What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Eris, sc. 61
In which Tom reports back to Peter and reassesses his opinion of him
Welcome to my strange hybrid serialisation of spec fic and conspiracy/spy thriller, in which our iconoclastic anti-heroine, the lovely Katrina, wakes up to find herself young again in a dystopian parallel world Paris, and quickly falls into the clutches of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.
If you have just joined us and wish to avoid spoilers, your options are start at the very beginning with My Intro there or the Prelude & Scene One there. You can also skip those first 50k or so words (up to scene 36) and head for the Intermission, which will give you a story-so-far. You would then be able to catch up more quickly. We’ve had at least another 30k words since then, however, so yeah, catching up is becoming a little harder to do each time.
In the Previously on Katrina, she finished her Wechsler and now wants to go swimming again. This should keep Malcolm busy analysing the tests and confirming her Gittinger Personality Assessment (she’s an EFA).
In this scene, which takes place not long after 2pm, Tom returns to the Embassy and reports back to Peter about his lunch meeting with Sean. Cue a little bit of intriguing theories about what’s going on here, along with a nice dose of doublethink (what they call cognitive dissonance these days - of course they can’t call it doublethink - they might wake people up and we can’t be having that, now, can we), which is sure to provoke poor Thomas into reevaluating his opinion about Peter. Hmm, what’s Peter up to now, the old schemer?
Here is a vintage French poster which Tom especially likes.
After uploading its digital audio file to his computer, Peter unplugged the cable and handed Tom back his standard issue watch (the one with the microphone).
Tom had, it should be duly noted, already taken the sensible action of uploading the previous evening’s data and then erasing it from the watch’s internal memory in readiness for the next day. Some standard MI5 protocols are indeed sensible, you might be surprised to hear, and Tom was not averse to being disciplined.
Sean had, he informed Peter, acted in the expected way. He still thinks Audrey is a spy, though.
Peter leaned back and raised a brow. “And you don’t?”
Tom only offered a frown in return.
Peter responded with the hint of a sly smile and waggled a finger at him. “Or is your aversion to considering the possibility merely due to the understandable psychological affect of not wanting to be taken for a ride by a delicious French tart?”
Tom bit his tongue.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I suppose you think she’s a spy, then,” Tom sighed.
“I think everyone is a spy, don’t I? Isn’t that what they say around here?”
“Do you?”
“Of course. Everyone is a spy until distinctly proven otherwise. It’s usually just a question of which side they’re on.”
Tom gave a little headshake. “I don’t how you can live with that sort of paranoia.”
“Because I do not feel it as paranoia, Thomas. Paranoia is a feeling, not a perception. At least, not in our line of work it isn’t. Or, well, it shouldn’t be anyway.”
“Why do you think she’s a spy?” He was genuinely interested now, rather than affronted. Some kind of maturation process, perhaps.
He shrugged. “Instinct. Nothing to do with you, I should add. You’re a good-looking young man and a very attractive prospect as a suitor. I think she’d be interested in you anyway. But her agent runner would’ve instructed her to keep close to you. It would be foolish to pass up that opportunity, wouldn’t you say?”
“That still doesn’t mean she’s a spy, Peter. Like you said, she might just be interested in me naturally. Because of – what was it you said – my Wykehamist charms?”
“Hah! Yes. Them. Fair enough. Still, from our point of view, the same opportunity applies, n’est-ce pas? Thus giving you the advantage.”
“Oh?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Call it game theory, Thomas. You would be one level ahead. She spies on you and thinks you don’t know. You know she thinks that, but you are spying on her and you know she doesn’t know. See?”
Tom just burst out laughing.
“Well, you just, well, you just keep on with your dégustation of that tasty French cuisine and – obviously – do not give the game away by asking any searching questions.”
Tom was still laughing. “Well what sort of information am I supposed to get, then? If I don’t ask any searching questions?”
“You use your senses, you fool.”
Now it was Tom’s turn to roll his eyes.
Peter was, he half-admitted, not taking the thing entirely seriously himself. But if it keeps the young man occupied and provides him with a little field agent practice then, well, all the better.
Item two. Something about DNA.
“Sean said the only way to know whether Ursula really is her mother is with a DNA test. Obviously. And he very much doubts the husband would grant permission for an exhumation.”
Peter leaned back and grinned almost malevolently. “There are ways around that.”
“He said he thought you’d say that. And warned me against giving you any furtive suggestions.”
“Hah! Thank you for disobeying his advice. Well done.”
“He said there’s no way his lot would do such a thing. If anyone found out it would be a national scandal. And they’ve already got their hands full with child-abusing priests with first-degree connections to important politicians. In other words,” Tom reluctantly shrugged, “in his words, if we did it, they would be too busy to notice.”
“Excellent. Good work. Obviously I’m not doing it myself, mind. But there are plenty of wannabe Burkes and Hares in the Service who will take sordid pleasure out of it.”
Tom did not attempt to disguise the flinch. He tried changing the subject. “He’s got a point about Katrina’s psychology though, don’t you think? The anti-vax thing, I mean.”
“If it wasn’t for the CCTV.”
“Well, sure. But the psychology still holds, doesn’t it?”
“It would imply that she knows her mother is dead. Which has even further implications in turn. Which, as it happens, is our arena. We’ll let Malcolm deal with the psychology. It’ll keep him busy aside from anything else. So, we’ll not go there. We’ll stick to the CCTV angle, plus possible brainwashing. And as far as you are concerned, exhumation suggestion acknowledged, filed away, no further need for your consideration. Plausible deniability.”
Tom, happily, did not have a problem with that.
Next item. The impending arrival of a man in want of a whale.
Peter turned serious all of a sudden and that alone stressed the urgency of the situation. The need for being meticulous with the CCTV, for example.
But there was also opportunity to be had from it. Especially for you, Thomas.
“How so?”
“Well, for a start, there’s enhanced access. Which is always a nice perk of the job. Pay increase accordingly too, perhaps.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Wouldn’t be my decision, though. But they’d want a write-up on your performance from me.”
Tom frowned. “Doesn’t that sort of put me at your mercy?”
Peter chuckled. “Would I do that to you, Thomas? Leverage?”
“Yes, you would.”
“Accepted. I would. Sure.” With a smile. But then more serious again. “You would be one of the first to admit, I think, if you were being honest – and you are an honest man, Thomas – that you don’t feel entirely suited to a life in the Service.”
Lack of objection was answer enough to that one.
Resumption. “Not wanting to appear harsh, but you only got the recruitment because of your parents. Ah – no, before you feel affronted by that, I am not for once suggesting that’s an inadequacy on your part. Quite the opposite, perhaps. You are certainly intelligent enough, for a start.”
“Well, yeah. I had to do the civil service exams.”
“Quite. And stupid people can’t do civil service exams. I say opposite, in reference to your good character. Your sense of moral principle, shall we say. I think that’s the real reason you’ve been having issues and doubts recently. What do you say to that?”
“Hmm. I… I suppose. Sure.”
“Quite. This is the reason they parked you over here, essentially out of the way. It means you don’t have to know about all that despicable, nasty, deceitful shit they get up to back in London.”
Tom’s mouth flew open but nothing came out.
“Yes, Tom. It’s nasty shit. Present company excepted, most of them went to those posh boy schools where they were taught to look down upon everyone else. Not just in their own country, but everywhere else in the world. Constantly lamenting the loss of the Empire. Some of them even delude themselves they still have an empire. Morality doesn’t apply to anyone outside their own sociopathic little social group. Everyone is expendable. Conscience be damned. Innocent suffering is collateral damage or some other soul-numbing terminology.”
“And this, Guy Melville, is no exception?”
Peter shook his head. “He went to Marlborough. And I see you know the type.”
“I went to school with them, remember.”
“And couldn’t wait to leave, no doubt.”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “And I doubt Winchester was much different from Marlborough.”
“You know ironically that sort of attitude probably helped you get past the recruitment. Just like it did with your father.”
“What? How do you know? You can’t have seen his file?”
“No, I haven’t. But I don’t need to. Aside from meeting him a few times, I’m exceptionally talented at reading people. Plus you pick up a little gossip here and there. Get to know each other. Especially after a few drinks. People loosen up. Your father was something of a rebel at Winchester. Then he continued that sort of risky hijinks at Oxford. But here’s the thing – he never got caught. Did he?”
Tom couldn’t help laughing at the thought of it.
“Neither did you, according to your file.”
“How come you’ve seen my file?”
“Because I approved your bloody transfer here, you fool. That’s why!”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Well, you should’ve done. Every appointment has to be run through me. Besides, yes, it was half a favour for your father. Ah – no – don’t think it was pulling strings on your behalf. He asked me after you applied for the transfer.”
“You mean to keep an eye on me?”
“An avuncular one, yes. And I thought, well, maybe provoke you into getting some proper experience while you’re here.”
“You know you could’ve told me that before.”
He shook his head. “Ah-ah. If you’d known, you’d have acted differently. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Stop talking like a stroppy adolescent.”
“I wasn’t talking like a stroppy adolescent.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll let that one pass. But,” with serious eyes once more, “I think there is a way for you to have a meaningful career in the Service whilst avoiding the usual psychological corruption.”
“Oh?”
“Career pathway. Carefully chosen. Liaison officer stationed at various embassies in Europe. Your languages are more than adequate. You took a first in that and European Politics at Magdalene, as did your father, your mother is a specialist in that sort of stuff in the FCO, so essentially, you would simply be – officially – a diplomatic attaché. What do you say to that?”
“Erm.”
“Erm? Is that it?”
“I was going to say it doesn’t seem much different from what Mum does.”
“Quite.”
“And it’s the sort of position I was thinking of asking her about, I suppose.”
“Yes. But this way, you still get to hang out with sexy foreign honeys.”
Tom burst out laughing again.
“And fuck with the Americans.”
“What?”
“The fucking CIA, I mean. You’d be doing those posh boy colleagues of ours back in VX a well-appreciated favour. The yanks have always thought themselves better than us, remember. And they hate that.”
“That thing about the Empire, you mean?”
“Precisely.” He leaned in. “Here’s a little precis about the state of play. The Americans don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. Never have. Never will. Plus they’re control freaks. Hence NATO. Keeps their vassal states in line. What causes them sleepless nights is the thought of Europe declaring independence. Hence the incessant anti-Russian propaganda. Hence Brexit and the Clown-in-Downing Street. The EU has a larger population, a more intelligent population, a more civilised population, in the main, a far older culture, it’s ideally located geographically, and with the right people in charge, it would be the superior rival power. Why do you think, after all, they loaned all that money to both sides during both world wars? Why did they prolong those conflicts and only send in the cavalry at the end, when it was clear that if they didn’t, Stalin would have everything? And why do you think they’re hell bent on a new cold war with Russia? Possibly even a hot one. They’d as soon sacrifice a hundred million Europeans at the end of a hypersonic missile as shove a Big MacShit in their child’s sloppy gob.”
Tom didn’t even try suppressing the laugh.
But Peter wasn’t finished yet. More’s the pity. “Lamentably for us, our country has been subjected to a succession of submissive, sycophantic governments peopled by corrupt, selfish sociopaths who care as little for us, or the people, as their American puppet masters do. The only thing keeping us relevant and – one hopes – indispensable, is our aforementioned imperialists in Babylon-sur-Thames. That’s why they put themselves out there all the time, fuck with a dozen other countries’ governments per year, support their own consortia of assorted terrorists and insurgents, and all the other sordid shit you can read about in the alternative media. That is also, incidentally, why they had to stop Corbyn. Seeing as he would’ve tried to stop them, being such a rabid anti-imperialist peacenik. If he’d have got in, they’d have had to give him the motorcade treatment.”
“Erm.”
“Erm? Is that all you can say?”
“That would’ve been messy. Sure.”
Peter chuckled. “I’m not personally averse to, what would you call it, liberal socialism or some nonsense like that, but only with a strong leader who wouldn’t take any shit from the bloody yanks. This is the real hidden war we are conducting, Thomas. It is a concealed game of cat and mouse chess in which the first one who blinks, and takes their eyes off the shuttlecock, doesn’t just lose. They die. Death by irrelevance.”
Tom breathed heavily. “How do you deal with it?”
“Apart from the Ballantine’s, you mean?”
Tom nodded.
“I shut off my conscience and I treat the whole thing like a game. Like an abstract intellectual problem. I lose myself in strategy.”
Tom couldn’t think of anything to say to that. But he understood.
Peter leaned back and shrugged. With a faint smile. “Mainly the Ballantine’s, though.”
Silence, a pregnant pause. Peter watched curiously as Tom appeared to turn pensive. And not a little humbled. Clearly reevaluating his opinions.
And ripe for the turning.
“A few considerations for you there. To aid you in your decision-making process.”
Then he suddenly got up and started sauntering towards the door.
Tom looked up at him with a little surprise, at not being asked to leave, partly, but mostly out of sheer, abrupt curiosity. As if the cognitive dissonance had gotten the better of him.
Which it most assuredly had.
Peter turned before the door. “I am only allowed to officially grant you access to the redacted version of that report so far, Thomas. But I suddenly find myself in need of an almighty shit and I’m sure I have a dose of French constipation coming on. Blame it on the brasserie. So, if you’d care to keep my seat warm for me, I’d be much obliged. I may be some time.”
And with that, to Tom’s amazement, he wafted himself out of the room.
Tom continued staring at the door for a moment, then stared at the back of Peter’s computer screen.
Then back at the door.
And then laughed and leaped around the other side of the desk.
Resolving – it should also be duly noted – not to mention this scene to Sean Macavity.
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I apologize for calling Tom's Dad wankerous last week. I'm definitely not cut out for politicking. There isn't enough Ballantine’s in the world to drown out the stink.