London Station (Extract)
The Rest Is Classified
This episode presents an exclusive audiobook excerpt from David McCloskey's espionage novel, London Station, following CIA officer Artemis Aphrodite Proctor as she
Key takeaways
- Artemis Aphrodite Proctor operates under the alias Sybil Flanagan using advanced 3D-printed silicone disguises and forged documents.
- The unauthorized mission targets Gao Xian, a Ministry of State Security officer embedded in a Chinese trade delegation.
Main topics
- Unauthorized espionage operations
- Advanced disguise technology and tradecraft
Notable quotes
"The Brits, what could you say? They were pickpockets. A band of charmingly accented thieves trading on faded imperial glory to collect crumbs of intel..."
Conclusion
The excerpt delivers a tense, immersive preview of McCloskey's thrille
Transcript preview
Speaker 2 (0:03) For exclusive interviews, bonus episodes, ad-free listening, early access to series, first look at live show tickets, a weekly newsletter, and discounted books, join the Declassified Club at therestisclassified.com. Speaker 1 (0:24) Hello, Classified listeners. Producer Becky here. Today, we are exclusively sharing the audiobook for the first two chapters of David's latest novel, London Station. The link to purchase your copy is in the episode description. Enjoy. Speaker 3 (0:43) Dreamscape, an RB Media Audio brand presents London Station, a novel by David McCloskey, narrated by Vanessa Daniels and George Naylor. Speaker 3 (0:57) England and America should scrap cricket and baseball and come up with a new game that they both can play. Like baseball, for example. Robert Benchley, American writer. Speaker 3 (1:10) Part 1. Pickpockets. Chapter 1 London. Speaker 3 (1:19) The Brits, what could you say? They were pickpockets. A band of charmingly accented thieves trading on faded imperial glory to collect crumbs of intel and hawk them to CIA in exchange for a fine meal. The agency was getting a raw deal. And now, on top of it all, Langley had been told to lay off a primo target, the kind of guy who left China once or twice each year. Pickpockets. Pickpockets who are also violating the game's rule number one, collect the intel. This is how CIA fell out with the Brits. Speaker 3 (2:01) The turbulence had been shocking. The seatbelt signs illuminated pretty much constantly since takeoff. The flight attendants hadn't even wheeled out dinner. Forget about the drink service. Though she was almost grateful. She was off the sauce, hand to God. In place of booze, she had a little red squeezy ball for what Dr. Pan described as appetite management. And she'd been choking it the entire flight, sweating beneath her thick cotton body padding. Sleep was out of the question for the woman whose passport bore the name Sybil Flanagan. The ride had been so bouncy that she heard the flight attendants murmuring about a couple of the lap children back in economy going airborne, almost bonking their little baby heads on the overhead compartments. In the one trip she'd risked to the lav, she had been rocketed a few inches off the seat, and her pantsuit was still soggy. It hadn't been a clean landing. So when United Airlines Flight 918 touched runway at London Heathrow at 6.54 a.m., between the violent jostling, the sleepless stress, the adrenaline high of committing future felonies on British soil, and the sobriety, she was sweating sheets. And that had her worried about the silicone mask glued across her face. When disguises went sideways, civilians tended to scream. and the last thing she needed in passport control was a face-melting situation. After deplaning, she went straight to the bathroom. In the handicapped stall, she threw open her suitcase, stuffed all the clothes to one side, and pulled back a layer of fabric to reveal four black buttons fashioned to resemble plastic screws. She compressed them simultaneously until she heard a click, and she pulled open the concealment device snuggled into her case. There was her kit of spares, dental appliances, ears, cheeks, foreheads, chins, necks, and noses. Also extra vials of spirit gum, remover, a kit of brushes, and a blending makeup that matched the pasty white color of the disguise. Her Sybil disguise was also definitely on the jowlier end of the spectrum. When the disguise mavens inside the human technology office had shown the digital renderings of the mask, Her first comment had been that Sybil was a fan of the scones. Maybe too big a fan. And that's a good thing, Gertie, one of the mavens said, because a mask getting programmed is an additive business. Silicone comes right out of the 3D printer, and it's easier to print more of something than to slice off your pieces and parts. Fun as that could be. And it was true. The disguise mavens really could work miracles. She had once seen a male Korean-American case officer programmed for a disguise that transformed him into an Irish woman. Now sitting on the toilet, guided by her compact mirror, she decided to replace the nose, just in case. She applied spirit gum, let it dry for a moment, and then stuck one of the spares back in place. She then carefully brushed the milk-colored makeup across the seams until they vanished. Reassembling the bag, she flushed the old nose down the toilet, exited the stall, and took stock in the mirror. Dirty blonde wig. Jowly cheeks. Dental appliance that puffed out her mouth and made her teeth, Gertie's words, proper English. Puffy neck. Forehead big enough to be a five head. Doughy chin piece. Custom body padding, snuggled beneath an ill-fitting pantsuit, that added the appearance of 30 pounds. Itched like scabies. Did not breathe. And the soul-redeeming quality. cranked her bust up three cup sizes. At passport control, she slapped a blue American tourist passport onto the reader and smiled for the camera. Sybil Flanagan was going to be an American when clearing passport control, an English woman during the cold pitch, and sun-deprived throughout. The photo she'd submitted for her UK electronic travel authorization had been snapped while wearing the Sybil mask. identical to what she was wearing now. Heathrow didn't use iris scanners. The facial recognition tech here was excellent, but you didn't really have to fool it if the passport photo matched your face now, did you? Up on the screen, Sybil Flanagan was smiling right back. The passport was legit, having been procured by first securing an alias driver's license through the agency's state contacts. and then using that driver's license as an anchor for the deployment crew to submit the pics of Sybil to the State Department to work up an authentic document. But the wheel on the e-gate screen was just spinning. And here was the thing. Normally, she never would have sweated entry into the United Kingdom. Normally, of course, she'd be here in true name, usually with the express knowledge and consent of the Brits, and always with the full participation of London Station. Yet London Station's prerogative was to maintain the relationship, not necessarily to conduct espionage. So this time, with the full approval of the seventh floor, mind you, she had opted to be a little naughty. When was the next time Gao Xion was going to travel? The Brits didn't want to take a swing at him, wanted to kowtow to the Chinese because a few months back something had gone sideways in Beijing, well, fine. And it was true. Running an op against a Chinese intelligence officer in London was a delicate thing. She could understand the Brits not wanting the attention. But how could CIA not take a shot at a senior Chinese intelligence officer? The damn wheel kept on spinning, and she wanted to scratch her way right out of this bodysuit. What the hell was going on? Come on, she whispered, come on. If the op came apart here, she was going to jail, no doubt about it. And because not only the Brits, but the CIA's London Station were in the dark, she wondered if everyone would let her rot a little longer