Seb looked him straight in the eye. ‘Yeah, women. How far can I go?’
Gimp laughed. ‘The question that’s always asked. Women. They’re useful, they’re a way in, they talk, they fall in love, but don’t bring your women here. Keep your address to yourself. It’s work. You’re not on holiday looking for the next screw. So don’t go for your usual type. Avoid especially older married women who ride to the hounds.’
‘How do you know about her?’
Gimp didn’t answer. ‘And don’t get any of them pregnant. It’s messy and we don’t like paying for abortions, not only that, it makes working undercover difficult. They start pressurising, want you to meet the family. So don’t go there. Keep to the straight and narrow. Keep it easy.’
He stared at Seb. ‘Right. Next. Your induction starts next week. It’s an overview of how these people operate, their belief systems, typical backgrounds, and all the rest. You’ll have several of these before we let the reins go, then you’re on your own, except for keeping in touch with me.’ He paused. ‘I see you’re in your new gear, good, you’re coming on. Oh, and check out this book. Just published. I’ll leave it with you. Interesting. Learn from it.’
He left, slamming the door behind him. Seb walked to the window and watched him walk down the street. He had a slight limp, but despite that, he walked fast, probably ex-Met, Seb thought, or the army.
He turned and gazed round his flat. The thought of bringing a woman here didn’t do it for him. It would be the last place on earth he’d show anyone. He’d been used to wining and dining, before the big seduction scene. Who’d be interested in him if they saw this shit-hole? Certainly not the kind he was used to, the city types he used to score with. But the fact Gimp knew about Carole, could only mean one thing. He was under surveillance. That was obvious. Maybe it was part of the ongoing selection process but even so, he didn’t like it. His life was no longer his own.
He picked up the book Gimp had left and began reading. It was about a cop who’d gone in deep. He’d worked undercover for years, and had lived and worked with an environmental activist, then he’d been busted along with others when they’d tried to sabotage a power plant. They’d been charged and it had all come out. The press had got hold of it. It hit the headlines. He was an infiltrator working for the police. He’d lost everything; his wife, his family, his job.
The following week, the day of his induction, Seb and five others were sitting in a room on the top floor of a high rise block located along Tottenham Court Road. Offices that looked ordinary from the outside, but evidently wasn’t. Security was tight at the headquarters of Corporate Security and Information Systems UK and Worldwide. He’d been filmed, fingerprinted and frisked before he’d even sat down. He’d been issued with a code to travel through the card readers allowing access to certain areas of the office. Biometric ‘touch and go’ systems were in use, and cameras were placed at strategic points along the corridors, monitoring and logging every step he took. It stood to reason that someone, somewhere, must be observing and tracking every move he made.
Nobody was speaking. Maybe because they hadn’t been introduced to each other and because casual friendships between agents wasn’t encouraged. There were no social niceties. The only name they’d been given was Bill, the man standing in front of them.
Probably from MI5, he was giving a rundown of the anti-globalisation movements across the Western world, with a special focus on the UK. Dressed casually but expensively, he spoke in a clipped, military manner. There were no jokes, just a stream of information with the occasional sarcastic aside. He knew his stuff. Ultimately he was a performer, a dramatist who spoke apocalyptically about the rise of the internet, and the unholy alliance between the godly and the godless, whom, he maintained were fighting for the demise of capitalism. His version of events placed some of the blame for the present economic mess squarely on the shoulders of the anarchists.
‘The aim of this rabble,’ he said, ‘is to undermine and destroy the economic system, not with weapons,’ he paused dramatically, ‘but covertly, using propaganda and industrial sabotage. Hacking, flooding the internet with spam to bring it down, subverting legitimate governmental and corporate systems, manipulating it for their own purposes, bombarding the public and the press with a stream of misinformation. They’re young, angry, educated, with friends in high places, and they have to be stopped… and that’s your job. You’ll supply the counter intelligence and we’ll act on it.’
‘What drives them?’ someone asked. He was older, with a double chin, carrying too much weight, and had heavily nicotine-stained fingers. Seb couldn’t imagine him on a demo, but they must employ all sorts.
‘They hate capitalism. In particular, the globalisation of capital and the power of the large corporations. If you want to know more, read No Logo or Affluenza. It’s all there. Just like the anti-consumerists, they’re envious of wealth and jealous of success. Infantile, if you ask me. Spoilt kids who can’t make the grades, but, if it wasn’t for them, we’d be out of a job.’
‘Yes, but how does their argument stack up?’
‘You want me to spoon feed you?’ Bill sounded exasperated. ‘In a nutshell, they believe consumerism corrupts humanity, it’s based on greed and envy, creates false needs, exploits people, animals, and desecrates the environment, causes global warming and blah de blah-blah; get it, want me to continue?’
‘Maybe they have a point.’ Whoever he was, spoke with a slight but mocking smile on his face.
The comment didn’t go down well. Bill paused, walked across the room and glowered at the questioner. ‘Do you think that’s funny? What’s your name. Christian name?’
‘Nigel.’
‘I’ll see you later, Nigel, but while you’re here, perhaps you’d like to share with the rest of us, as an example of affluent consumerism, how much that very expensive watch cost. The one you’re wearing. Take that off for a start, it won’t go down well on the next demo.’
Seb looked down at his notes and wrote a reminder to himself, that when he got back to his flat, to remove his TAG Heuer watch, and replace it with something cheap.
He stared down at his notes, was this man for real? He felt bombarded, as if he was back at school again or at home. It was like listening to his father after he’d drunk one too many. He could rant for the devil. He was fond of saying that all the ills of Great Britain could be laid at the doors of the unemployed. They were all work shy, they lacked talent, they were paid too much by the state, they should be made to work. His mind drifted away to the charity shops in Wood Green, to the cheapness of the clothes and the poverty of the customers. He knew from his student days at Buckingham it was a tad more complex than that. Perhaps the anti-consumerists were onto something. He switched his attention back to Bill.
‘We’ll stop for coffee. Stay where you are. It’ll be brought in. Any questions?’
Yes, I have one, Seb thought, but I’ll keep to myself. It’s about liberal democracy but I don’t want my head bitten off. You may believe in what you’re advocating, but others don’t.
A middle-aged woman brought in a trolley and placed a cup of weak coffee in front of each of them. Seb glanced at the others. They had their heads down and were typing into their laptops. No one looked up, including the overweight guy who’d spoken out. He looked a loser. He couldn’t be one of them. He was a stooge. A plant, placed amongst them to flush out those who disagreed with the views Bill was advocating. He finished his coffee, stood up and wandered over to the window, and gazed out at the lines of traffic stopping at the traffic lights before taking off at speed.
A woman dressed in a tight black suit and in high heels stepped into the road and waved down a cab. Her spare figure and gestures reminded him of Carole. His mind drifted back to when he’d last had sex with her. Born and bred in Lavenham, she lived in another world in comparison with what he’d observed from his forays into the charity shops of Wood G
reen. What would she make of them? Probably not a lot. She was indifferent to how other people lived, happy enough with what she had, including the occasional sex with him, and probably others who came across her path.
Her concept of free enterprise was based on the freedom to put herself about. She’d said to him on one occasion, if her husband could play the field, why shouldn’t she? He’d been fifteen, when she’d first come onto him, but despite several fumbling attempts, he hadn’t actually made out with anyone. She’d been his first.
She’d called in to see his mother, but as she was out, Carole invited him over to the stables. With hindsight, it had probably been a put up. He’d already guessed she fancied him by her tight and often revealing clothes, plus the fact she had a way of looking at him – always direct and straight into his eyes. Then she’d smile. She was seductive, exciting and he’d been a willing partner. At the time, it hadn’t been something he’d thought about. His mind had gone into overdrive about what could happen. But he’d been up for it. He was curious. Having illicit sex with an older married woman was a major turn on, especially as she was friends with his parents. It was something he knew and they didn’t. It was a way of breaking the norms of convention, and a way of getting back at them, especially his father. Having sex with her, he’d proved to himself he was a man and no longer a child. He’d boasted about what they did to his friends but now, ten years on, she was still ready and available, whenever he went back home, but for him, the excitement had long worn off. He’d become tired of her.
He heard his name called. He looked back into the room. All eyes were turned on him. He’d forgotten where he was. Bill was saying, ‘In your own time,’ and eyeballing him. The others were waiting for him. Maybe thinking about sex right now wasn’t such a good idea. He smiled, apologised and made his way to his seat. There was silence as he sat down.
‘Do you have any questions?’ The question was directed at him.
‘No, sorry. I haven’t. It’s all very interesting, what you’re saying. I’ll keep my questions until the end.’
‘So… moving on, you have to familiarise yourselves with the opposition groups.’ He passed round leaflets.
‘As you can see, Dash for Gas has become Dash for Cash and then there’s UK Uncut. Both groups oppose Government cuts, and names and shames those individuals and corporations who practice the fine art of tax avoidance. Then there’s a bunch, a large bunch, it has to be said, opposing the G8, the IMF, the World Trade Organisation, and last but not least, comes the alternatives; the life-style organisations. They have a different ideology, or that’s what they say. Take a look at Free Cycle, Fuel Poverty Action, Grass Roots, and that’s just the beginning. There’s others, for those really interested.’
‘Do we have to know all of them?’ The questioner was tall, gangly, with a face like a fox, cold, close-set eyes and a pointy nose.
‘Look,’ Bill said, ‘there’s something for everybody and you have to choose, because it’ll be one or more of these you have to get into. If you’re interested, the easier it’ll be to dish the dirt and the deeper you go, the more you’ll find out, and the more useful you’ll be.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but what if going deeper means we get compromised. I mean emotionally speaking, or because we’re working closely with them, we find their arguments persuasive, isn’t there a risk of being brainwashed?’
‘I’m glad you raised that. One of the problems with going undercover and living and working with this bunch, is you might find yourself impressed by their arguments. But don’t go there. Look at it this way, you’ve been chosen for your intellect and courage. What they’re advocating is bull shit, as well as being illegal. You’re the elite, so just make sure it’s not going to happen.’
‘That’s all very well, but we work in isolation. It must be easier said than done.’
An expression of irritation passed over Bill’s face. He stared at the questioner and leant over his table towards him. ‘You know about your handler, don’t you? You should have met him or, her. So… ’ He slowed down his speech as if talking to a difficult child. ‘You take it to your handler. But never forget, and this is addressed to you all ─ the politicos, they might sound convincing, but never forget, they’re out to destabilise the system. But worst of all are, in my opinion, the anarchists. They don’t believe in law and order, or private property.’
He held up a book, it was the same one Gimp had left for him. ‘This is about a cop who worked undercover. He’s been outed. Consequences? It’s harder for our agents to get in. They’re on the lookout for informers, so watch your back and read it. It’s an object lesson in how not to do it. Keep away from women. Screwing an attractive bird may be just what you think you need, but you could be heading for a downfall. These birds are trained to set traps especially for the sad and lonely. Not that any of you come in that category.’ He picked up his papers and left the room.
— 5 —
It was the following year and the ongoing crisis in the world markets continued. Furious with the bank bail outs and the size of bankers’ bonuses, the economic crisis well and truly angered the opposition. Protesters, united by the opportunity to undermine the political system and observing the evident iniquities of the system, were out for a fight, Seb, meanwhile had spent months poring over the literature of the various radical national and international opposition groups and armed now with the most up-to-date information, was confident he now knew enough about the various political groups to put this knowledge into practice.
Working on his own for the first time, he planned to attend what was forecast as the biggest demo ever to be held in the City of London; a socialist coalition of anti-capitalists, environmentalists, and non-aligned protesters. His intention was to observe, get his face known, make contacts, merge in and move amongst what his employers called the riff raff; the politicos, the god squad, the anarchists. For this he had to look the part.
As he left his flat, he took a final look at himself in the mirror. He’d changed. He hardly recognised himself. The cool, smooth, well-heeled image of his Canary Wharf days had gone, and in its place was a scruffily dressed male in his mid-twenties with longish hair and the beginnings of a beard. He took a closer look. He felt pleased. He looked interesting, attractive, a bit like, an actor in a Hollywood film. Maybe today he’d be lucky and pick up a woman. Celibacy, he’d discovered, didn’t come easily to him. And there could be an added bonus, because if he did make out with one of the leftie politicos, she’d be a source of information. He couldn’t lose. It was a ‘win win’ situation.
Closing his flat door, he walked to Seven Sisters tube. From there he caught the Piccadilly Line to Holborn, then changed to the Northern Line for Bank, arriving finally at the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. The noise. Before he got there, he could hear it. The sounds of protest; the chanting, the whistling, the shouting, and the closer he got, the louder it was. Down the side streets, the police presence was immense. Lines of vans parked up ready for trouble, sliding side doors left open for a rapid exit, windscreens protected by grilles. He walked past, glanced quickly at the riot police inside, they were playing cards, chatting, smoking, laughing, generally joshing, waiting for, it seemed, the expected clash.
Outside the bank, the crowds were gathering. A solid wall of sound, the place heaving with a waving sea of placards: ‘Need not Greed’, ‘Mobilise for Global Justice’, ‘Occupy’. The drumming, the bugles, the whistles, the shouting, the chanting: ‘People before Profit’, ‘You say banking, we say wanking’; melodic refrains taken up and passing like a vocal Mexican wave through the crowd. The energy, the excitement of the crowds crackled through the air; the majority out for a good time − a minority, out for trouble − but who were they and where were they?
He moved round the crowd observing the demographics: more men than women, intense, serious-looking students, middle-aged hippies, jugglers balancing on unicycl
es, the old, the world weary, the poor, the office workers, the curious, the apprehensive, the angry, the suburbanites from the provinces. A party atmosphere with musicians and the expectations of a jolly time; hard to believe the economy was in deep trouble. Leaflets were pushed into his hands, but it wasn’t the time or the place to read them, or to get into conversation. The noise, the shouting, the pushing and the shoving was too great, and on the side lines, out in force, the press. They stood near to the television cameras, positioned to move in close, film the first sign of trouble.
Forming a barrier outside the Bank of England, and the first line of defence between the protesters pushing and shoving outside and the bank employees inside, stood the police. Standing shoulder to shoulder in a tight line, tense, impassive, chewing gum, but all with their eyes fixed on an unseen midpoint. That way they could avoid the anger and hostility in the eyes of the protesters. Seb looked back over his shoulder. Some of the protesters were wearing scarves or balaclavas to cover their faces.
But the odds were stacking up. It was obvious. Trouble lay ahead. A riot was imminent. He pushed his way to the front of the demonstrators.He was prepared, physically and mentally. It was an opportunity to see how they operated. He had no strong feelings either way. He wasn’t involved. He could be neutral. He looked up at the bank building. Above the police lines, he could see distant faces staring down at the protesters, some serious, some scared, some contemptuous.
The Square fell silent. It was uncanny. The silence came from nowhere. It seemed to last forever. The crowds were waiting, but for what? The anger, the fear, the contempt, the hostility and the disgust, swirled back and forth between the protesters, the city workers and the police, the forces of the State. A standoff ─ waiting for the trigger. And it came. From within the building, someone pressed their fingers hard against the window, smirked, mouthed an obscenity and gave the universal sign of triumphal contempt ─ the V sign. That was it. That was all that was required.
Truth and Lies Page 5