The repurposed spy, p.1
The Repurposed Spy, page 1
The
Repurposed
Spy
A novel by Oliver Dowson
Copyright © Oliver Dowson 2023
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, other organisations, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by BKssss Publishing
https://bkssss.com
info@bkssss.com
ISBN: 978-1-7392988-0-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7392988-2-1
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
A murderer is less loathsome to us than a spy. The murderer may have acted on a sudden mad impulse; he may be penitent and amend; but a spy is always a spy, night and day, in bed, at table, as he walks abroad; his vileness pervades every moment of his life
-- Honore de Balzac
Contents
3rd August 1987 7
14 September 2019 9
17th October 2019 11
Day 366 13
Day 367 19
Day 368 25
Day 369 31
Day 370 37
Day 371 47
Day 372 55
Day 373 65
Day 374 71
Day 375 77
Day 376 85
Day 377 91
Day 378 97
Day 379 105
Day 380 111
Day 381 121
Day 382 127
Day 383 135
Day 384 141
Day 385 147
Day 386 153
Day 387 159
Day 388 165
Day 389 171
Day 390 177
Day 391 185
Day 392 193
Day 396 201
Day 397 203
Day 398 211
Day 399 217
Day 400 223
Day 401 229
Day 402 237
Day 403 241
Day 416 247
Day 540 259
About the Author 267
3rd August 1987
In Whitehall’s old buildings, refurbishment is rare, and, even when it happens, subterranean areas are almost always neglected.
The room they were meeting in was barely big enough for the three of them, but it provided maximum discretion, being as far removed from the main offices as possible. There, not only walls, but floors and ceilings, especially ceilings, had ears too. The walls of the little room were covered with incomprehensible drawings and charts, the few gaps between them revealing dirty cream paintwork from another century. The continuous throb of boilers and generators and pumps vibrated the walls on all sides.
An observer would have found it impossible to differentiate between the two ‘Human Resources’ managers and the Permanent Secretary. Seated around a small and rather wonky round table, all had silver hair, all were dressed almost identically in grey suits, white shirts, plain maroon ties.
“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.” Prendergast may have risen to a position of power in the Department, but his promotions were not in recognition of him ever making any helpful comments.
“This is not a matter of a little knowledge. Our subject has considerable knowledge. Dangerous knowledge. A tongue to go with it. And a penchant for proving a liability wherever and however deployed.”
“Well then, David, terminate your asset. It’s what you people do, after all.”
“We no longer terminate our own, Brian, and well you know it.”
“The Minister is insisting we act humanely,” added the third man. “And she is insisting on signing off on the solution.”
14 September 2019
Terrorista capturado
Rio de Janeiro, 14 de setembro de 2019
Uma caçada internacional foi concluída com sucesso pela Polícia Militar no Rio ontem à noite. O mestre do disfarce brasileiro, Ronaldo Jonas, foi procurado em todo o continente por um mês depois de se passar por um técnico chileno, invadir a sede do governo em Santiago e manter reféns uma sala de altos políticos até ser dominado por seguranças. Ele acabou preso em uma armação policial no Hotel Windsor Guanabara, e agora está detido na segurança máxima de Petrópolis.
Terrorist apprehended
Rio de Janeiro, 14 September 2019
An International manhunt was successfully completed by the Military Police in Rio last night. Brazilian master of disguise, Ronaldo Jonas, had been sought across the continent for a month after masquerading as a Chilean technician, breaking into Government House Santiago and holding a room of senior politicians hostage until overpowered by security guards. He was finally trapped in a police sting in the Hotel Windsor Guanabara, and is now held in the top security facility in Petropolis.
17th October 2019
“This is most irregular. Do we need to have a telephone conference? Are you really sure that we cannot discuss this matter using secure messaging?”
“No. We need to talk.” The man had decided that, as he was the man, he should be the spokesperson.
“Are you all certain your phones are scrambled?” The CEO was vehemently opposed to any unnecessary communication of any kind with his team. Even more opposed to anything with the remotest risk of insecurity.
“Confirming.” Female voice 1.
“Confirming.” Female voice 2.
“Confirming.” Male spokesperson.
“What’s this all about, then?”
“Your South America asset. He’s a liability.”
“Will you get him out of that place?”
“Of course. But that’s it. We refuse to have anything else to do with him.”
“We? All of you?” A babble of sound as all three of the team answered at once. One woman, the one with the highest pitched voice, an acidic voice, won out over the others.
“All of us. We will do nothing more. You have to get rid of him. Now.”
“He is useful to us. We need him.”
“Then you come here. You deal with him. See if you like putting your own life in danger. See if you like being attacked.” The female had added fury to her acidic tongue. An explosive combination.
The male spokesperson came back on the line. “You’ve seen the headlines. It was already a maximum risk scenario. After this, half of South America will be looking for him. And us. We’re in mortal danger. All of us.”
“I hear you,” said the CEO. “I’ll make a plan. I’ll advise in the morning. By messaging, as usual. No more conference calls.”
Day 366
My anniversary. A whole year of enforced solitary confinement. Before I forget it all, I want to write down what happened, how I got here – that fateful month – or was it two? – that culminated in my being brought here. Mine is an extraordinary story. I’m sure you’ll agree. Travel. Subterfuge. Kidnap. Incarceration. My metamorphosis from being a reclusive yet essentially free individual to a more sociable but totally controlled being.
My story won’t be easy to write, and I may never reach the end. Not because I don’t have a lot to tell; it’s my present circumstances that give me doubts. But I’m going to give it a go. I’m hoping that documenting my reminiscences might stop me going mad, or at least not any more mad than I must be already. I expect other people would assume I’m mad. If other people could see me, that is. Or even if they knew I was here. Anyway, writing is surely better than idling around with nothing to do for hour after hour. And with nowhere to go. Nowhere I can go.
I’m all on my own here. Nobody ever comes in. No, that’s not quite true. A couple of men – all in black with balaclavas – came in on Day 127 to unblock the lavatory. They rushed in and immediately bound me to the chair and pulled a cloth bag over my head. Unnecessary really. I’m a weakling. I couldn’t have resisted if I’d tried. I think they injected me with something; when I came round, I was no longer bound or hooded, and they’d gone. They didn’t say a word. Strong and silent men in black. I haven’t seen them since. But then, I’ve been careful not to let the toilet block again.
They. My captors. The ones who brought me here, who keep me here, who both incarcerate and enslave me. But are never seen by me. Covert. I will name them The Coverts in my story, so that you, my reader, hoping this reaches you one day, will understand to whom I am referring.
But allow me to introduce myself. I have a real name. Ronald Jones.
My being locked in here has nothing to do with any pandemic. That started only after I was already installed here. I know little about it, as I’ve only been able to piece together what’s going on from titbits of information in the various documents The Coverts send me to translate and analyse. Business documents of one kind or another in Spanish or Portuguese, the languages I used to teach. I like that. It gives me something to do and exercises my mind. It gets precious little else to stretch it. And sometimes I learn interesting things. Which is good, because I have no access to any news media.
I have a computer to type on. If I am allowed to finish these rememberings, my story could make a book. I’d know how to print a book, but I don’t have a printer. I’d know how to put the file on a memory stick, but I don’t have one of those either. I’d know how to email it to the world, so others could read it, but I’m not connected to the internet. All is verboten. But the fact you’re reading this means I found an escape. Or that this message got out there. Somehow.
Some documents I’ve seen say that everyone out there in the world is confined to their homes. It seems to have been going on for months now. Like there has been an apocalypse. But, if I’ve understood correctly, people are now occasionally allowed out to go shopping, or for a walk in the park. Better than my situation here. Much better. I wouldn’t mind that other sort of confinement. I’d cope. If I was at home, I’d have a phone (even though I would have nobody to talk to, or anyone who might want to talk to me). I’d have the internet. I’d have a kitchen. I could order in food. I could even mask up like a ninja and go shopping. I could go outside for exercise! Any of that would equate to freedom. I don’t have that here.
I have a kitchen where I am now, but no cookery ingredients and, for that matter, no pots or pans either. I have a living room with a sofa. I have a bedroom with a bed. I assume both sofa and bed must be bolted to the floor from underneath, as neither will budge, however hard I push. Along one wall of the living room is a shelf, long and deep, like a kitchen working top, with the computer sat on top of it. In front, one hard chair. The one I’m sitting on now to write this. There is no other furniture. Nothing else at all. Sparse to the point of minimalist. This would probably be quite a nice flat if it had comfortable chairs and a sofa and a proper table and if the windows and door opened. Sort of ‘lived in’. Well, the flat is lived in now, by me. More accurately, ‘existed in’. For a year and a day so far. Unless it is a leap year. Is it?
There are windows, but they don’t open. For my safety, The Coverts say. Would I jump? Could I jump? Perhaps. But not quite yet. Would I try climbing down the building? Is it called ‘buildering’? I remember seeing crazies doing it……. for fun. But, no, that’s not for me; I don’t have any grip in my toes or fingers.
Those windows give me a view across an expanse of desert with the sea beyond it, maybe half a mile distant. I can’t see the ground near the building; there’s a flat roof jutting out under the windows, which makes judging height impossible. If I climbed on a chair, I might be able to see further down. That’s not something I can do, of course, as the only chair is on the other side of the room, and it’s bolted to the floor. Or possibly set into the concrete. Whatever; I can’t move it. I can’t see any other buildings, except for what looks like sheds, too distant to be sure what they are. The landscape is flat, just sand and scrub. Sometimes I see a tractor passing in the distance, down towards the sea; but there are no crops. No animals, no people. Nothing to cast a shadow.
The flat must face due North, as the sun never shines through the windows. But then, perhaps I am somewhere in the southern hemisphere, in which case I could be facing South. I’d quite like to know where I am, exactly, though given the circumstances I doubt it would make me feel any better. Was it a long journey to get here? I wasn’t conscious of most of it. I know where I left from, and how I travelled, but not where I arrived. I must be far from home. That’s obvious from the desert landscape and the weather. I might not be able to see the sun, but the sky is clear and blue almost every day. I think I only saw clouds and rain on two days in the last year. So I’m definitely nowhere near Slough. Ha.
The apartment has a door, of course. I assume that’s how The Coverts got me in here. But there’s no handle on my side of it. It is a single flat sheet of metal. High up, there’s a peephole that allows someone to look in, but doesn’t let me look out. It must be covered on the other side. Watcher cannot be watched.
My life could be worse. Well, maybe not. But I’m okay. I’m a prisoner who has committed no offence. None that I’m aware of, anyway. There were accusations and allegations. But I am a wholly innocent man. And who are my judges and jailors? Not the legal enforcers of any state, even if one or two of their number are actors of some rogue nation.
I’m not a free man, but I’m not in a cell. I have lots of space, mostly empty space. All to myself. Solitary confinement, which suits me. Most of the time. Those holding me here did at least install Microsoft Office on the computer, for their own benefit of course, but it means I can write this using Word. The Coverts installed Outlook too, but without email, without contacts and with no appointments of which to be reminded, ever, nor anything that might merit being calculated, tabulated or charted in Excel, there’s no value to me in anything in Office except Word. I suppose I could entertain myself by creating a pretty picture in Powerpoint, but I’m no artist, and anyway, to what end? Who would see it? Isn’t that the entire purpose of art? To stimulate someone else’s subjectivity? Beyond that, there aren’t any other programs or apps I can access; I used to be a bit of a whizz on computers, so believe me, I’ve looked and tried to sort myself out with access. I can think of just one trick I haven’t tested out, but I’m pretty sure it would get me into trouble. And I don’t want that to happen. The last time, I didn’t get fed or watered as punishment. The day the lavatory got blocked. It wasn’t my fault – I told them so. The Coverts only give me such meagre rations of loo paper. Even so, they blamed me.
Sometimes, I hear noises, but unless they’re the sound of my own breathing, they always seem far away. Either this flat is almost perfectly soundproofed, or the rest of the building is empty. Perhaps both things. Silence makes one’s sense of hearing acute, and the odd sound, that might be only a gust of wind in a deserted stairwell outside, drives my imagination and compounds my madness. No, not madness, I’m not going mad. I’ve only been here on my own in a silent empty flat for a year and I’m determined to keep my sanity. I believe I am being tested. One day, The Coverts will need me again. The physical bodily me. Not the AI version of me. And then I will be released.
I must remain positive. ‘Count your many blessings, one by one…..’ That was how the old hymn went. I remember it. So, my blessings. 1) I have a roof over my head, 2) a comfortable bed, 3) three meals a day, 4) on many days, work that I can do and that keeps me occupied. Oh, and 5) security. Definitely security. And it’s all free! Have I reached my Nirvana? I’m going to call it that, anyway, so that if I deviate when writing my story, you’ll not get confused.
It would be nice to have a radio, though, or speakers for the computer. Back home I could listen to the news, or interesting programmes, or interminable speeches by Fidel or Maduro, or even the Archers. I lived in Slough, but not in silence.
Meanwhile, The Coverts know they can keep me here indefinitely. Nobody knows where I am, because nobody knows that I left. Even then, when I was so-called ‘free’, nobody knew or cared that I existed either. Of course, the electricity board and the phone company or the council rates department knew. They would miss me if they didn’t get paid. But their bills are all online, all settled by direct debit, and while there’s money in the bank, none of them will make any enquiry about me. Made it easy to ‘disappear’ me. I was a nobody.
I can state that with confidence from years of experience of living at home in Slough. Since my mother died, the only semblance of anyone caring that I existed was being sent the occasional online customer satisfaction survey. I always answered in as much detail as the forms allowed. Every time I got one, without fail. I knew it was purely for my own entertainment. I was certain no human would ever read what I wrote, or, if they did, only view it in an anonymised format. Robots that read forms only recognise tick boxes and numbers from one to ten. They definitely don’t care. But then, do humans?
I wonder if the bank cares or wonders what happened to me? Again, almost certainly not. Do they notice that my pension gets paid in every four weeks, direct debits for unused electricity and phone services get paid out, but that I never go shopping, never buy anything online, never use my debit card? Very doubtful; the algorithm that monitors its customers’ bank accounts will, in the nanosecond that it takes on review of mine, simply content itself that there are in and out transactions, and that the account is in credit, with no overdraft, and skip on instantly to the next one.
