by Tom Marcus
My son was looking fine now, his face full of colour, his eyelids heavy as he drifted off on Lucy’s lap. The doctor left us for a few minutes, giving us time to take in what had just happened.
‘What do you think it was?’ I asked.
Lucy was too tired to respond to me properly.
Hours went by as Lucy lay on the hospital bed with our son, both getting some sleep. I sat on a hard plastic chair and watched for the slightest twitch from my son as we waited for the initial test results to come back. It was nearly 5 a.m. before the doctor came back in. We went into the corridor so we didn’t wake Lucy and our boy up.
‘I’m fairly confident your son had something called a febrile convulsion. He’s not epileptic. Normally when a young child can’t control their temperature properly the body will go into a fit. The fit acts as a quick reboot for the body to bring the temperature down quickly. What your son experienced is in line with that, but he obviously needed your help in the rebooting aspect of it.
‘In almost all cases he will grow out of this by the time he’s five, six years old,’ the doctor went on. ‘We’d like to keep you in for a bit longer and then you can go home. But he is OK, no lasting damage at all, he’ll just be very tired.’
Walking back into the room, I saw Lucy was awake but lying still so she didn’t disturb our son. I told her what the doctor had said. Both of us were outwardly calm, trying to process what it meant. But all I kept thinking was that my son could have died if he hadn’t got the rescue breath to bring him back round.
A few days later I was driving into the garages, back on the Russian job. The sun had already set and the rain was coming down hard. Pedestrians were making their way home with their heads low, cowering away from the weather.
Traffic was still fairly heavy but I wasn’t in a rush as I still had a couple of hours before we were expected to be on the ground. I had to get a piece of kit from Ryan, our biker, for tonight’s job. He wasn’t deploying with us as his brother was getting married in the morning. I’d agreed to meet him at his local gym for the handover.
Pulling up outside a side-street gym on the outskirts of London, I saw that part of the sign outside had been damaged and one heavy security door acted as the entrance. It would be fair to say this wasn’t the sort of place that charged a high monthly subscription and I was confident that the kit inside wouldn’t be shiny or brand new. But a gym doesn’t need to be, does it? Sometimes, especially if you do the work we do, you just need to escape.
Killing the engine and the lights on the car, I sat for a second, watching my mirrors, checking out the end of this little street. This one door was the only exit for the gym unless it had an internal door leading into one of the buildings on either side. Just because I was meeting my mate outside of work, doesn’t mean I would switch off.
When I opened the car door, I didn’t create any more light than needed. I’d set the internal centre light not to illuminate when the door opened – it’s an old habit but one that’s always stuck with me. No point shining a spotlight on yourself, telling everyone you’re about to leave the car. As I always do when possible, I locked the car with the key rather than the remote central locking, which avoided having the indicators flash.
Pushing the heavy battered door of the gym open, I could already hear people training. It sounded like a boxing gym, the thunk of leather gloves hitting pads and bags, the odd shout and grunt. There was a smell of stale sweat trying to escape through the open door, almost like the gym was desperate for some fresh air.
I could see Ryan in one of two octagon-style cages. I had no idea he did mixed martial arts. It made sense though – most of us did some form of high-level fitness training on our down time. I always liked ultra distance running; it’s hard to think about work or anything else when you are out in the hills.
There were a couple of guys and a woman doing some light sparring and being taught holds and grappling on the outside edges of the gym. The main action was around Ryan’s cage though.
A quick look at my watch told me I still had plenty of time, so I leaned against the wall and waited for Ryan to finish sparring just as a guy who resembled the Hulk wandered over.
‘Can I help you, mate?’
‘Yeah, sorry, I’m just waiting for my mate to finish up. It’s pissing down outside. Is it all right if I wait here for him?’
His battered face turned into a smile. ‘No worries.’
This was a basic, raw fighters’ gym. The owner hadn’t bothered to plaster the walls or replace the old strip lights that were hanging down off the ceiling. Silver duct tape patched up the punch bags.
There weren’t any flash TV screens showing music videos or running Sky News feeds. If you were here you were training. Although, watching Ryan, who still hadn’t seen me, it looked like this was another level of training entirely. He was getting the shit kicked out of him, clearly mismatched on size and ability.
Ryan could obviously fight and he moved well, both standing and when his sparring partner took him to the floor, but neither were pulling their punches or kicks . . . or elbows! If this hadn’t been taking place in a gym, with an instructor of some sort inside the cage with Ryan, I’d be trying to get in there to help him. Every punch or kick Ryan threw out resulted in him getting hit much harder by his monstrously huge opponent.
I could see the blood pooling in Ryan’s mouth; it looked like the inside of his lip had been split. As he pushed himself up off the canvas, the guy he was fighting cast a puzzled look at the spectators, everyone wondering why Ryan wouldn’t stay down. It was brutal to watch. Ryan was being driven by something. I could tell he felt the pain every time a knee piled into his stomach or an elbow crashed into his body. But he kept coming back for more. He was hypnotized by the pain, being pulled towards it like it was a huge magnet.
Ryan was on the floor again when his sparring partner decided he’d had enough and left the cage to grab some water and hit the bags for a bit. He shook his head, utterly confused. I pushed myself away from the wall, expecting Ryan to leave the cage too so I could get the kit from him and get out of there. But a smaller, much leaner fighter jumped in to spar with Ryan. His new opponent looked sharp and fast and it didn’t take long for Ryan to be on the receiving end of more punishment.
This was starting to look dangerous. Yes, there was a training coach in the cage with them, but this wasn’t a refereed match. I walked slowly towards Ryan and the acrobatic ninja kicking seven bells out of him. Hit after hit rained down on him until Ryan’s opponent started to tire. Not sure this was right, he looked at the instructor and gestured to ask if Ryan was still fit to continue.
Blood was pouring from Ryan’s face and he was losing control of his legs. He was staggering, bleeding but beckoning for more. The instructor decided Ryan had had enough, and I walked more purposefully towards the cage. Maybe if he saw me he’d call it a day.
‘FIGHT ME!’ Ryan spat his gum shield out, spraying blood. He started stalking the cage walls looking for people to fight him, still shouting. The instructor left him to it but thankfully, Ryan finally noticed me. Sinking to his knees in the middle of the cage, he started to sob. The gym owner with the mangled face walked over and handed me a towel.
‘Kid has got heart,’ he said, nodding towards Ryan. ‘But there is something wrong there.’
Looking at Ryan, whose face was covered in blood, tears and snot, I knew this guy was right. Wanting this sort of punishment was worrying. As one of our bikers he should have the ability to deal with adrenaline and its effects, but maybe he was looking to replace that rush in his downtime?
‘I’ll clean him up and get out of your way.’
‘Take as long as you want. Every person in here is fighting for something or getting hit to forget something. It’s just who we are.’
Fuck. I wasn’t expecting the Hulk to be so philosophical, but when you break it down like that he was probably right.
The canvas of the cage was at chest height and all
I could seem to focus on was the amount of blood and body fluids all over the floor. At least Ryan was starting to calm himself. The sobbing had stopped but his head was still bowed. I’d never seen him like this before, totally vulnerable. If I tried to be sympathetic it could send him on a spiral, but equally if he didn’t talk to someone he trusted he could fall deeper into the darkness he was obviously struggling with.
‘Come on, you dick, I need to get going.’
Trying to be light-hearted was a risk but it worked. Ryan didn’t want to feel like a victim, and I didn’t want to come across as fake or patronizing. Struggling to his feet, he shuffled over. I could quite clearly see the deep, wide cut on the inside of his lip and a smaller one on his right eyebrow. Welts were developing on his cheekbones.
‘Fucking hell, mate. Can’t you take up fishing instead?’
That got a smile out of him, which made me feel bad because it immediately sparked pain in his lip. I passed him the towel, which instantly stained deep red from his face, then followed him as he hobbled to the side of the gym and his kit bag. I wasn’t really sure how to play this. Do I ignore what I just saw, ignore him screaming for someone to fight then collapsing into pure despair? Do I try and take the piss out of him in the hope he opens up and talks to me? Or do I just be honest with him? Honest was best.
‘Mate, are you OK? I don’t really know what I’ve just seen here.’ Taking a moment to look around me, I saw that the other people training in this gym weren’t paying us any attention, which I found weird. Either they had seen this before from Ryan or they didn’t want to know. Maybe they were used to watching people try to run away from their own thoughts here.
As he took his gloves off, then his wraps, I could see Ryan trying to decide whether or not to open up to me. Eventually he said, ‘Let’s go sit in your car.’
Walking out of the gym, Ryan still looked in a shit state, but he said bye to every person in there, including the owner, and knew them all by name. Everyone respected each other there.
Getting hit with a face full of rain, Ryan ran round to the passenger side of my car while I unlocked it. I drove further down the side street just so we were away from the front door of the gym, then parked. Keeping the lights off and waiting for the car to warm up, I tried to prompt Ryan.
‘How long have you been coming here?’
‘Whenever I can. I’ve tried loads of things over the years. At least getting kicked in the face keeps me fit.’
I laughed with him to lighten the atmosphere. Neither of us were good at talking about what was going on in our heads, but it felt as if Ryan almost wanted to open up even if I wasn’t ready to.
‘I’m done,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Ryan dropped his head back onto the headrest and let out an exhausted breath, like he’d been holding this in for a while.
He didn’t look or sound angry; it was like he’d given up. I had to get his head back in the game, not so he could operate properly in the team, but so he didn’t do something stupid.
Most people wouldn’t understand the relationship between team operators within A4. Stereotypically, people within MI5 are nosey, we unconsciously seek intelligence. It’s built into who we are and for the most part the stereotype holds true. But the teams on the ground, despite operating with each other day in day out, deliberately don’t ask questions about each other’s personal lives. If one of us were to be caught we don’t want to risk compromising the other operators and putting their families at risk. The need-to-know policy really did apply to us. At the same time, spending so much time together and relying completely on each other created an incredibly close bond.
‘Bro, has something happened?’ I asked.
‘The usual,’ Ryan shrugged, as the rain attacked the windscreen even harder. Then he straightened. ‘Remember the SHARP PENCIL job?’
I did remember it, I had nightmares about that too. We’d been on the target for ages (and were still following him to this day). He’d used counter-surveillance to identify the team and I’d come close to being captured and beheaded on video. I knew what Ryan was going to say but I could feel my armour starting to creep over me. I needed to protect myself here, I didn’t want to relive it.
‘Tom, you could have been hurt.’ He was right but I didn’t want to feed into his fear. Ryan continued before I had a chance to reassure him, ‘Families, operators in the teams, we’re all easy pickings.’
I couldn’t ask too much detail about his personal life, but he’d mentioned family so maybe that’s what he was thinking about. I wondered how to do this properly, then thought, Fuck it, Ryan is an operator in Green Team, same as me. He’s my brother, and yet here I am analysing him like he’s an asset I need to pump for intelligence. Stop dissecting him and be a friend!
‘Ryan, bro.’ Leaning forward, I caught his eye. ‘Are you worried about your family? Kids?’
‘Come on now. You know the rules.’ He shrugged it off and I could feel him putting the barriers up. It was ironic, really, as it was exactly what I’d just done when he mentioned me nearly being taken hostage on the SHARP PENCIL job.
‘Fuck that, Ryan. Don’t tell me specifics, but you have got to talk to me!’
‘No kids. No wife. No parents. FUCKING NO ONE!’
The tears were back, streaming down his face, and I didn’t know what to say. Come on, think, he needs you, think!
‘No one outside the teams? What about your brother, the one getting married?’
Sniffing the emotion back and wiping his eyes, he was desperate to regain some composure. ‘Foster brother. I’m an only child, parents both died before my second birthday. I’m only going to this wedding for some normality. To see what real life is all about.’
Although I hadn’t known this about Ryan, I wasn’t particularly surprised; it was not uncommon for surveillance operators in A4 to have had a difficult childhood. We don’t fit the normal profile of MI5 employees. The geeks in Thames House and the regional outposts are almost certainly highly educated, to degree level, and come from stable, mostly privileged backgrounds. They bring an incredible analytical skill set to intelligence gathering. Those of us who are operational on the ground are different. Not special, not better, but very different.
Because of the way we work, the lengths we go to, coupled with the need to constantly blend into our environment, you almost want people who have grown up with adversity, who are at home on the roughest streets of our towns and cities.
‘Ryan, you know what, real life is shit! It’s filled with people moaning on Facebook, watching trash on TV and using their phones to stalk people they hate on social media. It’s complete bollocks!’
My anger at the way I saw people wasting their lives spilled out quicker than I expected. The smile growing across Ryan’s face told me I was breaking through, but maybe I needed to give him more?
‘Mate, you also have me as a brother, this team is your family. Our family. It’s—’
Ryan cut me off.
‘Tom, I’m done. Take me to Thames House, I’ll come with you now. I’m handing in my notice.’
‘WHAT?!’
He was not being serious. He couldn’t be. Could he? Years of service put to a stop in one sentence.
‘Bro, just drive. Group leader will be there tonight, I’ll speak to him.’ Nodding at the steering wheel and putting his seat belt on, he added, ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The tone of his voice was calm, considered. He knew what he wanted to do. As we drove towards central London and Thames House I started to think about Ryan and what he’d do next.
‘Bro, say you do leave—’
‘I am!’ Ryan interrupted me mid-flow.
‘OK, what are you going to do? I couldn’t do anything else, this is all I know. I’m not qualified to do anything other than find bad guys doing bad shit.’
Much as I’d like to think having MI5 on your CV would open the door to any high-flying job, it’s just not the reality. We can’t te
ll anyone who we used to work for when we leave. Ryan told me he was going into private contracting, a plan he’d obviously been considering for some time. He started describing the job as I navigated through the slow traffic.
‘Real time intelligence to who?’ I asked. ‘Black book stuff?’
‘No mate, legit. Well, mostly. Anyone who’s paying, mainly commercial energy companies, but also local government.’
‘Ryan, what are you going to do out there? I’m presuming it’s Iraq and Syria you’ll be operating in?’
‘Yep, and Iran, little bits and pieces in Saudi too. Surveillance and on-target reconnaissance.’
With ‘on-target’ reconnaissance you actually get inside a building, whereas with surveillance you’re watching it from a distance, looking at routes in and out, windows, doors etc.
We spent the next hour or so talking through potential start dates, how he would most likely get in and more importantly out of the countries he would be working in without going through Turkey, which is a well-known route into the Middle East and was therefore watched by the whole intelligence community. It was like breaking down in that gym had been the moment he finally decided he had to leave, but despite his conviction and the fact he had a job offer in place, something still bugged me.
‘Ryan, mate. I know you need something to change, but we keep people safe in this type of work. Why ditch that and give your skill set to some massive company? Apart from the obviously huge amounts of cash. There’s got to be more than that, right?’
The lure of money can tempt most people away from their job, especially if you don’t have to consider children and/or a partner, but if you’re trying to escape a world filled with death, destruction and deceit, why catapult yourself into another world exactly like that? Parking up in the garages and killing the engine, I turned to ask him:
‘Mate, you wouldn’t run from an abuser straight into the arms of someone else who is going to abuse you. Why are you leaving the teams to go and do the same thing over there? You won’t be keeping people safe. People can sleep in their beds, take their kids to school, spend the day shopping because we are there with them, protecting them.’
