What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Act I, sc. 38-39
Sleep, Catriona. Sleep...
I am doing my best to discipline myself with these intros, ye shall be pleased to hear.
So here is a sort-of-usual intro, which starts off with a welcome to any new arrivals! Then I have to mention the issue of spoilers. If you are averse to spoilers (in a sort of weird, dyslexic arachnophobia kind of way), then feel free to start right at the beginning, with My Intro there, or the Prelude & Scene One, which is there.
Alternatively, you can start at the previous scene 37, after reading the story-so-far in the recent Intermission, for which, click ye there.
In the previously on Katrina, then, Tom & Sean pursued the sinister and nefarious Peter as he left the Ambassador’s residence with the intention of meeting an old friend, Sarah Bishop, who just so happened to have a KGB cryptonym once upon a time. There was a bit of a confrontation, at the end of which, Peter continues on his way, and Tom & Sean go back to the pub.
We shall be meeting Tom & Sean in the pub shortly. But firstly, back in the Montmartre safehouse, Katrina is about to wake up in a chair, with no memory of falling asleep.
Having said that - I mean, the above is the kind of intro you will usually encounter for each instalment - there is something I wanted to note. It’s come to my attention, thanks to my lovely other half, that I should revise the primary genre of this story. Specifically, this serialisation is a spy thriller. Originally I had thought of it as speculative fiction, and of course it does seem to start off that way, but at its heart it is a spy thriller, albeit with elements of speculative fiction, philosophy and I guess what some people call literary fiction.
It is also dark and psychological. One of my primary intentions was to present a realistic portrait of what the so-called intelligence services are really like, and how the world really functions. This is in direct and intentional contrast to a lot of those spy dramas you might watch or read, in which the intelligence services are presented as the good guys, in line with the ‘official narrative’ - namely the deceitful notion that they work tirelessly to protect the people from ‘terrorist attacks’ or the country from the machinations of ‘the other side’ (whoever that might be). But nothing could be further from the truth. The intelligence services do not care a damn about the common people, and never have. They exist to protect the Establishment (the ruling class) and to keep the people subjugated, by spying on them continuously and rooting out any spark of revolution before anybody even hears of it - hence the subversive infiltration of anti-Establishment groups, relentless attacks on socialism and socialists, and all the other controlled opposition honeypots.
This is the truth I intended to show. Although up to this point in the story it has been deceptively light-hearted, perhaps, focussing mainly on the mystery aspect of ‘who is this girl, really?’, as we progress it will get darker, and you will be meeting characters who epitomise the real intelligence officers of this world, who generally fall into two categories - sociopath, or psychopath.
And of course you’ll be wondering, in that case, how Tom manages to fit into all that, given he is neither. Well, you’ll find out more about his backstory in due course, how he ended up in MI5, and likewise, how he provides something of a contrast with all those bad guys.
Don’t worry, however, as there will continue to be light-hearted, amusing moments (as you’ll see in these two scenes as it happens). Similarly, some of those aforementioned psychopaths are definitely going to be meeting their justifiably messy terminations. Let us call that catharsis.
In order to destroy the bad guys, you have to be ruthless. Not necessarily stoop to their level, but not be afraid to do what must be done.
Then again, as Nietzsche so aptly put it, ‘when fighting monsters, we must be wary of becoming monsters ourselves’.
Anyhow, sorry for bombarding you with that extra intro, but I felt it was important to mention. And I do hope that for some of my readers, at least, it will make you more excited to keep reading.
From now on, my intros will be like the normal bit at the beginning.
So having said all that, let us return to our charming little apartment in the Montmartre, and the Myth of Sisyphus…
Katrina suddenly found herself thrown out of a deep sleep as if from some other’s command. She was still in the armchair, with Sisyphus, spine up, on the little table beside her.
She didn’t remember putting it to rest there.
But she was far too tired, still, to worry about it. The pressing concern was the indignity of sleeping in a chair. It simply wouldn’t do. Especially not if the place was still actively wired for sound and vision.
That was something to worry about. The decision to visit her chaperones on the floor below on some innocent pretext popped into her head fully formed, and she was in no mood to disobey.
When she poked her head around the door of the sitting room downstairs she found them watching some streaming show she didn’t recognise and, by the looks of it, wouldn’t ever care for. She coughed to get their attention. They both turned round at once, then the male of the pair pressed pause.
She slipped once more into a combination of diplomatic mode and sweet and innocent. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say goodnight.”
“You already did,” was the confused response.
“Did I?” she smiled. “Oh, I forget. Well, I fell asleep in the chair, so now I am just letting you know I’ll be going to bed proper. So you can switch off your little hidden cameras. Especially the one in the bathroom, if that’s ok?”
These sorts of security officers don’t expect the direct approach. They’re simply not used to it. It throws them. “They’re already switched off. And we disconnected the one in the bathroom anyway. So don’t worry about your privacy.”
Katrina glanced at the frozen image on the screen and realised they were far more concerned with that, than her.
Perhaps she was still dreaming. Or it was some astral projection.
Or they were lying.
But she didn’t get the impression that was it.
So she offered them a very warm smile and took her leave, closing the door behind her. The screen sounds resumed almost immediately. Glancing up the stairs, she took off her slippers and instead crept gingerly on the balls of her feet along the corridor into the little study room at the end, checking once behind her before gently pushing the door open. It only took a moment’s practiced surveillance to see it really was all turned off. A part of her considered surreptitiously disconnecting some of the wires, or, even better, switching some of them over, but that wouldn’t be diplomatic.
No, that simply wouldn’t do.
But the thought of it was certainly worth a hushed chuckle.
Another time, perhaps.
And so she pulled the door back closed with the slightest of clicks, nothing to be heard over the sounds of the screen, returned softly along the corridor then up the stairs, taking care to close her main door loudly enough for them to notice.
Likewise, they would hear her taking a shower.
In bed, lying on her side, she flicked off the light and watched the luminescent second hand of the bedside clock ticking at the most perfect rhythm for a programmed hypnotic command.
22:31 precisely when her eyes obediently dimmed. Time for one complete dream cycle before the witching hour.
Sleep, Catriona.
Sleep.
Sean was still childishly excitable when the lovely green-eyed Meghan deposited their second pints of Guinness on their table, along with a half-sweet, half-coy grin at Tom, who suddenly got the distinct impression that Sean had put her up to it somehow.
He had also decided not to fall for it. Or her.
After a fervently excessive draught, Sean grinned again. “That was so fucking cool! Don’t you think!”
“This isn’t the movies, Sean.”
“Ah, come on. Don’t try and tell me you didn’t get a serious rush, eh!”
“Yeah, ok. Maybe a little.” He took his own swig, if only to conceal an emergent grin.
“A little! Rubbish. And that look you gave him! Venomous, Thomas! Venomous!”
“Well, I suppose it was cathartically satisfying to get the recording.”
“Yes! I knew were happy.”
Tom decided alcohol would help. Besides, he really did agree with Sean, just didn’t want him to know.
“She does like you, by the way.”
“Uh?”
“The lovely Meghan.” Sean nodded in her direction.
“Did you put her up to it?”
He shook his head behind the glass.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
Sean shrugged.
Then sighed. “Ok. Is she close to her parents?”
“Uh?”
“The lovely Audrey. Is she close to her parents?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. You’re not in the doghouse. It is ok, you know, for a girl to want at least a few evenings to herself. So don’t read too much into it. Could be hormones too o’ course. Women are like that.”
“It’s a bit more than that I think. Intuitively speaking, I mean.”
“Ah. I’ve got it!”
“Now what?”
“How about this for a theory. She is definitely a French spy, but she’s a reluctant French spy, like maybe they’ve got some kind o’ hold over her and it’s a blackmail thing, and she really does genuinely like you so she feels totally guilty about having to spy on you. Except she doesn’t have a choice for some reason, and she’s got a nasty authoritarian patriarchal bully of a handler who keeps demanding she does nefarious shit she doesn’t feel comfortable with. What do you think?”
Tom burst out laughing. “Like I said, Sean, this isn’t the movies.”
“But it would work though, eh?”
“You mean in some spy drama? Sure. It’s a good character sketch. Well done.”
Sean grinned. “You know, there are times when I’ve thought about early retirement. I’ll settle down somewhere and write cool movie scripts half-based on me own experiences, and sign lucrative production deals with the ever-burgeoning Irish film industry. What do you think?”
“Preposterous.” But it sent him into howls of laughter regardless.
“I knew that would make you feel better. Seriously, don’t get so arrogant as a bloke to think she must be constantly gagging for it.”
“Whatever.”
“Still,” with an another grin, “maybe if you are in the doghouse you could get your own back with the charming Meghan over there.”
“I suppose she knows perfectly well what our jobs are, doesn’t she?”
Sean shrugged unconvincingly.
“Right,” Tom smirked. “So you’re suggesting I should swap a French honey for an Irish honey?”
“We could both swap, eh!”
“What, you and Meghan?”
He shrugged again. Just not as unconvincingly, Tom noted.
He did, however, continue noticing her glancing over at them not infrequently. So she is indeed either a spy, or she does like me, he mused.
Or both, even.
Then a completely different thought popped into his head. He leaned in a bit and lowered his voice. “Peter said we’d only get the redacted version, didn’t he?”
“Did he?”
“Yes. So how are we going to check anything?”
“Phone records.”
“It’s an unregistered phone.”
“Cross reference with locational metadata. Plus the exact time of the call, use that to locate and identify the recipient. Easy.”
“If I put in a request for that sort of thing then that’s suspicious and it leaves a trail.”
“Ok. I’ll do it.”
“Hmm.” Tom sighed.
“Happens all the time, Thomas. Leave it with me. But I bet you a date with Meghan that the recipient of that call is not going to be the contact named in Peter’s little report.”
“It would be redacted.”
“Possibly. Still, the point is, we have the recording, right? And that, my friend, was masterfully done, if I say so meself.”
Tom’s smile wasn’t particularly reluctant anymore, Sean noted.
“Personally,” he suggested, “I think you should stay in the Service. When I say I think your dad would be proud, I mean it. And not in any patronising way whatsoever, please note.”
Tom laughed. “Possibly. Either that, or he’d be just a little perturbed about what we got up to.”
“We weren’t in any danger. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought otherwise.”
“So what about the uncanny streetlamps?”
“Hmm. Yeah. That was a bit X-Files, eh?”
“Just a bit.” Tom drained several more fingers.
“Well,” Sean decided, “In the authority vested unto me, I say we have another drink. No objections tolerated.”
“Fair enough, although I do have a question for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Do you have any cleverer methods of plying someone for information?”
“Hah! Nicely done! See, told you to stop thinking about quitting. You are far better suited to this mesmerising line of work than you think.”
And with that, they settled on a third.
Which would almost certainly not be the last.
And when the lovely Meghan ostentatiously plonked the next two down on their table, with another distractingly charming smile sent Tom’s way, she flashed the slightest of winks in Sean’s direction just to let him know that the little bug beneath the table was still working just fine.
And of course Tom didn’t notice.
But only, it must be said in his defence, because he didn’t actually give a shit…
Next time, Peter shall be meeting Sarah, and here shall a link be also…
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These spies are sneaky little buggers...