by Geoff Wolak
A full fifteen minutes passed, a tense fifteen minutes, till someone wanted to leave the room. The twine went slack, the twine pulled hard, the door flung open. I shot a surprised man in the chest with blue ink, shouldering him out the way.
Inside the brightly lit room, computers and flashing lights everywhere, we ran, stun grenades tossed, a woman shot in the side of the head at close range and screaming.
Game up, quiet shots hit everyone at least once as the bangs and flashes startled people.
Respirator off, I shouted, ‘You’re all dead.’ Quieter, I added, ‘At least you would be if this was for real. We’re SAS, you lost, you have paint on you, it’s an imperfect universe, get used to it.’
The main man shook off his stunned expression, breathing hard. ‘Jesus you scared me.’ He sat, looking pained, a finger to the green paint on his chest.
‘Use the phone,’ I told him. ‘Van on its way for my lads. And if your security staff want to get pissy we have our pistols – no paint in them.’
The woman with blue paint in her hair, and a sore head, slapped Rizzo, who backed up as she berated him.
An hour and a bit later we arrived back, the dawn up, all in need of a good breakfast.
After that great breakfast, and still dressed in black and covered in coal, the lads headed off to bed. I greeted the Major as he arrived, and gave him the story.
‘So our reputation is intact, and Rizzo got slapped. Good all around.’
Bob called ten minutes later. ‘Surprised you’re awake.’
‘My bed is my next stop.’
‘Well done, good result in Didcot, some loud complaints from them, many people claiming bad bruising.’
‘Would have been worse than bruising if it was for real.’
‘What do I tell the PM about their security?’
‘That’s its very good, nothing to alter, we were just lucky.’
‘They can’t figure how you got in.’
‘Like I said, just luck, leave it at that.’
At 3pm I was awake, showered and cleaned up, and I thanked two particular coppers, all of the coppers thinking it hilarious. I called an amused Max and gave him a sanitised version of what we did, and he would now run the story, Didcot Power Station’s embarrassment not yet over.
Friday morning, and the coppers were on their way to an abandoned factory outside Swindon, local coppers having cordoned it off. Donohue and some of his senior staff met us there.
Inside, Stretch was teaching the coppers where to place plastic explosives, and each copper got to blow a window or door, the echo around the factory deafening.
After every copper had blown something, a mini-exercise was planned on an office block inside a high-roof factory. As Donohue and his colleagues watched, six timed detonations shook us, the coppers storming in, live 9mm pistol rounds fired at man-targets leant against wooden cupboards – a risk of ricochet.
The coppers did OK, their bosses pleased, a contest held since we found crates of stacked empty bottles. In pairs, the coppers were required to draw pistols and fire at two bottles placed ten yards away, a scorecard kept.
I was not sure if they had genuinely improved, or if their bosses being here had motivated them, but their aim was good today.
Donohue and his colleagues thanked me as we packed up at 2pm, the coppers set to get some time off.
‘They making good progress?’ Donohue pressed.
‘Yes, good progress,’ I agreed. ‘Next week they go to Thetford, some green field soldiering, since they’ll need to be able to sneak up on a farmhouse or country mansion. They’ll also get lessons on avoiding dogs.’
Hands shaken, we set off back to GL4 in our three-tonne lorries, a short trip.
Saturday lunchtime my mobile trilled.
‘Wilco.’
‘I have the Director for you, just a moment.’
‘Wilco?
‘Ma’am?’
‘Is it convenient?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, just sat in my kitchen.’
‘We have ... had some problems. Bob has gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Left the service under a cloud, unfortunately, his house and office being checked over as we speak.’
I was worried. ‘Do you want to explain that, Ma’am.’
‘He ... had issues in his private life, young partners.’
‘Ah. I ... never asked about his private life, and I often wondered, but I figured that he just worked 24hrs a day.’
‘He was a workaholic, yes, but he had a few small vices.’
‘Have any people or projects been compromised. Are any of my men in danger?’
‘No, we ... struck a deal with him, he’ll go live in his brother’s place in France and he’ll get his service pension.’
I sighed. ‘He achieved a great deal, it wasn’t all down to me, no one can take that away from him.’
‘Yes, he did achieve a great deal, but he also knew that he should not have allowed himself to be compromised. He was not a new recruit.’
‘Someone else will take over?’ I pressed.
‘Yes, the Deputy Director has agreed a twelve month position move, a step down in reality, but Head of Operations is the job everyone wants.’
‘And where does this leave Echo?’
‘I’d hope that it’s business as usual. Will Bob’s departure be an issue for you?’
‘He was a good boss to work for, but we never took long hot showers together, so I won’t be breaking down and crying,’ I curtly told her.
‘I doubt there’s anything that would do that to you.’
‘Ha. Last week my girlfriend made me watch Eastenders and Coronation Street, followed by Big Brother. An emotional breakdown was on the cards.’
‘I don’t see you as someone to sit and watch the soaps, no. Anyway, David Finch will be in touch for a meeting once he’s gone through Bob’s workload, and once all loose ends are checked. How are the police doing?’
‘They’ll get there, they’re a good bunch, high IQ, keen with it,’ I told her.
‘They could be as good as the SAS?’
‘Better, because the SAS spray it around. This lot may exercise some finesse on the trigger. Oh, tell this David to keep Bob’s sat phone next to his bed, Tomsk calls at night sometimes, tip-offs about drugs and boats.’
‘We have the phones yes. But David’s wife may get annoyed.’
‘There are not that many calls,’ I assured her. ‘Maybe we can give Tomsk an email address.’
‘That would probably be better, yes.’
After the call I needed to take a walk, the puppy played with for a while. I called in on Moran and nudged him outside. We stood at the end of his front path.
‘Bob Staines has retired early, and suddenly. You’re probably not supposed to know, but ... he liked small boys.’
‘Jesus. Are all these fucking spy freaks like that?’
‘Some are, yes.’
‘How will this affect us?’
‘New guy, business as usual apparently.’
Moran took in the airfield. ‘You knew him long?’
‘Since the Gulf War,’ I responded. ‘He was OK, but he never mentioned any birds he was shagging. I had my suspicions.’
He faced me. ‘He knows things about you, and about the dodgy jobs?’
‘Fuck, yes. One call and I’m in a cell. But he’d be in the next cell, so I hope he doesn’t make that call.’
‘Well ... end of an era,’ Moran noted.
I took in the base. ‘Yes, end of an era. The big unknown comes next.’
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