that guy off,’ Swifty suggested.
Our MP driver turned to me. ‘Any of what we’re doing tonight, sir, actually ... legal?’
‘Very unlikely, Sergeant. But since the man running that brothel is planting bombs to kill British soldiers – do you give a fuck?’
‘Well, not really, no, sir. We don’t let the squaddies near it. If they didn’t get AIDS in there they’d get robbed.’
Sambo and Sandra appeared from an alley and ran across to us and into the truck.
A fat man appeared from an alley behind the brothel, big men around him, and he surveyed the scene of mayhem. His security men reported what had happened before they returned to trying to maintain some semblance of order outside their establishment.
‘That’s our mark, Mister Phone-Bomb.’
He moved towards a jeep. ‘Ah, follow that car, Sergeant, well back, but don’t lose it.’ I put my head out the window and waved the jeeps and truck onwards.
In heavy traffic, we were four cars behind, but since he was in a posh four-by-four worth a hundred times what the other cars were worth, it was not hard to follow him. He turned south, the traffic thinned, and we dropped back a bit, and at the edge of the city he pulled into a large gated compound.
‘Turn left here!’
We turned into a side street, down a hundred yards and right, stopping on the next corner, near waste ground.
‘Get ready,’ I told the guys, and eased out. Grabbing the snipers from the truck, fully kitted – silencers fitted, I sent them into the waste ground to get eyes on, radios tested after I grabbed a radio.
‘Rocko, Rizzo, form teams in the waste ground, target is right one block – big posh house, get ready. Everyone, facemasks on, no talking heard by those inside. You MPs, stay here.’
I led Moran and Swifty down the side of the waste ground, but we only had pistols. I halted behind a large bush, seeing nice white-washed walls ten feet high, a sumptuous house inside, lights on, people moving around.
I transmitted, ‘Nicholson, what can you see?’
‘No guards seen, but the wall is high. We’re up a tree, got the front and back covered, upper floor windows, some of the courtyard.’
‘Can you see phone lines?’
‘Yes.’
‘Try and hit them, away from the house if you can.’
A crack registered with us, followed by two more.
‘Got the phone line.’
‘Rocko, you ready?’
‘Moving up now.’
‘Rizzo, take some men around the back, over the wall, sneak peek first.’
‘Moving.’
‘Moran, go back to the MPs, and tell them to go drive back around and block that road, stop anyone coming up, and if the local police come say there are bombs here. If you have to, shoot the local police, take charge of the roadblock.’
He ran off back to the jeeps.
‘It’s Swann. Just saw a fat guy open a wall safe and put something in it.’
�
�Roger that.’
‘It’s Rizzo, found a blind spot, we’re going over the wall.’
‘Look for dogs, shoot them.’
We waited, crickets chirping like crazy, the roar deafening, and I could see the jeeps and truck down the road, repositioned.
‘It’s Rizzo, we just dropped two guards.’
‘Get wallets. And watches if they’re any good.’
A minute later, Rizzo came on with, ‘Wilco, there’s a big fucking bomb attached to the side of his house, hidden.’
‘Is there a mobile phone with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stretch, can you disarm it?’
‘Hang on.’
We waited, looks exchanged; we were a bit close.
‘It’s Stretch, I disarmed it.’
‘Rizzo, count to twenty and shoot out the windows at the back without hitting anyone. Snipers, when the fun starts hit the upper floor windows, only killed armed men. No one kill the fat fucker. Rocko, on me, to the front.’
Up and running, we stumbled through the waste ground, around bushes, onto gravel, onto the tarmac road, a quick look at the solid wooden gates revealing that they had just be pushed closed. Positions taken either side of the gates, Rocko and a few lads nearby, we knelt and waited.
The shots echoed, cracks overhead, glass smashing, all hell let loose for thirty seconds.
Voices. They were coming out.
I shouldered the gate, found two tall guards flanking the fat guy, and shot both before they could react, women shrieking and running back into the house. Our mark raised his hands as my lads flanked him. I pointed off to my left, around to Rizzo as cracks still sounded out.
Around the corner, pushing the fat guy on, I transmitted, ‘Ceasefire unless you see a man with a gun.’
Stretch glanced over his shoulder, saw us and spun around.
‘Where’s the bomb you found?’ I asked.
Stretch pointed at two ornate shrubs in pots, so I pushed the fat homeowner towards them. He gasped when he saw the bomb, and it was a big bomb.
I told him, ‘That was meant for you, and your family. Looks like your paymaster wanted no loose ends, you to be silenced.’ I whacked his shoulder with my pistol, enough to dislocate it, and he fell to his knees in pain. I leant over, so that I was close to his ear, smelling his cheap aftershave. ‘You are going to start talking, or I‘ll put you back in the house and activate the bomb. But ... if you tell us who put the bomb there, and we kill him ... well, he won’t bother you again, will he.’
I waited.
‘He will kill me,’ came out in strain.
‘He wants to kill you either way, no matter what you do. If I find him first and kill him, then he cannot bother you.’
‘His name ... is Samuel Adebayo.’
‘I know him. And I think I’ll find him Ivory Coast.’
‘How you know that?’
‘We’re the British Empire, and the sun never sets on the British Empire.’ I frisked him, wallet and phone taken, and pocketed. Easing back, I put a round into each ankle to loud screams. Upright, I transmitted, ‘Withdraw to the front, to the vehicles!’
Walking back around, we covered the windows, backed up, and out the gate without incident, the snipers running in. Walking backwards some of the way, we reclaimed our ride, headcounts done, our route reversed, police cars passed – possibly heading to see our mark.
I called SIS, London, as we hit the traffic. ‘It’s Wilco in Freetown. All out effort on a Samuel Adebayo, linked to Izillien, to be found in the Ivory Coast, principal behind the bombs in Freetown.
‘One additional large bomb found at the home of George Kallabella, owner of the Fun House bar and brothel, Dock Street. Have him arrested for planting bombs, he’s at his house on the outskirts, south. Wilco out.’
‘That all of the bombs?’ Moran asked.
‘Probably four at the airport,’ I replied. I turned my head to the MP sergeant. ‘Sergeant, when we left the nice villa back there you observed the fat guy walking out and remonstrating with us, no signs of any injury, and you never saw or heard any shots fired, and neither did your colleagues.’
‘Right, sir. Deaf, dumb and blind.’
‘Think about a long stay in a small cell, Sergeant.’
‘I’d rather not, sir.’
Back at the airport we dismounted, Colonel Marchant pulling up just after us, as the lads were walking inside. I saluted.
‘We found three bombs,’ he began.
‘One left, sir, so keep looking, or have them all sleep outside.’
‘You been out?’
‘No, sir, we were here the whole time.’
‘Oh, right. Well we just dispatched bomb disposal and the MPs to some brothel and a villa, update from London.’
Inside, I had Rocko organise a stag rotation. ‘Stretch!’ He came down from his room. ‘That bomb, was it like the others?’
‘No, different set-up.’
‘How professional?’
He made a face. ‘OK, would have worked, phone detonator, but no bobby traps, so just pull the detonator out then turn off the phone. Problem with that type of bomb - bits of the phone would be scattered but could be found, sim card found, number traced, maybe some prints. IRA would have laughed at that bomb.’
So the guy knew how to make bombs, but was ten years out of date.’
‘More or less. Might have trained in Libya a while back.’
‘OK, thanks.’
I stepped outside and called Monrovia. ‘It’s Papa Victor, and your information was good. But the brothel owner found a large bomb at his house.’
‘Then someone wanted him to keep quiet about ... business.’
‘Yes. I think this George would have set off the bombs, and he would have paid someone to plant them, and then this Samuel would have made a call from Ivory Coast and eliminated George.’
‘Tying up the loose ends, yes.’
‘Ask the bomb maker if he learnt his skills in Libya ten years ago.’
‘A very specific question. OK, I will ask when he regains consciousness.’
‘And thank you, we may someday soon find the region a little quieter.’
‘That is a hope, yes.’
Call cut, it rang. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Tinker.’
‘You working late?’
‘Emails at home. Listen, that phone you wanted tracing, we got a pattern around Freetown, but also a few calls to a place in Ivory Coast.’
‘Hang on.’ I stepped inside, taking out my pad then my pen and using a dining room table as a few Transport lads sat there. ‘Go ahead.’ I wrote it down, coordinates and village name. ‘When was the last call to that location?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘Our friend left Sierra Leone for Liberia, on his way to Ivory Coast,’ I suggested. ‘Do me a favour: ask Bomb Disposal in Freetown to take a guess as to the bomb-maker’s training ground. Try Libya ten years back.’
‘OK, I’ll send a note.’
I stepped outside and took in the airfield as a Hercules landed. It was time to call in a favour, so I called Libintov.
‘Da!’
‘It’s Petrov.’
‘Ah, how are you, my friend? Rumour has it you hit Izillien’s refinery in Niger.’
‘I did, yes, I made a mess. How is your relationship with him these days?’
‘Relationship? He cost me, he lied, and now he does not return my calls.’
‘Maybe you can help me and help yourself. You know of a Nigerian, Samuel Adebayo?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He works for Izillien, paying people to set off bombs. He is in Ivory Coast now, a town called Mkanda.’
‘If he is in that town, and making bombs, then I am concerned – I have aircraft there.’
‘Maybe you can find him, and ask him some questions. Got a paper and pen?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
I gave the grid coordinates. ‘That is his exact location
, maybe it helps to find him.’
‘I have some mercenaries there, they will find him quick.’
‘He paid a man, George Kallabella in Freetown, to plant bombs. The bomb maker was caught and questioned, the bombs in Freetown found.’
‘Why is he setting off bombs in Freetown?’
‘He thinks he will drive out the British Government and get the oil concessions. He had bribed the previous president of Sierra Leone, so I arranged an accident.’
‘Ah, that was you. So Izillien thinks he can do can anything he likes. His ambition exceeds his ability, and his budget. And taking on the British Government is madness. I will find this man in Ivory Coast, and we’ll ask some questions, yes. I will let you know. But why do you seek to assist the British?’
‘Tomsk has an oil platform or two in Liberia, and he needs Liberia stable, and for that the British and French are doing a good job in the north of Liberia. They are better than the previous anarchy for his business interests – he has bought land in Monrovia and builds hotels, he is interested in mines, and he has a good working relationship with the President of Liberia – who is terrified of the British.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘Thank you for your assistance.’
Inside, I sat with the gang, tea made.
Swifty said, ‘If that guy with sore ankles was the one to make the calls to set off the bombs, then the last bomb won’t go off.’
‘If it was him,’ I noted. ‘And not some employee due to be awake late tonight.’
‘Hit the barracks here when the Army is all tucked up with their teddies,’ Swifty noted.
‘Teddies?’ Mitch asked.
Swifty frowned at him. ‘Teddy bears, soft and cuddly.’
‘Ah. We call night sights Teddies. TED.’
Swifty wagged a finger. ‘You’re in Her Majesty’s Army now, Yank. Get with it.’
‘So they issue Teddy Bears?’ he teased.
I told him, ‘They used to issue a daily ration of cigarettes.’
‘Wouldn’t do that now,’ Mitch scoffed. ‘Be a shit load of legal action.’
‘What’s next?’ Moran asked.
‘I have some men talking to our bomber’s paymaster in Ivory Coast. We wait to see what they say, then maybe a trip over the border to Ivory Coast.’