INTELLIGENCE - IS IT OVERRATED?

SPYING 101 –  

Part 3: Intelligence 

Intelligence is the main currency of being both a spy and an actor.  

In this instance it generally means information, not being clever, which in the case of most spies/actors/directors I have had the ‘privilege’ to work with is just as well. 
Sometimes this information is in the public domain but more often it is not. So most of what the security forces deal with has nothing to do with what the everyday person would call intelligence.

As I say, being an actor is also often about intelligence – emotional intelligence, as the more up themselves in the trade would call it. One must gather information to create a believable scenario and character and convince onlookers that what they are watching is real and ‘true to life’. It can also mean digging out ‘nuances’ in the text that nobody knows or cares about and making them the pivotal idea for a production. If the audience is ‘intelligent’ in the same way that you are, they will love it. If they are not, or if have a soupcon of common sense, then they will hate it. 

Let me give you an example. 

I was recently asked (actually I begged for a role and even offered to work for free, but I had my own nefarious reasons for that – do you see what a tangled web we secret service operatives must weave in order to do whatever it is that we do?) to be in a new version of Othello. 

Not ever having actually read the play, I was surprised that my good friend Mr. Willoughby-Chase, (with whom I have only recently made things up after a few small misunderstandings involving the destruction of his flat in a fire and getting him shot in Edinburgh – though I would point out that neither of these things was in any way intentional) wanted to more research about the Moors in order to give the play a greater depth and make the murder scenes more believable than was usually the case.

 Having spent a couple of weeks driving around Haworth and Settle, and brushing up my Yorkshire accent, as well as reading a book about Ian Brady, I was very surprised that none of the rest of the cast seemed to have the same depth of knowledge, and their accents seemed more north African than Northern England. 

This is the problem with actors; they are often too arrogant to read briefs properly as they are from the South. Willoughby-Chase explained to me in no uncertain terms that my work was not really fitting in with everyone else’s efforts (though why that would be my problem I do not know – I think as usual I was used as a kind of Northern scapegoat), though as things turned out I had too many other commitments to appear in his rubbishy version of the play anyway – though I did notice in the reviews that Iago ‘had a whiff of Heathcliff and Othello had all of the nobility of Charlie Williams’, so my interpretation must have stuck, on some subliminal level. Other than that, the reviewer didn’t seem to like the production very much so I rather think the last laugh was with me. 

It is this kind of experience which makes me believe that I am cut out to be the perfect spy. Given that I am rather…idiosyncratic in my actions, it makes said actions hard to predict, and will often lead to confusion on behalf of any viewer of the resulting scenario. Or as Anna would have it – ‘given that you rarely have an effing clue what the buggering hell you’re on about, it’s effing impossible for anybody else to know what you’re bloody well up to…’, which I can’t help but feel is just a more impassioned way of saying exactly the same thing… 

Don't worry, dear Reader, I will go into this in more detail and give concrete examples elsewhere – you may wish to buy my books in order to learn the finer nuances of both acting and spying. The first volume (entitled Rant) will be available from Moth Publishing next year, at a very reasonable price...  People from the intelligent and non-intelligent communities alike will, I think, be enthralled. 

Then of course there is counter-intelligence, which is the spreading of (often false) information to mislead or entrap the opposition.  Anna has told me since reading this over my shoulder that most of the things I do are counter intelligent. LOL! Mind you, she’s a fine one to talk, given some of the revelations she has seen fit to share with me of late…and only then after I managed to get into her Facebook account. 

Readers of my books would not be surprised that they comprise a little of both intelligence and counter intelligence. As I have stated before, some details have been changed in order to stop me being arrested and/or getting a good kicking from the parties involved. 

Being involved with the intelligence services does mean that I am often privy to information which is withheld from the general public. Usually for reasons of security, more often for reasons of wishing to avoid embarrassment, or too many queries about the way tax dollars are spent. 

I have thought about using this information to my advantage. Not blackmail (though I am not above this, as readers of my biographies will know) but rather as a way of reassuring the public that those in the know, know little of any use, if you know what I mean… 

Perhaps I will start a website called MikiLeaks, putting such info into the public domain. Anna tells me that it sounds like a blog exploring the problems of living with double incontinence, but I quite like it myself. 

My books, of course, do exactly this, but in an entertaining and enterprising way. I do like to think that I could teach Julian Assange a thing or two about public relations. My only fear is that, living as I do in the remote provinces (i.e. the North) I do not know the address of the Ecuadorean Embassy, if such an institution were to still exist when I may have recourse to their services.

A Small Misunderstanding.

You would think that the police would be more interested if you rang up complaining of a bomb under your car. Especially when there are children in the house. Although I suppose that technically speaking my child wasn't in the house, and I was a little circumspect about the details, but still.

              Let me explain...

             Anna and Giorgio, having spent the morning playing in the garden and being abused by a group of youths who were hanging about, went off to nursery (and the mother and toddler Tae-Kwon-Do class they've been attending recently). I was due to go and pick them up so went out to check out the car for any danger signals (I have been doing this a lot more recently - for reasons I will explain at length somewhere else...)

             I noticed some wires hanging down at the centre of the car, underneath and, thinking it was something that had come loose, reached under to pull them out. It was as my hand clutched at the wires that I felt a solid mass shift and bump against the exhaust pipe, along with a loud ticking noise.

            Now I know that most people would have thought nothing of it, but as a jobbing actor and part time international spy I have to be a lot more careful than most people. And I remembered that there had been a bit of a bump and some rattling when I'd driver to the supermarket this morning. Which I had forgotten to check out on my return. It was for this reason that I ran into the street screaming and waving my arms about, frightening the group of youths who now had their BMX's and who were, presumably, preparing for the Olympics by kicking the shit out of next doors fence and falling over whilst swearing and throwing cans of energy drinks at old ladies.

             I told them to clear the area as quickly as possible and they told me to fuck off. So be it, I thought, That's natural selection at it's finest.  I then pulled out my mobile and phoned the police, explaining as quickly as possible to the somewhat reticent call taker that there was a slight problem with my car and that I required assistance as soon as possible. She asked for my postcode and the first line of my address. I told her. She said that nothing was coming up for that address. I explained, somewhat tetchily, that there would be nothing at that address if she didn't get here soon. She asked for the details again and I swore and told her. This time they came up. She said I had given her different details last time and I gently explained that she must have inputted them wrong and then she warned me not to swear. She then asked me what the problem was and, so as not to panic any passers by, I told her quite calmly that there was a major incident unfolding concerning my car (yes, I admit that I perhaps I screamed just a little, but who wouldn't given the circumstances). The can of energy drink bouncing off my head didn't help.

           I could hear the stiffness in her voice as she explained that she would pass the details on but they didn't have a car available in the area at the moment but would have someone check it out as soon as one became available. It took several seconds before I realised I was swearing into mid air.

          Unsure how to proceed, I phoned my CIA handler, Sam Smith (not his real name...I think). For a change, he answered immediately. I could hear voices jabbering away in a foreign language - possibly Russian. They sounded quite agitated. Sam actually sounded more nervous than I'd ever heard him.
           "Can't speak right now," he almost whispered, "I'm in the middle of something, darling..."

          "Won't keep you a second," I said, "but there's a bit of a situation with a bomb under my car and the police won't come out, so..."

          "MIKE! I canNOT speak right NOW!"

          The noise in the background seemed to be getting louder and more agitated.

          "But what should I do? It could go off and hurt someone. Even me."

          "Look! Call them back and give the codeword Anklesocks and tell them there is a terrorist incident unfolding and you require assistance as soon as...AAaaaargh!"

          There was a sound of gunshots and the line went dead.

          Oops. He was likely to be very cross with me the next time we spoke but I didn't have time to worry about it now. I called the police back.
           Once I had given my details again I heard the call taker sigh. What are the chances of getting the same person twice in a row? Surely there's more than one? Or have the cutbacks really started to kick in? I could tell she was about to fob me off again when I blurted out "Anklesocks!"
           There was a long silence, except for a series of clicks and buzzes on the line. Then a man came on sounding very brusque. He quickly asked for details and reassured me that help was on it's way and that I was not to leave the area.

          "But there's a-" I began, but he cut me off.
           "Hush, Sir. Not over an open line." And the phone went dead.

          I stared at it for a moment and then felt a tap on my shoulder. As I turned, one of the BMX boys punched me in the face, whilst the others laughed.

          "What are you...?" I gurgled, clutching at my nose.

          "Shut up, Grandad," he hissed, and took the phone from my hand. Was this the bomber? "Give me you car keys."

          I started fishing in my pocket whilst his friends advanced on me. He took the keys and he and his friends piled into the front and back seats of the car.
           "You'll be sorry," I said.

          "Oh, yeah?" He came back over to where I lay and raised his foot to kick me, and then we both froze, as we listened to the sound of sirens building in the distance. Then a helicopter appeared over the rooftops. Wow! Talk about efficiency. BMX boy looked as though he didn't know whether to shit or go blind, but in the end he did neither and just jumped into the driver's seat, almost running me over as he reversed into the street.
          They didn't get very far. Several police vans and cars screeched into the end of the road and cut him off, whilst several very large men armed with very large guns surrounded the car and the helicopter hovered overhead, a loud voice crackling through the bullhorn that they were not to move, or the armed response unit would have no choice but to open fire. No cars available in the area indeed, I thought. What is the world coming to if the police lie to you like that?
          I looked around, dazed. Then I spotted Giorgio's remote controlled LovePuppy lying on the drive. The one his Grandma had bough him for his birthday. His favourite toy. There were wires hanging out of it's belly, where I must have run over it this morning, and it's legs were still clicking and ticking away as it tried to crawl off up the path.
          Oops.
          The police took me in for questioning, obviously. You can't even be assaulted and mistake a child's toy for a bomb without bringing all kinds of trouble down on your head. I explained that I had gone out that afternoon to my car and a gang of youths had attacked me, taking my phone and car keys. I had heard one of them on the saying something about terrorists and anklesocks but had assumed it was some kind of youth slang for stealing a car.
          I don't know if they believed me or not but they decided to keep my phone. They asked a few more questions and the lady who had answered the phone on my original calls couldn't be sure it was me that she had spoken to as the caller 'had seemed a lot more camp, or maybe just effeminate'. Cheek. I was under duress at the time.
          When I got back, there was a crater and burn marks on the tarmac at the end of the road, where they had to blow up my car just in case there was an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) attached to it. I explained what had happened (the edited version I had shared with the police) to Anna, but I could tell she was even less inclined to believe me than the police were.
          Still. Everything turned out okay in the end. Although Sam doesn't seem to be answering his phone at the moment. Maybe he's still pissed off with me.

AN ACTOR PREPARES

Why, oh why, oh why do I keep getting into these situations?  It certainly isn't for love of the work. That stopped being glamourous and became just plain dangerous some time ago. An I really am not that patriotic - or only in that whiny, 'I couldn't get away with being who I am anywhere else on the planet kind of a way.

Let's examine the facts, dear readers.
I am poorly paid for what I do.
I am at the sharp end of my profession.
Others are well remunerated.
They sit behind a desk.

Now I know this is often the case. Be it as an actor (the creative driving force within culture, the people who get things done whilst producers pick our pockets) or as a spy (out there getting shot at or threatened with death in other, more creative ways, whilst OTHER  PEOPLE (you know who you are) sit at their desks telling us what to do and then deny all knowledge of our existence when it comes down to it) I find it doubly hard to take.

They will tell you that this is because, as you move up the scale in terms of your wage packet, you will have to take more responsibility and therefore the buck stops with you. If something goes wrong, it is your head on the block.

I have only one word to say to that. BANKERS.

I don't think that if I screw up (and believe me I often do) that I should be paid four years wages in compensation and then given the same job somewhere else. Well, actually I do, but I am realistic enough to know that it will never happen.

I am writing this as I am trapped inside a prison with several score of very dangerous prisoners and a group of very dangerous terrorists, whilst the people who pay me a derisory wage are undoubtedly  watching events unfold on a screen somewhere, chuckling gently to themselves whilst stroking a white Persian cat and hovering their finger over the button of mutually assured destruction.

I hate running drama workshops. Especially in prisons. I am supposed to be teaching a class on 'Conflict Management Through the Dramatic Arts' but one of my students got miffed when I told him his interpretation of Ray Cooney was a bit wooden and seems to have broken my nose. It does little for ones respect among the other members of the class. I may well have to record them doing some contemporary dancing this afternoon and then post it on YouTube.