Back | Next
Contents


      

Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.


I am the monster who hunts monsters. The man in the shadows that even the shadows are afraid of. The secret agent whose life is the greatest secret of all. And some of the cases I work on are trickier than others.

Even secret agents feel the need to raise their heads above the parapet sometimes. And so we emerge from the shadows just long enough to sniff the air, take a meeting, drop off information; or put the hard word on someone who’s been showing too much interest in something they shouldn’t. London has always been the favoured meeting place for spies of all kinds. Ever since Christopher Marlowe (who knew Faust personally) took his orders from Dr. Dee (who spoke with angels on a regular basis) as part of Queen Elizabeth I’s intelligence network, London has been both a sanctuary and a feeding ground for all those people who aren’t supposed to exist. Drifting quietly down streets with no name, we slip discreetly into crowded bars or private back rooms, to discuss the matters and make the deals that shape the fate of nations. We come and we go, and you never see us; because you don’t need to know the kind of things we have to do, so you can sleep easily in your beds.

There is a world beneath the world; a hidden place of secrets and lies, deception and double-dealing, masquerade and murder. Where people you’ve never heard of work for departments that don’t officially exist, doing things that no one will ever admit to. It can be a fascinating life if you don’t weaken, but it’s not for the faint of heart.


Back | Next
Framed