I had a lot of problems with this. Mostly, it was just the file becoming corrupt and unusable and forcing me to start over, but here it is.

/

"More wine, Madame?"

Jean Mendel proffered a bottle of wine in an ornate bucket.

"Oui, monsieur."

He refilled the woman's glass.

Of course, Jean Mendel didn't actually work at this restaurant. Technically, he didn't work anywhere. He was a contract killer, an assassin. And he did industrial espionage in his spare time. He was a master of disguise and urban camouflage, and well practised with his favorite butterfly knife.

In this particular instance, he had been hired to steal a briefcase from the woman at the table. He had been duly assured that he could have the contents of the briefcase in payment. Walking away, he slipped into the kitchen. He removed his waiter's outfit. Underneath it he was wearing one of his famous (or infamous) urban camouflage suits: dyed to the exact same colour as the restaurant's carpet. Nobody would, in theory, notice him unless they knew he was there. He then donned a balaclava of the same wine-red colour, and slipped out the door back into the dining room, laying flat on the floor. He crawled slowly back towards the table.

As he reached the edge of it, he heard a soft thump, indicating that the drug he had placed in the wine had taken effect. Slipping silently under the table, he found the briefcase simply leaning against the table leg.

He picked it up, carefully moving the woman's hand away from the handle, and crawled to the restaurant's rear exit. Secure in the alleyway, he flicked the catch and opened the briefcase.

It contained only a note.

Mr Mendel,

Good job. I would like to hire you permanently; we have a great deal of jobs for someone of your particular talents. Five million dollars cash, per year. If interested, call the secure number on the reverse side of this page.

Sincerely,

Redmond Mann

Reliable Excavation & Demolition

P.S. I hope you did not kill Miss Pauling. Good assistants are so hard to find nowadays.

Jean stared at the note for a few seconds. He flipped it over, and sure enough, there was an international long-distance number on the other side.

Muttering about Americans, he stuffed the note in his pocket, and removed the balaclava, placed it in the briefcase, and re-entered the street, walking off toward his hotel room.

/

Thus, came the Spy. And yes, I made his name an alteration of 'Mentlegen'. When I thought of that I just couldn't resist using it. Looking ahead, barring unforeseen circumstances, this should be finished by the weekend. Up next, we have the speedy, baseball-and-Bonk loving Bostonian, the Scout.