Carstairs Of ArabiaChapter 3: There Is An I In MI6 free porn video

I was met by Kelly in the hallway.

“Hi,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. A chaste one, on the cheek. More than enough for me, thanks. Although admittedly I’d have been disappointed with less than that.

“Hello, gorgeous. I think you might have come at an awkward...”

“Oh, I know. I was summoned. Caroline has been here all afternoon. She even had a lie down, because of a headache. Mel and Kate know everything.”

It was ominously quiet on the other side of the door that led to the living room. Its centre was a frosted pane of glass, which only showed me that the lights were on. I opened it and saw Caroline and Melody on my settee, with Edwin on Caroline’s lap. Kate was in the kitchen: I could see her back through the opening formed by two built-in cupboards.

“Good evening,” I said, which I personally thought was a pretty strong opening gambit. Nice and ambiguous, but still polite. I’d have to make a note. Might come in handy again.

“PAPAAAHHHH!” said Edwin. That’s his schtick: enthusiastic personal greetings. He can say papa, mama, opa, oma, Noef (his name for Kate, for some unfathomable reason), Eddy (he can’t say the letters K and L yet) and Numa, which is what he calls Kelly’s mother, Mrs. Newman.

“Hoi boeffie.” (Hello young delinquent.)

“Seriously?” asked Melody. “SAUDI ARABIA?”

“Hi Kate!” I said. Kate turned halfway to her side while licking something off her finger and gave me a quick wave. Then she disappeared from view.

“What’s she doing in there?” I whispered to Kelly.

“Cooking. Someone had to. Sit down,” answered Melody, pointing at a love seat next to the TV. I sat down in it, or on it if you like, but Kelly squeezed in next to me. It was a tight fit, which was more or less the point of the thing.

“What are you doing?” asked Caroline. One or two glasses frosted over and Edwin sneezed.

“I’m supporting him,” declared Kelly.

“Why?”

“Because ... He’s ... Because I always do. He’s Carstairs, I’m Kelly and I have his back. End of.”

“End. Of...” said Caroline, channeling Smaug. “He’s going to SAUDI ARABIA for God knows how long, abandoning his wife and child, not to mention his post at Keller & Fox, but you ‘have his back’. Have you not been listening?”

“I have. I’m not saying I’m happy with it. Or that it’s reasonable. But...”

“HEY! Could you two shut up for a sec? I’d like to berate my husband myself, if you don’t mind,” said Melody. Edwin felt the mood needed lightening and started to sing ‘poesje mauw’, a Dutch nursery rhyme. He only knew the first two words, but that never stopped him. As he sang, he wriggled off Caroline’s lap and walked towards me, to sit on mine.

“Take Edwin to his room for a play, dear,” ordered Caroline.

“No!” said Kelly. “I’m staying right here.”

Caroline fixed her with a stare. Kings have shat themselves because of that stare. Well, one. I won’t name names, because he’d never have a siesta ever again in his life. I’m not Juan to talk out of school. Carlos talk costs lives, you know.

“I shan’t ask again...” said Caroline.

“Good!” said Kelly. Which I found very brave of her. But she did pick up Edwin and then took him to the open space behind the TV area, where we kept his toys. Caroline spared her life, which was nice of her.

“Martin, could you explain what on Earth has gotten into you?” asked Melody.

“Yes, well, it’s very simple: I’m going to pretend to be Prince Asim’s butler for a few weeks, sprinkle listening devices around the Saudi Royal Palace and his cousin Omar’s house as if they were fairy dust, try to get into Prince Omar’s laptop, phone or iPad and then I’m going to quietly bugger off back home.”

Melody considered that scenario for a second or two.

“What if you get caught?”

“I won’t get caught. I’ll take some time to familiarise myself with the place and I imagine I will get the latest hardware from MI6. Or is it 5? Anyway, I won’t get caught because I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re not, are you? That is indeed good news. You’re going to spy on the royal family of a nation that has the death penalty and is ruled by the most violent religion since the Aztecs ran a drug cartel. But you’re not an idiot. Good. Excellent,” said Caroline. Melody just placed her hand on Caroline’s thigh. I don’t think any king has ever dared to do that.

“Martin, it could be very dangerous,” she said, trying very hard not to sound upset.

“I’m aware of that, sweetheart. But I seem to be the only person who can get into that place. If I don’t think I can do something without getting caught, I can always just leave.”

“And how long will it take?”

“Couple of weeks, I guess. I’ll probably need some time to get to know the palace, learn everyone’s habits.”

“WEEKS? PSHAH!” snorted Caroline. “More like months, Martin. It takes more than a few days to become of confidant of a royal family, I assure you. And don’t expect too much support from the likes of Sixsmith and Dupree. Once you’re in the field, you are on your own. And they will also come with additional requests, you can be sure of that. Also, as soon as you are caught and arrested, they will drop you in it. A civilian informer who is not even a British national? They’ll leave you to rot in jail until the end of time. And then who do you suppose has to come and get you? Huh? Always assuming there IS something to come and get, because they hang people over pilfering so much as a jelly bean in that place. Especially foreigners.”

“Well, like I say: I won’t do it if there’s a chance I’ll get caught. And if just one person catches me, that won’t be a problem either.”

“No? Are you going to stab a Filipino housemaid, then? Oh and bring plenty of devices, because these people have rather lavish homes. More than one, actually.”

“I ... would not stab her, per se, but knock her unconscious? Sure. Look, I’ve no idea what to expect. But I’m not volunteering to liberate Raqqa from the Islamic State, am I? I’ll mostly be serving tea and ironing shirts.”

Caroline had an answer to that, as you may have guessed.

“No, you won’t. Tea, perhaps. But there will be housekeeping staff around. You won’t be required to do any actual housework, I’m sure of it.”

“Then why does that prince want him there?” asked Melody.

Caroline sighed.

“The prince has recently had some unsuccessful business dealings, for which the Saudi treasury has had to foot the bill. I think he doesn’t want Martin around as a butler, but as an advisor. One who is camouflaged as a servant, so that the prince can consult him unnoticed.”

“Really?” I said, surprised at how plausible that sounded. I had been wondering why on Earth a man like Prince Asim would want a white guy around to bring him his soft boiled eggs. Surely he had servants right now? I figured it was to use me as a status symbol, really. ‘Look, I may never be a Westerner, but I have one on a string!’ That sort of thing.

“Yes, obviously!”

“Well, not so obvious to me. How do you know about these business deals of his?”

“Because when he came to tea, he was very interested in what you did for me. To preserve your dignity I made you out to be more of a personal private secretary rather than just a driver, or a servant who brings me my newspaper. I told him you were a business manager and a trusted advisor. Which is true, in a way: the IT department is the backbone of our organisation and I have entrusted you with it. And Scytale brings in the odd copper, too. He seemed to like the idea a lot. I’m sure he thought I’m not really capable of running a business without help. But neither is he: I’ve had access to his file. This is exactly the sort of rube for whom pyramid schemes have been invented. A fool with deep pockets, desperate to prove himself. That’s why he wants you around, Martin.”

“Good.”

“NOT! GOOD! You are needed here, Martin! Edwin needs his father, Melody needs her husband and I need a department head. You can’t just disappear!”

“Surely not. I’ll have email, Skype, vacation time and text messages available to me.”

“No, you won’t. Undercover agents don’t take a shred of evidence about their real identity into the field. You won’t be checking your email and you most certainly won’t be allowed to use your current phone.”

She had a point, but I was in a defiant mood.

“Who is going to stop me? And anyway, there are many jobs that require people to be away from their families. Oil rig workers, cruise ship staff, military personnel, fishermen ... uhm...”

“Being Kate,” said Kelly, over Caroline’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s right! Being Kate, that’s another one! But Kate and Kelly will be here to help, and there’s Mrs. Newman, and you. I’m sure Edwin won’t suffer if I’m gone for a few weeks.”

“Months,” said Caroline.

Melody spoke up.

“Martin, are we really less important than your desire for revenge?”

I flew off the handle, which was not helping my case.

“That’s bullshit, Mel! You’re not in danger when I leave, just mildly inconvenienced. But we survived that attack. In fact, Diana gave her life so that you and Edwin would live. There are dozens of people like Nigel and Lola, who are now staring at an empty dent in the sofa in which a loved one used to sit. If I don’t do this, there may be another attack, and another one. If I can stop one, if I can save a few lives, I’m sure that’s worth me being out of the picture for a few weeks, and...”

“Months.”

“OKAY, MONTHS! Whatever! I’m sure you’ll all be fine!”

Kelly’s head popped up from behind the sofa again.

“Might get a bit warm, though. Black dresses in the sun, that can’t be nice.”

“What?! Who’s wearing black dresses?!”

“Well, all women in Saudi Arabia, as I understand it. Can’t go outside without an abaya, or whatever it’s called.”

“I ... I ... I’m sorry?” I spluttered. “Which conversation are YOU having, exactly?”

“I’m just saying it’s going to be warm. I’m coming with you. You want Carstairs? Then you also get Kelly. Package deal. Right?”

“WRONG! What are you, nuts? I am not taking you or anyone else to Saudi Arabia! That’s the entire bloody point of me going, isn’t it? To make sure this place won’t turn into Jeddah-on-Thames!”

“Oh, is it?” said Melody. “That’s not what you said just then. Wasn’t it about preventing more terror attacks?”

Oops...

I calmed down just a tad.

“Yes, well that too. Okay, so maybe it’s not the entire point. It’s just a bonus. Either way, I am not taking Kelly or anyone else with ovaries to a country where women are second class citizens. You wouldn’t even be able to get around without a driver. And there’s nothing for you to do.”

Kelly picked up Edwin and stood up, so she could argue her point without being on all fours.

“But you need someone to come home to, don’t you? To talk about your day, look after your apartment, things like that. You shouldn’t be alone for months on end!”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re not coming and that’s final.”

“Really? So this is it?” asked Caroline. “Decision taken?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, then I suppose we’d better wheel out your Kryptonite. KATE? Kate, dear? Could you join us for a moment?”

“NO! DINNER’S READY IN FIVE. Can someone set the table?”

Nobody argues with Kate. Besides, we were all a bit worried about the meal we were about to have. Kate had been trying, really trying, to learn how to cook. And she had been improving by leaps and bounds, especially when it came to the type of food that comes with instructions on the box. You know the sort of thing: delicious tortillas filled with chicken, bell peppers and a zesty sauce: in the box you’ll find the tortillas and a spice pack, both worth just a few cents, but the back of the box gives you instructions on what to do with the chicken and the vegetables you’re supposed to buy. People pay actual money for those boxes. Hamburger Helper is one you may be familiar with. Just add food.

Fortunately for people like Kate, UK supermarkets have a very, very extensive selection of ready-made meals. I’m not talking about frozen food, but beautiful dishes you can just pop in the oven. I consider that cheating, but it really is quite good stuff. Kate usually resorted to those when it was her turn to cook, but these meals all get a bit ‘samey’ after a while. They’re all oven dishes and they’re relatively fat so that they baste themselves. After Kate noticed the rather striking difference between my cooking and all those foil-covered meals, she had decided to make a real effort. Which was fine, but so far not everything had turned out quite the way she had intended.

“It’s Three-veg Mac ‘n Cheese,” she declared, after we were all seated. “The vegetables are butternut squash, leeks and peas. I hope it’s not very good, because I am NEVER dealing with a butternut squash again. Damned thing nearly killed me. Seriously. I was nearly trapped when it fell on top of me!”

Only Kate can make jokes about her size, and they’re rare.

“You can buy it ready-peeled and cubed,” I said. It smelled good, I had to give her that.

“I KNOW THAT NOW, YES. But I’d already bought the damned thing, hadn’t I? Oh and there’s Italian spiced meatballs, because this turned out to be rabbit food.”

Kate is not a fan of vegetarian dishes. ‘It’s not a meal unless something has died’ is one of her hallmark quotations.

“It looks amazing, dear,” said Caroline, who automatically took on the role of mother. In fact, she was in my seat. Or maybe it’s fairer to say I usually sat in her seat whenever she wasn’t here. I mean, it was MY house, but ... she’s Caroline. She’ll sit wherever she damned well pleases.

“Uhm ... Shouldn’t we ask the driver in?” asked Kelly. “Or get him a bowl?”

“No, dear. Richard will be fine,” said Caroline, patiently waiting for me to serve her.

“He’s been in there for five hours!”

“And he’ll manage an hour or so longer. His job is not just to drive me around. He is also there to guard a half million pound vehicle and to keep an eye on the front door.”

I frowned but said nothing about it. Caroline is fierce, but she inspires great loyalty in those around her. Alice, her secretary, adored her. And I was pretty sure her driver would be able to handle himself, and have learnt to bring a packet of biscuits along. Personally I felt the man was a bona fide douche nozzle and I was quite happy for him to starve, but perhaps he had gotten on Caroline’s wrong side. His performance as her sidekick today had, after all, been less than stellar.

Poor Kate. She just couldn’t bring herself to believe us when we said the meal was fine.

“I’m pretty sure the butternut is overcooked.”

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Who wants crunchy butternut? It’s supposed to dissolve and become a bit creamy.”

“I forgot how much salt I added to the meat.”

“It’s all lovely,” said Kelly.

“The salad ... I wouldn’t touch that. I tried to make a vinaigrette, but it wouldn’t mix. Well, not for long. I whisked the shit out of it.”

“It never does,” said Melody. “Unless you add an emulsifier, like they do to ready-made stuff so it looks better in the bottle. But it’s lovely.”

“Hmmm. Well ... Just don’t eat it if you don’t like it.”

“It’s wonderful, Kate,” said Caroline. “Now, back to our discussion. If you could just tell your brother he is not to go to Saudi Arabia, we will all sleep much easier.”

She indicated me with her fork. It was as if she was ordering Kate to put a spell on me.

“Yeah, about that ... How do you feel about it all, Mel? I missed most of it, because I was wrestling with that squash. And the oven is a bit noisy.”

Caroline suppressed an irritated sigh, though not very well. My girls ignored it.

“I’m still not sure. I mean, I’d like for him to stay home, obviously. Edwin should have his dad around and I didn’t sign up to be a soldier’s wife. Sharing is one thing, but after Australia I figured we’d just be together, here in London. On the other hand: if he can help stop a terrorist attack, I can’t really say no, can I?”

“No, but Kate can. Kate, tell your brother he can’t go.”

Kate guffawed and hastily covered her mouth.

“Flrlm ... pffft ... Sorry. Yeah, right ... Me tell him to do anything? Nah.”

Caroline put down her cutlery and made sure she had established eye contact with Kate.

“Kate? Just say the words: ‘Martin, you can’t go to Saudi Arabia’. That’s all I ask. That will be the end of it.”

“But he...”

“Be a dear and just SAY the WORDS,” said Caroline, now deeply annoyed. Was she ... trembling? If she was, Kate had missed it. She just laughed!

“What, like an incantation? Do I start with ‘abacadabra’, then?”

“If you like. Just SAY IT, dear. Your voice, just one sentence. And that should do it. ‘Martin, I forbid you to go to Saudi Arabia.’ It’s not a request, dear. It’s an order. Anything else we can discuss after.”

Kate caught on and was so flabbergasted she actually said it:

“Martin? You can’t go.”

“To Saudi Arabia. Specify it,” insisted Caroline. Mel and Kelly looked back and forth between us, not sure if they were allowed to laugh. Or rather, if it was safe to do so.

“To Saudi Arabia.”

“In one sentence, please. Just to be sure.”

“Martin, you can’t go to Saudi Arabia. Like that?”

“No. Don’t add ‘like that’. He’ll just take it to mean you don’t like his outfit, change it and go anyway.”

“Martin, you can’t go to Saudi Arabia.”

I sighed so hard I slumped forward a bit. Perhaps Kate was right. I mean, it would be hotter than the friction burns on Rush Limbaugh’s anus on a Saturday night. I’d be away from home for God knows how long. Prince Omar might have nothing to do with it all, or maybe he was sick and tired of his chirpy cousin and the two would never meet.

“Thank you,” sighed Caroline, leaning back against her seat rest. She wiped her forehead.

“Are you okay?” asked Melody.

“NAH, I’m kidding!” laughed Kate, before Caroline could answer. “Of course you can go, Martin! You’ll be back in a week, if not sooner.”

“NO! NO!” cried Caroline, with a horrified expression.

“Sure he will! Martin, serving tea to some of the richest, immoral filth this planet has ever seen? Highly religious filth to boot? People who buy a sports car just to light their cigars on the exhaust? Have you MET him? He’ll insult half the Kingdom before he’s even out of the airport. And he’s COMPLETELY unqualified for the job! He’s not worked in the service industry one day in his life and there’s a damned good reason for that: the first person to give him lip would get their sandwich shoved up their arse. Do you think he cares if someone’s a Saudi prince? He’ll manage to make him tea exactly once and then that camel shagger will do something horrible, like show him his collection of teen clitorises preserved in formaldehyde or something and BAM! Martin’s on the first plane home, with a decorative Arab’s nut sack on his keychain as a souvenir.”

“Whoa...” said Kelly, stifling a giggle.

“Kate, please!” said Caroline. “Just say...”

Kate touched her hand.

“It will be fine, trust me. He abhors ostentatious displays of wealth, he’s an atheist, he has no patience for idiots and he would start missing the three of us before he did up his seat belt. Remember Australia? His stomach nearly killed him when he thought he’d have to miss one of us. Let him go. Now that he’s a father I’m sure he’ll stop short of doing something that will get him jailed, but mark my words: he won’t last a week. Maybe two, tops.”

Now there was a challenge if ever I heard one! Kate was right, of course: normally I would stay far away from the likes of Asim and Omar. Asim was certainly a sociable fellow, but Omar was so rich he couldn’t even be bothered to be polite. I would probably not approve of the way they conducted their lives, but then again: that’s not why I was going. This was not an expedition to make new friends, but to make sure that Diana was the last victim of this violent religion in this country for a good while. The next Qur’an-thumper planning something nasty in London would find himself being dragged off to an off-the-books interrogation facility before he could even light a match. I was sure I could bottle up my frustration and contempt for a few weeks if I could have a hand in that.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” I said, in answer to Kate’s taunt.

Caroline stood up.

“I see. Excuse me, please. I must be going.”

“Oh, come on! Finish your meal at least! Let’s not have a fight about it,” Melody pleaded.

“No, dear. His mind is made up and apparently you two will allow him to do this. My opinion and my experience in these matters count for nothing, it would seem. So be it.”

I got up as well. She moved towards the door and retrieved her jacket, thereby technically halving the value of the property. Even her casual wear costs a fortune.

I could tell she was livid.

“Caroline? You’ll have my resignation in the morning. Effective whenever’s convenient for you,” I promised. Her eyebrows bounced off the ceiling.

“Resignation? Whatever for?!”

“Because ... Well ... I’m ignoring your wishes and ... I won’t be able to manage the department for a few weeks. So...”

“Martin, the idea is to KEEP you here. We need you. Your wife, your son, your sister: they all need you. The company needs your guidance. And I need you, too. I buried a friend I’ve had for over thirty years just eight days ago. And now I feel as though I am about to lose another one. I won’t be able to do much once you’re in a Saudi jail cell, Martin. And it’s not as if they have an elaborate appeals process for spies. Please don’t go. Reconsider this ... suicide mission. I beg of you.”

“Caroline? I will be around to annoy you for years to come. I promise.”

I offered her a kiss on the cheek, but she turned away, opened the front door and got into her car. I watched her drive off for much longer than it took Richard to round the first corner. Mel came to get me. Her cool hand was on my shoulder, on the bare piece of skin at the back of my neck.

“Come inside, Martin. She’s still your friend.”

“I really hope so, Mel.”

Monday, June 29th. Sussex Gardens.

After a not very restful night and a Sunday mostly spent playing with Edwin, I went to work as usual. Ali came to collect me and I had my daily morning swim in the basement pool. I managed a full kilometre, although it took me forty minutes. I then showered, got dressed and found Daphne waiting for me in the office, with a list of questions about a contract we were drafting for a new deployment of my software. Winston put in a call and asked me to deal with some matters in the IT department and even though normally I’d have heard something from Caroline by then, even if it was just a two minute phone call to let me know she would not be available for lunch or a quick cup of tea at four, it was a day like any other. Except I was in the doghouse and it seemed as if everybody knew.

I went to the main building to speak to Winston and came back with plans to invite Daphne to lunch: we don’t see each other all that often, as she was still working on her law degree and her job was only part-time. I wasn’t really sure where best to take someone in a wheelchair who prefers to eat with a bib so she doesn’t need a change of clothes afterwards, but I was sure she’d know a place. But when I returned to my office I found two gentlemen in very drab suits waiting for me. They were having something of an argument with Daphne, who clearly wanted them gone. But as she has palsy and it gets much worse when she’s agitated, these men were fruitlessly trying to figure out why a seemingly drunk person in a wheelchair was shouting at them.

“Hello? Can I help?” I said as I rounded the corner.

“Mister King? We’re with the ministry,” said one of them. “We have been asked to collect you, so that we can begin your training.”

“What the fuck are these clowns yammering about?!” demanded Daphne. I was pretty sure I was the only one who understood her. I don’t often transcribe how she speaks, but she sounds as if she’s absolutely wasted. And that’s on a good day. Mind like a steel trap, body like a trampled milk carton. Oh, and the sense of humour of George Carlin’s and Joan Rivers’ love child.

“Calm down, Hotwheels. It’s okay. I’m not in trouble.”

“Ask them for ID!”

“It’s fine. I believe they’re who they say they are. Gentlemen, this is rather unexpected.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. King. Sir Rupert insisted we make the most of the time available, so you may be as well-prepared as possible. You’re under no obligation to come with us, but ... We’d rather you did.”

“Sure. I’ll get my things and then I’m ready to go.”

“Excuse me? Hello? Where are you going? This is not a voice-over job or something, right? They’re TAKING you!”

“Daphne, it’s fine. I’ll let you know...”

One of the men held out his hand.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand over your phone, Mr. King.We’ll deliver it to your house.”

“Oh ... Well, then I ... I’ll let you know through Kate.”

“I’m calling Caroline,” said Daphne, and knocked her phone off her desk in a fluid sweeping motion.

“Fu ... fu ... fuuuuu ... shit.”

“Caroline knows,” I said, bending over to pick it up for her. “So do Mel and Kate. It’s fine. It’s just a government job. Hush hush. Hold the fort. Everybody? She’s in charge,” I said, trying to end on a joke. Scytale, the company that we run, only has two employees: us two. And it’s a part-time job for both of us.

“I don’t like this.”

“Well, then you will find an ally in Caroline. Ok, good to go.”

I rarely, if ever, kiss Daphne. She’s my employee and she has made it very clear that just because she’s in a wheelchair that does not make her a cuddly toy. It’s basically birthdays and the first workday of the new year, which is fine. Oh, and when she’s passed another exam. And so I didn’t kiss her now, but because I’m still human and wanted to comfort her, I gently squeezed her shoulder.

“When are you supposed to be back?” she spluttered. “Tomorrow? Next week?”

“Might be a bit longer than that, Hotwheels. Don’t let your grades drop. Bye.”

The three of us walked to the main entrance of our building. It felt weird not to have my phone on my person. I was asked to wait while the men stepped out to see if there was anyone with a camera outside and then I was politely bundled into the back of a black BMW. One of the men who had come to my office sat next to me.

“So ... What do I call you?” I asked, as the car pulled out into traffic.

“I wouldn’t bother, Sir. We are merely your escort. We’re with the Home Office departmental security unit.”

“I see. There’s not much difference between an arrest and an escort, is there?”

“I think you’ll find there is, Sir,” said the man to my right, and pulled a tie-rip from behind his watch strap. And then he grinned.

“We escort senior civil servants to various classified locations. You can’t get in there without us. Right now we’re taking you to our field officers induction class. You should be home with your family around dinner time tonight, but after that you’ll have virtually no time off until your assignment begins. There’s not much time for mission prep, so expect some long days ahead.”

“Oh, smashing,” I sighed, and leaned back in my seat to look at London for a bit. That never gets old.

I could fill a book with what I learned about the British Secret Intelligence Service. And I’d be promptly arrested for even writing it all down, never mind publishing it. Of course, these journals are just for my private use, but I’m writing them under the assumption that one day I’ll be daft as a brush and in case Edwin wants to know what his dad has been up to. I’ve told you about my father, right? My future is not exactly bright in that regard. And so I write all this down to remember it, to have a reminder of what my life was like. But I won’t really need to remember the location of the induction classes, the names of the instructors, the codes and procedures I was to follow and all the rest of it, will I? Especially because even writing it down is a criminal offence. And so I’ll keep it vague and brief (as ever, ahem) just to be safe.

What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘spy’? St John Philby? George Smiley? Jason Bourne? A man in a raincoat, wordlessly swapping a briefcase with a contact on a park bench? A camera hidden in a pen? The mistress of a senior government official, who wakes up in the middle of the night to write the highlights of last night’s pillow talk on a tiny piece of paper and ties it to a pigeon’s leg? I suppose it is all that, or it has been at some point in the past.

The thing is that Intelligence requires a lot of people. It’s a government business, so it’s not very effective but it is rather well funded. There are pay scales and coffee machines and cabinets with folders and polite warnings about wasting paper above the shared office printer and the shredder. Not everyone who works for an Intelligence organisation is a spy: sometimes they’re just a janitor. A janitor who has every aspect of his life screened twice a year, and who is paid well over the odds so that he’s less susceptible to bribery. There are cafeteria workers, drivers, archivists, data analysts, IT-staff, instructors, there’s Human Resources and Building Maintenance. It is, in fact, an environment in which I’m very much at home, more so because my background is in cryptography. That’s not a very jolly community, either. But it can’t all be cloak and dagger and files that will self-destruct in five seconds, because no sane person can do his job that way.