stoush.net

Wed, 21/06/2006 - 9:09pm — Liam

According to my instructions, I left the chalk mark agreed as the ‘all clear’ signal against the bus shelter underneath the Parramatta Road footbridge, and waited for the courier to arrive. Adjusting my beret to a crisp horizontal, as is my habit, I was shaking out my umbrella and hoping that I wouldn’t have to use the fallback plan for the clandestine rendezvous, when up pulled a nasty yellow Sigma with a thin dodgy looking character at the plastic steering wheel.

Did you win the lunch bet at Mark’s purple blog?

Said the crew-cutted grinning driver. This was the first part of the agreed counter-sign and was cryptic enough to baffle anyone.

The thread did get to five hundred,

I agreed, completing the sequence, and authenticating myself. The driver opened the door, and as I climbed in he dropped the worn clutch against the complaints of the car. We squealed down the road and, as agreed, I put on my blindfold. It was best for everyone concerned that I didn’t know where I was to go.

As I took off the scrap of cloth the man who had driven us to the safe-house, or rather, safe-restaurant, introduced himself properly, having changed into a suit. Harry was his workname when working as a pavement-artist and lamplighter, he said, and he claimed in fact to be the man known by his codename Fyodor. Fyodor was a legendary character, born into unknown circumstances behind the Iron Curtain, neither our security services or even the Cousins had been ever able to find out his real name. Fyodor was the name of the first network of agents he ever recruited and ran in the Cold War, and some even said it was the name of his first love.

This, I could tell, was another part of the subterfuge which cloaked all of Fyodor’s operations. I knew from other sources that Fyodor was obsessively secretive about his actual identity and I knew that whoever he was, he was hardly likely to reveal himself so easily. As we went through the usual dreary ritual of spy questions—was I followed? Did I have any immediate security concerns? Were there any articles that he would prefer he carried during our conversation, bearing in mind that he carried diplomatic immunity?—I smelt a rat.

On a hunch, I called the bluff. I pointed out the man hiding a few tables back behind a meny, fitting perfectly the descriptions I’d read of the actual Fyodor: middle aged, rake-skinny, long, spiky, red hair. I’ll be honest, to you, reader, and admit that it was the Gilbert and Sullivan he was whistling that gave up his real identity to a sound ear.

Three Little Girls From School indeed.

At the other end of my accusing gesture, Fyodor came over and apologised for the rudimentary security measure, preventative against clumsy assassination attempts. He had to be sure that I was no gun-for-hire before our meal. With a wave of one bony yellow hand, the man who went by the workname Harry was dismissed. Fyodor the spymaster sat in front of me at the table and immediately ordered a bottle of wine.

And so to lunch, a meal too little respected, and too often foreshortened, in these uncivilised days. Abandoning the disgraceful Californian habit of mineral water, we shared a fine bottle of pinot grigio and, without ceremony or hesitation, tore into our entrées of stuffed mushroom and assorted antipasti. I believed I may have seen Fyodor lick his upper incisors in the fashion of a vampire while skerricking down the salami chunks and prosciutto slices, but I couldn’t be sure as at that moment our plates were whisked away by the underworked waiters. Osso Bucco with a chunky gremolata for my inquisitor, grilled lemon bream for me. Having finished our main courses my inquisitor called for liqueurs and coffee. We shook hands and made our agreements.

Obviously I can’t reveal to any significant extent the topics of conversation or any of the decisions we made on behalf of our organisations. That’ll have to wait for the fifty-year rule and a more benevolent and less paranoid Circus.

I can’t say, either, who the mole is, or in which organisation they’re placed.

Let’s let time be the judge of conspiracy.