by Geoff Wolak
‘Flipping fooking eck.’ She ran a hand over my scars. ‘You’re a bit of a fighter, ain’t you.’ Dress unzipped, she slipped it off, a great pair for me to play with, and it had been a while.
With us just about fitting in the shower we washed each other, and once dried off she shoved me onto the bed, diving in for the blowjob. When I was stiff, very stiff, she climbed on top, a great pair hitting me in the face as she enthusiastically rode me.
She came quickly, and we swapped positions, and now that I was not pinned down I could move, and I gave a good account of myself, making her scream. About to come, I eased out and shoved my dick towards her mouth, and she swallowed the end. My eyes rolled as she kept going after swallowing.
After a drink from a water bottle, a quick wash, we cuddled on her single bed, a sheet pulled up over us, and she was soon asleep, leaving me to gently careless an exposed boob.
‘I need more “me” time,’ I told myself.
When she stirred in the morning we made use of the small shower again – the towels damp from the night before, followed by another good shagging session, and when dressed we both agreed we needed a coffee and some breakfast. A short walk down the hill, and I noticed one of the Deltas with a British girl, nods exchanged, and we sat near them without chatting, breakfast ravenously downed. We were there an hour.
Breakfast paid for - I still had a shit load of money on me, we walked down to the beach and strolled, away from the villa, and this brought back memories, good memories.
At 3pm she needed some sleep, so headed off alone, and I walked slowly back to the villa.
‘Dirty stop out,’ Swifty scolded me as he sat near the pool with many of the lads.
‘Good to have some time off,’ I told him as I plonked down.
‘How long we here?’ Rocko asked.
‘Till the last man says he’s fully fit.’
‘Could be weeks then,’ Rocko happily noted.
In my room I checked my sat phone, finding a few missed calls. I called David Finch and gave him an update on our healing wounds, but I would not allow any of those with fresh scars to be in the jungle yet – and that was most of us.
I called back Major Bradley, who wondered if we would ever return, and I gave him the gossip about this place. He reported regulars using GL4, territorials on the weekends, and that Bongo was bored. The Intel team were taking time off, or working on the leads generated in Sierra Leone and in Eritrea.
But my relaxing time around the pool or with my new girl was about to be interrupted. My phone went, an odd number.
‘Hello?’
‘Petrov?’
‘Who is asking?’
‘My name is Mikhail, and The Banker is my father.’
‘What can I do for you, Mikhail?’
‘My father has been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’
‘Yes, but they don’t know who he is. He was using a fake ID, he has many, and this one made him look like an investment banker. They grabbed him and have called just now, asking for money.’
‘Why not pay the money?’ I asked.
‘We are prepared to, but they may just kill him.’
‘How much do they ask for?’
‘Five million Euro.’
‘Amateurs. Did you trace back their call?’
‘Yes, because father gave them a special number as his home. The call was made from Marseilles, west side suburbs, and the man – a Russian – said to call him Rasputin.’
‘Rasputin? Definitely an amateur. OK, I’ll fly there today with my men and start looking. In the meantime I’ll make some calls. First, tell me exactly where he was when he was grabbed.’
‘He was on a road on a hillside -’
‘Get a good map, give me the exact map reference, then the exact map reference of the number you traced. And the time of the call, time of the kidnapping if you can. Work fast, call me back.’
‘OK.’
Call ended, I selected the number for David Finch.
‘Wilco?’
‘Yes, listen. The Banker has been kidnapped in Marseilles by a Russian gang, but they don’t know who he is or what he’s worth, he was travelling under a fake ID. I want to go after him.’
‘Well, we’re supposed to be arresting men like that -’
‘If I get him back alive he owes me, we get years worth of intel, so make a decision, and fast, and consider what the Yanks would want as well.’
‘I’d say we’d all benefit from years worth of intel more than an arrest, so yes – go after him.’
‘I’ll be using resources, but make sure they keep a lid on this.’
‘Yes, because it would be damn hard to explain.’
‘Get me a plane to Marseille, fast as you can, enough space for say ... six or seven men.’
I grabbed Sasha and his team and told them to pack ready to leave, one man left behind because his head was still bound. Henri, Jacque and Sambo would be coming along as well. The other guys all asked about the job, so I told them it was an Intel job in France, two days, and to stay put.
Hunt would be left behind, because I would be stretching a few laws. Question now was what to tell the French, because they would not be pleased with shoot-outs on their streets, and as soon as I landed my Michael Milton passport would set off alerts in the DGSE.
Mikhail called me back, so I grabbed pen and paper and wrote down the coordinates of both the kidnapping and the phone call.
Next call was the DGSE. They were happy to get my call, and I asked for the Director.
‘Captain Wilco,’ sounded out, but accented.
‘You are the Director?’
‘Yes, we have spoken before.’
‘You are familiar with the Russian in Panama giving you drug tips, Tomsk?’
‘How did you know about that?’ he demanded.
‘I set it up.’
‘You?’
‘You are familiar with Petrov?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The real Petrov died many years ago, his body on ice in London, I took his place.’
‘You ... you impersonate Petrov?’
‘I am Petrov.’
‘My god.’
‘I’ll be landing in Marseilles today, and I need a few discreet men, some weapons. A friend has been kidnapped, and if I get him back alive ... we all get some good Intel for a few years.’
‘Why not have the police look for this man?’
‘He’s being held by a Russian gang, and I want him out alive, no shooting, no hostage rescue scene. Will you cooperate?’
‘Yes, of course, and afterwards we talk. I will have men move to Marseilles, men you dealt with before.’
‘Thank you, sir. And please make sure the press do not find out.’
‘Of course, yes.’
Off the phone, Swifty approached. ‘You about to do something illegal, stupid, or both?’
‘Uh ... both. Russian bad boy was kidnapped, but the kidnappers don’t know who they have as a hostage, asked for five million only. Keep that to yourself. I’ll be gone two days or so.’
‘Or shot dead doing something stupid,’ he quipped.
‘Well, yeah, there is that.’
I changed into clothes more suitable for a temperate Marseille winter, but I had very little with me. I would have to buy some. I had the cash, so grabbed those men that would be coming and we headed up the road to a shop that sold mostly second hand clothes.
I found a summer jacket that fitted, two shirts my size, shoes, so I was just about set, the lads buying clothes that just about fitted them, the old lady pleased with the business. One of Sasha’s had a black leather jacket, one a red jacket. Henri and Jacque looked like armed robbers, and Sambo looked like a pimp.
Walking back, I said to Sambo, ‘There is a Foreign Legion old members club in Marseille.’
‘Yes, the biggest club, sir.’
‘You know people there?’
‘Yes, many, sir.’
‘Call them, tell them we are coming and that we want drivers in unmarked cars, hired for a few days, a chance of some shooting – maybe a few beers, but that the DGSE will be with us as well.
Back at the villa, bags packed, Hunt was busy organising a coach back to Akrotiri – a plane to be available soon. I called Tomsk.
‘Listen, The Banker, he’s been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’
‘His son called me. I’m on my way to France with some men, we’ll look for him, I have a lead. Ask around about any Russian gang, amateurs, that used the name Rasputin or may be based in Marseille. Ask everyone, do it fast.’
‘The Banker has a lot of my money, so please get him back.’
‘I will, but start making calls.’
Next call was Gorskov. ‘Ah, Petrov, how are things?’
‘Have you ever heard of a Russian gang operating in the Marseille area, the leader uses the name Rasputin?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Ask around please, I would appreciate it.’
‘I will do, yes. Where are you?’
‘Northern Cyprus, a little holiday.’
‘And a few people to chat to, yes.’
Next call was Libintov. ‘Petrov, good to hear from you. I have met with the President of Liberia, and we will do some business. I owe you – again.’
‘Good, good. Listen, do you know anything about a Russian gang, amateurs, operating in the Marseille area, leader uses the name Rasputin.’
‘I know a man who lives there, I will call.’
‘Do so quickly please.’
Next call was Tinker. ‘It’s Wilco. Got an emergency, get GCHQ on it, top priority; a known associate of Petrov has been kidnapped.’ I gave him the coordinates and the phone number. ‘Maybe there’s some mobile phone data at the location of the ransom call, this morning at 11.05am, Central European time or whatever Marseille is.
‘Then run a trace, all agencies, on any Russian gunman using the name Rasputin, and I want to know about any known Russian gangs around Marseille, and fast.’
‘I’ll head up to Cheltenham now.’
I called David back. ‘I let the Director of the DGSE know I’m Petrov, so you need to have a chat with him.’
‘They may be miffed we never said before.’
‘Explain that it’s a legal grey area, that’s something he’ll relate to.’
The coach arrived, the lads all asking questions but not getting answers.
‘Captain Moran, hold the fort, I should be back in a few days.’ I handed him some cash. ‘Beer money for the lads. Oh, and if my bird comes looking for me, explain it, be nice to her.’
‘Can I be nice to her?’ Swifty asked, getting a pointed finger from me before I boarded the coach, all of us now with holsters under jackets, passports and ID cards. I handed out some of the Euros I had in case we got separated.
Sambo told me, ‘I call my sergeant from before, and they will have rooms at the Legion hotel for us tonight, men waiting.’
Henri said, ‘I know a few good men in Marseille, they were 1st Battalion.’
‘We may need them,’ I told him.
The coach took us down the coast to RAF Akrotiri in brilliant sunshine, ID’s shown at the gate, and with an MP directing the coach we were directed around to the apron, finding a sleek and sexy Learjet sat waiting some passengers. Since there were just eight of us, no bags, we would fit.
RAF ground handlers stood ready, an RAF officer striding out to me. ‘Captain Wilco?’
‘Yes.’
‘The plane is fuelled and ready, they checked it for bombs, and the flight to Marseille has been logged.’
‘Great, thanks.’ I waved the lads aboard, and we adopted very comfy seats, eight of us sat facing each other, a table between us.
‘Very nice,’ Sasha noted.
Door closed, men with orange ear defenders seen removing the chocks, the engines started up quickly, and we were soon spinning around and taxiing away, and I could see a long line of cat’s eyes as we started to lose the light. A pause, and we moved out onto the runway, facing south, a roar and we powered off, and I was pressed back into my seat.
Henri noted, ‘This pilot, he thinks he is in a fighter jet.’
Heading west in a hurry, I peered down at west Cyprus, the beaches, and the dark blue ocean turned black as we climbed away.
Less than two hours later we landed in Marseille, 8pm local time, flashing blue lights seen.
‘Not so secret,’ Henri complained.
Off the plane, two familiar DGSE men greeted me warmly, talk of Paris. After the pleasantries were out the way, I asked that the police be dismissed and that we have a coach to the Legion hotel.
‘Legion?’ They were suspicious. ‘You will work off the books?’
‘I will tell you what we’re doing every step of the way. And I will talk to your director as well. Now, police gone, mini bus or coach.’
‘We have cars, maybe enough. Only seven of you. Come.’
There was enough room, four cars utilised, and after the confused police were dismissed home to wives and girlfriends we sped towards the city along the A7 east, through the hills, the city soon in sight, southeast down the A7 and into the city traffic, and south towards the Legion’s hotel for ex-members.
As we pulled up we got odd looks from some tough men, Sambo out and nodding at a man, Henri recognising a man – a long hug witnessed, followed by a long list of insults back and forth as we were led inside. In a side bar we met six other men, some grey.
The DGSE explained who they were, our hosts not impressed at all with their countries military intelligence service.
‘Henri, translate. Listen up!’
They all focused on me.
‘My name is Captain Wilco, the man decorated by your president in Paris.’ I held my hands wide. ‘Would have been nice if he had given me some cash as well.’
They laughed.
‘We are here because a high-ranking intelligence asset has been kidnapped, west of Marseille, a Russian. The kidnappers do not know who he really is, he was using a fake ID. They ask for only five million Euro. The British Government and the French Government want him free to walk the streets, unharmed, no questions asked.
‘So this is a low key operation, we don’t want to raid a house and risk him being killed, he is very valuable to us. We have a fix on where a ransom call was made, some of us can go there now, we might get lucky, and my people are trying to track these men.’
I pointed at Sasha and his men. ‘These are Russian defectors working with British Intelligence, and these two men from 1st Battalion you have to suffer.’
They laughed.
‘If we get this man back ... no questions, no photographs, no names, he walks off and continues his life. Is there a room we can use as command central?’
‘This bar is OK,’ they said.
‘Street maps of Marseille please, then some food and coffee.’
Tables were put together, a large street map laid out. I marked the road where The Banker was kidnapped, and the place where the ransom call was made from, many people having a look at the indicated positions.
Sandwich in me, coffee down, two Legion men would drive, one DGSE man along with Henri and Sasha for now. We left by a side entrance, three private cars to be used, and we were soon heading northwest through the evening traffic, a few short-cuts used.
Pulling up, we peered across at a street cafe on a corner for a few minutes, but the patrons were just locals. Easing out, I led the men across, drivers waiting with cars in case we needed them fast.
I beckoned a waiter, Henri ready to translate. ‘You were working at 11am this morning?’
Henri asked the question. ‘He came on duty then. They open just before 11am.’
The waiter gave the men a worried look.
‘Did you see any Russian men here?’
An off-duty policeman sat with his wife came over, asking if there was a problem. The DGSE ma
n shoved his ID in the officer’s face and tersely told him to sit.
The waiter told Henri that there were four men, and that they had black BMWs.
‘Which way did they drive in, which way out?’ I asked.
The waiter pointed out a side street, so I waved over a Legion man.
‘You know this area?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would someone drive down that street?’
‘It is a short cut, so this man is no tourist.’
‘Short-cut from where to where?’
‘From the west side north to the south, the coast, without going on the big roads and around.’
‘There are villas north, in the hills?’
‘Yes.’
‘And south?’
‘Some on the coast, expensive.’
‘You lead the way, we go down that road and stop at every petrol station to ask about black BMWs and Russian men, every cafe.’
He nodded, we got back in, and we set off down the short cut. ‘Henri was my best pupil,’ he said as we drove. ‘Then one day he upsets this shit young officer, then the officer’s car catches fire. There is no evidence, but Henri is sent to West Africa for a year.’
‘But I had the last laugh, because I saw action and was promoted, a medal,’ Henri explained. ‘It worked out OK.’
‘And did you set fire to that nice young officer’s car?’ I tease.
‘Yes, of course.’
We laughed as we drove down domestic streets.
‘And you captain, you were a sergeant?’
‘Yes, a promotion because I was planning the missions. Either that, or they wished me on a tighter leash.’
My driver eased into a patrol station, getting out with Henri for a quick chat, but no luck. Setting off again we passed through an industrial estate, and to another petrol station, an Arab serving. He did remember black BMWs and Russians, they used this petrol station a few times a week. The last time was yesterday.
When asked about CCTV, it was on a 24hr loop and so had been taped over, but the cashier did notice that the cars had local number plates.
We drove on, a mile or two, another petrol station checked, no luck, and now the area became semi-rural, large isolated villas behind high walls. And there were many of them.
Another petrol station threw up some recognition of the men, but no useful intel, so we pressed on to the coast, a nice promenade seen. Driving along, I noticed a club with tacky neon signs, so we went around in a circle and parked opposite. The club was small, on a second floor, and looked like the kind of expensive flea trap a Russian gangster might like.