What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Act. I, sc. 47-49
In which Peter pulls off an amusing intelligence services in-joke, and you simply can't trust anyone these days
Welcome back to Katrina. She needed a little break to do the flashback Ivan Sees You thing for Friday the Thirteenth.
As usual, if you wish to go right back to the beginning instead of indulging in spoilerisms, then My Intro is there, and the Prelude & Scene One is there. You also have the option of bypassing the first 50k words, and starting at the Intermission, which has the story-so-far, and then resumes at Scene 37 (so not that much catching up to do, in other words).
In the Previously on Katrina, Peter had a quiet word with Katrina, warning her about the impending arrival of some interloper from VX counterintelligence coming over to take charge of the situation and interrogate her in a far more secure location. Well, secure for them, clearly, but not for her.
Now, I do have a silly and frivolous thing to mention before we get going. I had intended to insert Fragment 49 into the narrative at this point. This is where Malcolm talks to Katrina about multiple personality disorder. But then I looked at the scene numbers and thought ah, if I can insert two extra scenes in then scene 49 can be fragment 49! So, I wrote an extra scene which does, as it happens, fit perfectly into the timeline, and then I thought I’d move forward the scene where Audrey delivers Katrina’s antibody test results to Peter (originally it was going to be in the afternoon). But then my imagining brain watching this bit of the movie suddenly pops out a bit of unexpected dialogue between Tom & Audrey and forced me to like it so much that I simply couldn’t leave it out (plus there’s a nice bit of intriguing cognitive dissonance to it, if you have been paying attention). So this buggers up the whole scene 49 = fragment 49 frivolity. Well, given that sort of thing is silly anyway I have abandoned that ridiculous notion.
Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure how many scenes there really are here. They take place in the corridor outside Peter’s office and then it moves back inside. So if I were the director filming this sequence I would do it all in one take, with something like a 3-camera setup inside the office and another outside, all on the same set. The script, though, would probably have it as three, or even four bits. Like ‘Int: corridor; Int: Peter’s office; Int: corridor, Int: Peter’s office’. That sort of thing.
Why am I burbling on about this? I don’t know. Maybe some behind-the-scenes glimpse into my mental writing process perhaps. And my silliness.
Anyway, talking of silliness, there are some intelligence services in-jokes in this one, so I will see you at the end, down below, and I’ll provide some notes/references for you. I’ve been thinking of doing a behind-the-scenes post about all the postmodern references, after all.
Enough! On with the show. It must go on.
With a plan of some Aesop-themed fountains in le Labyrinthe de Versailles, illustrated by Jacques Bailly, ca. 1675. In a nice ironic French connection, there also happens to be an art gallery of the same name on our very own rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, where the British Embassy is located. How lovely.
On arrival back at his office, Peter found Tom lurking impatiently outside the door. Precisely the kind of mood in which he wanted him to be.
Muttering a few pleasantries, he ushered the junior officer inside and bid him sit, then switched on his computer.
Tom got straight to the point. “I met the woman from the CCTV at the station but she doesn’t know anything and doesn’t remember Katrina.”
Peter leaned back. “Hmm. And how do you know she doesn’t know anything? How do you know she’s not acting? Have you checked her movements on CCTV? Enquired at her place of work?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Peter. I am convinced she doesn’t know anything. End of. Besides, you would tell me whoever is behind this convoluted affair would have been extremely thorough and predicted we’d check that shit out so they’d make sure it all looked fine. So there. No need to bother.”
Peter didn’t rise to it. “It still needs to be done, Thomas. If only to confirm what you say.”
“But it’s bloody dogsbody work!”
“One day, if you decide to stay in the Service, you will be ordering your own juniors to do dogsbody work. Think on that.”
Tom sighed deeply. And intensely disliked the sense of an emerging smirk on Peter’s face. “You said you’d keep me in the loop?”
“Ah. Fine. Well, I shall indeed let you see the report, which I shall be drafting this morning. Come back and see me anytime after two.”
Tom mustered up the discipline to avoid showing annoyance. He figured that’s what Peter wanted, after all. “Can you précis it for me?”
Peter smiled. Because it was. He leaned forward. “Good answer. Yes. And you also have my permission to repeat anything I tell you now to your little Irish buddy.”
“That’s very gracious of you.”
“Of course it is. So here goes. Katrina says she was born in December 1972, yes?”
“I thought you didn’t believe that?”
“Of course I don’t. But that’s not the point. The point, is where did she get the story from? Bear that in mind for what I’m about to say.”
Tom crossed his arms and sighed reluctantly, rather than admit out loud that Peter had a point.
“Specifically, she needed to acquire, or be given, the name of the grandfather, which checks out. More than that, it requires access to the Wehrmacht records in question, and correct me if I’m wrong but they haven’t all been digitised, no?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just the civilian death records. So the fact that he died and the date, perhaps, but not the details. Sure.”
“Right. So this provides us with a real location. Namely wherever those particular records are kept. In Germany, obviously. Bear than in mind also. Next, she also states her grandfather and his family are from Dresden, although in this world they died during the war. But in her world, the grandfather didn’t. He married an Englishwoman and had a family in our country. But now consider this. At some point, he would want to return to his former home and perhaps take his new family with him, including the grandchildren, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm. I suppose. Sure.”
“You would, if it were you, yes?”
“I suppose. Go on.”
“Let’s say this happened towards the end of the Cold War when visiting East Germany was somewhat easier. Say, late 1980s. Reasonable assumption?”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“I’ll take that as a yes. So, then. Tell me the name of the KGB’s man in Dresden in the late 1980s.”
“I have no idea. I’m assuming it’s beyond my pay grade.”
Peter laughed loudly. “It’s in the public domain. Look it up on that phone of yours.”
Peter leaned back and watched with a half-smile as Tom frowned but obeyed.
A few moments later, as expected, Tom’s wide eyes suddenly stared back up at him. “Bloody hell!”
Peter lifted a brow.
“Ok,” Tom finally admitted, “you have my attention.”
“Excellent! Item number two on the agenda. As you might expect, once London reaches the same, somewhat obvious conclusion, they are going to send some officious little bastard from counterintelligence who will insist on taking over our investigation. And I’m guessing that now I have your full attention, you’d be as pissed about that as I would be, given this is our patch?”
Tom hesitated, still not quite sure how much emotional investment he really wanted in the affair. Or how much he wanted to help Peter. Part of him would enjoy seeing him forced to squirm. The other part, though, realised he’d probably take it out on him.
So he decided to agree.
“Sean said he’s found something about the woman Katrina says is her mother.”
“Ah. Good for him. In that case, I discharge you from checking-the-CCTV-woman duties. For now. Why don’t you take an early lunch with Mister Macavity, then.”
“Thank you.”
“Pleasure. With regards to item two, let us attempt to discover as much information as we can before that immodest Georgian harridan decides to take charge, eh?”
Tom shook his head in confusion. “Uh?”
“Your soon to be new Director K of Counterintelligence, seconded from our place. First name Blaise, surname classified. Modesty not in her dictionary. Georgian émigré, thus traditional sordid family history of associations with Nazis. Piercing blue eyes born to deceive a man into thinking she has a pleasant side. Somewhat square-jawed, short light-brown hair suggestive of lesbianism. Enjoys rowing at Cambridge. Enough said. Pathological obsession with hating anything Russian. Heaven help us if she ever gets the top job. Bunker down for World War Three, I would.”
“That’s, erm, that’s quite a brazen description.”
Peter grinned. “Thank you. My own. Don’t tell anyone.”
Tom couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Right. Item three. Which is related to item one. The German connection. Obviously, you can keep pressing your counterpart in the German Embassy. Markus, isn’t it?”
Tom nodded.
“Good. As a secondary avenue, about which you will not inform this Markus, the man I was meeting last night is an inspector in the Paris police, who happens to have a close contact, or counterpart, in the German police. From an exchange to Munich some years back. Obviously I always make sure my contacts owe me favours of one kind or another. So, I gave him some basic details about Katrina, along with some photographs. Some of these photographs use our software to de-age the person. It’s not perfect but it can produce useful results. In Katrina’s case, estimates of what she may have looked like down to the age of twelve. My friend the inspector will be asking his German colleague to check any records for a girl matching that description. Police records, hospitals, that kind of thing. It might take a while, but we’ll not let the little shit from counterintelligence know anything about it. Let alone the Georgian harridan. What do you say?”
Tom just burst out laughing.
“I’ll take that as another yes. Excellent.”
And with that, he leaned back smugly.
Tom did a good job of ignoring the smugness and contemplated the matter for a few short moments. Peter watched him in silence.
Then Tom finally said, “Ok. Was there anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Go and have a nice brunch, beware of Irish assets masquerading as buxom bargirls, and please, try not to drink too much.”
“Erm,” was all the response he could think of.
But he resolved to do what he was told, for once, and got up to leave.
Tom wasn’t particularly paying attention when he bustled out of Peter’s office and almost crashed into Audrey in the corridor. She was carrying a large envelope, he noted.
“Oh! Erm, hi -” was hardly the sort of thing to avoid awkward situations.
To his surprise, she smiled up at him. “Hi. You know, erm, please don’t think that I don’t like you anymore because I want to spend some time for other stuff. My parents are having a hard time at the moment, you know?”
“Erm, yeah. I’m sorry.”
She smiled again, and shrugged, although cutely, not offensively in any way. “There is no need to apologise. I’m sure something can be worked out and I will let you know, ok?”
“Erm, yeah. Ok.”
She couldn’t help giggling at the awkwardness of the English gentleman. If you’d asked her, she’d tell you she found it cute and endearing. Not to mention something to be played with.
So she continued the mischief by leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, before brushing past him into Peter’s office without another word, closing the door softly behind her.
Tom stood there like an idiot for a few moments, before smiling to himself for once and strolling down the corridor, scrolling down his phone for Sean’s number whilst he did so.
He did, however, at least find the self-discipline not to whistle happily to himself.
And to his further credit, he resolved irrevocably to renounce his foolish, youthful quest to understand women.
“It’s positive.” Audrey handed over the screening results to Peter. He studied them, or tried to, at least.
Audrey noticed and suppressed a giggle. “It’s just a list of different types of antibodies, Peter. They tested for all the known variants of Coronavirus, including the Sars-Cov-1 and 2 and, well, she is immune to all of them. There are also some antigen-specific B-cells which they cannot identify. They assume these are variants which have not been identified yet. And of course, -”
“What?”
“They have questions. These results are not normal.”
“I hope you told them it’s classified?”
“I told them I do not know anything. I am just the messenger.”
“Hmm.” Peter glanced down the page. “These are very small numbers?” He looked up a little sceptically at her.
“This is what you would expect. The numbers are small because she is not currently infected with anything. The antibodies are, how you say, mainly in the barracks, except for a few which are out on patrol. If there is an infection they will call the reinforcements and the number will go up. This is how the immune system functions.”
Peter did an exceptionally good job of not looking the fool and, instead, simply smiled politely and said thank you.
“So,” Audrey added, “this means she is telling the truth, yes?”
“If you mean about some parallel world, I seriously doubt it.”
“But she believes it, doesn’t she? If she was trying to deceive, or if she was some kind of spy, why would she bring herself to the Embassy and to your attention? This does not make sense.”
“Ah,” Peter allowed himself a riposte, “this is because whilst you may be far more knowledgeable than I when it comes to the human immune system, without wishing to appear too rude, you, Audrey my dear, are woefully inexperienced when it comes to the ancient, darkly esoteric arts of international espionage.”
Audrey, however, made a very conscious and successful decision to frown, rather than smile slyly.
“No DNA results yet, though?”
She shook her head. “Not the complete results. This will take some more days. But the lab technician said the preliminary result says she is part Celtic and part German, like she says.”
“Anything else mixed in?”
“No. She is pure Celtic and German.”
“Fair enough. But when the full results do arrive, deliver them only to me, you hear?”
She shrugged.
And then slipped out of the room without another word.
Cul-de-Lampe, by Odilon Redon, 1890, from a collection called Les Fleurs du Mal (after Baudelaire, naturellement).
I’ll probably have some more stuff by Redon in the future, because I think his artwork is dreamily beautiful.
If you wanted to get ahead a little at this point, you can now leap to the aforementioned Fragment 49, a version of which will be the next scene (50, alas). There will be a link here when it’s ready.
As for the notes/references and in-joke stuff, the ‘Georgian harridan’ to which Peter refers is in fact a real-world person, by the name of Blaise Metreweli, who was very recently (June 2025) announced to become the next Chief of SIS, a post she will be taking up at the beginning of October, apparently. So Peter’s quip about ‘heaven help us if she ever gets the top job’, is wonderfully ironic - remember at this point in the narrative we are still in November 2021. Blaise (no relation to Modesty), did indeed get seconded to MI5 at the end of 2021 to head up their counterintelligence (K) section. She then later became ‘Q’, which is head of MI6’s technology and gadgets department (yes, really).
Well, she has a Wikipedia Entry, believe it or not, which you can read there. For a less sanitised version, click there.
This does bring me on to an issue which I shall have to address in more detail at a later date, which is how to treat real-world people who appear in the story. Would putting words into their mouths be construed as libellous, if they take offence at what I make them say? Well, for very public figures, these are fair game accordingly, although I would imagine only to a certain reasonable degree. Furthermore, in this case, it would be seriously unwise to piss off the Chief of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Thus, for now, at least, Blaise will have a non-speaking part. It would, however, not be realistic if, as Director K, she did not eventually find a copy of Katrina’s file on her desk or take a keen interest in the case (even if she does ‘delegate’). So, as the narrator here, I am firmly of the opinion that something will have to be done about her, as it were. It is perfectly fine, however, for the characters themselves to express opinions about her. And if I am accused of sharing their opinions, then I shall claim plausible deniability. So express opinions they shall.
Another question which will surely be in your head, because I didn’t answer it, is who was the KGB’s man in Dresden in the late 1980s? I didn’t mention this in the script because the characters wouldn’t. It would’ve been ungainly and conspicuous if one of them did, from a writerly point of view, after all. However, what Peter says about the information being in the public domain is true, so if you want to share in Tom’s extravagant and startled reaction, and likewise wish to use your Interweb to get the answer, then feel free. I wouldn’t use Google, though, because that’s a CIA thing, don’t you know, and it’ll get logged in the search history of your personal file at the NSA. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Enough outro already! See you next time.
Oh - here’s the click if you wish to buy me a coffee, and there’s also those like, comment, and share buttons down there, all of whom would be very happy if you clicked them.
And if you haven’t already, then…
My goodness, these people are devious! I would make a horrible spy.
My question is; who is the inspector in the Paris police? Is it Inspector Jacques Clouseau? A character who could unravel the mystery (and any parallel realities) within a single chapter.