Soldier Spy

by Tom Marcus

  Tom Marcus

  * * *

  SOLDIER SPY

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  FOLLOW PENGUIN

  This book is dedicated to my wife.

  Without you, I would have been lost a long time ago.

  My one true constant. Semper Vigilat

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I pulled my clothes out of the double-sealed bag, the smell of piss hit me. Taking a minute to avoid being sick, I had to partly hold my breath to be able to wear them. Then they become a part of me. When people think of spies in the cinema or in their nice homes, they don’t imagine me.

  My covert radio was in full flow as I was receiving constant updates about our target. Changing into my ripped old trainers and twenty-year-old piss-covered combat bottoms, I could hear the words I’d been waiting for: ‘STAND BY, STAND BY!’

  The Operations Centre had a covert camera outside the target’s house. Our target was now out in the open, presumably on his way to last prayers at the mosque. I knew I had about twenty minutes to get into position. I needed to be able to watch our target enter the mosque without him noticing me, and give the team the alert when he came out.

  Leaving the back of the van dressed as a homeless man, stinking, I now looked like I’d been living on the streets of North London for the last ten years. Armed with my fingerless woollen gloves and soggy cardboard, I sat on the pavement and waited.

  From my position I could see the main gates of the mosque and I knew roughly the direction our young male target would be coming from and I could see all the faces entering and leaving the mosque. Our target should exit and then turn away from me as I discreetly alerted the team.

  Holding an old coffee cup, asking for change, I bowed my head slightly and prepared to transmit on my covert radio or ‘net’ as the operators called it. ‘Zero Six has the mosque entrance,’ I murmured, giving the appearance that I was just a tramp muttering to himself.

  ‘Roger that, Zero Six. Target is running free towards the area of the mosque now, light grey shalwar kameez, full beard as of yesterday, tan open-toed sandals.’

  Having the team leader give me the description is essential. It allows me to lock on to him naturally without looking as if I’m studying the hundreds of males walking into the mosque, which is really difficult to do given how dark and wet this night is.

  ‘From Zero Six, target walking north on St Thomas Road, I have control.’ Letting the team know I could see the target was vital: it meant I could keep them out of the area as long as I could see him, saving our team for later if they needed to get close to him.

  The target was self-radicalized; his parents were both doctors. We’d known about him for a number of years, and that he’d travelled to West Africa to fight with Boko Haram. Recently he had returned home. I’d noticed over the past few weeks that a bruise had started to appear in the centre of his forehead, indicating he was praying far harder.

  We knew from his emails and text messages that he wanted to commit mass murder at a local school. We didn’t know which one or when. But it was in the next few days. Maybe tomorrow.

  This type of attack planning wasn’t the work of the usual extremists we fight every day. My suspicions that our target was getting help to move around the globe freely were eating away at me.

  We differ from the police in a lot of ways. Firstly, our levels of compromise are much lower, because of our skill sets, tactics and the resources available to us. Put simply, the people we hunt never know we’re there, and even when they end up in court they still don’t know how they got caught.

  The police like to arrest quickly, to remove the threat to the public as soon as possible. But that doesn’t defeat the problem, it merely takes away one of the foot soldiers. We want the whole infrastructure. By letting our targets go about their daily lives and progress their attack-planning stages all the way to their endgame, whether that is a suicide bombing, hostage-taking or mass murder, it lets us see their cell and develop what we call an intelligence picture.

  We light it up from the inside, seeing their methods, financial backing, recruiting procedures, planning, hierarchy and known associates. It’s not about taking this one particular attack out of the equation, it’s about using this one to identify, and stop, ten others.

  As the crowd of worshippers descended on the mosque, I made a mental note of how few females were entering compared to the hundreds of males.

  ‘Zero Six, do you read? Base.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, go ahead.’ Just at this point a very kind if slightly uptight woman dropped some change into my cup, but I could tell from her face that she was repulsed by the smell of my clothes.

  So with twenty-seven pence in my tattered Starbucks cup, the Operations Centre told me that our target had been spotted on local CCTV near the area. This was great news, I knew I had the right guy, but it was always nice having a fresh set of eyes confirm you had control of the right target.

  ‘All stations from Zero Six,’ I responded. ‘Target IN, IN to the mosque. I can give a standby on exit but CAN’T go with!’

  I hated the technical silence of our radios when we were waiting for a standby to wake the whole team up. It’s isolating, the lack of chatter over the radio. My legs had gone numb and the cold from the pavement was creeping into my hip joints. Moving my toes in my ripped trainers, I was trying to force blood around my body while quietly asking for any spare change from the passers-by, who by now, as it started to rain and the temperature dropped, weren’t lifting their heads up to look at me. Even the local police foot patrol ignored me. I was living my cover and it was working perfectly.

  ‘All stations, Zero Six!’ I whispered urgently into my covert radio. ‘People coming en masse out of the mosque.’

  Only the women came out first, most in full abaya worn over normal clothes. Sixteen left the mosque, all talking together apart from two straggling behind. I had counted fourteen women into the mosque earlier. Had I got it wrong? I was sure I hadn’t.

  ‘Team leader, do you read? Zero Six.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Can all stations keep an eye out for the target, please? He may have changed appearance.’

  I wasn’t 100 per cent sure, but needed the team to be open to the possibility that our target had changed his clothing inside the mosque.

  As the male worshippers started to leave the mosque, I couldn’t see our target. I knew something wasn’t right. ‘From Zero Six, all stations cover the exits out of the area, mass exit from the mosque.’

  The majority of males were leaving south, away from me as planned, which was good for my cover but meant I couldn’t see our target at all.

  Most of the women travelled south, away from the mosque too, apart from the two stragglers who were dressed in full burkhas and walked directly past me, their long garments soaking up the heavy rain.

  Just as the two women from the mosque walked past me, I got a message on the radio from one of my team. ‘A good possible for the target now walking south of the mosque, approximately 150 metres out and still moving. Same clothes as described entering the mosque. Can’t see his face yet.’

  Fuck me, how had I missed him? I was scanning the area constantly, and I’ve never missed anyone leaving before. Just as I began to reply, I caught a glimpse
of one of the two women in burkhas. As the burkha rose up on the stride, I noticed one of them was wearing tan open-toed sandals.

  ‘ALL STATIONS, ZERO SIX! Target could be walking northbound dressed as a woman, full black burkha, open-toed tan sandals, five foot, six inches, alongside another of similar description. Base, acknowledge!’

  ‘Roger that, Zero Six. The team is still following this good possible walking SOUTH away from the mosque.’

  As the team still hadn’t called a visual recognition of the target’s face, I knew I had to do something. Yet if I stood up from this soaking-wet pavement, I risked drawing the attention of anyone providing counter-surveillance.

  ‘From Zero Six, does your possible have the same sandals on as earlier?’

  ‘Can’t see at this distance.’

  I was very aware that, if this was our target now dressed as a woman, he was going to great lengths to slip out of the area without being watched. This was a classic operational mindset. If someone like this, so close to their endgame in the attack-planning stage, was going to such lengths to evade people like us, it meant he was about to carry out an attack or go into hiding prior to the attack. Either way, it was bad.

  The target would likely have people helping him watch for surveillance, so I had to be careful how I moved away and got control of what I was pretty sure were two men in full burkhas. The radio was completely frantic with the Ops room constantly asking for updates and with team members calling and then discounting ‘possibles’ – people bearing a resemblance to our target.

  There was an off-licence over the road from me. Slowly and awkwardly clambering to my feet, I peered into my tattered coffee cup, shaking the change I had, and headed over to the shop front. The two burkha-clad people were still walking away from me, about thirty metres distant now and moving at a faster than normal pace as they navigated the other pedestrians. I needed to be quick here.

  Looking through the shop window, I acted out a scenario in which I pretended I was checking the prices of the super-cheap alcohol and realizing I didn’t have enough money. Dejected, I turned to walk north to follow the two burkhas, who were now a good fifty metres in front of me. I was starting to lose control of them.

  ‘Base, Zero Six. I’m sticking with these two possibles, now heading north.’

  ‘Roger that, Zero Six, you’re on your own until confirmed either way.’

  At this point I thought I’d lost the support and confidence of my team and senior figures in the Operations Centre. I’d had an important job outside the mosque and for whatever reason I’d missed him. In reality I knew the team trusted me as a seasoned operator, but it was hard not to feel like you’d dropped a bollock with someone so close to carrying out an attack.

  The challenge for me now was to change my profile quickly from homeless tramp to a normal bloke on his way home and close the increasing gap between me and the two dark figures, who were disappearing fast.

  Changing the way you look on the street, on the move, is hard to do without drawing attention to yourself. Luckily for me it was bin day, the streets lined with bin-bags and wheelie bins. Staying on the opposite side of the street behind the two figures, I walked close to a group of people who had been drinking heavily and were clearly still under the impression that they were in the pub. Quickly unzipping my disgusting combat jacket, I dropped it into my right hand as I walked past a bin. I lifted the lid quickly but quietly, dropping the jacket in and cushioning the lid so as not to startle my new drunken friends.

  Moving straight over the road away from the staggering group, I ducked behind a moving bus and threw my woollen gloves to the floor. As daft as it sounds, I remember thinking: Fuck me, I’ve had these clothes for years, this better be the right target!

  I still needed to get out of the combat bottoms. I just had to go for it and risk it. As I’d closed the gap slightly, I could afford ten seconds or so. I turned into a dark alleyway on my right and started pulling them off. As I struggled to get my feet out of the legs, I noticed a homeless guy under some cardboard, trying to keep warm and dry. His pupils were clear white despite his dirty face and long greasy hair.

  I muttered, ‘Fuckers pissed on me!’ in my best drunken voice – he bought my story and I left my twenty-year-old combats on the floor. Time to get control of those two burkhas.

  I caught a glimpse of one dark figure turning right and east down the next street, a good 100 metres away now. Quickening my pace but without looking odd, I could still hear the chatter on the radio getting more and more chaotic. Still no sign of the target, despite the team now checking a vehicle that had driven off with someone who looked like our target, now miles away from our location.

  I needed to cross the road again, taking care to avoid the possibility of being ambushed by following him around a blind corner.

  As I got alongside the street I looked down it from the other side of the road. There was only one figure wearing a burkha now, but I could tell by the height compared to the height of the cars that this was one of the two I was following. Where the fuck was the second one?

  This was a nightmare situation; I needed support here. Just as I was about to transmit I heard a house door slam shut behind me. Resisting the urge to turn around straight away, I pretended that I’d stepped in dog shit and used the edge of the pavement to scrape it off the bottom of my trainers. It gave me just enough of a glance back to try to see who’d slammed it.

  I could see a male entering a car. Five foot six to eight inches tall, same slim build as our target and definitely of Somali origin, but clean-shaven. I couldn’t be 100 per cent sure this was our target.

  ‘Base, Zero Six, possible for the target, now clean-shaven, entering a green Toyota Yaris, partial VRN to follow.’

  When you do this game for a long time, you develop an acute awareness of how target demeanour changes. We missed our target coming out of the mosque, I believe, because he changed his appearance. Now in the area where he has become unsighted I’ve seen another Somali male of a similar height but clean-shaven. This close to his endgame, it would make me think he’s about to carry out an attack; he’s cleansing his body.

  ‘From Zero Six, partial VRN YANKEE SIX NINE SIX OSCAR TANGO. Base, acknowledge.’

  ‘Base, roger that, all stations full VRN YANKEE SIX NINE SIX OSCAR TANGO YANKEE. This vehicle belongs to the uncle of the target!’

  ‘Zero Six, roger, vehicle now running free west and last seen indicating right and north.’

  The Operations Centre were thinking the same as me: this was highly likely our target, using a high degree of operational security in a vehicle we hadn’t seen him drive before.

  Normally I’d casually walk a natural route through the local area back towards my vehicle or arrange a vehicle pick-up, but the radio was still constant with my team acknowledging my suspicions and searching the area for this vehicle. I needed to get on the hunt for the target and quick.

  ‘Any station pick me up? Zero Six.’

  ‘Yeah, TC, go to the main. I’m swinging through now.’

  Even though our communications were encrypted to Top Secret level and would take even the best hackers from China roughly ten years to crack, we hardly ever used our names on the net, almost always our service numbers.

  I could sense the urgency in everyone’s voices now and rightly so; if we didn’t get hold of this vehicle or the target we could have a massacre at a school any day now.

  Seeing our team car moving fast through the traffic, I knew this one was my pick-up. Jumping in the passenger seat, I gave a very quick confirmation to the Operations Centre that I was now in a team vehicle rather than on foot.

  ‘Zero Six, complete Charlie Nine.’

  ‘All Stations, the vehicle is westbound on the A110 Enfield at the junction of Silver Street.’

  The target must have been driving at a serious speed to make it that far north so quickly. He obviously wanted to avoid any chance of him being followed. The team swarmed into the area searchi
ng for this vehicle. I could hear everyone calling up the areas they were checking:

  ‘Checking north on Silver Street towards the police station.’

  ‘I’ve got westbound on the A110 towards the McDonald’s.’

  ‘Checking south London Road towards Argos.’

  Shouting out visual markers as well as compass directions on a map is absolutely the quickest way to ring-fence the whole area. The trick here is to avoid looking like a police/Special Forces unit swarming the area searching for people about to do evil. We still need to blend in, while seeking to find our target vehicle as quickly as possible.

  And then I spotted it. ‘From Charlie Nine. Vehicle is parked on Willow Road on the west side, facing south opposite the junction of Peartree Road. One up, driver’s side.’

  Being the one to find a vehicle that was previously running free or getting control of a target that’s not been under control is a great feeling; you get the instant acknowledgements from your team.

  ‘Base, roger, Charlie Nine – can you keep control?’

  I remained in the car, which is why Base was now referring to me as Charlie Nine.

  ‘Yes. Yes!’

  ‘Base, roger, EXECUTIVE ACTION figures THREE!’

  The senior officers obviously didn’t like this and called for Executive Action to come and arrest the occupant of this vehicle. Executive Action is usually carried out by armed police of SO19 Counter Terrorism Unit, but at this response time it would more than likely be Special Forces embedded with it our teams. They aim to arrest but are authorized to kill if they face resistance.

  ‘Charlie Nine. Roger, no change.’

  Those three minutes felt like a lifetime. No radio chatter at all; everyone keeping quiet in case Base needed to update or more importantly if I had to relay the disastrous news that the vehicle had moved away or the target had got out on foot.