A Silent Key Turns
By Thomas X Veil
A naïve intelligence officer infiltrates an enemy organisation to steal a guarded secret. In a dystopian system built on deception and surveillance, every success deepens the trap, and the true mystery is whether loyalty itself can survive exposure.
Genre: Psychological Conflict Fiction
Home > Thomas Veil > Rosecode
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David
During debriefs, I’d discovered that if I concentrated enough on the New Tomorrow logo at the top of each sheet in front of me, then I could suppress my desire to reach over the table, grab the so-called spy’s lapels and shake him uncontrollably.
The glass partition would hum with the air conditioner. The room would smell of coffee and floor polish.
It was their voices. They were so fuckin’ monotonous.
But anyway, there I was, Lieutenant David Goodall, listening to yet another spy’s end-of-mission debrief in our bid to get The Return codebook. I’d have loved to be a spy. I’d taken courses, read books and knew what they needed to do. I needed to be out in the field, using false identities and the dark arts of subterfuge. I bet I could have brought the codebook back.
My father certainly thought I could. “Goodalls don’t push paper, David. Goodalls act.” His portrait, the one in the uniform I’d never earn, seemed to stare from the back of my mind. He’d died in an alley off a bleak mud spattered road, a “field operative to the end.” All I had were his medals and a desk that felt like a shrine to my own failings.
Getting the codebook wouldn’t just be a mission success. It would be an answer. Proof I was more than the son who only played it safe.
*****
Then one day, Major Jones called me into his office.
“Get your pen and notebook; we’ve got work to do in Room 10.”
I thought it was just another debrief of the guy we had spoken to the day before. But it was nothing like that.
“State your name and occupation for the tape, please.”
“Eugene McDougal, I’m a research assistant for The Policy Group upstairs. Call my boss and he’ll sort this out in a jiffy.”
Major Jones leaned closer, voice cold but calm. “It was your boss who called us. We know what you are, McDougal. Let’s not waste time.”
At first, all Major Jones could get were some barely believable scraps of information. Changing tack, he dimmed the lights and projected images of torture victims onto the room’s blank wall.
I should’ve felt sick, but I couldn’t look away.
Major Jones’ features hardened. “How would you like to leave here? As you are, or in the same state as these gentlemen, broken and torn, minus various parts?”
Eugene sat stiff in his chair, eyes flicking from the wall to the little red recording light. His jaw tightening, then loosening again.
“Look,” he muttered, forcing a thin laugh, “I’ve got nothing you want. You’ll get bored with me.”
Jones didn’t respond. He just clicked through the images. One after another: broken faces, ruined hands…
Eugene shifted in his seat. “You’re bluffing. New Tomorrow doesn’t go in for this kind of thing.”
The next image cut him short.
His lips trembled. A bead of sweat slid down his cheek.
Jones finally spoke. “Believe me now?”
For a long moment, Eugene said nothing. Then his shoulders slumped. His voice cracked.
“I… I can’t go through anything like that. Tell me what you want to know.”
From then on, as Major Jones asked the questions, Eugene’s answers just spilled out. He couldn’t have been more helpful. He was a spy for The Return, the rising faction that used popular appeal as their USP.
When he finally stopped talking, his voice was cracking on every word, so we took a break.
“What do you think, Lieutenant? Do you think he’s holding things back?”
“Not now, sir.”
“I agree.”
“I do have an idea, though.”
“Go on.”
“We should turn him and use him to get a spy into their HQ to get hold of the codebook.”
I held my breath.
I intended to be that spy.
“We’ll see, but it’s a good idea. Well done, Goodall.”
The next few days weren’t easy. Our Eugene wasn’t convinced about being a double agent. I think he was just as scared of his own faction’s threats as he was of ours, but Major Jones’ persistence paid off in the end and he succumbed.
I asked for a meeting with the major before we started again with Eugene the following day.
“Have you given any more thought to my idea, sir?”
“Yes, Goodall. I think it’s worth the risk.”
This was my only shot; I couldn’t blow it.
“I want to be the spy, sir.”
“You’re green, Goodall. Field work isn’t a training exercise.”
“I know, sir. But look at the what kind of mission it is. Infiltration via a turned asset. We don’t have enough operatives at the moment. Short, in-and-out objective: secure a physical book. It’s a starter mission, sir. If I’m ever going to be more than a debrief officer, this is the one to cut my teeth on.”
Enjoying these stories? Try the book.
Jones studied me.
“What about your family, Goodall?”
“They know the risks of the job, sir.”
Jones tapped his pen on the desk. “Logistically, you’re correct. We are short. But that’s not why I’d say yes.” He paused, making a decision. “I’d say yes because this mission will tell me exactly what you’re made of. The debrief room teaches you to listen. This will teach you if you can think on your feet. It’s the ultimate assessment. Are you prepared to be assessed, Lieutenant? Not just to succeed, but to have every flaw in your psyche laid bare if you fail?”
The question was a cold slap of reality.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll speak to the brigadier. Frame it as a tactical trial for new field recruitment. But Goodall,” his eyes were flint, “a test can be failed. Don’t.”
“Thank you, sir.”
*****
Two days later:
“Congratulations, Goodall. The brigadier’s agreed that it’s you who should infiltrate the Return and bring back their codebook! Well done!”
The bottom of my stomach opened, and for a second, I thought I was going to shit myself.
What had I done?
“Fantastic, sir. That’s wonderful news. I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”
“Bringing back the codebook will be thanks enough, Goodall. Just make sure you do it without getting yourself hurt.”
Is it always like this when your dreams come true? I thought I’d be floating on air, but I can hardly walk; my legs are shaking that much.
“And the brigadier says we should ‘encourage’ and ‘persuade’ Mr. Eugene McDougal to help you get a head start. Some kind of manipulation will be required, Goodall. Have a seat and we can make a shopping list of what we need our Eugene to do for you.”
*****
But Eugene had other ideas.
Major Jones and I had been putting The Return spy under immense pressure for days.
Major Jones leaned on him: “You’re done, Eugene. We have enough to bury you. Your only chance is to work for us.”
Eugene’s eyes narrowed, almost smirking:
“Work for you? I don’t think so. I’ll… cooperate. On my terms. You want a man inside the Return? You’ll never get him through on your own. But if I help? If I say he’s mine… my recruit, my find, they’ll believe it. I’ve got just enough left to sell the lie.”
“And what’s stopping you from burning us both the moment you’re back with your friends?”
“Nothing. Except that if I do, you’ll make sure I’m nothing more than dust scattered on the ocean. I know how this works, Major. So, I’ll do what you want… for now. But I choose the man who goes in.” He looked straight at me, sending a thrill right down my spine.
That was it then; it was going to happen, so I’d better get my shit together. I didn’t want to let down Major Jones or his immediate superior, Colonel White.
We stopped the interrogation for that day, leaving Eugene hanging, not sure whether we’d agree or not. Things could get bad for him if the Return found out what he was doing.
Not as bad as for me, though. Fuckin’ hell, death was the least I had to fear.
Little did I know.
I’ll give him this; Eugene was a harder bastard than I could ever be.
We threw every trick in the book at him: threats, bribes, blackmail, but he only cracked when we showed him the photos of him in compromising positions with the Heritage Front intelligence chief. He was speechless, even attempted to say they were fake. We were just in time when he tried to swallow the negatives.
Slippery as an eel, this one, which was great for us.
Bit of a worry for me, though.
And it wasn’t all easy sailing when he went back to the Return HQ.
At first, spy boy Eugene kept his word by sending us anything and everything that passed across his desk. Some of it, like exposing a city centre safe house, was absolute gold; the rest was shit.
For instance, his intel had led to an innocent officer being publicly accused of rape. He was exonerated, but it took him off a vital case, wasting huge amounts of time and money.
Then, just as I was due to go to the Return HQ for Eugene to introduce me to their intelligence committee, the brigadier upstairs pulled the plug on the entire operation.
The office was silent except for the rustle of the file.
I waited by the frosted glass, hands sweating on the folder. Voices bled through, Major Jones and the colonel standing up for me.
“He may be green,” Colonel White’s tone was flat through the door, “but sending him isn’t reckless. It’s not as if we’re risking years of work.”
Major Jones cut in, sharper: “Sir, with respect, he’s the only one who fits the profile Eugene can sell.”
I pictured the aide typing; the brigadier weighing the risks, Jones leaning in. Silence, then a pause heavy enough to feel even from where I stood.
“If he fails, Jones… this is on your head.”
Another long pause.
“Proceed.”
A thump… probably the official stamp. Top Secret.
Then laughter.
When the door opened, I knew before he spoke.
“Congratulations, Goodall…”
*****
Major Jones and I had gone through the New Tomorrow testing system repeatedly. So, if someone came to us claiming to be a spy, we would know how to find out who they really were and what they wanted.
Jones had drilled it into me: fail a test and they don’t send you home for retraining. They take you down to the basement, and you don’t come back up. Not whole, anyway.
At The Return HQ, though, there was also the matter of my experience, or the complete lack of it.
I couldn’t look too experienced, because that would blow my cover.
I had to learn on the fly.
“What’s the safe word for the Thursday drop at the Mornington Road safe house?” The evaluator demanded.
As we’d practiced, I hesitated, looked up to my left as if recalling a memory, then…
“Falkirk.”
I knew it was wrong but still felt the ire of my questioner’s raised eyebrow.
Later, in a facial recognition exercise.
“Which person is the courier that carries the intel for prisoner exchanges?”
I pointed out the plain girl, not the man in the tie.
“What the fuck are you doing? You know it’s not her.”
The flinch I’d practised came out on cue. It worked for now.
The evaluator’s jaw tightened; someone in the back made a note. Not a failure, not yet, but a mark. That’s all it took.
Every tiny slip got me through.
It was a fuckin’ nightmare. I just wanted to be me, and I guess after all that wishing and hoping and naked ambition and everything, being me and being a spy were completely incompatible.
Too late for that kind of talk, though. Far too late.
*****
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