Hearsay

Hearsay

         The Chief of Watch likes to start the quiet night shift by visiting the few operators doing the dogwatch, giving them his pep talk and making sure they know their work is both important and right. It keeps the troops working hard, he believes, and it also gives him something to do. As the scattered operators begin their tasks the COW tucks himself away at his desk far from sight and watches his new dvds.

         We have the warrants, we have the rights, that's what my COW always says at the start of the shift before he nicks off to watch his films. And I agree. It's our right to listen to everything important for the security of our country. I always make sure our procedures comply with the law. There's no point putting in the hard yards to later have some smarmy-arsed lawyer wrangle our transcripts invalid because we didn't cross the I's and dot the T's. The beauty of satellites is that we don't even have to be in the same country as the target. Bring the footprint over and off we go. Set the intercept parameters and set the big red button to 'record'. It's the most fun you can have while you're playing Solitaire on the laptop, waiting for voice comms.

         It's been weeks of listening, surveillance and chaining of our targets, watching and waiting for something exciting. I've been doing this for years now and I've got to say the exciting bit is rare and you only realise your work was important in 20/20 hindsight. Mostly you sit around, drinking coffee and tea and eating a range of junk foods from our social club stall, raising money for some puerile charity we don't care about. Last year it was for mental health research, which I thought was funny. Here we are, eavesdropping on the world, and we raise money for people who suffer from paranoia. You can't say the government doesn't have a sense of irony.
         The weeks on this target have gone on and my rotation has turned to the dog watch. Although the big glass building (surely that's a security issue?) is open plan and two stories, there are only five or so people on the overnight shift so the physical gap between us is vast. If I see two people during the night when I go for a brew or to use the loo then it I consider it a social night. That suits me fine. I prefer to be alone these days. Alone at work, anyway. Alone at home is a different matter. That's hard.

         So now I'm leaning back in my chair, the lights are dim, my headphones are jammed on my head and I'm listening to static as I close my eyes for just a second. There is only so much Solitaire you can take in a night. The targets on my scan are just past my time zone so I know from recent experience I'm in for a night of nothing. The computer is scanning, seeking, hunting - I'm just following in its path, picking up the crumbs it drops. I drift away a little, half-dreaming snippets of experiences like adverts in my head of dreams and nightmares I can choose from at a later date. There are the usual; being at work naked, some sort of Christmas party with the relatives, swimming in the pool downstairs, seeing my newly-born son still pink and red and squinting in the light, missing him, trains and tunnels... and voices. Voices speaking in hushed tones. Conspiratorial. I concentrate and think to myself that this is the sort of intercept I'd normally be transcribing...
         I nearly spill my old coffee on the keyboard as I jerk up, awake. This is exactly the sort of intercept I transcribe. Crap! I start typing in the log file window, glancing up to make sure the feed is auto-diverting to hard drive. I can retrieve what I missed later. In one window two zig-zagging lines like heartbeats bounce and sway with each spoken syllable.
         It is two voices, two men. Deep, whispering voices with some sort of dark accent but in English.
         "When does it start?"
         "Soon enough."
         "Do we have what it takes?"
         "We will."
         I check one of the many open windows on my screen to see which number I'm listening to. It comes up as an unknown local, talking to another unknown local. That makes no sense. If I've picked it up I must have one number at least on cover so there should be some identification. Maybe the computer hasn't correlated it properly. Someone put the wrong info in the data base - wouldn't be the first time. Should I keep transcribing? If they are not our legitimate targets then the warrant won't cover it and by law I must stop and turn it off. I should do so. Straight away. But they say something more.
         "James knows."
         When you hear your own name it always gives you a start. I don't know why, considering I have one of the most common names around, but when you hear it some part of your ego instantly thinks it is you.
         "He can't know."
         "He does now."
         I stop typing. I have no reason to keep going with an unknown. I move the mouse to click on the cancel receive button and nearly tap it, but they speak again. Urgently.
         "He's listening to us right now."
         "But it's late."
         "He's on dogwatch."
         I freeze, eyes and ears wide. Is dogwatch a common term? I thought only we used it.
         "We will have to act straight away then."
         "Like last time. With the baby."
         They pause but the computer tells me the line is still open - the wiggly lines are smooth but present, scrolling along the window on my screen. I have stopped typing but I can't bring myself to turn it off. I'm too busy thinking about the baby. My baby. My son, for nearly three months until he went to sleep one night and didn't wake up again. SIDS, they call it, but having a name for it doesn't help with the pain. It didn't help with the marriage. I sometimes wonder how Linda is going these days with her new husband. She always wanted more kids. I couldn't. Not after we lost Robbie.
         "It will be just like with Robbie."
         Is that right? Is that what I heard? No. I'm imagining it. I was thinking it and now I'm hearing it.
         "It broke up his marriage, the last one did."
         "This will do worse. Poor James."
         This isn't paranoia, surely. They are talking about me. But who? How? How do they even know I'm listening through a satellite thousands of miles away? Logically it's impossible. I open databases, cursing as they take forever to load. I type in the phone numbers in my call, searching for identification. I run searches in four banks around the world, looking, looking... hunting.
         "He bought a new car this year. An Alpha. As a substitute for losing his kid."
         "Red, I heard. How lame. How mid-life crisis. Loser."
         "Linda remarried."
         "Good girl."
         No, this isn't right. How can they know about me? I'm no one important, I'm no one. I'm just here typing. Listening. It's a desk job in a bland office in a big glass doughnut, whiling away time till my next holiday in France. One of thousands around the world doing the same monotonous crap. Why are they talking about me? And how do they know these things?
         "When do we start?"
         "Soon."
         I grab the phone next to me and ignore my hand shaking as I dial the number of the duty leader, Chief Of Watch. Someone should be down there. In the distance of the open plan office I hear a phone jingle. My searches start to come back. Errors and 'no known files'. It can't be. I slide one side of my headphone up and jam the phone receiver against my ear. Listening.
         The phone rings out. I try the phone for the Middle East section downstairs doing Op Churl Barrow.  The two guys there have to be on all night because of the time difference with their targets. The phone rings out.
         "He'll come looking for us."
         "He'll come alone."
         "The others are gone."
         "It's his turn."
         I try the COW again. I try to think of someone else. The distributor office. The number is on speed dial. It must be manned 24/7. The phone rings out.
         "Not long now."
         I have emergency numbers hard-lined onto my phone under the appropriate buttons, in secure SitTight mode. I'm not supposed to use it under the instructions laid out as it isn't a registered emergency, but for me it is. This is all wrong, this is so wrong. I have to speak to someone. I dial a partner agency, the other side of the world. It's daytime there, a whole building of people like me with hundreds of telephones and extensions. I don't care if they think I'm an idiot for calling for no good reason, I'm not going to be embarrassed or concerned about being slapped on the wrist. I need to speak to someone right now. I dial their Chief Of Watch. The phone rings out.
         "James?"
         I pause, the phone in my hand forgotten, straining to hear through the one headphone.
         "We know you're there, James."
         I drop the phone and slide the other headphone down. I need both ears to hear this.
         "You know the brew area downstairs?"
         I reply but there's no point. There are no microphones on the set.
         "We're waiting."
         The two wiggly lines sever. Windows start to close down. Static suddenly bursts through the headphones, loud enough to hurt. I rip them off and throw them down, jumping to my feet. I look around the dim office over the tops of partitions and cubicles. All is quiet. All is empty. Outside the windows all I can see is streetlights glinting on rain-streaked glass. I strain my ears to hear sounds from anywhere - outside, inside - but there is just the grumbling hiss from the headphones. I look towards the small stairwell that leads down to the amenities - the brew area, the sink, the toilets and change rooms. Treading lightly I walk towards this area, peering carefully down the stairs, listening. All the time listening.
         In the brew area the boiling water tap gurgles and hiccups in the sink, but apart from the drying pools of coffee on the cupboard left by me a few hours ago there is no sign of any life. The corridor stretches down to the change rooms and toilets. Although nothing is out of place I'm feeling more and more apprehensive. I don't want to go any further but this is ridiculous. What I heard makes no sense. Being afraid of the toilets in a secure building makes no sense. Not being able to find anyone else makes no sense.
         I go into the change rooms determined to show myself I've been stupid and irrational. I've been spending too much time thinking about Linda and her new husband and with Robbie's birthday coming up... well, I have been a bit on edge. Depressed. No, not something medical. Just... sad. So sad.
         I go through the change rooms and toilets, both male and female. Nothing. Empty. It's a relief and I look at myself in the mirrors and find I'm sweating and red-eyed. Good God, what has got into me tonight? I run the cold water over my hands and then slosh it against my face. It's cool. It's calm. I turn off the water and wipe myself dry on paper towels. At first all I can hear is the crumpling paper, a noise like static. Then I hear the voice.
         "So here you are."
         I look around. Reflected in the mirror I can see in the toilet cubicles. All empty.
         "We waited."
         There's a vent in the roof as well as a fire detector and sprinkler and a small speaker for announcements. I lean towards this, peering at the little perforated surface.
         "Robbie is waiting, too."
         The voice doesn't come from there. Not from the ceiling at all. It seems to be from the sinks. I lean my face into the one I just used. The drain is a small, deep hole in the centre of the gleaming white porcelain. When I put my face nearer I fancy it's like a small mouth - I can feel a slight draught of air like a breath coming from it along with the voice.
         "Come closer."
         It's dark in the drain and there is the whisper of the voice, almost an echo, and in the distance somewhere in the background, behind the static of the voice I can hear a wailing. A crying. The sound of a baby in distress. It breaks my heart all over again. Truly it does.


          The COW was shocked to find James on the floor of the women's toilets at the end of the shift, cold and pale with glazed dry eyes. Long dead. A stroke or a heart attack, perhaps, but why were his fingers jammed in his ears?







habis