In a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.
”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”
His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.
”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”
Lionel, the third man, blew his cheeks out.
‘Can’t believe how ingenious his little trick was.”
Howard dug in his pocket, pulling out a minute black object, a small fly, passing it round; they all marvelled that this was how Jeremy Black had betrayed his country again and again. It was a miniature camera and video. He would release it as he entered the room for committee meetings, so close to the highest reaches of government.
”We have our security to thank for that. It took them long enough. I heard there was an awful rumpus when they cornered him in the minister’s office.”
The elderly gentleman agreed, adding: ”I was there. Rum do. Still don’t know why they let him loose; they should have had him under lock and key. They found his yacht in the channel, and no sign of him. Did he drown or is he living the life of Riley in Southeast Asia, laughing at us?”
Sipping their drinks, each thoughtful, each with his own scenario of events, at least they had this new gadgetry. The world of espionage just got more interesting.
