by Geoff Wolak
Wilco:
Lone Wolf
Book 10
Copyright © Geoff Wolak
Started January, 2014
This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.
www.geoffwolak-writing.com
The morning after the night before
The aftermath of the poison attack was still attracting newspaper inches and TV minutes as I turned my mind to training the police, the latest intake still at the FOB in Sierra Leone. The French had secured the valley near Al Had – and had televised it, and the chemical experts had diligently examined the tunnel and its laboratories, everything photographed, prints taken, computers and papers removed, an exhaustive and thorough process - so they reported to me via Hunt.
Hunt had remained with the SAS team in Western Sahara, and for some reason was working on loose ends, making me puzzle what he was really up to.
The Algerian authorities were cooperating, under a great deal of pressure from the UN; the Algerians wanted rid of this problem once and for all. The Sudanese, threatened with air strikes, had another close look at the plant in their country, found a few documents, and arrested three men, certain now that plans were underway – but that no poison had been made yet.
And the French media, they were not being shy in their attacks on Hammad and his company. A two-page pull-out spread was included with one rag French newspaper, a picture of Hammad’s wrecked house. The headline said: “You sent poison to where we live, we sent 1st Battalion to where you live.”
And three days after I had left Algeria, the man I had spoken to – Dr Summers from Porton Down – called me. He began, ‘What we’ve figured out is that one barrel is missing, but we have no idea what was on the ship that was sunk, or on the plane that crashed in the Channel. Beyond that we don’t think there’s much more out there, and we balanced the ledgers that we found well enough.’
‘Who designed it?’ I asked.
‘We have a name on a document, French still looking for the man, Algerians have picked up his family.’
‘And have you finally learnt anything useful about the poison?’ I teased.
‘Oh yes, lots. The poison for the water is quite clever, but unstable, so it’s only good for a week after creation, and a week in the water and it’s gone, so not so clever as a weapon really.
‘The vapour is deadly, mostly because it has an acid that targets rubber, plus a type of agent – I won’t say nerve agent – and it resembled something that came out of Romania in the Cold War. Again, it’s unstable, and would dissipate in a day, so not much use as a weapon.
‘As for transporting this stuff, it would decay in four or five days and be useless, so it needed to be used quickly. So it’s a clever chemical combination only at the start. Western powers are not that worried because of the steep decay rate. We have nerve agent that can be stored for decades and then used.’
‘And the main chemical plant in that valley?’
‘All clean, nothing found, just the base chemicals, but we are missing a few chemicals, not sure where they came from, but they would be in small quantities. Operation here is winding down, and they’ll blow the remaining chemicals soon, collapse the tunnel.’
‘Sorry you missed Christmas.’
‘Oh, no bother, and I’ll get a paper out of this.’
‘Research paper?’ I queried.
‘Yes, but some sections will be classified. Odd thing is, it would have been quite simple to make this stuff stable.’
My absence from the UK was now being felt, a few people wishing a personal debrief and a post mortem of the operation, the PM making delicate enquiries – was I injured?
Tinker and the gang had found a few hostages, so I sent messages back to the JIC and the PM about those hostages, and that I would be back soon. They could have ordered me back, but they held off doing so – for now.
I had gotten a call in to Colonel Bennet, now considering his retirement, and he had an excuse to come down and see me, a young soldier on trial for having killed a civilian in Freetown under questionable circumstances.
I met Colonel Bennet off the Chinook, MP bodyguards with him. ‘You look well protected, sir.’
‘They insisted.’
‘Not much danger around here, sir,’ I told him as his ride idled its engines.
‘And yet the numerous reports of your gallant actions here would seem to indicate otherwise.’
I smiled. ‘Maybe. Do you need food, some drink?’
‘I’m fine, and on the clock. Was hard to wangle a trip down here anyhow, and they kindly provided a helicopter.’
‘That kid soldier?’
‘He shot a man with a machete, but that man lived – and tells that he had organised a hooker for the young soldier but did not get paid. So it’s a mess.’
I nodded. ‘I have bigger issues.’
‘Were there ... problems with the operation to find the poison?’
I led him down the strip, the MPs hanging back. ‘I tortured a suspect or two, got useful intel, or that poison would have made its way to Paris and the UK.’
‘Well, most members of the public in the UK would agree that the ends justified the means, but the law courts would have to stick to the letter of the law.’ He waited.
I nodded. ‘I knew what I was doing, and I would have done anything to stop the poison.’
‘And you got a medal from the French, so they’re not unhappy with your methods!’
‘No, and they break the rules a little more than us Brits. Tell me, sir, can the UK authorities prosecute me for a crime in a foreign country ... if the authorities in that country don’t give a fuck?’
‘Well, technically, yes. Your military code of conduct is based on where your pay comes from, not where you are when you break a law. UK military law governs you wherever you are in the world.’
‘And if I’m loaned to the Americans or the French, sir, like an exchange posting?’
‘Less clear then, because then you’re subject to American or French military law. When you’re on an exchange visit, their rules apply more than ours, because you are – technically – in their military for a while.’
‘London told me to cooperate with the French, I led the investigation, always French soldiers with me and French Intel officers.’
‘Since they gave you one of their highest awards ... I’m doubting they’ll want to prosecute you.’
‘Not them I’m worried about, it’s lying to the JIC or a select committee. The job in Panama was very fucking illegal, the job to get back the ambassador’s son was illegal, this poison job was extremely fucking illegal.’
‘If someone transports you on an RAF Hercules, and they pay your wages, then they take some of the blame. SAS soldiers have done bad things before, and the Government covered it up, or had a trial with three friendly judges sat there. Home Secretary also has powers, more than most realise, and he can quash things. If you stand trial, the government stands trial with you.’
I nodded as we ambled along. ‘My boss in MI6 makes a joke about plausible deniability, and leaves the detail to me: get the poisoners - don’t care how.’
‘A little unfair on you, because a few years down the road some journalist runs a story and you get arrested, and your boss denies any wrong doing. But the fact that your wages are being paid helps greatly, because they’re endorsing you – not prosecuting you. What could they pin on you if the truth got out?’
‘Dozens o
f murders, plus torture, a few bombings, large scale drug dealing, some assassinations.’
‘Jesus. But you’re a smart chap, why go along with it?’
I stopped and faced him. ‘Ask the people of Paris that, sir.’
He nodded, and made a face. ‘Easy to weigh up one against the other, but time will cool the emotions and leave just hard facts and evidence behind. But if you carry on getting paid for years and years, then the government is taking more blame off your shoulders.’
‘Won’t be easy to live that long, sir,’ I said with a smile. ‘And if I thought they were going to arrest me I would disappear to Central America, or go work in the States; the Americans would never extradite me back to the UK.’
‘You’ve done very well, and I only know the half of it. You’ve achieved more in a few years than most do in a lifetime, something to be proud of, and I’m doubting that a British jury would convict you.’
‘They would never allow a trial, sir, I know too much. Can I refuse to answer questions from the select committee or the JIC?’
‘Your rank could be used to keep you out of a select committee, they’d have to address Colonel Dean. As for the JIC, they’re a political body, not a parliamentary body or legal body. You can tell them to fuck off. The JIC answers to the Prime Minister of the day, although they do think of themselves are being independent.
‘They’re there to do what the PM and the Defence Minister doesn’t have time to do, not to regulate or to prosecute, although they do make recommendations about SIS or GCHQ. So if someone asks a shit question, refuse to answer.’
‘That’s good to know, sir.’
He took in the police down the strip. ‘I’m retiring soon.’
‘And your memoirs, sir?’
‘Half of it is down to you, but nothing sensitive in there.’
‘Do me a favour, and do a section on the relationship between spy and spy master - where the desires are clear, the means not stated.’
‘Be an interesting section, yes. And a tricky one, from a legal standpoint, very tricky.’
We shook, and he reclaimed his ride, soon just a spec on the horizon.
Swifty appeared at my side, looking as damp and sweaty as I felt. ‘Problems?’
I stared at the tree line, RAF Regiment lads patrolling. ‘Just wondering if I can refuse to answer shitty questions when people ask them, and it seems I can.’
‘Like who? JIC?’
‘Yes, like them.’
‘Can they order you to answer?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So fuck ‘em.’
‘I’ll have to go back soon, debrief and post mortem, they all find it odd that I’m hiding away here.’
‘Are you hiding?’
I glanced at him. ‘More or less; I want to avoid a few shitty questions. We know you saved Paris, but you broke the rules so you’re off to jail.’
‘That would have every newspaper in Britain and France calling for your release, and for the knobbers who prosecuted you to be publicly flogged.’
‘True. But what about ten years from now?’
‘You can still be prosecuted, later on?’
‘Yes, there’s no time limit.’
‘I’ve done enough to get a hundred years, so let’s hope the fucks above us keep a lid on it.’
I sighed. ‘Let’s hope so.’
The pressure built, questions asked, so I left the gang to train the police and hitched a ride, finding a Tristar full of soldiers and airmen on rotation, and every single one knew who I was, but few dared to bother me – rank helped, the officers together at the front. Fortunately it was a night flight and most slept, and I pretended to sleep.
Getting off the flight, and waiting for MP Pete, I was again with a crowd, now being stared at.
‘Don’t like the fame,’ came a voice, and I turned.
‘Heskey!’ I smiled widely and grabbed his shoulders as everyone stared at us. ‘Good to see you.’ I took in his Army greens. ‘What you doing dressed like that?’
‘I transferred over to the Engineers a few years back, something different. Captain.’
‘And a sergeant now.’
He pointed at a captain next to him. ‘My boss.’
I shook the man’s hand. ‘Heskey here was a great help for first London Marathon, and he helped me a great deal in 51 Squadron, so look after him for me.’
‘He’s a good NCO,’ the captain noted.
‘Got a camera?’ I asked the captain, having seen him with one, a small disposable camera.
I grabbed my bag and fetched my face veil, putting it on, an arm around Heskey. After the flash, dozens of men moved in for a snap, most photographing me with Heskey. With my bag lifted, facemask still on, I chatted to Heskey as we moved through the crowd being photographed, the RAF puzzling the odd scene, and I found MP Pete outside.
I bid Heskey farewell, an open invite to come visit GL4, and jumped into the jeep with Pete, facemask still on.
‘You in disguise,’ he joked. ‘Because that fucking facemask is synonymous with you, and not at all a good Batman disguise.’
‘Fucking hundred squaddies with cameras in there.’
We pulled off.
‘Bit much, were they?’
‘All the recent publicity.’
‘Not fucking surprising is it. Papers are still full of it, now a major shit storm because the police are complaining they don’t have respirators or any special gear, and the RAF and Army fucked up the NBC alert on a few bases.’
‘During the Cold War they were ready, not so much now, and the poison was designed to eat through respirators, so they’d be no fucking good anyhow.’
‘And you ... you covered yourself in cement and tackled nerve gas?’
‘Dumb thing to do.’
‘Yes, because if you’re killed I get reassigned!’
I laughed. ‘Your concern for my wellbeing is touching.’
Back at a quiet GL4 I dumped my bag at the house, Pete driving me around to the hangar – now enclosed with metal doors, and I marvelled the transformation as the Major stepped out of a Portakabin with O’Leary. The metal frame was complete, and the second floor offices were complete, the lower level a building site.
‘Summoned back?’ the Major asked.
‘Didn’t fucking volunteer to come back, sir. The Intel team up there?’
‘Yes, come on.’
They led the way up clanking metal steps, in through a door to a Spartan and clinically clean reception area, a waiting area made up, a small tea making area, a hatch through to offices both sides.
The Major began, ‘Downstairs will be stores, this will all be offices.’ He led me on, and the first room – the left corner of the building, was a briefing room, as big as the old one, but this one had a dozen white boards and easels ready, nice new desks.
Next was a smaller room, half the size, but still a training room, opposite it an open plan office that would soon house O’Leary and our corporal, the Major’s office coming off it, three small offices for troop captains, nice new desks inside already.
Beyond that I noticed familiar faces through a door on the left, and inside I found an open plan area with soft seats, a canteen, Tinker and Mutch standing when they saw me, mugs in hand.
‘This where it all happens, eh?’ I asked.
‘This is the new common room and kitchen,’ Tinker told me. ‘Most important place for brain storming sessions.’
He pointed me back out and we moved into the first room on the right, finding an open-plan area with eight desks facing each other, Lesley sat at a computer, a glass wall between the desks to a height of about five feet, numerous bits of paper stuck to the glass already.
A dozen white boards littered the room, all covered in multi-coloured writing. Major Sanderson could be seen in a side office on the phone and he waved, Major Bradley explaining the various occupants of the side offices, and that toilets and a shower room were next door.
Major Sander
son stepped out with two new faces and shook my hand as Lesley stood, a nice smile offered to me. ‘Welcome back, good show,’ he offered. Twisting his upper body, he added, ‘This is Marcel, DGSE.’ I shook the man’s hand and nodded, our French liaison a carbon copy of Jacque, but a little older. ‘And this is Baker, DOD.’
I shook Baker’s hand, the man greying, thin in the face and appearing unwell. ‘DOD?’
‘The title covers a multitude of sins,’ he quipped.
‘I have a clearance rating so high I could pull your personnel file,’ I reminded him.
‘Ah, well ... old habits. Boss. And I heard you have a direct line to the Deputy Chief.’
I nodded, and took in the white boards. ‘Are you still working on the poison?’ I puzzled.
Major Sanderson put in, ‘London wants all the detail written down, and then it will be filed, but all lose ends need to be followed up, so there’ll be lots of people on it, finally a summary for parliament – and an enquiry.’
‘Enquiry, sir?’ I pressed.
‘A few politicians less than happy about our state of preparedness.’
‘Never been an attack like that before,’ I pointed out. ‘May never be again.’ I faced O’Leary. ‘Those metals steps will get annoying, so have something stuck down on them, thin carpet squares, stop the damn noise.’
‘I’ll grab that RAF officer, he’s here most days.’
‘And I want an armed MP at the bottom of the stairs at all times, you ... you wear a pistol.’
‘We ... expecting trouble?’ Major Sanderson asked.
‘Yes,’ I flatly told him, worried looks exchanged. ‘And I don’t want any shit for a foreign national shot on this base.’ I faced O’Leary. ‘The training room up here is nice, but I want one like it downstairs, for muddy men and kit. Stores will be downstairs?’ He nodded. ‘At the bottom of the stairs I want something on the concrete, hard-wearing rubber, kit assembly area that will not make a racket for people up here. Think about rubber mats.’
Again O’Leary nodded. ‘I’ll get them on it.’