I think, looking back, if I had been in possession of the Steering Group’s wider picture of world developments and all the intelligence showing arms trading and political buy-offs and their inevitable progression into conflict, I’m not sure how well I would have been able to function as an operative keyed into some of the main suppliers of arms. The whole jigsaw remains a puzzle as you never get to see the entire picture, for reasons of security and personal safety, I guess. Spud and I discussed it all and decided it was probably best not to know too much. His time in Ireland had proved that, with some targets now legitimate politicians – how fucked up is the world we live in?
I left the Berwick a year or so later and never saw Spud again. Well, not for a long time anyway.
The Steering Group
Chapter 6
Prelude
I made my way across London from King’s Cross on a particularly wet and miserable day to make the day’s briefing. The London underground is everything I hate about England. A tiny cigar tube overfilled with wet miserable people going to jobs they hate and half of them dying of a cold or flu. It’s the rat race personified. I was dressed plainly and needed to be in the Steering Group’s briefing room in the old MI5/NIO building on time. Strange to be meeting somewhere different other than Whitehall, which I had nicknamed the oval office as the room allocated to the Steering Group resembled something out of the White House, which Ben had found amusing. I was met outside by David who wanted a coffee off site before we started the day’s meetings.
David seemed a little on edge and keen to talk just to me alone. Sometimes only having half the jigsaw puzzle is a blessing and I could see in David what the whole picture looked like. Disturbing, very disturbing. The mission success in Israel was old news now and I think he wanted to bring me up to speed with all the events and developments that had been building since Israel, before the meeting with the other members of the Steering Group. I think, looking back, being a Steering Group operative or agent is like being a clairvoyant, half in, half out; you sort of know where hell is and are allowed a kind of semi-safe passage into the underworld where there’s an invitation to do something people would rather not discuss over dinner or in church. It’s like being half dead, in that you’re either bored to death waiting for the rush of an adrenaline-fuelled mission, or are running the risk of being caught on a mission and facing death if you fuck up. I think David was in the ‘bored to death’ category that day and was ready to stir shit up.
If the truth be known there was without doubt some serious rivalry and inter-departmental shenanigans between MI5 and the SIS or MI6. The lines between all the services, including Naval Intelligence, or N1, melting into the Steering Group operations were blurred and a little ambiguous to say the least. I don’t think the Steering Group gave a fuck; it just wanted everyone to get the results it demanded and all be fucking ‘purple’ – a new phrase that had crept into the military which actually meant Joint Forces, not blue for navy or green for army; if you worked together you were now all just purple. Someone somewhere was being paid a lot of money to come up with bullshit like that. We worked across all the forces all the time so it wasn’t a new concept by any stretch of the imagination. David took me to an old café down a back street a few minutes’ walk from the offices. We ordered coffee and sat in the window on a pair of old stools looking out into the street. It reminded me of Moscow and my first brunch with Anatoly in the café window looking out on a snow-covered Moscow. I guess my mind wandered for a while before David managed to voice what he was thinking. I didn’t know David too well but I sensed he was really nervous about something. My instincts proved right as he muttered between sips of coffee that the list was out now and the group would issue it today. Asking how I felt and making small talk all seemed a little ridiculous to me but no doubt he had seen the masterpiece that needed to be painted before anyone had been issued their orders. Of course, I would only see my jigsaw-size piece of the puzzle and the colour would without doubt be black. At least black ops were still black ops, I guess, not dark purple or anything crazy. Things had changed so much in my short time working for the group it was as though we all had to learn a new language. It was no longer ‘shoot to kill’ – this became ‘sweep and clear’; ‘eliminate the target’ became ‘removing the problem’, etc., etc. It was all becoming politically correct in a world where nothing could ever be remotely related or linked back to such a government department.
We arrived back just in time for our meeting, which was surprisingly very formal. We were in a bland room with overzealous air conditioning; the room was freezing, as if they were trying to preserve something that had died. Cdr Brown, as always, was keen to sit with me and share a cigarette and welcome me back into the fold, asking about my ‘holiday’ in the States and Caribbean. I’m sure the teams in London were a little jealous of the amount of ‘off duty’ time field agents appeared to get when they were decompressing or simply off the grid following an op. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since Israel and I was needed again, back on the books. We wasted so much time I think in those meetings; it was as if no one really wanted to say what needed to be said up front but would rather spend three hours trying to make things sound nice or more palatable.
The entire Steering Group was present, plus a few other operatives who had been out gathering or confirming intel from just about every corner of the globe to put the list together and to build the bridge from intelligence whiteboard dream lists to hardcore operations. Anderson, Marcus and Paul all looked exhausted and almost welcomed the lunch break. The briefings were all bulked out with way too much historical shit and irrelevant (in my opinion) background information on those who had been raised up in importance to make it onto the list. Ben was the only one who looked like he had had a night’s sleep that month despite flying in from the States late the previous night. We all caught up over lunch and it all seemed very pleasant, eating and drinking as if we were some sort of civilian business team out for a free lunch on the company, all pretending the whole thing was just a business transaction or something more ‘normal’.
The afternoon session was short. David brought up the list on the screen, which was followed by mugshots and latest known whereabouts of the 10 most wanted from the Steering Group’s Russian-linked intel, now confirmed and identified by three separate sources, including cooperating governments, as being involved in over 16 separate trading routes and illegal international arms and intelligence trading. The web spinning out of Moscow was way bigger than I could have imagined despite any legal statements that had been made from the Kremlin, and my little slice of the cake was only the crumbs from the cake compared to what had been going on elsewhere. Moscow was ground zero, the source; it was the nerve centre for all the other transactions, deals, shipments, arrangements and alliances. Kill the cancer at the source and everything else becomes ‘gravy’. Silence had gripped the room as we all sat and contemplated the list.
The List
1. Mohammed bin Shaban Al Zidjali and son Asad in Moscow (Iranian nuclear scientists linked with Syria)
2. Ahmed Haddad (the financier – Saudi Arabian – and wanted by his own government)
3. Alexander Markoff (KGB), organiser and main supplier of all Soviet military arms at the highest levels, both legal and illegal, and through the UK. Linked with Iran, Syria, Eastern Europe and Africa, and of course supported by Erik Pavlovich.
4. Erik Pavlovich (Russian official linked with supplying illegal arms to Iraqi and Serbian generals and Rashid Asadi), party member and linked with the development of the Iranian nuclear programme.
5. Anatoly Pavlovich, nuclear weapons development scientist, Sarov (linked to trading secrets to the nuclear programme in Iran) (also linked with Serbian arms dealing)
6. Evgeny Pavlovich, arms dealer and linked to Serbian and Iraqi WOMD biological
7. Nasser Tamei, Yugoslav arms dealer trading through the USSR with Iraqi and Serbian generals
8. Leon Antunovic
h – Serbian – warehousing of arms and onward trading to Iraq, Syria and Iran
9. Otto Meiser – Serbian – arms build-up in Eastern Europe and onward supply to the Middle East
10. Dlip Mehrotra – Indian transporter of illegal arms
11. Rolando Hernandez – S. American dealer and funding for arms to the Middle East and Serbia
I don’t remember there being much more discussion after the list had been revealed. Marcus simply announced that the list was legitimate and we were authorised (multinationally) to complete all mission assignments in order to eliminate the threat. Each of us was given our orders in plain envelopes and requested to leave all the documents in the room prior to departure for destruction. There was no problem discussing the list with each other prior to departing or asking each member about their role and instructions, but it didn’t really happen; we all just shook hands and departed to go our own way. I suppose we all sort of just wanted to get outside and take a breath of London’s polluted air to contemplate what had just happened. We all needed to let the information we had just received permeate into our minds and souls and soak up the reality of the tasks ahead. We all had to stay calm and look like it was no big deal, look professional and undisturbed in front of each other as if to offer inner strength by telepathy; but the telepathy was more like: Fuck, this is BIG shit. Besides, cigarettes tasted better in the fresh air after such a meeting.
I don’t really recall how it felt to see familiar names and faces on the kill list. It was surreal and almost ridiculous to my mind at the time. I even remember making attempts to say or try to convince myself how stupid it was to think that Anatoly, Erik and the family were involved, a rash and passing thought that contradicted the very fact that I was the main source of information that had put their names on the list in the first place. It’s all too easy to forget that my role as an operative for the Steering Group wasn’t part of the armed forces as such, I was a NOC, non-official cover operative, conducting intel and government work under assumed identities, simply utilising military support as required. I was part of the team but simultaneously alone. I guess that’s what made me all the more interesting to the SF guys in so much as I was supposed to be a lone operator with my own agenda but was reliant on their support and tactical abilities. I read my instructions and orders and within the hour was on my way to RM Poole to start my familiarisation and integration with an appointed SF support team which would ensure that the implementation of Operation SEGMEnT (Steering Group Middle East) was a success.
Royal Marines Poole. I have very fond memories of the place and all the guys I teamed up with. It was definitely the real starting point for military operations that were more complex, intense and without doubt carried much higher risk. I was definitely treated differently than I had ever been up to this point. I remember arriving in my new Ford Granada 2.9i Scorpio; it had been fitted with a tracking device and bulletproof glass by friends in the transport division after I had bought it. It was a year old but, fuck me, it was fast as fuck – an armchair ideal for cruising between the south coast, Wales, London and home. The transport division had been granted a sizeable budget to have my personal car upgraded, including the 2.8i V6 chipped engine, and the suspension modified for evasive driving. It was just awesome to drive and without doubt would get me out of any situation that might present itself, however unlikely that may be. The budget stretched, allowing for a few additional toys including an in-car radio telephone that was state of the art at the time and pretty cool as this was before mobile phones had really taken off.
Security was tight on the main gate but without too much of a fuss I was soon shown to my own room which was the best accommodation I had ever been allocated. I hadn’t been used to anything quite so comfortable and had only been allocated shared accommodation up until this point. I was met by Paul, who had been waiting; he had come down from London to introduce me to the team I would be working with. He was the real bridge between the Steering Group, UKSF and the ‘N1’ intelligence operatives such as myself. He had been my backstop for Moscow but I hadn’t realised his full role up until now. He was complex in every way but made quick and accurate summaries and directives when chaos consumed others around him. His very presence instilled a confidence that changed the atmosphere instantly. He was deeply into all aspects of the business and had an overview even senior members of the Steering Group envied. Paul knew the difference between a wish list and a reality show, and because Paul adapted to the realities of all assignments he was able to deliver without compromise. It was explained I might not have the same support team all the time but Paul was keen to try and keep me with familiar faces. Intel gathering, infiltration and execution of orders in the Middle East (even with my Russian friends) was proven to be very difficult and needed a good support unit and an extraction team that was very experienced when the shit hit. To be honest I was hoping to avoid any close encounters and do any necessary trigger work from a comfortable distance, like in Israel.
I was introduced to the guys in the hangar in the upper camp in Poole. There were two camps: an upper camp comprising accommodations, offices and hangars; and the lower camp, known as the ‘Hard’, where the boats section was situated. There was the main fleet of landing craft (LCU – Landing Craft Utility, and LCVP – Landing Craft Vehicle Personnel), together with the SBS patrol, LRIC (Long Range Interceptor Craft) and the FB-Mil-50P engagement craft, with all the associated workshops and naval engineering support staff, etc. Pierre was in the team and I was so pleased to have a familiar face. It was all low-key and it was clear right from the start we were gonna be having a lot of fun together.
So, here I was with the guys from C Squadron, Pierre, Smudge, Cheesy, Phil, Hugh and Baz, all Special Boats, and what a collection of hard bastards who had been brought together to see the job done. The guys were very gracious to welcome me into their world and we spent the whole day just sitting in the hangar on deckchairs, chatting and getting to know each other; nothing about the mission was discussed, come to think of it no one mentioned work at all. Occasionally a few of the guys would kick a ball about or throw a few hoops. Lunch was brought in, muck on a truck delivered by the SNCOs’ mess. Sizing me up as a deadweight or as an asset they would go all the way with – who knows what people think of you when you first meet. I’m pretty sure now that this had been their opportunity to accept or reject both me and my accompanying mission package. I don’t know what they thought of a young guy like me entering their world; maybe they thought I was a problem waiting to happen, another assignment they had to babysit or endure. The bottom line, however, was that the Steering Group was in such a position to pass requests down the line that couldn’t really be refused, such was their influence and position in the halls of power.
From what I learned, despite being specialists in CT (counter terrorism), MTC (maritime counter terrorism), SR (special reconnaissance), OA (offensive action) and all the standard SBS stuff, the guys had other sub specialities or defined skills in which they were considered experts. This could be as many as four sub specialities but was normally one or two. Cheesy was young, thin, blond hair, very clean cut and was always wearing a bright welcoming American-style smile. But underneath that smile was something a little more sinister, and he was a little pugnacious at times; he was our ‘chaos’ man and our medic (weapons, target acquisition, medic and chaos) with fuck knows how many other ops under his belt. He was sort of a loose cannon, unpredictable in a great way, but I was pleased he was on my side. We got along real well right from the word go and he was joined at the hip with Baz (formerly X Squadron, weapons, demolition and ordnance), a big cunt, greasy black hair and hands like fucking shovels, and without doubt the clever one amongst us. Baz was our bomb building expert. He was always very quiet and well-spoken but could probably crush your skull with one of those shovel-like hands. Baz was a true killer, perfected by practice, a very calm and deadly weapon. Pierre was fun, a sniper, black-role specialist, sabotage and intel-gathering e
xpert. He was French, which always attracted all the piss-taking, but he took it well and was the meat in the whole sandwich and was our guns man. Hugh, an amphibious boats expert, was a fellow linguist and only spoke to me in Arabic; he looked very Middle Eastern but was born and bred in the UK. He had the whole terrorist look weighed off and simply didn’t look like he should be with us on a UK military base. Hugh was our trickster and comms man. That left Smudge, who was a short-ass with curly black hair and he was a Scouser, and there was no way he could ever lie his way out of that accent! He was our most talented engineer, with an electrical bias, and he liked to remind us all of his skills on a regular basis, in jest of course. Sniper, medic and submarine expert, he was always interfering with the electrics on Baz’s bomb-making efforts. What a team. We now fell under the wing of C Squadron as a sort of specialist unit.
I enjoyed that first day despite being nervous; after all, I was the new boy and an outsider coming into the shadows that would support my work. It was like a marriage of experts. We were being spliced together for the long haul in joint operations. These guys were assigned by the Steering Group to be my protectors and support team in order to ensure that the assignments I had been given were seen through to the bitter end no matter what that end looked like. I spent a few hours with Cheesy that night in the cages going through all the kit that had absolutely no meaning to me whatsoever. It was like a religious ritual – each day the guys would go into the cages, prep their kit, check and re-check. I’m sure I wasn’t the only thing on their agenda and it became obvious I needed a lot of training if they were going to take me on in any way.
Just the very fucking next day, day two and 4am, I’m being dragged out of my sky chariot (bed) by Baz and Cheesy, up the stairwell and all the way onto the roof four floors up. Pierre handed me a jumpsuit, hazardous duty life jacket, helmet, knee pads and just smiled at me. Chinook inbound, heavy thudding mechanical thunder growing louder from the twin rotors, back door down and we’re boarding the fucking thing off the rooftop of the accommodation. Complete disorientation as the door closed and the cargo bay switched to red light as the Chinook took a series of heavy turns and ascended for a good 20 minutes before levelling out. The guys were all just sitting in the cargo netting as if it were all fucking normal at this time of the morning. They were all just sitting, happily applying cam cream to their faces and blacking themselves out, whilst I’m sitting there still with a Fuck off, you’ve got to be kidding look on my boat race. The guys settled down to eating, smoking and generally messing about. We must have been airborne for over an hour, all the guys pretending to be sleeping now, when the yellow light went on at the back of the cargo bay and the helo (‘helo’ is the military way of saying helicopter) descended rapidly whilst simultaneously opening the rear door. The noise and wind was as crazy as a Caribbean hurricane, forcing the engine exhaust fumes into the cargo bay as the Chinook manoeuvred and then levelled off. Green light on.
The Steering Group Page 20