Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Valerie is not my real name of course, it is a pseudonym I use when on “assignment” as I like to call these random, but increasingly frequent requests to divert attention, and ‘deliver the spoils’. The war years is where I really gained my experience, and made connections, which are still very dear to me today. Betty Croxted from Huddersfield, is what is on my original birth certificate. Betty is not quite as alluring as Marguerite, Helene, or any of the many sexy pseudonyms I employ during my work as a seductress. All my ‘names’ have characters to suit, and a wardrobe which compliments the whole persona. With wigs, make up and dresses, I pass for American, German, Russian, French or Dutch, of course I take my work seriously, I may not be officially employed as an agent, but I take the same risks and am invaluable to agents in achieving their goals. As the only girl in a family of 5 boys, I learnt how to defend myself, even before I had to fight off unwanted attention from officer

“Well, which is it? Are you and your spook friends incompetent or unlucky? Let me tell you straight, you’d better not be unlucky because in my world you make your own luck.” Senator Harpenden pushed up his glasses and sipped black coffee, keeping his eyes fixed on the fidgety Johnson. The special agent took a small white pill from an envelope in his pocket and washed it down with a glass of Florida orange juice. “Mind if I smoke, Senator?” Johnson tapped a Marlborough from the packet and lit up, not waiting for a reply. “My line of work has a lot in common with yours. Just when you think a deal is all sewn up, a new player comes and hits you on the blind side.” The two men sat at opposite ends of an oval table in the private dining room of the Hotel Astor. Breakfast for two had been set and served at one end of the table, but not yet cleared away. One of the two places was untouched, a rolled napkin and empty coffee cup attesting to a late riser. The senator leaned his big

I was tired of Algiers. The heat was getting to me so I decided to visit the hotel bar. The lobby was incredibly busy. People were gathered around posters advertising a road race from Algiers to Cape Town. Interesting, I thought. I approached the bar and a jovial American turned to me and shook my hand. “Charlie Markman.” “MacRae” “Hello fella, here for the race?” “No, actually, but I may be interested.” “Well if you need a car then I’m the right man to speak to.” “I may partake actually.” “Partake! I like it! Fancy!” Getting slightly irritated at this point I shook the man’s hand again and wrote down the details of the next day’s test run. The race track was incredibly raucous. Full of dust, petrol fumes and the incredibly loud din of engines. Amongst the spectators to my surprise I saw a familiar woman. “Megan? What are you doing here?” She appraised me coolly and drawled “Oh, hello. So, you like cars too, do you?” What was she doing here? “Where is James?” I asked. “Out there, on

I’m feeling pretty sore over losing the documents back in Paris. I got careless, he got lucky; it won’t be happening again.  In the meantime there are some advantages to being dead, metaphorically speaking of course.  The English guy, Alan, isn’t looking for me – not yet, anyhow. That was his mistake; too much confidence in his old French comrade. Sadly misplaced.  I catch the next boat to Algiers and check into a passable place in the Kasbah – the usual thing – tiled walls, orange trees, terrible bathroom arrangements. It’s a more anonymous choice than the swanky place favoured by Alan; it doesn’t take me long to find where he is staying and I find the night porter to be very helpful with the usual encouragement.  I find a café in a narrow street off the main square and order a coffee. It’s thick and black and burns in my guts but I can’t bear the mint tea that’s the only other offering.  A kid – a boy maybe eight or nine, hard to tell – recognises me as fo