by Geoff Wolak
‘They are shit scared of you, so not a worry.’
‘You need anything in Russia, because the Kremlin wants to chat to me?’
‘They do?’ he puzzled. ‘Well, my sister and her kid are there, so if they could move in and out… or me move in and out some day.’
‘I’ll ask.’
Call cut, I stared at the black desert, Slider on stag nearby. I called The Banker.
‘Ah, Petrov, I was just thinking of you.’
‘And I was thinking that now might be a good time to chat to the Kremlin.’
‘My contact is here now, enjoying some fine French wine and cheese. Hold on.’
A minute later came, ‘My cover name is Steffan, and it’s a pleasure to talk to you finally, I have heard much.’
‘Keeping a file on me?’ I teased.
‘More like a filing cabinet,’ he said, and laughed.
‘And how can I help Mother Russia?’
‘They say … you do not consider Russia your home.’
‘I was raised abroad, just one year in Russia as a baby. I think of myself more as Canadian or British.’
‘And this line … is secure?’
‘Yes, at least at my end.’
‘Leon says this end is unknown.’
‘My boss, Tomsk, would like to visit his sister in Russia.’
‘He has a few minor crimes on his record here, nothing dramatic, but that record can be wiped easily enough. His crime spree started outside Russia, at a time when there was very little money inside Russia.’
‘And he can pay well enough, money for your undercover operations. You will find him easy to deal with, and generous.’
‘Good to know. You may tell him we’ll strike a deal, a fake passport.’
‘And what can I do for you to even the score?’ I pressed.
‘There are people in The West beyond our reach, hiding, people we would like dealt with.’
‘If I can find them, I’ll deal with them, you treat Tomsk well.’
‘Sounds like we can find common ground and work a deal, yes. And your rumoured links to British and American intel?’
‘Not rumoured, I have high level links.’
‘And the reason … for those links?’
‘Tomsk was vulnerable, so I tipped off a DEA officer about someone else’s drug shipments, and that man was happy, so then I tipped off the British and they boarded a ship in the Caribbean, then Tomsk got intel on some rivals and we tipped off the CIA, and it grew from there. Once the Americans started accepting tip-offs I knew they were in trouble, and I told them so.’
‘If they arrested Tomsk, his day in court would have exposed the Americans for accepting such information, something they would wish to avoid.’
‘Yes. And in England I did jobs for a British Intel officer of low rank. He got promoted, and he got me papers to move around. In West Africa I killed people for him, all very illegal in England.’
‘And the recent coup in Sierra Leone and Liberia?’
‘I was running intel in the background for all sides, apart from the fucking Nigerians. British got what they wanted, so to the French, and the president of Liberia got together with Tomsk about oil. I killed a few politicians, set off a few bombs.’
‘And you killed some Nigerian man in Lagos.’
I knew it was Casper, but said, ‘Not that I would admit to,’ making him laugh.
‘Is it OK to send Leon the detail of what we desire?’
‘Yes, I trust Leon completely.’
‘Then we may soon have some common interests. First of all, do you know anything about the killing of a Demitri Lebnov in Prague?’
‘Not off the top of my head, but I can ask around,’ I offered.
‘No, don’t ask around, we have a candidate, just wondered if you were the sniper, it was an 800yard shot.’
‘I’m not the only good sniper. And I avoid Eastern Europe, have done for almost 10 years.’
‘As we believed. Good night.’
Call cut, I chatted to Slider’s dark outline about gold, hoping none of the lads were planning their early retirement.
Stepping away, I gave the situation some thought, and called Langley.
‘Wilco?’ came from the Deputy Chief, now in a car.
‘Yes, and our friend Petrov just had a call from the Kremlin.’
‘The Kremlin!’
‘They want him to kill a few people in The West.’
‘Jesus, but what an opportunity for some intel.’
‘Run a name for me, Demitri Lebnov, shot by a sniper in Prague-’
‘I remember it. Canadian, one of ours, got thrown out of the club owned by Lebnov so shot him. But he’s dead now, drunken car crash, no trace back.’
‘Can I use it?’
‘Hell yes. Name was Owen Summers. Go snuggle up, I have a meeting to arrange – about this.’
Red button pushed, battery level checked, I called Leon back, getting handed over to Steffan.
‘Back so soon?’ Steffan began.
‘I was curious so I made some calls. Canadian man, Owen Summers, CIA contractor. He was the sniper.’
‘CIA killed our man?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Owen Summers got thrown out of the club run by your man, so Owen shot him, got kicked out the CIA for that, got drunk and killed himself in a car wreck.’
‘You are indeed a useful man to know, and yes – our man liked to kick people out on a whim; a few threatened him. I guess that closes that chapter. Thank you.’
‘Anything else, let me know.’
‘We’ll be in touch soon through Leon.’
Phone away, I settled down, thinking in the dark, and an idea was forming. In fact, the idea was forming without any input from me, not least how to move a few heavy boxes of gold right under the noses of the local warlords – and with a carrier battle group sat offshore.
At dawn I was up and peeing, Sasha on stag, and I discussed with him this new turn of events.
He finally asked, ‘They can wipe my record?’
‘They’re not miracle workers,’ I joked, getting back some colourful language.
The lads eventually started to stir, a few given a good kick, and at 6am they were all just about with it and ready to go, Tomo last, and in need of a “monster shit” as he worded it.
We waited, a few rude comments fired towards Tomo as my sniper hid behind some rocks. He finally appeared, a cheeky smile on his face.
The blast had us diving down, Tomo thrown forwards, an angry dust cloud thrown up, the morning turning dark for a while.
‘Headcount your teams!’ I shouted as I stood. ‘See who’s missing!’
‘Someone stood on a mine,’ Moran gasped, and we rushed over the rocks. Tomo rolled over, smiling, a pat down revealing no blood.
‘Who’s missing?’ I shouted, no answer coming back, and I ran on, soon seeing where the mine had detonated. And there was no body.
A quick check, and we were all accounted for as I led them off at the double, Moran speculating that Tomo’s acid shit had slowly set off the mine.
‘Tomo?’ Rocko asked. ‘Did you shit in your hand and throw it?’
The lads laughed at Tomo as our sniper denied it.
‘Did you loosen a stone as you climbed up the rocks?’ Mitch asked him as we plodded on, also denied.
‘It was a suicidal mine,’ Moran loudly stated. ‘The prospect of being shat on by Tomo was too much for it, so it self-detonated.’
‘So would I,’ Swifty agreed.
I told them, ‘We have with us the only soldier in the British Army that set off a mine by shitting on it.’
I kept a good pace as Tomo took some shit for setting off the mine, Tomo blaming a wandering Gerbil.
‘Big fucking Gerbil, to set off a mine,’ Rocko baulked.
An hour later we crested a ridge and glimpsed the distant ocean, a road avoided, a dried river bed found, maybe even the desired river bed. I checked th
e map after a mile, pointed my team west a little and up a ridge, the ocean getting closer, a con trail seen above, a pair of F18s up there somewhere.
Map checked again, everyone nervously expectant, I altered course once more, down and around then up the ridge again. I finally halted.
To my team I said, ‘Three hundred yards up.’
They took in the dried river bed below us, small bushes growing, and we estimated the distance. Since we all spent a great deal of time on the range at GL4, 300yards was known to us.
‘There!’ Swifty called, and he ran. We keenly ran after him. Rifle down, his webbing off as he knelt, his bandolier off as many keen expectant faces looked on, and Swifty went into a small opening full of sand, his torch out.
With his legs sticking out, he backed out. ‘Something in there!’
Many hands started to dig the sand away, and when there was enough of a hole Swifty ventured back in as I ordered defensive positions taken up, and for the lads to hide themselves.
Swifty disappeared inside, back out a few minutes later. His look said it all. ‘Two skeletons, some kit, no boxes, not big enough. They crawled in, maybe wounded, died in there.’
‘Right spot though,’ Moran suggested.
I transmitted, ‘Spread out in teams, look for a cave, watch out for mines and booby traps. Cave is 300yards up from the river bed, so use it like a contour line.’
I led my team left, judging the height, and we kicked accumulated sand away with our boots, soon on an exposed part of the ridge facing the ocean, a careful eye kept on the horizon and the nearby scrub, but the immediate area was like a lunar landscape of bleak nothingness.
Moving around the promontory, Moran dived down and found an old boot half buried in the sand. ‘Still in the right spot.’
I looked up the slope from the boot. ‘How about that indent, filled in with sand over the years?’
We trekked up a few yards, rifles down, gloved hands as well as sticks used to move the sand away. Half an hour of effort had us sweating, but no cave revealed itself. Giving up, we moved west around the ridge, a glance at the distant ocean.
A shout, and Mitch had lost his leg up to the knee. He pulled his leg out, and we all sighed in relief, soon kneeling – and cursing Mitch.
‘Wooden,’ Swifty noted. ‘Like a trap door maybe.’ Torch out, he thrust his face in, pulling out a large heavy gold bar, a silly grin fixed to his face.
I transmitted, ‘We found it, all round defence. Robby, take your team high up, good look out. Dig in, everyone, we could be here a while.’ Off the radio, I said to Mitch, ‘Lieutenant, try not to scream like a girl.’
‘Thought it was a mine,’ Mitch responded. ‘And that was a manly scream.’
‘Big girl’s blouse,’ Swifty told him.
‘Dig it up and count the bars,’ I told them as I stepped away, Mitch protesting his innocence of using a girly scream. Phone out, I checked my watch, and called Tomsk.
‘You woke me!’ he complained.
‘I need that helicopter.’
‘Tonight he said, at the earliest.’
‘Give him my number to get a position fix, no mistakes here.’
‘OK, OK. I tell Big Sasha. He always writes things down.’
‘And listen, if The Banker asks, you know that I have a pile of gold with me, and that it will be loaned to the idiot dictator here in Mogadishu, about a hundred million English pounds.’
‘Gold? What the fuck are you up to there?’
‘Just pretend that you know I have the gold, a loan for Aideed, Americans happy with it.’
‘Oh ... OK.’
Call cut, I tried The Banker.
‘Petrov?’ he answered, recognising my number.
‘I have a suggestion. First, I just happened across a bunch of gold bars -’
‘Just happened across them..?’
‘Best not to ask. Anyway, how about I fly them to Aideed for you, then you put a credit in a bank for me, say 75% of the face value.’
‘I could do that, yes.’
‘You’ll need to strike a deal with Aideed today, but not till I give you a figure. I’ll call you back shortly.’
‘OK, and keep an eye out for Casper. I hear he is heading for Mogadishu.’
‘What cover name is he using?’
‘Yuri Koskov, from Rostov-on-Don region, ex-Paratrooper, mercenary, hitman, and … a close friend of yours.’
‘I could blow his cover by accident. Will he recognise me?’
‘Yes, he’s seen photos of you.’
‘This could be tricky, if we meet. Do you have a way to contact him and warn him?’
‘Yes, but … it would be tricky.’
‘His life is at risk if we meet and people start asking questions, or he reacts badly to meeting me and my team.’
‘Let me have a think, and make a call.’
‘Best bet would be that I call him. Get me his number.’
‘It could still be a risk,’ Leon warned.
‘Less of a risk than meeting me in bad company and reacting the wrong way. He may think I might shoot him, and shoot first.’
‘Foolish of him to claim to know you, I knew this day could come.’
‘I’ll sort it, don’t worry, get me that number.’
Leon called back ten minutes later, the lads counting bars, Moran stating thirty eight heavy bars.
After Leon gave me Casper’s sat phone number, I gave him the number of bars, and estimation of size, and a very perplexed Leon worked it out at £120 million. He would now work a deal with Aideed for £100 million at my request, a few bars held back for the lad’s office party.
Stepping away, I heaved a sigh, wondered if this would work, or if I would get Casper killed and have to explain it to Leon. I felt no animosity towards Casper, and he was doing me a favour by taking the blame in Lagos; the FBI had Casper’s photo. There was also that nagging feeling in the back of my mind about the second assassin that had parachuted onto the FOB in Sierra Leone a year back. And the gunman in Freetown that had killed our would-be sniper...
I punched the numbers, sighed again, a glance over my shoulder at the team, and I pressed the green button. It rang for twenty seconds.
‘Da!’
I had no idea if it was him, or someone answering Casper’s phone. Fortunately there was background noise at his end. ‘Having fun in the sand and camel shit, Yuri?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Petrov.’ There was a long silence. I continued, ‘I’m in Somalia, a little job to do for my good friend The Banker, and I know exactly what you have been up to, so we have much to talk about since you have not bothered to call me, or buy me a beer, or get me in on some good jobs. I should be with Aideed after dark if all goes well, and – if you are around – you can meet my team, and we will chat about old times, like … Lagos, and Sierra Leone, and Gorskov.’
‘What about … Gorskov?’
‘He sent two men after some British Army captain in Sierra Leone, and the second man must have been you, something you kept quiet.’
‘Always pays … to keep some things quiet.’
‘Indeed, and people often complain that I keep secrets, even from those closest to me. So, if you are around we have that beer at long last and, if you are not busy, some work for you for Mister Tomsk and … others.’
‘You are not worried that I take work away from you?’ he teased.
‘You are welcome to it. These days I only take on work if it is particularly challenging, something new.’
‘And The Banker’s connection here?’
‘A loan for Aideed. I am … trusted delivery boy. Tell me, do you think there are any interested parties that might upset my delivery schedule?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Keep this number, call me if that changes. I hope to be in Mogadishu after dark.’
Back with the gold, I had a look at the original boxes, now rotten.
‘How we going to carry this lot?’ S
wifty complained.
‘Need some new boxes,’ I told them. ‘Cover the gold over with ponchos, sand on top.’ Phone out, I called Hunt.
‘You need extracting?’ Hunt asked.
‘Soon, but I have a job for Uncle Sam, off the books,’ I lied. ‘Get me a Puma with a bunch of empty wooden boxes, enough to fill with a lot of ammo and rifles, solid boxes, rope handles, have a look below decks. Track this location, get me those boxes inside the hour please, and standby to pick up some of the teams after dark. Oh, and no calls to my phone after I insert, till I say otherwise, let Captain Harris know, and London.’
‘OK, I’ll get that sorted now.’
I transmitted, ‘Rocko and Rizzo, Sasha’s team, to me, rest stay where you are.’
I faced my own team. ‘I’ll be delivering the gold to someone later, and someone else will send London the value of it, and we get our bonuses. You lot won’t be coming. Moran, get the lads back to the Joan de Arc after dark.’
‘The other day job,’ Moran complained.
‘Hide the remaining gold bars well,’ I told him.
With Sasha’s team now to me, as well as Rocko and Rizzo, I led them to one side. I took in the dirty faces and sandy uniforms as they cradled rifles. ‘Tonight we’ll deliver most of the gold to would-be tin pot dictator Aideed over in Mogadishu, operating as we did in Panama. London will then get paid the value of the gold, you get your bonuses – without the jail term.
‘Make sure before we go that you have no ID, hand over any kit that looks dodgy or British, and – Staff Sergeants – no girls to be had, nor would you want to have them.’
‘Somali women? Yuk,’ Rizzo let out.
I added, ‘If all goes well we’ll be back on ship for midnight, but if they show us any hospitality then accept it, no drugs. Also, there are deep cover agents on site, and you need to pretend to know them. Contact is Yuri, so if I shake his hand you pretend you know him, Russian bad boy mercenary from around West Africa. Sasha, you in particular. And … he looks like me, carries a Valmet.’
Rocko and Rizzo exchanged looks.
‘He looks like you?’ Sasha queried with a smile. ‘So you can be in two places at the same time, no.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Anyone from Panama?’ Rocko asked.
‘Maybe. You two are British ex-SAS mercenaries again, Sasha’s team – all mercenaries, same backstory but not that you work for the British. Rest today, we leave after dark if our ride gets here, a nice safe Russian Mi8 with no maintenance logs.’