bout de papier, Vol. 20, No. 3 (2004) — Winter/Spring 2004 // Hiver/Printemps 2004, pp. 38–43
E legant in a new Armani suit, hair coiffed and manner suave, Hamish MacBannock adjusted the microphone.
Fellow members of the Secret Intelligence and Security Services International Executive Secretariat, I am proud to be in Berlin with you, to present a new vision of counter-revolutionary and counter-terrorist solidarity. For years we have been ready to smite the forces of anarchy and chaos. Ready to uplift the forces of order and stability. All we have needed is an excuse, a justification for suppressing dissent and other messy trappings of democracy, a way to bring about a brave new world order. He took a sip of water as the crowd applauded.
Liebnitz turned to the Centre’s Berlin station chief, Rudi von Stulpnagel, and asked, “What’s happened to Hamish? Usually, he has the dress sense of a warthog. The last time he made a speech, identifi he read the Ouagadougou want ads by biochips mistake. No-one understood a word, but woman C they swore he made more sense than usual. Three months in the field, I come back and he’s Billy Graham.”
MacBannock lifted a hand and the crowd stilled. “Let me share my vision. First, we wait for a large-scale and tragic act of terror. Then we brainwash a world leader whose grasp of democracy is as strong as his electoral mandate. Behind this figurehead, we whip up global hysteria and use it to justify massive curtailment of civil liberties. We start small – confiscating sewing needles at airports. Then we escalate. We raid a journalist’s home to uncover her sources. We let citizens be deported to places where they will be tortured. We jail entire ethnic groups without access to lawyers or free trial.”
“Bah!” muttered the ace logician to his deputy, Attila McGee, “He’s dreaming in zeotrope. Nobody could get away with that kind of thing in a democracy.”
The speaker leaned forward, his voice a compelling whisper. “In a climate of fear, the rest of the population will never complain — and by the time we knock on their doors, it Will be too late. Every year brings a few acts of terror, so we’ll use them as proof that control must be tightened further. If there are no big incidents, we claim that our measures prevented them — but stress that the terrorists new plans must be neutralised by draconian extra measures. We win either way.”
“I’m stunned,” murmured Attila. “This man gets lost in his own closet so regularly, it has to be stocked with emergency rations. Now he makes Machiavelli sound like Fibber Magee. There’s something wrong with this picture.”
Giant view-screens superimposed images of computer chips and laughing children. “Once the citizens are sufficiently cowed, we introduce the ultimate control – biometrics. We start with ID cards bearing chips with data on fingerprints, retinal scans and other somatic identifiers. Then we move to biochips implanted in every man, woman, child and newborn baby. Chips that allow us to identify and keep track of everyone, no matter where they are and what they’re doing. You say that I’m a dreamer — well, we’re already putting chips like that in dogs and cats – what makes humans any different?” t with ID cards bearing th data on fingerprints, scans and other somatic Then we move to hild and newborn baby.
Von Stulpnagel turned to the others. “I hear that everyone in the Centre has been fitted with these chips.” Attila nodded. “Except me and Liebnitz. I was on paternity leave when MacBannock replaced the head of personnel security with Papa Jack Paridy.” Liebnitz winced and affirmed, “ A man who can’t decide if he’s Zydeco’s answer to Al Capone or villainy’s answer to Clifton Chenier.” Von Stulpnagel said, “Either way, if Papa Jack is the answer, I don’t want to know the question.”
MacBannock continued. “Individuals are impossible to control, to understand, to file away. But a biochip reduces them to binary numbers. Biochips will be the new reality, people the approximation. And with the new chips being worked on in my labs, we can go further. They can be programmed to compel people’s behaviour, their emotions, their opinions. We can take away the citizens identities and give them new ones — it is all just ones and zeros, after all. For those with the right connections, special chips can even mould how others see us. We can do anything! That is the new reality!”
“This is Papa Jack’s doing, all right,” said Attila sotto voce. “Never trust a man who brings his accordion to staff meetings.”
Smiling broadly, the orator swung into his wind-up. “Are you ready to grasp tomorrow, my friends? Years from now, will you be able to say you stood beside me, heard these words, shared this vision? Those who join me here in this great city will form a new elite bound under the password, ’Ich bin ein Berliner!’” MacBannock raised his fist in a victory salute as the audience erupted in catcalls, wild applause and fist fights.
“What I will never understand,” grumbled von Stulpnagel, “is why English-speaking orators insist on using that phrase. If you mean to say ’I am a Berliner’, then the phrase is Ich bin Berliner! ’Ich bin ein Berliner’ means I am a jelly doughnut. Even with a biochip, that would seem a difficult act to pull off.”
MacBannock strode back to his delegation, basking in the kudos. A tall man in a dark suit and buzz cut came up to him and shouted, “Once we get your chips into everyone’s head, we can eliminate all those stupid jokes about our intelligence.” “Don’t be absurd,” said Liebnitz. “No regime can outlaw jokes.” MacBannock smiled. “I don’t know, Liebnitz. Have you read Section 13 of the Security of Information Act lately?”
A tall woman with the presence of a Valkyrie and the scowl of a bear-trap pushed her way through behind a fiercely wielded garden trowel. “Hamish,” she said sternly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were speaking today. Where did you get that claptrap? Why didn’t you show up at the flower show to help me? And why in God’s name didn’t you shave more carefully this morning? Pencil-thin moustaches went out with Boston Blackie!”
Liebnitz and Attila looked at MacBannock more closely. “Mrs. MacBannock,” said the logician, “You’re right. This isn’t your husband — it’s Rialto Sleazewagon in holographic disguise.” The figure before them sneered. “Maybe so, but my biochip says I’m Hamish MacBannock and that’s all that counts. Especially since the real one has vanished.
Meanwhile, I have control of the Centre and I know where I’m taking it. For those with a master-chip like mine, reality is just a matter of self-expression.”
“Never mind that,” said Hilda. “What have you done with Hamish?” The faux MacBannock sneered, “His biochip seems to have malfunctioned. Now he has the body and mind of a stranger — doesn’t even know who he is. Oh, he’s around Berlin and he’ll surface eventually — but not in time and not in any shape to get in my way. If the effect isn’t reversed by sunset, it becomes permanent. That’s about, oh, twenty-three minutes from now.” Moving out the door, he paused before entering a limousine. “If you found him and reversed the effect, of course, it would switch me back, too – and that would be….. inconvenient. So I won’t wish you luck. That would be really insincere, even for me.” His departing limo splattered the others with slush.
Brushing themselves off, they hurried back inside. “So, Liebnitz,” said Hilda. “How do we find Hamish by sunset?” His reply was forestalled by a loud yodel from across the grand hall. A muscular man swung off a high balcony. Flashing through startled delegates, he knocked over a trio of Tyrolean tuba players massacring “Secret Agent Man” demolished a kiosk selling chic neo-Gothic cipher machines, and slammed spread-eagled into ten feet of the old Berlin Wall mounted in the middle of the foyer. Releasing his grip on the rope, he toppling backwards to the floor, bounced up and dusted off his uniform — a pageboy’s red jacket, black pants and round black hat. Liebnitz enquired, “Tarzan of the Apes makes a About call for Philip Morris?” The man saluted and replied, “Manitoba Jones, sir, just that th trying to blend in. I have a report from one pla Jimmy the Turk.” He pulled out a silver tray. On it was a page of encoded text. there.
Liebnitz took it. “Jimmy did leave a Mrs. Ma me a message saying he’d spotted something odd. We can only hope it’s the you wit Chief. Did he add a verbal, Jones?” The signal courier nodded, “ About this report, he said that the Chief is in the one place repeate that’s no longer there. He also said that Mrs. MacBannock could help you with the recognition signal
– it was the repeated answer.” Hilda reached into her bag and pulled out a soiled sheet of paper. “That must refer to this quiz that a grubby little man handed me as I left the flower show. I was wondering what it was.” Jones saluted and skulked off ostentatiously.
Liebnitz said, The report is ciphered with a simple letter-for-letter substitution. Since some letters are more common than others normally E, T and A at the top followed by I, O, N, S, H and R in one order or another a letter count of the cipher text should should put us on the right path, then a focus on shorter words. The others attacked the quiz, using a nearby Internet connection when stumped. Quickly getting what they needed, they dashed to the parking lot, only to find that their car had been stolen. Attila pulled out his lock-picks and walked purposefully toward a nearby New Age encampment.
Minutes later, elsewhere in Berlin, an aging paisley-patterned minivan lurched to a stop. An angry-looking man with a short grey beard stepped out and asked a passerby in a loden coat, “Did you hear about the freak accident on the autobahn? Three freaks in a van ran into two freaks riding a dachshund.” – then jumped back into the van and roared away. Soon thereafter, an equally ramshackle VW pulled up. The four from the Centre got out and began urgently scanning the area. Attila focussed on a Swabian sausage seller down the street. “I think that’s him. He looks all wrong, but he’s got the recognition signal. And he keeps serving up hotdogs with jalapeños and marmalade.” “That would explain the people racing off with a hand over their mouths,” replied Liebnitz. “Still, it clears the way.” They moved to cross the street.
But a shouting mass rushed between them and their quarry
– two mimes doing the glass wall shtick, chased by a throng of angry rustics waving pitchforks and torches. “In the middle of modern Berlin?” asked Liebnitz. Then the air shimmered. The crowd all turned into sausage sellers and started milling around. “Ach du lieber,” said von Stulpnagel. “They’re all the same. It’s like trying to find one special cuckoo in a Swiss clock shop.” “Sleazewagon is clearly not as confident as he made out,” said Liebnitz, “but that will be little comfort if we can’t find the Chief in the next three minutes.” Hilda reached into her handbag and pulled out a megaphone. Taking a deep breath, she began, “Hamish, I know you can hear me, despite anything that cur has done to you. I just want you to know that, though you often try me beyond endurance, you are still my husband and a good man.” The silence in the square was heavy. Everyone was watching her. “There are only seconds left. I can’t find you among all these phantoms, so you’ll have to reach down and pull yourself out.” Her voice caught, but she straightened her back. “Please, Hamish, try. It wouldn’t be worth it without you.”
JIMMY THE TURK’s REPORT
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HILDA’s FLOWER SHOW QUIZ
(1) Anthem of the Lone Star
State
(2) Nana Mouskouri hit song
(3) Since 1961, the top
European television prize.
(4) Symbol of Richard III’s
supporters
(5) Symbol of his opponents
(6) Woody Allen film, 1985
(7) Soviet air ace Lilya Litvyak
The bells in a nearby tower began to toll slowly as the last rays of the sun receded from the asphalt. A sigh swept over the crowd. Finally, at the back, behind a pickelhaube kiosk, an indistinct figure cried out, “Hilda!” and staggered onto the street, the features of Chief MacBannock coalescing over him. One step later, he was swept aside as the rest of the crowd also reverted. The two mimes were chased swiftly away by the throng of angry rustics waving pitchforks, torches and Swabian sausages.
Reality is not just a matter of self-expression, Mr. Liebnitz. Real is real. And Hamish is my Hamish. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go down and give him a hand. He seems to be having trouble finding his way out of that phone booth. The three men watched, speechless, as she strode off. The passerby in the loden coat walked up to them and asked, Why a dachshund, please? So they took him into a nearby bar and bought him schnapps and a jelly doughnut.
Can you duplicate Liebnitz’s feat by working out (a) the site where they found the real MacBannock and (b) the recognition signal? bout de papier will decide the winner by drawing from a box containing all correct entries received by June 30, 2004. The winner will receive a subscription to WALRUS magazine. Not necessary for solving the puzzle, but can you also decipher the full text of the Turk’s report and provide all seven answers to the Flower Show Quiz? And can anybody tell us how even a Tyrolean tuba trio could make “Secret Agent Man” any worse?
View the original scanned pages →
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 20, No. 3 (2004) — Winter/Spring 2004 // Hiver/Printemps 2004, pp. 38–43. Read the rest of this issue →
