The switch

Right in front of my eyes, the old briefcase handover.

The young spy in the inconspicuous checked shirt, looking as nonchalant as possible, smoothly dipped his shoulder and took the briefcase.

No backward glances and no-one saw me, the invisible photographer, leaning against the local fried chicken shop front, smoking a thin cheroot, wide brimmed hat pulled down over dark eyes and three day old subtle.


Move over Mr Bond, Crispin is here.

Or it could have been two students being videoed for a university project.

You, Dear Reader, decide.

(Dramatic music plays out.....)