No 94: SPOOKS
(Gents’ facilities in Embankment Gardens. Third and fifth urinals from the left.)
The sheep has been shorn, and beneath lies the Siberian wolf.
I’m sorry?
Advertisement
The snow melts in the home of the Great Bear.
What on earth are you talking about?
Fear not, comrade, this is no fishing expedition. But this much I can say: the rock holds many secrets.
Does it now.
Yes. But now the rock crumbles. Our enemies pan for gold as we speak.
Right. And last night Martians landed in my vegetable patch.
ETs do not fall within my brief. It is the rock that concerns us now.
This is a wind-up, right? Any minute that fish-eyed, bearded bloke from the telly will leap out with a camera crew and I’ll have to say a rude word so they can bleep me and then all my family will be waiting outside with champagne.
Champagne, eh. Are you an agent of influence? In any case, I must be brief, for we have little time. The rock is not safe; our enemies have fathomed its purpose. The Bear has caught five of our assets accessing its secrets, and is sharpening his claws. His cubs are coming after us, and they have not been fed for weeks. We must hasten to the dead-letter drop in the wheelie bin behind the Evening Standard seller on Whitehall to receive fresh instructions.
You’ve been watching too many episodes of Spooks. I’ve no idea what you’re on about — unless you’re trying to tell me that the Russians have blown our cover in Moscow, where British agents were using a transmitter disguised as a rock to download classified information. Great wheeze. Was going swimmingly until a nosy reporter caught them on camera.
Shh! The walls have ears!
Advertisement
And eyes. We’ve been watching you for ages, Vladimir Schnetzkin. It is you, isn’t it? No true English gentleman would wear lavender tweed at this time of year. Surely you didn’t think I’d fall for the old wheelie-bin trick.
Do say: “Ah, Mr Bond. It seems you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
Don’t say: “Cold War spies in this day and age? What utter nonsense.”