Authors: John Macrae
But I was still in
work. And I’d been reprieved.
A Stroll On The Embankment
Can you imagine how it feels to be like to be on trial for your life? No. I thought not.
But that’s how I felt. And I’d got away with it. Reprieved. No wonder I needed to think and be on my own. I decided to walk back towards the flat. There was no rush and Joy was spending the night back at her own place. After the weekend, she'd decided she needed a hair washing evening, or something. Anyway, I had lots to think about myself; it had been a busy day. Within a quarter of an hour, I realised I was not alone. I was being followed; and by a professional surveillance team at that.
Now,
to follow someone
properly
is not a cheap and cheerful occupation. Surveillance is a manpower intensive, boring business, expensive in numbers and sometimes very expensive in overtime payments. The police don't do it on their own. Not very well, anyway. The top level undercover surveillance teams are really a national asset. Whatever the spy novels and bad films tell you, there's a lot less of it goes on than you might think. I know.
But – and this is true – if you’ve done the surveillance training you get a kind of sixth sense about being watched. I began to be aware of something odd going on. The first indication was when I turned to go down towards the Embankment I noticed out of the corner of my eye a couple of people cross the road . One behind, one in front. It just looked a bit… well, mechanical I suppose. Choreographed. You don’t really clock these things consciously. Well, not at first anyway. But when I turned onto the Embankment I distinctly saw what looked like a standard corner drill to change positions and maintain contact.
Interesting. I crossed over to double check . Sure enough, the team slid
into their new formation. Stan
dard corner drills as taught at the Manor
and at Chicksands
. Well, well. Someone
was
tailing me. But who?
I could see that I was being worked by at least a three man team, as far as I could tell, seemingly led by a woman in a grey coat. They rotated their forward-side-rear-tail positions regularly, and their crossing and corner position change drills were straight out of the manual. After a while, the grey woman faded as she was burned, to be replaced by a pair of young lovers, strolling hand in hand. I reckoned the other two were the city gent with a Financial Times and the nondescript middle aged man. I mean, who carries an unopened FT at gone seven o'clock in the evening?
I made a couple of stops to let the surveillance team walk past. Their routines were superb. A bit too good, in fact. I could read them. Behind me I saw a tall young man with a grey bomber jacket. He seemed to be chewing his collar, but I knew he was talking into a collar mike. Another was talking
on
her mobile. Unfortunately she kept glancing at the guy with the collar mike so they were obviously discussing something. He said something and they both looked up towards me. Moments later bomber jacket reappeared in front of me, walking briskly towards the Embankment while the City gent faded away into the lawyers' haunts to my right, between Fleet Street and the Temple.
I tried to work out who they were. Only the Box or the Met would turn out a team like that in London. It was slick enough to be an undercover Army job by the Det: but the Services would never dare to exercise, let alone operate, in Central London. Particularly with the terrorist threat. The Metropolitan Commissioner would eat the Army alive and then stick their bones up on Westminster Bridge for all to see if they tried to play on his patch. No, this was Home Office or Met - National level surveillance teams. The A team.
As I got to the Embankment I was prepared to bet my money on Stuart and his Home Office surveillance gang. I expect Paddy Croft and Harry Plummer had put them up to it - but they obviously hadn't yet had the message that I was A1 at Lloyds from Lamaison and Mallalieu. Oh well, I grinned to myself, time to give them a run for their money and enjoy myself at the same time. They'd be called off soon enough. A little surveillance exercise should help brush up their training.
The first problem was going to be spotting their vehicles. An operation of this sort would need at least three or four foot teams with three bodies each, at least a couple of mobiles, one of which was bound to be a London taxi, plus some kind of bigger control, rest and coordinating vehicle. With the river on my left shoulder and heading towards Westminster, I reasoned that all the mobile teams had to be on my side of the Thames - otherwise they'd never keep up with me if I suddenly turned North and headed away from the river. There was bound to be a parallel team, too but of course, I wouldn't see them.
I watched the taxis. Nothing: they all seemed to be going somewhere, their signs unlit. I quickly nipped across the road to lean over the parapet and stare at dusk falling over the river. The lights twinkled, reflected in the black water. Out of the corner of my eye I noted a brown Rover involved in a flurry as it sped out of the Blackfriars Underpass before pulling across the traffic stream to drop off a passenger. Then it glided past me, heading towards HMS Discovery, where a winking turn light indicated it stopped briefly again before disappearing towards Westminster.
I followed it, and began walking again, sauntering in the evening air. I reckoned the brown Rover had dropped off two new tails. Or was I being a bit paranoiac? Well, easy enough to check.
Suddenly I whirled on my heels and faced back the way I'd come.
About twenty paces behind me the tall young man with a grey bomber jacket hesitated for the barest millisecond, then continued walking towards me, as he'd been trained. I ran towards him, as hard as I could. He was the man the brown Rover had dropped behind me. At the last minute he moved aside, a look of pure fright on his face as my shoulder cannoned into him, to send him sprawling on the pavement, arms flying. The bomber jacket gaped momentarily and I glimpsed the black transmitter-receiver on its harness. It's the batteries that make the weight. You'd think they'd spend money on lighter sets, wouldn't you?
"Sorry, chum," I gasped. I put out a hand to help him to his feet and dusted him down. I could feel the hard metal of the radio through his jacket. He was too stunned and frightened to resist. The 'hare' isn't supposed to knock his tail over. I'll bet the radio waves were squealing as the incident was reported by the rest of the surveillance team.
"'You all right?" I asked. He nodded, rubbing an elbow and staring at me in horror.
"Hey, I'm really sorry," I pointed back to where I'd just leaned over the parapet and he'd just walked past. "But I think I've dropped my wallet there," and I jogged back to where I'd stopped and leaned over the parapet a moment before. When I got there, I knelt down and made a bi
g play of looking on the ground
, pretending to search.
Through the gathering dusk I could see the foot surveillance operation clearly laid out as they froze to deal with the ultimate problem - an attack on one of the team. But this was a false alarm and while they sorted that out, they all stood out like stepping stones, static islands in a flowing stream of traffic and passers-by. A young cyclist had nearly killed herself trying to stop and find out what was going on. I counted at least six pairs of staring anxious eyes.
A police siren started, shatteringly close, and a blue Police Transit van wailed past from the Blackfriars end, its blue light flashing, a posse of white faces glued to the windows. That must be the Q vehicle. Of course! A police van in London was ideal - and inconspicuous. It roared away towards Westminster, slowing down about a hundred yards in front.
The boy in the grey bomber jacket seemed to be having difficulty. He limped around a bit, rubbing his arm and staring across the street where two uniformed policemen, my old friends the courting couple and assorted other types stood looking helplessly across the river of traffic thundering down the Embankment, wondering what the hell was going on, while they waited to cross. Further down the River-- towards Westminster--a man was running towards us on our side of the road, his jacket flapping. It looked like out City business man friend.
Grey-jacket produced a handkerchief and began ostentatiously blowing his nose. This was obviously some kind of 'I'm OK' sign, because a general air of relief seemed to pass over the little groups sprinkled on the far side of the Embankment. A taxi stopped and two of them got into it - but, a dead giveaway, the 'taxi available for hire' light had not been switched on, so how had they managed to stop it? Meanwhile, surprise, surprise, a brown Rover suddenly s
ped back up from the
Westminster end and slowed to pass me. Again, anxious faces stared out. My little escapade has flushed out at least three mobiles as well, by the look of it.
I straightened up and, waving my wallet, walked back to Grey jacket. "Thank God I found it. Sorry about banging into you, mate. Can I buy you a drink?" I clapped him on the shoulder.
A look of horror crossed his face. He was only young, in his early twenties. He couldn't have had much experience. I relished the moment.
“The least I can do is buy you a beer, or something. I didn't mean to knock into you, but I'd dropped my wallet. And you can't take any risks in a town like London, can you?"
A strangled gurgle came from him. It's the only way to describe the noise. They hadn't told him how to deal with this on the surveillance training course . I was convinced now that I was seeing some kind of police operation. The Transit control van; the brown Rover; the pair of uniformed bobbies hanging around; they all smacked of a well structured Met surveillance job.
My new-found friend was recovering his composure. "No, no, I'm all right. Honest." His eyes darted nervously over my shoulder. "I'm very late for an appointment. I really must be going." He was over-compensating, babbling in his desperation. "It's
very kind of you, but really,
" he waved his watch under my nose. "The time, you see. Got to ... you know...
”
"Well, you took a hell of a knock there." I pointed to his trouser knee. The material was scuffed. "And you've ripped your trousers. I'll have to pay for the damage, at least."
He brushed ineffectually at his knees. his eyes kept avoiding mine and looking behind me where I could see movement out of the corner of my eye. That would be the Fire Brigade, rushing up to support their mate in trouble. I turned and, sure enough, the two bobbies had crossed the road and were almost upon us. It would be a typical Met ploy to use two uniformed policeman as part of a surveillance team; they'd be useful as back up in a crisis - like this.
"Any problems?" the older copper asked. I'd half expected the old
'hello, hello, hello
.
what's going on 'ere, then'
routine. They both looked hard at Grey-jacket, then back at me. Grey-jacket babbled on a bit about banging into me.
I spoke up. "No problems, Constable. There's been a bit of an accident, that's all. I knocked our young friend over when I ran back to get my wallet." I spoke slowly and calmly; Joe Public being helpful. "In case someone else nicked it." I pointed, and we all turned to look at the stone parapet ten yards behind. Sure enough, it hadn't gone away. Satisfied, the older policeman turned back to Grey-jacket.
"You all right, mate? I mean, you don't need any assistance or anything?" He emphasised the 'assistance.'
"No, no. I'm all right, honestly. Just one of those things. Just lack of communication, I expect," Grey-jacket added, pointedly. The coppers looked at him hard.
It was then that I realised what must have happened. Grey-jacket's hidden radio had been broken in the fall. Probably the microphone connection had come unplugged. Hence his remark about communication. No foot surveillance team can operate without good two-way concealed radio.
Delighted with his predicament, and knowing that the police couldn't touch me now that Lamaison had said he'd call the Home Office off, I played the situation to the hilt. "That's it, Officer. Just two ordinary blokes bumping into each other. Happens all the time. I wasn't going to mug him," I laughed. "And do you know what I'm going to do now?"
That blank, flat expression that only policemen can do came across his face. "No, sir," he said, tonelessly, "What?"
"I'm going to buy this bloke a drink to say I'm sorry, and I'm going to give him some money to buy himself a new pair of trousers: OK? By the way, what’s your name?"
The copper's expression changed momentarily to a mixture of disbelief and wry amusement. He glanced at Grey-jacket to confirm my remark.
The latter shrugged. "I expect it'll be all right," he said. He was almost pleading with the policemen and they all looked at each other with something approaching consternation. The Metropolitan Police handbook of Foot Surveillance didn't contain this one. Hares didn't take their tails to the boozer, let alone offer to buy them new pairs of trousers and ask what their name is. I could have laughed at their faces. There would be some re-writing of the
précis
at Hendon soon, I could see.
"Come on, then," I urged him.
But Grey-jacket had recovered himself now. "No, I'll take a cab. I'm all right, honestly." He started to move away. He was definitely limping.
"But what about your trousers?"