My weekend adventure began with a frantic Friday night phone call from Basil Exposition, Head of M16. "Ayers, there's been an international incident. We need you."
I groaned in resignation and rolled off my feckless lover. "Put your feck back on." I whispered, covering the mouthpiece whilst the little minx swore in protest.
"I say. Ayers, are you there?" Basil's bad English accent grew plaintive. "I said there has been an international incident. The U.S. Consul General for Bermuda has had his house egged."
"Any casualties?" I asked, grimly.
"Fortunately, no. We've heard the gardener, Frederick, met a bad end, but one penicillin shot and he's right as rain. Still, the Americans aren't going to sit around with egg on their faces. Those embassy attacks in Africa have left everyone's nerves a bit frazzled, and the U.S. State Department does like to posture. Madeline Albright has threatened reprisals as soon as they find out who was responsible. I fear this could plunge us into nuclear war."
"Suspects?" I asked, cradling the receiver between my impossibly square jaw and cruelly muscular shoulder. I climbed into my black Prada suit and slipped the cold blue steel of my Walther PPK into its shoulder harness.
"Oh Ayers, I think you can guess the usual suspects."
The far right wing of the Bermuda Junior League leapt instantly to mind. I wracked my brain for other possibilities. A representative of Bermuda's burgeoning Chigro community? Maybe a rogue Gay Mafia Henchperson? I sighed. "Basil, I assume you want me take a little reconnaissance trip."
"I do Ayers. We'll have a jet pick you up at 0900. We've assembled a crack team of counterintelligence agents to accompany you."
I frowned "You know I like to work alone."
"Not this time Ayers, the stakes are too high."
"All right, but I'm calling the shots. Who's on my team?"