Foxtrot 6

He signs me in as a guest and we enter the social club. He leads me into a small bar off to the side. The bar's décor looks like it hasn't changed in thirty or forty years, and it would have been really tacky back then.

After getting a pint from the bar I sit down next to a fruit machine. The big screen TVs showing football on Sky Sports and there are signs warning punters that anyone caught masturbating or using phones to take photos will be barred.

What the hell is that about? I mean, what kind of place has a problem with the clientèle taking selfies and having a crafty wank in public?

Filthy had served over twenty years with the RAF. Obviously he's retired now and he fills his time by blogging. The subject of these blogs are conspiracy theories.

His other hobby is collecting smut. Specifically vintage Color Climax porn from the seventies and eighties. He hunts down the hardcore Scandinavian magazines, scans them and shares them on the Image Fap website.

Not everything in his collection makes it onto the website, however. Some of the publications in his extensive collection are for his personal pleasure alone. I'm talking Animal Lover - bestiality, and Lolita - child porn. That last series of magazines could, if the fuzz ever come knocking on his door with a big red battering ram, get him a custodial stretch at His Majesty's Pleasure.

I could see that he matched up with the cookie cutter profile that fits most conspiracy theorists. He lacked much in the way of formal education. Filthy held a deep suspicion that the powers that be are keeping secrets. Which they are, obviously, all governments keep things from the people who elected them. But he seems to believe that he has the right to know everything - even stuff he'll probably refuse to believe is true. Oh, and of course, he has a huge dollop of narcissism and paranoia. But his ability to find things and people without causing too many ripples meant that he was a good potential asset; so I cultivated him.

I did this via social media using a sock puppet account an online cover identity. A legend to use old fashioned spy jargon. It enables me to create a persona that will click with Filthy and not reveal who I really am. A fake online identity built around social media. These days, that's all it takes. To hell with fake ID like driving licenses, as far as most people are concerned now, if Facebook says you're real then you must be.

What I did, was create a fictitious entity called David Watts. I stole that from the title of an old Kinks song. Filthy calls my alter ego curly, but don't ask me why.

As far as he's concerned, Watts shares the same interests as him. Specifically that freedom of speech ended when the Politically Correct 'woke mob' banned the right to pass comment to women about their breasts and democracy died the day a loony lefty - his words - labour government passed a law banning the right smoke in pubs.

'Oh good, we got here in time then,' he grins, 'the show's about to begin.'

'What show?'

'The lunchtime strip show down the social club. It's a working class tradition you know.'

'Have you ever considered that some traditions should be allowed to die out?' I reply snippily.

A plump, middle aged woman with long bottle blond hair and and black roots, dressed in red lingerie, totters into the bar room on unfeasibly high spike-heeled shoes. Old-man-style dimpled pint glasses don't really look right in the hands of a semi-naked woman, making it quite a surreal experience.

She comes over to our table and waggles the beer mug under our noses. The four lonely pound coins inside jingle. Filthy tosses his coin in and I dig deep into the pocket of my jeans. I come up with a fistful of small change but no pound coins. I get the sense that this level of donation would be frowned on.

The stripper shows no sign of moving on until she gets my money. I swap the small change for my wallet and find the lowest denomination banknote I've got isn't a fiver as I'd hoped. I stuff a tenner into the pint mug and the stripper's face lights up.

'I shouldn't do this, but seeing as you've been so generous,' she pulls the top of her lace teddy clear of her breasts, 'you can have a look up close and personal.'

'Ah, no thanks, I mean, I'd, ah, I'd love to but...' I'm stuttering and I can feel my face beginning to glow. '...But, ah, well, I wouldn't want to get you into trouble with the management.'

She puts her boobs away, gives me a salacious wink and sashays off to take the pole.

The unenthusiastic DJ's tasked with introducing the strippers and playing music for their dances. He manages to make himself sound, but not look, exuberant, while misogynistically introducing each dancer to the doormat sized stage. This is an impressive feat, considering the ambience of gloomy depression here is more fitting to a dole office than a bar.

He churns out back-to-back classic hits rather than the usual pounding dance music that I'd expect at a bar providing sexual entertainment. But this venue caters for an older clientèle, people who are afraid of the changes the future offers, and don't like what's happening here and now. For them nostalgia is a safe bolt hole to run to, a time when they were young, attractive and their voice was heard.

A Horse With No Name by America is followed by Bowie's Space Oddity and segues into Pick Up The Pieces by the Average White Band. Really great songs, but they fail to get me into that 'I fancy a shag' mood.

'You've pulled there,' Filthy nods in the direction of the stripper as she walks away and chuckles.

He's clearly enjoying my discomfort. He seems to get a big laugh out of taking me out of my comfort zone.

'So how can I help?' he asks.

'I want to know what you know about this.'

I pull out my phone to show him the CCTV footage VJ's downloaded of the guy who assaulted Nell. Filthy puts his hand out and fends off the phone.

'Put it away,' he hisses angrily, 'the bouncer will think you're trying to video the stripper and chuck us out. This is me local!'

I do as he says.

'I can email it to you if that's better?' I suggest helpfully.

'Yeah,' he grunts without taking his eyes off the mature blonde doing her bump and grind routine, 'you do that small thing.'

I tap away at my iPhone and get a disapproving glare from a bouncer for my trouble.

'What's it about then?' Filthy drags his eyes 'what do you want me to do?'

'I want you to identify and locate the creep in the CCTV footage.'

'Why are you interested in him?'

'He beat up a friend of mine,' I told him, 'the police won't do anything so it's down to me.'

'Yeah, what's the point of the cops, they can't do nowt, not enough of them and not enough money to fund 'em properly,' he growled. 'It'll cost you.'

'Funny that, but that's what I thought you'd say,' I growl back, 'how much?'

'Fifty a day,' he says, 'plus expenses.'

'The thing is, I've only got a hundred quid on me.' He's trying to put the squeeze on me, but I know that despite getting two pensions - the state old age pension and an RAF pension, money's too tight to mention. 'Actually I had a ton, but thanks to your stripper friend it's now ninety, take it or leave it.'

'I'll take it.'

'Thought you might,' I down the remains of my pint.

We make the transaction and cash changes hands. The action on stage finished, the stripper sashayed away.'

'I'm off to syphon the python, I'll go to the bar on the way back. Same again?' Filthy says cheerfully.

'Nah,' I shake my head, 'I'm off.'

I watch as he heads to the toilet and then I stand and walk across the bar. The stripper is now out wearing a long, black net gown, talking at the bar. She sees me as I'm leaving and gives me a wave as I pass. As depressing as strip shows are, this one really takes the dingy, shameful biscuit. Especially at two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

+++

Chapter 11 - Juggling with Swords

Sackville Gardens, Manchester, Tuesday, 2 July 2024

It's sunny. For once. I've got a meal deal from Greggs for lunch and I'm in Sackville Gardens, looking for somewhere to sit and eat it.

The sound of Vivaldi's Four Seasons Summer Pesto on violin is haunting. A young woman is giving a bravura performance. Her long glossy black hair has chemical blue highlights, and she has a multitude of piercings and tattoos. The violinist's dressed in fishnets, army boots, a black leather miniskirt and black sleeveless strappy t-shirt.

It occurs to me that based on her standard of musicianship the busker's probably a student at the nearby Royal Northern College of Music, and given the presence of members of the legal profession from the crown court in Minshull Street, enjoying a spot of al fresco lunch, this is hardly the place for someone with an out of tune guitar mumbling half-forgotten lyrics to Ed Sheeran's Galway Girl.

I dig into the pocket of my jeans, retrieve a pound coin, and attempt to flip it into her open instrument case. The idea is that I should look cool.

The coin hits the vertical lid, and ricochets onto the tarmac with a metallic 'ting'. I bend down, pick up the coin and drop it into the case. Any hope of appearing suave and sophisticated just got shot down in flames.

I walk on and pause in front of Alan Turing's statue. He's sitting on a bench holding an apple with a bemused expression, clearly wondering how Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak got to be so lucky. The inscription reads: 'father of computer science, mathematician, logician, wartime codebreaker, victim of prejudice.' As CVs go that just about covers it, short but not necessarily sweet.

As I didn't seem to have much luck finding a bench I opted to sit on the grass. I was opening a ham salad roll when a pair of polished shoes stopped in front of me.

'Thought I'd find you here bruv,' Bomber said and squatted down beside me. 'Where did you disappear to this morning?'

'I had to see one of my friends in low places.'

'Oh, I get it, you had a meeting with an asset,' he says, 'was it about this Kaliningrad thing.'

'No,' I shake my head, 'it's abut a personal matter.'

Bomber sits down on the grass next to me. He absentmindedly reaches out and helps himself to a crisp from the open bag.

'Want to talk about it?'

One of the things that's always amazed me about Bomber is his level of empathy. The way he can almost read subtle clues from your verbal and non verbal communication and understand what's going on in your life. He also has a comfortable paternal, non-judgemental vibe about him. On a couple of occasions I've opened up to him about things I might not talk to anyone else about.

'Have I mentioned Nell my flatmate?' I ask cautiously, not wanting to give too much away before I've laid some solid foundations.

'Yeah, she's an American isn't she?' he says.

'Yep.'

'How did you two end up living together?'

'She was my friend way before she was my flat mate. I invited her to move into my spare room when she was having problems finding somewhere to live,' I tell him.

'You know, serendipity is a much misunderstood part of life,' Bomber says thoughtfully. 'Just think of this example: if French midfielder Joseph Bonnel hadn't raked his studs down Jimmy Greaves shin during the 1966 World Cup, then Geoff Hurst wouldn't have played in the final and scored a hat trick. Now, I love Greavsie dearly. But scoring three goals in the World Cup final is something that, with the best will in the world, I doubt that he could've managed.'

I'm in no position to confirm of disprove that statement. The truth is that I'm really not into football. I played rugby at school, Prop Forward in the front row of the scrum. Not that I had much choice in the matter, simply being a big lad got me drafted onto the team.

'I'll have to take your word for that,' I tell him. 'Now I think she's my girlfriend.'

'You think she's your girlfriend?' he sounds confused, 'how's that work?'

'I'll explain the reason for my confusion,' I tell him. 'When I got back from my trip to Kaliningrad on Saturday, I got home from the airport to discover that she'd been given a black eye at work.'

'Where does she work?'

'Over there,' I point vaugley in the direction of Canal Street and the Gay Village. 'She's a waitress and burlesque dancer at the Moulin Lounge.'

'Oh, did she get assaulted by some homophobic arsehole?'

'She's not bi or gay,' I say quickly, 'I'm talking out of school, I mean this is Nell's thing and I suppose it's up to her who she tells, but she's a transwoman.'

'Oh, gotcha,' he says, 'so maybe I should correct myself, she was beaten up by a transphobic arsehole.'

'Yeah, it seems that way,' I answer. 'Nell's trying to put a brave face on it, but it's affected her quite badly. She told me all about what happened and burst into tears. Now that's really unlike her, Nell is usually fairly stoic about life. I ended up giving her a hug and just holding her until she calmed down. And then things took another turn on Sunday.'

'What happened then?'

'Mate, she basically seduced me. I'm not going to go into all the gory details, because I'm trying to be a gentleman, although admittedly without much success if what happened is any yardstick. But now I don't know if we're in a friends with benefits situation or she's my girlfriend.'

'Ask her,' he says, 'you'll have to be careful how you do it, but just ask her.'

'Yeah I reckon that'd do it.'

'What're you going to do about the guy who hit her?' Bomber asks.

'I don't know,' I shrug, 'probably nothing...'

'But you might do something about him,' he interrupts me, 'get some payback? Dish out a little bit of street justice?'

'Yeah, that is an option.'

'Bear one thing in mind if you do that; you're going to be juggling with swords,' he says. 'And if you continue to do that, there inevitably comes a point when you have to say: 'look mum, no hands'.'

+++

Chapter 12, Date Night

The Warehouse Serviced Apartments, the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Wednesday, 3 July 2024

It's early evening when I finally get home. It's been a long day. I've spent the afternoon going through Telegram and VKontakte, Russian social media sites. I've been looking for selfies and videos posted by squaddies serving in the Rostov-on-Don area.

Google translate has been massively overworked today. My Russian runs to: 'izvinite, ya ne govoryu po-russki,' meaning, 'sorry, I don't speak Russian.' And then it has to be communicated by word of mouth. Reading Cyrillic script is completely beyond me.

The thing is this, these days all soldiers have smartphones. This gives them cameras and access to the internet. And all soldiers like to take selfies. I've been going through Russian social media looking for selfies posted by troops assigned to air defence units in the geographical areas I'm interested in around Rostov-on-Don.

I'm trying to match Vehicle Registration Marks in that part of Russia to the VRMs on vehicles that Mike and I photographed by in Kaliningrad. It worked out well. I located three and now it's down to Viki and VJ to geolocate them and get their precise location. I'm quietly confident that over the next twenty-four hours we'll get more matches.

The Russians have beef with the UK. Ukrainian aircraft had deployed British-made Storm Shadow cruise missiles to destroy the air base at Rostov-on-Don. The Storm Shadow's got a range of 150 miles, meaning that the Ukrainians launched their missiles from safe airspace within their own borders. The Ruskies bear grudges and have long memories. We can expect them to take some form of retaliatory action against us, probably in the form of cyber attacks and active measures operations focussed on trolling and grooming conspiracy theorists and Extreme Right Wing nutters to do something unpleasant while being remote enough not to have the Kremlin's fingerprints all over it.

But the shortage of air defence units in that sector of the Ukraine war probably goes some way to explain why my theory that the Russians are moving their Buk missile units out of Kaliningrad. Basically they've run out of reserves in theatre. The Ruskies are robbing Peter to Pay Paul and as a result weakening their overall national air defence.

To make matters worse, I had to have a Transatlantic video conference with Stone this afternoon. He's the head honcho at the Institute to give him a progress report. That meant getting booted and suited. Something I'm never happy about.

I let myself in to the apartment. There's something unusual about it. The main lights are off, the only light is provided by a candle on the coffee table. I dump my leather courier bag and suit jacket on the sofa.

'Nell, you home?' I call as I sink into the two seat couch. 'Why the candle? Have we had a power cut?'

'I'm Just getting changed, and the candle's there for ambience,' she answers from her bedroom, 'there's a bottle of champagne in the fridge, why don't you fix us a couple of drinks.'

'Champagne?' I answer as I leaver my tired carcass off the couch, 'what are we celebrating?'

'That we can afford champagne silly.'

The champagne is a half bottle of Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut. Despite being small it probably set Nell back over twenty quid. There was just enough to fill two glasses, I put them down on the coffee table and sink back into the couch.

Significantly there's also a glass bowl of red grapes next to the candle. That's unusual. I love grapes, if I ever get any in I tend to scoff them straight from the plastic tub.

I'm reaching for the remote control for the TV when Nell's voice comes from her apartment again.

'So, did you have a good day at work?' she calls.

'No, I almost never have a good day at work,' I answer. 'And to make matters worse I had to get gussied up because I had a video conference with...' I lose the will to complete the sentence and sigh, '...well, never mind.'

'Poor baby,' she says semi-sarcastically. 'But I did notice you were wearing your birthday suit at breakfast this morning. You looked cute.'

My birthday suit. My only suit. A slate grey Moss Bros, made to measure, two piece suit. The damn thing set me back two hundred quid. I bought it for myself as a birthday present and resented spending every penny.

She steps out of the bedroom wearing a black black silk kimono that I know she made herself as a project for her course at university.

Nell undoes the sash holding the silk gown closed and lets it drop to the floor. Underneath she's wearing a black lacy bra with matching panties and garter belt, along with sheer black stockings and spike-heeled shoes. She doesn't so much walk over to me as prowl.

Nell scoops up a cut glass flute and a small bunch of grapes. She rests lightly on the arm of the couch. As Nell reaches round my shoulders she presses my cheek against her breasts.

'Hungry?' she asks offering the grapes to my lips.

I reach for them and she gently nudges my hand away with her own.

'Uh-uh,' she shakes her head, 'just your lips.'

So there I was grazing on grapes as Nell planted little kisses on my scalp. This continued until I finished the grapes.

'You know what?' she drains her champagne in one gulp. 'I'm feeling overdressed.'

She grasps my tie, rises gracefully and pulls it taught. I take the hint and stand. She leads me into her bedroom. I've not spent any time in here before. This is Nell's personal space, I wouldn't dream of violating her privacy. I'm like that.

'It's time to do it hun,' she smiles wickedly.

Before tonight Nell hadn't said anything lovey dovey to me, no pet names, nothing.

Now she seems to be making up for lost time.

'Strip,' Nell snaps at me.

It's definitely an order. I begin to undress, dropping my clothes on the floor.

'What're you doing?' she asks. 'Babe, that's the only good suit you have.'