Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Wankers,’ Rocko let out. ‘All on the same fucking side.’

  ‘The various agencies like to compete, and a few months back a certain agency – or individuals within it – tried to kill me so that Bob Staines would be set back. There was, recently, a similar attempt on me, and what we now know is that 14 Intel were directly involved. They mean to get rid of me, and this detachment, by discrediting us.’

  Moran began, ‘So that they can justify their existence? Fuck’s sake, we’re all on the same side, and we all follow orders!’

  ‘Can’t the MOD do something?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘They ... wish it kept quiet, because it would be embarrassing to have a court case,’ I pointed out.

  ‘We can’t shoot the fuckers,’ Rizzo pointed out.

  ‘No, but we can provoke them. So, tonight and this weekend, if you have nothing on – and you want to have a job next week – we’ll provoke them.’

  ‘And if they come at us?’ Moran asked.

  ‘We’ll defend ourselves,’ I firmly stated. ‘If we believe in what we’re doing, if we like working here, then we fight for that, and we don’t let these wankers spoil it because they’re jealous of us.’

  ‘Send them my way,’ Rocko warned. ‘I’m not having what we’ve achieved ruined by some jealous wanker behind a desk.’

  ‘So, if you’re available and in, tonight we’ll provoke them, and then see; their phones are tapped anyhow.’

  When Major Preston returned home from a night out with his wife and sister – in a taxi because his car had been stolen, he found their second car trashed, the house inside damaged beyond repair, the house alarm neutralised. His wife was traumatised to the point of needing an ambulance, all of their possessions destroyed, all old family photographs, the works.

  Preston had gone to his desk to find his locked drawers busted open, the contents removed.

  North of Oxford, a Major O’Sullivan’s home – empty at the moment, was burnt to the ground, locked metal cabinets removed first, his prize vintage cars destroyed.

  Near High Wycombe, the priceless 17th century Georgian cottage belonging to the CO of 14 Intel - a family treasure, as well as its priceless contents, were destroyed, all covered in green paint, his wife returning home to find the mess. And that metal cabinets had been removed.

  In the morning I drove to Colonel Richard’s home, surprising him, and surprising his young Asian lady.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

  ‘Have a man put on this house, sir, and take one with you for a while, Bob Staines thinks 14 Intel may do something silly. They are, apparently, very jealous of our successes, and want us gone. Oh, and I may have trashed their colonel’s house overnight.’

  ‘You what?’

  I took a moment. ‘He sent a man to kill me,’ I lied, or at least stretched it a bit.

  The Colonel’s eyes widened. ‘He ... sent a man?’

  I nodded. ‘We hid the body.’

  The Colonel checked over his shoulder. ‘You realise how serious this is?’

  ‘Yes, but Bob doesn’t want a court case, not yet, so ... we fight back. And be careful on the phone, sir, you never know. I’m off to see the Major and warn him. And if push comes to shove, blame Bob – I work for him.’

  At the Major’s house I repeated the story, and he was outraged that 14 Intel were still interested in me. He would carry his pistol, and god help anyone who came for him.

  Back at home, I got a call from Bob. ‘Some news,’ he began. ‘The senior staff at 14 Intel have made a formal allegation against your detachment and against myself regarding some alleged damage at their private residences.’

  ‘Do they have any ... evidence?’

  ‘Not a shred. And the MOD is investigating the claims, the Cabinet Office asking delicate questions, the kind that 14 Intel would not wish to answer. They did, apparently, have classified files at home. Earlier today, Oxford police were handed some, found by a woman on a bus.’

  ‘That’s always embarrassing, leaving classified files on a bus.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Bob agreed. ‘So those responsible for the files will have to answer for them, not least because they detailed IRA double agents and informants. Prime Minster will be briefed Monday, at which point raised voices might be heard. By the way, where were you and the lads last night?’

  ‘All getting drunk in the curry house, fifty reliable witnesses,’ I told him.

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘Oh, I understand entirely, and ... enjoy the rest of your weekend.’

  On the Monday morning we held detachment orders, Travis welcomed, the lads asked about minor wounds, aches and pains.

  Once courses and training schedules were set – most training to be done up at The Factory, I reminded them that we might get called to London or Brize Norton to meet the French President.

  Facing Dicky, I asked, ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fucking terrible,’ he came back with. ‘Spent three days seeing families, kids crying, wives and parents crying. By Sunday night I was ready to blow my brains out.’

  ‘You can take some time off, they were your mates,’ I told him.

  ‘I’d rather keep busy, less time to think about it.’

  I nodded. ‘OK.’ I faced Smitty. ‘Smitty, you could be up for an award, but don’t go jumping from helicopters too often. Are you ... happy to stay with us, not ... wishing to be anywhere else?’

  He looked worried. ‘I’m happy to stay here, if you want me.’

  ‘Are we happy to have him onboard?’ I asked he group, all agreeing and nodding.

  Tomo said, ‘Smitty has to stay, because me and him are watching Rocko’s waistline.’

  Rocko stood and growled, everyone laughing at him as Tomo ducked away.

  ‘Rocko is not fat, he’s just a big lad,’ I said with a smile, Rocko pointing a dangerous finger at Tomo.

  Finally, I said, ‘OK. From now and till told otherwise, all of you must tighten up on security, and the use of phones at home. You must all check that you’re not being followed, check for bombs under your cars, and be very careful what you say to people.

  ‘We’ve enjoyed a great deal of publicity this year, and there are those who would like to knock us back, so you all need to be very careful. There is one specific threat, so keep your personal firearms on you, check houses and apartments, but don’t go crazy, and remember – you shoot someone on a UK street without justification and you go to prison. If they’re shooting at you, fine, shoot back, and call the duty officer here or me. If you see or hear anything suspicious, let us know.’

  Meeting breaking up, I went across to the Major and took him into see the Colonel. We exchanged looks. I began, ‘Fuckers at 14 Intel still have an interest in me, enough to try and kill me.’

  ‘We should bury them,’ the Major angrily suggested.

  ‘I buried the guy that came for me, so ... I’d like to keep it out of the courts,’ I told them.

  ‘I’ll be gone in four weeks, maybe less,’ the Colonel stated. ‘The new hot-head has petitioned the MOD to take over soon, since it suits his family’s move from Northern Ireland.’

  ‘If you do go, sir, be careful,’ I warned. ‘They may think you sanctioned the job south of the border.’

  ‘I did,’ he testily pointed out. ‘But their guy was dirty, not our damn fault.’

  ‘What’ll Bob do?’ the Major asked. ‘This is his mess.’

  ‘We’ve provoked 14 Intel, in the hope that they do something stupid and come for me again, and this morning the Prime Minister was briefed because a major at 14 Intel lost very sensitive files, and they ended up on a bus, details of informants in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Be hell to pay,’ the Major suggested.

  ‘In the meantime, if you think you’re being followed or there’s someone near your homes, call me ... and we’ll drop them very loudly. But we have a plan, and we should soon see 14 Intel dealt with.’

  The RSM knoc
ked and entered, paper in hand. ‘Ah, all of you together, good. French President at Brize Norton on Wednesday, Echo Detachment and any regular lads who were in Djibouti to attend.’ He handed the Colonel the page.

  ‘RAF are going to make a big show of it,’ I told them before I saluted and left.

  Bob called me on the detachment landline at 5pm. ‘14 Intel have been called in front of the Defence Minister to explain the documents, but they claim that your men broke into their homes and took the documents, and that it was a set-up, and that led to a questions as to why you would be motivated to do such a thing. At which point 14 Intel had few answers, even when pressed.

  ‘They then suggested that things had gone on that they could not discuss openly, at which point the Defence Secretary and the Head of the Army shouted at 14 Intel, since there were no secrets that they should not have been privy to.’

  ‘14 Intel walked right into that one,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘There’s now a high level MOD and Cabinet Office investigation under way, and just an hour ago a journalist in Northern Ireland somehow got hold of documents from 14 Intel suggesting that they killed a Protestant and framed an IRA man. A shit storm is about to break.’

  Watching the news that evening it was not pretty, the Army very embarrassed, the Prime Minister feeling the heat, a formal enquiry opened.

  Without discussing it with Bob I called the switchboard at Aldergrove in Northern Ireland and asked for 14 Intel, and with their surprised duty officer I left my mobile number.

  Their colonel called me back fifteen minutes later. ‘That Wilco?’

  ‘It is, Colonel, how are things in the province?’

  ‘You know damn well how they are.’

  ‘And how are things ... at home?’

  There came a long silence. ‘How are things in your home?’ he finally said.

  ‘Quiet, dull, and I was thinking of changing my magnolia to a more ... green colour. I think green goes with most things, don’t you.’

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘Good question. What do you want with me, since, as I keep telling people, I follow orders – I don’t think for myself. So how come your people are interested in little old me?’

  ‘Who says they are?’

  ‘Well, the file in front of me – that used to be your file – says that you’re interested in me, and it’s a thick document.’

  Again there was a long pause. ‘Where did you get that file?’

  ‘Was sent to me anonymously, at the base, by a member of the public.’

  ‘If it was sent anonymously, what makes you think it was a member of the public?’ he testily asked.

  ‘Just a guess, since a member of the intelligence services would probably not get involved with such things. They’d value their jobs. Which reminds me, I’m meeting with the Prime Minister on Wednesday, he wants to thank me personally for rescuing those French hostages, a private little chat.’

  I waited as another long silence came. I continued, ‘I guess, given how sloppy your people are with files, that the IRA may soon get a list of all of your staff and informants, their addresses, even their tax codes, as well as details of many operations going back decades, the details of which would put a great many people in jail. What about you, Colonel, did you ever do anything illegal?’

  ‘What is it you want?’ he asked, but now I could detect the crack in his voice.

  ‘Well, first of all, I guess that I want people to understand that I follow orders, and that the Head of Operations at SIS sets my agenda. I really don’t like thinking for myself. What I want is, I guess, to be left alone, and that any enquiries about things people think I might have done be sent to those who give me the orders. Do you ... think that’s reasonable, Colonel?’

  ‘I ... think that’s how things should work, yes, Captain.’

  ‘Excellent, then we understand each other. Of course, should I find anyone taking further interest in me I will react badly, and I guess ... you’ve not seen me in a bad mood, or you’d know to avoid it, Colonel. I was in bad mood in Bosnia, and you don’t want to see that close up, Colonel, it’s not pretty. Have a nice evening.’

  I cut the call, and knocked the kettle on, thinking.

  Bob called an hour later. ‘You spoke to the Colonel at 14 Intel?’

  ‘Tapping my phone, Bob?’ I teased.

  ‘No, but his. He’s very worried. Using indirect words, he’s now threatening me.’

  ‘Then my call did some good, because one of the things I pointed out was that I follow orders – which I do.’

  ‘I don’t like little shits like him threatening me, I’m an ambitious man, I want to live long and retire, so I’m going to fuck him over.’

  ‘From you, Bob, that’s one hell of a big threat.’

  ‘We achieved a great deal, we don’t need this shit, we should all be on the same side.’

  ‘True, very true. Oh, did you get anywhere with Captain Samantha Hedge?’

  He sighed loudly. ‘That’s something else that I have to deal with, and that’s fucking annoying as well.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She applied to join us, and she has great language skills, fit, she tackles mountain climbing and parachuting, real action girl.’

  ‘So she’s clean then?’

  ‘Not quite. I ran some checks and she’s been offered a good position in Research, fast track promotion, including field work.’

  ‘Do your Research staff do field work?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Some, yes, not dangerous normally, lots of joint ventures with other agencies, conferences.’

  ‘So ... your opposite number in Research wants to screw you over?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘Bob, your place of employment sounds like it needs one of those team building exercises, a day out of the office.’

  ‘Take more than that.’

  ‘Well, Bob, use the opportunity, I’ll help you out.’

  ‘How so?’ he puzzled.

  ‘I’ll snuggle up to her, you give me a story – I give her that story, she passes it on, and when your rival uses it he looks like a plonka.’

  ‘I keep saying this, but you’re wasted down there.’

  ‘Get me a good story, one that your boss will know is false. Say I killed someone.’

  ‘I have an idea already. I’ll get back to you.’

  On the Wednesday we drove over to Brize Norton in the coaches, police escort of two cars, and I had told everyone to wear desert brown, soft caps, kit to be taken but no live ammo; we would be dressed as we were in Djibouti.

  Down from the coaches we formed up, and got looks straight away since we appeared to all be heavily armed and oddly dressed, many of the RAF in the No.1 dress uniforms today. We waited for the Regulars, who were also in everyday uniforms, and as a group we ambled around to the Parachute School and to the apron, the Major checking his watch.

  2 Squadron were all in No.1 uniform, as were the pilots and crews and the medics, and we caused a few looks as we ambled across looking like we were about to go on a job. I spotted Henri and his men marching around a corner, and they were smarter than we were, the rest of 2 Squadron here, the SBS dressed in everyday wear, a band stood waiting in front of two Chinooks, Hercules behind them, a line of senior officers all fixed on me. I walked over to them, stopping and saluting the Air Commodore.

  ‘You look like you’re off to war,’ he noted.

  ‘Well, sir, we don’t have a standard No.1 dress uniform – different parent units, most of the lads are not allowed to wear SAS berets, so I thought we’d look as we do in the field – as if being inspected in the field. We are certainly not ... uniform, as a group.’

  ‘No, quite,’ he agreed.

  I turned my head a notch, smiled, and shook hands with the Group Captain. ‘Long time, sir.’

  ‘Too long, come visit sometime.’

  ‘They keep me very busy, sir.’

  ‘I know, you’re in the papers most e
very week.’

  I glanced over my shoulder at my detachment as they kind of formed two lines. ‘Do they look suitably ... menacing, sir?’

  ‘They do,’ the Air Commodore and others agreed.

  A bunch of men in suits appeared, armed police officers with them, French military officers walking out, and I recognised Henri’s boss. He came over and I saluted.

  ‘Hello again, Colonel,’ I offered.

  ‘Good to see you are well, and your request for liaison men has been approved, they will remain behind today.’

  ‘A new chapter in Anglo-French relations,’ I said. The Air Commodore was looking puzzled. I explained, ‘We will have two French soldiers embedded with us, a close working relationship.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ he agreed, a the noise of a jet landing causing us to turn, and we observed the small RAF passenger jet landing and taxiing around, engines throttled back, steps moved up, and the Prime Minister and the French President stepped down with their posse.

  As they approached, various sergeants or officers called groups to attention, and the band started playing the French national anthem. Captain Moran brought my rabble to attention.

  The senior officers stepped forwards as I stepped back to my scruffy rabble, salutes given, hands shaken, introductions made. The group turned left and inspected the RAF Regiment, chatting to Haines, then around to the French soldiers and Henri, a long chat as we waited, to the additional support flights from 2 Squadron, and then to us. I saluted, rifle in my left hand.

  ‘Are your men well?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘Any injuries?’

  ‘A few cuts and scrapes, sir, one leg operation which went well, so all back to duty, but ... two SBS soldiers on loan were badly hurt when the French helicopter went down, so they won’t be coming back.’

  ‘No, I heard, we lost a few in that accident,’ he said, the French President getting a translation.

  ‘We are sorry for you losses,’ the interpreter said.

  ‘We cannot train for accidents,’ I offered him. ‘Only plan for them. We recently lost two men in a car crash.’

  ‘You will now have two of our men with you always,’ the interpreter noted.