Rue du Sénat, Old Quarter
New Rome
The Palais du Cabinet Impérial was a large, mid-19th Century office building half-a-block away from the Palais du Parlement, which housed the Office of the Cabinet and a good deal many ministerial offices. Some ministers, typically those belonging to long-established portfolios with large departments, chose to base themselves in the headquarters of their department itself - away from the intrigues of the Palais du Cabinet Impérial, but more junior ministers, and those whose portfolios freshly hewn out of the political zeitgeist rather than received from Time Immemorial, generally lacked the option to surround themselves exclusively with their own mandarins. So it was that Etienne Lavaud, a man on the rise in the UCF/PNA Coalition Government, and newly commissioned Minister for Homeland Security, a new portfolio carved out of the portfolios of the Attorney-General, Defence Minister, and Imperial Chancellor himself, found himself with his brand new ministerial office in the midst of the Palais du Cabinet Impérial. His political empire newly forged, it would have to wait for a capital to call its own. Until then, Minister Lavaud would have to make do with receiving officials under the watchful eyes of dozens of dismal portraits of various forgotten ministers from a dozen preceding administrations, which hung from the fading, wallpapered-walls of his repurposed office suite.
This, frankly, was how his guest, the Director of the Imperial Domestic Intelligence Service, Louis-Philippe Scleraena de Lazen, preferred things. The Palais du Cabinet Impérial had a dozen of the Director’s personal contacts installed within it, and he supposed his underlings must have had dozens more again, all keeping watchful eyes on the Service’s supposed political masters. An aristocrat several generations removed from a titled ancestor, the Director was a physically unremarkable man in his early fifties who knew better than every minister to whom he had ever previously reported as IDIS Director, but who nevertheless understood that elected governments expected to be allowed to govern. Like most career public servants, he also understood that this was a potential dangerous expectation which generally ran contrary to the national interest, and he privately treated it with the contempt it so richly deserved. Concessions had to be made, from time to time, bread and circuses, as it were, but on all matters of significant public policy and principle, Director Scleraena believed firmly that the decisions ought to be made by those who best understood their import, that is to say those who had spent their career in the service of the State, and not prima donna politicians who shamefully chased after votes and fickle public opinion.
“The Minister will see you now.” the girl at the front desk had told him, sitting underneath a temporary sign printed on cardboard bearing the Imperial coat of arms and the name “Minister for Homeland Security”.
“Thank you.” the Director had nodded gracefully as he rose to his feet and strode towards the Minister’s door.
Without exchanging more than a handful of pleasantries with the girl, he knew everything about her. Although she hadn’t introduced herself, her name was printed on the lanyard which hung around her neck. He had ascertained her age just to glance at her, and had made a variety of judgements about her parents and her relationship with them by how she answered the phone, and how she glanced at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her clothes, the crucifix around her neck, the engagement ring on her finger, combined with her complexion and the standard of her makeup told him the essentials of her economic situation. As he passed her desk and opened the door, he completed his mental portrait of the girl with a sniff of her perfume. Without missing a beat, the Director stepped through the door.
“Ah, Monsieur de Lazen, pleased to meet you.” the Minister began, rising to his feet and striding over from behind his desk towards the Director with an outstretched hand.
“Minister.” the Director answered politely, shaking the Minister’s hand. He knew even before he pressed the man’s palm that his grip would be disappointingly limp, and was not disproved.
“Won’t you sit down?” the Minister said, indicating two arm chairs with a coffee table between them.
On top of the coffee table were freshly made pots of coffee and tea, a little jug of cold milk, and two tea cups. When the Director sat in one of the chairs, the Minister moved towards the other, and then leaned over.
“Can I offer you tea or coffee?” the Minister asked.
“Too kind, Minister.” the Director replied. “But it isn’t proper that a Minister of the Crown should pour his own tea, allow me.”
The newly made Minister was flattered by this supercilious gesture from the career civil servant, and sat down accordingly. The Director poured him a cup of tea with milk, added a sugarcube, and handed it to him with a little spoon for stirring on the side of the saucer. The Director poured himself a black coffee (no sugar) and then sat down. The Minister observed this, as if slightly discomforted, as the Director sipped his coffee.
“I’m sorry, Minister, that is how you take your tea, is it not?” the Director asked him.
“It is, as a matter of fact.” the Minister replied, wondering how the Director knew, and then sipped the tea.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Director Scleraena intended.
“Well,” the Minister began after a mouthful of tea, setting the cup back down. “I summoned you here today to be briefed about how IDIS monitors political radicalization. As you know, saving Pantocratorian society from destructive radical elements is a major priority for the Comnenus Government, and a major commitment that we made to our coalition partners. We…”
“Pardon me, Minister,” the Director interjected. “But as a career civil servant and to preserve the political independence of the Service, I should like to avoid explicit discussion of partisan politics. This was, at least, the habit of your predecessors in their dealings with me.”
“Oh, yes, of course, pardon me.” the Minister apologised.
“Of course, Minister.” the Director said graciously. “You are, after all, still learning the job.”
“Yes.” the Minister said, suddenly acutely conscious of how new he was to the job.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Director Scleraena intended.
“So don’t worry about it. Now, you were explaining why you invited me here today to request a briefing about how IDIS monitors political radicalization, I believe?” the Director prompted, subtly correcting the Minister’s earlier tone.
“Yes, well, we’re very concerned about the rise of radical feminism and so-called LGBTQ activists, and the broader spectre of cultural Marxism.” the Minister continued. “The Government believes this sort of constructed sexual and gender identity nonsense is a direct threat to the family, the fundamental building block of our society. And, frankly, there are those who say IDIS is not doing enough to curb these malign influences.”
“Indeed, and there are those who say that vigilante groups shaving the heads of women in the street and attacking misguided youth in places of learning have no place in a civilized society.” the Director retorted, directly taking aim at the militant wing of Action-Nationale.
“Yes, well, that is also a problem.” the Minister conceded in a tone which suggested he didn’t think it was much of a problem.
“I can assure you, Minister, that IDIS monitors all political organizations, formal and informal, broad-based or single-issue oriented, for the threat of radicalization.” Director Scleraena said.
“All political organizations?” the Minister confirmed, swallowing.
“Oh yes, Minister.” the Director nodded, sipping his coffee.
“Well, these particular types of organizations must be the top priority.” the Minister asserted.
“Yes, I understand that is the Government’s position.” the Director replied.
“And, with respect, Monsieur le Directeur, IDIS is not doing enough.” the Minister asserted.
“How so, Minister?” the Director asked.
“The vigilante groups you complained about wouldn’t need to exist if IDIS was doing its job.” the Lavaud declared.
The Director suppressed an irritated scowl, and instead sipped at his coffee.
“Our universities have become hotbeds of cultural Marxism.” the Minister insisted. “The scourge of homosexuality…”
“Not our universities, Minister.” the Director said, calmly.
“Every campus has feminist and homosexual political groups, every campus…” the Minister insisted.
“Necessary evils, Minister.” the Director retorted. “You need to have those groups in order to monitor them. They’re much easier to monitor when their existence is open.”
“You monitor these groups, monsieur? All of them?” the Minister scoffed.
“Yes, Minister.” the Director answered. “On every campus in the country, in every political or para-political club, organization, and group, IDIS has assets.”
“You mean to tell me you have agents in every radfem and LGBTQ club on every campus?” the Minister asked.
“Not quite, Minister.” the Director clarified. “But we do have informants. We don’t have enough agents nor would they have enough to do justify allocating them on a one to one basis with every single campus club and society. So, no Minister, but we do have informants. And of course, teams of analysts pouring over social media, to say nothing of our data analytics for other Big Data.”
“What do you mean by informants?” the Minister asked. He pondered whether his own party branch might have such a creature in it.
“It’s very simple, Minister.” the Director began. “The agents we do have recruit informants, members of the community, to observe and report on the activities of these organizations. They’re not IDIS employees, not directly, but they are useful intelligence assets.”
“Do you pay them?”
“Some of them. Sometimes we compel through other means. Sometimes we use a combination.”
“Other means?”
“Most people have secrets they wouldn’t want other people to find out. For example, the average LGBTQ campus society, as they generally call themselves, always has several members who would prefer that their families not find out about the sexual deviancy, even though they are open about their so-called identity on campus or at least within the walls of the meeting room.”
“So you blackmail them?”
“If you want to call it that.” the Director shrugged. He finished his coffee.
“And you have one of these assets in every such group of radicals, do you?” the Minister asked.
“In this country, yes Minister, sometimes several.” the Director nodded.
“But still, it is not enough, you’re allowing too much, these deviants are still…” the Minister asserted, firmly.
“Tch tch,” the Director clucked. “Not IDIS, Minister. The problem is that so many Pantocratorians, especially of those deviant persuasions, go overseas for their higher education. Even from good families, especially once it became known that even an Imperial Princess could go abroad to study.”
“What are you saying?” the Minister asked, confused.
“I don’t like to criticize other agencies, Minister, but unfortunately my colleagues in IFIS do not take the spectre of political radicalization of our own citizens as seriously as they should.” the Director said, disingenuously. He loved criticizing other agencies, especially IFIS.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, in how many foreign universities do they have active intelligence assets?” the Director asked, as if it was self-evident that the answer should be “not enough”.
“I suppose you’re right.” the Minister agreed without any basis except the Director’s tone of voice to go on.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Director Scleraena intended.
“But their budget is enormous, what are they doing with all of that money?”
“Well, Minister, it isn’t for me to say whether the Government would get better value for money by reinvesting some small part of the IFIS budget, which is considerably bigger than the IDIS budget for arguably far less in the way of results, into domestic intelligence or not, although that would certainly be within your considerable prerogative as Minister.” the Director said. “And in defence of my dear colleagues in IFIS, I suppose they do prioritise protecting Pantocratoria from foreign terrorist threats.”
“We must do both.” Lavaud declared. “We must be able to walk, and, as it were, chew gum!”
“Well said, Minister.” the Director lied.
“I will make sure they start taking this matter seriously.” the Minister declared.
“Excellent, Minister.” the Director nodded. “And of course, IDIS would be more than willing to provide training for IFIS operatives in the business of infiltrating universities and student groups. After all, we have considerable expertise in the area. IFIS already uses us for training, unofficially, but with a ministerial directive on the matter, and a modest funding boost, we could run a properly developed training program for IFIS field operatives.”
“Interagency cooperation, excellent!” the Minister declared. “Fostering that sort of relationship between our intelligence agencies and security services is exactly why the Government created my portfolio. Bringing all of you together under the one umbrella of Homeland Security.”
“You will find nothing but enthusiastic support for your agenda from IDIS, Minister.” the Director replied, already inwardly chuckling with glee at the thought of IFIS being forced to go to him for training.
“Outstanding, monsieur, I expected nothing less from a man of your reputation.” the Minister lied. “I do hope my meeting with your counterpart in IFIS goes as well as this.”
“Well Minister, you must be careful when you meet with Monsieur de Namine.” the Director said. “He’s newly promoted to Director after spending an awfully long time in his predecessor’s shadow. He may not want to cooperate as fully with your agenda as I do. You may have to put your foot down and insist, for example, on interagency cooperation on the training front.”
“Ah, I see… thank you for the head’s up.” the Minister nodded thoughtfully.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Director Scleraena intended.
“More coffee, monsieur?”
As he closed the door to the Minister’s office behind him, the Director glanced again at the receptionist.
“You’re wasting your life here, Marie-Louise.” the Director told her. “You should go find a husband.”
“Excuse me?” the girl underneath the makeshift sign half-asked, half-exclaimed.
“No young gentleman of quality is going to find you in a dusty old office and propose. You’re too pretty to let yourself become an old maid.”
“Uh, what?” Marie-Louise asked, incredulous. She held up her hand to show the Director her engagement ring. “I’m engaged.”
“No, my dear, you wear that cheap knick-knack to deter the no hopers which infest this building from their unwelcome attempts at flirtation.” the Director told her. He smirked and then made for the exit, calling back as he did so. “And no, this was advice, not an advance.”
“Wait, how did you know…” the receptionist called after him, but he didn’t stop. She swallowed, and her mind started to race, inventing fanciful conspiracies about IDIS monitoring her personal life and their no doubt ubiquitous surveillance.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Director Scleraena intended.