The Steering Group Read online

  For my wife, who has always stood by me.

  For my dad, who stared death and cancer in the eyes and simply said, “Have you got a smoke?”

  The bravest man I ever knew.

  Disclaimer

  The Steering Group is a semi-autobiographical novel told in the first person. It is a work of fiction, inspired by some real events. There are no guarantees of fidelity regarding actual places or events. All places, dates, people’s identities other than those clearly in the public domain have been manufactured or altered, and any resemblance to actual events or individuals (alive or dead) is completely coincidental and a product of the author’s imagination.

  The Steering Group

  Index

  • Dedication

  • Disclaimer

  • Prologue

  • Chapter 1 First Secrets

  • Chapter 2 The Preparatory

  • Chapter 3 An Introduction

  • Chapter 4 Moscow, First Deployment

  • Chapter 5 Metamorphosis

  • Chapter 6 Prelude

  • Chapter 7 Operation Segment

  • Chapter 8 A Dangerous Distraction?

  • Chapter 9 Operation RIAR

  • Chapter 10 Interregnum

  • Chapter 11 Defection

  • Chapter 12 Kuznyechik

  • Chapter 13 The Derelict

  • Chapter 14 Brotherhood

  • Brotherhood

  • References

  • Copyright

  The Steering Group

  Prologue

  We all make choices, lots of them, and from those choices we make a lot of mistakes – that’s life. I was given a couple of choices to make when I was about 13 years old and then my life changed forever. I didn’t plan any of it, life just took over and transformed a lonely, quiet, stupid and cocky boy into an intelligence operative working for a group of people known only as the ‘Steering Group’.

  How did it all start? We all buy a ticket in life but it’s the question of where to? Why does life take us to the places we don’t understand, or where we didn’t want to go, even to the places we didn’t even know existed in the beginning. Life is a mystery of challenges, surprises, pain, success and disappointment, but often somewhere along the way we are given a choice that could lead us somewhere very different. We can dramatically change our entire life’s direction with one single decision, enabling us to go off grid, to dangerous places we never thought were achievable, or we can do nothing and stay on the rails that have been laid out for us – it’s all a choice.

  I went off the rails at about aged 12. From a truanting misunderstood boy (today you would probably label me as having ADHD) to a Naval Intelligence operative – how the heck does that happen? Well, I got into a lot of trouble as a boy because life was way too slow and boring for me. I didn’t attend school much; and that, coupled with a few other bad choices I made, saw me taken from my home and put into a correctional facility. About two years into that stretch of hell I was given an unexpected choice by an outsider. To me it was a no-brainer of a decision: to continue along the path where no one understood me (or even bothered to find out why I was so frustrated and angry) and go into the prison system; OR join the military. It was in that split second when life chose me. A guy named Commander Brown took one look at me and saw something no one else did. He saw a rejected unwanted human being with an undiscovered and unusual skill set and offered me a family that really wanted me.

  By accident, sheer luck, I had been interested enough to learn a language at school and gained a penfriend in Russia. It wasn’t long before that friendship grew. That friendship, unbeknown to me at the time, was to be the door into a family that was incredibly well connected behind the iron curtain, and Cdr Brown knew it. This family was linked with the underworld of arms dealing, and later, through my Russian penfriend, the trading of science and nuclear technology to the Middle East. After a string of painful personal lessons that needed to be learnt, and endless training with people who understood me, my abilities began to shine and I was soon on my way to getting under the covers of the intelligence world. A battle of friendship over loyalty ensued, eventually leading to the loss of my friend Anatoly.

  It wasn’t all excitement – many months and even years were spent waiting patiently, long-sufferingly, sometimes endlessly, to uncover England’s enemies. Waiting, gathering, learning, deceiving and delving deeper into the places and communities that hide the truth that your liberty is under threat. It’s constantly being eroded by those seeking to supply arms to terrorists, those who hide behind corrupt government officials, trade drugs for weapons and fight for the ability to have a nuclear weapon.

  I know now that in the beginning I was probably expendable; but because I was hell-bent on pleasing those who had chosen me, there was no way I was ever going to fail them or myself again. That one chance I had been afforded was all I needed. There is nothing quite like the feeling of belonging. You may find it in a church, a community, the local pub, with work colleagues or even in a street gang, but my family was closer, more powerful, tighter knit, more influential and more resourceful than any other. My new family and friends were rocks, and they never ever let me down, never betrayed me or hung me out to dry, and that is something I had never had before and so it was reciprocated. They put that to the test many times. Initially I worked alone, quietly and untraceable – that’s the proving ground before the blinkers are removed and your rite of passage is granted into a wider world and you meet your brothers in arms who you will never forget or replace.

  Let me just say, life in the intelligence world can be boring. For months or even years I wouldn’t even be attached to the Steering Group, just simply hidden out of sight within the safety of the navy and the British military machine, awaiting orders or further instruction. I underwent endless training in things I could never quite understand, grasp the relevance of or see any need for at the time, and on many occasions I was simply doing some other job to keep busy whilst the powers that be figured out the next move on the world’s chessboard. It’s all about staying quiet, doing the long sleep, hibernating before being allowed to come out from behind the veil to undertake your task, releasing your skill set without anyone ever knowing where it came from, and only then for the briefest of moments. At first, I found it fun, it was almost a game, but in the end it became a fight for survival, not just in the field but in the mind.

  Finally, amongst the train wreckage of all that I have been involved with, I found love – a special woman who remains with me today. Love; now, there’s a thing that can really change your life. I don’t think I held onto this treasure very well at times, but when losing it was threatened by my own hand or otherwise I knew the right choice without exception. Anna must now come first above all things. She stood by me when no one else would, was the only person to come to meet me when I returned from places we never talk about. She stood firm through the trauma of suicide threats, mood swings and everything PTSD can throw at a confused mind, and finally my departure from the Steering Group. God bless you, Anna.

  The Steering Group

  The Other Side

  The Steering Group

  Chapter 1

  First Secrets

  It all started at the age of about six – that’s over 40 years ago now. I’m from what may be described as a normal family and my parents were just amazing. I’ll just say that again: my parents were amazing. People tend to blame their parents or childhood events for everything. My life has been an incredible journey and that started with a great mum and dad. I attended normal school (initially) and was involved in all the usual shit that is associated with anyone who is considered to be part of normal society. My dad worked at Pye in the beginning �
� yeah, what’s that? They used to make TVs and radios and the like. Turned out that the Pye workshops were a great place to meet influential people, and this is where I first learnt from my dad, who was a great bullshit artist, how to get just about anything you wanted by talking to people, which usually gets them doing things they wouldn’t normally do. My dad was short, of slim build, always wore a tie (a cravat in the early days) and had a well-trimmed moustache coupled with the usual side parting reminiscent of the post-war era. Dad was always very calm and collected, it was very hard to get him upset, but I’d never recommend that you push that boundary or find out where that line is, as I did on occasion.

  I remember him telling me how he had met Harry Trent. Dad was working in the workshop at Pye doing a few jobs as a radio telecommunications engineer; it was just an ordinary day like every other day, I guess. Now, my dad always said it’s not what you know it’s who you know, and I’ve always remembered that because it was sound advice. So, there was my dad in the workshop when this Harry guy comes in; everyone ignores him cos Harry looks like a pikey. Harry doesn’t give a shit what he looks like and that’s because Harry doesn’t have to, because he’s loaded. Harry had the kind of money that made any business presentation bullshit unnecessary, the kind of money where the cost of a night out would have covered your mortgage for a year. Well anyway, Dad goes over and asks what he can do to help. Harry responds that he wants one of these new in-car radio telephone jobs. (Now, remember this is before the mobile phone even got started so it’s new technology and very expensive.) Everyone in the workshop is pissing themselves laughing, but Dad plays the game and says, “Okay, mate, let’s go have a look.” Now, outside is a fucking brand-new Bentley V8 T series convertible. No fucker is laughing when the workshop doors are opened and Dad drives it in for the new radio telephone installation. Yeah, no fucker is laughing now, and I’m sure Harry loved that moment, and every time that he’d pulled that stunt.

  Dad went on to do many jobs for Harry and they were good friends. Harry owned a nightclub beneath an undertakers in Newcastle out towards Jesmond, and it was mainly a blue light club. He also owned a golf course in Bermuda but that’s an entirely different story. My dad would often go to do the wiring and lighting in the club to earn a few extra quid on those exclusive evenings Harry seemed to arrange so often. He kept Mum happy with a few flowers and a box of those chocolates… Oh yeah, Dairy Box – mustn’t be any other make – and no one is allowed the coffee chocolate, not even the one on the second layer. Harry had a few girls who would do favours and that kept all the awkward customers happy, I guess. Nice girls, and I’m sure my dad never touched them because he was a true gentleman. But who knows what went on between all the other customers after a full night at the club. Harry was a big bastard and liked the beer and the women. He was genuinely a nice guy, always there to sort out any shit that came along, always there to smooth out the unexpected bumps in the road of life, a really good friend to my dad. As a kid I often met Harry in a pub in Newcastle for lunch with my dad; I’m guessing he and my dad did more than have lunch there – maybe a few dodgy deals were done over those pub lunches, who the fuck knows – it was a place where such deals could be conducted without needing to worry who might be overhearing your conversation.

  Mum was a stay-at-home housewife, which sadly ended up being her prison some years later. Mum was a big-hearted lady who loved her family, it was her little flock, but I think she secretly yearned for that fast-paced London life she had once enjoyed in her twenties. Mum only mentioned that previous life once or twice to me when she revealed her abilities and how she could have gone to university and attained a degree. That was saying something, as back then it would have been an achievement rather than something to do because everyone else is doing it, like some of today’s graduates who don’t know what the fuck else to do except go to uni, get drunk and attend some sort of course leading to nothing. My mum should have been a career girl but ended up with us four kids and a life which became cemented between anxiety and agoraphobia, to which the only and very rare relief was a plate of plaice and chips at the nearby A1 Little Chef restaurant. The whole family used to pile into Dad’s little work Fiesta and zoom down the A1 for lunch, six of us, and we were all allowed to order what we wanted. That was a real treat indeed for us kids, ordering what the fuck we wanted from a menu and not having to share any of it with anyone; a treat we all looked forward to but rarely enjoyed. Mum always looked after us all in her own way, and by putting her family first she never had much of her own, such is the sacrifice a good parent makes. I think she became very weight conscious after having her first two kids. I never saw an issue in this personally but I think it destroys a woman, this obsessive weight thing, but they are all the same: diet after diet and endless weight loss plans. Me, I couldn’t give a shit, never stopped me, and I’ve been real fat and real thin more times than I can remember. For me it’s what season I’m in, I think, but it tends to be the fat one seven out of ten times; and besides, I’m a bloke so no one cares.

  Mum always did well with the meagre allowance she had and made meals from nothing. At one point I remember the family having only 10 pounds a week to live off when my dad was briefly out of work. I’ve no idea how that translates into six breakfasts, lunches and dinners for six hungry people but it always did. Shit, that woman could bake as well – always had a cake tin full of cakes whether you wanted them or not; and if you didn’t eat a cake you’d requested, the whole fucking family would be having that shit with custard the following week. Poor old Dad liked Madeira cake, but could never eat it all before it became stale, so he would take some serious grief over the fact he hadn’t gobbled it all up in the first week, and then we would all have to eat our way through it with pints of that Birds custard mix, and God forbid the custard turned out lumpy.

  School was a boring uninteresting place that never interested me in the slightest. I guess most kids feel like that, even today. I remember those early days up in Newcastle, I had a fascination with stealing all the shiny stuff from the classrooms, and right from the age of five finding new and interesting ways and excuses for how not to attend lessons. I think I managed to steal just about everything out of the school stationery store and stockpiled it in my den at home, which was an over-the-stair’s cupboard in my bedroom where I would often sit alone with the door closed amongst my hoard with a torch. I always thought if there was a subject you weren’t interested in or it was your birthday, you shouldn’t have to go to school; turned out me and my mum fell out about that thought process on a great many occasions. If I was forced to attend school, I’d just fuck off out the back gates when my mum had gone back home. She was great – walked me to school and picked me up every day; how rare is that nowadays? I loved my mum. This skiving off from school was the best introduction or training I could ever have had at learning the art of deception and lies, I think.

  As with all things in life we can trace the source of a fuck-up right back to a dumb decision or action we took some years previously, and heck I’ve made more than my fair share of them and continue to do so. I didn’t expect to get into anything other than a bit of fun in my little adventures skiving off from school but it was all destined to become something more through a labyrinth of semi realities and circumstances that took me along a path to a life that would show me the world – the very best and finest to the very worst places and people on the planet.

  Well, as it turned out, me and my dad loved to go down to the docks in Newcastle and he would bullshit his way on to any ship that happened to be in port. He was just brilliant at talking his way on to ships so he could show me around and dream of going to sea. Dad loved ships and from the very first day I knew him as a boy he built beautiful model ships. I have two in my office today. Getting into the docks was easy back then as it was way before the days of ISPS and all those international security requirements we have today. There was nothing more to do than share a fag with the gate staff security or gangway watch
officer to get a great day out and maybe a free lunch or a few drinks on board a ship or two. It was always a great day out with my dad down the docks, and I think he loved it so much because of the fact he was never allowed to be a merchant mariner.

  He was never in the navy or the merchant navy but was signed up for the Royal Air Force, just for his two-year stint for national service, which was mostly in Kenya. Being a fly boy, as it turned out, was not of his choosing but his father’s. Dad wanted to be in the merchant navy, just never happened. Fucked if that was gonna happen to me; and my dad sowed that seed in my little mind right from the very beginning. Do what you want to do, son, and fuck the world. Good advice; just that sometimes the world didn’t want to turn in the same direction as me, making my future destined to be so out of control that had I of known what lay ahead I might have been a little more careful in my choices.

  I couldn’t have been much more than six or seven years old when my dad and I were down the docks and were in luck as some warships and coasters were alongside. We would get all excited and of course spend far too much time looking over these fine war canoes and coastal traders, inevitably making us lose track of time and arrive late home for dinner leading to a right old bollocking from Mum. My dad would always put on the bullshit charm with ships’ staff, and we would somehow manage to get down to the engine room which was just fascinating for us both. But I never wanted to become an engineer, always wanted to be the captain, a boy’s dream. Life or fate, however, would use engineering through me to help me find a different path in life. On this one occasion we had managed to get on a Type 12 frigate, and I remember being down in the mess deck with my dad whilst he was smoking a cigarette and sharing a can of beer with one of the crew, whilst I was fascinated, just staring at some guy who was box stitching an anchor for a keyring. He gave it to me and I was just made up. That was it – I was gonna go to sea and see the world.