‘Sea Hawks, Wilco, receiving.’

  ‘Wilco, Sea Hawks, go ahead.’

  ‘Sea Hawks, Wilco, where are we taking you?’

  ‘Wilco, Sea Hawks, we’re waiting a ride down to Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Sea Hawks, Wilco, we’re fully fuelled, we can take you. Standby.’

  I transmitted, ‘American Wolves, eight men per helo, board in sequence and off, remainder stay here. And make safe your fucking rifles!’

  I could see the Wolves knelt in lines as the Sea Hawks touched down on the road, eight Wolves counted aboard each helo, Crab seen boarding. As it grew quiet I took in the view north, smoke seen rising.

  ‘Why we leaving?’ Mitch asked.

  I glanced at him. ‘We’re not policemen, and we should have never been here. How many tin-pot dictators in Africa are at odds with their people, how many coups around Africa, and which side do we take – they’re all as bad as each other?

  ‘When I notified local people here that the current President was dead, that’s what started the street party. So how do we choose which side when both sides are scumbags?’

  ‘Tough call, yeah, so we just follow orders.’

  ‘My orders … were to assess the situation, and I was reminded that I had operational control on the ground. So we bug out and stop playing arbiter between two snakes.’ I pointed north. ‘We could have lost ten men to a rocket or mortar, or lost thirty men to a car bomb.’

  I shook my head. ‘Whether the politics is justified or not, we’re a small specialist team, so we don’t throw away lives and we don’t risk them. Look at Mahoney’s team, all gone in one hit.’

  The lads stood around chatting in small groups, but we were dispersed well enough, a few dirt mounds for cover if we needed it, a stone wall around dilapidated playground swings to duck behind.

  The Chinooks soon returned, the Regulars sent to the airport after being thanked – and after my lads had been suitably rude to them, Morten’s team now back down at the embassies with 2 Squadron.

  When the Chinooks returned I had them take the remainder of the American and British Wolf recruits, plus my veteran Wolves, and they would fly down to Sierra Leone, an hour’s return trip at least. We sat against the stone wall and got a brew on as cars passed by, Sasha and Casper near me with their team – Casper having tried the kid’s swing.

  Half an hour later my phone trilled. ‘It’s David. We sent the French your tip-off, and I guess they had people at the border with Switzerland, but … the truck was spotted just as it was about to leave a tunnel and approach a checkpoint, so the driver detonated the bomb – in the tunnel.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘French estimate three hundred dead.’

  My face dropped, the lads all focused on me. ‘I think the French may want to know the source of the intel.’

  ‘They have already sent in a request, yes.’

  ‘Source was Gorskov, and he wants some money for the information. He bugged someone to get it, Greek pipeline man, or at least the man is in Greece. I’ll see what else I can find out.’

  Phone down, I took in their expectant faces, and settled on Henri. ‘A truck bomb has gone off in a tunnel, border of France and Switzerland, three hundred dead.’

  He threw his hands in the air and cursed.

  I stood and walked away, calling Gorskov. ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘Did you manage to sell the information?’

  ‘You will get paid yes, but when the truck was stopped it exploded, three hundred civilians killed.’

  After a long pause came, ‘I never knew how big a bomb, I only had what I told you.’

  ‘The French Government will be looking very hard for the people behind it, very hard.’

  ‘I’ll try and find out what I can, but this man in Greece just supplies a truck with fake plates and papers, to move things, I don’t think he knew his truck would be blown up, maybe just someone moving a small bomb and then putting it somewhere.’

  ‘To take such a risk with a bomb he must have been well paid. Get all the information you can on him, the French will ask me to … visit you.’

  ‘Hey, I came to you with this!’

  ‘Yes, and I appreciate it, but three hundred dead is not something that goes away. Find out all you can and get back to me.’

  ‘OK, I call my man there in Athens.’

  I sat and chatted to the lads about the truck bomb, but assured them that it was nothing to do with our operation down here.

  Gorskov came back on quickly. ‘My man has more information. The driver was Egyptian, that’s all he knows about the truck. But there is another truck, green one with “Bauhauser Beer” on it, on a ship for England. Something illegal on it.’

  ‘Something illegal?’

  ‘No mention of a bomb, and this man moves trucks all day long, so it could be anything.’

  ‘Including a bomb. The Greek man?’

  ‘He is from Macedonia, name of Spiro Ganter.’ He detailed an address, which I wrote down.

  I called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco. Man by the name of Spiro Ganter, born in Macedonia, now operating out of this address in Athens.’ I detailed the address. ‘He’s the pipeline facilitator that hired the truck carrying the bomb. He knew there was a bomb on board, but not how and where it would be used – certainly not to destroy his own truck. Driver was Egyptian. Get that to David Finch and the French.

  ‘Second, there is a green truck with Bauhauser Beer written on the side, on a ship or ferry headed for the UK, so alert all ports. Something illegal on it.’

  ‘Something illegal..?’

  ‘Could be a large bomb, or pork past its sell-by date. The information gained simply states that it carries something illegal.’

  ‘And the source of the information?’

  ‘Same as the French truck bomb.’

  ‘So we can assume it’s a ruddy great bomb!’

  ‘I’d err on the side of caution – and panic. Wilco out.’ Facing the teams, I said, ‘Now there’s a bomb on a truck heading for the UK. Fortunately, we have the English Channel.’

  Moran began, ‘And this is not about our operation here?’

  ‘All the main players are dead, so … who’s pissed at us?’ I posed.

  ‘Who fired them rockets?’ Rizzo posed.

  ‘Who’s the paymaster,’ Mitch posed, and we exchanged looks.

  I told them, ‘Paymaster for the coup colonel here was rumoured to be Nigerian, but the fucking Nigerians would never have a go at Paris and London, they’d get a nuke up their arses. Driver of the French truck was Egyptian, and he blew himself up.’

  ‘That’s al-Qaeda,’ Moran noted. ‘Nigerians don’t blow themselves up.’

  In pleasant sunshine we sat and waited, Rizzo trying the swings and breaking one, the Chinooks finally returning for us, Echo split across two Chinooks, and we powered down the coast, thirty-five minutes to the FOB, down and out, the American Wolves now back in the lush green tree line.

  The tall thin captain closed in on me. Before he could say anything I loudly demanded, ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘Platoon of Welsh Guards, a few others, your lot just arrived back, sir.’

  I turned, and shouted for Sergeant Crab. When he jogged over I said, ‘I want half the men on stag, half on patrol around the area, rotate tonight, stay sharp.’

  ‘We expecting trouble?’

  ‘Yes, move it.’

  A worried Sergeant Crab jogged off.

  ‘Snipers!’ I called as they moved towards the building. ‘Up top, rotate the stag, stay sharp. Swifty, some Wolves on the gate, get some 66mm or RPG.’

  ‘There are some of those RPG things here,’ the worried captain informed me.

  ‘Set-up an ambush point on the road,’ I told Ginger.

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s David, and we’re at panic stations over that truck.’

  ‘Might be nothing, might be illegals being moved to the UK on that truck.’

  ‘Given what happened in France we’re mobilising the police and bomb disposal, ports are ready, all green trucks to be isolated. We’ve contacted Calais and they’re looking, and all ferries due to dock have been contacted by radio, staff looking for that truck.’

  ‘Could this be about our operation here?’ I posed.

  ‘Well … your operation there was sudden, it’s only been a few days, and moving truck bombs would take some planning, so I’d say the trucks were moving a week ago, plans made ready before that. Besides, you reported the driver to be Egyptian.’

  ‘Yes, but maybe someone was playing him, that driver.’

  ‘I see, yes, a fall guy. Well we have little to go on. French got the detail of the pipeline guy in Athens, French team flying down, GIGN, but they’re not telling the Greeks much at the moment in case the pipeline chap has bribed officials.’

  ‘It’s Athens, he’s bound to have paid off the police!’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘And the pipeline guy, Spiro, probably knew fuck all about it. Well…’

  ‘Well … what?’

  ‘It strikes me as odd that he would get involved with explosives.’

  ‘Does seem very odd yes, he’d know the wrath of the French would be down on him.’

  ‘He must have been well paid, or we’re missing something.’

  ‘The bit that’s missing … that’s the dangerous bit.’

  ‘Maybe the French can get to him and find out.’

  I called Bob Staines and filled him in on the detail.

  Bob noted, ‘Does seem odd, yes, to get involved with terrorism. He’d have to make enough money to go away forever, plastic surgery and a large dose of luck.’

  ‘Sniff around, see what you can find out.’

  ‘I will do, yes.’

  The mess tent was busy later, everyone getting a good meal, but most had eaten well the night before. In my old room I sat, Swifty and Moran joining me, food in both webbing tins. We sat cross-legged on the bare concrete and ate.

  ‘Patrols are out,’ Swifty noted. ‘Got every compass point covered.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Got RPGs at the gate and at the road ambush point,’ he added.

  Again I nodded.

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s David, and our friend Spiro was found dead, along with all of his staff, his warehouse ransacked.’

  ‘So who got there before we did?’ I posed.

  ‘GIGN and French Intel are there, and going through the forensics. Oh, and Paris is on lock-down.’

  ‘Overkill,’ I snorted. ‘French President knows it’s good for votes!’

  ‘I couldn’t argue with that. Hang on.’ I waited. ‘Our green lorry is on a ferry into Harwich. They’ll offload the passengers first.’

  ‘If the driver gets wind of it he’ll sink that ferry!’

  ‘We could get SBS on board, they have been alerted.’

  ‘Have the ship’s captain announce that the ferry ahead of it clipped the dockside wall, taking on water, a slight delay of – an hour or two.’

  ‘A good idea, yes.’

  ‘SBS need to keep the driver away from that truck.’

  ‘I’ll check where they are, there were RAF helicopters transporting them towards Dover from Poole.’

  Phone down, I informed my team, ‘SBS are on their way to earn their keep, a truck on a ferry with a bomb.’

  ‘They’ve never done it for real,’ Moran put in. ‘This could be the first one.’

  I nodded as I ate my food. ‘They have magnetic clamps, hands and knees, to get up the side of a ship from scuba gear. Dicky and Mouri used to try it.’ I lifted my head. ‘Anyone seen the Brigadier?’

  ‘Not here,’ Moran told me. ‘Nor those JIC mandarins. Maybe they went back to the UK.’

  I called Captain Harris. ‘We’re all back at the FOB now, so update the white boards, but where’s the Brigadier?’

  ‘At the airport, Freetown, he felt it dangerous at the FOB with just one platoon of Welsh Guards.’

  ‘So would I. And what happened to the Pathfinders?’

  ‘Attached to the British embassy in Conakry. They called in when you flew off, and the MOD diverted them.’

  ‘MOD never informed me of that, or asked me..!’

  ‘They’re the MOD, we work for them, remember.’

  Phone down, I was sulking a bit. ‘Fucking MOD re-assigned the Pathfinders, not so much as a phone call to me.’

  ‘Rude,’ Moran noted. ‘You’re in charge down here, snap decisions that lives depend on. A lack of communications is what gets men killed.’ He made eye contact. ‘What did London want us to do, our orders, before you pulled us out?’

  ‘They want us peacekeeping, so I told the Prime Minister to fuck off. I asked if I still had operational control on the ground, he said yes, so I said we’re leaving.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Swifty agreed. ‘City that big, two hundred of us.’

  ‘Another hour and we’d be down a few men, plus the medics,’ Moran noted. ‘We were lucky, damned lucky.’ He made eye contact again. ‘Were any of those missile and mortars about us?’

  ‘Well … I’d say no, I’d say they wanted to hit the TV station and scare the middle classes, but they knew we were there, so … maybe they had us in mind as well, but that car bomb could have been better placed – so I’d say they were disorganised.’

  An hour later, as it grew dark, I was stood outside the FOB as the Brigadier landed in a French Puma with his kit, but with no JIC staff in tow.

  ‘How was the golf course, sir?’ I teased.

  ‘Would have been nice if I got some time on it.’ He handed his kitbag to the resident captain and we stood chatting for half an hour in the dim light about what happened in Guinea, plus the truck bombs in Europe.

  Tinker called. ‘Wilco, the SBS landed on that ferry after a crewman clobbered the truck driver and knocked him out. They searched the truck whilst the passengers were unaware -’

  ‘Idiots!’

  ‘Yes. And they found shaped thermite charges, eighteen of them.’

  ‘Shaped thermite wouldn’t kill many people, it’s used for bringing down a building.’

  ‘London is now worried that someone was targeting a building.’

  ‘Terrorists? Targeting a building with thermite? Like fuck. Look for a connection to the intelligence services or a foreign government.’

  Phone away, I explained it to the Brigadier.

  ‘Bring down a building?’ he puzzled. ‘Well, if it was terrorists, bringing down a building would be a coup, especially a tall building in London.’

  ‘They’re concrete, and thermite is no good against concrete, you need a metal frame building, few in Europe, not seen any in London.’

  He headed inside as I called back Tinker. ‘Listen, find me any British buildings that are metal frame design, no concrete, or not much concrete.’

  ‘There’s only one, just finished, owned by the Royal Family of Oman – there was a write-up in the Sunday Times supplemental; first five floors are all glass and metal.’

  ‘Tell London that’s our building, and to panic, a quiet doubling of security, armed security, checks on all maintenance staff and building maintenance contractors right away.’

  I called Bob Staines as the crickets chirped away. ‘It’s me. Listen, get busy, and ask everyone if they know of any plots against the Royal Family of Oman.’

  ‘SAS have been protecting them for thirty years, our lads are favoured by them, ex-SAS troopers often get a stint there.’

  ‘Find out who’s mad at them, what the local conflicts are, and who’d like to blow-up their nice new building in London. Work fast, bribe people.’

  ‘I’ll make a start, chat to the Banker. What are we doing with Malon Ubel?’

  ‘I need to make a call first, I’ll get back to you.’ I looked up a number and called the President of Liberia. ‘It’s Petrov.’

  ‘Ah, how are you, my friend?’

  ‘I need a favour, for Tomsk and others. I want you to create a secure storage facility near the airport, just off the runway, to store weapons. We’ll store them there before selling them on, maybe a great deal of weapons.’

  ‘There is a large shed, I can repair it, make it safe yes.’

  ‘Concrete walls inside, bullet proof, safe, no fires.’

  ‘OK, I will get the men working on it, we have a Dutch company refurbishing the airport.’

  ‘Then I hope that you are tight with security and don’t trust them.’

  ‘They know little, and we talk about civilian flights.’

  ‘Good. Talk soon.’

  I called back Bob. ‘There’s a storage warehouse in Monrovia, so have Malon Ubel buy some weapons from the Russians and store them there – just to get the ball rolling, we’ll find buyers later.

  ‘I want him close to Steffan the SVR agent, but that guy Steffan may be shot any day now – possibly by me, he was pissing about in Guinea and trying to set a trap for my men, at least his boss was, unclear if the Russian President knew. That’s my next headache.’

  Call cut, I heaved a sigh and punched the numbers for Steffan.

  ‘Da!’

  ‘It’s Petrov, I just got back from Guinea.’

  ‘And … what did you do exactly … in Guinea?’

  ‘I killed General Kibili under contract, and a few others.’

  ‘Did you arrange for a plane to crash..?’ he teased.

  ‘No, not even I can do that. So, Steffan, you still have your head on your shoulders..?’

  ‘Yes. General Toropov has been removed, some others, and now this fiasco in Guinea, so … Moscow is being careful what it does.’

  ‘A wise move, I’m sure. Anyhow, I think Malon Ubel wishes to buy some weapons, so expect a call.’

  ‘And will the FBI end up seizing them..?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘You say that with a remarkable assuredness.’

  ‘I do, yes. Good night.’

  At midnight I did the rounds, the tree frogs loudly serenading us, those men posted on stag being alert and wary. As I stood on the roof my phone trilled.