Espionage waits for no man, but even the world’s most discreet operative needs sustenance. Today, that mission brought me not to the Alps or the Maldives, but to a fluorescent-lit outpost serving up high-cholesterol with a side of self-reflection. The disguise is perfect. Hot dog in a limp bun, mustard applied by what I can only assume was a paintball gun. A melting strawberry sundae that looks like it’s seen things. A large cola sweating quietly beside me. All very civilian. All very deliberate.
My tools remain with me, of course. Precision is everything. Timekeeping matters, especially when your cover depends on knowing exactly how long you can sit here before your next extraction or cardiac event. The world thinks espionage is all glamour and Aston Martins. They never show this part. The operational downtime. The field sustenance. The hot dog with onions so sharp they could double as interrogation tools.
No one looks twice at the man in the corner booth. They never do. That’s the beauty of it. A lone figure, perhaps a bit too well-dressed for a $1.50 combo meal, but just disheveled enough to blend in. They don’t see the training. They don’t see the missions. They don’t see the fact that this soda lid has been tampered with three times by the agent at the next table trying to pass me a micro-SD card in the ice.
The ketchup tells a story. The pickle slice is a warning. This sundae isn’t dessert. It’s a message.
There is elegance in this chaos. The precision of the moment. The quiet tension between the fizz of the drink and the slow drip of strawberry syrup down the plastic cup. A lesser man might have gone for the fries. I chose the path of resistance. I chose the dog.
Other diners around me are unaware they are in the presence of a ghost. A shadow. A man whose last mission ended in Prague with a helicopter and a woman named Elise who now runs a florist shop in Vienna and refuses to answer my calls. But I digress.
This is what real fieldwork looks like. Not tuxedos. Not caviar. Just meat in a bun and a wrist cold from holding secrets.
I am James Bond. And I am on my lunch break.