The Steering Group

by M. J. Laurence

  Delivering the news the next day was a group of six plainly dressed guys all in light grey or blue suits and naff ties, with pussers’ white-lapelled shirts that were clearly over starched and done in a laundry, not by a stay-at-home wife or girlfriend. I was invited into an overly casual discussion about the outcomes of the previous night’s talks that had occurred in my absence following the presentations and the revelation that I had contacts, albeit simply friends, in the Soviet Union who were, let’s say, known to the security services and of particular interest. They were all very keen to see the whole thing progress. My correspondence and photos from Moscow were of further interest and I was politely asked if I had any other photographs. I had a photo in my wallet. There were smiles and gasps all at the same time. I was invited to talk through my whole relationship with the Moscow family. I think Brown knew most of what had been going on between myself and the family but wanted to allow the revelation to the wider audience to be leaked out gently by myself, maybe giving Brown the points for finding me in the first instance.

  It was all done in a much more relaxed setting than I was expecting or had been used to up to this point, with the coffee and cigarettes readily available and flowing freely. Calm tones in the questions being asked were building into an intensifying atmosphere of expectation within the room. Basically, a job interview similar to that I had had in Raleigh but all in very simple English and ending in an offer to work for the intelligence services and formally become a sort of Naval Intelligence operative. We were on first-name terms now and the conversation had become littered with idiomatic expressions, allowing slingshot ideas to be passed on how I would integrate into the programme of espionage that N1 wanted to pursue whilst maintaining the camouflage of innocence that I currently had in place. I can only say that my excitement and anticipation had reached its zenith that day when I signed up for my first assignment to Moscow. I had yet to realise it would be two years of my life that I had just signed away.

  I went home a few hours later with a week’s leave pass in my pocket and never said a word the whole time I was at home. I digested that day’s events and the preceding eight weeks over and over in my mind for the full seven days and seven nights. The beginning of insomnia had sown its first tiny seed, which I wouldn’t come to realise fully for many years to come. I listened to the nonsense that the everyday life of a family brings and thought how fucked up the world must be for someone like me to be voluntarily entering into a confusing mismatch of complacency toward my supposedly true and unassuming life as a sailor and ex correctional facility attendee and the complexity of reality and true essence of who I actually was about to become. It was a total mindfuck. But nothing like the mindfuck training that was about to follow.

  It was a relatively quiet week, my last innocent one, but I know now that the weeks and months of pre-insertion training were a very busy time for the security services as they investigated and background re-checked my whole family, their past and every soul I and they had ever met. I was oblivious to all this background checking and somehow managed to put all my focus on passing my driving test. I bought an old T reg Ford Escort that would hit 85mph when I zoomed down the M1 with the choke out! I had gone out and bought it from a local dealer before taking my driving test, recklessly taking out a bank loan to get the car, insurance and a full tank of petrol at the same time. My dad taught me how to drive and we would go out together at the weekends in my car (usually to a pub), smoke about 20 cigarettes and come home needing a drink as my driving wasn’t exactly a calming trip out into the countryside. It was a bit of fun and I passed the test first time on a Saturday, allowing me to drive south on the Sunday night all packed up with soup and sandwiches by my mum who must have thought it was a three-day trip or something. God bless her, she was such a good mother really.

  I never made it as far south as Plymouth. My real destination was to a very unassuming training facility in South Wales where my identity was cloned into two of me, laying the foundations for the dual life ahead, including building my new background identity for life in Moscow. I was on my way into a more interesting life.

  The Steering Group

  Chapter 4

  Moscow First Deployment

  My specialist training and preparation was an intense eight months, learning a whole new variety of skill sets, some of which just stay with you for life. It wasn’t for combat or for frontline military personnel, this was a tailored suite of modules designed for intelligence operatives in civilian arenas, simply a foundation course that secondary and tertiary training modules could be built upon, and eventually used to integrate or dovetail into more intense or specialised training programmes at a later date. Sometimes this would pave the way for the intelligence operative to work alongside their SF counterparts or support teams to achieve a common goal. This more intense training was to enable an intelligence operative to operate in theatre or in a war zone should the need arise, which I guess was the plan for me from the outset. I really should have asked more questions, but it all felt like a great opportunity rather than a dangerous occupational choice I was making.

  The facility in which I undertook training was a complex group of small buildings in an isolated location in Wales and run by the ‘Steering Group’, which I had yet to meet. I’d only heard of them through reading my orders, which were always signed by the ‘Steering Group’, but not yet had the privilege of meeting these unseen masters of my destiny. I had heard them mentioned in conversation a few times during my visit to GCHQ but I still really didn’t seem to have a grasp on the chain of command I was subject to, and it seemed very ad hoc, especially who I reported to and where. Perhaps it was meant to be like this. I was only given one point of contact: a civilian at an address in London, a contact that should only be utilised on return from my assignment during leave and on completion, or if I had intelligence or information that would necessitate an immediate RTU (return to unit). The guidelines for this were very carefully written. My contact was a guy called Paul Seely, who was always very quiet and unpretentious. Calm and very monotone, he communicated within a very limited or controlled response dialect that was usually kept to between 5 and 15 words max.

  There were a few others on the course, if you could call it a course, or attending the training facility, as it was mainly one on one and I assumed that each individual had a tailored programme much like my own. We were all ordinary people. ‘Grey men’ is the phrase that is commonly used today. You have to be a grey man I suppose to be selected for any sort of intelligence work or service. I am, and will always look for the grey man in every situation, place, meeting or encounter. He’s the guy who will have the answer, the authority, the training or will simply be the man in control. I think I can spot them today without trying; they’re not who you first think they are, it’s like a double mindfuck. They’re always the quietest, or the noisiest, but always remain unobvious, the ones you don’t even notice, or think are the least likely to be anything interesting, hiding yet obvious in and amongst the crowd.

  I found that undertaking intelligence functions even at the lowest levels requires the ability to switch personality and character for sustained periods with no visible or detectable flaws. It’s a required sin and is a skill and a profession in itself. It has to stand up to interrogation and the test of time under the most onerous of circumstances. There is no comparison to be drawn between this ability and the absolute loyalty to the service, the Crown and those with whom you serve. There is nothing that I wouldn’t have done for those standing next to me in the hellholes of the world; they were my brothers, my family, held in the deepest and most sacred part of my heart. Let’s be clear, the progression of my service into military combat teams carried an ethos that demanded the utmost loyalty, respect, honesty and commitment which went beyond anything that can be delivered in any form of training. This training was simply to deliver the ability to create a masquerade, a diversion to the truth, to allow an operative to maximise his chances of evadi
ng detection or, in the worst-case scenario, avoid giving up the truth under capture.

  Training here under the regime of the Steering Group was designed simply for the individual, the lone operative, learning the architecture of espionage that needed to be understood in a world where relationship building, networking and integration was an art and a key into some of the darkest corners of terrorism, arms dealing, government secrets, and terrorist funding by rogue governments. I was not being trained as a team member of an elite fighting unit, my function was to be able to operate in isolation, go undetected and totally immerse myself into the local surroundings. Teams and brotherhood would come later on. For now, I needed to be a maverick. The training was perfected for the young mind; it’s easier to brainwash and train a young mind. (And twice as hard to un-fuck it later). The Steering Group needed young eager minds, not old warhorses, in order to have control and clarity in the kind of roles it needed potential recruits to fulfil. It needed to breed a remarkable new strain of young operatives who would fly well under the radar and then grow into a more lethal asset in more direct combat situations. It’s not brute force that wins a war, brings down a terrorist cell or overthrows a government, it’s just hard clean confirmed intelligence from a reliable source which is then translated into a very discreet kill order or something more subtle to fuck up the opposition’s plans by absolute stealth.

  Before undertaking my assigned modules allocated by the Steering Group, I was subjected to a week of aptitude, personality and skill tests. This included multiple Criteria Cognitive Aptitude Tests (CCAT) which determined my ability to solve problems and digest and apply relative information whilst discarding false leads. I quickly learnt the new skills required of me to complete the tests, especially thinking quickly and critically – under pressure. This process was tied into rapid-fire MiniCog Rapid Assessment Batteries (MRAB), a series of six scenarios each consisting of nine short tests that measured my ‘information processing’ functions, which were thrown into the other longer tests at random intervals during the week, to apply pressure in the most unexpected ways.

  Of course, all this was entwined with trainee personality profiling tests that measured 12 personality traits. These results would need to be analysed and understood by the team and me in order to overcome them (like some kind of obstacle). Basically, it was a way to identify your weaknesses and learn how to transpose or cloak them into positive attributes for your future assignment. To me at the time it was all a psychobabbling experience in order for the MOB to tick boxes to cover their asses should it all go to shit in the field. I don’t think I took it all too seriously and doubt I would pass any of those tests today. I guess it’s that untarnished young mind that’s so devoid of twisted opinions that they were looking for, because life undoubtedly slowly burdens the mind over the years, and in the world of intelligence gathering that can be dangerous. Of course, there’s nothing like real field experience, that’s why you start off conducting missions that are low risk and can almost be unproductive to a fault. But the operative is deliberately never truly made aware of the entire picture or its risks, to retain focus, unless the situation becomes critical in some way. You have to look at the average age of spies globally – generally operatives are in their mid-twenties or younger and started early in life.

  Module 2 of initial training was based upon dissociative identity disorder (DID), also known as multiple personality disorder, which is a mental disorder characterised by at least two distinct and relatively enduring personality states. The training teaches you to be two very different people. (Later I would learn to become three.) So, I had to learn and be fluent in 36 individual personality traits and then re-sit the personality profiling tests from Module 1 for each person’s personality. This gave a distinct advantage during interrogation training which even at this level was a huge four-week module. Later, this foundation would be the cornerstone to surviving and out-thinking any future interrogation training techniques, as the groundwork for RTI (resistance to interrogation) would already be embedded, almost implanted. Looking back, this may have been the mustard seed to my developing the embryonic stages of paranoia and even insomnia. It’s a real mindfuck to jump in and out of character at the depths I needed to go. I guess hiding my real personality was a hidden bonus for me initially as it helped me escape some of my childhood past.

  Those first modules and the subsequent training I undertook made very clear that the absolutely vital ability to lie was of paramount importance. The learning of all the pantomimes, all the body languages, how to fake them, how to turn any mistake into a success by leaving scenarios open, incomplete or just unfinished became second nature. I learned how to intertwine some truth into a lie to protect the team or the mission, and to allow for other unforeseen developments, giving room for mental manoeuvres. I was taught how to cry, laugh, grimace and hide emotion when confronted with unexpected news or outcomes. I truly believe that this kind of training really messes with your mind and your ability to communicate and make friends in later life. Everything becomes a clouded conspiracy if you don’t take a firm hold of the game you’re playing and the real realities of life.

  Often interrogation was reversed into sympathetic confrontations, with different people utilising situations that were not real – an example being perhaps your mum has been hit by a car and you brother has had a plane crash, or your blood tests have come back and you have an incurable disease – to get a reaction, trick your mind into a carefully controlled mismanagement of realities in multiple layers to test your ability to switch characters, remember the lies and settings under pressure and give the correct or the right controlled response, protecting the truth but simultaneously and continually appeasing the interrogator. I learned in depth about control questions and how to give non-committal responses, to be personal and friendly in responses and how to divert questions and directional leads.

  It goes deeper and deeper until there is almost no truth left in the character you have morphed into. The methods employed included micromanaged sleep deprivation to the point of hallucination, mental exhaustion through psychological interrogation techniques, noise, mental tests, confusion and misdirection, including manipulating personal realities into plausible future encounters or disappointments, such as food deprivation, cancelled leave passes, being ignored for long periods, a simulation of failing the course and exploitation of any exposed weakness or known family issues. I think, looking back, this was a far more demanding route than the simple physical exhaustion which is the main military vehicle to ‘breaking’ someone in order to realise their capacity to succeed. The only truth that needs to be hidden is the mission, which is buried, in your subconscious by the polished ability of character assimilation taught through the adaptation and study of a mental illness. Yes, mental patients were used for such study to great effect in the development of field operatives. However serious it all sounds, the training was fun, it was a game, encouraged by fascinating tutors ready to pull you back if you truly fell in.

  This ability or new skill to lie and to live the lie, to be all the mission wants you to be, believe in the mission all the way to where all the lies become the truth in your mind is a labyrinth of mental organisation. Careful mental mapping needs to be mastered before you are able to paperclip the lies of the mission to one of your formed identities, completely separating it from the other characters you need to be in order to be the mission. Paper-clipping is another vital mental skill as it helps the mind organise the lies into chronological order and attachment to characters, places, times and events. It builds scenarios (a map – similar to brain dumps and mind mapping) that the mind can tap into and become truly deceived into believing itself that the lie is the truth by choice and supported by the evidence of the paperclips, which themselves are lies or sometimes half-truths with additional paperclips etc., etc. The deeper you go the harder it gets to see the surface; it can be like disappearing into an abyss on an endless oxygen tank of half-truths. But if you trul
y believe that you are who you need to be, then under interrogation, buried in your subconscious, is the escape, the utter deception to regain your freedom. It’s a fucking weapon, a really dangerous weapon if you can wield it.

  The training goes further, enabling you to switch characters and become the second or third character, which may be a phasmid to give the mind a rest or to deceive different people or situations in quick succession. This can be for 10 minutes, a day or a week in order to simply relax or decompress for however long is needed. Decompression sessions after a mission or assignment were always mandatory and could be for several weeks or even months of stand down; in the early days that translated into a lot of drinking on base behind closed doors, reverting yourself back to the real you, or disappearing away to sea in order to unscramble in a safe controlled environment. This became the ultimate challenge after any assignment and why I always tried to keep character number four a secret – he was a nobody, someone I could collapse into, my true phasmid companion, that was the real me no one really knew; he was just for me and I wasn’t going to share him.

  I think, looking back now, all the training confused even my soul, leaving all real emotions and feelings in disarray. Now, watching a film makes me cry and laugh for no reason. Overreacting emotionally within the world I’m now trying to occupy is just normal. I get upset easily, I can’t watch the news, and I get all soppy when I watch vet programmes and the like. I’m now learning how to untangle my mind into a reality that exists in the here and now.

  Endless memory tests were conducted throughout the courses and modules. I needed to develop an almost photographic memory of rooms, places, people and all the details that they carried, utilising a scanning methodology every time my surroundings changed. It was mental barcoding: a car would become a make, model, colour, reg number, passenger numbers, left-hand drive or right-hand drive, distinguishing marks, badges or stickers, speed, position, lights, leather or cloth, number of exhaust outlets, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. It could be as simple as a person coming into a room whilst I was under tuition and the lesson changing immediately on that person’s departure to me writing down every detail of the person I had just seen. It became more and more complex with more and more detail required.