No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS

by Devereux, Steve

  People not getting paid for work they have done is and has always been part of business. Shit happens, and it's no different in my industry. I would go as far as to say that it's worse than the building trade and, what's more, it's on the increase.

  Quite recently I was introduced to a director of a large British-based airfreight company through a friend who wasn't connected with the security industry. This guy wanted to know if I could secretly find out what one of their competitors was up to, since his own company had just lost a lucrative contract to them from an overseas airline company, and he thought underhand wheeling and dealing was going on, or possibly a spy was operating inside his firm. He wanted it on the cheap but at least was going to pay cash.

  I told him that I could have a go at getting info on the rival company (based at Heathrow) but there were no guarantees and I jokingly explained to him that while my industry was not like The Professionals and I don't always 'get the man', I was good at what I did. He took that on board. Because the contact was through a friend who vouched for this guy, I took a minimum advance on the job. The balance of £2,000 was, we agreed, to be paid after the operation; results or no results.

  Generally I don't care how colourful their business card is, how fancy their address or how articulate they seem — I don't break the golden rule of this business, which is 50 per cent upfront when dealing with a new client. But , as a favour to my mate, I did this time — however, I made sure my minimum advance covered my time and any costs I might incur.

  The following day I hired a white Transit van under a false name and driving licence, and half-filled it up with collapsible cardboard boxes I had scrounged off a mate working at a Park Lane hotel who was a supplier of packing boxes for a particular Arab family when they stayed there during their annual shopping spree. I then drove off to Heathrow with another old mate, One Punch Des as he was known because he was a bit handy with his fists. He got his nickname some years before during a Sunday afternoon riot with the Military Police in Aldershot Park. A load of us were just having a few cans and enjoying what was left of our R and R from Ireland when, without warning, half a dozen members of the mounted Military Police Brigade decided to charge our position. We all bomb burst, but Des stood his ground and with one blinder of a punch landed square on a horse's head brought it down to its knees — and its rider got the same treatment as he fell to the ground.

  On leaving 2 Para he had, until recently, worked for a major airline at Heathrow and knew the area like the back of his hand. He still had his ID and pass to get into certain areas of the airport, so with the aid of an electric security pass sealer I'd copied one up for myself, complete with a photo of me. He also lent me a set of his old company overalls, so I'd look the part.

  Heathrow is OK if you're just there to catch a flight, but it's a pig's ear of a place if you're visiting one of the hundreds of companies servicing the airport. The industrial area where this particular concern was located stretched for miles, and you could quite easily spend half a day looking for any one name and the other half getting back to the M4, purely because of the volume of traffic coming in and out of it.

  Des's local knowledge was invaluable. We drove straight to the company and did a drive past. It looked all normal, so within the hour we went back to target. It was a 1980s low block of offices with a contract security guard on the main gate. He let us pass after Des told him he was here to drop off some packing crates. Indeed, he wasn't too concerned and didn't notice as we drove past the main office entrance and pulled up behind the main building by the rubbish-bin bay, which to our luck was full. Any security cameras around? No. I opened the sliding door of the van and we loaded two of the four Biffa bins full of office trash in black bin-liners straight into the van. What we were doing was illegal, it was stealing. I wouldn't have liked to have ended up in court under a charge of stealing rubbish, that would have been a ridiculous charge to have on one's record.

  Anyway, in about three minutes we were back at the security gate having a chat with the guard. When we told him that we would probably be back in a couple of hours, it prompted him to tell us that he would still be on duty, and he even volunteered that his shift change was not until 18.00 — six o'clock in layman's terms. This told us two things: one, as it was only eleven o'clock we had enough time to park out of the way, sit in the van and go through all the trash at our own pace; and two, the guard was probably ex-services or police since he was giving times out in the 24-hour-clock mode. It's a small thing, but you can build up a mental picture of someone by how they say things, and since I have a good working knowledge of the static guarding world, I can tell a lot about a company by the guard they employ. I was pretty sure that when we re-entered the premises, we only had to be polite and give him the impression that we were in a rush, just like most delivery drivers are. Like a lot of these guards, I felt he would want to chat away as much as a London taxi driver — because the job is so tedious, they positively crave conversation.

  Having been given certain company names, employee names and dates to look out for, we worked like ferrets, opening binliners and putting to one side anything that might be of importance. We rummaged through dog ends, fag ash and half-eaten cheese and cucumber sandwiches; only one binliner contained what Des thought to be of any interest. I noticed he had stopped rummaging around and was reading something.

  'What the frig have you got there — anything worth hanging on to?'

  'Fuckin' damn right! Look at the size of these beauties. I love 'em all,' Des whispered.

  He had found his true happiness. He was never short of a few cock magazines even when we were in the Paras together, and now it seemed he was no different. Des was perusing a well-read bumper edition of some porn mag.

  'What bag did you get it from?'

  'Not sure, I think it was from the one with all the sandwiches in. I bet it's a secretary's and I bet she's a les.'

  'Hey Des, settle down will ya and give us a look!' I had a quick flick and chucked it back at him.

  We retied the bags and went for the second pick-up. If what we were looking for wasn't in this load, we would be going back the next day. And as there was nothing in the second lot, that was just what we did.

  In the first bag of the second morning we struck lucky — the names and a sheet of figures we had been looking for, even a copy of the contract bid from the company employing us. So it did seem that they had a mole. By now we also had a full intelligence scoop on this particular company; who was who, who was in charge of which departments. Nothing about who was shagging who, though! Still, recovering 20 or so pieces of useful information was a 'good hit', as we say in the business.

  That evening I had arranged to meet with the client, for payment, in the Grapes Tavern, Shepherds Market, Mayfair. I showed him the information we'd got and he was impressed. As I put it all back in a carrier bag I expected him to make a move for his wallet. But he didn't. He said he would take the carrier and phone me tomorrow to arrange a meeting at his offices. That wasn't the deal as I read it, so I was beginning to get pissed off, and he knew it. I stood up and said, 'Let's take a trip around to the cash point.'

  He wasn't keen to move but Des came over from the bar, sensing he was in danger of not receiving his beer tokens for the day. He went straight for the jugular.

  'Now listen, cunt, I'm not as patient or as articulate as old Steve here, but if you don't weigh us in I'll rip your arms off and beat you around the head with the soggy bits. Get my drift, fuck-face?'

  'I think he means it,' I chipped in.

  That was enough to persuade him that two cavemen outweigh a smooth talker. We frogmarched him to a bank on Curzon Street, just around the corner, where he drew out £1,000 on different cards. I took the money and kept the carrier bag, and told him to have the balance ready first thing in the morning. He wasn't happy, but a deal's a deal — I had delivered and I wasn't about to be fucked over by this dickhead.

  It took me another two weeks to sort out tryin
g to get paid. Even a trip to their offices, very plush premises just off Charing Cross Road, didn't do the job. I wasn't allowed past Reception. There was no need for me to kick up a stink about the situation — I knew what my next move was going to be. I just turned and walked away, found a post office and wrote an anonymous note to the MD of the company we'd done the job on. I explained what had gone on and who had instigated the affair and posted it first class, together with the contents of the carrier bag. It all went back to where it had come from two weeks earlier.

  I gave the friend who had introduced me to this job a verbal bollocking, and next day by way of an apology he bought me a scoff at my favourite curry house, The Bombay, just behind Hyde Park Crescent, and handed over the outstanding balance out of his own pocket. Some weeks later I read an article in one of the tabloids headed along the lines of FREIGHT RIVALS IN INDUSTRIAL ESPIONAGE PLOT , to the effect that these two particular companies were at 'pistols-at-ten-paces' with each other. Once again it just goes to prove that some people would have you over for the sake of a few quid, not realising the consequences for the big picture.

  When one door closes, another opens. During the last weeks of KAS's life, when all manner of people came to the office to sort out the skeletons and pick on the bones of Sir David's boardroom and personal belongings, I met a man called Forester Darlington. He seemed to know a lot about Sir David's business and was keen to start up his own security company. I don't know if he had approached any of the other guys, but he asked me if I was prepared to work for him, basically doing what I had done before. Although he was definitely from the 'old school' of officers, a real ex-Rupert, he seemed an OK kind of guy. As I had no other plans, it seemed an opportunity I should take. I accepted his offer.

  So Forester and I set up a new company, Cadogan Securities, based in Knightsbridge. The name didn't mean anything to me but I guess the thought behind it was that a specialist security company should have a name that didn't draw attention to its purpose. It was better than calling it SAS Limited or something.

  The shareholders were all friends of Forester, a mixed bunch of very wealthy, middle-aged businessmen whom Forester had got to know during his time in the City. There were four of them, each with a 25 per cent stake in Cadogan: Forester; a banker from the Far East; a businessman who owned huge metal salvage factories in India; and another businessman who lived in the Cayman Islands. Apart from Forester, they didn't have a say in the day-to-day running of the company. They couldn't, living overseas. I presumed that Cadogan was one of many little businesses they held shares in. At the time I knew nothing about what shareholders or directors actually did. All I knew was how to be honest, work hard and do a good job for those who supported me. I was a bit naïve, back then.

  Cadogan started off well. It took over the Pinks contract that KAS had somehow kept afloat and I expanded the company's involvement in it. This gay club had a problem, well at least the management at the time thought so. The problem was drugs along with rumours of all sorts of sordid sexual activities taking place on certain days of the week. The brief from the management was to find out exactly what was going on. So we mounted a long-term surveillance operation, inside and out, even putting one of our men in the club for eight months under the guise of Security Manager.

  BS, a good mate, was the guy I needed for that job. He's a heavily set bloke, a real East Ender, one of the most loyal guys you could ever meet in this business. He's also pretty handy when it comes to 'dishing it out'! I knew he was the right man for the job, I only hoped he would take the position when I offered it.

  BS had spent a lot of time overseas and after leaving the army worked mainly as a diver on oil rigs, but a bit of job stability was what he was really after. I told him I had a job in a London nightclub: flexi hours, no great heroics needed, acting low key was the order of the day. He jumped at it without even asking which club. He probably thought it was an up-market place like Stringfellows or Tramp! I guess he saw himself playing 'Mr Smoothie' with all the babes.

  'Hey, Steve! Where's this club then? Annabels or what?' BS eventually asked in his heavy East London accent. I had avoided giving him the name for as long as possible.

  'Pinks.' I came straight out with it, matter-of-fact-like. That's all I said. It was all I had to say.

  'That's a fucking queer club, mate. You gotta be fucking joking , for fuck's sake, they're all fucking queers!' BS has never been backward in coming forward.

  'Only on certain nights,' I pointed out.

  BS let rip with a string of obscenities, getting himself all worked up: 'How could you, my mate, even think of offering me the job? To think you had the nerve even to ask me!' Etc., etc.

  I listened for a bit and then said, 'I take it that's a no then.' If he didn't want to do it, I said, there there was no problem. Secretly, though, I hoped he wouldn't turn it down. I needed this contract to work, especially since it was the first for Cadogan, and I knew that there was no one else from my background who could do half as good a job as BS would. When eventually I calmed him down, he reluctantly agreed to take it on.

  'Listen mate, I'll give it a go, know what I mean, but if it's full of arse bandits every night then I'm fucking history, got it?'

  'Hey, BS, relax, mate. You're always on about having a half-decent steady job so you can spend more time with Sue and the kids. Well, here it is. It's a doddle.'

  'If it's a doddle, why don't you take it?'

  'Because I don't want a half-decent steady job.'

  'Yeah, like fuck you don't.'

  'Hey, BS, you want it or not?'

  'Yeah, I wannit.'

  I was greatly relieved. Part of the deal with BS was that I had to visit him about once a fortnight, mainly on the gay nights when most of the drugs and shit went down. Not to hold his hand or anything, just to chew the fat and give him a bit of moral support. The immediate management didn't have a clue that I was working for their boss. They assumed that I was one of BS's straight friends who came and had a beer with him every now and then.

  If you've never been into a gay club, you're missing something; it's well worth the entrance fee. I was amazed at the sorts you could find. There seemed to be two types. On the one hand, there are those who are just plain homosexual and, on the face of it, look no different from us straight men in dress and manner. They would sit up at the bar or in the lounge, talking to their mate and not really bothering to make conversation with others around, or get into the music that was always playing at the loudest possible level. (I don't mean to sound offensive to the gay community, it was just how I perceived the situation.) On the other hand, there are those who dress up in the most outrageous costumes and prance about like some failed 'background' artist, looking for attention. Complete nutters, I would think. Where the hell do they go home to, and what do they do for a living?

  On one occasion, about four months into the job, I was talking to BS at the foot of the stairs to one of the bars when this old-looking black guy came prancing down the stairs, arms waving slowly and waiting for the crowd to acknowledge his entrance. He was dressed in a white wedding dress with a ten-foot train. Complete, over-the-top madness. He recognised BS and blew him a kiss. BS acknowledged with a 'Hi, Tina.'

  I turned and looked at BS.

  'It's alright, Steve, he's in here most Saturdays. He normally wears that dress.' I thought that BS was losing it. Maybe he had had too much of this gay atmosphere.

  Another memorable experience was witnessing what seemed to be one bloke getting stuck up another in full view of their mates. They hardly took any notice, like it was an every-night event. It happened in a small inner bar, where the biggest drug problem was.

  This sort of thing would not be tolerated in any nightclub in the UK, and Pinks was no exception. Explicit reports were sent to the client. There's a time and a place for everything — consenting adults and all that — but it was too much to contemplate, even with my strong stomach.

  During the eight months we had the c
ontract, BS saw a lot of strange occurrences, including two separate robberies from the club safe, the biggest 'snatch' being £16,000 in cash. However, the contract finished when a new managing director took over.

  I met with this new point of contact only once, when I was summoned to his office to explain just exactly why Cadogan was being paid all this money every month. In my opinion, this guy had a bit of an attitude problem. I tried to explain, but he wasn't having any of it. I guess he thought Pinks was just another nightclub. Sod you, I thought. We lost the contract. It was never awarded to any other company.

  Over the following months I worked hard to understand the complexities of successfully bringing in business. Forester was keen, too, since he was taking some of the financial risks. Cadogan's set-up was small, all we had was a secretary. I, like Forester, worked five and sometimes six long days a week, when I would stay in a flat in Hertford Street. This was the size of a shoebox but being in the middle of Mayfair, it was very expensive. I chose this existence because I couldn't face the Tube journey back to suburbia that most people made each day. I used to finish quite late, and by the time my day was over, my brain had been sucked dry of anything other than the desire to get a few beers down my neck. Even then, conversation was always about work, so it never stopped. At weekends I used to travel back to my house near Hereford and crash out. Very early Monday I was either driving up or travelling on the train. Some weekends work meant I never even made it home, as security contracts sometimes demanded that I stay up in London, just in case there was a problem. As in most BG jobs, the guys were employed as subcontractors and if you're not around to show a face, some start thinking they could do the job cheaper than the company employing them, and try to slip in between you and your client.

  This happens a lot in the BG world, guys turning up on jobs with pockets full of business cards thinking that they can steal the job, but it's a short-term approach on their part. Often they end up fucking themselves, not the firm that gave them the job in the first place. Most jobs are seasonal, so the client-company relationship usually stands the pace until the next year, unless the company makes a humungous cock up.