Wilco- Lone Wolf 17 Read online

I wondered if I could motivate him to help me out. ‘Mister Miller, within a few short days the bank and Petrobras will cease to exist.’

  ‘Hold on there for a few days, let us deal with a few people,’ he urged. ‘We know who was behind the plastic surgery doppleganger, and we have a lead on the men who killed your father, sent by Soropov but at the request of the bank. We’re mad about that, very mad, we need you training men, so we’ll deal with them, just … take a break for a few days.’

  ‘You have a few days,’ I threatened.

  I called Bob Staines.

  He began, ‘I just saw Reuters about your father. Irish men?’

  ‘Ex-IRA, working for the now-dead Soropov I think. Listen, how many men on your list, foot soldiers working for the bank?’

  ‘Fifty odd.’

  ‘Do you have a lead on the chairman of the board, his bodyguards?’

  ‘Yes, got a file on them – just in case.’

  ‘Well this is just in case, so go after them and work down the list quickly. Oh, Tomsk is going to send you some money. Send it to a solicitor in London, one in Paris, and have the newspapers offer large cash rewards for information on anyone wanting to kill me, anyone linked to Lord Michaels or involved in a conspiracy with a bomb. And any corrupt police officers in London.’

  ‘How much is he sending?’

  ‘No idea. Use some of our money anyhow, send some to The Sun newspaper in London, and tonight.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  Off the phone, I considered driving to see Kate, but that might just make her more of a target, so we headed back down to GL4.

  Back at my house, I paused at the front door and headed next door, finding Moran and Ginger, both instantly sullen when they saw me. ‘Not on holiday yet?’ I asked them.

  ‘We’ve just been discussing it, but we’re not keen on a beach somewhere. Heard about your father…’

  We sat.

  ‘They did him a favour, he was terminally ill, about to kill himself – and my mother was about to kill him for being so morbid and miserable. She’s off down to Benidorm.’

  ‘And Kate?’ Moran nudged.

  ‘I got Nicholson and Swan with her. I left out Tomo.’

  They smiled. ‘Just as well,’ Moran noted. ‘He’d be trying to shag her, pregnant and all.’

  We spoke for an hour about the new No.1 Field Recon, and both would make a start on the paperwork and facilities, a split stores area.

  As I got back to my house, MP Pete sticking close by, David Finch called.

  He began, ‘Are you … trying to make friends in the Metropolitan Police perhaps?’

  ‘No, trying to shake out the cobwebs. And before you see it, Tomsk will send some money to the tabloids, large cash rewards for information.’

  ‘Might do some good, yes. Prime Minister got the Reuters release, not entirely unhappy with it, yet very unhappy at the attack on the police of course. He’s waiting to hear from the Norwegians.’

  ‘The man who organised the hit on my father was from the bank. Soropov simply hired the men.’

  ‘So the bank is still mad at you.’

  ‘For a few days more.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Means that my Uncle Sam has promised to act.’

  ‘Oh. Then we shall watch the Reuters screen avidly and hope for no fallout.’

  ‘Is Jeremy Michaels well enough to move?’

  ‘He had surgery on his neck, now healing in a private Harley Street clinic, police waiting to interview him. There’s no arrest warrant yet, but there are many unanswered questions for him. Doctors are saying he should not talk or be stressed.’

  After a bite to eat, the TV news detailing my father’s murder, Langley called, the Deputy Chief. ‘Wilco, we’re all sorry for your loss, and mad as hell here. You know who it was?’

  ‘Soropov I think.’

  ‘He’s dead, can’t kill him twice!’

  ‘I have a lead on the man that gave him a nudge, he’s sat in Belgium.’

  ‘Oh, them again. You about to do something dumb?’

  ‘No, I have friends for that.’

  ‘Will it be loud?’

  ‘Yes. Watch Reuters.’

  Next caller was Prince Kalid. ‘Major Wilco, I heard about your father…’

  I gave him the story. Finally, I asked, ‘What about Ludwig?’

  ‘He passes out a great deal, a drug dependency, so it is slow work. He was answering to a Belgian man, De Heere, however that is pronounced.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll look into that man. And a few weeks from now I will bring my men to Oman, and we will go over the border into Yemen.’

  ‘You shall have all you need, my friend,’ he promised.

  I called The Banker, the real one. ‘It’s Wilco.’

  ‘Just heard about your father. You … OK?’

  ‘Fine. Listen, did you come across someone from the bank called De Heere?’

  ‘Yes, he’s No.3 there.’

  ‘Do you have detailed plans of the building, and drains, surrounding area?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Send me a copy without anyone knowing, right away.’

  ‘You’ll hit the building, or the people in it?’

  ‘I have an idea, but I won’t be involved.’

  ‘And the staff..?’

  ‘Should not be harmed, I hope, but I need to end this – to stop them killing even more people. There may be some collateral damage, but they need to be stopped to save more lives down the line.’

  I grabbed Pete, and we drove around to the huts and found Salome. She opened her door in bra and knickers only, not a bashful bone in her body, and it was a very fit and toned body, olive skin.

  I began, ‘Bank board member, De Heere.’ I spelt it. ‘He was controlling Soropov, might have had a hand in the death of Callus. Send it up the line.’

  ‘I will do, yes.’ She put her hands on her hips when she noticed Pete staring.

  ‘What?’ Pete protested. ‘Nothing wrong with appreciating a beautiful woman.’

  She shrugged a shoulder, almost smiled, and closed the door.

  Outside, I said to Pete, ‘Take a holiday, eh, get yourself a hooker.’

  ‘I have a steady lady, kind of, Oxford police.’

  ‘Kind of?’

  ‘They keep her busy, different shift pattern.’

  ‘Alter your shifts to go see her, could be dead next week.’

  ‘Nah, I’m crap on night duty. I sleep midnight to 7am, and that way I can cover you. Captain knows that.’

  At 8am Pete brought me a heavy load of papers, a huge silly grin fixed across his face as he plonked them down on my kitchen table. ‘You made every fucking paper, most of them using half the front page. The Sun has a modest six-page spread.’

  I flicked through several of them. The tabloids were all about democracy and the fight against the conspirators, the broadsheets level – and not criticising the old boy network, their readers. Many had a photo of Sid James and the title of “Carry on London”.

  My phone trilled, David Finch. ‘You’ve seen the papers, I take it.’

  ‘Just sat looking at them.’

  ‘Norway is reeling, not least because three government ministers were shot dead last night, and two former ministers are giving their stories in exchange for immunity. Not much happens in Norway, so this will keep them all reading the papers for some time. And most people there already suspected NordGas of being up to no good.

  ‘Police are out in force at the London home of Lord Michaels, and his country estate, his wife in police protection. His London home had its windows broken for a second time.

  ‘Hold on … Radio London … is offering a million pound reward to anyone with information about Lord Michaels or information about corrupt London police officers. Well, that should have a few people worried today.’

  ‘Hopefully quite a few. Tomsk will post the reward money.’

  ‘What do you have planned for the next few days?’
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br />   It was an odd question, a very odd question. ‘Starting work on No.1 Field Recon. I’ll … be here if you need me.’

  I called Bob Staines ten minutes later.

  Bob began, ‘Ah, I was going to call. Tomsk transferred a hundred and twenty million dollars to me.’

  ‘He doesn’t do things in a small way. You already offered up rewards?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘No? Radio London offered up a reward. Contact them via a solicitor, offer them an extra five million quid, fast as you can.’

  ‘I’ve got a solicitor ready, three in fact.’

  ‘Work fast, we might catch some of these shits.’

  Over at the hangar I saw the Major drive in, civvy clothes, but looking tired, or worried, or both. He stepped up to me. ‘You OK?’

  ‘They did him a favour, he had terminal cancer.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m leaving, right now, kit will be brought back by my neighbour, screw the forms.’

  ‘And I don’t blame you. Get a flight today, pay extra, I’ll send you the cash.’

  ‘No need, I altered the flights, we fly in the morning, night in a hotel in Gatwick, chair up against the door!’

  ‘Hold your head up high, you did well and helped us make a difference here, and I’ll beat these little shits – or die trying.’ We shook, and he drove off, leaving me stare after him, a hole in my chest. His departure had been long planned, but it still felt like my older brother was leaving home for good. I stood watching till his car was no longer visible.

  I sat in with Moran and Ginger as they tackled paperwork. ‘Major Bradley has gone, worried about his safety, and his family.’

  They were not that shocked.

  ‘Who takes over?’ Moran asked.

  ‘You two need to be leading men in the field, so not you.’ I eased back, thinking, then stepped out and walked up to the territorials stores – their grey metal shed. Billy, Major Coalridge, was sat at his desk with a sergeant and an admin corporal.

  He stood. And looked sorry for me. ‘You coping?’

  ‘Forget about it. Look, I need a man I can trust doing the admin for Echo, Bradley has gone.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why not, you’re the best qualified.’

  ‘I … was planning on retiring at the end of this year.’

  ‘Don’t, come help me.’ I waited, the NCOs glancing at Billy.

  ‘What about the MOD? They may have a candidate.’

  ‘Fuck them, it’s my unit. If you agree to move across I’ll talk to them.’

  ‘Well, it is the sought after position, be a few hotheads wanting to do it.’

  ‘There are not many I could trust. But be sure about it, because you will be in danger.’

  He nodded. ‘If you want me for it I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls. Don’t plan a holiday, or your retirement!’

  In the Intel Section they all stopped to face me. ‘Listen up! My father was terminally ill, and suicidal, so … they did him a favour, my mum to get some peace during Coronation Street. Forget it, move on.’ I stepped into the Brigadier’s office. ‘Bradley has gone.’

  ‘Gone? He … was due to end next week.’

  ‘He thought that his family were in danger. I just asked Major Coalridge to replace him, so can you chat to Colonel Marsh and ask him to release Billy?’

  ‘You and him go way back,’ he noted.

  ‘Someone I can trust. If Colonel Marsh is OK with it, send a note up the line, see if anyone objects.’

  At the map table, Major Sanderson approached me. ‘I just heard that I’m to be made up, and to head up No.1 Field Recon. Captain Harris will become a major and head up this team.’

  I nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘But … 14 Intel did suggest one of theirs for the new post.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ I loudly stated, people turning heads. I quietly added, ‘Sir.’ I left them with that.

  An hour later Colonel Marsh gave his consent, an admin major to replace Billy for now, and Billy took over Bradley’s desk.

  I told Billy, ‘Sit with Moran, go through everything that’s on this desk, then get Captain Harris - soon to be Major Harris, to brief you on everything he does, and the external bases. Fortunately, the paperwork is up to date – and most of the lads are on holiday.’

  I found Henri and Sambo training our Guinea soldiers on the range. I told Henri, ‘I want them to tackle the map reading and route planning, the tricks and tests, then first aid. Up here they learn what they can’t cover down in Sierra Leone, the classroom stuff.’

  He nodded. ‘They are good men already, they shoot well, good at running. Many speak French.’

  David Finch called as I stood there. ‘Jeremy Michaels had his throat slit, no witnesses.’

  ‘Those that live by the scalpel…’

  ‘Indeed. And Sir David Chesters was just shot dead outside his home, along with his wife and daughter…’

  ‘Amateur, to shoot the family, unless … unless someone wanted a message sent.’

  ‘Your Uncle Sam?’

  ‘What was that man linked into?’

  ‘He was on the board of NordGas for many years before he retired a few years back. Press will have a field day here.’

  ‘Dead men don’t talk,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, so let’s hope he didn’t write a tell-all book before he passed. Oh, Radio London is now offering ten million pound in rewards.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘Yes, ten.’

  ‘They seem keen.’

  ‘Tomsk?’

  ‘Spectre, money from Tomsk, but only five million.’

  ‘Then someone wants the truth to out. And there’s an emergency debate in parliament tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe the useless wankers will wake up at last.’

  I sat having lunch in the canteen, many men awkward around me, odd looks given. Norway was in chaos, protests outside their parliament building, and here in London a Metropolitan Police commissioner had resigned, glimpsed hiding his face from the Press hordes as he ducked into a car.

  David called as I walked up to the hangar, a few Wolves running around the track. ‘A bomb has gone off in an office in Docklands, six men killed, a dozen wounded -’

  ‘And these men did what for a living?’ I cut in.

  ‘Ran syndicates for Lloyds of London, and would have worked closely with Lord Michaels and Richard Devauden the younger. Prime Minister has asked where you and your men were last night.’

  ‘I was here, and the CCTV shows that, and my men are not involved, my Uncle Sam is. Do you not want to see an end to this mess?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but through arrests and trials.’

  ‘Ha, like fuck you do. No one wants to see those men on the stand, and there are probably a few of yours linked in, like your Paris branch. So let’s hope that they’re not uncovered, but slip on a bar of soap instead.’

  ‘Well, I have to maintain the idea of law and order and due process, at least openly.’

  He was back on an hour later. ‘Three men shot dead, two are ex-SAS, one ex-police.’

  ‘Starting joining the dots between them.’

  ‘We are.’

  In with Tinker, Reggie still with us three days a week, I had them join the dots as well.

  The Brigadier stepped out to me. ‘Had the MOD on the line, and they’ve taken back the land around us.’

  ‘They have?’ I puzzled and people turned to face us.

  ‘They spoke to the farmer about taking back some land, only to find that he was retiring very soon, his son banged-up for selling red diesel, so within a few days we’ll have it all – farm house to boot.’

  ‘Ask that they extend the fence around it, signs up warning people that we’ll shoot them. Then ask for more huts, sir.’

  ‘More huts on the way, should be here tomorrow. They were at some base closing down, wooden but nice, not old.’

  ‘Maybe they could sit behind the barracks, sir.’

 
‘There are underground pipes in concrete tunnels, so the huts need to sit near them, wherever they are.’

  ‘I have a map, sir,’ the nice lady captain offered.

  We laid it out and had a look, and there was a suitable pipe tunnel sat behind the barracks.

  Captain Harris took a call, and informed us, ‘Lorries with wooden huts on, arriving at the gate.’

  ‘The MOD a day early?’ the Brigadier quipped. ‘Impossible!’

  Outside, we observed the large lorries moving slowly around the perimeter track, an RAF jeep pulling up near to us – at the rope barrier, the same RAF facilities officer stepping down.

  ‘Lorries are a day early I’m afraid.’ He saluted the Brigadier.

  ‘Great,’ I told him. ‘Behind the barracks?’

  ‘Yes, best spot, we can use the water tank on the barracks roof. Each hut has two toilets, two showers, small kitchen lounge area, six rooms. Quite new, no graffiti, they hosted lady soldiers.’

  I counted six huts, so thirty-six extra men could be hosted in them.

  ‘There are twelve huts in total,’ I was then informed.

  I turned my head to the Brigadier. ‘I came here with less than twenty men at the start.’

  He nodded. ‘This airfield was due to be sold off to developers.’

  At 5pm David Finch was back on, and exasperated. ‘I’ve had a formal demand from the Prime Minister that none of my people, and none of your people, were involved in today’s action in London.’

  ‘Not to worry, we’re not involved. Oh, got six new huts here, six more to arrive, so plenty of extra beds for men, no shortage of space for No.1 Field Recon.’

  ‘Least of my worries today; four more men shot in the last hour. And in Norway, three men were found hanging, apparent suicides. One was a former government minister, two had been with NordGas. Oh, French media outlets are offering large rewards for information about those behind the attempt to kill you.’

  ‘That will make some people nervous, hopefully.’

  At 9pm Bob Staines called. ‘The bodyguard of the chairman shot himself in the head, apparently.’

  ‘Must have been depressed, what with Antwerp rush-hour traffic being what it is.’

  ‘And six of his known associates were shot dead.’

  ‘Some squabble, I guess.’

  ‘Yes, a squabble. Money has gone to various solicitors, money offered to media outlets. One man, a senior Paris police officer, has offered to tell all for five million euro and safe passage out, so I’ve made contact through a middleman. We’ll video tape the evidence statement, check it, then release it.’