Chapter 6: Tradecraft

August 1973, age 18

Helplessness is a truly horrible sensation.

Agent Marks’s unvarnished proclamation that our home had been bombed caused Caity and Charlie to start crying and asking questions. Simon and Susan were trying to console Caity, and the Wilsons didn’t understand the significance. I was as shocked and upset as anyone else, but it eventually hit me that I was the only person in the room who could step up and act as parent.

“Everyone, quiet! QUIET!”

They stopped talking, though the tears continued.

“Now listen: Dan is indestructible. Mrs O’Keef’s house is half-way down the drive. And Uncle Will almost certainly spent the night in someone else’s bed!”

Charlie elbowed me and told me I wasn’t funny, but Caity’s smile said otherwise. Of those in the room, Charlie was the closest to my uncle.

“My point is that everything’s going to be fine”, I said in a calming voice. “Everyone at home will be fine. And WE are going to be fine. Okay?” As those words came out, I couldn’t help think that my home back in London was ablaze, and people could be lying dead. The helplessness was horrible.

The few minutes it took Ewan to get someone on the phone seemed interminable. When he caught my eye and gestured with the handset, I first had to extricate myself from Charlie, then took it and said: “It’s Finn, who’s this?”

“Boss, it’s Jimmy at the gatehouse.”

“Jimmy, good, can you give me any good news?”

“Dan’s been taken to hospital for smoke inhalation, but it’s not serious. Everyone else here is fine.”

I didn’t delay in relaying that. “Everyone’s safe!” The release of tension was palpable. Into the phone, I asked, “How did they get the bomb in?”

“I don’t know, boss. We don’t think there was a perimeter breach. The police are all over the place now, and Sir Edward is here too. The bomb went off in the garage, so my guess is it was a car bomb. If someone fixed a device under Dan’s car while he was at work, he could have driven it home without knowing. It would only have needed a simple timer to synchronise with the other bombs for 3am.”

If that was true, we really needed to tighten up our security.

“Okay. Any developments, I want you or Ed to call here, okay? If it’s urgent, have someone wake me.”

“Got it, boss. Good night.”

The moment I’d put the phone down, the FBI man asked about the bomb. I beckoned him away from the others and then spoke quietly. “Car bomb. Probably driven in unknowingly by one of our guys. All three were synchronised for 3am UK time.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It takes a professional to pull off that level of accuracy. And a pro would have checked whether you were in residence. So either they weren’t aiming for you, or they were aiming for you, and there’s another bomb in this building, waiting to go off. We should evacuate the hotel, bring in bomb disposal and sniffer dogs.”

“No”, I shook my head. “That makes no sense. If there were a bomb here, it would have gone off at the same time as the rest. Otherwise, they’d risk us having evacuated.”

Ewan was nodding, but Agent Marks insisted, “That’s not your call”, and was soon on his radio giving instructions. I could only imagine the chaos that would cause, not to mention media circus. He then told me, “I still think we should evacuate you. Bullet-proof glass won’t protect us from a bomb in the room below us.”

Ewan answered for me. “The entire floor below us is empty except for security staff. Same for this floor. And the roof above us has already been checked by my lads.”

Agent Marks wasn’t happy, but I sealed things by telling everyone that there was no point in us staying up all night. There were only two bedrooms in the suite, so I sent Caity, Susan and Madison to one room, and took the boys to the other. Corey volunteered to take the bedroom couch, so Simon and I bore the indignity of getting in bed together, with Charlie snuggled between us. Thankfully they were big beds.

I’m not sure any of us got much sleep that night. My adrenaline was still pumping and my thoughts racing, but I had Charlie tight against me, and his warmth somehow calmed me enough to get a few hours kip.

When I emerged next morning, we were no longer on lock-down, and the FBI were gone. After breakfast in the suite, Ewan rang home and got Dan on the line. Passing it to me, it was great to hear Dan’s voice. He didn’t sound too bad other than a few coughs. My instinct was to fly home that day, but Dan told me firmly that I was to stay in the hotel and not do anything stupid. Also, I would have to give a press conference that morning, as the local press were baying. There was also the small matter of the bomb having made a mess of one end of our house: it wouldn’t be fit for habitation for a while.

Caity and Charlie took turns chatting to Dan, and it wasn’t long before a PR person turned up with a short speech and talking points. I sent Caity, Susan, Simon and Charlie off to one of the bedrooms, and practised my speech in front of the remaining audience. Corey was good at giving feedback, whereas his sister seemed shell-shocked over what I was saying.

The hotel had a large function room, so it was there, mid-morning, that I spoke to the press.

“Thank you all for coming. I’d like to address the reason that this hotel was evacuated last night by the FBI. At approximately 10pm, or 3am London time, three bombs went off at sites in the UK owned by my company. One of those sites was my London home. My company’s global operations include sensitive military contracts, so the British government asked the American government to take steps to ensure my safety.

“The concern last night was that the perpetrators of this coordinated attack might have planted a bomb in this hotel if they knew I was staying here. The FBI and NYPD acted swiftly in the public interest to evacuate the hotel. After a thorough search, they declared it a false alarm. I would like to thank them for their swift response and professionalism.

“I offer my sincerest apologies to every one of the hotel guests who was inconvenienced last night. While the cause was not in our control, we sadly know that our reputation for supreme comfort and customer service has been tarnished. Every guest will be fully compensated and offered a free return stay. I also thank my staff for striving tirelessly to find our guests replacement rooms at other hotels. It was not an easy night, but they made the best of a bad situation.

“Scotland Yard does not currently know who orchestrated the attacks in the UK, but investigations are ongoing. There have been rumours in the British press that it was the IRA. I don’t know why they’d be attacking me, as I’m not involved with Northern Ireland in any way. But if it is them, it would be their first attack on mainland Britain, and the first terrorist alert in New York City caused by the IRA.

“Finally, there is a concern that whoever failed to kill me last night in the UK might try again. Terrorist attacks are designed to create terror. Well, I am NOT terrified, and I am NOT about to hide myself away. I’ve had 24-hour security since I was ten years old. Tomorrow, I’ll be flying to San Diego for Comic-Con. The event will be very secure, and a whole lot of fun. I encourage people to go if you can, as Marvel will be launching a few really exciting things. You wanna give terrorists the finger? Dress as a superhero and go along! Now if anyone has a question, please raise your hand.”

I had basically given a gilt-edged invitation to whoever was behind the attacks to try and get me in San Diego. I hoped Dan and Ed knew what they were doing.

There were lots of questions. Most were sensible...

“Can you tell us about the other sites that were attacked?”

... but several were ridiculous...

“Was this a publicity stunt to help launch your new projects?” (“No, idiot.”)

“You are one of the most eligible bachelors of your generation and were spotted having dinner with a young lady last night. Are you off the market?” (“Mind your own business.”)

“Lockheed was suspected of trying to kill you two years ago. Do you think this might be them having another go?” (“Nothing would surprise me with that bunch of arseholes. Maybe I should make a hostile takeover for my own safety.” Cue stock market frenzy.)

Then there was one that could have turned nasty. “Sources say that you tried to stop the FBI from evacuating the hotel. Is that true, and if so, why weren’t you concerned with the safety of your patrons?” (“No, that’s not true. I offered an opinion, nothing more. All the bombs were carefully synchronised, so I thought a bomb here would have gone off with the rest. Though I suppose a stupid attacker might not understand time zones. Anyway, the FBI made the decision, and we cooperated fully.”)

I hate leakers.

The meeting I was supposed to have that day with Marvel Comics got cancelled. Having said I wasn’t hiding, I stayed hidden away in my hotel all day. I was supposed to have pitched Transformers, but they’d have to make do with looking through my A-Level Art portfolio on its own.

The trip to San Diego went off without incident. The premieres and launches went well, with the GameBoy particularly popular among attendees. There was a veritable army of security there, but nobody seemed to mind, and there were lots of people dressed as superheroes.

When we returned to British soil, the house was still swarming with builders doing repairs, so we set ourselves up in the penthouse. None of us had ever spent any great length of time there, so it was kind of new and exciting. It was there that Charlie’s mum joined us to celebrate his tenth birthday. And it was from there that we spent the last days of the summer doing various touristy things, including the promised return visit to the theme park.

It was also in Marvel Tower that I met Dan and Ed for an update.

“So what do we know?”

Dan was first to answer me. “Looking first at the big picture, we know that the attack was well planned and professionally executed. That leads to the conclusion that it was strategically motivated. This wasn’t terrorism for the sake of terror, and it certainly wasn’t the IRA.”

I nodded. “I already figured that. And no professional could have missed the fact that I wasn’t home, so it can’t have been an assassination attempt. How did the IRA rumour get started?”

“Timers”, Ed replied. “They use similar devices in the province. But the men we caught in Scotland were French mercenaries, so the timers may have been misdirection.”

“French?”, I asked in surprise. “Who have we pissed off in France?”

“Let’s come back to that. Changing subject to our leaker: prior to the attack I had a fair idea who it was, and I was giving them enough rope to hang themselves. The attack forced me to move, so I detained my suspect, and that person confessed pretty quickly. I mention it because the description that person gave of their contact matched exactly the description that the Blackdog bombers gave.”

“Shit”, I said quietly. If one person was coordinating both the press attacks and the bomb attacks, this was an elaborate campaign against us, dating back years.

“Quite”, Ed agreed. “I have a number of other leads. Our leaker is scared shitless and cooperating fully.”

“Who is it?”, I asked.

“If you’ll forgive me, I’m not going to tell you that for now. The middle-man doesn’t know we’ve broken his informant. That is our single biggest advantage, but it relies on the leaker appearing to continue with their life as normal. So put all thoughts of retribution aside until I tell you this person is of no further use to us.”

I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or to pity the poor sod. His/her interrogation couldn’t have been much fun. And that would be the least of his/her worries if the middle-man figured things out. So I just asked, “What about the Blackdog guys?”

“They are no longer in the UK.”

“What does that mean? We’ve moved them out of the country? Why?”

He gave me a piercing stare but didn’t answer. My brain caught up a few moment later. The only reason for doing that was to avoid the due process of British law. With my eyes closed and feeling a little queasy, I asked, “Africa? Or the middle east?”

He changed the subject without answering. “Our current priority is identifying the middle-man, and from there we can trace the money.”

“Any guesses?”, I asked.

“Lockheed ... oil companies ... banks...”

“Banks?”, I asked, surprised again. “Why?”

Dan answered this time. “Because we made an awful lot of money at the expense of other people when the stock market crashed earlier this year. And it doesn’t help that we now have our own bank which is taking customers away from the big four in droves. Our no-branch telephone banking concept has taken off, and they don’t like that we don’t charge fees. But I think bankers planting bombs is a stretch. And anyway, the earliest press attacks pre-date the crash.”

“So we’re going round in circles”, I stated.

Ed glanced at Dan before he said, “We’re going to be tightening security across the board. It’s quite possible that one of the sites was the primary target, and the others red herrings. If an oil company is behind this, they may try attacking again, as the refinery was undamaged. The Clyde shipyard bomb came up the river on a boat, with a second boat for egress. I am worried that someone could use the same tactic with our oil rigs.”

“Which brings us to BP and Shell,” I surmised, “like you mentioned before”.

“Correct. Plus anyone else who wants to elbow us away from the North Sea. There are plenty of cut-throat Americans and Arabs. And I wouldn’t put it past the French, either, which may or may not connect to the mercenaries. All the oil companies have long-standing links to mercenaries as that’s often who they use for security abroad.”

“And Lockheed? Or Fleet Street?”

“Media barons hiring mercenaries to plant bombs doesn’t pass the sniff test. Lockheed is possible, but after their scandal, I doubt they’d be that stupid.”

Dan took over. “There are three other scenarios to consider, which get progressively more worrying. First, it could be Argentina thinking that if they prod us hard enough at home, we might pull back from our expansion abroad, i.e. the Falklands. You’re visiting the Falklands in November, so we must be cautious. Second, it could be a rogue CIA operation. The agents who were killed while attacking you two years ago might have friends wanting to avenge them. And third, there is a secretive global organisation which brings together the world’s most powerful men: royalty, senior politicians, bankers, businessmen, academics. It’s long been rumoured that the Bilderberg Group has its own clandestine operation to further the group’s aims. If this is them, God help us!”

“What aims?”

“World unity. Integrated global government. Globalisation. Nothing we’ve taken a stance against. Except that the head of Bilderberg is the Prince Consort of the Netherlands, who you exposed as corrupt as part of the Lockheed scandal. He may bear a grudge.”

“Why is life never simple?”, I asked as I slumped in my chair.

“You’re in the wrong business for simple”, Dan replied. “Ed and I have been talking, and we think it’s time you had someone tutor you on tradecraft. You know what I mean by that?”

I nodded. ‘Tradecraft’ had come up in the spy novels of John le Carré.

“There will be times over the next few months, not to mention the rest of your life, when you won’t have a bodyguard beside you. You need to be trained in spotting threats before they become problems. You also need a last line of defence.”

He stared at me as I figured out what he meant. “You want to teach me how to kill someone?”

Ed stepped in. “We’re not turning you into an assassin, Finn. Nor do you need to be an expert in martial arts. But did you know you can kill an attacker with the palm of your hand? Slam the boney bit upwards into someone’s nose with the correct alignment and power, and it’ll force the nose bone upwards into your attacker’s brain. Even if it doesn’t kill them, it creates an opportunity for escape. There are some simple tricks, and you need to know them.”

Dan added, “MI5 got me a list of cadets who will be at Cranwell with you. Several were sent there to train by foreign militaries. What if one isn’t what he appears? You’ll have no backup from us once you’re inside.”

I sighed and repeated, “Life is never simple.”

My tradecraft tutor turned up the following day. The first few exercises were easy: observation and situational awareness. ‘Look at this tray of objects ... now figure out which one I’ve removed’. ‘Study this photograph for 10 seconds ... how many exit routes were there?’ ... and so on. He tried to get me into the habit of making quick scans of a room, making an assessment and mentally filing it away, all while acting unobtrusively. He got my suspicious mind spotting things that were out of place. And he got me thinking about what I would do in such-and-such scenario.

After a day and a half of theory, discussion and practice, we went and did it in public. He took me down to Leicester Square, where he had me sit on a bench and observe. Then, making me look at him he would ask random questions about clothing, activities, threat level, exit routes and so on. We moved to different locations and repeated the process. I’m sure my security loved having me wander around London. I even got my first ever ride on the underground. (Slightly bizarre that I’d lived in London for eight years and never done that.) And he threw in that some of the people around me were spooks/actors doing things to test me.

The physical kill-the-dummy training was somehow the least interesting. All the other stuff I could see being useful. I suppose protecting myself is useful, but if a situation came where I needed it, I could already be dead. Cheerful stuff.

“I, Finnley Henry Harrison, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Second, her heirs and successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, her heirs and successors, in person, crown and dignity against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, her heirs and successors, and of the Air Officers and other officers set over me. So help me God.”

I had to repeat those words line by line, bible in hand, as the officer swore me in. The ceremony took place in an entrance hallway of Cranwell’s grand main building, with pictures of Her Majesty and various illustrious RAF officers bedecking the walls. The gaggle of newbies observed as we each took our turn to be sworn in.

Royal Air Force College Cranwell is nothing like its equivalent in the United States, or so I’ve heard. At Cranwell, there is no shaving of heads, no yelling ‘SIR, YES SIR’ at top volume, and no industrial scale hazing. The concept of breaking someone down so they can be built back up the right way doesn’t exist. That doesn’t mean we aren’t pushed to our limits on assault courses and in PT. And it doesn’t mean there weren’t pranks. But Cranwell is more like a cross between an Oxbridge college and a posh London gentlemen’s club than it is a boot camp. One of the first things we cadets did when we arrived (all wearing formal suits as ordered), was to be sent to the college tailor. Not a mere quartermaster, but a tailor, whose staff would cut our uniforms. How fucking posh?!

Anyway, I was now Officer Cadet Harrison. I had a room-mate, who seemed okay despite being a lawyer and much older than me. And our first evening meal in the mess, wearing our temporary off-the-rack uniforms, brought the inevitable question of why I was wearing a service ribbon on my first day. I had to explain, even to officers, that I’d received an MBE and regulations required me to wear the associated ribbon. (I would have liked to wear my civilian pilot wings too, but that wasn’t allowed.)

The first week seemed to be mainly about the transition from civvy to military life. There was introduction after introduction, inspections every five minutes to make sure our pristine quarters and equipment hadn’t been fouled since the inspection five minutes earlier, and non-stop drill to teach us how to form ranks, dress, march, wheel, mark time, halt, about turn, eyes left/right, salute, and do nifty things with a sword. Yes, a sword!

Much of the course had our squadron (medics, lawyers, chaplains and me) in separate classes to the regulars. My classmates, while much older than me, were decent guys. I was so thankful for that. Once they understood why I was in their group, I was accepted without question. My commercial pilot’s license meant that I was a specialist with prior qualification, just like all of them. No, I hadn’t been to university for 3/4/5 years, but I could fly a bloody-great aeroplane and be responsible for the lives of hundreds of passengers. That meant something to them, and their acceptance meant a lot to me.