by Tom Marcus
‘Eight. Eight people.’
‘Easy, right? When I let the instructors in there was a young woman who followed roughly ten seconds later. Dave, give me an A-H of her.’
An A-H is the way we describe how someone looks: Age, Build, Colour, Distinguishing Features (clothing or carrying a large red bag, etc.), Elevation, Face, Gait, Hair.
Dave got most of the details about her, enough to recognize her anyway.
‘She gave me a piece of paper which I purposely placed on the table in front of you. What was written on that paper?’
The smiles of the instructors grew even wider and my instructor became particularly smug. Darren could see my eyes flickering and lips twitching as I muttered to myself what was written. The room went quiet as Emma also noticed I was thinking about the question.
‘You know, don’t you?’
Wanting to keep out of the limelight I looked at my instructor. He’d stopped smiling, straightened his body upright and developed a frown.
‘Er, no, no, was just thinking that’s all,’ I said.
Darren took a step towards the desk inquisitively, wanting to know more.
‘TC, you don’t have a photographic memory. I can tell you took notice of that paper. Don’t be embarrassed, mate, if you did try to remember it.’
The room was now quiet as my instructor spoke up from behind Darren.
‘He’s got good awareness; TC, do you remember that note put on the desk?’
Nodding, I knew that if I answered I was setting myself up here. I wanted an easy course. By telling these guys what was on the note placed on the desk now nearly ten hours ago and that I had sight of for about fifteen seconds, I knew if I didn’t notice absolutely everything from that point on, it would be noticed more than if one of the candidates didn’t notice something. Fuck. Darren pushed a bit harder: ‘TC, I can see it in your eyes you are trying to be humble, but don’t lie to me. I can forgive you wanting to be the grey man, but don’t fucking lie to me.’
‘Emily, 1 6 8 9 8 0 4 7 x.’
The room went still as Darren took half a pace back and offered his hand out as if to say, tell everyone the method you used.
‘It’s simple visual association, matching words and numbers with a visual image to make a story up that’s easy to remember. Emily the Elephant is a massive big fat thing with tiny ears.’
A few laughs started to ripple around. Darren turned half towards the smirking instructors. He didn’t need to say anything, his body language was telling them to shut up.
‘And the numbers …?’
‘One is a dagger, six is a golf club, eight is a massive pair of tits, nine is a meat hook, zero is a cake, four is the sail on a boat, seven is a cliff edge. Whole thing becomes “Emily a massive fat elephant with tiny ears picks up a dagger and steals a golf club from a woman with massive tits and ginger hair who falls on to a meat hook spilling blood everywhere. She grabs her tits and pushes them together to catch a cream cake oozing with jam, while sailing across the ocean on a sail boat straight off a cliff edge on to an X marks the spot.”’
I could feel myself getting embarrassed, and started to feel a bit flushed. I hated standing out like this. It made me feel like I was a freak. Darren took the piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it around the candidates. I felt daft about my memory method, but it had always worked for me; the more graphic and insane the story, the easier it is to remember.
Thankfully, Darren lightened the mood. ‘Right, tomorrow we’ll build on the skills you’ve been taught today, same time, similar distance. TC, you’re seeing the shrink because your story about Emily and cake is disturbing!’
The laughs returned and I didn’t feel I was standing out any more. I wanted to belong. I didn’t want to be thought of as different. Shuffling my chair out I grabbed my kit and we all made our way out of the training room. My instructor was waiting for me with Darren as I left the room with the candidates. ‘TC, a word, please.’
Dave called out that they would catch me at home as they made their way to the lift.
‘TC, that was good. I’m giving you a hard time on purpose. The other guys will likely pass this course and make good operators. You’re not special and you’re not destined to be a part of a deniable team working overseas and if I’m honest you make me nervous, you can be too keen.’
‘What he’s trying to say, TC, is Ian told me you’d be a good operator. And you are. You notice the right things, you live on the street very well, but talking from experience you’re wound tight. Your psychological profile suggests you don’t switch off. Listening to the instructor feedback from the candidates today, you move and travel differently from them to and from here,’ Darren added.
This felt really strange. I was worried about being highlighted for remembering that piece of paper because I didn’t want to be expected to remember absolutely everything, yet here I was being told I was too switched on, too aware. This was the only way I knew how to be. When my son was about to fall over, I was there before he hit the floor because I could see it happening; I knew when a glass was about to be knocked over, and I knew what information I had to remember. If someone or something looked out of place, I would question it endlessly to anticipate the threat.
‘Just be mindful of being a lit firework. Everyone wants the desired effect, but unless you have a solid grounding, a base, no one can tell what direction you are going to fly or where you’re going to explode. Look at the teams, and your old team in the military. Not many old guys, are there? If you want a career with us, learn to breathe.’
That evening the walk home to the Tube across Lambeth Bridge was really isolating. Was I doing a good job or not? I just wanted to belong and here I was again not fitting in. It was my nature to notice everything and the instructors were training the candidates to notice and question what they saw, yet I was apparently doing it too much. Maybe I was wound too tight, but as far as I was concerned this nation needed oddballs like me to see and do things no one would think to do.
The rest of the foot phase of surveillance training went well apart from the last day in Brixton. It was test day for the candidates. You have to follow an operator from one of the teams through London, on and off Tubes, in and out of museums, shops, housing estates, open parks without the experienced operator flagging anything out of the ordinary. In reality you’d never follow one person everywhere yourself but it’s a way of cramming in tons of pressure in a training environment to allow the instructors to assess your skill set.
I was halfway through my test day when the follow took me to a crossroads in Brixton. My ‘target’ had walked towards a block of flats. My instructor was behind me observing my natural behaviour and decision-making process. As I crossed the road I was presented with a problem in the form of an aggressive Jamaican asking for spare change. Last thing I needed. I knew this wasn’t a role player.
‘Any change, my man?’
‘Sorry, mate, I’m skint.’
I tried to continue my walk, but he presented his large, slightly fat frame in front of me, blocking my path.
‘Let me borrow your phone then.’
It wasn’t a request, he was demanding I hand over my stuff. It was broad daylight and my instructor was some way behind me, I couldn’t tell where.
‘Ain’t got a phone,’ I said.
He’d stopped me in my tracks now as he took another pace towards me. I could smell the sweet aroma of cannabis masking a stench of stale alcohol and knew this wasn’t going to end well. Fucking hell, I didn’t need this.
‘I’ll cut you up, hand it all over NOW!’
Enough. I had to take this fucker out and I knew I had to be quick, otherwise I’d lose sight of the operator I was meant to be following. This guy was taller and a lot heavier than me, but if I took the advantage I would be able to put him down and run before he had a chance to react.
Spitting in someone’s face nearly always gets them to take a step back briefly, unless you’re dealing with so
meone who is used to fighting. Everyone hates being spat on in the face, especially if you get the aim right in their eyes or mouth. As my spit hit his right eye and his nose, I hooked my right foot behind his legs, grabbing a handful of his coat on his chest, and kept the momentum going to get away from him. Forcing his bulky frame over my leg, I slammed him into the floor, his right shoulder hitting the pavement first.
‘Fuck off, you cunt,’ I shouted.
Spitting in his face again, I let go of his chest and yanked my foot from under his hip before running across the road towards some flats. I couldn’t see the operator I was meant to be following, but he couldn’t have got very far. I was running, which made me stand out, and a quick glance behind me as I neared some flats told me the Jamaican was picking himself up off the floor, wiping his face. Hopefully he wouldn’t start running after me and I could get on with this final foot surveillance test.
When I made it to the other side of the flats, I could see my target continuing towards a bus stop. I’d got control again. Stopping to read a billboard ad, I looked behind me again. Still no sign of the guy who’d tried to rob me seconds ago. Time to change my profile again. Taking off my black sports jacket, I replaced it with a dark blue hoody, hood up. The rest of the follow went without a hitch and we were soon back in the comfort of Thames House.
In the training room the other candidates, having passed this phase, had already been sent back to the safe house for the day, ready to start vehicle surveillance tomorrow. It was just me, the operator I had been following all day, Darren and my instructor.
Darren started the debrief.
‘OK, tell me what went on with the guy in Brixton.’
So my instructor had seen it. Why the fuck didn’t he back me up? I could tell by the operator’s face that he didn’t see or know what had happened.
‘Big Jamaican guy came at me near the flats, tried to turn me over, I put him on the floor and ran. I didn’t engage in a fight, it was self-defence.’
‘OK, take a look at this pin-hole camera footage. Admittedly the image is shaky, but just explain what’s happening here.’
My instructor was carrying a pin-hole camera and had caught the last few seconds of me dealing with the Jamaican. You could only just make out me throwing him to the ground and running.
‘This is the very last of it. He wanted money and my phone, threatened to cut me up and blocked my path. You can’t see it here, but the guy would have fucked me up. I spat in his face, threw him to the ground, swore at him and ran. I didn’t hit him or anything, I was merely protecting myself.’
Darren looked at the other two and nodded in agreement; he knew I’d done the right thing.
‘Happy with that, mate. Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, fine, no dramas. I was more concerned about losing the target.’
The operator I’d been following all day laughed. ‘I didn’t see you all day, good follow.’
Darren wrapped the debrief up and asked the operator and my instructor to leave.
‘OK, guys, thanks. Well done, TC, vehicle surveillance tomorrow. Let’s just go over some admin, then we’ll get you away.’
He waited for the others to leave the training room. When the door closed and it was just us two, he said, ‘TC, you did the right thing with that twat today, but me to you, talking from experience I’m a little worried about you.’
Here we go again, for God’s sake. This wasn’t the world ending from some zombie apocalypse; some guy in a rough part of London tried to turn me over, I dealt with him and kept hold of the target, what was the big deal? Sensing that my deep breath in and out had become a sigh, Darren explained what he meant: ‘Before the service I worked undercover with gangs, yeah? I know street kids when I see them, it’s why Ian recruited you. But you look like you’re dissociating life-threatening events while being hyper-vigilant to everything.’
‘Isn’t that what you need, though? Bad people doing evil need someone even worse to stop them.’
‘Not quite, TC. I get what you mean, but we’re an intelligent group of people, we act intelligently. Yes, we push the boundaries of what is acceptable, but I see little flashes in you that suggest you’re on the edge of losing control or failing to recognize how dangerous things are.’
Darren could tell by the look on my face that I didn’t agree with him.
‘TC, on paper you’re a grade A student, passing with flying colours, no problem. But experience is telling me that when handed potentially dangerous situations you’re either going to not deal with them mentally or take your response too far.’
‘I’m fine, Darren, honestly. If you need me to talk about my feelings to the shrink then I’ll do it, but I honestly think I dealt with that guy properly.’
‘The way you dealt with him was fine, it’s just the speed at which you carried your focus on the follow. Most would have sought comfort or guidance from the instructor having dealt with something like that. I just don’t want you to burn out.’
‘It’s fine, honestly. I get what you’re saying, but there is no need to worry at all. I’m really grateful to be in this position.’
‘OK, cool. Right, get yourself off, back in the cars tomorrow. Have a good evening.’
Lambeth Bridge was getting longer. For the second time in a month I walked across it feeling alone, as if I’d fucked up again. This course was easy, yet my personality was being brought into question. I think I would have preferred it if I was told it was my skill sets that needed tidying up, not my mental state.
As I lay in bed that night, I felt heavy, my arms lacked any energy. I was thankful that it was the driving phase the next day, although we’d be combining foot and vehicle surveillance, most of it initially would be sitting in a car. I think the number of miles we’d covered over the past month on foot – and the emotional rollercoaster of believing I was doing well on the course, only to sink to the depths by being held behind after class – had taken their toll. My eyes got too heavy to stay open.
BANG!
The noise of the bedroom door crashing shut brought my eyes wide open. I had somehow slammed into my door, having fallen asleep half-dressed. My bedroom curtains were still open and through them I could see the faint light from streetlights outside. My heart was thumping out of my chest. I’d just had a nightmare, but had no idea what it was about, I couldn’t remember anything. The house was still and quiet, but I knew I’d probably just woken everyone up with the noise of my door. It was a good four feet from my bed; I didn’t know how I’d ended up throwing myself out of bed into it as I struggled to slow my breathing down and to control my pulse rate.
My clothes were wet and I could smell my sweaty body odour. I needed a shower but would have to wait until the morning. Going into the bathroom would be a sure-fire way of waking the house up, if my door slamming hadn’t done it already.
Sort yourself out, strip off, get into bed and relax, I thought. The beads of sweat were making me shiver as I climbed into bed, secretly hoping I wouldn’t go straight back into the nightmare I couldn’t remember.
The next morning, refreshed and in clean clothes, Dave came into the kitchen as I was having my morning porridge.
‘Drop something last night, dude?’
‘Oh yeah, fell out of bed, went with a right thump!’ I couldn’t bring myself to admit to another adult that I had a nightmare.
‘Hahaha, you dick.’
He seemed to buy it.
The following months went by without a hitch. Everyone passed the vehicle surveillance phases, which combined our driving skills and surveillance knowledge built up in the foot phases, to be able to follow any vehicle across London and the entire country as a team.
The final test lasted a week, starting off with a simple ‘pick-up’. Waiting for one target to leave an address in North London, it developed like a real operation from intelligence gained throughout the first day. Where the target’s been, contacts they’ve met, new housing and vehicles and so on. Towards the end of
the week you incorporated other agencies, such as the counter terrorism units of the police and SO19, Special Forces, GCHQ and MI6, as well as departments within MI5 itself. All designed to give candidates as much real world experience as possible before they join their new team.
On the final day of the surveillance course, you’ve already been told you have passed as you’re asked to report suited and booted to Thames House for ‘badging day’. I didn’t own a suit and hated being in a shirt and tie, but I respected the seriousness of the day and made sure I was clean-shaven that morning. The guys were on cloud nine; out of the five of us that had started this course, four of us passed, Emma, Dave, Chris a quiet Northerner and me. The other guy on the course, who was found unsuitable on the driving phase, had been offered a job in A2 watching our static surveillance cameras. The kick in the teeth for him was that these people watching the cameras are classed as ‘support staff’. It’s a low-level skill set, you’re monitoring a bunch of cameras. That’s it. Compared to the high skill set of A2A, who listen to the eavesdropping devices, it was an entry-level position, but he got a job out of it so he was happy. I don’t think his heart was really in surveillance.
Dave and Emma were like little kids and Chris was his usual reserved self as we went to meet Director A to be given our Security Service IDs. His office was bare: just a desk, computer and secure telephone and four metal badges in front of him.
The director rambled on about operators being the tip of the intelligence sword. The nation depended on our reactions and judgement. I knew Dave wasn’t listening, he just wanted his badge so he could go and celebrate in Leicester Square. Eventually, the director took the first badge and opened the black wallet up to see the photo of who it belonged to. It was Emma’s. ‘This is you then, the picture isn’t ugly like the other three.’ Classic old boys’ women-are-the-fairer-sex type of comment from the director. Emma took it well, though. It was an important day. Dave, Chris and I got thrown our IDs and wished good luck as he ushered us out of his office.