Chapter 18

 

The mood at work was different. The focus was no longer on the job but the special duties after work. The France game was a little over two weeks away and the preparations started in earnest that day.

It was to be a week at work that no other company in the world would put its employees through: five hours of honest graft and then three hours of fitness training, combat training and finally intelligence and job execution in the classroom. Most companies’ idea of group bonding would be a game of pass-the-parcel at a pathetic staff retreat.

Jacks and Chalky had cased the city well. Chalky had gone with Jacks on this occasion because, like Jacks, he had a grasp of the French language and they had returned with aerial video surveillance, maps, A to Z road maps, just about anything required to carry out a raid on a city.

Milton feared that Paris had not been targeted like this since the Second World War.

Twenty men were selected for the job; luckily for Milton it was the 12.00 to 5.00 afternoon shift of which he was a part. The morning shift, consisting of men he had hardly got to know, had worked well on the Switzerland job and was being rested for the big onslaught on Germany the following month.

It created a friendly rivalry between the two shifts and the afternoon crew accepted that they had a big job on their hands if they were to surpass the previous month’s mission carried out by their colleagues.

The workouts were becoming more intense as Pups pushed everyone towards their physical peaks. The combat training also took on a much sharper edge. Kirk and JT were concentrating on close combat and combining simple boxing techniques with karate. Basically the men were being taught a more vicious discipline of kick-boxing.

The classroom sessions became more professional and methodical. Jacks would open them up by reminding his troops why they were carrying out this mission: telling them that it was for the good of the Queen and the country; drilling into them that one day the country would be great again and men like those at Expatriatedotcom would be responsible for it. He was brainwashing each and every one of them into believing that now was not the time to promote England through hosting the World Cup in 2006, which could in turn encourage a massive influx of foreigners wanting to sponge off their great country. He commanded their full respect. He had been their guardian now for many years and the men would do anything for him.

Chalky would then take over and give detailed descriptions of the city.

As the week wore on, Milton, like all the other men, was finding out his role in this operation. He could tell the other men were in their element, but he was decidedly nervous. He wasn’t sure when the perfect time would be to call in the cavalry and close the operation down. He could act now, but all these men were doing was planning an operation. He felt the local authorities would be reluctant to get involved due to Jacks’s link to the sheikh and, even if they did help, the men would probably get away with a slap on the wrist.

Milton would need hard evidence and that could only come by catching the men in the act in Paris and then unveiling their operation in the aftermath. That would ensure that they would be closed down for a very long time.

On the other hand, however, Milton had become a part of the family, and as his name was mentioned more and more in the classroom briefings he was feeling wanted and had become an integral part of the team.

Ten days before the match, Jacks ordered an alcohol ban and training was stepped up another notch. Milton had never reached such a pinnacle of physical fitness in all his life.

With a week to go, London had become nervous and demanded results. The newspapers were going to town on stories that rival football gangs in England were uniting for a joint assault on Paris and predicted rivers of blood running through its streets unless the authorities clamped down.

“Sir, the chiefs are getting restless once again,” said Waite, who had been in France with Milton’s crack anti-hooliganism team for a week already to put the ground plans into place. Border checks had been set up and almost 1,000 banning orders had been sent out to convicted troublemakers telling them to report to their local police station every 12 hours starting two days prior to the match. The Sun had also set up a hotline for readers to ring in and claim a reward if wanted thugs were tracked down in the run-up.

While Jacks and his cronies numbered 25 at the most, there was an army of some 20,000 Englishmen that were going to be making their way across the channel for the match; many of them up for a rumble.

“They haven’t finalised their plans for attack yet, Waite. They may not even do that until the day of the game for all I know.” For the first time Milton was getting a little annoyed with Waite.

“Sir, I’m only passing on the vibes I’m getting from HQ. I am under the cosh here too, you know!”

Milton apologised. “Look, Waite, from what I can gather we are going to be split into four groups of five with a further five men working on surveillance. Where we’re going to be and who we are going to be with will not be revealed until nearer the game. I just do not know right now.

“I suggest that we rendezvous on the morning of the game or the night before and somehow I will pass you the plans then.”

The pair came up with the idea that Milton would write down the details of the master plan and deposit them somewhere safe for Waite to collect at a pre-determined time and place. They couldn’t risk being seen together and Milton was doubtful as to whether he would be able to slip away at any time in the build-up to the game. It would be a simple drop-off and collection.

Waite would then follow Milton’s instructions to the word: ensure there were enough police there early to quell the trouble as soon as it began; lock up the ringleaders; disclose the truth behind Expatriatedotcom. Then, bingo, every Englishman could look forward to a trouble-free match with Germany and FIFA would be so impressed that England would be announced as the host for the World Cup 2006. It sounded simple enough to Waite, but Milton knew he had a terrific task on his hands if he were to make it happen.

Jacks was a master planner. The four separate groups of five were called Hit Squads and Milton was put in a Hit Squad that was to be headed by the burly Lenny. This filled Milton with relief as he felt Lenny could walk through brick walls. An ex-paratrooper, Lenny had been through more scrapes than a gynaecologist’s tool kit and had served with JT who was quick to recommend the man mountain to Jacks during the early days.

The five-man surveillance team, which was responsible for disabling or doctoring CCTV cameras and also monitoring the trouble from the air, was called EFTA which was short for Eyes From The Air.

Milton had established that there were a number of men with helicopter pilot licences and one of them would be in the sky with Jacks and Stardust, who were in complete control of the operation.

The instructions and the sermons from Jacks were handed out in strict, disciplined fashion. No one spoke, except to ask sensible questions, as the jigsaw for the proposed mayhem in Paris was put together.

Milton was in Hit Squad One; Kirk headed up Hit Squad Two; JT was in charge of Hit Squad Three; and Chalky was in charge of Hit Squad Four.

As the week dragged on, Milton and all the other men studied the streets of Paris until they knew every nook and cranny, every coffee shop and Eiffel Tower souvenir shop and, of course, every bus depot and train station.

This was still not enough for Milton though. He needed solid evidence and that would only come in Paris. He had to be patient.

But, just as everything was coming together, his plans were reduced to tatters.

On the final Thursday at work, the men were split into their groups for their own specialist reconnaissance training work. This meant that Milton had no idea what Hit Squad Two, Three or Four were going to be up to and he was worried.

Still, his own Hit Squad’s plan was applying its final touches and he was flabbergasted by its professionalism.

Hit Squad One was to fly out to Barcelona from Dubai on the Sunday, the game being on the Tuesday night some 600 miles north in Paris. The following morning, the five men were to get suited up and fly business class from Barcelona to Paris, thus avoiding any checks from immigration officers looking for gangs of possible troublemakers. They were then to stay at the five-star Chester Hotel in the north of the city and sit tight to await further instructions from EFTA who were flying direct from Dubai to Paris first class on separate flights over the weekend.

Hit Squad One had no idea how the other Hit Squads would be arriving in Paris and vice versa. It was stunning in its simplicity. Jacks was the mastermind and Milton believed that only he and Chalky were in possession of the full plans.

The weekend flew by. Most of it was spent going back and forth on the phone to Waite and his other officers who were obviously worried. Tension was mounting.

Before he knew it, he was sitting in the Dubai Airport departure lounge with Lenny and the other members of Hit Squad One waiting to board a flight to Barcelona.

“Feeling nervous?” asked Lenny, who looked as though he had bought up half of Dubai Duty Free.

“A little. It’s just strange. I feel as if I’m going to war but all I’m really doing, when you think about it, is going to a football match.”

“Don’t worry, John, it will seem a little strange at first but you’ll be okay. You get a tremendous adrenalin rush once all the fists start flying and, believe me, we’ll be tucked up in bed watching glorious French porn once the referee blows his whistle to start the match!”

Milton was stunned. “You mean we won’t even be going to the game?”

“Of course not. We need to get out of any trouble areas as soon as possible and besides … I hate the bloody game!”

The seven-hour flight to Barcelona dragged. The alcohol ban put in place by Jacks meant they couldn’t even enjoy a couple of beers to pass the time away. Everyone was tense though and each mind was on the job.

The five met up for a meal in the hotel that evening and Milton established that his three other colleagues were all ex-Royal Marines who had been recruited by Jacks six years earlier to work in the royal protection unit he had set up in Dubai.

They held Jacks in high regard, a story that was becoming monotonous and yet understandable to Milton after the past few weeks.

He struggled to sleep. He was less than 48 hours away from the match, possibly 36 hours away from being in the core of any trouble, and yet he still did not have a clear-cut plan in his head.

He couldn’t call Waite from his hotel room, as that would ring alarm bells the following morning when checking out. He did not feel comfortable using his mobile neither. Once they had retired to their bedrooms, he gave it an hour and sneaked to a payphone some distance from the hotel.

Waite said there had been some sporadic drunken fighting already but generally the streets of Paris were calm. The main volume of fans was expected to pour in the following day.

He told Waite that he would leave clear instructions with the concierge at the Chester Hotel by 8.00 p.m. the next evening. One thing Lenny had told him was that their operation would not start until the afternoon of the game itself.

“Carson was so happy with the way it went in Zurich that he wants to focus on the day of the game these days. Always makes better TV when the sun is out!” Lenny had said.

It would give Waite plenty of time to work out counter-plans of his own, and Milton would be back in his own house in England within a couple of days. Whether he actually wanted to or not was not the question. He had to return to normal life as he still felt his time in Dubai was nothing more than a fairy tale.

Milton was at the breakfast table earlier than the others. He hadn’t slept well but he was under far too much pressure to worry about tiredness.

All five were suited up and all they were instructed to carry was a change of clothing, which should be concealed in businessman-type carry-on luggage.

They would be flying back with a stopover in Barcelona, so they left any non-necessary baggage back in the hotel. Milton was hopeful that his next flight would be onward to London with a solved case under his belt.

It was the first time that Milton had flown business class and he swore it would not be his last. It was as if he had opened his living room door and sat in his easy chair, got off it an hour later to walk out of the same door and yet it was a different location.

The five smartly dressed thirty-somethings strolled through arrivals at Charles de Gaul Airport. There was an air of anticipation in the airport. Hundreds of Englishmen, many already tanked up with a bellyful of ale consumed en route, were being stopped and searched by police. Some were arguing, but everywhere they went in the airport they could hear the same chant of “ENGERLAND, ENGERLAND, ENGERLAND”.

Some were singing the English soccer anthem of “No surrender to the IRA” while many others just quietly joined queues, eager to get through and into the cool Parisian air with as little grief as possible. Agitated police dogs looked rabid as they strained towards anyone stepping out of line. Drunk supporters tanked up on Dutch courage were doing their best to wind up the dogs as their handlers struggled to keep them under control.

The local police were suited and booted ready for trouble. All were well aware of what could unfold in the coming hours. After less than 30 minutes in town, Milton concluded that Paris was on the edge. A small match could ignite a volcano and everyone seemed up for it.

Lenny led the way as the five fast-tracked through passport control and were met by an airport pick-up. Forty-five minutes later they were checking into the plush Chester Hotel, just in time for lunch.

“So what next, Lenny?” Milton asked as they gathered their briefcases and walked to the lifts.

“Just sit tight in your room, order up a little room service and watch TV. EFTA will be in touch soon and we will receive our instructions on how we are to proceed.”

Milton felt helpless. The day before a match was usually his most manic day. And yet here he was, tucking into a burger and fries and watching an episode of Friends on television.

He could not contact Waite. They had decided, as before, that mobile phones were too risky given the level of communications expertise within Jacks’s ranks. He could not even go for a walk. He had to sit tight and await further instructions. He had got this far; he did not want to cock it up now. He was frustrated. He was also in fear of the unknown.

Five hours passed before Lenny called up and told him to come to his room. It was now 5.00 p.m. and only three hours before Waite would collect his instructions.

The others arrived at Lenny’s door at the same time, excited like eager kids on Christmas morning.

Lenny was staying in a suite that had a seating area and a large table on which a map of Paris had been unfurled. In his hand were two pieces of paper, which looked as if they had been faxed through.

“I’ve just picked these up from EFTA,” he said, waving the papers at shoulder height. “We’re in business, fellas.”

Lenny started to read out the instructions from the paper, cross-referencing with the map.

EFTA, who had been operating in the city for two days already, had targeted the main area where the English fans appeared to be congregating which was also frequented by the French.

He drew a big black circle around the red-light area. It was well known to Milton. He had studied this city solid for two weeks now and knew every building and street in the location.

“Okay, fellas, here’s the story,” Lenny continued. “We leave here at 1200 hours tomorrow and it will take us roughly an hour to reach the red-light district. We will then scatter for 15 minutes on arrival and head to this pub here.”

He drew a black circle on the map.

“The Dublin Arms. One of the biggest pubs in the vicinity and expected to be packed to the rafters tomorrow. Grab a drink and we will then meet up in this section of the pub at 1330 hours.”

He placed the other piece of faxed paper on the table on top of the map and drew a cross on it.

Milton looked closer and could see it was a hand-drawn plan of the pub.

“As you will see, this is a pool playing area, but EFTA informs me that the table will be out of the way tomorrow to make room for more people. We are expecting around 500 to 700 Englishmen to be drinking in and around that pub. Is everyone still with me?”

The four nodded and mumbled.

“Okay.” Lenny crumpled up the pub’s plan and threw it in the metal bin at the side of the coffee table.

“Moving on.” His focus again switched back to the map.

“This area here is around 800 yards away from the Dublin Arms and is popular with tourists and locals alike, but tomorrow you can expect it to be packed with anything up to 2,000 Froggies.

“EFTA tells me that some of Hit Squad Four will be among them, wearing French colours and will get things moving from there. Where the other two Hit Squads will be I don’t know at this time, but I think it is safe to say that at around 1400 hours tomorrow they will be doing the same as us.”

“And what’s that?” asked one of the men.

“Ushering as many drunken England fans into that area as possible for scenes of complete and utter mayhem.”

Lenny went on to explain that they would be standing close to the door of the Dublin Arms. One of Hit Squad Four would run past the pub at exactly 1400 hours wearing a blue French shirt and throw something, probably a bottle, through a window close to them.

The Hit Squad Four member would then taunt the drinkers from a safe distance and Hit Squad One’s job would be to raise the anger levels among the drinkers and take off after the runner with as many of the men from the pub as possible.

They would follow the runner, or bait as Lenny called it, through to the area where the 2,000 French fans would be drinking. Two members of Hit Squad Four would be the first to clash with Hit Squad One and hopefully the snowball would roll from there. The two Hit Squads would basically grapple and generally play fight while the real stuff broke out all around them.

At the same time, Hit Squad Four bait would also have hit the pubs to which Hit Squad Two and Hit Squad Three had been assigned and they would all be converging on the same area at around the same time, just after 1400 hours.

The result would be hundreds, if not thousands, of men going toe to toe and it would take hours for the police to regain control, by which time the media would have had a field day with the coverage obtained.

The plan was dazzling in its simplicity. EFTA, the surveillance team, would be monitoring the trouble from a helicopter in the sky and all the Hit Squad leaders would be linked up to them through communication devices in their ears to ensure that they all retreated down safe routes and away from police control.

Milton presumed that the CCTV cameras in the area would be doctored in a similar way to those in Zurich. By the time the news television cameras were rolling and the photographers were clicking, they would be long gone, leaving the ongoing trouble to the thugs and fighters who would inevitably be arrested and be of no use to the authorities whatsoever.

It was a plan of brilliance and Milton could understand now why Jacks had evaded him for so long, but not this time. It was six o’clock and Milton had two hours to put it into writing and leave it with the concierge for Waite’s pick-up.

He was confident that the end was now in sight.