by Geoff Wolak
‘Only the money.’
‘And whose money was it?’
‘If I reveal that, they’d go for my family. So I’ll sit for two years.’
I nodded. ‘I would do the same.’
The man ahead of me was being obvious, no pro, a glance at his mates, but I was ready. In Russian I said, ‘Move away now,’ my new friend departing sharpish.
The man in front turned, his mates came in from the sides, and I expected that hand on my shoulder as I leapt to the right, a left hook for the man there, taking him by surprise, the wall now behind me, a few feet away.
A kick to the knee with my left leg, a man down, and he blocked his mate just long enough for me to kick over the top, a jaw being jarred. Leg down, I stamped down on that damaged knee, a yelp issued, a shuttle kick at the third man as he tried to get past his falling mate.
It was all over, whistles blown, and I backed up, my new Russian friend observing it all carefully.
When the guards ran in I raised my hands and walked back inside, the guards tending four injured men.
Twenty minutes later the warden appeared, guards behind him. ‘I now have eight injured men.’
‘As I say, they attack me. Look on camera.’
He nodded. ‘Police are here to speak to you.’
‘It was self defence, no.’
‘Not about that. Do we need to chain you?’
‘No, I am good boy unless softy boy attack me.’
He led me out, four guards following, through a dozen clanking doors, and to an interview room.
Bob sat with his assistant, a uniformed officer behind. Bob lifted his head to the warden as I sat. ‘Thank you.’
The warden glanced at me, and closed the door.
‘So, how are you finding prison, comrade?’
‘Comrade is old, so you are old man. I am modern Russian, mobile phone and hair gel.’
They smiled. ‘So how are you finding our British prisons?’
‘Old, again, not modern, no TV. But I have made a new friend, most informative. Like me, he wants to make deal.’
‘And what can you offer us?’
‘I can offer names of Russian spy here, he can offer other information, about his uncle in Spain, in La Palma.’
Bob’s eyebrows shot up.
I added, ‘His uncle will soon be killed, rival men from across pond, and then new gang boss maybe.’
‘That ... would be a matter for us to consider, yes. Would you ... like a safe house to live in as a sign of good faith?’
‘Only if my friend gets short sentence deal. Four years, out in two.’
‘We could look into that yes.’
‘And before that time ... you do not talk about ... anything to anyone.’
Bob stared back, his brow furrowed. ‘I’ll talk to the Home Secretary about a deal, talk again ... tomorrow?’
‘Tonight, 5pm. That would be most English gentlemanly.’ I stood.
A knock on the door from Bob’s assistant, and the door was opened, my guards to walk me back, and they did so in silence. At my cell, I waited a few minutes then stepped out, finding an older man and stepping across to him, and frightening him.
‘Who is king pin man here?’
He glanced around.
‘You answer, or I cut out eyes.’
‘Bobby Lister. Upstairs.’
‘Where ... exact?’
He turned his head, his eyes on a stairs behind me. ‘Those stairs, up, right, fourth on left.’
‘And what he look like?’
‘White man, grey hair, big like you.’
Other prisoners drew near, but not to fight.
I asked the old man, ‘What day wash day, clothes?’
‘Thursday,’ he loudly stated, and walked off.
I ambled past the pool table, around it, men glancing at me uneasily, and up the stairs slowly. Fourth cell along and I ducked in, a big bald man blocking my path. I moved quickly, a hit to the solar plexus, a gentle tap to the throat, and I sat him down as he adopted a pained expression. Past him was my mark, and he was as described.
‘We need a quiet chat.’ I told him.
‘You don’t sound Russian,’ he puzzled.
‘That’s because I’m not.’
‘You’re ... not?’
I waved him closer, and leant on the top bunk. He moved closer. ‘Here’s the thing. You’re a smart man, you know how the system works. So let me tell you how my system works. The police, Special Branch, Mi5, Mi6, they all compete like little girls and fuck each other over something terrible when they should all be helping each other, paid for by us loyal taxpayers.
‘King of the hill is Mi6; more money, better people, and you don’t want to fuck them over. That’s who I work for.’
His eyes widened.
‘Others ... may well have whispered in your ear recently about some Russian gangster coming in here. That would be me, Roger, married with two kids, lives in Epsom, commutes in of a morning via Clapham Junction, does a good impersonation of a Russian bad boy.
‘And my boss, he just got a tip off about what’s really going on in here, I just had a chat in the interview room, and he’s not a happy bunny. So he’s thinking of moving you to Belfast.
‘So, why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll make sure you don’t end up in Belfast, and that the lags in here don’t know you bent over and took it from the police.’
He glanced past me at the door. ‘Got a visit a week back, told what to do, nice little bundle of smack.’
‘And they identified themselves as..?’
‘Detectives investigating an old murder.’
‘Keep this between us, and no one has to know about it.’ I turned, the big bald guy red in the face as he sat there holding his throat. I patted him on the top of his bald head. ‘Have a nice day.’
Back downstairs, I closed my door, noticing that I could lock it and get some peace. Easing down, my head was full of scenarios, not least who had set this up – and why. The police came to mind, but a week ago I had not kicked out their men from GL4.
At 5pm my cell was unlocked, an arduous process reversed, and I was led away in cuffs, back into the van, soon to the back of the MOD building and let out, and led inside.
In Bob’s room, the Director was waiting with Bob.
‘Are you well?’ she asked.
‘I hit a few inmates, but they never got close to me. Food was terrible – I want compensation for my intestines.’
‘And your hidden message, and Tomsk?’ Bob pressed.
‘Something smelt off, it was all too easy. After I met you I found out who the main man was and went and had a word. He was handed a bag of smack to kill me, a week ago.’
‘A week ago?’ Bob gasped. ‘We’ve only got the intel a week ago.’
‘Bob, you were fed that intel. There is no plot to kill Tomsk, and that Russian was in on it.’
The Director turned her head to Bob and waited.
Bob finally said, ‘Intel came from the CIA London Section, unofficial channels, I was asked to be discrete.’
‘And where did they get it?’ I posed. ‘They may be innocent in this.’
‘I have to be careful with this man,’ Bob pointed out. ‘Can’t arrest him or even question him.’
I pointed at the desk phone. ‘Chief of Operations, Langley, guy I spoke to in Sierra Leone – who owes me.’
Bob glanced at the Director, and after a moment’s consideration she nodded. Bob asked whoever was down the line to connect the call, and put it on speaker phone, his opposite number in the CIA, although I figured that this guy had a bigger budget, a much bigger budget.
After two secretaries we were finally there.
‘Hello?’
‘Richard, it’s Bob Staines, London.’
‘Hey Bob, good meeting the other week, good moving forwards.’
I eased towards the phone. ‘This is Wilco.’
‘Hey Captain, and thanks for all of your help, thing
s are going good here for a change.’
‘I’m about to alter that for you, because someone your end tried to kill me today.’
‘They ... what?’
‘Your London Section provided intel on a Russian held in a British prison, so I went in posing as you know who, but it was all a set-up, the main man in the prison bribed to kill me, and he knew about me well before I got there.’
‘Who passed that intel?’
Bob eased forwards. ‘That was Cliff Ranachek.’
After a pause came, ‘It’s not been released yet, but he was found dead in a hotel in New York yesterday, so I’m pissed, real fucking pissed. Can you contain this at your end?’
‘Few know about it,’ Bob said towards the speaker.
‘Captain Wilco, I’m horrified that someone here might set you up, and I’d be at a loss as to think why.’
I said towards the speaker, ‘There could only be one topic at the centre of this, and that’s our friend in La Palma.’
‘Yes, but that’s ticking along nicely for everyone.’
‘Sir, if you work on the assumption that another agency is jealous, you won’t be too far off the mark.’
‘Please keep this under wraps for now, and I’ll get back to you.’ The line was cut.
I faced Bob. ‘The prison will have CCTV, and last week the two so-called detectives visited, and they could be identified.’
Bob made a note.
‘How did you know it was a set-up?’ the Director asked me.
‘The Russian plant, he knew of a plot to kill Tomsk, someone Tomsk knew well being recruited by the CIA, but there’s no way he could have known that.’
‘No, does seem implausible,’ she agreed.
‘Someone who knows about my cosy arrangement with Tomsk wants that cosy arrangement ended.’
‘There are plenty of interested parties,’ Bob noted. ‘Us, Americans, French. And within America there’s the DEA and FBI.’
‘I’ll leave you to do what you’re good at,’ I told them as I stood. ‘No more shining torches up my arse for a while.’
The Director stood. ‘Are you ... concerned for your safety?’
I made a face. ‘This is no more dangerous than my other day job. All comes down to luck.’
‘All comes down to your keen brain and suspicious nature,’ she corrected me.
One of Bob’s men drove me back with an SO13 guy riding shotgun, and I chatted to him about the police course. He was not surprised by the behaviour of his colleagues, not surprised at all.
At the gatehouse I warned the MPs of a new threat against me, no detail given.
‘I’d add it to the list,’ MP Peter said, ‘but the paper is full. Have to turn it over and use the back.’
I shot him a look. ‘Be careful, all of you, especially if new people are hanging around or asking questions.’
Sat in my lounge with Swifty later, I began, ‘Don’t mention this to anyone, but ... someone tried to kill me.’
‘Someone tries to kill you every month,’ he quipped. ‘Who’s this one?’
‘Not sure, but in the Intel community.’
‘Who you pissed off?’
‘That’s the puzzler, everyone is happy.’
‘Some jealous little fuck.’
Tuesday morning I sat with Echo’s officers and staff sergeants, and we planned a few training exercises, starting with a large forest in Thetford and a small camp of Nissen huts. The guys would mostly sleep in the day and take part in contests at night, paintball competitions, individual and team, and in some cases a four man team would need to cover a mile just to get close to finding the opposing team.
The second exercise would be infiltration in the same forest, ten men armed with paintball guns trying to stop an unarmed man getting inside a perimeter, Sasha and his team to be in on it, and now treated like part of the main team – but separate. I would stay behind, a group of territorials to train with Crab and Duffy, the part-timers to tackle most of the map reading and route planning tests we had developed.
Two weeks later, a few lads off on holiday, some up in Scotland and hill walking, the police were back, this time for advanced selection, a handful of the men having been here before – and having warned their colleagues that I might shoot them if they pissed me off.
Settled into the barracks, I met them after breakfast, soft Doc Martin boots on all of them, twenty in this batch. Bergens were issued, just twenty pounds, pieces of wood to carry, the men lined up in front of the hangar, arm bands with numbers placed on, Crab setting up his trestle table.
‘OK,’ I began. ‘This first part is simple - you simply walking clockwise around the airfield from now till 9am in the morning, clocking as many laps as possible.’
A look of abject horror came from a few, others seemingly determined.
‘How many laps you get done before you give up will be noted. You can drink as much water as you like, we’ll give you some chocolate bars, and you can stop and use the toilet. If it rains – tough shit. Turn to your right. And ... begin.’
They set off as a group, but after just one lap we had two lads powering ahead, numbers noted.
In with the Major, I started on the paperwork. ‘Two lads out front already, looking determined.’
‘You’ll be tough with them this time?’
‘This time they don’t get an inch of leeway,’ I threatened.
‘If they want to do the job, they can meet the standards,’ the Major agreed. ‘There’s the reason we have such rigorous tests.’
At 5pm the small groups of coppers were strung out, the best two men having lapped most of the others, Crab informing me of a small contest in progress, two sets of two chasing each other.
I waited for the lead pair to draw level, and then walked with them. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, sir,’ they puffed out.
‘You keep fit outside work?’
‘Both triathlon winners, sir.’
‘Excellent, then you should do well here.’
‘Remember you being shot in the London Marathon, sir. You still compete?’
‘Fuck no, I’ve been shot twenty times. It takes me ten minutes to get started in the mornings sometimes.’ We walked on. ‘What the rest of this lot like?’
‘Two guys behind us are good, marathon runners, and there’s a guy called Trench, was in the Paras, he’s fit.’
‘How many ex-military?’
‘I think two, sir. One lad was a karate champion, he’s good.’
‘How were you selected?’
‘We had applied to SO13 ages ago, but were rejected. Recently, we had a telephone interview, then a written questionnaire, then an interview in London, over an hour, then a test on a treadmill, push-ups and sit-ups, a range test, and now this.’
‘First bunch of coppers were all here for the beer, and time away from the office.’
‘Not this lot, sir, they don’t drink. Odd for coppers.’
‘Any of this lot keen to shoot people?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t heard any odd comments, most are married or settled.’
I completed half a lap with them before easing back to the next pair, chatting about marathon running, the pair seemingly switched on and keen.
A few laps later, and now sweating, I pulled up next to the Major. ‘This lot are good. Fit, marathon runners and triathlon, good attitude to all of them, some ex-Army.’
‘Best not do too well with them, the Colonel won’t be happy.’
‘Colonel has a year left, and I’ll be trying to please London long after that – if I’m still alive.’
‘Yes, true, we all have to plan ahead and choose our friends.’
‘If Rawlson was clever, he would have pretended to cooperate for a while, let the police stumble in front of the politicians. Now, this lot will shine, and that will be seen.’
My phone trilled, a London number. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Commander Donohue, just ... wondering how the lads are doing
?’
‘So far ... excellent attitude and excellent fitness.’
‘Really? Oh, well ... great then. I’ll pop down later in the week.’
‘We’ll have the kettle on.’
After my evening meal I walked with some of the groups, all now considerably slower, Tomo and Nicholson walking with the leaders, chatting about endurance events.
Henri and Jacque were back from holidays, tanned, and they also now walked with groups, tales of the jungle told.
I was in bed early and up at 4am, the MPs keeping an eye on the coppers, none having quit yet, but all were flagging, arms sore, bits of wood slung over shoulders or stuffed into webbing. I made no comments to those abusing their bit of wood, and I walked with a few, the men dog tired.
The lead pair had been overtaken during the early hours by the marathon runners, who were now ten yards ahead.
‘Not long to go now,’ I encouraged as I moved amongst the various groups.
I enjoyed an early breakfast after I saw the ladies drive in and open up the canteen, back on the track and observing as we passed 8am, Sergeant Crab setting up his table with Duffy, the Major in early and observing.
I was there as the first pair finished, their laps tallied, and they had done as well as the Lone Wolves. I congratulated them and pointed them towards the canteen, informing them that they had the rest of the day off, and they all finished just as it started raining, Sergeant Crab to check feet.
At the morning briefing the lads were curious as to how well the coppers had done, impressed by the lead four men. Courses were noted, orders issued, questions taken, tasks allocated, the lads dismissed.
Sat in with the Major tackling paperwork, my mobile trilled, so I stepped out.
‘It’s Bob. You may not have heard, but “B” Squadron were tasked with a domestic hostage situation late last night.’
‘No, not heard anything.’
‘It was an old mansion in the country surrounded by woods, North Oxfordshire, man holding his in-laws at gunpoint with a shotgun, one hostage having been killed overnight. Four hostages were left alive, and “B” Squadron went in half an hour ago. They ... killed the hostages by mistake and left the gunman alive.’
‘Oh ... for fuck’s sake. We’ll get the blame for this, because to the public we’re all SAS, one group.’