by Tom Marcus
When we arrived it was typical British weather, windy as hell and starting to drizzle. My son was bundled up in a thick coat, gloves and scarf, with his wellies on. As he skipped along the seafront I couldn’t remember ever feeling that carefree as a child.
It didn’t take us long to arrive at the water’s edge, the wind blowing Lucy’s hair across her face. Taking my dad’s ashes, which were in nothing more than a sealed brown bag, I knelt down and started to pour them over the pier’s edge towards the water. The very first grains of ash made it down to the waves crashing beneath me but then a stronger than normal gust of wind piled into us from a completely different direction and took nearly all of them in one big clump and slammed them onto my son’s trousers.
My son was absolutely fine, oblivious to what the ‘muck’ that had hit him really was, and Lucy and I both burst out laughing. It should have been sombre, a time for reflection. Instead my dad decided to introduce himself to his grandson for the first time!
He always did what he wanted to do. At least now he was free of his mental prison.
14
HARD STOP
Five minutes is 300 seconds. Depending on what you are doing, that can disappear in the blink of an eye or it can be an eternity.
We’d been to Bradford many times before, normally on the hunt for Islamic extremists, ranging from the facilitators to the men and women ready to commit mass murder at the drop of a hat. Standard jobs for us. As the team waited for our target to come out, we maintained our cover within the local area. We looked like painters, builders, local chavs, business types, pregnant women, old age pensioners, matching the whole landscape of the community.
Hours and hours had passed, the team rotating around our positions making sure we fitted in. If it became quiet on the street, so did we, melting away. During rush hour or times of increased traffic, like school runs, we moved with the crowds again. I was starting to get the feeling, as the other members of the team would have been, that we weren’t going to see the target today. Suddenly the radio fired up.
‘All stations from Base, SWITCH SWITCH and find CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN. They are to the south of you in the area of Hall Lane.’
‘Team Leader, roger that. All stations STEEL BADGE, STEEL BADGE.’
Graeme responded immediately to the recognized protocol on the net, as did everyone else in the team. Switching jobs and dropping your existing target to go and find some others isn’t uncommon. CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN were a husband and wife who were talking about potential attacks in the United States and Canada.
I had a bit of ground to cover as I was in the north of Bradford. Although it’s only a small place compared to London, if Base had asked us to get hold of these two quickly, it was obviously a priority and I needed to move fast.
Approaching a red light at a crossroads, I dropped down into second gear, jabbing the accelerator to rev-match the engine and prevent the car from engine braking. There were still cars criss-crossing in front of me as I slid up on the outside of the vehicles being held at the red. I was watching both ways, mindful that no one was expecting a car to be bursting this red light, especially one that wasn’t using flashing blue lights and sirens.
Picking my gap between a young mum in a people carrier and a taxi coming the opposite way, I covered the horn and got ready to flash my headlights, just in case. There was no need. I pushed the accelerator down to the floor hard, and was straight through the gap, up into third gear and away from the long queue of cars still held at red before the drivers had time to realize I’d run a red light. No fuss, no screeching tyres or upsetting the locals, just fast, progressive driving.
‘Base from Team Leader, anything further on CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN?’
Graeme was keen to know what we were rushing into.
‘From Base, all stations be aware that CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN are likely to be armed and about to launch an attack. We’ve notified Executive Action but it’s highly likely you are going to be the first to get hold of them. We still have them both on technical showing in the area of Hall Lane, page sixty-four of your map books.’
Now we knew the reason we were going after them. Fuck.
The good thing was that the armed units of the Executive Action teams were on their way, whether that was the Police Counter Terrorism Specialist Firearms Officers (CTSFO) or military, we didn’t know yet. But they weren’t here yet and if CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN were on their way to launch an attack, we knew we’d have to try and delay them somehow.
I hadn’t been on these two for ages but I still remembered what they looked like, although if they were intending to attack right now it was likely CONGO CAT would have shaved his humongous beard, common when an extremist is about to launch an attack, knowing they are going to die in the process. It was a way of purifying themselves before they arrived in paradise, which is where they believed they were heading.
The radio was filled with team positions, as everyone gave their approximate time to get to Hall Lane.
Bursting another set of red lights, using the dual carriageway to weave around slow-moving traffic, I was up into fourth gear and still accelerating when I saw the road signs indicating a roundabout coming up in the distance. Just then Emma, our biker, who had come across from Red Team to replace Ryan, came screaming up behind me.
Leaving the braking point as late as possible, I saw Emma’s bike filling my rear-view mirror. This would make most people nervous, having a motorbike metres away from their back bumper, especially if they were already driving at speeds well over 100 mph. Our bikers train for this exact situation, using our cars to act as a makeshift plough clearing a way through traffic.
The roundabout was approaching rapidly. I couldn’t leave it any longer – braking hard, I shifted from fourth down to second to reduce the brutal forces the brake pads were coping with.
There was no one on the roundabout itself and no vehicles waiting to enter it from the other roads. I switched my right-hand indicator on to let Emma know what I was about to do. If we don’t have to, we don’t use indicators a lot unless it’s for cover purposes (to fit in with regular traffic). Police do use indicators when driving at high speed, so for us, in most cases, it’s better to look like a dickhead driver than a copper. Flicking my attention to the rear-view mirror I saw Emma nod her head: let’s do it.
STEEL BADGE gives us a lot of extra leeway but this was probably pushing the boundaries to their limit. I checked again for any vehicles coming close to the roundabout. Nothing. Staying in second gear, I kept the throttle steady but nearly flat to the floor to make sure I got onto the roundabout and off again quickly.
Seconds count in these situations, especially when people’s lives are at stake. Not driving clockwise around the massive roundabout was going to save me time when what I needed was to take the road to my right, leading west. Driving anti-clockwise, against what would be the flow of traffic, both Emma and I were on and off the roundabout in a split second and didn’t meet any other vehicles head on. Sliding the car over slightly towards the pavement, I created a path for Emma to get past and make up some ground. Instantly overtaking me, she got on the radio.
‘Bravo One Zero is now south on Hall Lane, searching.’
‘Charlie Eight Two is backing.’
Trying to keep up with Emma while keeping my speed much more inconspicuous, I took the same exit on a mini roundabout, narrowly missing a parked car as the tyres on my vehicle struggled with the cornering speed.
‘Team Leader, roger. Base, anything further?’
Graeme was still pushing Base for something more concrete to go on.
‘From Base, negative. Executive Action is now five minutes out.’
Five minutes; 300 seconds.
I knew every operator in this team had one goal: delaying these two long enough so that the armed strike team could deal with them before they reached their intended target.
Emma was straight onto the net. ‘STAND BY STAND BY, that’s CONGO CA
T and GREEN TOWN walking south-west on Bowling Park Drive, CONGO CAT is black top black bottoms, clean shaven, carrying large holdall-type bag. GREEN TOWN, full black tracksuit, white trainers.’
‘Charlie Eight Two is backing, mate.’
Fuck. Bad enough that CONGO CAT had got rid of his beard but the fact his wife wasn’t wearing a burqa made me even more nervous. Any change in a target’s normal pattern of life is a clue they are about to do something out of the ordinary.
‘Base from Bravo One Zero, where is the strike team?’
Emma’s voice pattern was stressed, and I knew why when I caught sight of our targets walking down the pavement in the distance.
‘Four minutes out,’ Base replied almost instantly.
‘Stations from Bravo One Zero, there is a large crowd at the top of the park, CONGO CAT has just pointed towards them. About one zero zero metres ahead.’
Shit, they would probably be at the crowd before the strike team got here.
‘From Base, that could be the start of a large anti-far-right demonstration, due to start marching from the park.’
That’s got to be their target. I moved even closer behind Emma’s bike, keeping the engine revs down so the car wasn’t screaming and highlighting our position to both of the targets. Then things went from bad to worse. Emma was back on the radio.
‘Base, CONGO CAT has stopped and opened the bag, showing GREEN TOWN the contents. I can see from here it’s definitely the butt of a weapon. Confirmed – he’s given GREEN TOWN a pistol. WHERE IS THE STRIKE TEAM?’
People were about to die. The rest of the team wasn’t close enough yet. Emma was right to raise her voice on the net, demanding an answer.
‘From Base, strike team is six zero seconds out.’
‘That’s too late, they have started running towards the crowd now, CONGO CAT running with the bag south-west on Bowling Park Drive towards the large crowd on the north-west side of the park. GREEN TOWN is carrying the pistol in her right hand.’
Two armed terrorists were about to start firing into a crowd of approximately 400 people who hadn’t even seen them approaching.
‘Charlie Eight Two, can you close in behind me? I’m going to try and stop them.’
‘Charlie Eight Two, YES YES!’
‘Base, roger. Executive Action teams aware and three zero seconds out.’
Emma wove her bike through a couple of parked cars, bumped it up on the pavement and twisted the throttle hard, battling to keep the front wheel down as she rode as fast as she could towards the backs of both targets. Fuck, she was putting her life on the line here.
Emma’s move was perfect. The noise from her bike was deafening and the speed at which she came gave the two targets a massive shock. They spun round, almost tripping over their feet, eyes wide. I ripped up the handbrake and dove out of the car, flinging the door open with slightly too much force so it rebounded on its hinges and hit my shoulder.
As I sprinted round the car and onto the pavement, I saw the bag had been dropped.
‘PASS ME THAT!’ Emma said, her voice muffled by the helmet. I grabbed it before CONGO CAT had a chance to go for it, glimpsing two shotguns and a number of large hunting knives inside. I passed it to Emma, who cradled it across her fuel tank and rode off the pavement, back onto the road and away. Two more strides and I’d taken the pistol from GREEN TOWN before her brain had a chance to process what was happening.
The Executive Action team would be here any second. I couldn’t tell if GREEN TOWN had a suicide vest on under her tracksuit and I wasn’t about to stick around to check.
‘From Team Leader, Base, can you tell Executive Action teams that CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN are still on Bowling Park Drive. I can guide them in if they need it.’
Graeme obviously had eyes on this and had called it in.
I ran back to the driver’s side of my car, taking the opportunity to quickly scan the area to see if the noise we had just created had drawn the attention of any locals. It was a quiet residential street, but so far no one had reacted.
I climbed into the driver’s seat just as my mirrors lit up with blue flashes followed by sirens, as three police vehicles from the Executive Action team came flying up the road towards me, three more approaching from behind in the distance. The car was buffeted by the rush of air from the police vehicles as they passed.
Putting the pistol on the passenger seat, I covered it up with my map book and waited for a gap in the transmissions from Graeme, who was rapidly describing what was happening with the targets.
‘That’s the Executive Action team on site now, from Team Leader. They have control of CONGO CAT and GREEN TOWN who are on the floor. No shots fired.’
‘Roger that from Base, happy for you all to withdraw back to garages for debrief.’
‘All stations from Team Leader, cease and withdraw. Acknowledge down the list please.’
‘Charlie Eight Two, roger the cease. Bravo One Zero, want me to take that bag?’ I’d managed to catch her up, as Emma had slowed down to avoid standing out.
‘Yes yes mate, pull up alongside me here.’
As we drove to our regional outpost for debrief, Graeme popped up again on the net, already thinking ahead. ‘Base from Team Leader, can we arrange for one of our friends to meet us at the garages to take custody of this bag please.’
‘Base, roger that.’
Our friends, meaning Special Branch. Whenever we have to hand evidence over we use Special Branch as our conduit to the uniformed police, as SB hold a much higher security clearance than uniform police and operate very differently too, more in line with how we work. Some of the bravest police officers I have ever met are from Special Branch in Northern Ireland.
Getting out of the car in the garages, I could see Emma already talking to the operations officer and Director A, who’s in charge of our whole operational wing of MI5. Standing to the side of them was an older guy, cord trousers, strong but comfortable walking shoes, dark fleece covering a checked shirt. This was our man from Special Branch.
Holding my hand out, I said, ‘Hi mate, you here for the bag of longs?’
Long is slang for rifle in the same way a short would be a pistol. It’s more of a military term but one that would instantly make him feel relaxed and on familiar ground. Just because we are an MI5 surveillance team doesn’t mean we are a bunch of big-time dickheads. We are all small cogs in a well-oiled machine and I always made the effort for Special Branch and Counter Terrorism Unit officers.
Accepting my handshake, he didn’t offer his name – there was no need. The operations officer would have escorted him here, plus the few police officers that do have access to us know they are never going to get our real names, so they don’t bother giving theirs.
The Special Branch guy walked over to my car and handed me a pair of latex gloves. ‘You’ve touched them already, I take it?’
A quick breath of air into each glove and they expanded nicely to fit over my hands without too much fuss. ‘The pistol yeah, looks like an old Hi-Power. Want some help making them safe?’
‘Yeah, let’s see what we have first. I’ll quickly photograph them and get them out of here and leave you to it.’
This guy was probably close to retirement, but despite being old enough to be my dad there was a level of respect he offered that required no words. When we encounter someone outside ‘the circle’, which is what we call the intelligence community (MI5, MI6, GCHQ or one of our close foreign intelligence allies) we’re normally met with one of two reactions.
The most common is for people to be awkward around us, mistrusting and slightly nervous despite the best efforts of the intelligence employee they are meeting to calm and reassure them. At the other end of the scale, one or two can overcompensate massively to the point where their attitude is bordering on arrogance towards us, almost as if they have to prove how fucking nails they are in our presence.
That’s the complete opposite of who we are, even the operators in the teams
who are doing the dirty work out on the streets.
If anything, when we do deal with outside agencies, and it’s not often at our level we do, we tend to make sure there is some sort of relationship built in case we need to capitalize on it at a later date.
Taking the bag out of the passenger seat and handing it to the SB officer, I picked the pistol up and followed him to the boot of my car, which now acted as a makeshift table.
Pointing the pistol in a safe direction, I did the usual checks you would do when handling any new weapon. Safety on, then drop the magazine. I placed it on the boot, pulled the working parts and went through the procedure of making the weapon completely safe, as in no round in the chamber and no magazine fitted.
‘That’s how you found it then?’ the Special Branch officer asked.
I would expect that the state of the weapons and how they were recovered would be in the police report, but it would leave out how and who they were recovered by.
‘Yeah, she had it in her hand. Everything else was in the bag,’ I said.
I watched him carefully removing the knives from the bag, then a shotgun with the barrels chopped down.
‘Anything else I can help with, mate?’
The Special Branch officer didn’t need any more information, at least not yet, so I left him to photograph the weapons and then place everything back in the bag.
‘Emma, Tom, I wanted to make sure you are both OK,’ Graeme said.
‘Yeah, fine,’ we both said.
Graeme nodded and left to sort the others out before they headed home.
I held my hand out to shake Emma’s. ‘Welcome to the team!’
‘See you tomorrow, mate.’
And that was the end of the conversation. We work extremely hard on the ground so when we get a chance to go home we disappear quickly.
Door closed, phone tucked under my left thigh, clutch in, into first gear, engine switched on, I was ready to go, just waiting for the other cars to drive past and get out of the way so we didn’t all leave in a tight convoy.
