by Gary Tulley
"The 'business' as you so put it, Joan, turned out to be a premeditated time bomb waiting to explode. And the guy in charge of the countdown happened to be called...."
"......Rogon!", she exclaimed quietly confident. Her verbal injection was timed to perfection as she continued to pursue her line of reasoning. "I am right, aren't I?" Looking a trifle woeful, Eastern nodded glibly in agreement as Joan continued, "When you left here last night, I happened to chance on that article in the 'CLARION' the same one that caught your attention. After that, it just became a question of putting two-and-two together. Especially after your sudden departure. Incidentally," she threw in, "how far would you have gone, before Rogon managed to convert you into state property once again?"
If there had been a ready answer on tap, then Eastern had missed the boat, and was now found wanting. To agree not to agree, became his one saving grace as an option. "There's no kidding you, Joan, is there? As it happens, you're right in every department so far. And leaving me to readily admit, that it's beginning to feel like Rogon, never really went away." Smiling coyly, she shrugged her shoulders in a carefree attitude, and centred her opinion by taking in his situation as a whole.
"I'm not about to dwell on your business, Mike. I fully understood the ground rules when we decided to get together. So, if it becomes a case of what Rogon wants...then Rogon gets. Then I don't have a problem with that. I only insist that you take the time out to consider the danger element involved."
Given that the Rogon had long entrusted his mind, body and soul to the state, many years previous, belied the fact that somewhere amongst an influx of plastic implants, and brain-washed, non-negotiable thoughts, there existed the dormant remains of a once impassioned heart. Alas, years of constant doctrine had ensured that even the use of a body scan wouldn't be capable of producing such an image. That is, until Eastern's previous unclassified assault on the agency came into opposition.
Any apology that may have been put forward by Rogon, whether it derived via a verbal directive, or a written mandate in triplicate, indicated to Eastern that their prearranged meeting, held at Spooks HQ some 24 hours later, now held the key to a session of intrigue. And one that rose above the norm. Struggling to stifle the birth of a sarcastic laugh, Eastern listened guardedly as a vintage Rogon lorded the proceedings. His opening gambit came by way of a well-rehearsed guilt trip.
"You have to understand, Mike, this isn't easy for me," he stressed. "As your aware by now, my orders come from above. I'm only in opposition while acting as the messenger boy. So I can only apologise on behalf "
"Utter bullshit!" Eastern's well timed intervention, hastily put Rogon out of his misery. "For once in your life, credit me with some internal knowledge. Just forget the bureaucratic crap , and say what you've been told to say. That way we can all go home." If there had been an outside chance existing, that Rogon had been forced into submission alluding to his latest outburst, then it had swiftly evaporated. All thanks to his state institutionalized brain.
Momentarily, his face remained passive before delivering a final coup de grace.
"With all due respect, Mike, certain circumstances now dictate that as from now you won't be.........." He paused, allowing himself to emphasise his ongoing exclusive terms. "Going home, that is, at least not for the foreseeable future!" he added sheepishly. A deflated Eastern now found himself backed on the eternal ropes, akin to a ring of frustration. Fortunately, the intervention of a bell or, in his case, the cold
explicit tone of Rogon's voice releasing a valve of reality, as he continued to issue more demands. "As from now, Mike, you will be interned and classified as being State property. And your new persona will be integral to Spooks jurisdiction. I will also remind you that your former allegiance to the Official Secrets Act, is still operational. Meaning that any other business in terms of diplomacy remain in situ."
Breaking off momentarily, he retained his matter of fact air but this time with added impetus, as he concluded. "Any questions thus far, Mike,?" Having dealt the cards of officialdom, he then steeled himself for a designer outburst from Eastern who could be seen suffering from a composure complex.
"How much prime listening time have I got?" would have been utterly wasted on Rogon, whose body language began expressing a non-debatable outlook. Acting on a sudden whim, Eastern finally gave up the ghost. And decided to heed the offer, rather than be forced to come in from the cold. "I've got to hand it to you Rogon. I'd always maintained that manipulation, without being patronising, had become a dying art." A sustained silence ensued as the onus on discretion reverted back into Rogon's lap. Choosing his words carefully, he graciously replied at length.
"I can't tell how relieved I am that you see it that way, Mike. It would appear that in the past I've had a problem with the phrase ' to be explicit'. Now that we understand each other, a sense of urgency is reminding me that we need to clarify your new persona while resident at HMP Foredown Open." Fully resigned to the fact that a minimum of 48 hours, consisting of intense briefing, lay in front of him, with an impromptu 'holiday', courtesy of the State thrown in, gave Eastern a parallel twang of conscience as he compared his lot with Rogon's.
"Poor bastard," he reflected, "You've got the rest of your plastic life on the inside. At least I have the advantage of knowing that I'll be back on the outside soon enough."
Rogon's take on his own observations, had he been aware, would have been one of sheer satisfaction in knowing that his solemn way of life, at worse come under outside scrutiny. A sad reflection to live with you might say, but for a leading Spook agent, an admirable one.
A dozen or so State coffees plus as many intense hours later. A bleary-eyed and semi brain-washed Eastern emerged from within a cocoon of convenience, bearing a
designer pseudonym. As from now, he would be constantly referred to as being one Alex Ruark. A British Nationalist, whom some nine years earlier had been extradited from South Africa and consequently convicted of gun running. He was also listed as being a freelance mercenary. A half-hearted look of disapproval shaded Eastern's face as he entered a lightweight observation. "I should imagine you took great delight in tagging me to a reference like that?" Rogon made it quite clear that he wouldn't be drawn into a personality parade and elected to stick with protocol.
"Words in this case come cheap, Mike. It's left to the man behind them to return an investment into an asset. And myself, and the agency, happen to think that you're more than qualified for the role. I'm not suggesting either, that it's going to be a vicar's tea party once you're inside. On the contrary, if you mess up, then Brezznov has the gift of contaminating the right people to deal with any likely threat to his illicit regime. Inside, or out that is."
"I'll know when the time is right." Eastern added ruefully.
"I'm sure. In the meantime, how you deal with the mission once you're isolated is entirely up too you. Unless of course the agency are forced to intervene depending on the circumstances. Let's all hope that it won't come to that. And I don't have to remind you, that there's a hell of a lot riding on the success of your involvement, Mike......in fact." Stopping short to attune a fresh attitude, Rogon then enlarged on Eastern's covert incarceration. "The other problem, should it arise, is a question of time."
"I was wondering when you were going to get round to that one," reciprocated Eastern. "Although rest assured, I don't do pressure. So from where I'm sitting I figure it's as long as it takes.....right?" Nodding confidently in agreement, Rogon stymied an obvious sense of relief and attempted to explain further.
"Which means of course," he stipulated, "that I could possibly be looking at a lengthy stretch, depending on the outcome?" Eastern timed his interruption to signify that he was fully aware as to what Rogon was leading up to. He then resumed their conversation. "You can relax on that score. I don't have a problem with that, only......" It was now Rogon's turn to intervene, but this time with a hint of reservation attached.
"If what!?" and prompted Eastern t
o continue.
".Only that those pin-striped bureaucratic little shits up in Whitehall don't fuck with my pension when I'm banged up!" His vain attempt to inject a light ray of humour on the proceedings fell way short. And clearly washed over Rogon's plastic personality. Briefly, the moment became lost in translation , and in doing so, gave Eastern the stage to dwell on another outstanding issue. "Which reminds me, when do I get the pleasure of enrolling at HMP?"
"I can assure you that, as from now, you can rest easy on that count, Mike. You're not about to go anywhere just yet. In fact, the next forty eight hours will be crucial to you, by allowing you the time to adjust to your covert persona."
"I see. I presume that we are talking background data here times...dates and so forth?"
"Precisely that! In the event you manage to get close to Brezznov, then you're going to require a reliable and fictitious memory as a means to impress the man. Hopefully, the nom de plume we have supplied you with will mean nothing to him." Breaking off suddenly, a sinister mask clouded his face, before continuing. "That is to say, that prior to your incarceration, certain factual information, relating to yourself, will be suitably leaked into the prison system via our own network. Purely for his benefit you understand?" Eastern nodded his approval, and reminded him.
"That the inclusion of a third party associate acting as a contact while on the inside, would prove essential."
Having pre-written the script prior to their discussion, Rogon was immediately on his case when replying. "I'm impressed that you recognize the importance of such a role, Mike. In fact I have a man standing by as we speak. It goes without saying that he's been fully briefed on the entire dual mission that you're both undertaking."
"Excellent, when do I get to meet the guy?" he enquired. Even for a mortal as plastic as Rogon could be, they couldn't have failed to engage with the smug look that now enveloped his face.
"You....don't!" he replied in a jocular fashion, "You see, you already have... met that is." Moments later, a small diminutive and unassuming character entered the room, fully intent on making himself known. Eastern's jaw dropped in utter disbelief as instant recognition set in. And he lost no time in making his own presence felt.
"I should have known from the start that you would be involved somewhere along the line." Smiling generously, Eastern proffered his hand and resumed their conversation in a semi relaxed mood. "It's good to see you once again 'B', especially knowing that your on side." Acknowledging his warm response, the two men then shook hands. (the reference to 'B' as a pseudonym, belonged to the Spooks operator whom Eastern had inadvertently met up with some months earlier, whilst cracking a police conspiracy case ).
"At least we will be in a position to know that there's no hidden agenda to overcome this time." 'B' quipped. "And I feel sure we will make a good team this time around." Completely satisfied that the two men were seemingly compatible, caused Rogon to call for a recess, enabling the pair to formulate a future contact system when on the inside. He ended by stating that he wouldn't be available for the next 48 hours, due to a promising lead alien to the case which required prompt attention.
"The specific lead itself" he explained, "Came by way of a further anonymous phone call, made from a box in the heart of the City. Luckily we managed to trace the origin of the call to a location in North street."
"And the significance of the lead itself, is what?" demanded Eastern.
"A vital connection to Brezznov of course, but more importantly the length of the call itself. The highly volatile content that it contained , proved to be more than we could ever have envisaged."
"It sounds to me like the caller was trying to out sing a canary. It must have sounded like the mother of all conversations." Asserted Eastern.
"Most certainly, and that was almost the caller's downfall. The desk Sgt at Division, who took the call, immediately issued the trace coinciding with an APB (all patrols bulletin). Fortunately, a nearby RTC (road traffic car), which was in the vicinity, swung into action. Needless to say, they arrived too late to apprehend the suspect, who by now had long gone. Clearly he had left in a hurry. This was backed up by certain evidence that the police came across at the scene."
"Damn!", vented Eastern, "an arrest at this juncture would have been the icing on the cake."
"Thankfully, It's not all bad news, Mike." Rogon sympathised. "There's still a good chance that we can get something out of it. Whoever made that call must have been smoking at the time. This became evident from the discovered remains of a cigarette butt, found smouldering on the floor of the kiosk. Further to that, a few feet away on the pavement, a pocket lighter was also recovered. Hopefully dropped by the perpetrator in his haste to get away. As we speak, both items are now lodged with forensic and I'll get back to you on that, as soon as their report becomes available."
As a sign of surety goes, Eastern could well be excused for demonstrating his loyalty toward the agency, when replying with honesty. "That's what I like about this job. One minute you feel like your handcuffed to a bloody tank, and the next, it's raining possibilities. Mind you, if I was that anonymous caller, I'd be compelled to walk into the nearest police station and asked to be 'banged up'." Once he realizes that it's game over and Brezznov gets to know what's going down then, God help him, I can only surmise that the poor bastard is a dead man walking."
In summing up, a philosophical Rogon then rubber stamped Eastern's overall logic and pre-empted his own opinion should other facts emerge. "On a more positive note; if, as I suspect, the caller himself has got 'previous ( a record), any feedback from forensic could lead us into obtaining a kosher ID of the guy. Having said that, what's your take on the situation 'B'?. I'd more than value your opinion."
"My gut tells me that we need to err on the side of caution at this stage" he chimed in. "Without more evidence to back up your assumptions, we can't be totally sure if the guy is on Brezznov's payroll. Or, indeed, it is a one-off act with a personal grudge to settle. That's the best I can offer I'm afraid." A sustained silence ensued, allowing his thoughts to sink in. Finally Eastern broke the mould.
"Uhm, I hear what you say 'B', only."
"It's only supposition on my part" he quickly reminded him.
"I appreciate that, but knowing Brezznov he won't give a shit either way, no matter what the outcome. As it stands, forensic hold the key to his future and if he has got 'previous', then it becomes imperative that we get to him first.....right?"
Begging not to differ, Rogon nodded his overall support and finished by stating, "I suggest we keep an open mind on the subject. In the meantime, you two have a lot of catching up to do and so have I." A further dormant thought then triggered his memory as he exited the room. "It's just occurred to me feel free to use the phone at any time Mike, and if you haven't already guessed, I've placed a 24/7 security 'shadow' at your Brunswick Square apartment." With that, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving them to their own devices.
Some thirty six hours later, and with the added bonus of a civilized breakfast under their respective belts, Eastern and his adopted colleague Benny Simmons (nee former agent 'B') relinquished their freedom by becoming a selective State statistic apiece, having been inaugurated into the prison system on a pretext. The two entered into a formal induction, chaired by the Governor of Foredown Open in Sussex, on the morning of the eighteenth of March 0/5. Also present to balance protocol, included his assistant and two warders.
Acting while under a directive from Whitehall 2 weeks previously the Governor, Derek C Whiting, had been subsequently briefed on Spooks covert operation. Consequently, he was issued with the necessary documents and 'stats' surrounding their alleged records. As a principal player in the charade, it was then decided that Whiting, on a level of security, would become the sole designated official on the inside to be entrusted with specific information, alien to the operation.
Strangely enough, for reasons dictated to by agency policy (and not availlable for scrutiny). Cemented aro
und their decision to ensure that Eastern and Simmons alike, were in ignorance as to Whiting's role as a leading player. Some 30 minutes later, having had the riot act firmly embedded in their brain, the pair found themselves kitted out and allocated a joint cell.
From that particular moment in time, life for Eastern would now change dramatically for the foreseeable future. He was now left facing the stark reality surrounding the clinical environment, stemming from a State institution. His initial brush deriving from internal discipline (although he wouldn't have been aware of it at the time) was fast becoming a grim reminder that hell on earth facing a reluctant internee, was shortly in the process of becoming a reality.
It was only going to be a matter of time before he made his presence felt. Forewarning by a bias but well meaning inmate that quote: ' I've had the word that the 'fucking nuisance' is on the wing and doing the rounds' enabled the pair the luxury of gaining an element of expectation.
Every establishment holds the rights to one, and Foredown was no exception to the rule. Chief Warden Billy Donavon was old school, and as such addicted to old fashioned values, most of which he could claim the rights to. Amongst the majority of people who were unfortunate enough to get close to him over the years was a vast collection of 'cons' (prisoners). His exclusive take on the system amounted to regimented discipline 24/7. Leaving one old 'lag' to put it in perspective by stamping his own definition: 'A bleeden dinosaur if ever I saw one, and a right nasty bastard at that!'
As ever, the internal 'hot line' had proved to be fertile. Minutes later and flanked by two surly looking henchman, Donavon entered their cell and confronted the two at close range. Drawing himself up, he exerted an immediate threatening attitude, by eyeballing the pair with intent to provoke a reaction of some kind. For his part, Simmons appeared to be impervious to any form of mind games on show, and remained completely switched off. On a par, it would take more than the verbal assault that followed to unnerve Eastern, as he now took the full brunt of a well oiled backlash from Donavon, who, by his own admission was fast losing credibility.