Wilco: Lone Wolf, Book 10: Book 10 in the series

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Ah, someone on our wanted list no doubt.’ He took out his phone and stepped out.

  I stepped away and called Colonel Mathews.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, got a rescue for us?’

  ‘Not quite. There’s a place in the hills of Eritrea called Nakfa, and it’s a bomber-maker’s training camp, in use recently, so I’ll pay it a visit. Could use some helicopters and a tub if you have one.’

  ‘We have lots of ships in the Red Sea, always. I’ll get a team on this, satellite images. But when you go in, it would be some of ours as well?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  ‘I have to send your intel up the line. There is a process to follow now,’ he quipped.

  ‘And I thought that meeting we had was all about taking shortcuts...’

  ‘Ha. They tightened up after the meeting – I have to declare all contact with you now.’

  ‘Anybody would think I was stretching a few laws.’

  ‘Buddy, I think you got Olympic gold for law stretching.’

  After lunch, the chefs not looking like a happy bunch of campers today, my phone trilled; Gorskov.

  ‘Da!’

  ‘I have a list of names for you, from that parachute club.’

  ‘Hold on.’ I got my notepad out. ‘OK, go ahead.’ He listed the names, some spelt, and I wrote them down. ‘Thanks, might come to something.’

  ‘Are you in Nigeria?’

  ‘No, I got diverted.’

  ‘Not keen to kill Izillien..?’

  ‘You mentioned The Banker, so I spoke to him. Tomsk will deal with him now,’ I explained, the Transport lads puzzling why I was speaking Russian. ‘He asked for a hold on the contract, Izillien is heavily in debt to him.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Thanks for the list.’ Off the phone, I gave the list to Henri, to call Paris and check the men out.

  Henri read down the list. ‘This man I know, in fact two. They were 1st Battalion, then mercenaries.’

  ‘Try and find them, ask them about the other men – and if they parachuted into Sierra Leone to kill me a year ago.’

  ‘I make some calls, but I think maybe they don’t like to answer some questions.’

  After dark, most of the lads moved out, the chefs sent off to the barracks - assuming that it would be safer, the Transport lads told that they could stay if they wished, but that there could be some shooting. They elected to stay, seeing as the barracks were not much safer.

  I sat in the diner with a few of the lads, the rest disbursed around the area, Sandra complaining about sleeping with bombs. Two snipers were up on the roof, and Sasha and his team – with Robby, were in the tree line. Rocko and his team were close to the white building, Nicholson and Tomo up a tree at the far side of the white building, a view of the fire exit.

  A few of the lads in the diner played cards, some read paperbacks, and the hours dragged on.

  ‘Ex-wife then,’ I said to Mitch at one point.

  ‘Eight years,’ he idly replied as he read a paperback.

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No, and she wanted them, but we couldn’t so ... well, maybe that was it. That and the fact that she wouldn’t move. Soldiers get moved around, wives are supposed to tag along.’

  I nodded. ‘Same in the UK, but shorter distances.’

  ‘You have a kid I hear.’

  ‘Yeah. Daughter. Two years old, coming up to three. Her mother is a doctor, and high society, her family a pain.’

  ‘And you ... you have mud under your nails.’

  I checked my nails, and smiled. ‘Yep.’

  Just past midnight the radio crackled. ‘Nicholson for all mobiles, sniper approaching, just came out the bushes, white man, long rifle, silencer ... he’s down.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘It’s Wilco. Well done, get his kit.’

  ‘Who took the shot?’ Nicholson asked.

  No answer came.

  ‘It’s Wilco, who took the shot?’

  ‘It’s Tomo. Only us two had a shot, and it came from higher up, from back here.’

  ‘Tomo, Nicholson, break cover, go around in a big circle fast, four hundred yards out, set an ambush for the sniper withdrawing north. Go! Rocko, move up, get eyes on the body, stay down, wait to see who comes to get his kit.’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Who took the shot?’ Moran asked, looks exchanged.

  ‘The paymaster sent someone to kill that guy after the job,’ I suggested.

  ‘He didn’t do the job,’ Swifty noted. ‘Unless the job was to get killed and be found.’

  We exchanged puzzled looks.

  I transmitted, ‘Stretch, assume that body has a booby trap of some sort, only you forwards when I say, stay hidden for now.’

  ‘Roger that,’ came back.

  ‘How’d he booby trap himself?’ Mitch asked.

  ‘He didn’t,’ I told them. ‘Someone gave him a bit of kit to carry maybe, bomb in it, phone detonator.’

  Moran began, ‘Someone anticipated we’d find the sniper..?’

  ‘I would,’ I told him.

  Ten minutes later came a voice out of breath. ‘It’s Nicholson. The sniper got into a car and sped off, couldn’t see, we were six hundred yards off.’

  ‘Come back in, watch out for bobby traps. Retrace your steps.’

  ‘It’s Stretch. I had a quick look at the body, and he’s carrying fuck all kit, so unless he has Semtex up his arse I’m not seeing a booby trap.’

  ‘Can you get his ID?’

  ‘Hang on. OK, got a wallet.’

  ‘Bring it in, but keep a team on that building for now. Sasha, Robby, stay where you are for now.’

  Stretch got back fifteen minutes later, and handed me the wallet. ‘He had an M4, silencer and sniper sight, good kit, green finish, but no webbing. No first aid kit, no water, no nothing.’

  ‘There has to a vehicle nearby,’ Moran cautioned. ‘And maybe a bomb underneath it by now.’

  I nodded as I looked at the ID. ‘Belgian. Mercenary probably.’ I handed it to Hunt, after taking out the US dollars. ‘Pass the name.’

  He started to study the contents. ‘He’s been to Nigeria. He’s been to the clap clinic in Nigeria. He’s been to Ivory Coast.’

  Moran asked, ‘What kind of idiot would have a trail like that in his wallet?’

  ‘An idiot idiot,’ Swifty put in.

  ‘He’s no professional,’ I noted. ‘A Belgian mercenary, probably ex-Foreign Legion.’ I took the photo and showed it to Sambo.

  ‘I see this man before, yes, sir.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Maybe ... three years or more, sir.’

  I turned to Hunt. ‘Ex-Foreign Legion, working for anyone who would hire him.’

  ‘And the man who killed him?’ Hunt pressed.

  ‘Would need to have known about our dead body’s planned movements, and been following him, so I think they had the same paymaster.’ I stepped out to the MP guard. ‘Send for Bomb Disposal, then have them search all abandoned vehicles near the white building behind us, and tell them a vehicle has been booby-trapped and to be very fucking careful.’

  He jumped into his jeep and drove off, leaving me wishing this building had a phone line.

  When my phone trilled, it was Gorskov again.

  ‘Da!’

  ‘You said you were not in Nigeria...’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Izillien was just killed, a sniper shot him, head shot outside his club.’

  ‘He upset a great many people, so it does not surprise me.’

  ‘Three Nigerian police officers were killed in a multi-storey car park, a man in fatigues and facemask seen. They are looking for a Russian.’

  ‘Then maybe I get paid for something I did not do. Do you have contacts in the police?’

  ‘Yes, some.’

  ‘Tell them it was me. But I would not have killed the police, and I would not have been seen.’

  ‘I will whisper in their ears anyhow.’

>   ‘Do you know of any assassins as good as me?’ I asked.

  ‘There was one, rumoured to have been killed, name of Casper.’

  ‘After the cartoon ghost?’

  ‘No, that was his name.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well I still owe you a favour, so ask if you need something.’

  ‘There’s a man in Panama I’d like to see dead, name of Sepi Cratsky.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Call cut, I called Tomsk.

  ‘Ah, Petrov. You shot that fucker Izillien?’

  ‘No, I’m in Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Many people called me – they say it was you.’

  ‘Fine. Do I get paid?’ I teased.

  ‘Hah! And now The Banker may be upset.’

  ‘No, he cut his losses with Izellien and said it was OK to kill him.’

  ‘Ah, well that’s something.’

  ‘Listen, you know a Sepi Cratsky.’

  ‘He is in my programme?’

  ‘Programme? You are working as a personal trainer now?’

  ‘No, idiot! Pipeline, new ID, safe house, relocation.’

  ‘Ah. A friend of mine wants him killed.’

  ‘Well, after his new ID he leaves, no one knows he’s dead, I get paid upfront.’

  ‘I’ll need some form of proof.’

  He sighed. ‘OK, I get a photo, bullet in the head.’

  ‘Send it to Gorskov in Nigeria.’

  ‘You do a favour for him?’

  ‘Yes, he helped with Izillien. He has rough diamonds and gold, and he’s very discreet, so maybe you can talk to him.’

  ‘Then maybe I talk to him, yes. What are you up to there?’

  ‘Been working hard to stop Izillien setting of bombs here. He wants, he wanted, to drive out the British.’

  ‘That is not what the Liberians want,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘We found most of the bombs, killed the bomb makers, so we are making progress.’

  Next called was SIS London. ‘It’s Wilco. Reports that Izillien has been shot dead in Nigeria, a Russian gunman linked in who killed three local police officers. It was not Petrov, but those in low places are moving to give him the blame. Please update the Americans. Wilco out.’

  Sat back down, I made a fresh tea, and discussed this turn of events with Hunt.

  ‘Izillien pissed off other people,’ he noted. ‘Can you trust that The Banker would not have moved first?’

  ‘Since I was due to move on Izillien within days - why would he bother?’

  Ten minutes later the radio came to life. ‘Wilco, two local blacks moving in to get the body.’

  ‘Just wandering by?’

  ‘No, they were sneaking in.’

  ‘Wound them, grab them.’

  A minute later came, ‘They’re down, leg wounds, but they have pistols. Wait, Army Land Rovers closing in ... wounded men in their headlights now ... they’re surrendering.’

  ‘Move in! Say who you are, facemasks off! I want the sniper rifle back here. Tell the Army that we want those blacks held and questioned.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Robby, Sasha, withdraw back.’

  ‘Moving.’

  Moran said, ‘The man who killed our sniper paid the locals to get the body and dispose of it. I would have done that myself, not trusted some fucking local.’

  ‘The paymaster is a local African, and it’s his mindset,’ I told them. ‘This is probably his city. OK, set-up a stag, and anyone who wants to sleep can get some sleep.’

  The night passed without large explosions, and I woke to find that I was still alive - and not in small pieces. Swifty stirred as I stirred, facemasks taken off.

  ‘Did anything happen last night,’ he asked as I walked to the door

  ‘If it did, we slept through it.’

  ‘Best way,’ he noted as I headed down.

  The chefs were back, so I handed them the dollar contents of George’s wallet plus our sniper’s cash. ‘That money was in the wallet of the bomb maker, so don’t feel bad about spending it on a few beers for yourselves. We got the sniper, and his paymaster was killed last night, so ... maybe a quiet day today.’

  ‘I slept under my bed,’ one complained.

  The sergeant said, ‘Sir, could you ask that black lady to wear a bra.’

  ‘Sergeant, I have tried, often, but she doesn’t like to wear a bra. She showers with us as well, and a few of the lads wish she wouldn’t.’

  I joined Hunt for an early breakfast. After he took a call, he began, ‘Nigerian police have issued a CCTV image of a man. It’s grainy, but it does look a bit like you apparently.’

  ‘So my doppleganger is an assassin as well. Cool.’

  ‘Either that, or someone wants you set-up,’ he cautioned.

  ‘Because ... it would look like me pretending to be Petrov?’ I puzzled. ‘I was here, Army can prove that.’

  ‘Your dopplerganger was carrying a Valmect as well.’

  I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Cheeky. But that should boost sales.’ My phone trilled; David Finch. ‘Right, Boss.’

  ‘The Nigerians are pinning the blame for Izillien’s death on Petrov, and are claiming to have insider information and that they were tipped off he was in the area. They also have a grainy photograph, which I’ve seen and it’s not you – but the Americans are concerned and have expressed their concern formally.’

  ‘I was here, with Hunt, and an American officer – and fifty other witnesses. And no flights were logged with me on it.’

  ‘Americans might think we’re lying to them.’

  ‘Then threaten to end the tip-offs.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want a row with them.’

  ‘Have the Deputy Chief call Lieutenant Mitchell here and get a phone statement. Such things are lawful.’

  ‘I’ll suggest it to them.’

  ‘And since I was planning on killing Izillien ... what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem ... is getting seen and caught.’

  ‘They want the benefits, but with no risks of anyone accusing them of being complicit in what I do? Fucking hell.’

  ‘They have facial recognition software and experts, so I’ll send both the image that the Nigerians have, plus your file photos. Man in the photo has a scar on his top lip, you don’t.’

  ‘Not so far today, but it’s early.’

  ‘How’s it going down there?’

  ‘We got the bomb makers and bomb planters and bomb facilitators, and with Izillien dead we may have a quiet day. You heard about the Belgian sniper?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been running his known associations, and we have the phones and a pattern, a few people to arrest in Freetown, so it looks like we have the complete web. And now this training camp in Eritrea. If there’s an Irish gentleman there then we want him.’

  ‘If it goes quiet here I’ll go visit him. Oh, listen, that image of the supposed Petrov, let’s use it. Let the fucking FBI think that’s him.’

  ‘Well, that might throw them off, yes. I’ll think about that, discuss it with the CIA.’

  After a cup of coffee, many of the lads now having breakfast, an MP sergeant stepped in. ‘Sir -’

  The dull blast registered, people looking up.

  The MP sergeant had raised a finger, and now lowered it. ‘Bollocks.’

  The lads all looked up at the sergeant, the odd sergeant who was stood swearing at us.

  ‘Sergeant?’ I puzzled.

  ‘I ... was sent to tell you that a thorough search revealed no car bomb, sir.’

  Those sat around laughed at our MP as he lowered his head looking extremely peeved, and he walked out cursing.

  The head chef stepped out, stopped, and stared at me. ‘Are you not needed elsewhere, sir? I hear they’re having trouble in Mozambique.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Sergeant, any more wise cracks like that and I’ll ask the MOD to order you to accompany us on all our jobs.’

  He also lowered his head, looking peeved, and cursed
as he picked up plates.

  Sandra came down, looking tired. ‘I am fed up with the bombs. I go to sleep dreaming of the bombs, and I wake up dreaming of the bombs, and when I look out the window and thank god I am alive – I see the bombs.’

  We hid our grins.

  ‘Sandra,’ I called. ‘Can you ... go back up and put some clothes on, please.’

  Cursing, she turned and stomped of, the chef staring after her and shaking his head.

  Mitch shook his own head. ‘I died, and this is the Twilight Zone. It’s the only logical explanation.’

  Swifty turned to me. ‘When we were stood outside yesterday and you came back in I panicked for a second.’

  ‘Why?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Half way through my novel, left it in here.’

  Many of the lads laughed.

  ‘Yep, the fucking Twilight Zone,’ Mitch noted.

  ‘I hate leaving a novel half finished,’ Moran noted, others nodding.

  I told him, ‘I once sat up all night to finish one, just had to finish it.’

  ‘It can get like that,’ Swifty noted. ‘Have you ever finished a novel and wondered what day it was and where you were?’

  A few of the lads nodded and agreed they had.

  ‘It’s an Army thing,’ Mitch noted. ‘So much time sat around waiting, or travelling, you need your novel like a coffee fix. I was on this course, but the weather kept us inside, so I was reading Lord of The Rings. Anyhow, officer turns up, name of Gandollo. I got jankers for calling him Gandalf repeatedly.’ We laughed. ‘No matter how many threats he made, I had Gandalf stuck in my fucking head.’

  Colonel Marchant popped by, and to say that a few soldiers had been blown off their feet by the bomb, and that the security police had taken the two wounded blacks – for some rough questioning.

  At 5pm, The Banker called.

  ‘How can I help?’ I asked.

  ‘I assume you’re up to speed with the sniper that killed Izillien?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was not you in the photo, I know that, even though we’ve not met. The man in the photo is ... my stepson. I raised him.’

  ‘Casper?’

  ‘That was a good guess.’

  ‘Casper was reported dead, and you’re good at fake personas. But ... how many years has it been since you spoke to him?’