Wilco- Lone Wolf 11

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Yes. My good friends in the CIA wish to chat to you, about some work with me, fake papers, and a ... get out of jail card.’

  ‘And if I don’t wish to chat to the CIA?’

  ‘Stay here, make your way back, or we drop you somewhere.’

  The first Seahawk touched down, Sasha and his team aboard, and it pulled away. I pointed Rocko and Rizzo at the next Seahawk and they moved towards it. I waited for the third helo, a glance back at Casper. After a moment he followed me, and we clambered aboard.

  Grabbing the headsets, I said, ‘This is Captain Wilco in the rear. We go to your carrier, other choppers drop my team on the French carrier.’

  ‘Yeah ... roger that.’

  For the short flight Casper did not look happy, but he was trusting me so far, which led to me wondering why he trusted me - and why he emulated me. I had half an idea as to why.

  As we approached the huge carrier Casper stared wide-eyed at it, the dreaded Yankee enemy vessel.

  We bumped down, out and bent double with rifles in hands, Franks and his buddy waiting for us. I smiled and shook Franks’ hand, and he led us below. I had expected armed Marines for Casper, but it seemed that Franks had not revealed who our guest was.

  Below decks, we were led to a room, drinks on the table, the door closed behind us, Franks and one other in on the meeting, both Russian speakers.

  I took off my kit and placed down my rifle, Casper copying. We sat, and I poured Casper a drink of cold water. Pointing at Franks, I said to Casper in Russian, ‘This is CIA man Franks, a deadly assassin.’

  Franks let out a ‘Ha.’

  ‘Franks, this is Casper, currently known as Yuri to Aideed and the ... CIA’s Mi24 helicopter group.’

  Casper adopted a puzzled frown.

  I continued, ‘Yes, my friend, the man pulling the strings with those Mi24 is CIA.’

  ‘I knew there was something odd about it,’ Casper admitted.

  ‘And you infiltrated the group ... why?’ I nudged.

  ‘I was paid to.’ For now, he left it at that.

  I began, ‘You don’t have a reputation as a stone cold killer, and I’ve not heard any reports of you raping or stealing, so it seems that you have some morals, that you pick and choose what you do when you could just work for some thug and kill people for money. There is more to you than just a trigger man.’

  ‘There is more to you as well,’ he countered with. ‘Like this ship.’

  ‘True,’ I said with a nod. ‘I’m not Petrov.’

  ‘You’re ... not?’ he puzzled, looking worried.

  ‘The real Petrov died years ago, I took his place. And the real Petrov was never that good. I’m a captain in the British Army, British by birth. My usual cover name is Wilco.’

  ‘Vilco!’ Casper realised, wide-eyed. ‘And Tomsk?’

  ‘Knows about who I really am, yes.’

  He pointed a finger. ‘You, the British and Americans, you built up Tomsk!’

  ‘Yes, because one drug dealer is better than a hundred, and Tomsk cooperates with us. Tomsk will never be arrested.’

  ‘You attacked the communists in Colombia – for Washington?’

  ‘Partly, and partly for Tomsk and partly for Panama,’ I explained.

  ‘And Leon?’

  ‘Does not know yet, but I was planning on telling him.’

  He seemed happy that he knew something Leon did not. ‘And your interest in me?’

  I checked my dirty fingernails. ‘Let me tell you why I do this, why I risk my life and get more scars every month.’ Franks and his buddy were sat back listening in. ‘In Panama, I led my team to a small town one day, and we climbed up tall trees with our sniper rifles after dark. Then we waited. When I saw a man trying to force a young girl to suck his cock ... I shot the fucker, and I enjoyed it.

  ‘When I saw gunmen hassling people, I shot them ... and I enjoyed it. When I saw drug deals on the streets I shot them. Doing what I do, I get to shoot the idiots, in Panama, in Sierra Leone and Liberia, and I get to rescue hostages and meet their families. I go to sleep each night knowing that I’m doing something worthwhile, and I like a challenge – like hitting the Cali Cartel.

  ‘You also like a challenge, and you don’t choose jobs from the highest bidder, you don’t kill for fun – which is why we’re talking. Leon doesn’t know we’re having this chat.’

  ‘You fooled him,’ Casper smugly noted, pleased that Leon was not all powerful, and my own body odour registered with me. I needed a wash.

  ‘I’m good at what I do, and I’ve fooled a great many people in a great many places. But the question we have for you today is ... what do you want to do in the future? Carry on as you are till you’re sliced up and killed, an anonymous grave someplace, or do something worthwhile working with me.’

  ‘What ... kind of work?’

  ‘Rescue some hostages, kill some bad men, find things that are challenging and see if we can do them. And you would have the support of the British and Americans, and the French, fake passport to move around, time in Europe or sat on a beach, good medical care.

  ‘What you won’t be doing is just killing for money, you will shoot when the man deserves to die, you will risk your life for innocent hostages, and you’ll work with a good team, good equipment.’

  ‘And the agenda is set by the CIA?’

  ‘Fuck no,’ Franks put in. ‘Wilco sets his own agenda, and most of the time we get to find out about it afterwards.’

  I smiled. ‘I have some leeway, yes, and I don’t always do what I’m asked to do. Building up Tomsk was my idea, and I told them three months after I put Tomsk in the top spot – and they agreed it worked well. If I had asked for permission it would have been denied.’

  ‘You work against Russia?’ Casper asked.

  ‘No, but I have captured arms dealers as Captain Wilco. I have a direct line to the SVR, set-up by Leon. We cooperate. Our main aim is Arab terrorist groups or kidnappers.’

  ‘I have no love for filthy fucking Arabs,’ Casper spat out.

  I told him, ‘You don’t have to decide right now, we can drop you back, or ... you come with me, join my team, work with us, base in England, bank account, fake ID, as we created for Sasha - who you met. He worked for Tomsk, I recruited him ... after we jumped from a helicopter.’

  ‘And the FBI, they think I am you?’

  ‘They do, for which we are grateful ... and we would have you play cat and mouse with the FBI from time to time, piss them off.’

  ‘If I don’t go back...’

  ‘I’ll tell Aideed that a jeep crashed, and you have a back injury, to return whenever it suits you.’

  Casper shrugged and made a face.

  ‘With me you would get access to the best training, best weapons, parachuting.’ I could see that he liked that idea. ‘And we both know you like that better than working for some arsehole who just wants you to shoot a rival.’

  ‘I like a challenge, yes. Not sure I could stomach working for someone like Tomsk full time.’

  ‘Given my working relationship with Leon, you would not be harmed or arrested, and you could leave whenever you wanted. It would serve no purpose to fuck you over.’

  He considered that. With a barely visible sly smile, he asked, ‘And you and I, we could compete on the shooting range, see who’s really best?’

  I smiled. ‘First we agree terms of the wager, then we make it a real test.’

  Franks put in, ‘Sounds like we have a deal then...’

  Casper shrugged. ‘I’ll see what the food is like, then decide.’

  I faced Franks. ‘Get us a ride, then ... then you have a report to file.’ We stood.

  ‘We do have one question,’ Franks began. He faced Casper. ‘Who paid you to infiltrate the Mi24 group?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that,’ I told Casper.

  Casper considered his answer. ‘Name is Belchov, and he hates Libintov – who he considered was running the Mi24 group.’

  F
ranks nodded. ‘He wanted to fuck over Libintov. We know Belchov, nothing political with him.’

  Our ride was ready quickly, a short trip of less than a mile to the French carrier, down and out, and I led Casper down to our happy home, where I found the gang sat around.

  ‘OK, listen up. This is Casper, and he’s joining us, same as Sasha. His English needs work, but he understands most things. He also shoots as well as I do, so he won’t slow us down. Sasha, brief Casper, get him food and water.’

  Sasha grabbed Casper and led him to his team, and they sat, chatting in Russian.

  ‘Another Russian?’ Moran queried, and not with his happy face on.

  ‘He’s a real find, a great asset. And in some place like The Congo he’ll get us real time human intel – and we’ll live longer.’

  Moran still did not look happy.

  I went and found Hunt, and shocked him. And I wondered why I enjoyed shocking him quite so much. After a good breakfast, and now on the deck, I called David.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, we were just chatting about you.’

  ‘You in the office at this early hour?’

  ‘I was in a hotel last night, in very early. I often quit at 4pm.’

  ‘Listen, you know a Russian hitman called Casper, well he just joined Echo, sat with the lads as we speak.’

  ‘You have Casper with you..?’

  ‘Yes, on the French carrier, so arrange some fake ID very soon; I’m bringing him back with us.’

  ‘He wants to work with you?’

  ‘Yes, and he has intel on many people that are of interest to you spy types. CIA know about it, and they already asked him a few questions.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘This guy is a mirror image of me, and he likes a challenge more than just shooting people. He already challenged me to a contest on the range.’

  ‘And what exactly will he be doing?’

  ‘Same as Sasha, part of the team.’

  ‘The FBI have his picture! They think he’s Petrov! We can’t have him wandering around British Army bases.’

  ‘Sure you can, and Sasha is a wanted man, so sort it. And as for the FBI ... we can play some games, get them off my case.’

  ‘Well, that would be a benefit, yes. Another stiff drink coming up.’

  Laughing, I put my phone away and took in our considerable convoy of ships, an impressive sight.

  With Hunt and Harris, we studied the maps of Somalia. ‘Here’s the area where Aideed’s rival is camped out, and here ... is just the one road to Ethiopia – who seem to be supporting this guy.’ I nodded to myself and took out my phone as I stepped out and to the deck.

  ‘Franks.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Hang on ... OK, go ahead.’

  I gave him the coordinates. ‘That road is a supply line to Aideed’s rival, so ... maybe a bomb or two late at night.’

  ‘Just a mountain road, and I can fake the reason.’

  ‘Hit the right spot and it will take months to fix.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  After chatting to Hunt, then to London, we knew we would be pulled out, the job done, and so the British and French ships broke formation with the US Navy and steamed southwest towards Kenya, the lads sunbathing and taking it easy, Sasha and Casper now like twin brothers and even showing each other their scars.

  Casper found me on the stern as the sunset over Somalia. ‘You pushed Sasha out from a fucking helicopter!’ he playfully complained.

  I laughed. ‘If you are lucky, I do the same to you!’

  ‘If a missile is coming in ... yes, nothing to lose.’ He took in the ship’s wake. ‘You have a good team, they like working for you, and this is something I always lacked, or wanted I suppose. Not easy to work alone, no one to chat to and have a laugh with. I miss my days in the Army.’

  ‘When we get to my base in England you can use the ranges, and we’ll set competitions. My men are the best there is, so it will be a real test for you.’

  ‘And the two French men?’

  ‘Both good, but not superstars. The New Zealander is good, the American is good but with little experience yet.’

  ‘And the best..?’ he teased.

  ‘Some are better with a pistol, some with a rifle, some run faster. If you beat Rocko – the big guy with the stupid moustache, then you are doing very well. In England I have a three-day test, a real challenge, little sleep. Rocko got 95%, most of my lads over 85%.’

  ‘I can try it, yes.’

  I told him, ‘Work on your fitness for a few weeks first, then it’s a case of hitting the targets quickly when you’re tired. I’ll put you through all our standard training, some you’ll already be good at, and HALO jumping in a team.’

  ‘And if I beat you at these tests..?’ he teased.

  ‘Then you can take over and I have a rest,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘You are not so keen to be top dog, eh...’

  ‘When you are top dog ... there are always people wanting to attack you and take your place. I even had some of my own Intel chiefs try and get me killed, because they were jealous.’

  He nodded. ‘When I won first prize in our unit I got some shit, yes, my kit damaged. Always this way with soldiers I think.’

  ‘And you joined the Legion..?’

  ‘After 1991 everything went to shit in Russia, and I wanted to get away from it. I had a friend who was running drugs, and he got me to France, but he was then caught. I saw an advert for the Legion, and I always dreamt about it as a boy – fighting in the deserts. I studied French in school more than English, Leon was always crazy about French wines and shit.

  ‘So I joined up, using the fake passport I had, but I don’t think they cared. They could see that I was good, so I went straight to the Parachute Brigade after basic training, but that basic training was cut short, just a few weeks, I didn’t need to shine my boots.’

  ‘And how did you get to be a famous assassin?’ I pressed.

  He took in the ships trailing us. ‘After three years in the Legion, time in Sierra Leone and West Africa, another Russian in the Legion left and he offered me work, introduced me to a few people, got to know Gorskov and others, and we started shooting people around Africa.’

  ‘You have a reputation as being as good as my alter ego Petrov, according to many around Africa...’

  He shrugged and made a face. ‘I trained hard, kept myself fit, was professional on the job when some of the teams I met were drinking and whoring. Some got caught, and I always stayed in a different hotel to them, spoke French, was careful.’

  ‘Most mercenaries are to be avoided,’ I told him. ‘Unprofessional jerks.’

  He nodded. ‘I had to be careful who I worked with. Some were more dangerous than those we went to shoot.’

  ‘And your contract to kill me in Sierra Leone?’

  ‘I was reluctant to take it, difficult to parachute in at night, and I knew you would be hard to get to, not just sat around waiting for someone to shoot you.’

  ‘My men would have run you down in the jungle if you had taken the shot,’ I pointed out.

  He nodded. ‘I figured as much, and I was wary about it. Still, I got paid up-front, then I shot the Russian middle man, and I accepted the contract whilst pretending to be a Belgian mercenary.’

  ‘And Freetown, two weeks back..?’

  He frowned and made a face. ‘I was not there, I was with the Mi24s.’

  I nodded, thinking about our mystery shooter.

  The following evening we approached Mombasa, flown ashore after thanking the French crew and the French commandos – ears still ringing, and after being rude to French Echo. Down from the Pumas we gathered in a group with our kit, embassy officials chatting to Hunt, provisional papers for Casper handed over with a new passport plus a provisional back story.

  Casper sat with Sasha and had to learn his back-story quickly, before we landed back in the UK.

  With several of the lads suggest
ing we hang out in Kenya instead of returning home, we boarded a commercial 757 just for us and a few FCO officials, soon heading north to a cooler climate, men taking rows of three seats and laying down, plenty of room for us all, our smelly socks the subject of complaint from the nice air hostesses.

  I woke as we hit with a bump at Bristol Airport, everyone complaining about the morning weather as soon as the door was opened, jackets put on and done up. Back at GL4 I made sure that Casper got a room, and he opted to be next to Henri, the two of them having bonded – long chats in French about the Legion on the flight back; they had common friends and associates.

  Kit down, I climbed the stairs and sat in with the Major, tea handed to me by O’Leary.

  ‘New offices are finished now,’ the Major began. ‘Be getting rid of the portakabins, more space down there.’

  I nodded. ‘Good, need more space for weapons I think.’

  He shook his head. ‘RAF built a room onto the armoury, then knocked a hole in the wall and put a door in, more space now, part time armourer from Brize Norton.’

  I grinned. ‘He get on OK with Bongo?’

  ‘Young lad, never knew Bongo before – or his bad habits!’

  I smiled and nodded, and sipped my tea.

  ‘Wounded men?’ the Major asked.

  ‘Cuts and scrapes, apart from Whisky and Hamble.’

  ‘Whisky is going to quit. He had his close call, wants his limbs left attached, going to do jungle guide work, TV crews.’

  ‘Don’t blame him. And Hamble?’

  ‘A hospice near Oxford, not too far, I popped in to see him. He ... seems depressed, very depressed.’

  ‘So would I be with a leg missing.’

  ‘He don’t know, but they have him on suicide watch.’ The Major waited.

  ‘I spoke to London, made sure they kept an eye on him. I don’t need him talking to anyone, or angry at the military.’

  ‘And if he’s a problem..?’

  I considered that. ‘London will shut his gob for him. But I’ll go see him, sound him out.’

  ‘He knows a lot about us, if he decides to write a book with a grudge...’

  ‘If he went down that road then I would stop him; I’m not having what we’ve achieved spoilt like that. I understand his pain better than most, I was nearly there myself.’