Fergus Cassidy

Spooked

SPIES were everywhere when I was growing up. In books, comics, on television and in the cinemas. For a while, I was obsessed with them.

What hooked me were the brilliant gadgets - lasers which bounced off windows to overhear conversations; x-ray glasses and code crackers. Carrying cigarette cases containing radio transmitters and phones in the soles of their shoes.

I was also fascinated by their invisibility behind a smog-filled haze of half-light and half-truth. That's why I'm sure I've never met a real one.

I did hitch a lift one time from two Americans, who kindly rescued me from the wilds of a ditch in Louth. Heading for Dublin, they told me they were working temporarily in Ireland.

Friendly, chatty chaps, keen to talk about their impressions of the country and unnervingly keen to talk about politics. They broke the speed limit in getting from "unspoilt natural countryside" to "Christian Democracy".

The hairs on the back of my neck were rubbing off the rear window glass and I was swallowing like it was closing time.

I convinced myself I had read too many books, watched too many movies. They couldn't be spies. What were doing in Ireland? Genuine spies hung round in places like Zurich or Berlin and holidayed in Montserrat or Madagascar.

On a winter's day in Termonfeckin, there is little sunshine and fewer secrets. Nah, they couldn't be.

"We travel a lot son", said the driver.
"That must be great. What countries have you been in?", I asked.
"Oh... mostly South America. El Salvador. Chile".

At the time those countries had rulers with a fondness for jackboots and Americans bearing alms. But it could all have been a wonderful wind-up. Either way, I was spooked.

Dublin's industrial estates never seemed so inviting and the last I saw of the Americans was the rear of their car as it melted into the night. My spy sentiments along with them. No more espionage escapades. Ever.

Until an article in last week's Sunday Independent announced that the spies were back. And these ones are genuine.

In an interview with Dick Doyle, director general of the Irish Recorded Music Association (IRMA), there was mention that a top US internet spy firm had been hired. The mission: to gather information on who is downloading music illegally. Apparently it's rampant.

A survey last year - commissioned by IRMA it has to be said - revealed that nearly 250,000 Irish people owned up. 350,000 put their hands up to making copies of their CDs.

Also last year, Doyle said in the Irish Times: "I think the message we will roll out in the next few months will be aimed at mums and dads to warn them that illegal activities will have consequences". Now the consequences have arrived.

I can picture them, taking over the top floor of a nondescript hotel. The dimly-lit rooms awash with sophisticated equipment. The noise outside drowned by whirring computer fans. Staccato bursts of radio traffic. Half-eaten sandwiches with the corners curled up. Dossiers stacked on chairs. Signed in at reception as Mr Pink or Mr Floyd. Patiently waiting for go.

"We couldn't do anything until there was a legal alternative like iTunes", said Doyle last week. "I'd say we'd probably get the first inkling of what's happening by the end of the first quarter. I'll have to take it to the board but if they say go for it, something could certainly happen by the summer".

For the last year or so, the words illegal and download have been joined at the hip. Yet shouldn't any alleged illegality fall to the Garda to tackle rather than unnamed spy firms?

No doubt like all good spies, the visitors to Ireland are using cutting edge technology. It makes sense that the devil has all the best software.