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.