What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Act I, sc. 45-46
Trigger Warnings
Don’t worry, there aren’t really any of those sorts of trigger warnings in this instalment. You’ll get my cryptic subtitle when you read it, though. Perhaps I’m just being facetiously pretentious.
Anyway, welcome to What to do about Katrina if you have just joined us. If you are mindful of spoilers, then your options are 1/ start at the very beginning, either with My Intro, there, or the Prelude & Scene One, there, or 2/ dispense with the first thirty-six scenes (that’s about 50k words) and go to the recent Intermission, which will give you the story-so-far, and then lead you into scene 37, so you wouldn’t have much to catch up on.
For the Previously on Katrina, click there. In those scenes various characters woke up on Day Three, and you got to meet Guy Melville, who works in MI6’s counterintelligence section back in Vauxhall Cross (VX), London, and is fully intending to come to Paris and take possession of affairs. Guy is going to be playing quite a significant part from now on, so bloody pay attention, 007.
And put that down. It’s not a toy.
It’s a dildo.
Lol.
I always wanted to do that joke.
Anyway (calm down, dear, calm down), in these two little scenes, Peter will be attempting to catalyse events, as you will see. It gets a little more intriguing and Peter has a genuine, sincere question for Katrina. Because, as it turns out, Sarah did not tell him everything…
And in keeping with my penchant for La Belle Epoque, there’s some vintage illustrations for you. Starting with Cabaret de Chat Noir, par Albert Robida (pre-1926 - he died in that year).
In order to buy some time, Peter succeeded in delaying Malcolm’s morning session with Katrina by about half an hour.
In anticipation of the very high likelihood, he urged, of VX sending some officious little counterintelligence man over who will, undoubtedly, as is the nature of such characters, attempt to take hard possession of our case, perhaps the time, Malcolm, for pussyfooting around with Little Miss Brightside is over.
Of course Malcolm wasn’t too happy about this, feeling he was getting somewhere and having woken up somewhat buoyant and optimistic for the day’s progress, although he comprehended Peter’s point.
“Just bring up the subject of dissociation, Malcolm, and see what her reaction is. I will take a few moments with her beforehand to implant the urgency of the situation into that bizarre brain of hers. ‘You’ve had it all too easy thus far, Miss Meyer,’ I will say. ‘The man from counterintelligence however, won’t be in the mood for obfuscation. And I have it on good authority he will be arriving later this afternoon, and may well have you transferred to a more secure location.’ Or words to that effect. What do you think, honestly?”
“What happens if I inadvertently trigger a split? She dissociates and there’s no telling what sort of personality comes out?”
“Then you’ve got the proof of your hypothesis, haven’t you?”
“And if this alter decides to attack me? From my researches it would almost certainly be a protective type.”
Peter feigned to think about it for a moment. Then just shrugged.
“Thank you for your concern, Peter.”
“Ok. I’m just saying, it would be better for you to trigger such a thing, than some bumbling oaf from VX, wouldn’t you say?”
Mal sighed and reluctantly accepted the logic. “Very well. But on your head be it. And if she puts me in the hospital, you pay me compensation.”
“Accepted. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think that will happen. Not that I’m an expert, mind. Call it instinct. But, you do need to provoke her today. You get that much, yes?”
“Pity,” he muttered forlornly. “I was hoping to learn more about this parallel world of hers.”
“Oh. A believer now are you?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Even if it’s a delusion, it’s a fascinating one. Or maybe,” he shot Peter a suggestive glare, “I want to believe.” He turned away. “Still,” he grumbled as he opened the door, “I suppose I’ll just do an extra half hour’s revision on multiple personality syndrome, then.”
Peter waited for him to leave, then checked his watch and continued to ignore the phone.
Then grabbed his jacket and exited the building.
Approximately thirty minutes later, just before 09:00, local time, Peter let himself into the apartment and strolled into the breakfast room, where Katrina appeared to be winning the hearts and minds of her two chaperones. He wasn’t surprised, given how enticing the coffee fumes smelled.
He took out a twenty Euro note and told the chaperones to go get some croissants. They said they’d already eaten, courtesy of Miss Meyer. “They’re for me,” he replied tersely. “Although treat yourself too if you like.”
He stepped to one side to leave them a clear channel to the door, as if to emphasise the point, which they readily comprehended.
Peter watched them leave, then quickly checked the office to make sure the surveillance was off.
On his return he poured himself a coffee, plonked it on the round table, and took a seat opposite her.
She eyed him with amusement. “I do hope you’re not in the habit of using taxpayer’s money to buy croissants, Peter.”
“Very funny. And no.” Then he addressed her abruptly, directly in the eyes. “It’s safe to talk.”
She didn’t flicker. “How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
“You’d best set your watch then.”
He raised an eye and obeyed.
“It’s the fact,” he started, “that you know these protocols which alarms me.”
“Is this item one on the agenda?”
“In a manner of speaking. How do you know?”
“Because I was indoctrinated in my parallel world. Not that you’d believe in that, of course.”
Peter inhaled deeply. “Actually, there is an increasingly significant part of me which does believe. Or at least wants to believe. But it’s the fact that you recognised me which I find unnerving. The fact that you made a point of telling me you know the protocol.”
Katrina had switched effortlessly to some kind of professionalism she hadn’t needed to really use for many years. It almost surprised her how easy it was.
“I was indoctrinated in my parallel world. That’s all you’re getting until I know just how safe it really is. I am obviously mindful of entrapment.”
He smiled. “In which case you’ve already given yourself away.”
“Ditto.”
His smile morphed into a little laugh. “What I want to know, is how do you know me?”
“From my parallel world?”
He stopped laughing and shrugged.
“You are a senior MI6 liaison officer with NEA Intel. That’s the New Eurasian Alliance, which I believe I may have mentioned already. Specifically, you are part of the team which is dedicated to hunting down and neutralising the last remaining programmed Monarchs and the cryptos. The latter, of course, being bloodline members of the cabal who changed their names centuries ago then either destroyed or edited the genealogy records.”
He took another serious breath and leaned in slightly. Sarah hadn’t been that specific. “How are we doing, this team?”
“Best estimates suggest you’ve got 97-98% of them. Time check?”
He glanced at his watch. “Nine left.”
“I’m guessing, actually,” Katrina continued, “this answers my question why Paris. Why, of all places the Goddess could’ve sent me, did I arrive here. When the idea of coming to the Embassy popped into my head it came with the ready-made thought there would be somewhere here who could help me. At first I thought it was Tom, because he reminded me of someone. But then you showed up and I instantly realised it wasn’t him, it was you. Although it may also be the case that he does end up playing some significant part in whatever fate has in store for me. What do you think?”
Peter laughed almost embarrassingly. “Who does Tom remind you of?”
Katrina sighed. “A former friend and colleague of mine from P6. His name was David Miles and he was killed because of me in December 1996. That answers your question about BX1, by the way. If his body hadn’t been fished out of the canal within twenty-four hours then I wouldn’t have got the emergency signal in time and I’d be dead too. So, half of me is thinking the resemblance with Tom is uncanny enough for the obvious conclusion. Given that David was killed because of me, and I didn’t exist in this world, meaning maybe he’s still alive and Rachel didn’t miscarry. Am I making any sense to you?”
He nodded. “Yes. Complete sense. David quit the field when his fiancée told him about the pregnancy. He now works as an instructor at Monckton.”
Katrina lost a breath, but held back the urge to cry. There would be other urges just like that, she knew.
“Rachel’s older brother is called Tom, isn’t he?”
“Yes. And her surname is?”
“Davies. She was born in the same place I was, Hayward’s Heath Community Hospital, about five months after me. May ’73. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“She’s had a very productive career in the FCO.”
“I see. So she has a fairly high clearance level, then. And that explains how someone like Tom got into the Service. You know he’s entirely unsuited to intelligence work. He’s too nice for such a dirty fucking business.”
Peter chuckled. “I believe he is coming to realise that for himself.”
“Yeah, explains a lot.”
“Of course,” Peter shot a pointed glance, “You provoking him all the time isn’t helping.”
“Oh? I rather think it is. He’ll make his mind up sooner. Hopefully before he discovers something he forever wishes he hadn’t about what kind of ruthless psychos his father must be training up at Monckton. Presumably, given what a fucking dystopia this world of yours still is, to murder innocent people in false flag terrorist attacks. For example.”
“Actually, most of those attacks are now staged.”
“You what?”
“Staged attacks. Theatre. Crisis actors. Smoke and mirrors. FX. Has the same psychological and political effect and isn’t so bloody messy.”
“Ah, yeah. And easier on the conscience too, no doubt.”
“Quite.”
She sighed and shook her head in exasperation. “Whilst we’re on the subject of people I care about in my world, who may or may not exist in this one, there is someone you may know who means the world to me, for various reasons which would take far more than ten minutes to explain.”
He glanced at his watch again. “Seven.”
“Seven. Rather than tell you her name, I’ll just give you a few character details. She’d be in her mid-sixties, and hopefully tending the garden with the dogs in her mother’s old cottage in sleepy Oxfordshire. And clandestinely writing down her memoirs when she knows no one is watching. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
He smiled, which was enough.
“Please tell me she’s alright.”
“She’s very well.”
It was suddenly getting much harder for her to hold back those tears.
“Please tell me they still don’t know about her?”
He shook his head. “They never knew.”
“What happened?”
“Did you have the Christmas Massacre in your world?”
“Yes. December 1992. A whole load of officers from the European Section were retired. Many of them superb and dedicated people. And all because of fucking internal politics, it turns out.”
“Same here. Sarah was one of the casualties.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
He shrugged. “Quite.”
“So what happened then?”
“Moscow was informed about the catastrophe and by the end of the decade, what with the changes happening in Russia as well, every single record of Smersh-FS was destroyed.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“One hundred percent. That’s how I know it’s safe to talk. And that’s how I can tell you this is not an entrapment.”
“Ok. Accepted. What’s your next agenda item? Time check.”
“Six. I need to urgently warn you about the impending arrival of a man from VX, almost certainly an obnoxious little shit called Guy Melville.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Melville?” She chuckled. “Looks like I was right then, eh?”
“Uh?”
“Calling you Ishmael.”
He burst out laughing.
“By this,” she wondered, “am I to assume he will be relentlessly pursuing me with ruthless obsession?”
Peter chuckled. “Let’s just say he’ll be mindful of the potential one that got away.”
“Right. Any character hints?”
“Think Nicholas Elliott without the psychosis or the balls to get an invite to Le Cercle.”
“I’ll probably end up killing the fucker, then.”
“I would strongly advise against that. Which brings me to item next. Given that he will not be satisfied with your inability to explain away the CCTV, and will use this as a pretext to have you transferred to a more secure facility, as it were -”
“You mean some torturous black site.”
“They call it enhanced interrogation techniques these days.”
“Same old MKULTRA shit, then. Warning taken. Proceed.”
“Given you won’t accept such a scenario, and in equal view of that unlockable sash window in your bedroom and the guaranteed sturdy drainpipe within easy leap, which I can assure you will take your weight, what would a girl like you, with your character traits and your talents, do with herself if she were to find herself isolated and alone in this parallel world Paris?”
“Hah! Ironically enough I already thought of that, because it was my first option before deciding on the Embassy. Given I have no ID and all the rest of it, I would probably have to make my way into the Paris Underworld and lay low long enough to find a way across the Channel. I hear most nightclubs are still shutdown because of your stupid pandemic, yes?”
“Mostly. Unless you head over to the red light district.”
She snorted incredulously at him. “Are you suggesting I become a prostitute?!”
“Not necessarily. So long as you can wait on tables and dance sexy. Besides, given your reflex reaction it’s clearly not a choice of yours that would occur to someone like Guy Melville. You’re far too prissy for it.”
“Prissy?”
“Prissy. Your best bet is a club called Ludo.”
“Hah! I play. How amusing.”
“It is in the habit of taking in waifs and strays and runaways without asking too many questions. Kind of like an unofficial refuge. You wouldn’t have to fuck anyone if you didn’t want to. And it’s very low-level in the grand scheme of organised crime. I would imagine you’d enjoy playing the role, if you’re the actress you say you are.”
She responded with a dubious snort. He continued. “You would have to go round the back, though and speak French to the henchman on the door. It stays open until around 3-4 a.m. I’m sure I’d be able to check up on you in the early hours, once you’re settled in for a few days.”
“I see. Fair enough. And once enough time has passed, and I do find a way to get across the channel, how possible would it be to reach Sarah?”
“Eminently.”
“Well, if that’s the option that must be, then would you be able to get a message to her to expect me, if and when the time comes?”
“Yes.”
“Securely?”
“Securely.”
She let out a resigned breath. “I would’ve very much liked to have tried out my second chance at swimming and running and music and movies, you know, Peter?”
“Perhaps that’s not what your Goddess intended for you.”
“Clearly not. Time check and next agenda item?”
He checked the watch. “Three minutes. There’s a few missed calls from London on my phone. So, I am going to assume Guy will not be arriving until this afternoon. I can hold him off until tomorrow morning. Partly by advising him to take advantage of your monthly.”
“That’s very kind of you, surely.”
“Oddly enough, I will also suggest I confuse you by playing the good cop.”
“Well, that’ll enhance your cover, no doubt. All these nasty patriarchal suggestions.”
“Please don’t cause any permanent damage, though, if and when the time comes to lash out.”
“Ah. Right. Well, so long as you’re looking perpendicular to me so I can hit you on the side of the head, you’ll only need worry about a hangover.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
“I’m not being sarcastic, Peter. I’m being honest. It’ll look very authentic and you won’t see it coming. Anything else?”
He shook his head. Then motioned to switched off the timer. “How come you didn’t ask me how I know Sarah?”
Peter retracted his hand. “I was mindful of the time.”
“How long?”
“Two minutes.”
“Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s too long a story to tell you in two minutes. Basically she recruited me into P6 in 1989, when I was sixteen. There you go.”
“How many people have you killed?”
“Not as many as you’ve had hot dinners. You said this Melville doesn’t have the balls to get into Le Cercle. How so?”
“Heavily compensated insecurity complex.”
“Ah. Posh boy then eh? And which posh boy school did he have the misfortune to be sent to?”
“Marlborough.”
“Hah! Well that explains it then.” She chuckled.
“You know the type, then, I take it?”
“Don’t you?”
He smirked. “One minute thirty. Any other amusing quips?”
“Yeah. Why do I get the distinct impression this is gonna turn into Modesty effing Blaise?”
He smiled affectionately at her. “I’m glad you’re not feeling too bad about all this.”
“It’s a survival reflex.” Then she sighed, and looked away, staring through the wall.
He hesitated a few moments, then did click off the timer.
He cleared his throat. “How about another pot of coffee?”
“Knock yourself out…”
Quand Papa Reviendra, by Adolphe Willette (1917). Curiously, he also died in 1926…
Clearly 1926 was not a good year for French illustrators…
Well, I do hope you enjoyed this instalment, and in fact are enjoying the ongoing story. Especially now it’s picked up the pace a little since the Intermission. If you are, then don’t neglect the lovely like button down there.
You can also share and comment, if you wish. Or, given our local Carrefour have just upped the price of coffee by 20% last month, the bastards, you could help me out by buying me a coffee.
Oh - straw poll - what do you think of my using all these vintage images, by the way?
Anyhow, until next time, at which point, here shall a link be also.
James Bond has nothing over Katrins. She rocks!
This really is getting more exciting by the episode! I'm thoroughly enjoying it.