My Journey in Writing, Ranting, and Woodworking

I ordered a jambon sandwich and a coke. Jambon is french for ham, and it is one of my favorites. As a spy, in the days after the the Brandenberg gate became a footnote in history, who had taken over the analytics of the Russia unit, it wasn’t quite as thrilling as ‘the old days’. That being said, I still skulk around, send secret messages, and mostly try to justify my existence.

An hour before it had started raining, not a hard rain, but a steady cleansing rain that made the streets shine and left the air heavy and steamy. The waitress had used a towel and dried off the seat and table at the 20th Century Cafe. A little out of the way place in Lyon, it was like a hundred or maybe a thousand cafes all over the city, all over France for that matter. These small diner offers one an opportunity to be in public and remain relatively safe.

A tall slender woman, impeccably dressed, with dark hair, green eyes, and a thick russian accent, approached the table. I was expecting her, so I stood up to shake her finely manicured hand.

“Hello, I am Steven, you must be from Xerton Corp?”

“Das, I am Katrina, it is nice to meet you.” She said with a firm handshake and a business like demeanor. Her name isn’t Katrina, but to be fair, mine isn’t Steven. She knows that I know her name is Elana, but if people are listen, as they always are, this sort of silliness is common place. We continued to manufacture small talk.

“How are you today, did you have a hard time finding the place?” I asked, sitting down and while waving the waiter over to take her order.

“No, not at all, I am new to the city, but your directions were spot on.” came her response with a delightful smile.

The waitress brought a cup of coffee for Katrina, and I nibbled on my sandwich. Eating a sandwich at a spy meeting is generally considered very unspy like, and patently uncool. I consider it important for two reasons. It looks much more natural for people to actually eat at their clandestine meetings, and secondly, I missed breakfast.

She talked for a bit about the business deal her cover company is engaging in with my pretend company. We have been discussing this fictitious for several month, always at a different location. Document were always exchanged, drinks were usually had, and on a couple of occasions, we would order breakfast through room service. It’s good to be a spy.

Today would be less fun, as there was some important intel which actually needed to be analyzed, and sent up the food chain. I pulled out a folder, removed the documents, which looked very official. She took a few minutes and pretended to read it.

“This looks like it has all of the changes we have agreed upon, I believe we have a deal.” She looked up and smiled, removed a pen and make a show of signing in a half dozen places. Within the 30 pages of the contract were probably two sentences of instructions for her, which she would dig out later. When she was done signing, I looked it over, slid it in my briefcase and handed her a copy, which I had signed, she signed it too and the fake deal was done.

“This is a great day for both our companies, on behalf of me and my board of directors, I am pleased that will have been able to negotiate a mutually beneficial deal. I am sure both our companies will grow and prosper under these terms. I have a small gift I wanted to give you.” She removed a tiny rosewood box and set it on the table.

“You didn’t have to do that, I appreciate it, but you didn’t have to.” I smiled, and opened the box to see the small brass item. I quickly closed the box and stood to shake her.

She leaned in and gave me a kiss and…

I woke up, the tiny brass shoulder plane was on the bed besides me. It is 25 years old, and was made by Sean, who I purchased the 4 1/2 from and the 5. It is really sexy, though not as sexy as a Russian spy, but that is ok.  It was still a good dream.  Much like I would be a terrible President, I would be a terrible spy too. It is best that I focus on woodworking and not secret messages.