Stealth Associates Pt. 01

'I think you're really nice but don't think I'm in the same place as you right now. I'd love to keep hanging out as friends though.'

That's so Raven. It's basically the 'it's not you it's me' thing, with a chaser of friend zone thrown in for good measure.

I live in a studio flat in new build privately run student accommodation. The flat's comfortable if small, and the court has a laundry, gym and even a cinema room.

I dump my bags in a corner to be unpacked eventually, probably when the smell reminds me. My next priority is to change into dry clothes.

Once my personal admin's done, I slump on the couch and switch the TV on. Flicking through the channels the choice seems to be between reality shows for pre teen girls cruelly trapped in grown women's bodies and repeats of soap operas.

The only light at the end of the tunnel is that The Ipcress File is about to start on Sky Movies. I watch as Michael Caine, thinly disguised as working class spook Harry Palmer, goes through his morning routine.

I manage to raise a wry smile at the point when Palmer's searching through his bedding looking for his pistol, only to discover a chunky charm bracelet, left by the previous night's date. It makes me wonder if or when my ex is going to come round for her phone charger.

My mobile phone rings, I pause the movie and answer without bothering to check the caller's ID. I know who it'll be, by best mate Trog.

'So, you had a good week then?' Trog asks. He thinks I've been away on a training course, which is true. But he also thinks it's for the Reserves. Which is a lie.

'Let's just say I survived.'

'Eh?' he sounds confused, 'what sort of a training course is like that?'

'An intense one,' I reply, 'and if that's not enough Raven dumped me by text.'

'What a bitch! I mean, if you're going to dump someone then you should do it face-to-face.'

'Thanks for that sunshine.'

'You want me to come round to yours, misery loves company and all that,' he suggests, 'besides, Amazon delivered an original copy of Red Dead Redemption this morning. You're the only person I know with a laptop that's got a CD drive.'

'Yeah I'm old fashioned,' I answer, 'come over I'll order in a pizza.'

He's right misery loves company. And I doubt that my essay's going to get written this weekend.

8 - Phase Two Training

'OK, back to Camp,' Cadwallader barks. 'C'mon, you're supposed to be fit, it's only another three K and it's all downhill this time.'

Out of an initial selection class of twenty, four of us have made it. To preserve security Cadwallader has given us all nicknames. I'm Rupert, Bomber's a tall black guy with a London accent, a young Asian guy with a Brummie accent is VJ, and a Eurasian girl who clearly comes from Merseyside is Sticky Viki - she shortened it to just Viki.

'Just when I was prepared to forgive him for the Resistance to Interrogation session,' I mutter.

'Nah bruv don't forgive him for nothing, the man's a sadist,' Bomber puffs.

'He's a terminator,' VJ gasps, 'he's made by Cyberdine Systems.'

It seems that mutual hatred for our trainer is playing a significant role in team building.

We drag our sorry carcasses into the Camp at a stumbling shuffle. Cadwallader's waiting for us. What's really annoying is that he's barely broken a sweat. I'm

beginning to think VJ's onto something about Cadwallader being a terminator.

'Have a shower and get some food; be in the classroom at eighteen hundred hours,' he snaps.

VJ falls to his knees and retches.

'Oh, and get that cleaned up too,' he nods at the pool of puke.

There's a brush propped up against the wall next to the tap, I go and get it and the hose looped over the tap. I hand the brush to Viki.

'You scrub I'll hose.'

'You calling me a scrubber?' she asks.

'Yeah,' I grin, 'that a problem?'

'Nah, it's fair enough,' she grins back.

We all parade at six as instructed. Cadwallader stands at the front of the classroom, a Portacabin next to the barn where we all bunk.

'Tonight you're all going out to a pub,' he announces, 'but before you get any foolishly optimistic ideas about the prospect of a booze up at the firm's expense, trust me, you wouldn't want to drink where we're going.'

That piqued my interest. A swift sideways glance tells me the others are also paying rapt attention.

'This is a very, very rough place. If the regulars get suspicious about you they'll assume you're the old bill and will probably give you a bloody good kicking, therefore look out for each other and don't get squiffy.' He continues the briefing; 'what I want is for you lot to gather as much information as possible and prepare a presentation as soon as you get back,' he announces. 'Oh, and you'll be delivering your debriefing presentation tomorrow bright and early right after breakfast.'

God knows when we'd finish the report, but it'd probably be in the early hours of the morning. Breakfast is seven o'clock sharp. So this is all about making us do a potentially dangerous task, and deliver the intel end product without much - if any - rest. It looks like we'll be pulling an all nighter.

9 - Enemy Territory

The elderly Ford Transit screeches to a halt. Cadwallader swivels round in the driver's seat.

'Welcome to Manchester,' he announces. 'We're parked away from the pub you'll be reconnoitring. Go in as two pairs. Give yourselves five minutes separation, maybe the second couple could survey the outside of the pub, get a few sneaky pics of the place.'

We bundle out of the back of the van. The area looks like it's waiting for a wrecking ball to improve it.

'Who wants to pair up with who?' Viki asks.

'I'll do the outside recce,' I volunteer.

'I'll go with you,' Viki says.

'That just leaves me and you as the advance party,' Bomber tells VJ.

As Viki and I enter she slips her hand into mine. Good thinking, this is the sort of place where a boy and girl cause less suspicion as a couple.

A knot of lads hang round a pool table. They stare daggers at Bomber and VJ who are sitting at a table.

Viki nudges me, 'better get a bevy in.'

As I walk up to the bar I catch the barmaid's eye. She's looks tired. She turns away to face the back of the bar.

I stand at the bar but she remains facing the back, wiping and re-wiping the same glass.

I glance in the mirror behind the bar, the skinheads have moved from the snooker table to surround Viki.

Turning on my heel I quickly cross the room. Viki stands as she does so a guy grabs her by the front of her hoodie. Instead of pulling away she moves her feet and bends her knees, grasps her opponent's wrist, then wraps her right arm round the arm she's being held by. She breaks the guy's grasp, and twists so he bends backwards. Her left arm's now free, she brings her left palm to his forehead and twists dropping him to the ground.

It happens fast catching them off guard. It doesn't last long and the guy closest to her draws back his fist to punch her. By then, however, I'm close enough to hook my arm round his and spin him away from Viki. I slam the side of my foot into the back of his knee and drop him face first onto the table.

Then everything goes blurry. Almost immediately after that I feel a blinding pain radiating from the back of my head. I try to stand upright and face my attacker but can't. I'm about to get a kicking.

He raises his foot to stamp on me but Bomber spins him round. He slams his forehead into the skinhead's face and brings his knee hard into the thug's crotch.

'You OK?' Bomber asks.

'I'm seeing stars.'

'I've called the police!' the barmaid screams.

'It looks like the cabaret's over,' Viki announces, 'let's get a kebab.'

10 - Surveillance

I don't like swans. All they are is ducks with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

My animosity to them stems from a childhood incident. I was on a trip to the Lake District, lunchtime came, I sat down on the grass at the edge of Lake Windermere to eat my packed lunch.

A huge swan waddled up to me. It stood facing me then its neck whipped out and tore the sausage sandwich out of my hand. The swan tried to swallow it but couldn't, and in a fit of rage threw my butty back at me.

A hundred feet away from my current position, a slack handful of swans huddle bedraggled in the rain. Good. Call me petty but I'm holding a grudge.

I'm sitting hunched up at the foot of a tree in a park in Merseyside. To be honest the rain's not heavy, somehow it still manages to soak me.

Actually I don't mind this part of Phase Two training so much. The preceding month's been just a bit intense. There's training in the physical side of the job such as unarmed combat training, tradecraft such as dry-cleaning - detecting a tail and shaking it. There's also the more cerebral sessions; the basics of intelligence analysis, computer hacking and gathering OSINT - Open Source Intelligence from the internet. I spend the evenings back at the Farm, using my laptop and the sleepily slow internet to catch up with my university coursework. Still this is the final test on the course.

There's a reason I'm sitting in the rain. I'm on a covert surveillance training course.

The whole affair can be summed up as learning to be a professional snooper.

Snooping comes naturally to me. The first time I stuck my nose in where I shouldn't I was seven. I walked into my parents bedroom to tell dad that there was someone at the door. I caught him stuffing something into the pocket of a dressing gown hanging up in the wardrobe.

As soon as he left the room I went back. I found a small unopened bottle of vodka in his dressing gown pocket.

My job on this, exercise is to maintain covert surveillance on a suspected dead drop. The other three people in the team are going to pick up the target when he leaves his hotel and keep him under mobile surveillance.

There are reports that the target's been seen feeding this particular dead drop before. It's up to me to intercept whatever is left behind.

I'm in disguise as a homeless person. Judging by the disdainful scowls I'm attracting I look the part. What I'm going for is an urban warrior look. I've gone round charity shops to get my clothes. I'm wearing a dark hoodie, camo trousers, a greatcoat, boots and fingerless leather gloves.

The target's codename is BLUE IRON. His photo in the briefing pack shows a middle-aged man, squat, dark, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair. For the benefit of the training scenario he's supposed to be a businessman whose IT company is supplying the Iranians with software on the banned list. In reality, according to Cadwallader the guy had come to Stealth Associates straight from the army. He'd served a Special Forces unit which conducts a wide range of classified activities related to covert surveillance. So, the implication is if anyone can spot a surveillance team it's him.

Then, and without any warning, the voices in my head start.

'Golf Three to Golf Four, BLUE IRON committed to you.'

I'm wearing an earpiece and a hidden covert mic clipped to my hood. I reach into the greatcoat's pocket and press the transmit button hidden there.

'Golf Four copy that,' I transmit.

I recognise BLUE IRON as he enters the park. He's dressed in a black overcoat and conservative business suit.

'Golf Four to Control, have eyeball on BLUE IRON.'

He sits on a bench and pulls a packet of cigarettes from his coat. He extracts a cigarette and lights it then puts the packet on the bench.

BLUE IRON seems relaxed. But he's scanning the park. As he turns to look me over I lower my head, resting my chin on my chest and relying on the hood to obscure my face.

It takes him five minutes to finish smoking. He grinds the butt out under his heel and walks off.

I look furtively round to make sure he's alone. When I'm confident its safe, I walk quickly to the bench. I don't break my stride as I scoop up the fag packet and march towards the bushes behind where BLUE IRON was just sitting.

11 - Sudden Death

I force my way through the foliage, thorns scratch at my face. When I'm sure I'm safe I take the cigarette pack out of my pocket. Tucked inside is a USB thumb drive. I let out a slow, relieved breath, before pocketing the pack again and fumbling for the push-to-talk button.

'Golf Four to control,' I mutter into the microphone, 'I've retrieved the package. Can confirm it's complete.'

'OK, extract yourself and return to the RV,' Cadwallader replies.

I shuffle backwards until my heel bumps against something. I look over my shoulder and see that I've just nudged a foot protruding from beneath a duvet. A tramp's eyes stare unseeing at me.

This isn't the first time I've seen a dead person, that happened when I eleven. I came home from school one grey and rainy afternoon. I knew dad was home, I could smell him, I recognised that vodka and vomit stench.

Anyone who didn't know better would think we were doing all right. Dad worked as a double glazing salesman, mum was a receptionist at the local doctors. But dad's ill. That's how mum explained his alcoholism.

In the living room the TV's on, Channel Four's showing Countdown. Dad's lying on the sofa covered in vomit. An empty one litre vodka bottle and a load of mum's sleeping pills are on the floor.

I drag myself back to what I'm doing now. There's one thing Cadwallader has hammered home: this is a covert operation; the exercise must be conducted as if it was the real deal. Members of the public going about their lives must have no idea what's going on.

What's that mean? It means I have to backtrack my way out of the bush and walk away unobtrusively, leaving as little evidence as possible to say I'd been there.

I extract myself and walk briskly away from the bushes. I don't look back, keeping my head down to avoid attracting attention.

The Rendezvous Point is in a multi-storey car park. The top floor of the car park is open to the elements. I see a battered VW camper van parked in a massive puddle and reach for the push-to-talk button.

'Golf Four to Control, I'm by the exit ramp. Do you have eyes on?'

There's a pause, only a couple of seconds, it feels much, much longer.

'Copy that Golf Four have eyes on. Come in mate, you look wet through.'

The van's side door slides open and I climb in. Cadwallader is sitting in the back.

The door's barely closed behind me when I'm handed a plastic cup of tea.

'You got it then?'

'Yeah,' I reach into my pocket and hand over the cigarette packet.

'Smoking will kill you,' he chuckles.

'No it won't, I don't smoke,' I reply, 'and I don't think that's what killed the bloke in the bushes either.'

'What?' he freezes.

'When I was in the laying up position I found a body,' I keep my voice calm. 'A homeless guy it looked like.'

'Right, tell me everything.'

So I did. Every little detail. Afterwards Cadwallader gives me the benefit of his advice.

'You did the right thing not saying anything on the radio, you don't know who's listening,' he says. 'When the body's eventually found the fuzz will start making inquiries. Anyone who's seen you hanging round the park may mention it. The police will put two-and-two together and come up with five. You'll be a suspect.'

I nod in agreement.

'Don't say anything about it in the debrief, but when you get back write up a report and give it to me.'

'OK.'

'Make sure you get rid of your undercover clobber. All of it. Put 'em in one of those charity skips you see in supermarket car parks, they're usually in a CCTV blind spot,' he instructs me.

I nod.

'Otherwise good effort, end ex.'

And that's it, job's over, forget about it. That seems to be Cadwallader's operating system. If only it was as easy as that.