I can remember it was at this point in time when the team in Wales, Spud and I discovered that I had a devil inside, a temper and an anger that needed to be harnessed but not tamed. It needed to be trained and disciplined in order for it to be focused and released when the occasion demanded it or when the Steering Group ordered it. It’s not all bad to have emotions and anger but learning to control them better would and always will be a challenge especially for a very focused mind set on getting a result no matter what the cost, personally or professionally. It is an asset to have this demon in the intelligence business, but as liked as it was in the end for getting results it has always needed a leash that has always been missing in my civilian life. You can train a tiger to jump through a few hoops but it will fucking bite you as soon as you lower the whip. I don’t think I have ever caged my tiger completely; the cage door of my mind is sometimes left open and the innocent who want to stroke or pet me sometimes get a nip from the animal that hides inside, and this is more often than not when I’m bored or not fully immersed in a project, task or mission. But in the end it all became a protection mechanism as I waited and still await my own downfall left by the fear of my successes.
The trip to London was beautifully organised, with all the transport and domestic shit properly taken care of. I finally got to meet the gods in their white temple. Whitehall, home to the Ministry of Defence, or the MOB as we called it, housed the Steering Group under the watchful eye of the Chief of Defence Staff and the Lord of the Admiralty. The only way to describe the feeling of walking into this place is to try and compare it to, say, a roman soldier going before Caesar himself, or attending the Roman Senate with bad news in the Curia Julia. I remember walking the echoing halls enclosed by beautiful smooth stone walls leading through atrium-like passageways with floor-to-ceiling glass partitions and pillars that reached up to an open glass sky. There were green rays of light reaching out from behind the glass partitions, gently calming the atmosphere for all those busy people walking swiftly over polished floors carrying dispatches or documents to briefings or secret meetings. No one spoke, just the echoing of footsteps or the clacking of high heels as well-dressed ladies rushed to their appointments and masters. We passed many empty bench seats carefully placed outside closed doors before reaching the big polished oaken doors of our designated meeting room. A tall dark-suited man with a sidearm checked our ID and another guy did a pat down and bag search before letting us in. I think this was probably our fourth security check within 10 minutes.
We assembled in what looked like a fine dining room with a large oval antique walnut table, with simple water jugs and glasses placed at convenient points between the 16 chairs that surrounded this antique centrepiece. The walls were plain, no pictures, but with extensive ornate architraves and a huge ceiling rose from which hung an oversized chandelier arrangement directly over the centre of the table. There were three highly polished doors to the rear of the room and a huge TV and video arrangement that dominated the far wall, in front of which was Cdr Brown making himself a coffee from a little hostess trolley. My eyes lit up and I walked straight over to Brown, passing the other occupants, and to his initial shock and horror grabbed and shook his hand whilst making some bullshit comment that he was looking well or something.
I think it was all meant to go a little more seriously than I had opened it up to be, but what the hell. Brown and I entered into polite conversation and laughter broke out about my attempts to piss everyone off in Wales, then he beckoned me to grab a coffee and sit down and meet the team. I recognised Marcus (Capt. Branford), Paul Seely, my contact on the outside for my deployment into Moscow, and the civilian from the initial interview at Raleigh. Additionally, there were two other officers who looked less than impressed with my somewhat informal entrance but were finding it hard not to smile as casual conversation generated some laughter in the room, with Spud just sitting there in amazement with a big grin on his face, relieved that all was going so well. Cdr Brown pulled the meeting together by formally addressing the Steering Group and the recently returned Russian field operative (me) to take note of the agenda that had been prepared in front of each of us, an agenda that was loosely followed to say the least.
Cdr Brown opened by asking each person to introduce themselves and their role. I remember being very eager to learn who everyone was; it had been plaguing my mind for some considerable time who indeed made up the Steering Group. Despite my intrigue and outward enthusiasm, I remember actually being quite nervous now back under the complete supervision and control of the group, under military control in the centre of the MOB’s lair, the circus, or the zoo as it was known. The civilian introduced himself first: Anderson Chaplow, MI6 DI (Defence Intelligence), Head of Intelligence Operations Middle East and links with the former Soviet Union; Marcus Branford, Head of Naval Intelligence, Joint Military Operations and DI (Defence Intelligence); Paul Seely, UKSF Field Operations, Coordinator and I/C (In Charge) of the dustmen (a specialist group which cleaned up any mess physically or politically created by field ops) – Paul had been the man in the background during my time in Moscow, and if it had come to it Paul would have led the extraction if I had needed to pull the plug at any time; David Crowle, MI5, Political Division; and Ben Martin, American, Joint Special Forces Operations, United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM). This was the Steering Group – well, the guys in charge. Fuck, it was quite something to sit in that room and chew the fat that first time with these guys; it was as if we had known each other for a lot longer than we actually had. I was probably more comfortable than I had expected to be and was soon making conversation easily and openly with everyone. I wasn’t being evaluated, just spoken to like a guy on the same side for the first time in what felt like years, and that made us a team in my mind – I had a family again. We all had common purpose.
There was a good half hour of chit-chat before Cdr Brown stated that as the meeting had been called by the Wales team, with concern as to the progress of debriefing and decompressing of the operative returning from Moscow, he would like me to speak regarding the issues I had faced and give a full brief to the group of the intel I had compiled and where I saw the programme going from here. I remember the wink from Marcus; it really was time to get serious. It took me six hours to go through the details of the mission to Moscow. We didn’t stop for lunch or allow anything to interrupt me as I systematically built, on a pair of whiteboards, the family tree of all those I had met in Moscow, for the group to see and understand – the involvement in arms trading, political links to both the Middle East and the Balkans, as well as nuclear technology trading and funding pathways coming from Saudi Arabia, and distribution networks to governments and possible terrorist cells.
I made clear that I had provided a comprehensive portfolio of photographs and documents to the team in Wales that supported the dossiers set before them. The room was in silence for some time. I had poured my heart into the detail of the evidence of what I saw as irrefutable links and relationships that I had been involved with or witnessed and the stink trail came all the way back to London, with Alex a member of the KGB’s higher-level directorates doing regular business here on their doorstep, right under their noses, including using British export licences to export arms ‘legally’ to Iraq. David didn’t even raise an eyebrow. My concluding synopsis was to plan an eradication of all the key players over time so as not to raise immediate suspicion of the sudden intelligence gain we had made and then to remove the facilities associated with those key personnel in disassociated campaigns or missions.
Anderson, who had been pacing the room for about an hour, becoming more and more irritated by what he was hearing, came to the table and agreed that the links needed to be explored further and in detail, but then when fully realised broken down into specific possible targets with timings that didn’t compromise other missions, operations or political interests. He explained that the programme needed to be kept alive long enough to get new teams in place to conduct
the termination of the human target’s ability to conduct business, but the bigger issue would be the disruption and eventual destruction of the facilities supporting the nuclear technology and arms trading. This would be a huge transatlantic commitment and one that would take up a significant amount of time from the group, possibly over several years. There was then a lot of heavy and loud discussion regarding other issues, the Middle East, Libya, Yugoslavia, North Korea, China; the jigsaw was without doubt bigger than I had ever imagined, but it was not one for me to piece together. I sat back and just listened to the complexities of what each member of the group had to consider, who was tied in with what, and other operations and surveillance that couldn’t be compromised despite the new information unfolding before them. It felt like I had just made the whole world unsafe in one afternoon. The penny had dropped as to why all the delay, and I was in awe at the labyrinth that had to be worked through to get any progression.
Paul Seely, who was the first to break the cycle, stood up and enquired, “Where to for our young Russian operative now?” There was some discussion as to how the fuck our little goldfish had come back with such a bag of whales for the group to deal with, and a great deal of talk about security, my age, future deployments and the issues I had caused in Wales. However, a plan had been hatched by Paul and Ben, which was for me to RTU, get off the bus and disappear for a while whilst the teams did the sift of all the intel before them and feed it all into the bigger machine. All the agencies needed to deepen their awareness of the new revealed links by exploring individuals, locations, homes, workplaces, building the bigger jigsaw picture prior to any plan of action being developed for integration into the wider military programme and existing operations. It was going to take time, not to mention the need for political support. Paul asked Cdr Brown for his thoughts. Brown stood up and, walking around the table, explained that I would RTU, get off the bus, as Paul had indicated. I needed to get off the grid whilst things were worked out; this was not for me to get involved with. My safety was paramount and the deception needed to continue whilst delicately maintaining a live but somewhat less active communication programme with Russia, and then allow it all to fade into a gentle controlled semi-separation from me and those I had made contact with in Moscow, if that were possible. More conversation regarding the underlying issues of relationship management so as not to raise suspicion and a need to maintaining some contact in order to track the unknowns was obviously causing the group a headache.
My instructions were to join HMS Flamborough, planned for her decommission, then return with 42 Commando and undertake all arms training with the Royal Marines, get my head into the right space, get the animal trained and the temper restrained. If I successfully completed the All Arms Commando Course, I would join the next warship destined for the Middle East and be on standby for insertion into Jordan, Saudi and Iraq to translate and observe. I needed to complete my engineering training, to progress my career at sea in order to attend the Naval Nuclear School so that I could gain a better understanding of the nuclear issues I had raised regarding the purification processes for uranium and plutonium without raising any attention to why I was attending the school. I had to get back into the navy, disappear safely for a while where I could be kept close but not easily found from the outside. Then Cdr Brown looked at me and I remember him being very sincere when he said to me and the wider group, above the chit-chat, “What a mess all this has made, but when you’ve done all that, we will get you back, assign you to Paul and get you working to finish what you’ve started. You belong to the group now and there’s no going back.”
After joining the Flamborough I was sent almost immediately for ‘commando training’ – not really commando training, the All Arms Commando Course was a lesser course, something to make you more interesting, and in my case more compliant. All arms training was a nightmare and something I don’t wish to repeat. It’s just a beasting for the sake of it in my opinion. It’s designed to be the backbone of British military training for those who need to get up close and personal with the enemy in more of a support role, ‘where the metal meets the meat’, to coin a phrase, but not actually become a Royal Marines Commando. For me I think they were instructed to focus deliberately on developing my temperament, mental resolve, physical robustness and core military skills so that I could go back in to the field in a more robust manner but safely within the intelligence framework.
I didn’t do the mandatory PCC (Pre-Commando Course), I was just slotted into the course at short notice by those with such powers. This made it all too easy for me to be the target for as much abuse as the training staff could muster over the bad-tempered last-minute entrant. I’m not sure how the Steering Group got me a place on that course – it wasn’t me really, and it must have shown. I’m just not into all the fitness they threw at me, I couldn’t see the point of it all. Basic fitness test, battle fitness test, bleep test, swimming tests and endless runs and endurance tests that, to me, didn’t prove a fucking thing except that I fucking hated it and I learned I really don’t like being wet and cold, hungry or especially being deprived of sleep. My weapon-handling tests were a breeze and somehow amazingly I scored high enough to be awarded sniper status, a skill that was no doubt smiled upon.
I guess the Steering Group must have enjoyed the reports that would have been sent back detailing my failures, anger outbursts and all the remedial training that saw me pull many 24-hr days trying to make the grade. Three hits and you’re out, and I think they all worked pretty hard to get me to quit, but in the back of my mind I was always wondering what would they would do if I failed. Go round again, or would that really be the end of my career under the Steering Group? Or were they instructed to make me pass? Fuck knows, all I knew was I didn’t really want to pass the fucking course but wanted to get back working in the intelligence sector again and soon. So I guess that drove my fat ass over Dartmoor a few times carrying far too much attitude, which outweighed the kit I was carrying by about 10 to 1. It’s bizarre because later, at 40 years old (quite some time later), I enjoyed nothing more than going out onto Dartmoor for fun and running 20 to 30 miles over the hills just because I could, and I often ran past the new boys struggling to do eight miles and offering them lame encouragement to quit before it was too late.
The Marines fucking hate part-time ‘green lids’ and they always made it known they were the real deal and all us ‘lids’ or crap hats were just plastic soldiers to them. I guess they were right, I get it, and thank fuck they are as hard as coffin nails because I was on my way to working with the hammers who, like me, always found it easier to out-think an enemy rather than fight him. The Marines are fucking awesome at getting into trouble and getting others out of it, and they’re scary as fuck when they’re doing the business. I never wore a green beret, never thought I’d earned it like those boys; I think it was all a bit plastic like they said. But I’ve got to say thanks for showing me how crap I was during those weeks and months training me.
I remember lots of jokes I had with the marines once I was deployed, and my favourites would be shit like “How do you scare a marine? Give him a spelling test!”
OR
Three guys, one navy, one army and one Royal Marine, are taking the test to join the SAS. They have all passed the mental and physical sections and are down to the final interview.
Guy from the navy walks in to be confronted by the SAS staff who gives him a gun and says, “There are six bullets in that and your wife is upstairs – go up and kill her.”
The guy disappears but comes back two minutes later to say, “Sorry, I really want to be in the SAS but she’s my wife and I love her.”
“Sorry,” says staff, “but if you can’t take orders we don’t want you.”
Guy from the army walks in and the same thing happens; he gets the gun and is told to go upstairs and kill his wife, but also can’t do it, so is told to thin out as well.
The marine walks in and is given the gun. Off he goes and sudde
nly six shots ring out from upstairs, followed by an almighty commotion, and 10 minutes later he walks back into the room drenched in sweat.
He looks at the SAS staff and chucks the gun at him saying, “You wanker, they were blanks. I had to strangle the fucking bitch!!!”
The serious side of this is: be careful what you ask marines to do because they don’t fuck around in my experience and usually see shit through to the end no matter how crazy or how much you think they won’t do it and that includes stupid bets and dares made down the pub.
I passed the fucking training and picked up my orders for HMS Berwick destined for Gulf patrol. The Berwick was a destroyer based in Portsmouth, a great upgrade from the old steamships, the Gainsborough and the Deptford. I joined the Berwick in the winter of 1988, older and wiser than my previous two drafts, and there were no initiation ceremonies or skylarking at my expense this time. But it was cool to see new boys down the stokers’ mess getting their introduction to the Andrew. I was moving up just ever so slightly in the world of the navy and I found some great friends in the mess to see out the deployment with and indeed the next two years.
The Steering Group Page 17