Picture, if you will, two men. One is wearing a coat with a fur collar; the other has on something somber, and a scarf. They are sitting across from each other at a table in the cafeteria of the British Museum, and they have about them a distinctly surreptitious air. Weighty secrets, their body language declares, are being bandied. Some longstanding and illicit agreement, it suggests, is about to get taken a step further.
In fact it is a moment that has been in the making since they first shared a plate of tea buns.
"You got to keep the receipt last time," the deputy head of the MI7 is saying.
He appears agitated. He tugs at his scarf, slender fingers tangling in the wool.
"Yes, but you spilled coffee on it," says the local KGB section officer, reasonably.
"That was an accident."
"Nevertheless," says the local KGB section officer. He had something else to add- sly insinuations about these British accidents, possibly- but he finds himself distracted by the flush rising in the deputy head's cheeks.
"A receipt is a receipt," says the deputy head. "And it was barely a spot of coffee. A speck, practically."
"You could not even read the name of the establishment through the stain!" It is the color, of course, that draws his eyes. The warm pink, so vivid in the shadowy space of their booth, with the weak diffuse light of the damp day outside reducing all else to white and black. The color. And the faint, itchy awareness that they have had this conversation countless, or at least uncounted, times before. That too.
"Do you plan on forgetting the name of this establishment anytime soon?" says the deputy head, testily. "My good man, you're clutching at straws. Listen to yourself. Every time, you come up with another excuse as to why only your tea buns count, and every time, your logic gets a little-"
What happens next is almost completely unlike the trick they do with cups and a pea, except perhaps for the one part with the tongue, but you may still want to watch carefully.
The section officer's hand shoots out and closes over the deputy head's, dragging him forward by the scarf in that same fluid instant.
"-mmph," says the deputy head.
"Hmmm," hums the section officer.
"Ngk," moans the deputy head.
"Mm," agrees the section officer.
For some time after that, all is quiet.
Eventually they break apart. It is unclear, from their expressions, whether this was for sanity or air. The KGB officer adjusts his fur collar a bit, looking awkward. The MI7 deputy head stares fixedly at his crumb-dusted plate, and dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
Both men, after a little coughing, do a quick scan of the surrounding area for witnesses. To their shared relief, the Bulgarian attaché is busy drawing something spiky and theoretically extinct on the Keeper of Her Majesty's Antiques' doily, and the two unidentifiable agents the next booth over are deep in discussion of what sounds like it might be the codename for an armored vehicle(1).
"So," says the KGB officer. He makes a game attempt at fiddling with a corner of the tablecloth.
"So," says the MI7 deputy head.
The unidentifiable agent with dark glasses on stands up, abruptly, treading on the Bulgarian attaché's foot. He and his companion have a brief, obscure exchange before sweeping out. The Keeper and the Bulgarian attaché follow shortly after, the latter limping a bit.
The silence- the emptiness- spreads in faintly mocking ripples through the room.
The deputy head begins to say "What did you-" at the same time as the security officer says "Look, I-".
They stop. They eye each other.
The deputy head throws up his hands.
"Bugger this for a lark," he says, and leans in.
The receipts get soaked. It would be nice to be able to say that no one will bring this up later, but you are probably going to have to settle for the thought that right here, right now, no one is keeping score.
(1) It wasn't.