Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

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is as busy as ever but the industrious kind of frenetic activity I witnessed when I was last here some years ago has been replaced by a bubbling unease.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 difficul

“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 o

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 ge

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