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November 2009
He’d taken the 3.30 pm from Liverpool Lime Street arriving in Inverness shortly past 11 pm. Outside the station, he saw the two men standing next to a dark grey Range Rover. One about 5 foot 7, the other slightly taller. They looked like seasoned professionals. Nicks guessed around sixty to sixty-five years old. Something about them made him think they were probably ex SAS. He wasn’t going to ask.
The taller of the two made the introductions. “Hi, Nicks. I’m Mick and this is Lofty. Give me your watch and any phones you’ve got.” He’d a south-eastern accent Nicks automatically associated with London. There were no handshakes. Nicks complied. “Right, stow your stuff in the boot and get in.” He held the rear passenger door open as Lofty went to the back and opened the boot.
“How did you know who to look for?” Nicks asked Lofty, a Scot, as he threw his rucksack into the back.
“You don’t have to be a fuckin’ rocket scientist, son. Besides, we knew what you were wearing.” This was the first hint Nicks had that he’d been watched during his journey. The accent was so thick Nicks assumed he was from Glasgow. He was amused he’d been called ‘son’.
Sitting on the rear seat, he saw the windows were blacked out. Between him and ‘them’, a similarly glassed partition through which he could only just make out the back of the headrests in the front.
An intercom voice spoke. It was Mick, the Londoner. “You ok, in there? You’ll find a couple of cans of fruit drink in the centre console. Don’t drink too much because it’s a bit of a drive and we won’t be making any piss stops.”
The intercom went off. He wasn’t interested in replies. Some two hours later, in the middle of nowhere, they arrived at a small hunting lodge.
Nicks collected his gear and followed Lofty into the building where he was shown his accommodation. A small room with a wire sprung bed, plastic-covered mattress, bedside cabinet, small table lamp, wardrobe and sink with a mirror over it. It was unmistakably Government surplus. On the bed, an old army sleeping bag had been unfurled.
“Have you eaten?” Lofty asked brusquely.
“I had something earlier, on the train,” Nicks replied, although he was feeling quite peckish.
“Good. You’re not gettin’ fuckin’ fed ‘til the morning anyway. Right! Leave your kit here, I’ll show you the canteen.”
Lofty turned and left the room. Nicks threw his rucksack on the bed and followed him.
In the canteen, they told him to strip naked and searched through his clothing. When they’d finished, Lofty told him to bend over and spread his buttocks. That done, he was told to get dressed.
Mick grinned. “Right, go and get your head down and we’ll see you in the morning.” They hadn’t told him what they were looking for but Nicks knew they were looking for a phone. Returning to his room, he found someone had emptied his rucksack onto the floor and been through every item.
The next morning, as the light began to creep over the hills, his door was flung open and he woke to a loud: “Ok, son, time to get up. Get a fuckin’ move on! Come on!”
He rubbed his eyes in the harsh light from the unshaded bulb in the centre of the ceiling.
Lofty threw some clothing and a used pair of training shoes onto the floor.
“You’ll need all of that. It’s a wee bit chilly out there. If the trainers don’t fit, tough shit! Come on! Move yourself! Outside in five!” He was gone.
Nicks extracted himself from the sleeping bag and got dressed: two pairs of tracksuit bottoms, two tops, one pair of socks and a beanie hat. The trainers, luckily, weren’t a bad fit at all.
An hour later Mick and Lofty returned a mud-spattered, soaking wet Nicks to the front of the Lodge, leaving him with the instruction to shower and be in the canteen in fifteen. A rushed fourteen and a half minutes later he sat down, watching Lofty and Mick, clean and refreshed in their DPM combats and green sweatshirts, serve the breakfast they’d just cooked; full English and a steaming mug of hot sweet tea.
Once done, Lofty declared: “Right son. Arse into gear. Time to get a fuckin’ move on.”
It was the same every day – run, breakfast, weapons training, specialist skills, evening meal at what Nicks thought might be 8 pm, followed by testing on what he’d learnt. He’d no firm idea of the time. There were no clocks. He got up in the dark and he went to bed in the dark. That’s all he really knew.
Late afternoon on the fifth day, as the light began to fade, he was taken to a small windowless room containing two chairs facing each other across a table. A single light bulb with a metal shade hung from the ceiling. They told him to take a seat and wait. He allowed the silence to envelop him.
The door opened. It was Don.
This time the pleasant manner was absent, his thin smiles at times both condescending and minacious. Nicks would be a Leveller. An executioner. His call sign, made up from the first letter of his title and three letters from the word ‘eviscerate’, was ‘Elvis’. Nicks smiled inwardly.
Next came Alex: a bespectacled young man in his 30s whose physique gave away his liking of pies and cakes.
He spoke quickly and efficiently. Nicks’ pay would be placed in a safety deposit box relevant to the centre of operations. His box number would always be S-179. Details of the appropriate bank would be sent to him by encrypted text.
A smile, then Alex delved into a large buff envelope and placed two swipe cards and a secure key on the table.“In the meantime, you’ll need these for access. Most bank secure keys work on a six-figure random number, this generates eight. Initial set up? Press the green button and key in your chosen PIN, four to eight numbers. To confirm enter the PIN again and press the yellow button and it’s done.” He looked at Nicks for a sign of comprehension.
Satisfied, he resumed his instructions, “To get through the outer door of each location you swipe with the white card then key in the random number from the secure key. You’ll then be in an ‘airlock’. The next-door will not open until the first door has closed securely. When it has, the device on the next door will show a green light. Now it’s thumbprint recognition time. That’s why you’ll need this.” He produced something resembling a very small condom from the envelope. “Despite what it looks like it is very robust,” he said noticing the look on Nicks’ face. “Slip it over your thumb making sure this bit is at the front and press it against the pad. When the door opens, another ‘airlock’, same again. Green light, swipe the black card and key in another random number and hey presto! You’re in. There’s no point me telling you anymore because the staff will talk you through the internal procedures.” He sat back with a smug look on his face. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” said Nicks. “CCTV?”
“There isn’t any,” Alex replied.
“There’s no CCTV?” Nicks squinted back at him.
“Absolutely correct.” He looked even smugger now. “There’s no need. If you knew the levels of security in these places you’d understand. Besides, it’s one of the selling points for the customers.” He caught Nicks’ frown.
“It’s attractive to people with dodgy things to hide. They feel safe with our banking practice and entrust all sorts of interesting things to our care which we feel, on occasions, need to be shared with the right people, anonymously of course.” He flashed a broad smile. “Anything else?”
Nicks thought for a moment, “Just out of interest really, what stops someone digging their way in or trashing the entrance doors?”
Alex looked at him questioningly. Nicks didn’t need to know this but on the balance of things, he saw no reason not to tell him.
“If you can dig your way through twenty feet of steel-reinforced high-quality concrete littered with tremor monitors or get through three doors of ballistic glass and steel reinforcement then you deserve at least a cup of tea in reception.” There was that smile again.“Right, now for the comms gear.”
Alex opened the briefcase on the table and produced two devices and a set of in-ear headphones.
“Look just like Smartphones. This one,” he waved the black one, “is a phone and radio combined. Similar to the system the Police use, but better. Encrypted phone calls, texts and radio transmissions.”
“Will it play music?” Nicks interrupted, smiling condescendingly.
“Yes, it will but we don’t provide it. Load your own just as you would a normal smartphone. Music has the lowest priority so everything else will interrupt it.” Alex, seemingly unfazed by both the question and the smile, continued without pause. “This one,” he held up the blue phone, “is actually a tracking device ....” and so passed the next hour as he took Nicks through a practical on the use and capabilities of the equipment, including battery life and care, after which came the inevitable. “Are there any more questions?”
Nicks shook his head.
Alex looked relieved.
“Finally, when we need to speak to you you’ll receive a text saying: ‘Aunty Dot misses you’. If you receive a text saying: ‘Aunty Dot needs a visit’ make immediate contact and get your arse on the next available flight.” He handed Nicks the black smartphone.
“What about the tracker?” Nicks said placing the phone on the table with his other stuff.
Alex shook his head, “Your handler will give you that each time you do a relevant job. This one’s an old version, the battery life isn’t as good but the controls are the same.”
They sat and looked at each other. Alex rose from the table and said, matter of factly: “Well then, I’ve got other things to do, so if there is anything else you want to know you’ll have to ask one of the others.” He smiled, picked up his things, they shook hands and he left the room.
Nicks sat there for five minutes examining the items he’d been given. He’d been told someone would come for him when they were ready. Suddenly the door opened and Lofty popped his head in.
“Right, stash that lot in your room and I’ll see you in the canteen in ten.”
At 8.30 that evening they dumped him at Inverness with a “Good luck, Nicks” and a “Take care, son” and drove off without waving. ‘It’s always sad when the Circus leaves town,’ Nicks thought as he trudged into the station.