4. BREADCRUMBS by Virginia Hainsworth

The ferry crossing had been rough but, as is the way, the nausea had left me as soon as I set foot on land.  And now, more than twenty four hours later, standing in a bar in Algiers, the Gauloisian fog is clearing my mind.  Yes, I know that sounds crazy but it always has the same effect.

Last night I checked into a hotel on Rue Didouche Mourad. Its French colonial style architecture had appealed and I felt as though I deserved a decent hotel, at least for one night.

The old town is as busy as ever but the industrious kind of frenetic activity I witnessed when I was last here some years ago has been replaced by a bubbling unease. The aftermath of the recent revolts and riots against the French government has created a restlessness which permeates everywhere.  The talk in the bar is of nothing but the struggle for independence and I push my way into a seat in the corner to escape it and to reflect on my next steps.

My eyes never leave the door, an old habit I find difficult to shake off even after all this time.  And I sigh loudly to signal my annoyance as a man in an impossibly clean and crease-free jacket sits down next to me.

I take a sip of wonderfully viscous black coffee and momentarily close my eyes to let the cream jacket know that I don’t want to engage in conversation about independence, de Gaulle or anything else.

My mind turns to railway timetables and onward connections and the sounds, a mixture of Arabic and French, begin to recede from my consciousness.  A deep throated voice of undistinguishable accent but perfect English cuts through my thoughts.

‘So, Alan, what are your plans now?’

‘Excusez-moi, je ne comprends pas.’    I affect my best French in as guttural a tone as I can muster as I turn to the cream jacket.  I am tempted to accidentally spill my coffee over it.

‘Oh, come on Alan, let’s not waste time.’  A long fingered, perfectly manicured hand proffers itself to me. ‘George Vanderbilt.  You’ve heard of me, of course.’

He offers me a cigarette from a gold case and I notice his name inscribed on the front.  I shake my head.  I am struck by the difference between the age of his face and that of his youthful, creamed hands.

‘Surely you didn’t expect me to lose track of the documents? ‘ he continues.  ‘I had the Creightons followed from the start.  They did what I suggested, by enlisting the help of someone with your skills. I am so glad they chose you.  My research into your background gave me confidence in your abilities.  However, I fear you may be losing your touch.  You left a trail which was as easy to follow as Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.   So, tell me what you plan to do next, now that you have lost the Creightons.’

His voice now is low and barely audible.  My thoughts collide briefly and then come into sharp focus.  I have always found total honesty to be unnecessary and so I try the next thing.  The partial truth.

‘I shall be leaving for Cairo later today.  I have a contact who will take me there.’

‘You have looked at the documents, no doubt?’

‘Of course.’  And then, to protect myself, ‘I cannot understand the technical data but do see why you cannot take them to South Africa yourself.’

I continue with a blend of half-truths and watch his face carefully to gauge the reaction.  ‘I advised the Creightons to split the information into two packages, which they did.  They left one with me, which I reunited with its other half after I encountered the Yank.’

‘And where are the packages now?’ He looks at his cuticles.

‘Safe.  I am confident that neither will be discovered.  Even if I am searched at any point.  You can be sure they will be delivered safely to their final destination.  The price may have gone up, of course’

He looks nervously around him.

‘I am not as careless as you think,’ I add.  ‘I saw your man- I assume he was your man- on the ferry.  Short, unshaven, smelled of fish.  And a little too fond of cognac.  I think you’ll find he smells even more of fish now.  But he’ll recover.’

I notice that there are a couple of creases in his jacket after all. And a little sweat stain on the collar.

I smile at him as I continue.  ‘The Yank.  CIA I assume. He’s been taken care of.  But I suppose you know that.’  I can barely conceal the satisfaction in my voice.  ‘You can trust me, you know.  I have your contact details and I will get in touch with you once I have transported the packages to their end destination.  You can be sure of that.’

He drains his coffee cup.

‘A bientôt, then,’ he murmurs and stands up.

I notice that a red wine stain on the back of the chair has transferred itself to the back of his jacket.

‘One last thing,’ I add.  ‘You will need to take your jacket back to Karim’s laundry.  I know you only collected it from there at 11 o’clock this morning, but that’s Algiers for you.  And please do let me brush the breadcrumbs from your back.’

I smile to myself all the way back to my hotel.  As I reach reception and ask for my key, the receptionist says, ‘Ah Monsieur. Juste à temps.  I ‘ave an urgent call for you.’  He hands me the telephone.

A woman’s voice, unfamiliar.  ‘Alain?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jean-Jacques is dead.’  A click as the receiver is replaced.

3. A change of plan by Dave Rigby

“A weapon! I’m certain he had a weapon in his pocket. But Monsieur Bonsergent arrived at that very moment and I swear he saved my life.” The bookbinder looked the part, pince-nez balanced on his nose, moustache neatly trimmed. His hands shook uncontrollably – not the kind of thing you can fake. I calmed him down and asked about the man who’d taken the plans.

The Creightons had given me an update over breakfast in the Hotel Dieppe that morning, had told me about the bookbinder and I’d crossed the city to the Marais as quickly as possible – but too late.

The thief was maybe half an hour ahead of me, American, dangerous if the bookbinder’s suspicions were right, the plans stolen to order, no doubt.  I had no time to waste. Get into the enemy’s head, think like him, work out his next steps. American!

“Orly airport enquiries, quick as you can. Hello – times of flights to the US today please. Only the 15:00 to New York. Thanks.” I’d have to get my skates on.

The heat was oppressive. My taxi driver shouted through his open window – an expletive-filled tirade against the world in general and the stationary traffic in particular. I waved a ten dollar bill in front of him – an internationally recognised incentive that seldom fails. Mounting the pavement, he turned sharp left down another one way street – the wrong way. Notre Dame disappeared from view, Bastille, over the river at Austerlitz, Montparnasse, then south to Orly.

The idea dropped into my head as we approached the airport. Why not cut the Creightons out of the deal? I knew everything they knew, even down to Vanderbilt’s contact details. And they could hardly go to the police!

But all that was dependent on getting my hands on the prototype plans and I was working just on a hunch. What if, at this very moment, the thief was sitting in a posh Parisian hotel exchanging merchandise for money?

No room for self-doubt.

The taxi screeched to a halt in an ambulance-only space. A quick word and another ten dollars, before I raced to the departures desk. Just in time. Check-in would start in ten minutes. I scanned the details in my notebook. The bookbinder might have been terrified but he’d a good eye for detail. The Yank was in his 40s, about my height, not overweight, thick-framed spectacles, trilby, black briefcase.

Seated at a small table adjacent to the refreshment kiosk, armed with a steady supply of espressos, a pack of Gitane and a copy of Le Monde, I kept my eyes on the passengers at the New York check-in desk. 

Never let your concentration drop.

Even when they prepared to close the desk, I was still alert. I had this feeling and suddenly he was there, just as the bookbinder had described him, cool as a cucumber.

My plan worked a treat. Just before he reached the desk, I cut across his approach, stumbled, held onto him for support, expressed sincere apologies – effect of medication and all that – then walked to the exit, the envelope secure in my jacket pocket. An amateur would have gone for the brief case. My taxi driver appeared from nowhere.

“Gare de Lyon!” Another ten dollars.

On the express, I had a first class compartment to myself and a chance to study the plans. Even with my magnifying glass this was difficult, but at least it was clear each page was stamped in the way Vanderbilt had described to the Creightons. The meal in the dining car was excellent, the steak as rare as can be, a very palatable Burgandy and some calm reflection on my circumstances. In some ways what I’d done was rash and foolish, but my civil service pension was still a number of years away. The delivery fee was a tidy sum, even allowing for the fact that Vanderbilt had already paid half of it to the Creightons. I relaxed as we sped towards the Mediterranean.

After a bleary-eyed, early morning arrival in Marseilles, I took a taxi to the docks and purchased a ticket for Algiers. Over a bowl of coffee and a croissant I planned my next steps.

Always keep half an eye open.

It was definitely him. Somehow the Yank had tracked me here. I needed to make a phone call.

“Jean-Jacques? Yes your old ami Alain. I’m in town, Algiers quay, but I’ve a spot of bother. You’re free now? Excellent.”  

2. The bookbinder by Emma Harding

It is too much, Monsieur! Too much, I tell you! Already, I am under pressure to have it ready for Tuesday of next week. But here you are, telling me you want it now. Now? It is impossible. Impossible. 

Clearly, you have no idea how much time, how much work is involved. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? That’s why you pay me to do it. A pittance at that. I am a craftsman, an artisan, my skills honed over many years. I am … was a member of the illustrious guild of bookbinders - a most reputable and, indeed, scrupulous organisation. 

It is ironic, isn’t it? That you have so little respect for my craft, for my skill and yet you require perfection. Any mistake, however tiny, and the whole operation would crumble around your ears. Am I right? I am right. As they say, the devil is in the detail. First I must choose the right book - not too old or rare, otherwise the buyer would simply auction it, it must be just interesting enough for them to desire it for their own shop. Then I must gently, painstakingly, take it apart, prising off the hardcover and unpicking the stitching holding the leaves together. Then I must create the substitute pages incorporating, as instructed, the entire communiqué. In code, of course. Then I must restitch everything back together. Perfectly. So that it looks completely untouched.

Get any of it wrong - the paper, the typeface, the pagination - and any decent book antiquarian, as I know Monsieur Gustave to be, would spot it in an instant. 

My work cannot be rushed. I cannot be rushed. And so, no, Monsieur you cannot have the book today. It will be delivered to the bookshop on Rue de Poissy on Tuesday, as originally ordered. Do I make myself clear?

Of course I did not say any of this to the man stood before me. No, what I said was, “Forgive me, Monsieur, I was not expecting your arrival. Please make yourself comfortable and I shall finish the order. A coffee, perhaps, while you wait?”

I was playing for time, obviously. The book was nowhere near ready. But it was clear that saying that to this man was not an option. He had not removed his hat, its wide brim casting a deep shadow across his eyes, his mouth a tight line. He leaned, almost casually, against the standpress, yet there was something primed about him, a tension in the arm that disappeared into his pocket and remained there. The thought of what that pocket contained made my throat constrict.

He watched impassively as I moved around him, shuffling papers and sorting through the various piles of books that surrounded us. 

“I’m afraid, Monsieur,” I said, the silence between us as thick as Madame Arnaud’s potage. “You have come at something of an inopportune moment. If there was a chance of more time, perhaps? A couple of hours would suffice.”

He didn’t move, nor say a word. But his meaning was clear. I continued to move about the room, as if I had misplaced the book in question, while its broken form lay like an accusation on the bench.  

I wondered why this change of plan. I’d been given very clear instructions. It was highly unusual for last minute alterations like this. Of course, I was a minor cog in a much bigger wheel, not privy to the wider scheme. I didn’t even understand the information I was tasked with inserting into the book. Nor did I have any idea who it had come from or for whom it was intended. It was no concern of mine. 

I rummaged a little more but I knew I’d have to admit to the incompleteness of the task eventually. I took a breath. 

“Monsieur, my apologies. I’m afraid the book is not yet ready.” I kept my eyes downcast and my voice soft. “I was given to understand Tuesday was the completion date.”

“I do not care about the book,” the man said, his French heavily accented. American possibly. “Just give me the report.”

I stared at him, astonished. This was unheard of. To hand it over like that was a complete break with protocol. And dangerous too. What if it fell into the wrong hands?

Then I realised. He was the wrong hands. He wasn’t part of the operation. He was the other side. 

What could I do? Bravery is for fools. I was a mere pawn in a much bigger chess game. I had no choice. I grabbed the folder from my desk. My hand shook as I passed it to him. 

“Go now, please, Monsieur. You have what you came for.”

He turned towards me. I’d said too much, given myself away. He put the folder down, removed his hat and then slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket.

1. Postcard from Paris by Andrew Shephard and Dave Rigby

The couple gave me a bad feeling the moment they waltzed into my office. All right, it was a sitting room, but I’d made it look like an office complete with desk, telephone, and grey filing cabinet. The cabinet was empty but I was aiming to fill it with case folders to keep the wolf from the door. The grey men had eased me out of M16 a good few years light of a civil service pension. Operational reasons, they said, but they thought I’d been associating with the wrong crowd. It was my patriotic duty to make way for the new generation of Cold War warriors.

I sat the couple down on the sofa and sat casually on top of my desk. I offered them cigarettes. They passed, but I lit one and smoked while I listened to their pitch. They claimed to be recently married, James and Megan Creighton, putting on an act worthy of an illicit hotel booking. It might have fooled a tired receptionist, but not me.

“The thing is, Alan – do you mind if I call you Alan?- we’ve set our hearts on a cottage in the country now that Megan’s given up the athletics, but our funds are a little short of what is required.” Right on cue, Megan, peroxide blonde, red lipstick, delved into her handbag and pulled out a bronze medal from the Cardiff Empire Games. She smiled and waved it in my direction, saying it was for the javelin. But when I moved my hand towards it to take a closer look she stuffed it back into her bag.

“Sorry, it’s so precious to me I can’t bear to let it out of my hands.” Yes, she was a fast one. No doubt she had speared a few hearts.

“But God must be on our side,” said the man, grasping his so-called wife’s arm too hard. “One of the overseas officials at the games had a soft spot for Megan and said he could help us out financially if we could assist him with the transport of some documents over to South Africa. I told Megan to say yes. What’s the harm? I mean, he was offering a lot of money. He’s already given us half, so we can pay for your services.”

“You realise I can’t assist with anything illegal or against the interests of this country?”

“Oh, quite, of course. We wouldn’t presume, would we Megan? I can assure you it is a business matter, a prototype design you might say. His people don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“The thing is,” said the athletic blonde, “Mr Vanderbilt couldn’t take the documents himself because they weren’t ready. Too bulky too, he said, and he already had a lot of equipment to carry. But the main thing is that he wanted no fuss, no controversy. You know how it is; some people don’t want to advertise their business with South Africa. So I said yes, but the fact is we don’t have a clue how to go about it without risking awkward questions, do we James?”

I outlined the principles of photographic reduction and moving documents across borders. I suggested using an indirect route via the Continent and a cover story that would satisfy the curious. Then I remembered to deliver my standard customer relationship spiel...

“…and most importantly, confidentiality and trust. I can only assist you if there are no secrets between us and there must be no talking to third parties. I may ask you to do things which don’t appear to make much sense on the face of it. If you lose faith in my methods you must be candid and our arrangement will end without further costs. Are you sure you still wish to proceed?”

They looked at each other with phoney smiles and nodded assent. They still didn’t admit to me they weren’t married. The case was one hour old and warning signs were already flashing. But I didn’t let my personal dislike of the couple get in the way of business. I handed the man a typed sheet detailing my hourly rates. Creighton didn’t even look at before folding it in half and slotting it into the inside pocket of his blazer.

Two weeks later a postcard arrived from Paris.