Soldier Spy

by Tom Marcus

  On our way, the team leader came up on the radio and asked if we could see the back door of our target’s house. The target was suspected to be Chinese foreign intelligence, and we had no other information at all other than that we needed to see what he was doing in the midnight hours. This was a brand-new lead so it was understandable that the intelligence was thin at best.

  As I settled to the north of the target’s address I heard on my car radio that two of our team vehicles had driven through to try to get a direct view on the back way from the north as the property faced south. The layout of houses here is very much stereotypical northern city: rows of terraced and semi-detached houses in neat little blocks, all overlooking each other. I had a feeling that we might be able to get direct on the back door of the house but it would have to be someone on foot. I knew no one else in the team either had the right profile or the desire to be on their own out here at night.

  ‘From Zero Six, I could have a look at getting this on foot from the park to the north.’

  ‘Roger, Zero Six, do you feel safe here?’

  I knew he was going to ask that. As a team leader he was responsible for the team’s safety and wellbeing, but I knew he wanted results. So did I. My profile was perfect for this area tonight. I had my tracksuit on, tucked into my socks, Rockport shoes and my JD Sports drawstring bag in the car, containing a couple of cans of super-strength lager.

  ‘Yes, fine. I’ll get out now and move into the park.’

  ‘Roger that, Zero Six. Stations, radio silence while we have him out on foot, please.’

  The idea of keeping the net quiet and free from transmissions was because it was highly likely that I might need to ask to be extracted quickly, and I couldn’t do that if the team were constantly talking to each other. Before I left my vehicle I switched off the car radio and switched my personal radio on, while reaching behind the passenger seat and grabbing my chav crash-out kitbag. Before you leave your vehicle, you always check your covert radio is working, especially in dangerous areas like this.

  ‘Anyone read, Zero Six?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, loud and clear.’

  ‘Roger, likewise. On foot now.’

  The park was roughly 150 metres ahead of me as I walked south. I couldn’t see the target’s house yet; it was just too dark. Holding my drawstring sports bag with my lager in, I could hear the distant sirens of emergency vehicles and some shouting from the street adjacent. Nothing to worry about. At this stage I was slowly morphing into the area. I felt at home again, and thankfully for once it wasn’t raining, although this meant there was a high likelihood of the streets being busy because it was dry.

  Once I got into the park, I moved towards a see-saw covered in graffiti. Taking a seat, I got a clear and direct view of the back door of the target’s house. This was a fantastic position and if I was lucky I could stay here for a few hours without any issues. With my super-strength lager for company I looked like I belonged here. I needed to maintain my cover, even though I was alone in the park, and I wanted to avoid talking if I didn’t need to. I opened the first can of Kestrel Super-Strength.

  I signalled over the radio for the team leader to ask me a question.

  ‘I hear you, Zero Six. Do you have direct on the back door of the address?’

  Staying nice and quiet, settling in to the area, I signalled back that I could see the back door.

  ‘Roger that, Zero Six, you have direct – thank you.’

  Returning the drawstring sports bag back to my back, I settled in, soaking up the environment. It was cold and fairly quiet apart from the odd drugs-runner on his bike in the distance. I had been on the see-saw for around fifteen minutes before the team leader started interrogating me using the tone system to get a clear picture of what the target’s house looked like.

  ‘Zero Six, signal if you’re OK and ready for questions?’

  Taking another swig of this beer that tasted like paint-stripper, I let them know I was ready for questions.

  ‘Roger, that’s “yes”, thank you. Are there any lights on at the back of the target’s house?’

  Negative

  ‘Roger, negative on the lights. Do you need a break?’

  Another no.

  ‘Roger, we heard negative. Will check with you in fifteen minutes.’

  With no lights on at the house it was looking like our target had already left, or wasn’t about to leave for a while. The only movement I could see was the odd mountain bike cutting down the side streets, but thankfully no one had come near me yet. I didn’t know where the team cars were; I knew they’d be close, but the main thing was that everyone knew I was in this park.

  Nearly an hour went by and, other than the four security checks from my team leader on the radio to make sure I was OK, nothing had happened. The park was a fairly large open space at my back and I caught a glimpse of what looked like a local runner on his mountain bike riding across behind me. I was fairly sure he must have seen me. One of two things was going to happen: either I’d be left alone or I’d be approached to see what I was doing or if I wanted to buy any drugs.

  Lights on downstairs at the house around the back door; this was likely our target coming out. I couldn’t move away in case I walked head-on towards the target; if he was Chinese intelligence it was likely he’d be very aware of his surroundings. Probably one of the reasons he was choosing to live around here was that no one apart from me would be crazy enough to operate in gangland Manchester in the middle of the night.

  Back door open. I could see a Chinese male leaving the house, illuminated briefly by a hallway light, which he switched off as he closed the door.

  Giving the team my stand-by signal, the radio filled with transmissions as the team immediately switched on.

  ‘We hear you. STAND BY, STAND BY! Zero Six, vehicle crews will take control now; return to your vehicle.’

  I couldn’t. The target was walking away from me about 100 metres in the distance, but my car was to the north behind me and I had a gang of lads closing in fast, blocking my path. I could hear the team moving with the target and slowly edging out of the area.

  The last thing I wanted to get into now was a fight with some kids trying to prove a point to each other. If it came down to it, I could probably fight my way out of a small group if I took the initiative of surprise and speed, but the local gangs round here always carry knives and in some cases small guns. The shouts the confident teenagers were directing at me were growing more aggressive as they closed in behind me. I had to confront this.

  The see-saw bounced slowly as I stood up and turned around to face this hostile gang of seven males, all of them, I saw, in their early twenties. Too big to fight off. I signalled to the team I was in trouble, transmitting the emergency signal over my radio.

  ‘Roger, Zero Six, you need help. Coming in now, stay on this channel, everyone else switch to channel 6 and stay with the target.’

  My team leader was leaving the follow to come and help me. I just hoped he would make it in time.

  ‘What the fuck you doing round ’ere?’ the leader of the gang asked, aggressively sure of himself. He was around 5ft 10 tall, dressed very similarly to me in a tracksuit with Timberland boots, smoking. He had a look in his eyes I recognized: he wasn’t scared, nor was he angry. He was secure in his surroundings and what he was saying to me; he knew he could back up anything he was about to threaten me with. I tried to play down the aggression and keep hold of my composure and cover. Taking a drink of my now nearly empty can of lager, I acted as if I didn’t know they were meant to be threatening,

  ‘Nowt, been kicked out again.’

  The gang started to surround me and close in, two of them on mountain bikes circling all of us, laughing and swearing. This was everyday life for them. One of the gang behind me shouted out, ‘Tax ’im!’

  The leader lurched forward, grabbing hold of my tracksuit top on my chest. The impact made me stumble back slightly, which I emphasized to allow me to adjust my f
ooting. It looked like this guy had the advantage, but in reality I was picturing ramming my beer can into his eye socket. Now his face was an inch away from mine I could smell on his breath that he’d been drinking heavily.

  ‘This is my park, you twat, fucking hear me? Eh?’

  OK, enough was enough. I’d have to take this guy out. I couldn’t hear my team leader on my radio but I knew he would be closing in to help me, so I’d probably have to fend these guys off for no more than a minute. A minute is a fucking long time, though, if you are losing a fight against a gang of seven who clearly are used to this life. It reminded me of growing up, being around this crew. One thing was certain, though: if I managed to take out the leader, the rest of his crew wouldn’t back down, they’d pile in. Loyalty to each other is all these lads had. I needed to act fast and hard.

  As the gang leader swung me around to throw me towards his mates, he noticed my radio.

  ‘He’s five-0, he’s got a radio, look, look!’

  There was an instant shift in the gang’s demeanour: strangely, the leader softened his approach, while a few of the other quieter ones became more aggressive. I had to play on the gang’s belief that I was undercover police, but I also needed to make my team aware that I might have a way of walking out of this cleanly if I could win over the leader of the gang, who just a moment earlier had wanted to kick the fuck out of me. He became the focus of my attention. I wanted my team leader to know exactly what was happening. I kept my radio transmitting so that the team could hear absolutely everything that was being said.

  Staying relaxed, I side-stepped into a better position where no one was directly behind me and gave a nod that said, ‘OK, you guys have sussed me out.’

  ‘Lads, I’m looking for a paedophile who tried to snatch an eight-year-old boy from this park earlier today.’

  Everyone universally hates paedophiles, and it showed on the faces of these lads as most of them bought the story straight away – apart from the one or two that clearly still wanted to bounce my head across the park.

  ‘I’m with an undercover police unit working with Interpol. This paedophile was last seen in this area, wearing a green waistcoat. He’s white, nearly six foot tall, about forty years old, with bright ginger hair. Have you guys seen him?’

  I’m not sure why I mentioned Interpol, I guess it was the adrenaline-fuelled reaction to a sudden fight or flight situation, but I went with it anyway.

  As soon as I stopped transmitting, I got a reply from my team leader: ‘Zero Six, do you want us to come and get you?’

  I was now fairly sure I could get out of this, so I signalled back that I didn’t want them to come in. If my team piled in now we’d lose the target and end up in a brawl with these guys.

  ‘Roger, negative heard. Get out of there as soon as possible. I have eyes on you.’

  This was good; my team leader was within running distance of me somewhere now. As the gang swapped ideas about who my fictitious paedophile might be, I still needed to get out of there. I got on the radio again and started to lay the groundwork for my extraction.

  ‘Lads, are you here all night?’

  They nodded unanimously to confirm they’d be there all night because it was their patch. For the first time I could see my team leader’s car at the corner of the field and the main road with its lights off.

  ‘Great. Listen, I need your help … Wait.’

  Still transmitting, I pretended to receive a message, aimed at letting my team leader know what I needed next and giving the gang just enough to go on to allow me to leave unharmed.

  ‘Roger that, Zulu Six Seven, sighting confirmed in Oldham on the High Street. Moving there now. Foxtrot Oscar Mike, pick me up on the main road now.’

  A lot of what I was saying was bullshit and my team leader would have known that, but I was trying to make it sound consistent with what they would expect an undercover policeman to sound like. It gave the gang just enough information about the paedophile being spotted somewhere else and that I was rushing there to arrest him.

  ‘Lads, I have to go and get this scumbag, but if he comes back here before I get to him ring me on this number.’

  Taking a phone out of one the gang members’ hands, I quickly typed in my service-issue mobile phone number with the last two digits changed. Returning his phone, I turned and started running towards the main road, my bag and can of lager bouncing on my back. Glancing back towards the gang, I shouted, ‘Remember, if you see him, ring me!’

  Five metres away from the edge of the park I could see my team leader, accelerating fast towards the main road with his lights on. Hitting the brakes hard, he stopped just as I got to the junction. I jumped into the car and swung around for my seat belt as the team leader drove out of the area fast.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  After changing the settings of the car radio to channel 6, I picked the map up from the footwell. The team was still with the Chinese guy, who was in a taxi by the sound of it. The team leader gave a quick update to let everyone else know I was OK and that we were back with the follow.

  ‘Charlie One One, complete and back with.’

  No time to process what had just happened and – perhaps more worryingly – what could have happened; I had to focus on this task and make sure we controlled the target. The team leader didn’t go into any detail with me either; we were too busy now concentrating on the follow. He just sent a quick message back to the Operations Centre to make sure no other teams went into the park I had just been in. ‘Base, acknowledge – no crews to go into area around the park.’

  ‘Yes, roger.’

  And as easily as that I rolled back into our operation, not thinking about my previous cover or the fact that all I could taste was stale lager. It wasn’t until we got back to the garages at the regional Operations Centre that it started to sink in what real danger I had been in at the park. In the changing rooms, I was on my own; everyone else was in the canteen, getting coffees and bacon sandwiches as it was just coming up to breakfast time. I grabbed my washbag out of my locker to go and brush my teeth. It felt like that super-strength lager had been dissolving them all night.

  I flushed the toilet, walked over to the sinks and started to brush my teeth. In the mirror, I looked tired. Trying to freshen up, I somehow managed to put most of the water all over my top instead of my face. It gave me an excuse to get changed before I went home. From my locker I collected my spare set of normal clothes, returned to the sinks and started getting undressed out of this chav-tastic tracksuit so I could travel home in comfort and leave ‘work’ here.

  I caught the reflection of myself in the mirrors, but didn’t quite acknowledge what I was seeing: scratches on my arms and two large fist-shaped bruises on my chest. That fucker from the park must have hit me with more force than I had realized. I couldn’t even remember him or anyone grabbing my arms, yet I had three very distinct scratch marks around the insides of both biceps. Why couldn’t I remember that? Surely it wasn’t that traumatic? But my brain had somehow blocked that memory.

  The bruises didn’t hurt but were already starting to turn a deep purple. This was going to be difficult to explain to my wife. I knew I would be opening a can of worms if I tried to explain what I was doing in Moss Side on my own, drinking in a park, ending up having to talk my way out of getting my head kicked in by a local gang. How the fuck was I meant to have a loving and open relationship with my wife when everything I did at work involved me putting my neck on the line to make sure we kept hold of the worst kind of scum to walk this earth?

  I knew that if I was to protect my family from worrying every time I left the house, I had to bury this and not mention it. I’d been through a lot worse. Thankfully, I was having issues remembering the details anyway so it made it that much easier to keep it to myself. If I couldn’t remember everything then there wasn’t any point saying anything. I just hoped this bruising faded quickly or I got an operation that would mean I’d be
away from home for a few nights to give these two massive bruises time to blend in to my pale skin.

  With my ‘going home’ clothes on, I put my washkit back in my locker and saw that the tracksuit top I’d had on in the park was actually ripped on one of the arms, so I quickly threw it in the bin. I had to get rid of any evidence, anything that reminded me of the incident in the park.

  Staying on task is what being an operator is all about, living your cover to allow the best intelligence capture possible. If you need to sit in your own piss as a tramp for six hours in the freezing cold in order to make sure you let your team know a high-profile target is coming out, then that’s what you do, and if I had to hide the fact that I’d had a lucky escape in Moss Side, then that’s what I’d do. Operators don’t have mood swings, we stay constant so our team knows exactly what we can and can’t do. Someone’s memory putting padlocks on certain things to prevent them from becoming traumatic is a really bad thing, and would instantly lose the confidence of the team.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We’d been on this Russian job for weeks now. I loved working against these guys; they truly understood how to operate on foreign soil, and, despite posing as diplomats based out of the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, they were anything but diplomatic. Most of the time foreign intelligence operators from the Russian SVR were here to advance their own technical or military progress. They would hardly ever try to recruit members of the British Parliament because they knew the risks of being caught were incredibly high.

  Britain is a world leader in military tech, especially equipment that requires lasers, so its defence companies and civilian tech firms that become the targets of hostile intelligence agencies. They operate high levels of security and counter-intelligence to prevent corporate espionage, so they were still a difficult nut to crack, but with the right squirrel it was not impossible. I loved the Russians, though, because despite them trying to steal secrets they would do it in a way that was subtle – no sledgehammers involved unless it was a reprisal on one of their own defecting agents.