Sabre Six : File 51 (8 page)

From the corner of my eye I noticed a bottle of Rosé. I spent the rest of the day walking backwards and forwards to the shop, buying more and more wine, before going straight up to my room and downing each bottle.

When I woke up next morning I found myself collapsed in the toilet, my head killing me. I was only glad that Frances wasn’t there
to witness this; she would be so upset. Stan had left me a message on my mobile. What the hell did he want now? I sobered up a bit before I rang the bastard. The time was nearly 15:00hrs.

“Hello!”

“Alright, mate: it’s me, Michael; you left me a message on my mobile. Sorry, mate, I was out of it.”

“How’s
Frances?”

“She’s coping; you know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I sure do. I remember when I lost my wife to cancer many years back. You remember?”

“Yes, mate, I do remember; it was horrible wasn’t it.”

“Just keep each other strong and you’ll both make it.”

“Anyway, enough of the niceties. What do you want, mate?”

“Fancy a job? Meet me on Thursday at half one-ish at Kelly’s café, just off Arthur Street, yeah?” Griffer was sitting next to me eating the chunks of vomit off the bathroom floor. I felt sick.

“I’m so sorry Griffer, now fuck off!”

“Hello, you there?”

“Yeah, what’s the dog up to?”

“Ah, nothing; just being a dirty bastard. What job you on about? My wife has just been fucking murdered: it’s bit of a bad time at the moment, mate.”

“It’s got a good side to it
, mate!”

“Yeah, an
d what the fuck’s that then?”

“It involves Killeen and his little rag h
ead mates abroad! You up for it?” It didn’t take me long to answer!

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” I hu
ng up, threw my mobile down and hit the bottle again. By 01:30am I was completely wrecked. I woke up in another circle of vomit. Rubbing the chunks off my face I got dressed and walked to the shops to buy more alcohol and a scratch card for £2. When I got home, I used a two pence piece and scratched away: £2! Even I managed a faint smile. Walking into the hallway, I picked up my recorded mail, delivered over a week ago, and sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and my £2 scratch card winnings, using a knife to scrape off the last bit on the corner. Taking a sip of wine, I carefully opened the letter.

With love from Allah!!! – Killeen X

I put the letter down on the table, letting out a scream of rage. Then I downed the rest of the bottle, rang up Pete, and told him to get his arse over to mine now.

He made me a coffee and called the d
etective in charge. Everyone attended mine for a cosy chat.

“That bastard killed my wife
, Pete!”

“It’s looking that way
, mate.”

“It sure fucking is!
” My very soul was filling with rage. Within the hour everyone had left. I sobered up and got ready to meet Stan the next day. I put on a shirt and tie, and scrubbed myself up a little. I even tried to have a shave but ended up cutting myself to bits; it didn’t work out to my advantage: I ended up looking like a thug!

I caught a bus to the other side of town to meet Stan. The café was half-empty so I sat down and waited for him to arrive.

“Can I have a brew, love, please? White, two sugars, darling.”

“Coming right up, love.” 

Stan was ten minutes late when he finally turned up. I hate late people: it really pisses me off.

He
ordered a coffee. “What you been up to then, buddy? Anything new to add to your overwhelming story?”

“Nah, mate! J
ust the same old rubbish.”

“Sorry to hear about the wife
, mate.”

“Yeah, I’m trying not to think about it. But, thanks, yeah.”

“Is the little one ok?”

“Yeah, she’s top class, Stan.” I rub
bed my hands together.

“I want that fucker
, Stan! I want him so bad.” I clenched my fist and Stan grabbed my arm before I knocked ten barrels of shit out of the table.

“Calm down, you’ll get your chance. I know it’s fucking hard
, but try to relax and I’ll give you that chance. I want you to wipe out the lot, Michael. You said you wanted a job?”

“Yes please, mate!
I need to get some money in for Fran, plus I need to get that wanker, mate. You know how it goes.”

“This is a big job
; it’s working with MI5 and the US agencies.”

“Bugger me! W
hat crap are you going to get me into now then?”

“Don’t say it
like that! Do you want this job or not?”

“Yeah, alright then, mate.”

“Well, I suppose I do owe you a favour.”

“I need say no more then, buddy.” We both laughed.

“This is a big one, mate. Are you sure you’re ready for it yet? Is Fran all secure?”

“If
it has anything to do with Killeen, then I’m more than ready to jump straight in.”

“Yeah, and that’s what I’m afraid of. You’re going to end up in a body bag soon enough.”

“Not before I take that piece of shit with me.”

“I’m
going to open a file now, Michael, and it’s a “read only.” If you tell anyone, your head will roll. Do you understand me, Michael?”

“Yes
, Stan! Now show me the file.”                              

File 51 – RESTRICTED – TOP SECRET

Reference:                             2012345/897/JKL

Appointment:
                            HM GOV/CIA

Date:
                                          24/03/2012

Annex:                                           Sabre Six

Case Notes:

The British Anti-Terrorism Agency (Sabre Six) wants an emergency mission to destroy any threat supported by Al-Qaida immediately.

A team of Special Forces will be deployed to Pakistan, crossing over into Afghanistan. From here, they will be deployed on foot and eliminate a top member of the Al-Qaida organization, Mohammed Santé Janjev.

Mohammed has been responsible for supplying weapons to the Taliban in Afghanistan, resulting in the deaths of collation troops. Th
e weapons are supplied by Ryan Killeen. Killeen is a secondary target, and if identified is also to be eliminated.

Sabre Six.  (CIA Directorate) Simon Morris             

“We need to take the lot out, mate! If Killeen is there, take the shot. If anyone stands in your way, take the shot. Do whatever it takes. We need these lads taken out of the arena.”

“What pro
tection have I got?”

Stan
smiled. “You don’t exist. We know nothing about you. It’s Black Ops, mate. You know how it works!”

“Do you want him or not? I’ll
hand him to you on a plate if you so wish.”

“No, I want to take him out fair and square. The battlefield will do
.”

“Count me in! Y
ou have a deal mate, count me in! When do we set off?”

“I’ll phone you
later next week. Get things sorted back at home first.”

He finished his coffee but before walking out the café passed me
a brown envelope. Inside I found photos of Killeen and Mohammed and his kids and family, together with maps, and grid references. The lay out of the base looked simple enough. It was all there for the taking!

I decided that for Fran’s safety I would move her up with her Nan in the north of England. She would be given police protection, and that would make me feel a lot better.

C
hapter Four: Sabre Six – File 51

Stan joined my team in early 2004. He wasn’t actually quite what I had expected. It was my first experience of meeting such a grand character, one that I would never forget!

Iraq 2004 – Behind Enemy Lines

Sergeant Michael Fox: 22 SAS Regiment – B Squadron:

Stan was a top member of my team; a very useful tool indeed. I was the Squadron Sergeant, Stan was my second in command. He was a bit of a ladies
’ man. Back in Hereford, there wasn’t a weekend went by that he didn’t have some cheap tart hanging off his arm, but he was a funny lad and everyone loved him. The other members of my team were Keith and Nigel, or “Nig” to us back in Hereford. Keith was from Oxford and was a very well-spoken young man – Mummy was very rich, you see. His father had died in the summer of 1991; he had been a stockbroker. Keith, my dear old friend, was a hard-as-nails kind of person. He was a very gentle character unless you jacked him off, but his bark was always worse than his bite. Nig was a crazy black fella, married three times and divorced three times. His current girlfriend worked in Asda on the tills. He had no children and no prospects. All he wanted in life was women and the Regiment.

It was my round down at our local. Stan racked them up and Keith chalked his cue. It was time for a regimental pool competition.

“Three quid to win. Deal or no Deal, mate?”

“Deal! I do h
ate taking your money, though, buddy!”

“Dickhead, take the shot!”

“Knob head!” Stan lined up with his pool cue and hit the white ball into the rack of balls as hard as he could. There was a large ‘crack’ as the balls scattered around the table.

The bastard potted the black and the game was over.

“You thicko!”

“Go
get the beer in, Stan, you twat!”

“Yeah, I think I’d better.” He hid his face in shame.

After the pool competition was finished, (which Smudge from 264 won, scaly bastards!) we sat round our little table drinking ourselves into an early grave. By the time the night was over, most of us were worse for wear; Nig was rat-arsed and Stan had fucked off with some tart. We decided enough was enough and walked back to barracks with a greasy kebab and a cool can of diet Pepsi.

The next morning I was awoken by Stan charging into my room.

“Alright boy! W
ake up, darling!”

“What the fuck do you want? What time is it?”

“Late enough. I got some last night, son. I was a fucking legend! That tart had no boundaries, if you know what I mean! Ha-ha!” Stan was proud of himself as usual.

It was six thirty:
time for breakfast.

“Get the brews in then, mate.”

“Bugger off!”

“You’re an arsehole
, Stan, you really are.”

“Shut up, Lover Boy.”

We headed over to the Cook House.

I walked over to the grill with my red hot plate from the counter. I picked up my prongs and bunged on a couple of bangers, followed closely by three rashers
of bacon. I had scrambled egg, two tomatoes, and a spoonful of mushrooms followed by a big spoonful of beans.

I sat next to Stan and a few of the other guys.

“Are you coming for a run in a bit?” I needed to get rid of this darn hangover.

“Yeah, I may well do. Where are you thinking of going?”

“Maybe around Shooters Hill; it’s a nice easy stroll. What do you reckon?”

“Yes, ok then.”

“I got my language course Stan. It starts next month.” It is one of the things the Regiment encourages you to do, you get a load of ‘Linguaphone’ tapes to work through, and the best part is they get a civvy instructor in once a week to teach
and normally she’s a sort!

“How are you going to talk another language? You can’t even talk English ‘propa’ yet.”