by Geoff Wolak
‘Well for the record, stay the fuck away from Lebanon and Iran if you want my men!’
‘So noted, sir.’
‘Who’s that policeman working for?’ the Brigadier asked. ‘And why did he not take a shot?’
‘He could not have gotten the kit and the ID without some serious help, so … this game is not over yet. Someone high up sent that man, someone high up in the police. As for not taking the shot, maybe he was waiting for something.’ I turned my head. ‘Sergeant Major!’
‘Sir!’
‘Search the base, get the bomb sniffer dogs, and be thorough!’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ the Brigadier let out.
‘Sir, get some range time in,’ I firmly suggested as I took out my phone. I called David. ‘We just unearthed a CT police officer working for the other side.’
‘Dear god.’
‘Send me down a team to sweep for bugs, from GCHQ, then someone to sweep them for bugs, then someone to check who they really are. And then have someone double check my ID in case they’ve replaced me with a doppleganger. And fast.’
An hour later a red JetRanger helicopter set down, Donohue and his deputy stepping down, files in hand, unhappy expressions on faces. I met them near the gate house, Regulars patrolling around – and wanting to get at our prisoner.
‘What has he said?’ Donohue asked.
‘Nothing yet.’ I led them inside, our man handcuffed and held at gunpoint, his cut face now displaying a plaster, the dogs ready to eat him. But the MPs had given him water at least.
Donohue sat opposite the man. ‘I know this man, been with us ages.’
‘So who’s he reporting out to, and why lie about the FOB?’
‘He was never in Sierra Leone,’ Donohue’s deputy stated. ‘Gallaher, what’s the issue here?’
Their man looked up, sneered, and looked away, Donohue and his assistant at a loss as to what to do; their man had not broken any laws save wanting to stab me.
With his mobile ringing, Donohue took the call, glanced at his man, and finally ended the call. ‘His family home, empty, letters piled up on the mat, layer of dust, milk gone green in the fridge. No sign of his wife.’
‘Should there be a wife?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he logged calls out to her.’
I told them, ‘Check the garden and under the floorboards, local gravel pit.’
‘Don’t waste your time,’ came from our man. Without lifting his head he said, ‘She’s gone. She’s safe away from here.’
I closed in on him. ‘Well, that sounds like you planned it, that those you work for could not be trusted, that they might use her against you, a few threats, hold her till you take a shot at someone here.’
I sat opposite him. ‘You have doubts about them, so why don’t I put some money in your pocket and send you out the back way.’
‘Wilco!’ Donohue called.
‘What crime has he committed? Impersonating himself? Sending his wife to Benidorm?’
‘Roster was altered, he got himself here, up to no good,’ Donohue’s deputy put in.
‘Wow, a capital crime.’ I faced our man. ‘I could give you a 24hr head start, and some cash.’
‘I won’t die for them.’
‘If you’re in prison, could they get to you?’
‘Of course they could,’ he spat out.
I lifted him and dragged him outside as Donohue protested that move. ‘Stay here and get the kettle on,’ I told Donohue. ‘My base, my rules.’
I led our man across the grass and away from the tanks whilst the tank crew observed me. MP Pete was close behind with his rifle till I waved him away. ‘I have a safe full of money, and if you get yourself to the south of France I could put a million quid in your pocket, and … offer you some work.’
He stared back at me through a bruised eye.
I sighed, ‘Tell me something useful and you get a ride to the train station, money in your pocket, a lot of money. Who were you here to shoot?’
‘No one, I was mapping the place, checking the faces, ways in and out, routines. I was to create a detailed file.’
I had to wonder about satellite images and an ordnance survey map, since we were wide open here. ‘I’ll need something more than that.’ I waited.
‘They’ll move aside the current head of Mi6, replace her with former Brigadier Harvey – so I overheard.’
‘Is he dirty?’
‘No, but his psyche profile is better apparently, and he’s a military man.’
‘And who wants a military man … in SIS.’
‘Americans.’
‘You’re working for the Americans?’ I puzzled.
‘No. But Lord Michaels is. I body-guarded that pompous twat many times, and he wants to rule the world that one.’
‘Rumour has it … he was kicked out of Mi5 for being close to the Israelis.’
He shook his head. ‘CIA pretended to be Israelis, throw them off the scent. Michaels knew who they were.’
‘Blame the Israelis, knowing that it would do no good to threaten them. That info gets you five grand and one foot out the door. What else you got?’
‘Chief Cabinet Secretary, Sir Richard Bell. He’s been CIA all along, same cabal as Michaels.’
‘Seven thousand five hundred and almost out the door, but I’m getting bored here. What connections to the bank?’
‘What bank?’
I sighed. ‘That would be a no then. A million quid, in France? If you trust me at my word.’
‘I heard about your slush fund here, and irregular agents.’
‘So … what have you got?’
‘I could get the money trail for you.’
‘Trail?’
‘Money from the States, goes through London, to a Saudi, and he pays al-Qaeda.’
‘Pays them,’ I puzzled. ‘Pays them … to do what?’
He shrugged. ‘Set off bombs in places. Some guy in Sudan is linked in.’
‘Ah … bollocks.’ I waved MP Pete over. ‘Get your jeep.’ An unhappy glance at our prisoner, and Pete walked to his jeep as the tank crew observed me, Regulars wanting to shoot my new informant.
I faced Gallaher. ‘You were ready to stab me, a last desperate act…’
‘Was Paras from school, bit of a temper. And … I was in two minds about being here, pissed off, stressed. Not about you, not personally, I read your book. I know what you did for those cunts, Queen and country.’
‘Not a fan of the old boy network, yet you worked for them…’
He shrugged. ‘They offered me better pay, better work, a leg up. Fool I was. Took a while to realise they didn’t give a fuck if I lived or died. When I got worried I … I listened in, some insurance I figured. And after that van blew, our own lads in it, I knew they didn’t care about a life like mine or my wife.’
I nodded. ‘How did my men do?’
He shrugged and looked away. ‘That lad Tomo is fucking good, fast with his hands.’
Being curiously observed, we mounted up, our man in the back and still cuffed, and we drove straight across to the hangar mouth. At the hangar I walked in, the Major hanging around, and we opened the safe. I counted out ten thousand.
‘What’s that for?’ the Major asked.
‘An informant. Write it down as such please. I’ll be an hour.’
Back outside, I mounted the jeep. ‘To the range,’ I told Pete. ‘Bottom end, through the farmer’s gate.’
MP Pete shot me a quizzical look as he got the gears. We drove past the visitors centre, armoury, soon to the range and down the dirt track, beyond the butts and to the farmer’s gate. I got out and opened it, jeep through, closed it and back inside.
‘Follow this track, then left and to the road, it’s half a mile.’
We bumped along the track.
‘Where we taking him?’
‘No questions asked, because it’s in the national interest, and our friend here is proving useful.’
&
nbsp; ‘What? You’re gunna let him go?’
‘He hasn’t broken any laws, he just … reported out about our base to his superiors, his superiors being the ones with questionable motives.’
‘How the fuck do we explain this?’
‘Leave that to me. Drive.’
We made it to Shipton Train Station and pulled in, few about the small rural halt. At the rear of the jeep I stuffed the money into Gallaher’s trouser pockets. His kit had already been removed, so he was in a black t-shirt, black combat pants and boots. Easing back, pistol out, I checked the area and any cameras as MP Pete un-cuffed our man and eased him out.
I told Gallaher. ‘Get on the train, try and disappear, and if you’re any good you’ll make it to the south of France.’ I faced Pete. ‘Pen?’
He produced the pen. I pointed it towards Gallaher, who wrote my base phone number down on his arm.
‘Get going.’
Gallaher ran to the halt as a train squeaked in, and he did not care what direction it was going.
‘Are you fucking mad?’ MP Pete asked me as we mounted up.
‘His trial would collapse, he’s himself … kindof, but I think his past has seen some odd postings, bodyguard work for the high and mighty. And the intel he gave me will be useful.’
We drove back, but this time we used the roads, the gate guards surprised to see me come from this direction. In the gatehouse I grabbed Donohue and his deputy and led them to the grass. ‘Your man overpowered me and … escaped. You’ll give him 24hrs at least.’
‘Why’d the fuck you let him go!’
‘He told me where a bomb was placed,’ I lied.
‘Shit…’ Donohue let out. ‘How’d we report this?’
‘You report that my men were heavy handed, and your man was indeed himself - just bullshitting, and that we had no grounds to hold a man for telling stories, and Gallaher drover off. Shit, where’s his car?’
I sent MP Pete to find the car and to move it. He came back to say that Gallaher arrived with another CT officer, so we relaxed. I sent off Donohue with a stern warning about no further cooperation if this was not smoothed over, then shouted at the MPs to keep their gobs shut. Even the Alsatians cowered from me as I shouted.
At the hangar I met the Brigadier coming out. He halted. ‘I let our CT copper go, money in his pocket.’
The Brigadier stared at me with a deep puzzled frown. ‘He gave them up?’
I nodded. ‘I got some useful intel.’
‘He could have been lying.’
‘No, he told me something that confirmed intel from the Israelis, something few would know about. Besides, I’ll test the intel today. Can you ask Colonel Marsh for his helo, please.’
‘He’s still here.’
I went and found Tinker in his office. ‘What terror groups are in Sudan, groups that might interest Mossad or the CIA?’
‘There are a few minor groups, nothing serious, local in-fighting, but we think Bin Laden is there?’
‘Bin Laden, head of al Qaeda?’ I queried.
‘Not head of anything, out of favour with them.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Son of a rich Saudi, links to the Royal Family, went to fight in Afghanistan as a young man, at The Centre – that’s what al-Qaeda means.’
I shot him a look.
‘Sorry, forgot you spoke Arabic. Well, there were about three hundred of them, Arab fighters sponsored by Saudi, trained by the Americans to attack the Russians - bombs in culverts. When the Russians left the Taliban took over, fell out with al-Qaeda, and Bin Laden left, but he tried to keep it going, and to get money.
‘Years later he set off bombs, a few killed, tried a few attacks around the Middle East, Aden, most notable attack attributed to them was the World Trade Centre in Manhattan, then ended up back in Afghanistan, training camp set-up with Taliban support this time – and he hates Americans.
‘Some internal falling out and he fled, but he was never the boss there. He’s now hiding out in Sudan, and was reportedly behind an attack on a tourist bus in Egypt.’
I nodded as I thought.
‘Why?’
‘Americans floated the idea of going to kill him,’ I lied.
Tinker shrugged. ‘He’s small time, the main players are in Afghanistan and Pakistan. ISI is rumoured to support them, attacks against Indian interests.’
On the helicopter flight up to London I stared out the window, a great deal on my mind, but I did check if my boots were muddy or not. I also checked that I had two spare mags for my pistol.
Green and brown fields shot past, villages and towns, and I gave some thought as to what my strategy was here, then angrily considered that I should not be considering a strategy - I should be following orders.
Easing back, I saw Smurf’s face in my mind and I smiled for a moment. His father’s words came back to me; a premature baby, sick as a kid, poor results in school, but he found his niche in the Army.
‘I wouldn’t go back and change the way it went,’ he had told me. ‘He could have been on the dole.’
The forest in Bosnia came to mind, a cold wet hell, and I could remember how I felt when I lay down, not expecting to live, and I lost my smile for a while.
My Uncle Richard’s face came to mind. ‘If they screw with you, Michael, fucking smash their legs with iron bars, always works.’
My smile came back as I remembered my uncle, and that holiday in Bude, my first real sex, lessons from an older girl.
My ride eventually bumped down on Horseguards, an inconvenienced squad of soldiers in basic greens halting, caps held. I eased down and ran bent-double a few steps, straightening up as I headed towards the vans.
The corporal in charge of the squad was still holding his hat. I shouted, ‘What do you do when you see a shagging officer!’
He saluted, and I shook my head at him before I mounted the vans, Bob’s old assistant here to meet me oddly enough.
I sat. ‘You a bit senior to be nurse-maiding me?’
‘They worry that you might shoot up the transport.’
I smiled, but then forced it away as we mounted up. We were soon weaving around the traffic and over the bridge. In the Director’s office, she waited with David and Mister Kitson.
I grabbed a tea as they made small talk. Sat, I sighed and took in their faces. ‘The American top brass want my men to spearhead small wars, but in places like Lebanon and Pakistan.’
They exchanged looks.
The Director began, ‘The new Labour Government would have something to say about such risky ventures.’
I nodded. ‘Till the new Labour Government realises just how much economic influence the States has over us, and the screws are turned. But that’s next year’s headache. We have issues … closer to home, and some fresh intel.’
I stared at the Director, suddenly feeling tired. ‘They’re going to try and move you aside.’
David was shocked. Slowly, and measured – and deep in thought, she got up and walked to her desk, a stiff drink poured, and she sipped it as she stared out the window at the shit-brown Thames below.
I added, ‘They have in mind ex-Brigadier Harvey.’
David noted, ‘His name has been floated, but Parliament will never approve a military man here. Harold Wilson stopped military men taking the seat, and I think the new government would oppose him.’
‘They must think they have a chance,’ I put in. ‘So go rattle some cages, mention the military – and that the Americans want him in.’
‘Americans?’ Mister Kitson queried.
‘Yes,’ I said with a sigh as the Director came and sat stony faced. ‘Lord Michaels was kicked out of Mi5 for chatting to the Israelis, only it was a trick, and his Mossad contact was CIA. Lord Michaels is very much in bed with the Americans.’
‘We … hear things,’ David floated. ‘But there’s nothing we can do. He’s reporting to our greatest ally, all friends in NATO.’
‘Heard anything about the Ch
ief Cabinet Secretary?’ I asked.
The Director puzzled that. ‘No, why?’
‘Life-long CIA informant.’ They exchanged surprised looks. ‘And best friends with Lord Michaels.’
‘Do we use that?’ Kitson floated.
‘Let me use that,’ I suggested. ‘I have some ideas. And next … we have an issue with the CIA that will be tricky to handle.’
They waited.
‘Mossad tipped me off about the truck bombs, and I’ve puzzled them for many days – the bombs. My sources tell me that the Paris truck bomb was not meant to go off, neither the thermite, the Paris truck bomb to be found in the Hyatt Hotel parking structure, its driver to be shot dead by police, insurance claim value raised.
‘Some have suggested the same for the thermite, but I doubt that; thermite is too specialised. So I think that the bank had a plan, but that someone altered it last minute, factions not talking. I still doubt that the bank wanted to bring down a building, but … others say they did want to bring it down.
‘That manufactured threat to the buildings, Arab terrorists, leads to the next problem. When the nice lady Mossad agent came to see me she asked if I would assist with a job, difficult job, a job in Sudan.’
‘Sudan?’ David puzzled.
‘They want to kill a man there, Bin Laden,’ I told him. ‘What I also now know is that Bin Laden has a paymaster, and that the paymaster gets money and direction … from Langley.’
They exchanged startled looks.
‘Why?’ Kitson wondered out loud.
‘What do you need to increase your insurance?’ I posed.
‘A threat, credible dead Arabs in the street,’ he noted.
‘And what does Langley need to justify its budget?’ I floated.
‘Terror threats,’ Kitson said with a sigh.
‘Mossad don’t know, or maybe they do, and they want me to go kill Bin Laden. But I won’t, obviously.’ I faced David. ‘We need a meet with them to break the bad news.’
He exchanged a worried look with the Director.
The Director focused on me. ‘Someday, just drop in for coffee, nothing to report, a quiet day, a sparrow spotted on your lawn.’
‘Sorry, I have been the bringer of bad news. But progress is being made. A year or two from now this will all be sorted.’