Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Chanced across a large communist patrol, perhaps three hundred men, and they were around us before we knew it,’ I reported as I led him to my office.

  ‘Three hundred?’ he asked as he followed me in.

  I placed down my rifle and started to take off my muddy kit, covered in sweat, my legs soaking wet. ‘Armed with RPGs and machineguns.’

  ‘That’s a big force!’

  I nodded, opened my fridge, and grabbed a cold Fanta.

  ‘You are hurt.’

  I touched my face, and glanced in the mirror. ‘A few cuts and scrapes.’

  With my Fanta down, I grabbed my sat phone and dialled as Tomsk curiously observed me. ‘Minister, this is the nice Russian gentleman in La Palma.’

  ‘How can I help?’ came a very polite and civilised voice.

  ‘We came across a large patrol of communists, about three hundred men heavily armed.’

  ‘That’s not a patrol, that’s a fucking invasion!’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, Minister, but we killed most of them.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Could you send helicopters, and then men, and capture the wounded and collect up weapons.’ I gave him the position. ‘And Minister, by all means make it look like your men did this, we were never there.’

  ‘Yes, and thank you.’

  Phone down, my face covered in sweat and blood, I faced Tomsk.

  He said, ‘They will claim credit?’

  ‘Yes, because if we did ... then many people in this country would be very concerned about the size and capability of our teams.’

  He nodded, considering that. ‘Yes, I think so. Come, there is a doctor in town, bring the wounded men, we go.’

  Bob knocked and entered the Director’s office. He approached and sat, and sighed loudly. The Director eased back and waited.

  ‘News from Panama, not least from their TV news. Wilco’s men hit a communist brigade, killed or wounded almost three hundred men and women.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘They have women in their ranks,’ Bob explained. ‘Fellow comrades at arms.’

  The Director nodded. ‘Three hundred. He’s stepping things up a bit, that’s all out war.’

  ‘The Colombian Government met in emergency session to discuss it, so too the Panama Government, but the Panama Army is claiming it as their victory.’

  ‘Where does this leave us?’

  ‘It leaves us ... with the communists probably gearing up for an all out fight.’ He took a moment. ‘I sense an ... opportunity here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We should offer our services to the Colombians, use Echo Detachment, hit the communists from the south, Wilco hits them from the north. That would allow us to accidentally supply Wilco with arms and equipment as well.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like he needs it!’

  ‘It all helps.’

  ‘I’ve read the reports from Panama; he’s wiped out dozens of rivals, be only one main player left soon. Still no contact?’

  ‘I suspect he could get a call out if he wished, but ... if he calls and we tell him to disengage -’

  ‘It would spoil his fun?’ the Director testily asked.

  ‘You might think that, Director, I could not possibly comment.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’ll chat to the powers about this, Americans must be concerned.’

  ‘They should be happy with what we’re doing,’ Bob insisted.

  My recovery - from the minor wounds at the hands of the communist comrades - was short lived, and two days later I woke as torches were shone in my face, odd words spoken. The words were in a strange language, but somehow I knew these men were my friends. I was almost naked, just my green underwear, lying in mud and cold leaves, darkness all around.

  Strong arms grabbed me and lifted me, and soon they were dragging me past splintered wood, through smoke, something burning, body parts scattered around, my foot placed down on warm blood. I was thrown into the back seat of a car, and we sped off, bumping up and down, making me feel sick.

  Fingers checked my neck pulse, cold water poured on my face, and my memories came back - of who I was and where I was. By time we reached Tomsk’s villa I was aware, yet pretended to be hurt; it seemed better for the role I was playing.

  Strong arms carried me out, my head limp, and into a bright light, familiar surroundings, Tomsk looking horrified as he stood in a robe. They sat me down and I could see my legs; blood, mud and green dashes, a few leaves stuck to me.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I croaked out, my eyelids heavy. ‘Concussion. Get me cold shower.’

  They lifted me at Tomsk’s instructions, and I was back in my usual room, thrust into the shower, the cold water running over me for five minutes, and I felt better.

  Out the shower, Big Sasha helped me dry off. ‘You have cuts on your legs.’

  I sat on the bed as he dried my legs and feet, and I peeled off the wet underwear, a robe offered and put on, the chord tied. He placed my arm over his shoulders and assisted me to the kitchen, the same doctor now here. The doctor shone a light in my eyes, tested my hearing – not happy with the results, and checked my legs, antiseptic cream placed on.

  He left at some point, I wasn’t sure when, and Tomsk handed me a whiskey.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Tomsk asked, the concern all over his face.

  ‘What ... happened?’

  ‘The night guards, they found a bomb outside your door, and they moved it. They got ten yards when it blew, otherwise you’d be dead. We lost two men, bits of them all over, many men hurt.’

  ‘Bomb?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Some rival, or maybe we were betrayed, someone took money.’

  ‘Why me, why not fucking blow you up, you’re the boss!’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he quipped. He pointed at me. ‘You they want out the way, you they blame for the successes against the others.’

  I downed the whiskey. ‘I’m going to bed, I hurt.’ I eased up, and hit the hard tiled floor, Big Sasha rushing over. ‘And now I’m more hurt.’

  Big Sasha put me on the bed, dimmed the light and left the door open.

  I woke around noon, and I felt like a house had fallen on me - several times. Getting off the bed was agony, my back clicking, and I wobbled as I got to the shower. A long hot shower helped greatly, and I alternated to cold water to wake me up. Finding plenty of clothes still in the wardrobes, I put on tracksuit bottoms and a tight t-shirt and plodded into the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, you are alive,’ Tomsk loudly stated. ‘Feel any better?’

  ‘Fuck no.’ I sat, and lifted someone’s sunglasses, Big Sasha placing down juice and coffee, which I sipped.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘We don’t know who placed the bomb, but it must have been either the guards or one of your men, paid off.’

  I considered that. ‘My men could easily kill me in the jungle, no one would know during a gun battle.’

  ‘Then one of the guards maybe. I have the local Army specialists looking for bomb fragments, trying to identify it.’

  ‘Show me what they find, I’m good with bombs.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘Was there much damage?’

  ‘Your hut was destroyed, the next hut damaged, the stone buildings OK, windows broken. I will have it fixed very quickly. They got your kit out, it’s safe.’

  I nodded. ‘Good, need to get on with some training. Fucking communists will come for us soon enough.’

  ‘I have eyes everywhere,’ Tomsk assured me. ‘We’d get some warning.’

  I sat on the terrace, ate pancakes and sipped orange juice, working on my tan for a few hours, taking it easy, and I felt better, the nausea wearing off bit by bit. But things were about to go from bad to worse.

  At 7pm a man turned up, welcomed in as I sat there. He was a gringo, grey haired, a great many wrinkles. He took one look at me and stopped dead, noticed by Tomsk, who glanced my way. ‘Is the rumour true? Is he Petrov?’ he asked in an Am
erican accent.

  ‘What rumour is that?’ Tomsk toyed with the man.

  ‘You’re harbouring Petrov?’ the man exploded. ‘Are you fucking mad?’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘He’s the world’s most wanted man. You know what they’ll do to you!’

  Tomsk jabbed a dangerous finger at the man. ‘You are in my house, so shut the fuck up and sit.’ Big Sasha put a big hand on the man’s shoulder and forced him down. Tomsk continued, ‘I pay you, not the other way around. You work for me!’

  ‘You want the fucking US Marines landing on your fucking lawn? You want the CIA down on you? And the Panama Government!’

  ‘Well, since you mentioned the Panama Government,’ Tomsk toyed. ‘They know he is here. In fact, Petrov chats to a minister on a regular basis, and that man has sat here with us.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, my friend, they know, and they are ... cooperating.’

  ‘Cooperating? With what?’

  Tomsk gave me a nod. I turned to face the newcomer squarely. ‘Those pictures you see in the local papers, successful drug busts. We gave them that, we did the work, my team.’

  ‘Team?’

  ‘I’ve been training a team of Russian soldiers up to my standard, and it was us ... who hit the communists on the border.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Yes, us. And cooperating ... means that the minister is happy that we attack the communists and wipe out any Colombian gangs around here.’

  ‘You struck a deal?’ the man asked, sat wide eyed.

  ‘We did,’ I told him.

  He took a moment, and then pointed at my feet. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘A bomb,’ Tomsk told him. ‘Someone tried to kill him.’

  Our newcomer pointed at me. ‘There was a large team of FBI in Panama a few weeks back, only now they admit they were chasing you. But the man they were chasing fell through a glass roof, and you’re not cut up.’

  ‘I am made of steel,’ I told him. ‘I wear my underwear outside my trousers.’

  Big Sasha and the others laughed, all having seen the wounds at the time, Tomsk sat looking smug.

  Tomsk finally turned his head to me. In Russian he said, ‘This is Frank, he was DEA here for decades, useful man to know, he knows everyone down here. Doesn’t speak Russian.’

  I nodded. In English I said, ‘Hello Frank, how’s retirement?’

  ‘Fine,’ came curtly back. He faced Tomsk. ‘So long as he’s here you’ll be a prime target, all the world’s agencies after you.’

  ‘I will be careful,’ Tomsk assured Frank, but in a sinister manner.

  Frank jabbed a finger towards me. ‘He killed CIA and FBI agents for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I’ve never killed anyone,’ I suggested, the guards laughing at Frank.

  Smiling, Tomsk turned to me. ‘You killed CIA?’

  ‘I shot down a helicopter in West Africa, FBI and CIA on board.’

  ‘Why’d you shoot it down?’ Frank asked.

  ‘The flight path, over my hut, they woke me in the mornings,’ I told him, the guards laughing. ‘You know an FBI man called Manstien?’

  ‘Yeah, met him many times.’

  ‘I missed him. Tell him ... Petrov says ... next time.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ Tomsk asked.

  I turned my head. ‘He was poking around West Africa, and he grabbed a few Russian arms dealers, which was a problem – because they were paying me at the time.’

  Frank’s eye narrowed. ‘When ... exactly ... were you in West Africa? And Where?’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to report me to the FBI?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Ah, then you don’t need to make small talk.’

  Frank turned to Tomsk, now calmer. ‘Reason I came down – rumour in intelligence circles is that the Americans have someone undercover working for you, close to you.’

  I turned my head to Tomsk. ‘I think we found our bomber.’

  He nodded. Facing Frank, he said, ‘You know who?’

  Frank shook his head, and finally accepted a coffee and sipped it, interested in our battles with the communists, and just whose villa I had hammered.

  Half an hour later and a man was dragged in, his face bloodied, and my heart skipped a beat; it was my contact from the hotel. I remained calm, wondering what he knew, or what he would give up if his life depended on it – and I figured he would talk without too much pressure.

  A guard said, ‘He was snooping around, so we checked his apartment, and he has notes on us all. But then we wanted to cut a deal, said he knew of a spy here.’

  Tomsk said, ‘Ah, then maybe he saves his own life, because we know there is a spy here.’

  The guard focused on me. ‘He says he’s working for the British, and that ... Petrov is a British agent.’

  I failed to react, other than a slight squint at the man.

  Frank stared at me for a moment, then turned to the captive. ‘You say you’re working for the British?’ He got a nod. ‘That’s odd, because in thirty years I ain’t never seen the British take an interest in this place.’

  I turned to Tomsk. ‘British interested in you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never.’

  Frank faced our captive. ‘What do you know about Petrov?’

  ‘I met him when he came, at the hotel, I was his contact.’

  I again failed to react, all eyes on our captive.

  ‘What was Petrov supposed to do?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I was to get him close to Tomsk, show him the bar.’

  Tomsk pointed a finger at our captive. ‘You are barred from my bar, you were never a friend or customer, just a sewer rat. How could you ... get someone close to me!

  ‘And everyone knows where my bar is, you can see the sign from all over town, and there’s only one main street, how can you fucking miss it. Why the fuck does someone need you to take them to my fucking bar?’

  ‘That was my task, and to report in,’ the man pleaded.

  Frank asked him, ‘How’d you report in?’

  ‘I call a number, leave a message.’

  ‘No local contact, no voice?’ Frank asked.

  ‘No, I call the number.’

  ‘What’s the first few digits?’ Frank asked.

  ‘001.’

  ‘That’s the States, dumbass, not England. England is 0044. You get paid by travellers cheques.’ The captive nodded. ‘Send from Panama City?’ Again he nodded. Frank faced Tomsk and confidently stated. ‘Standard DEA practise.’

  Tomsk nodded. ‘But why British?’

  Frank smiled. ‘I did that once or twice, because someone else would get the blame if it went wrong. This guy’s reporting to the DEA.’ He faced our captive. ‘I know all about the British, and you know what ... their agents are not allowed to kill anyone.’

  ‘No?’ Tomsk puzzled.

  ‘No, definitely not,’ Frank insisted. ‘Against the law there.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I put in. ‘I’ve seen that British man kill many people, James Bond.’

  The guards laughed, Tomsk shooting me a look.

  Frank told me, ‘The real British agents make $35,000 a year.’

  ‘$35,000 a year?’ I questioned.

  ‘Shit money to take risks,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘They don’t take risks,’ Frank insisted. ‘They recruit locals from prison.’ He faced our captive. ‘Where did they find you?’

  Our captive hesitated. ‘Panama City jail.’

  Frank faced Tomsk. ‘Another DEA tactic.’

  ‘I think I’d look good in a tuxedo,’ I stated, the guards smiling. ‘Go into a casino, kill the bad guys and get the girl.’

  Tomsk shot me an exasperated look. ‘In a tuxedo you’d look like door security!’

  ‘What?’ I quietly asked, pretending to be annoyed. ‘I’d look great in a tuxedo.’ The guards laughed. ‘Big Sasha would look like door security, that big lump, but I’d look good.’

  ‘
Big lump?’ Sasha repeated as the guards laughed, Tomsk frustrated.

  ‘You’d look like security!’ Tomsk insisted.

  I wagged a warning finger at him. ‘I’m going to buy a tuxedo, and show you.’

  ‘Where the hell would you get a tuxedo from around here!’ Tomsk shouted. ‘Who the hell wears a tuxedo in fucking Panama!’

  ‘You have air con at your bar, I could wear it there!’

  Tomsk threw his arms in the air. He pointed at our captive. ‘Strap him to a tree near town, a sign around his neck – DEA informant. Make sure he dies slowly.’

  They dragged the protesting man out, and I felt sorry for the guy.

  ‘I can order one from Panama City,’ I told Tomsk as I stood. ‘I’d look great in one. I could be a British agent.’

  ‘You don’t sound British!’ Frank insisted. ‘And you never went of Oxford or Cambridge.’

  ‘I went to Oxford.’

  ‘You went to Oxford University?’ Frank puzzled.

  ‘No, I went shopping in Oxford once, close to London.’

  Tomsk shouted, ‘Going shopping in Oxford does not qualify you as a fucking British snob spy!’

  ‘Big lump?’ Sasha repeated, Tomsk letting out an exasperated sigh.

  An hour later, Tomsk joined me on the terrace, beer in hand. He sat. ‘Pleasant night.’

  ‘Is there a beach here?’ I idly asked.

  ‘Yes, but it’s shit, mangroves growing, dead bodies floating by.’

  I nodded. ‘I was thinking about the money you have. How about you launder some, buy a hotel, on the east coast – they say it’s nice up there, and me and the boys go there sometimes on the weekend; swimming, girls in bikinis.’

  ‘You must be a mind reader, I have this in mind.’

  ‘But with a good sandy beach, backed by grass, a pool for kids and one for adults. I like to swim, but always the fucking kids in the way.’ I faced him. ‘You know, I was junior swimming champion, I could have gone to the Olympics or something.’

  ‘I played chess, was never that interested in school.’

  I nodded. ‘We’ll need to be careful, one good bomb and we lose the men I trained, then I have to start again. I’ll spread the lads out, not sleeping close by.’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’