Killed that hidden transmitter an hour ago but I bet he hears me though.
These days going to work is like trying to walk unobtrusively through the silent streets of Nazi-era Berlin, just waiting for that authoritative Gestapo boothell to drop. Walking stealthily down the endless generic corridors trying not to make a sound, I keep a watchful eye out for that particular V-man out to get me. These days everyone's looking suspicious. It could be that innocent-looking nurse hiding a SIG Sauer pistol under her lacy cap. Maybe even that friendly doctor grinning charmingly while thinking of sadistic interrogative ways to make me betray my secrets.
Or even that shady-looking patient nursing his injured leg wrapped up in plaster of paris - possibly a convenient hideaway for his inhumane tools of torture?
Of all the bars in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine!
Deep breaths. Not worth getting all paranoid this early. Though some small conservative quarters might find me guilty of sending out covert treasonous messages through the wire, it's certainly not important enough to alert the blond, blue-eyed Aryan ubermensch - who are just dying to find unwilling victims to torture the hell out of.
Not that I'm complaining :P
But the code of confidentiality is broken - or so my confidential sources tell me. Hard not to believe when the news come from a relative saint, Comrade Christian - told me so when he met me clandestinely at Safehouse 13 under the relative cover of the Brandenburg Gate at midnight. Clad in a bleak gray overcoat that had seen better decades, he still made a welcome sight - and his striking features came alight when he struck a match to light a smoke.
And I briefly wondered why I hadn't gotten him naked under my satin sheets.
Christian : Saint Wicked, someone knows.
Paul : Madre de Dios!
Christian : Reads your blog. Knows about you at work.
Paul : Sacre bleu!
Christian : You know that's all not German.
Paul : Unglaublich! Mutter Jesu!
So my cover has been compromised - though it isn't the first or the last time I'm sure. After all, my work here carries some small notoriety and my cover's not exactly airtight. Curious though why this secret agent provocateur hasn't made a move, at least signalled to me his intentions. Could it be he thinks I might have suddenly developed homicidal bloodthirst over this unprecedented disclosure?
Trust me. I haven't even killed the messenger - though I readily admit I have wicked intentions when it comes to Comrade Christian's gym-fit body.
So when the skeptical V-men aren't looking my way, just come right out and give me some little sign. A twitch of an eyebrow, perhaps a Nazi salute. I won't bite - well, not unless you're hunkalicious Chris Evans ( mmmm.. what a mensch! ) in disguise.