The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

au pres de ma blonde

In a cafe with Amal.
Her name means hope.
She's Arab.
But with blonde hair.
Most intriguing.
I look at her.
We are having a relaxed conversation.
I decide to raise the stakes.
"So what is the official name for the French secret service?" I venture pleasantly.
She freezes.
It is a most extraordinary display.
Truly a kodak moment.
In half a second she's recovered.
"I should know," she says as if trying to remember a piece of general knowledge.
"You should," I smile.
"I think it's the DGOS," she manages.
"Ah, the old Departement Generale d'Operations Secretes," I affirm warmly.
"That's it," she agrees.
She plays with her hair for a moment.
I reckon from the silence that the conversational grenade is back in my court.
"So what do you and the other spies talk about when you're sitting around of an evening?" I lob nonchalently. "You know like. When you kick back, and relax, and go for coffee with Pierre from Assassinations and Jean Claude from Ciphers. Do you talk about work or about politics or about sports or about who you're currently monitoring?"
"We might," she says with a forced cheefulness. "What do you think we talk about?"
That old gag.
Standard operational procedure.
The girl is chatting to you but she's chatting to you by turning every question back towards you.
You think you're quizzing her but in reality you're telling her everything about yourself.
I'm telling you folks.
Truly I'm a neuro.
Hilarious no.
I'm watching her closely.
I've definitely hit the nail on the head.
But I don't really think she's working for the French.
She's too good.
Saying I thought she was with the French was my little attempt at a double bluff.
She's not the Frogs.
And I know she's not the Qaeda.
Not with coloured hair she's not.
Besides the Qaeda don't let their class birds out, except on suicide missions.
And even on a suicide mission, they'd never send the class birds to me.
They'd be afraid I might have sex with them before they'd self detonate.
But what a way to go.
Well I'm just saying is all.
The Qaeda doesn't do honey traps.
I never thought she was the Americans either because I can see the CIA coming a mile off and they've already paid their mutual respects and decided I was a nut job. (Hi Mary.)
As for the Russkis, from my previous experience of Russian agents, I can assure you that if she was a Russki, she would have already tried any number of classic Russian gambits.
Pulled a gun.
Or begged me to marry her.
Or slipped Polonium 90 in my coffee.
Or demanded I make mad passionate love to her right here in the cafe.
Or more probably all of the above.
They don't hang around them Russkis.
Russian sexies are on the clock.
Also they figure they owe it to themselves to live a little.
I'm serious.
Would I kid about a serious thing like Russian spies going to first base on the first day of an assassination mission? (First date surely - Ed note.)
They do, I tell you.
Not the French. Not the Qaeda. Not the Russians. Not the Yanks.
Who does that leave?
I looked at her ever more closely.
Her and her magnificent indomitable Arab pride.
Her glorious Arab name.
Her refined but definitely disguised beautiful Arab features.
My eyes narrowed.
I still had no intention of letting her know I knew she wasn't working for the French.
Or that I spoke better Arabic than she did.
My gaze never left her face.
Was it possible gentle readers.
After all these years.
Could she really be.
An Israeli.
Now that's what I call espionage.


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