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PROLOGUE
Eighteen
years have passed since
Ryszard Paszkowski's life
with espionage and the international
fast-track began. He shrugs
his shoulders and frowns;
then he was young, naive,
and had read enough detective
stories to want to try his
hand at it. Now he is tired
by the pace, disillusioned
with the phoney spy games
he was made to play, and
in real fear of a well-known
enemy - his former bosses.
It is time to put down roots
and begin a real life with
a job in which he would
not have to risk his life,
daily satisfying someone's
ambitions of scoring high
in never-ending skirmishes
between the West and the
East. His legal battle to
be allowed to begin a normal
life in Canada has already
consumed five long years
and the end isn't yet easily
predictable. Choices made
almost two decades ago put
him on a treadmill he still
can't seem to get off; no
matter what the cost, he
is determined to stop being
a fugitive from the law
and his own murky past.
He muses:
There is no way the stupid
games of politicians are
going to cost me my life;
there are already too many
anonymous agents biting
the dust - victims of political
miscalculation, faulty espionage,
unnecessary risks and the
bravado of those sitting
behind mahogany desks pencilling
in the course of action.
Both sides of these war
games fed us real hatred
towards each other only
so we'd fall for their tricks
and follow instructions.
When a specific planned
mission failed or was impossible
to carry out because of
absurd planning, those responsible
would blame those who were
to carry it out. The failed
agent was a disposable item
and had to be gotten rid
of. There are many ways
of eliminating unwanted,
possibly compromising intelligence
agents depending on how
much they might know. An
agent who knew too much
and was considered undesirable
would have to die. When
an agent does not know too
much, yet is considered
a potential future embarrassment
to the various authorities,
he would be left out in
the cold or, alternately,
set up to walk into a "mine"
- inflicting dishonour or
embarrassment on himself.
In such cases, an agent
either shuts up forever
or ends up in jail, in which
case nobody believes him
anyway. The easiest way
to drop an unwanted agent
is to deny his existence,
deny he was ever known in
any capacity other than
the one discredited. This
usually works where an agent
knows little about his immediate
handlers or does not know
his bosses.
The
amount of money spent on
espionage-related activities
is unbelievably high. The
public is never told the
actual price tag for the
often botched spying done
allegedly in the national
interest. Official figures
are always reduced. The
funniest thing about intelligence
agencies on either side
of the former Iron Curtain,
if one can find anything
funny about them, is that
while they swear at each
other they are basically
very much alike. They differ
little in their oversized
ambitions, imaginary threats,
`enemy-at-your-door' paranoia,
dirty tricks and internal
personal battles. I worked
for both sides and whether
it is "scisle tajne" (in
Polish), "top secret", or
"COBEP_EHHO CEKPETHO" (in
Russian), it's basically
the same stuff. Different
money pays for it.
James
Bond's adventures are glamorous
in technicolour on screen.
The real life of an intelligence
agent is one of anonymity,
monotonous routine punctuated
with real dangers, and no
easy mistakes. The big money,
the rescued beautiful woman,
averted major disasters
and congratulatory letters
from the big boss exist
mostly in the movies.
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