Echoes of Navarre
A novel
by
Paul Richardson

Alex Spellman sat at his desk on the sixth floor of Thames House in London, lost in thought, staring blankly at his black computer screen. The dull day had turned from morning drizzle to dark scudding clouds looming over the skyline, ominous of bad weather to come. His fingers tapped the desk in irritation. He had spent the morning on the fourth floor suffering through his bi-yearly cognitive assessment, something which he loathed but had to endure if he were to carry on at his current position. His superior, Anil Bharat, insisted on him taking these tests; it was his way of looking after him he supposed, making sure the past didn’t rear its ugly head and start causing problems. It wasn’t as if he was the only one who had to submit to these tests, everyone who worked at these offices had a history which lent itself to being a bit more complicated than most other jobs in this postcode of London. He wondered if he had made the right decision, working at a desk, shuffling papers, making phone calls. It wasn’t what he was used to. Did he want to be back out there again, in the field, with everything that went with that life. The adrenaline rush, the camaraderie, the travel, the excitement? Was he getting too old for it? It certainly had its down sides too. Then again, it wasn’t really a decision that was his to make. He had been…? What had Anil called it? Re-positioned? Re-deployed? No - an assignment translocation, that was it. Regardless, he loved the company, he admired everything it stood for, even if he was sitting looking over the grey choppy waters of the Thames every day, he was making a difference, wasn’t he? National security had to be protected on all fronts, not just out there in the field, ninety percent of the work was done from a computer, he knew that. He knew he was doing important work. Work that only he had the background and knowledge-base to accomplish. His sense of identity was instilled in him. The same as his stark sense of right and wrong; a point of view that got him into deep water when having to deal with some of the more delicate areas of his work. Inevitably his job brought him into contact with politicians and senior civil servants, a necessary evil that he despised having to deal with. These jumped up impresarios who came and went after making very little difference in the world. He didn’t know if maybe this was part of the reason he was sitting at this desk. Punishment? Surely not. Probably just a bit of cautionary damage liability. The business with the former Chancellor of the Exchequer and the call-girl wasn’t something he felt comfortable sweeping under the rug, but what choice did he have? The wheels of government need to be seen to be running smoothly. He just wished that if these people were so arrogant to think they could do anything they liked then couldn’t they help themselves, and everyone here at Thames House, by not leaving confidential documents in the back of an Uber? At least with a black cab you had the chance of the unwritten rule of decency and discretion; maybe they taught the cab drivers that while they were studying ‘The Knowledge’, the first line of defence when it comes to national security. He smiled to himself at the thought. Things could be worse, he knew that. It could have all been so different; instead of scars and memories he could be one of the unlucky ones, one of the men who didn’t get out, who didn’t have the luxury of being able to breathe the air. Fuck! He thought to himself. No matter where or when it always came back to that. To Navarre. To bad planning. To the real reason he was sitting at this desk.

He opened the drawer and took out a small bottle of Codeine tablets and swallowed two dry as there was no water on his desk. He turned on his computer and waited for the machine to boot up and ask for his encrypted password. He would have to check his phone and retrieve the code through an app, a security measure that changed daily. There was no doubt that the MOD was finally dragging itself into the twenty first century, at long last. He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his thumbs and waited, his mind becoming fuzzy. He felt his waking self detach from his physical being, his head beginning to spin slightly. His eyes could not focus on the start screen of his PC and the password box that had appeared there. It was happening again. It was something he should have mentioned this morning at his check-up but he felt ridiculous doing so. It showed weakness on his part and he didn’t want to be put through any more tests, anything that would stop him from doing his job. It would pass as it always had. He closed his eyes and he drifted, waiting for the painkillers to take effect.