Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Sounds like I can do some business there. Did you say No.2 is with you?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I handed the phone over.

  Sasha began, ‘Hey boss ... no, I don’t hate you, I know you tried to get me out ... yes, some work for the British, and they give me a house and a car ... England is nice, no fucking flies and heat, I like the churches and castles ... no, I don’t think they’d let you visit ... listen, try and work a deal with this fucker or I’m dead meat, bust up dead meat. OK, you take care, Boss.’

  Phone off, we walked down the slope through the jungle.

  ‘So we bluff these guys?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘Not a bluff, Tomsk will work with them, similar interests. And around here I have a reputation.’

  ‘There is also a price on your head from the cartels!’

  ‘Yes, but do these fuckers know who to talk to in the cartels? And would the cartels trust them? Listen, if they ask, we flew in by helicopter to a place a few miles northwest, near the border, and walked in, and we have ... sixty men in Guinea. Beyond that, we are on the same side, but work deals with corrupt CIA officials for Tomsk.’

  ‘Most of that is true,’ he noted.

  Fifteen minutes later we could see the outer fence, what was left of it, and moved up to it, not seeing anyone close by. I led Sasha through, and into the rubble of a former barracks, decaying skeletal remains seen in many places.

  ‘We have to time this, because I don’t want to talk to the idiot over there too long, I want to chat to whoever represents the president.’

  Stood there, we peered across the litter strewn parade ground, burnt out vehicles everywhere.

  ‘Last year, I hit this place with thirty men. There were five hundred men here, APCs.’

  ‘You did a lot of damage.’

  I smiled. ‘We flew over in a helicopter and dropped RPG heads.’

  Sasha smiled. ‘Like in Panama.’

  Ten minutes later, vehicles entered the main gate.

  I issued a very big sigh. ‘Ready to do something very stupid, my friend?’

  ‘Not as stupid as jumping out of a fucking helicopter!’

  Smiling, I led him on, and into view. To start with, no one paid us any attention at all, and it was not until we were right on them that they noticed our white faces. I stopped next to an old black man working in a truck.

  ‘Preevyet. Kag Dillar.’

  ‘I speak some Russian,’ the old boy replied in Russian. ‘I studied in Russia and Angola.’ He looked past us. ‘Who is you?’

  In Russian I said, ‘I work for a Russian arms dealer, and I want to talk to the man in charge.’

  ‘Oh, uh ... this way.’ And he led us off whilst being curiously glanced at, jeeps, trucks and loud growling APCs pulling up and getting most of the attention.

  The man in charge stood with his bodyguards, all eyes on me as we approached, and the main man finally clocked me, his eyes widening.

  ‘Major, sir, dee man from Russia, he work wid de guns for sale.’

  The main man looked beyond me, frowned, and then back to me, but was distracted by the president himself stepping down from a jeep after his door had been opened for him, much braid displayed on his smart military uniform, a baton carried.

  With quite a gang of bodyguards around him, a white man to his side – and looking very Russian, he strode over looking tall and arrogant, the local gunmen moving back and away.

  The president closed in on his major, but had only eyes for me and Sasha as he drew level.

  ‘Preevyet,’ I offered the self-imposed President of Liberia, and I could see a nose that had been broken and reset, a scar above an eyebrow and on his chin. He had taken a few knocks as a young man.

  The white man stepped forwards. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded in Russian, looking me up and down, and looking annoyed as hell that another Russian was on his turf.

  ‘I’m Petrov.’

  He stopped, stiffened, and backed up, that movement curiously observed by his boss. He finally turned to his boss.

  ‘Yes, I heard the name,’ the President cut in with, and in a refined English accent. He approached. ‘The man of many stories. And here today of all days,’ he said with false civility and a forced smile.

  ‘My boss expresses his kind wishes, and sends me to ... negotiate.’

  ‘Tomsk?’ the Russian asked with a frown. ‘I heard you were dead, but then rumours that you were here in Africa.’

  ‘I left Panama ... because Tomsk has business here now, in the Congo.’

  The President looked me over, gripping his baton with both hands. ‘I know of this Tomsk in Panama, yes. And what does he wish to negotiate ... exactly?’

  ‘Perhaps, Mister President, we should have a private talk.’

  After a moment, he said, ‘Of course,’ with a forced smile. He pointed into the HQ building with his baton, the resident men moving aside, and I followed him in with Sasha, No.2 not asked to hand over his slung rifle. Up the stairs we trekked, a large group, and to an office that was decorated better than the last time I was here, but still with holes in the ceiling.

  I was waved to a chair and sat as directed, Sasha standing in a corner, the president sitting at the desk after checking that the seat was clean, and making himself comfortable, most of the bodyguards waiting outside, just two at the door. He placed his hat on the desk, his baton resting on it.

  ‘So, this Mister Tomsk sends you here today, to negotiate ... what in particular?’

  ‘To start with ... the hostages.’

  ‘How did he know about them so quickly, and why would he be interested in them? Panama is a long way off.’

  ‘Because the Americans are CIA, as you already know. But what you don’t know ... is that the attempt on your life was the Nigerian oil barons, not the CIA.’

  The President’s eyes widened. ‘Your boss is indeed ... well informed, and ... somehow ... very timely.’

  ‘My boss ... controls sixty percent of the drugs trade into North America, and makes three billion dollars a year.’ The President’s eyes again widened. ‘My boss ... knows what you had for breakfast.’

  The President looked worried for a moment, but then composed himself. ‘And his particular interest in these hostages?’

  I pointed at the Russian. ‘He can be trusted not to repeat things?’

  The Russian stiffened, offended.

  ‘He knows ... what I would do to him if he did.’

  I made eye contact with the Russian. ‘What do you know of Tomk’s rise to power?’

  ‘That is was you more than him. You wiped out all the competitors, recruited and trained a small army of Russian ex-soldiers.’

  ‘And do you know who supplied the information about those competitors?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘The CIA and DEA in Panama.’

  ‘The CIA?’ the President puzzled.

  I told him, ‘My boss’s rise to power was not what it seems. What you, and the world, do not know ... is that each week Tomsk puts drugs and guns on boats, and on the Pacific side he tips off the CIA and DEA. On the Caribbean side he tips off the British and French, and they claim great successes, good newspaper stories.’

  ‘They co-operate in this charade?’ the President puzzled.

  I nodded. ‘What is also not known, is that Tomsk re-invests the money made from drugs into the American stock markets, that he kills anyone that the Panama government desires, a few people that the Americans or British want killed, and he regulates the amount of drugs entering America during election time – and in return he is left alone. The Panama Government gets a percentage.’

  ‘You were educated in England..?’ the President asked.

  ‘Canada, England, Germany. My father was with Aeroflot.’

  ‘Ah, a good grounding for understanding how the world works.’

  I forced a smile and nodded. ‘As for my part, it was the CIA that asked me to go work for Tomsk.’

  ‘You ... work with the CIA?’


  ‘No, but I kill people for them from time to time.’

  ‘Here in Africa, you shot down an American helicopter!’ the Russian insisted.

  I nodded. ‘There are factions within the American system. One group found out something they should not have, and were silenced.’

  The President shook his head. ‘I have always known that they were corrupt from top to bottom, that this goes on. And they call me a criminal!’

  ‘Mr President, there exists a very exclusive club, and membership has great benefits. Tomsk is a member, and he deals drugs with impunity.’

  ‘So long as it is monitored and controlled!’ the President noted.

  ‘Monitored and reported – not so much controlled,’ I clarified. ‘And one of my tasks was to contact you soon, but this hijacking has brought us together early. The CIA want their men back, so they ask Tomsk, and he asks me to negotiate.

  ‘In The Congo recently, Tomsk negotiated with Jamal to get the French hostages out -’

  ‘The ... French military rescued them, and killed that man Jamal,’ the President puzzled.

  I shook my head. ‘I negotiated the release. The hostages were being driven to an airfield, to simply be handed over, but I arranged for the French Army to attack and rescue the hostages, so that the French saved face. I then had my men attack Jamal’s palace before the French arrived.’

  The President shook his head. ‘So that the French could be appeased, and look good in the newspapers.’ He sighed. ‘It is all connected, and all corruption, yet they slander me in the western press as a tin-pot dictator.’

  I nodded. ‘And Mr President, my boss has people close to you, and he knew when you left Monrovia.’

  The President eased back, now greatly concerned. He finally stuck his chin out. ‘And what is it ... that we negotiate? You want the Americans sent back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  I eased forwards. ‘What the CIA want ... is for you and your men to go back to Monrovia, and they will report that you were never here.’ He stared back, puzzled. ‘I will then call in the American Delta Force – who will land in Freetown soon, and they will rescue the hostages in a dramatic and heroic fashion, reporter embedded with them, camera rolling.’

  The President laughed.

  I continued, ‘But, before they land, my men will kill most of the gunmen here.’

  The President glanced out the window. Looking back, he pointed at my shirt. ‘You did not come here dressed like that, and with no equipment. Where ... are your men?’

  ‘They are ... close by.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Sixty, all selected and trained by me, all as good as me.’

  The President glanced out the window again. ‘You did not bring those men ... simply to negotiate.’

  ‘No. If you had not left Monrovia I would have killed the men here just before the Americans arrived.’

  ‘And they lay on a show for the voters back home,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Power ... is about good newspaper headlines, and controlling the media.’

  ‘As I have always believed, that they manipulated the media,’ he said with a pointed finger. ‘You confirm today something I have always believed, but when they control the media – what chance does the truth have?’

  ‘None,’ I said. ‘And your desire to sell blood diamonds, buy guns from Tomsk, and join the club..?’

  ‘I would be very interested in joining, very interested indeed.’

  ‘The first step is to simply go back to Monrovia. The second step ... is to find western hostages in Liberia, tell me where they are, and we stage some dramatic rescues.’

  He smiled widely and shook his head. ‘When I could simply hand them back.’

  I wrote down my sat phone number and handed it over.

  ‘A British number?’

  ‘The phone came from British Military Intel. I do ... jobs for them now and then.’

  ‘Jobs that their own politicians can deny, because no one in the world would ever believe you working for the British.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The President stood, and I followed him up. He glanced at the door. ‘I suddenly have urgent business back in the capital, but will tell the men left here I will be back tomorrow. I will leave a captain in charge. Say ... fifty men?’

  ‘That would be fine, Mister President. And if you find any other hostages, call me. I will be in touch soon anyhow.’

  ‘Tell me, they say you were tortured for three days and never talked...’

  I eased my shirt off.

  ‘My god, they shot you many times,’ the President noted, having a good look, front and back. ‘But you did not talk.’

  ‘No, I did not talk. Feel my skull.’ I bent over and he ran his fingers over the ridges.

  ‘Many lumps.’

  ‘I was shot three times in the head and left for dead. Some of the bullets are still in there, and moving, and will surely kill me. Last year ... the doctors said I had a week to live.’

  ‘That makes you a very dangerous man,’ the President noted. ‘No fear of death. Hence you walk into this camp with your head held tall.’ He nodded. ‘It has been a great honour to meet you.’

  We shook, and I bowed my head.

  Downstairs, and back on the parade ground, I offered the President a salute and simply walked back the way I came with Sasha, the curious local men watching, but they would only take direction from their bosses, who also waved off the President.

  We made it to the ruins, through the fence, and started up the slope.

  ‘Get your radio working, tell them we’re coming in.’

  Sasha put in his earpiece and threaded the microphone.

  I lifted my sat phone and recalled a number. ‘Bob, it’s Wilco.’

  ‘Anything changed?’

  ‘Yes, lots. Petrov, on behalf of Tomsk, negotiated that ... the President and all his men and APCs withdraw – which they have done, that you and the Americans don’t blame him for the hijacking - hopefully, that just fifty men are left with the hostages, and that the Deltas rescue them in a blaze of glory at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘What the fuck have you done now?’ came in a strained whisper.

  ‘I saved the hostages, so be happy. And we hand the rescue to the Americans, so they’re happy, and Echo and the French go back to some map reading exercises.’

  ‘If this got out...’

  ‘How will it?’

  ‘Jesus, you’d get me twenty years...’

  ‘On top of the two hundred years you’re already due, you mean. Now do me a favour, explain it to the Americans - yet very discretely. And deny that the President was behind this, blame Islamists who ran out of fuel on their way to ... Mauritania. In the meantime, I have a hostage rescue to plan, a hundred people to move.’

  ‘I’m going to have a private chat to the PM. And share a stiff drink!’

  ‘Enjoy. Wilco out.’

  I called Tomsk. ‘You awake?’

  ‘No, I went back to bed! What happened?’

  ‘The self-imposed President of Liberia is willing to deal with you; diamonds, drugs, guns. He’s also agreed to release the hostages, so you call your CIA contact and explain that you negotiated that they would not be harmed, and will be left to be rescued by the American Army at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, Boss, all arranged. Make the call.’

  ‘I will be popular with them, no fucking aircraft carrier seen from the villa.’

  ‘Pukka.’ Smiling, I cut the call.

  Back at the flysheet, they were all waiting. I took in their faces. ‘OK, my ... chat went off well, and no ... the matter is not open for discussion or debate, so don’t ask. London ... has ordered us to wait for the Deltas, who will move in with our support at dawn, Chinooks coming in, plus – hopefully – some vehicles.’

  I faced Mahoney. ‘Your buddies will find just fifty sleepy men not expecting any trouble. After that ... we have some map reading tests
for our French colleagues, some practise of making sketches.’

  ‘How you make them go away?’ Liban puzzled.

  ‘By selling his soul,’ Mahoney put in.

  I focused on him. ‘If it saves those hostages ... then yes, Lieutenant. They’re worth more than I am, and now, maybe, they get to go home to their families. I hope you’re still watching and learning, Lieutenant, about the role of the officer in the army.’

  ‘You risk your life for the hostages,’ Liban noted.

  ‘That is the game we are all in, Major. Methods may vary. Now get some rest, we’ll move down after midnight.’

  I claimed my bandolier and put it on, Swifty assisting. Webbing on, pistol back in, rifle in hand, I felt better, not naked. And I was hungry, so we got some food on.

  Cooking, Swifty said, ‘Seeing that plane burn in Algiers, it affected you? Keen to save some hostages?’

  I considered my answer. ‘Not to an excess, and here – well, there was a solution to hand to save them, so I used it. And it’s a win-win situation, everyone happy.’

  ‘Walking into the camp was a risk, we could have lost you – no more Echo.’

  ‘Moran can handle it,’ I insisted.

  ‘Not sure about that,’ Swifty responded. ‘Would be odd if you were not here.’

  ‘You’d leave?’

  ‘Not got anywhere to go, so ... I’d see what it was like.’

  ‘Some good troop captains with the regulars, one could replace me.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Besides, my luck will run out soon enough,’ I added. ‘Surprised I got this far - with God watching my back or not.’

  After we had eaten, the sun low, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘My name is Colonel Mathews, calling from the Pentagon E Ring.’

  It sounded like we were on speaker phone. ‘And did you check with London before calling one of Her Majesty’s loyal subjects?’

  ‘We did, yes. Wouldn’t want to upset our friends and allies.’

  ‘So how can I help, Colonel?’

  ‘What’s the situation on the ground?’

  ‘Plane landed after we took up position on an old base in Liberia that got a new lick of paint, hence our interest. Plane was then observed to catch fire, the hostages brought around in trucks and housed in two buildings on the north east side of the camp.’