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.