Le Carre's tunnel

It was well below freezing and dark by the time I took the 6 mile bicycle route to the train station at 1940. As usual, I listened as I rode. Maybe it's better to stay aware and in the moment (as I've promised myself), but I take too much pleasure in reading audiobooks with my ears and listening to the news. Now, I'm listening to "The Pigeon Tunnel", the memoir written by novelist and former MI-6 agent, John Le Carre. The title refers to a disturbing sight he witnessed when he was young: birds bred in the tunnels beneath a Monte Carlo casino to be the fodder for sportsmen's bullets. In spite of the danger, the birds, true to their pigeon nature, always returned home to the tunnel, only to be target practice again the following day.

Le Carre writes that all of his novels have, at one time or another, carried this title. And no wonder. It is in the nature of covert intelligence work to risk everything as you fly abroad, but you are bred to return "home" every time, only to be sent out again, through the same perils, regardless of how senseless or doomed the mission. This truth was borne out repeatedly in the stories cited by Le Carre. He writes about the World War II Englandspiel, or "English Game", wherein more than 50 Dutch agents working for the Special Operations Executive (SOE) may have been sacrificed as part of a complicated "double double agent". Documents released by the British Archives in 2004 reveal that the agents, trained in Britain to carry out sabotage, were parachuted straight into the arms of the waiting enemy, which had penetrated the entire SOE network in the Netherlands. Almost all were subsequently executed in concentration camps. He also writes about the U.S., Britain and Germany's counter-terrorism efforts and large-scale privacy invasion following the 9/11 attacks, and the plight of an innocent man imprisoned in Guantanamo for five years. His message is not to condemn the intelligence service, but rather, to insist that they not be given a blank check - that they be scrutinized in the same way we demand scrutiny of any other organization acting in our name.

Of course this is a message that resonates with me. I have often felt deeply sorrowful by the way Sjors ultimately complied with the unethical and senseless orders of his puppet masters. For years I have grieved the loss of a future with him, the love we would have shared, and the children we would have raised. It is also a profound grief that I have lost my work and livelihood and all the contributions I may have made to national defense and partner capability if MIVD had not attacked my reputation and career to protect itself from possible embarrassment.

I felt angry when I arrived at the train station, my fingers numb and frozen inside their thick gloves, and toes like pebbles in my shoes. I wore a long woolen undershirt and underpants, with layer upon layer, but the cold bit through me and I felt that I was swimming in a cold lake. When I spoke with Willem on the phone, my anger briefly transposed to him but I restrained myself from acting on the urge to shout. He can hardly be blamed for the low-grade infection of grief and rage that flares up occasionally, blinding me with the pain.

I meditated on the train, but this didn't alleviate the suffering. There is nothing to be done for it, I know. I have tried for years to ease the pain through running and bicycling and meditation, through reflection and self-examination, through good relationships and the reading of books, but the pain and grief is always there. It always returns.

Willem would greet me at home, and I knew I would harm him if I couldn't diffuse the suffering. On my way from the station, I stopped by the liquor store. Armed with a bottle of single-malt scotch, I bicycled home.