1998

Sam

It's the monotony that's getting to me. I'm still practically immobile but that's getting easier, in inverse proportions to my irritability. I've snapped at the doctor, three nurses and the physiotherapist today, and it's still only ten o'clock.

Ah yes. Ten-thirty is when they bring round the menus. High spot of the morning - or would be if the food wasn't driving me mad as well. This might be a smart clinic whose brochure insists the food is prepared by a highly qualified chef, but said chef is either not inspired by his surroundings or they got him cheap. A cast-off in the midst of today's ever-increasing horde of designer cooks.

I've finished the books that one of the ladies from my section brought in. Well, sort of. She has about as much idea about interesting things to read as the chef has about interesting things to cook. Mind, it was a duty visit when she came, anyway. She came in with paperwork for me to sign, suggested she'd drop by again and I nearly snatched her hand off. I even tried 'Sam Curtis in charming mode' and asked her if she had a couple of spare paperbacks. She did, and hoped I liked historical dramas.

I don't. But I read them. Just like I read all the magazines I managed to get the nurses to retrieve from the visitors' room for me until I could weave my own rather shaky way there myself to scavenge for something with boredom-relieving potential.

So far, I've found cast-offs on subjects as diverse as fly-fishing and interior decoration, not to mention magazines of the endless, glossy Cosmopolitan and Options variety. I suppose that I'm pretty well up on the new type of trout bait and the latest interior decoration techniques now, although I'm not sure when that's going to come in useful. I had to read "Give zing to your bedroom" twice to be sure it said what I thought, and wondered if distressed paint went hand in hand with schizophrenic paintbrushes and clinically depressed wallpaper.

Distressed came up in Marie Claire, too. Or was it She? See how these names drip off my tongue. "Life as a couple: distress, despair and DIY psychology." Sounds like fun, marriage. Remind me not to try it. Some people do, though, judging from the feature on "Casual dinners around the barbecue", where the pictures showed Mums and Dads and kids and tarted-up sausages and stuff. That just made me hungry, or rather made me even more icily sarcastic to the menu-bringer of the day.

Good Housekeeping had this special feature on changing your life that had caught my eye for a moment or two in between the cookery and fashion bits. Apparently you need to try a new hairstyle, to share meaningful moments with your partner, and to investigate new and exciting sports with an element of danger or physical contact. And, of course, you were also required to take a long, long look at your attitude.

Well, can't do much about my hairstyle, as it's currently short back and sides. I don't have a partner, a lover, a girlfriend or anybody who qualifies as such, so meaningful anything much is hard.

As for new and exciting sports like river rafting, climbing or the martial arts, they aren't on the menu until one rather awkwardly placed bullet wound has healed a bit, but the idea distracts me for a while so I read on.

No, I conclude, this article isn't intended for sore, disenchanted, cynical MI6 agents. I've seen all too many nice, boisterous sports, thanks, and most of the physical contact I've come up against lately has been with intent to either knock me out or finish me off.

Oh, and as for my attitude, that's what kept me alive, so I think I'll leave that where it is.

If I'm really honest, though, my attitude as displayed in here is hiding a whole lot else, and today the thin veneer of civility is threatening to crack. I've tried not to take a long, long look at anything so far, firstly because I felt like crap for the first ten days and secondly because every time I do I feel even worse.

Physically, I'm healing. Mentally, I'm hovering between emotions that include fury, disillusionment and resignation. When the powers that be come and check up on me, however, I'm as nice as pie. I act calm, optimistic, and neutral because it seems like a good idea, and there's no point in telling them the truth. I tell them what they want to hear. Yes thanks, I'm doing fine. Yes, it was unfortunate. No, I don't need anything. Yes, I'll be bouncing back because there's no permanent damage. Wonderful news indeed.

What I would like to add is that I'm just dying for some other nutter to use me for target practice, to be screwed up by jerks again, and to get caught in some political crossfire into the bargain. To tell them so, I suppose, would fall seriously short of politically correct. In MI6, and in my section, honesty appears to be out of fashion.

If that bullet had gone a bit deeper, it would have solved the problem for all of us in one of two ways. Either I'd have been dead or invalided out. Stuck behind a desk in Whitehall in the second case, probably, making use of my 'language skills' or something. There have been days when I wished for the first alternative, I'll admit. While I was lying in that alley, a trip to the pearly gates seemed like a sensible alternative to what I was enduring. Bullets hurt. Stoicism is all very fine, but since the whole exercise that landed me flat on my back was utterly pointless it tended to make the pain more of an insult than anything else. It was probably anger that kept me going.

They'd picked me up eventually, filled me up with drugs and brought me out by Medevac. Somebody told me to hold on, so I did. Always obeys orders, Sam Curtis. Then they'd no doubt rapidly covered up all traces of my existence in that delightful little spot of the world, and were probably wondering what on earth to do with me now.

I get more and more despondent between menu-time and lunchtime. The new duty nurse seems to have figured I'm crabby-tempered and puts the turbo on to change the sheets, not being particularly conversational. Then the tray arrives and I discover that however pretty it looks, steamed fish with its 'farandole of vegetables' tastes like shit. I want a glass of wine, a steak, and a new life. In that order, please.

At visiting time, I idly wonder if the girl from the office (hell, I can't even remember her name, but she was blonde, I think) will turn up. Even that would be fairly welcome, although for the life of me I can't work up much enthusiasm for her rather over-eager desire to please. Or maybe there'll be another courtesy visit from my superiors. If that's the case, I may blow it today, which will only get me shunted off to a psychologist for post-traumatic briefing. I'm expecting that anyway.

There's a light tap at the door, and I brace myself. Then find myself smiling as Karl Dietrich walks in.

"Silly bastard," he says. "Really fucked up there, didn't you." The German accent's still there, but I can't fault him on either the accuracy of his grammar or his assessment of the situation. Yes, I did fuck up. With a little help from two double-crossing bastards who were supposed to be on the same side as me.

I stare at him indignantly and he chuckles. Then he arranges his lanky form on the chair and sighs at me, mock-exasperated.

"Nice to see you, too," I tell him, softening. "And the answer to the question on the tip of your tongue is that I feel much better, thanks."

"Already found out that for myself, my son. One of the few advantages of working for one of these stupid spy organisations. I supposed you're bored out of your mind and would give a lot to tell your section head that your controller acted like an arsehole and his contact should be locked up and the key thrown away. Right?"

Karl does have a certain tendency for getting to the point, which is why I like him so much. He is also, perhaps, the one person in MI6 I really respect and trust. Leaving his cell in Berlin was, I think, the moment I started to dislike what I did and who I was doing it with.

"Right," I say ruefully, although the grin on his face is infectious. Karl has a wry sense of humour and a twinkle to his eye that appealed to me right from the start. He was a hard taskmaster, but a fair one. At the same time, he was an outstanding person to learn my skills from because he actually cared about his people, never letting them get too far in unless they were ready for it - unlike how it's been since.

"I don't blame you," he says thoughtfully. "It was a bloody mess, Sam, and you were powerless to stop it - and lucky to get out of it."

Damn right I was, but this is unexpected. It's the first time I've heard Karl openly criticise our beloved organisation, although I've suspected he wasn't always thrilled with all that went on there.

"Shit happens," I say, for want of anything more profound.

"Indeed. But you're a problem, now. Unless you're prepared to keep your mouth shut or so some serious licking of backsides."

Interesting mixture of not-quite compatible idiomatic phrases, that. I nearly make some flippant remark on physical impossibility or about his English not getting any better, but he's looking extremely serious.

"You don't think I can play that game?"

"Maybe you could, but you wouldn't enjoy it. Just as you haven't enjoyed these last two years."

"And where did you get that idea?" I ask mildly, knowing he won't tell me.

He taps his nose. I roll my eyes. We've done all this before.

"There is a solution, you know."

"Sure there is. I'll apply for a post teaching people with thick German accents to speak proper English. For example."

"Very funny." He makes a particular effort not to pronounce it 'wery', and continues to look straight at me. "If that injury had been more serious, maybe. But it isn't, and won't affect you physically after a little physiotherapy and patience. I waited to find that out before I talked to you."

"Oh?" He's got me interested, now. "Didn't want to soothe my fevered brow before?"

I probably sound a bit indignant, but I'm curious as well.

"I had my reasons, but lack of concern was not one of them," he chides gently. I apologise, and it's accepted. I admit I'm pissed off, and he accepts that too.

"So what's going to happen, Karl? You know everything, so what's the verdict? They going to sideline me?"

"That would be a possibility, but you would be bored and wasted behind a desk, and you know it. And as far as MI6 is concerned, you will be an embarrassment as long as you remain one of our agents. Good as you are."

"I figured that," I admit, and didn't bother with any false modesty in answer to what, for Karl, was a major compliment either. Nevertheless, I had realised MI6 would want to keep me well out of sight for a while. Somewhere as distant as possible from any sort of possible repercussions, or simply pushing paper.

"I thought you might. So I've been doing a little public relations work on your behalf. You may be offered a change of employment while continuing to exercise your skills. And soon."

I raise my eyebrows, and he gives me a slight grin this time.

"But recruitment is one thing. Getting accepted is another."

"Accepted? And is it legal? Because…"

"Because you don't see yourself as some sort of mercenary. I've heard your little speech on ideals before, Sam, if you remember. Of course it damn well isn't."

He's a little impatient now, and I know I'm supposed to prompt him. But this game of cat and mouse is something I'm familiar with, too, so I wait it out. In the end, he comes out with it, although it's only because he wants to. Awkward bugger.

"CI5."

I don't bother to hide my surprise, and that pleases him.

"Harry Malone's running it now, and he's on the lookout for good people. Nobody forces his hand, mind, so it's only a question of bringing your name in front of him as a possibility. Which has been done. MI6 will no doubt release you for the training, if - as it is believed - you are called for an interview and pass that stage. Then the rest is up to you."

"You're avoiding telling me who actually went and shook his elbow, Karl." I've not missed the careful phrasing.

"You noticed. Clever Sam. However, I am authorised to tell you that your name has been… mentioned. Your section head heard I was coming in and told me to pass the news on. Probably because he was too chicken to tell you personally, since he knows you'd like to strangle him."

"Me?" I enquire innocently, my mind busy working on this whole idea.

"You," Karl tells me. "So it wouldn't pay for you to go losing your temper now. Go for it - CI5 has an extremely interesting international brief. You have an excellent track record, and now and then you shoot straight."

He's sore because I can beat him on a firing range any day, but I feel like hugging him. Karl Dietrich is probably the one person I have entire faith in, and I'm filled with all sorts of honourable thoughts about not letting him down.

I've heard plenty about CI5 and what it's doing these days myself, mainly that MI6 think they're poaching on our ground and are both incompetent and arrogant. Judging by what I in turn think about MI6 at this moment, however, I'd probably try and get into Malone's squad if they wore pink uniforms and were armed with peashooters.

Karl tells me a bit more about what he knows, and I soak it all in. Then he makes a little small talk and finally rises.

"I'm leaving next week, Sam. But I'll keep in touch whenever I can. I'll call in again before I go, if I get the chance."

"Do," I grin. "And being an MI6 agent, can you try a little covert operation for me? The food's lousy and I'd die for a decent glass of wine. And something to read."

He grins, not promising anything he can't deliver but I know he'll try. He walks out of the door with a familiar wave, and I wonder when I'll see him again.

I'm sorry to see him go but fired up with enthusiasm, suddenly.

I'm polite to the nurses. Show off to the physiotherapist and regret it when I overdo it, which is stupid. Promise never to do it again, as I know it's in my interests to get fit.

CI5, eh? Naturally, my thoughts immediately turn to Bodie and Doyle, and I wonder what they're doing now. I've often wished I'd kept in touch, but there was so little love lost between Cowley's mob and mine that I let it drop. Being in places where I couldn't have contacted them if I'd tried didn't help either.

Half of me is tempted to try and track them down right now and tell them I might be in with a chance, but the other, more logical half tells me to wait and see if I make it first.

The last time I saw Bodie I was in hospital as well, I muse. Right after the fire.

I shudder - I've hated fire ever since. Even when Bodie was joking about me defecting from MI6 and joining the A squad, as they always called CI5 then, I was still thinking about those few horrifying moments that seemed like hours, waiting to be burned alive.

I will make it into CI5 now, though. MI6 owes me nothing. I'll have a completely new direction to my life, as the magazine suggested. Apparently it can make you more vibrant, give you inner calm and improve your sex life. Now there's something. I'm all for the new, improved version of me so it would be fair to check the sex life bit out too.

I'm even nicer to the nurses in the evening. The skinny one comes on fairly strong when I give her the full treatment, and sure enough, she falls for my pathetic look. I remember the magazine and do 'meaningful', as well, and during the night she does more for me than take my temperature. She has highly talented lips, actually, and it doesn't take long for the hot, wet pressure to produce the desired effect. It's nice, it was necessary, and I'm polite enough to return the favour too. She climaxes almost as soon as I start fingering her, and thanks me rather primly as she re-arranges her clothing. I tell her it was wonderful, and mean it.

Yes, I'm a changed man.