Stealth Associates Pt. 02

12 - Employment

I always think that February is the beginning of spring. I open the curtains to find that today's weather is proving me wrong. The overcast's oppressive and a perky breeze makes the trees shake in the park across the road.

First switching on the TV and then converting my bed back into a couch, I sit down heavily and wait for the kettle to boil. There's a lot of news on the telly, all of it depressing.

I struggle into my only suit, an off the shelf M&S job; a navy three piece in wool, with a silk claret paisley tie and matching pocket square. Finally I pull on a pair of Doc Marten Chelsea boots and check myself out in the mirror behind the en suite's door. I rate myself as adequate and head out.

Taking the sixteen bus from the centre of Birmingham to Hamstead Road I get off at the bus stop opposite a kebab shop, then go along the tree-lined street until I come to Hamstead House.

All the while I practice the counter surveillance techniques I've just learned. You know, using the reflection in a shop window to see if I'm being followed, stuff like that.

Drycleaning, as I've recently learned to call it, has added fifteen minutes to my journey and as far as I can tell it's been a fruitless exercise.

There's a plastic sentry box with a bored security guard at the head of the drive. He checks my photo ID, I give him a choice of two - my driving license and my University Student Card, but he's unimpressed by them - he lets me in all the same. I walk up a shortish drive until I come to a three storey Victorian house that's seen better days.

A metal intercom box mounted on the doorframe, with a slip of paper under a plastic cover. Stealth Associates Security is one of four companies, is written in blue marker. I jab the appropriate button.

A muffled voice squawks out of the intercom's tiny speaker, I assume that it's requesting my name, but it could've been asking if I wanted fries with my order. The audio quality is that good.

I introduce myself. In reply the heavy door unlocks with a clunk and I push my way in.

On the other side of the door there's a hallway with a reception desk. A chubby female security guard on the other side of the desk looks up. She's successfully passed the customer service course because she smiles.

"Wait over there bab," she points to a bench pushed up against the wall and picks up the phone. After a hushed conversation she looks over to me, "the big cheese will be down in a minute, all right?"

"Yeah, OK," I nod in reply.

I sit and wait. And wait some more. Minutes tiptoe by oh so slowly. The monotony bears down on me like a wet blanket.

The door behind the security guard's reception desk opens and the mysterious big cheese finally makes his entrance.

+++

13 - Red Flag

"Clive Braithwaite," he introduces himself.

I stand and do the usual social formalities including shaking his hand. It's funny, but after the pandemic it still feels strange to do that.

If I have to guess I'd say that Braithwaite's in his late fifties, but he's well-preserved for his age. I suspect his daily morning regime doesn't just mean a shower, but probably includes a spasm on a Peloton bike, a good skin moisturiser and hair products.

He leads me down a dark narrow corridor and ushers me into his office. It has all the usual features, a desk, chairs and a laptop. Oh, and a framed flag on the wall.

Made from heavy red silk, in the top left corner, embroidered in gold thread is a star and a hammer and sickle. The flag dominates the room.

Braithwaite sees that it's caught our attention and chuckles.

"I like to remind people who we're up against."

"OK," I say cautiously, "but I thought the Soviet Union ceased to exist thirty years ago."

"It did," he gestures to the chair on the opposite side of the desk and I sit, "but to quote the Who, 'meet the new boss, same as the old boss'."

He picks a document up from his desk and tosses it to me. Surprisingly it's titled: 'OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT 1989'.

Braithwaite notes my gobsmacked look and grins.

"Oh c'mon," he chuckles. "We have one client various departments of Her Majesty's Government. Oh, we do get the occasional spot of business from the private sector - but only on a nod and a wink from the Whitehall warriors. Signing the Act's fairly standard procedure."

"I suppose so," I shrug.

"Stealth Associates is a private security agency, we specialise in providing operational support in the areas of cybersecurity and cyberespionage," he says then passes me a black Bic Crystal biro. "You're not signing anything anything you haven't signed before. Read it and make your mark where indicated on the form at the back."

I thumb through the Act. Reading it could send a hardcore insomniac into a deep sleep.

"Cyber security I get," I scribble my signature where indicated by stickers, "but cyber espionage, isn't that just hacking?"

"No," he takes the Act and the pen back. "While that's part of it, we are employed in a wide range of action, from gathering open source intel from online sources, to good old fashioned tradecraft such as covert surveillance."

"So what's my role here going to be?"

Braithwaite answers my question with one of his own. "You're still at university aren't you?"

"Part-time, I'm coming to the end of a masters in Terrorism, Security and Intelligence."

"Yes, that's what brought you to our attention," he says snippily. "You'll continue with your studies as a cover. As far as anyone's concerned you work part-time for a security company. Tell people you're in cybersecurity. Speaking from personal experience once you say that you'll soon see any sign of interest fade away."

"OK."

"Come in on Monday for orientation," he stands and ushers me out of his office, "oh, and there's no need to get booted and suited, normal student mufti will do."

+++

14 - Attraction

I've just collided with a statuesque blonde carrying half the university library in a bear hug. Books scatter all over the damp tarmac of the path. I crouch down and help pick up the debris. Well, it's the least I can do.

I have an excuse. I'm rushed off my feet working on my dissertation. Oh, and any time that I'm not spending in the pursuit of knowledge I'm work for Stealth. Sleep? That's a fond childhood memory.

"We really must stop meeting like this, people will talk," I tell her, "At least I hope they do. I can't think of anything nicer than gossip linking us."

She laughs. It's a deep, throaty chuckle. She's tall, it's all in those long legs of hers, currently clad in skin tight stonewashed jeans. She wears a university hoodie and her hair long.

I glance down at the title of the book I'm handing to her and read it out loud.

"The European Convention of Human Rights as an Instrument of Tort Law," I say,

"you're not a philosophy student then?"

"Nope," she speaks with an American accent from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. "Law. I'm studying for the Common Professional Exam so I can practice over here. What about you?"

"Oh, just terrorism."

"You 're here learning to be a terrorist?"

"Actually, I'm learning what makes terrorists tick, the study of terrorism from a criminological standpoint."

"So how's that working out for y'all?" she asks.

"Well, as a postgrad it's a long, drawn out, soul sapping drag with none of the fun of being an undergraduate."

"Tell me about it," she says, "what about after graduation, is that what you want to go into, terrorism?"

"Well, sort of. I've just started working for a cyber security firm."

As Braithwaite forecast, no further sign of interest's displayed in what I claim to do for a living.

"Oh, how's that working out?"

"When I actually start I'll let you know," I tell her, "but it'll probably be like any job; large periods of death by boredom interspersed with brief periods of petty bitchiness and back stabbing."

She laughs, a big woof. I like the sound. And isn't it a sign of attraction when a beautiful woman laughs at your jokes?

"Yeah, sounds like office life's the same on both sides of the Atlantic," she chuckles.

"That wouldn't surprise me in the least."

She awkwardly holds her hand out for me to shake while hugging her books and introduces herself; "Nell Mackenzie."

"Steven Handley-Jones," I'm always self-conscious about having a double barrelled name so I hastily add, "just call me Steve."

"Hey just Steve," she holds my gaze and smiles, "so I was just going to check these at the library then head to the student union bar. Y'all want to come with?"

To hell with homework! Frankly, at this precise moment in time, I can't think of anything I want to do more than go with her.

"Ah, is yes please a good answer?" I raise and eyebrow.

She smiles and beckons me to follow her with a nod.

+++

15 - First Date

We order food and the barmaid gives us a pair of wooden spoons with numbers on them so the waitress can recognise us. We join the struggle to claim territorial dominance over a table. We spot a table and swoop on it.

"So what drags you over to the UK?" I ask.

"I guess I've always been an Anglophile, It was the music first, bands like the Arctic

Monkeys and Franz Ferdinand," she shrugs, "then we got BBC America on cable TV, and I fell in love British humour, drama, the whole thing. That's when I began to realise there was somewhere over the Atlantic where that I really wanted to be someday."

"So what made you decide to cross the Atlantic," I take a slug of cider, "it's a big jump."

"I was working as a lawyer in big firm in Dallas and going nowhere. Then my grandma passed and I got a legacy," she explains. "So I decided to see if I could actually come over here and qualify as a British barrister. It's really all because I just love fancy dress, I want to wear a wig and gown."

I throw back my head and laugh at that.

"So what about you?" she asks.

"There's not much to tell really," I shrug. "What I am is a bloke from a small village in South Yorkshire. I've just turned twenty-three and I'm six foot three and built like a brick...ah... outhouse."

"I like big guys, it's a Texas thing," she smiles seductively.

I feel my cheeks begin to glow.

"I come from a working class background. I'm the first person from our family to go to university."

Our food arrives. I have the cheese 'n' bacon burger and Nell has southern fried chicken. We both share an extra large portion of curly fries.

"So you're a blue collar guy with an upscale surname," she muses.

We both reach for the ketchup at the same time. Our fingers touch, it's like I've got a static electric shock. We look at each other, I can feel the intensity of her sapphire eyes.

"Sorry," I say and pull my hand away.

"You were gonna tell me how come you've got a posh surname?" she reminds me.

"Oh, that's down to my mum, she's always been a bit of a feminist, she refused to give up her maiden name when she married dad."

"She sounds like a hell of a lady."

"She is, mum's the practice manager at the local doctor's surgery, which she runs ruthlessly with a grip of iron."

"And now here y'all are," she chuckles. "What about your dad, I mean y'all haven't said much about him."

"There's not much to say," I shrug, "he died when I was a lad."

"Oh I'm sorry," she reaches out and touches my hand, "I didn't mean to touch a sore nerve."

"You didn't," I reply, "it was a long time ago."

Nell takes her hand away. Why do I wish she hadn't?

The waitress comes and clears our plates. Oh boy! We've been sitting and talking for an-hour-and-a-half.

"It's my round I guess," Nell stands, "same again?"

And I think she wants to keep chatting a little longer. Life is good.

+++

16 - Work

The office is a bunker. No, I'm not kidding, an honest to goodness underground bunker built beneath Hamstead House. During the Cold War the basement was converted into a fallout bunker by Birmingham City Council. A place where the the chosen few drawn from local government would scuttle off to watch the end of the world.

I park my motorbike in the front yard and walk round to the staff entrance at the side of the building. My ID card has an RF chip built in. Contactless entry, I tap it on a sensor pad on the door frame and am rewarded with a clunk as the door unlocks. In the foyer a security guard checks the image on my ID against my face, then I'm through to the locker room.

The lockers are the standard metal boxes. They differ from the run of the mill version by having electronic locks again keyed to the RFID chip in my ID. No personal electronics are allowed in the Bunker, so my iPhone joins my helmet and leather jacket in the locker.

Stairs take me down to a concrete tunnel lit by buzzing neon tubes, this leads to double doors. I press my thumb onto the biometric scanner by the door. It scans my fingerprint then hums open and I push through.

Those of us who inhabit the Bunker pride ourselves on our counter-cultural style. So we dress with deliberate care, and our individual style choices indicate which tribe we owe allegiance to.

The Fanboys wear jeans and t-shirts for their favourite band, comic book or computer game. The Hipsters wear flannel shirts and braces. The Geek Girls prefer denim jeggings, baggy t-shirts, cardigans, woolly caps and heavy-framed eyeglasses. Finally the Action Men wear boots, fleeces and cargo pants. I tend towards the Fanboy look, but don't hold it against me.

I'm one of the new kids on Stealth's block, a part-timer while I complete my masters degree. I'm one of the new kids on Stealth's block, a part-timer while I complete my masters degree. I currently work two weekdays and one weekend per month as a duty officer.

Being Duty Officer's fun. Not. It involves answering the phone pretending to be the point of contact for half a dozen non existent companies who employ our people in the field. At least that means someone's out there doing real spook stuff.

I keep thinking of a quote: "I wouldn't mind being a pawn, if only I might join." Through The Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll, but The Looking Glass War, by John le Carré.

I work on National Intelligence Model reports. What're those? They're only an integral part of the government's Prevent counter-terrorism strategy, that's all.

Every public body, local councils, schools, and the whole of the NHS are legally required to file NIM incident reports about anything even vaugley terrorism related. But who receives theses reports? The police? Not enough staff. The Security Service? Nah, MI5 have got better things to do. So that leaves...us!

It seems that having the contract to collect, collate, analyse and disseminate reports based on intelligence gleaned from NIM reports is part of Stealth's corporate cover as security company.

I claim a hot desk and fire up the computer. I take a deep breath and steel myself for eight hours of tedium on Her Majesty's secret service.

+++

17 - Induction

The meeting room here at Hamstead House is named Colossus, after the code-breaking computer developed by Post Office engineer Tommy Flowers during World War Two.

The room's at the back of the building, a former sitting room extended by a double glazed conservatory. To be frank it's nice to be above ground. The fact that it's a nice sunny day, the sort that February occasionally chucks out to suggest that spring's round the corner, and lull the unwary to leave home without an umbrella, is nice too.

Harriet Swan, the Operations Director is already waiting in Colossus. Everyone down in the Bunker calls her Dirty Harriet. She got the nickname following a divorce when she become an enthusiastic user of Tinder.

Swann's tall, slim and middle aged. She might be considered good looking, but only by someone who likes authoritarian women. The gossip is that she's a weekend dominatrix, but that's harder to prove than her use of Tinder.

What is known is that she served in the Army Intelligence Corps, after resigning her commission as a Major she immediately joined Stealth as a director.

The other three newbies down in the Bunker are Bomber, VJ and Viki, the guys that went through training with me at the Farm. We shuffle into the meeting room with all the enthusiasm of the condemned trudging to a blood splattered, bullet hole riddled wall.

"Have you ever considered that spying, something we Brits have always excelled at, and cricket have much in common?" Swann asks. "Something about the game attracts the sort of mind that is also attracted to the world of espionage. Perhaps it's because they are both complex tests of brain and brawn. Games of honour interwoven with trickery, played with ruthless good manners and dependent on minute gradations of psychology."

"Don't forget that it's a game loved by posh boys," I add.

She gives me a basilisk stare.

"Posh WHITE boys," Bomber says quietly, "who get jobs as senior civil servants and flog the secrets of the MoD's teabag budget to the Russians."

"Oh, and it's a sport that people who used to be our colonial subjects, are much better at than us," Viki Yip announces.

"Enough hilarity," Dirty Harriet says firmly. "This is your induction briefing. Stealth Associates mission statement is this..."

Her fingernails click on she screen as she taps at her tablet. The overhead projector zaps the first slide up on the screen. Oh great, death by PowerPoint.

"Stealth Associates Security is an ultra-discrete private cybersecurity and cyberespionage firm. We offer intelligence-based solutions to British Government agencies and approved NGOs and private sector companies operating in high risk environments."

"I can't emphasise this part strongly enough," Dirty Harriet continues, "we ONLY work for HMG and private sector stakeholders passed on to us by the government. Our client list is confidential, we do not disclose it, so nobody can see who uses our services. Secrecy is our maxim. We do not have a web presence; no website, no social media. We never go looking for business and if prospective clients contact us we tell them that all our resources are currently deployed - and will be for the foreseeable future."

She stops to let this sink in. I do a fast eyes left and right, the others are paying rapt attention. So it's not just me that this is having an impact on. It looks like I'm not the only wannabe spook here.

+++

18 - Second Date

I enter the Pretentious Pig pub in Birmingham's Jewellery Quarter. No, seriously, that's what it's called. It's not just a pub, it's a gastropub. There's no doubt about it, all the clues are there: blackboard menus, pretentious 'fusion' food, bare floorboards, non-matching furniture and the only saving grace in the place; an honest-to-God jukebox.

A young woman sits alone at a table. She has long blond hair and is wearing a curve-hugging red Lycra mini dress. I take my pint from the bar and sit at a table close enough to see her better.

As a result I realise that Raymond Chandler had sussed women like her a very, very long time ago. "From thirty feet away she looked like she had a lot of class, from ten feet away she looked like something to be seen from thirty feet away."

A young man approaches her table from the bar. He has a spiky afro and dresses in flashily expensive designer sportswear.

He puts two bottles of WKD on the table and sits down opposite her. I recognise him, he's a professional footballer. Well, professional in that he plays for West Bromwich Albion, but just how professional are West Brom?

Neither the footballer or the young woman speak to each other. They're too engrossed in their phones. I reach for my own battered iPhone and tap the footballer's name into Google then add 'girlfriend'. As a result I learn that she's twenty-four and has a career that involves appearing nude on Babestation.