| Not A Good Way To Start The Week... |
[Mar. 23rd, 2008|09:58 pm] |
What the fuck am I doing in Prague?
Again?
I'm in some dingy flat. I have a celphone, but it's not mine. I've got 400 Euros and about the same amount in koruna in a wallet that's otherwise distressingly empty - like no ID, no credit cards, not even a driver's license empty, And I'm armed to the teeth, for some reason.
More to the point, I seem to have lost the best part of three weeks. I repeat: what the fuck is going on?
At least there isn't a corpse in the bathtub, so I guess it's an improvement over last time... |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 12th, 2008|11:48 pm] |
"I don't know about you, Miss Kitty, but I'm feeling so much yummier."
Indeed. |
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| "That Terribly Slow Crashing Trick Which Arctic Ice-Floes Do So Spectacularly In The Spring." |
[Feb. 28th, 2008|01:44 am] |
I found somethiing hidden in my apartment. Pretty well hidden, in fact, but I've been having fits of paranoia, lately - ever since that Very Nasty Incident In Kosovo - and they're pretty rough. One minute, you're looking at the ceiling molding thinking it needs dusting, the next minute, you're pulling up the carpet and dissembling the light fixtures.
So, yeah, the thing I found... It's just a couple of pages of onionskin, covered in handwriting - my handwriting. At least, it looks like mine. But I don't remember writing it. To be honest, that's not all that surprising. But this still falls under the category of Definitely Not Good.
I can't afford to fuck around. I've called The Boss and told all. I'm hoping he can clear things up.
But, right now, I've got a stinking migraine. No doubt from decrypting my chickenscratch. I'm going to give myself a shot and go to bed for a few hours. With luck, everything will be clear by morning. |
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| Not Very Cryptic At All |
[Jan. 27th, 2008|11:50 pm] |
If it wasn't for risk inherent in carving a former boss into pieces small enough to hide - namely the risk of having ditto done to me by my current boss - there'd be a big ol' pile of CIA-flavored chum in the Firth of Forth right now.
I suppose I could have handled that meeting with "Munson" better than I did but, honestly? I'm just glad I didn't deck him in the middle of the pub. That would not have ended well. |
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| Checking In... |
[Sep. 16th, 2007|12:57 am] |
It seems to me that all the trouble in my life, of late, has been caused by a variety of men all named Jack.
Great. Just great. It could be worse, I suppose, but I'd rather not try to imagine how. |
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| Our Is Not To Reason Why |
[Jun. 28th, 2007|11:55 am] |
I've been ordered to take a holiday. I'd complain but The Boss has a way of being very persuasive. Mandatory relaxation it is, then.
And, oh yes, I did catch up with "Munson". More on that debacle when I feel up to it. Suffice to say it crossed over into sheer farce about thirty seconds in...
( (OOC) ) |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 12th, 2007|11:15 pm] |
I'm going off-page for a few hours. I have to go talk to one Mr. Munson.
And, Pete? I'm not the reincarnation of Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS. Geeze, you make one a few jokes about guys in dog collars and you never live it down...
( OOC Note ) |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 11th, 2007|06:46 am] |
Brilliant. He's not in Edinburgh. He's in Glasgow.
This is what happens when you have non-locals managing the intel. I'd have had more useful information from the goddamn white pages and the A-to-Z. |
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| An Open Letter To Circumstance |
[May. 6th, 2007|01:00 am] |
What the fuck?
Edinburgh?
What the fuck am I supposed to do in Edinburgh?
Crap. I know the answer to that question, damn it all.
I thought I was off the honeytrap circuit. What goddamn genius thought up this idea? It wasn't Marlena. She's too smart for this - and so's the target. My money's on him making me in 36 hours and running for the hills in 37. But mine is not to reason why - not in this case, apparently, as The Boss made abundantly clear.
At least I've got a decent cover this time: Yoga instructor with a sideline in self-defense for women. Not only can I do that, but I'm surprised that The Boss isn't worried about me enjoying the cover too much. I'm sure he looked at the police blotter for the city before lumping me with this assignment. I suspect that if I happen to cripple a few would-be rapists, I'd be as safe as houses.
At least I'll have an outlet for my irritation about this bullshit situation... If I didn't know any better, I'd suspect I"m being set up to fail. The target's already turned down the CIA and Mossad, for Christ's sake...
Stiff upper lip, woman. If not for queen and country - ha! - think of the shit you'd be in with The Boss if you didn't give it 100%... |
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| Checking in. Again. |
[Jan. 19th, 2007|10:29 am] |
It's been a while. I've been busy.
To sum up:
Marlena talked me out of chopping up Mr. On Again, Off Again for stewing meat. In fact, Mr. On - oh, fuckit, his name is John - is, in fact, now working for Code Black, having been counter-poached when he was trying to poach me. I'd sent Blackheart a thank-you card (and a cut of the recruiting bonus) if it wasn't for the fact that one of the few rules I've kept in my life is to not fuck my coworkers. Go figure, they usually know better anyways. Geeze, you do one1 stint as a black widow and you can't get a date anymore.
Still in London, and I think I've finally gotten used to the place. Good thing it only took three years, huh? I suppose they'll want to rotate me out, now but, really, the city's (and the whole country) has grown on me. You can say what you like about Yankee manners, but the Brits have got this polite thing down, and that makes my life so much easier.
Oh yeah, I finished the latest dissertation and, like the last one, it's already been classified. I suppose I should have a party or something, but no-one's going to believe me when I tell them I've got a PhD, let alone two.
Jason identified a new and sorta interesting outfit - one that's got me wondering how we hadn't heard of them before. To be fair, it seems like the bosses have always been vaguely aware of Torchwood, but as their remit is so different from ours - bug-eyed aliens, by God - they were pretty much beneath the bosses' notice, I guess. Right up until something fell out of the sky and landed on our turf. Then it was suddenly "Let's go talk to our dear professional bretheren" - and hope the bloody thing wasn't going to make us grow two heads, I bet.
As Marlena's the diplomatic one, she did most of the talking. I just did what I know best, oh boy, did I ever.
I'll pull my tongue out of my head before I'll admit to anyone but this lovely diary that the frog-faced git knows what he's doing. Damn. I haven't been taken by surprise like that in a hell of a while.
However, the reputation of Torchwood seems a bit like the gang's. The failures are always more spectacular than the successes and only the bad stuff reaches the press. I can sympathize with that. I think the boss is still dealing with the fallout from Paris. Funny how it seems to have escaped everyone's notice that we rolled up significant chunk of a terrorist network about to blow up the Ministry De Defence.
Well, no time for complaints. I've got memos to write, or something. That and there's an email from this Tosh person answering a few questions about this retcon stuff. If I'm reading the chemistry right, it could save our bacon - but absolutely has to be kept out of the hands of someone like Pete. We'd have half of London amnesiac and psycho within a month...
1 - translated: 38 |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 28th, 2006|06:13 pm] |
Back from a dirty weekend and all is nominally right with the world, although I'm starting to think there's something up with Mr. On-Again/Off-Again. I don't think he's married. Maybe he's just bored, or got someone else. No skin off my nose if he is/does. It's not like we have a very emotional relationship, is it? I don't think I'm going to be allowed one of those until I retire - ha ha.
Pete's got that dark-and-broody look about him. I'd better go get him drunk and find out what's on his mind... |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|12:02 pm] |
The consensus seems to be that we're going to follow up on Blackheart's broad hints that the oppo are hoping I'll change sides - shake that tree and see what falls out.
It's going to take a couple of months, as Blackheart's particularly difficult to fool. Embarrassingly enough, the MO is "Wait until an operation goes up shit creek - a 'when', not an 'if' - and then scapegoat Andrea for it". Not what I'd call sophisticated, but it'll leave the right traces in the right places. Simply faking a few emails and spreading some rumors won't cut it in this case.
Give it a couple of weeks for the word of my so-called crucifixion to get around, and then I'll place that ad in the London Times.
I don't think this'll turn into a full-blown double-agent thing. Not with me in the lead, at least. Maybe Marlena will do a turn in my skin. It wouldn't be the first time.
Right now, I'm concerned with making time for Mr. On-Again/Off-Again, selfishly enough. Apparently we're on at the moment. Thank god for that. Dry spells have gone on for far too long when Pete starts looking good - although the real danger sign is Jason. In a body cast. If I ever reach that point, I'm calling an escort service. |
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| Prague - II |
[Apr. 21st, 2006|03:41 pm] |
That was interesting.
Prague started off as a washout. The local authorities are, in fact, a lot more competent than my bosses give them credit for. Those few ex-Securitat types lurking in the corridors probably helped - for a change.
So yeah, 48 hours in-and-out and it was just another expense report to file until Elliot-bloody-Blackheart bought me a drink in the airport bar.
For the record, I made a point of pouring said drink into a potted plant.
Then, with a fresh Heineken in hand, I cut to the chase. He was hardly there to ask about my health, was he?
As it turns out he was, sort of.
He wanted to cut a deal, of the kind that would have me - or, more to the point, my bosses - owing him a favor. Our trade makes for strange bedfellows, so I listened to him. With an utterly straight face, he told me that James Muellen is alive and well, and cheerfully working for the oppo.
Muellen has been believed dead for two years - the victim of a nasty car accident that left us with not much to identify, which, yes, set off some alarm bells at first. As one of CB's best analysts - possibly the best - it was the bosses' fervent hope that Muellen was, indeed a charred husk and not doing exactly what Blackheart claims he's doing - living the life of Riley selling a head full of stolen information.
I didn't believe him at first, go figure. Blackheart gave me A Look and asked if I got so paranoid from being raised by a mobster, or did Bureau 14 offer a special class? Neither of those facts should be known to anyone outside my organization, nor 90% of those inside it, either. The public record very earnestly states that I grew up in leafy suburbia, and those six years after college were spent in the Army. Blackheart's a born spy, but... Fuckin' lovely.
"So you want Muellen out of the picture," I told my drinking buddy. "That's pretty obvious. Why not do it yourself?"
"Not my style." Which I can believe because Blackheart's a numbers cruncher and information junkie, not a killer.
"And why pay a freelancer when you can have it done on some taxpayer's dime, right?"
He laughed at that. "You're part of a supra-governmental foundation and you know it." Fine, no worries. That's hardly a secret in our "community".
"That doesn't answer the question."
"I don't like him," he shrugged.
"You want us to take down your competition?" It made sense.
Blackheart refused to answer that, but he grinned into his scotch. "You've got your reasons too."
"Assuming this isn't one stinking ambush."
"Could be. Could be. But the bait would be a little more imaginative, don't you think? Besides, if I wanted you off the scene, that could have happened as soon as you got off the plane on Tuesday."
That pissed me off, but as the pshrinks keep telling me, anger isn't helpful. Besides, the bastard had a point. "Is that a likely scenario?"
"Of course it is, a woman - a person - in your line of work."
"Fair enough." I wasn't going to rise to the bait and ask for gossip.
I think that surprised him. "The crowd's waiting for you to finally go freelance." I think he wanted to see my reaction. Fortunately, playing poker with Marlene's taught me a few things.
"I hope they aren't holding their breath."
"Not quite, no. But I know some people who know some people..." Again, not exactly surprising.
Five, six years ago, I was giving serious thought to giving Code Black the finger and going my own way, but my boss - a dedicated, insightful and truly terrifying man - made it clear that if I quit under circumstances that were anything less than ideal, I wouldn't make it as far as the garage. Upfront guy, my boss. Then he gave me ten grand and told me to piss off to Paris for a few days. He's smart, too.
"If it comes up again, tell your friends-of-friends they better have deep pockets. It'd be so hard to walk away from all this." I said with an airy wave at the oh-so-glamorous departure terminal of Prague International Airport.
There's no point in burning bridges, after all. Besides, if I shake that tree, who knows what sort of fruitful information might fall out?
We swapped info - an address for a classified ad in the London Times. Whether or not he takes that bait... we'll see, I guess. I'll pass along what I've got and it's up the higher-ups if they want to move on it. I'll probably hear about it sooner or later, as getting rid of Muellen would probably land in my in-box.
Bloody unnerving meeting, though. I hate that whole be civil to your competitors thing. I've no patience for it. It's one of the few things Pete and I agree about.
To top it all off, it looks like Blackheart's bought himself at least a few tidbits about me and mine, and now I'll be up nights wondering how he's going to use it. Lovely. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 20th, 2006|08:43 am] |
Bloody. I think I jinxed myself.
I'm going to Prague...
...to pick up the pieces left by Cutter.
I really hope that was a figure of speech in the orders, and not the literal truth.
I'm not a diplomat, but I'm a hell of a cleaner. |
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| Ranting In The Void |
[Apr. 19th, 2006|02:48 pm] |
I hate politics. I hate administrivia. I hate committees. So how in holy fuck did I end up having to run the latest debrief? It's not like Jason hasn't done it from the hospital before. Marlene's got all the charm, and Pete's much better at scaring the crap out of the higher ups. What have I got? A smart mouth and an unsavory reputation, that's what. Jesus, do they want me to shoot the department in the foot? Bureaucratic, I ain't.
Dinner with Russell Crowe was pretty cool, I'll admit that. By god, that man can drink. But aside from that, we hardly covered ourselves with glory in Rock Steady, did we?
I hear Cutter has my picture. I really hope that's as close to him as I ever get. That man is one scary mofo'ing freak - and I say this as one who knows all about being fucked up. If even half the stories about Prague are true...
Scorpio wants to talk to me. I'll talk to him all day long from the other side of a sheet of bulletproof glass. I'll believe he's come over to Code Black three days after he dies supporting one of our missions. I don't care what the shrinks and the hypnotists say they've found, fixed and done, I don't trust him. Then again, I know a lot of my comrades say that about me. They've got a point. Have one nervous breakdown and they never really relax around you ever again...
I'll give the committee fifteen minutes and then I'm going to go visit Jason. I think I've finally found some pron that'll shock him and I want to see his face when he gets the magazine. |
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