It used to call this collection of human intelligence: I was one of these officers with honorable contractors meeting correspondents interested in working with the Service for various reasons: love of country ( " support, guide our avenging arms ... "), professional or sentimental disappointment, risk appetite, feeling of playing in a movie in black and white 50s, and many other things, the more obscure , mysterious and ultimately inexplicable - perhaps organic agenda gut or heart. The information was good, mostly, interesting, useful and not cost us a good dinner in a fancy restaurant but discrete, these institutions no indication plate to ordinary mortals. I was working of course also with agents paid by the Service, effective professionals, for which the partitioning was required. We were dressed like young professionals or university we attended, we were friends with journalists, young women graduates to address books well stocked, Europe was our territory: Paris, London, Barcelona and elsewhere.
But I was doing sometimes with periods of Investigation Intelligence Unit open source, which exploited resources specifically provided by the specialized press, commentators, some specific databases and computer, or with the intelligence unit of origin image, which scrutinized the photographs original aerial or satellite acquired by our observation satellites. It was not uncommon to detect and characterize human activities in areas that interested us particularly, and even preventing European partners also involved.
I was comfortable in this parallel world that distracted me from my perpetual anguish, and convinced that nothing bad would happen eventually - trust my fate entirely justified, as I write this now, without anything untoward happened either. At twelve years on the beach of Port-Louis, drying on my towel in front of the alignment of the cabins, I was reading the adventures of Langelot in Green Library Hachette, written by a mysterious Lieutenant X. He belonged to the National Information Service Functional, showed his card lieutenant reproduced within each volume. He wore the badge 222, his photograph appeared stamped over his signature and fingerprints was a young blond sporty. The following statement was printed: "has the obligation to all civil and military authorities to facilitate the execution of the tasks of the incumbent. " On September 8, 1977, judging by the copy stored in one of my libraries and annotated from my hand, I was reading ;: An offensive signed Langelot , where a sinister Mr. T. threatened the world. Two years later, a student, I wrote to the Service to propose my services. While not surprised, I received a reply, rather engaging, telling me that I was still a little young, it would be useful that I may my service military, for me to graduate and I speak at least one foreign language. All conditions were met during my visit a few months in St. Cyr Coetquidan - my battalion with the motto: "Officers called - the audacity to serve" . The name of the sponsor of my promotion was Montfroid. Convened at the end of my classes at the command post located in the former museum of remembrance, I was just surprised that an officer that I did not know me back my letter of adolescents. After the interview, I was sent for 8 months as an officer cadet at La Courtine, before joining the Service and to continue my graduate studies, my "hedging."
In September 1986 took place a series of bombings in Paris , claimed by Hezbollah pro-Iranian. On 8 March, a team of journalists chain Antenne 2 was removed by Islamic Jihad Beirut. Faced with irregular warfare, we must conduct a secret war without respite. Then the old questions no longer arose: hands dirty should be. There was a just war: that we who were leading, not emotional. Contacts, infiltration, poisoning, misinformation, traps. False impression to make history or change it.
I read Agrippa d'Aubigné:
... waves so clear
Who had sapphires and pearls contrary
our dead are red and the sweet sound of their waves,
Their pleasant murmur strikes against the bones. "
Life strange, as in a tragic romance. We had more identity and live and pensions as The Wrestlers painted in 1905 by George Luks. One day I saw this oil on canvas Boston Museum. Taut body, entwined in suffering, strength and will. A possible representation of humanity: skin against skin, love, hate, fight. All these years I was one of those men, but which one? Now dominating the other, wishing to submit a violent force coming down through the ages, sometimes subjected, flying buttress, the body tense head to foot and looking at the world upside down.
We did not win. But we knew many things that others do not know. Oil, power, religion, networks, clans, disinformation. We learned a fraction of the secrets of the World, we went to the other side of the mirror, have lived parallel lives, evolved into the double play of appearances and lost illusions. The return to what others believe is the real was like a terrible descent: we end up holding the ignorant believe the truth, with ideas to organize the world and believing, as before, that democracy was not a chimera. Some we spoke with accents of law because it was patronizing their business. We listened to half a smile on his lips, remembering the dark corridors, pestilential odor, to closed rooms and the acrid smell of weapons cooled between metal powder and fat.
We did not win. The game continued. I left the Service after 7 years. I saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, said nothing. It's as if all that had not existed. The struggle that leads the world did not stop, and the dark forces have brought down the towers, confining and torturing men transported from one continent to another, blowing up children in markets, dismember women in the street. Undetectable planes bombed the mountains mutants and soldiers who never sleep at night with their scrutinizing eyes infra-red - like drugged assassins time Old mountain they face in silence, a sharp knife in hand to cut their throats.
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