The Whistle Blower

The only way we'll know when and at what targets a nuclear button will be pressed

is by electronic espionage-

That’s what makes it so appalling that Dodgson,

a self-confessed and convicted Soviet agent,

was able to hold a position of trust here for ten years.

It must not happen again.

Each of you, not only section heads, but each and every one of you,

has simply got to report oddities of behaviour among your colleagues,

strange events or anything else that strikes you as out of the ordinary.

It’s not only your jobs that are at risk, it’s the survival of the free world.

Did you spy for the Russians for ten years?

Yes.

Did you watch kiddy-porn videos with Stephen Kedge?

Yes.

Does the photograph that I’ve just shown you contain Allen Goodburn?

Yes.

Did you sometimes see him socially with his wife Cynthia?

Get this thing off me!

Mr Dodgson,

you’ve already told me this machine is no better than a fortune-teller at a fair.

I mean, if it’s junk, what’s your problem?

Are you anti-Black or just anti-American?

A lot of people detest your country and all it stands for.

In England, that’s not yet a crime.

I think we have a problem.

Utah was painful to us, Dodgson. We don’t forgive you for making us look foolish

and for putting another wedge between us and our good friends.

You’re here to answer yes or no to our friend’s questions. Yes or no.

And get on with it.

I'm gonna have to start all over again.

Sit real still.

Keep your eyes on the board.

Your friend Kedge fell under a train.

Looks as though they’ve taken the bait.

As soon as we’re sure they’ve bitten on Goodburn, I'll let you know.

Take the pills that evening.

Check.

And mate.

Tickets, please.

- Thanks. Cheltenham next stop, sir. - Thank you.

Any more tickets now, please?

The train on platform two is the 12:10 from London Paddington -

This is Cheltenham Spa, Cheltenham Spa -

The train will be leaving in five minutes, 12:15,

for Gloucester, Stroud, Kemble, and London Paddington -

- Dad? - Bob. You shouldn’t have bothered to come.

- Well, you’ve braved British Rail to get here. - I’ve got a present for you.

The bloke in the Russian book shop said it was a fair translation.

It’s beautiful. Thanks.

- How’s business? - Struggling.

Yeah?

Over here. By the way, there’s someone coming I particularly want you to meet.

A girl, eh? It’s about time.

- Two of them, actually. - Two?

PV.

PV?

- It’s to do with security. Positive vetting. - Yeah, PV.

- PV? It sounds rude. - It’s all in your mind.

No, no, she’s quite right. It is rude.

And I speak as one who’s being PV'd at the moment.

- It’s routine. - Known as the quinquennial review.

Yeah, we are PV'd by IOs, Tiffany.

An IO is not, as you may think, an intelligence officer,

still less an intelligent officer, he is an investigating officer.

If something dodgy happens, like someone with the same name turns up at a peace rally,

then our case is referred to an HEOPVA,

who is, in his glory, a Higher Executive Officer Positive Vetting...

- You’re drunk! ...Assessor. How dare you say I'm drunk?

Should you be talking like this? I mean, the Official Secrets Act and all that.

No, no. You’re quite right, Dad.

We shouldn’t. It is, after all, a method devised to let people like Dodgson get away with it.

- That’s not fair. Dodgson was clever. - This isn’t the Soviet Union.

A timely reminder.

- Right. - Oh, look. Isn’t Tiger beautiful?

- Tiger? - Beautiful?

You know that cat? He’s abnormal.

He gets himself right down there and he can’t get back up again.

Then he howls, and who do you think has to get up at four in the morning to let him in?

Me.

Come on. Come here, you little monster.

Yes. Look at you.

I sometimes think if I could assemble a cat-like ladder

then he could make his own way back.

It’s nearly 30 feet.

I’m going to phone for a taxi to take me to the station.

- We ought to wash up lunch. - OK.

- You, too, Mark. - Bossy cow.

- Bob? - Mm?

I told Allen.

- How did he take it? - Terrible.

Bob, hold me.

Make it in about an hour, could you?

Fine. Thank you.

... second thoughts? - No, of course not.

I just wish we didn’t have to hurt anyone else.

Bob.

- Do you fancy a walk? - Um, yeah, sure.

And then again, no.

No, I... I want to have a word with you, so let’s go.

Oh...

I’m so clumsy. It’s bloody ridiculous.

You intend to chuck the job. That’s it, isn’t it?

- Yeah. - Why?

- Well, it’s a bit complicated. - Yes, I thought it would be.

Don’t be so aggressive, Dad. It’s not very helpful.

In an odd way, this Dodgson business focused how I feel.

I wondered if you knew him when I read about the trial.

There are 7,000 of us working at GCHQ.

It’s an industry. Ordinary.

Accepted. I didn’t even know Dodgson by sight.

The net result is the business of informing on one another has now become respectable.

All of us are encouraged to report anything that strikes us odd about colleagues.

Can you imagine what it’s like to be at the mercy of a secret report

from someone you’re living with or working with?

Is that what’s happening, Bob? Someone informed on you?

- You’re being asked to resign? - No way.

I’m not being judged. It’s the other way round.

The security people had egg all over their faces-

Ten years he got away with it-

And then there are the lies- They start the very first day-

Nobody's what they seem- Nothing is what it's made out to be-

And you never realise till later, years later in my case,

that from the very first day, the truth recedes.

- Don’t forget, what they do is necessary. - That’s a fatal argument, Dad.

It’s common sense. You need a posting or a holiday.

Take one, but don’t throw away six years of seniority.

- God, there’s more to life... - Listen to me.

When I came out after 12 years, it was no joke making a living

and it’s taken me over 20 years since then to find my way, and it’s still very dodgy.

Cleverer men than me go bankrupt every day. Times are bad and getting worse.

Let’s face it, you’re not a computer man or an engineer or a doctor.

You’re a linguist. Who needs them?

- Are we going to have an argument? - I shouldn’t be surprised.

- Tea? - All right.

- Go ahead. Knock on the door. - OK.

- Ta-da! Surprise. - Oh!

- Ta-da! Happy birthday! - That’s really kind.

We couldn’t do the honours with the cake without you.

Right. Look at that.

- Shall I blow them out? - Mm-hm.

One, two, three.

- Don’t forget to wish. - No, I won’t.

- Is everything all right? - Yes.

Your room, Bob, is even more of a tip than mine.

- Would you like us to tidy it? - No. Not at any price.

I'd never find anything, would I? Hm?

- It may look a bit chaotic, but... - It surely does.

- Basically, it’s very clean. - And it is his room.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...

Well, I’m going to watch television with Mark and Rose.

All right. Will that be OK?

Yeah. Here, look, um...

- Bribe them. - Yes. See you later.

- Bye. - Bye.

Sit down, Dad.

- Is it all right? - Very nice.

Here we are. A cup of tea.

Thank you.

Listen, it seems to me that underneath ordinary life...

God, it’s so hard to put this clearly.

Underneath the commonplace -

buses in the street, newspapers, cricket scores, paying the bloody mortgage -

underneath all of that, there is another, an entirely secret world.

Now, the people who run it, thousands of them,

appear to live in the light, but they don’t.

And I don’t.

You see, every day, or nearly every day, I go to this place to translate surprising,

sometimes terrifying, and occasionally appalling things.

Look, you know how much I love the Russian language.

And their literature.

Yes, I do.

Pushkin, for example, killed in a duel provoked by his unfaithful wife.

Tolstoy, stinking rich and all that guilt.

Dostoevsky missing the firing squad,

gambling like a maniac.

Chekhov, Stanislavsky. You know?

You see, I have a... a world inside my head,

a perspective of Russian life to set against interminable telephone conversations from...

party officials.

You listen to telephone conversations with Russian party officials?

Yeah. Out of the Kremlin, even.

I don't care whether professional sceptics, the hard-boiled boys who run the world,

talk casually of the Bolshoi Ballet being a cultural weapon, which it is,

and feel nothing as they say it-

I feel something. It hurts me personally.

If the Bolshoi comes, if I watch and listen to Romeo and Juliet,

I mean, the joy of it is poisoned by the certainty

that the KGB man is sitting in the bloody prompt corner.

Their secret world has put out the light of the ordinary world.

All the more reason to stick at what you’re doing.

No.

I believe, with all my heart,

that our secret world is on exactly the same tack as theirs.

Enough. Self-righteous little prick.

Our best advice is that he’s not a serious risk.

But naturally, we'll keep him covered.

Bother, he’s not back yet.

You go in, darling, and I’ll put the car away.

God! God, Allen! No!

It’s Dodgson, sir. The duty officer didn’t like the look of him.