Words and Image by Billie Jenkins

It was a time when information was exchanged in hard copy, stamped into paper and carried across borders by men with expensive educations. The rumours Ian fleming has run an international spy operation from his Times newroom desk had always made P laugh. Real intel was scored in the beds of politicians, in meeting rooms with arms dealers and by paying off the despondent wives of dictators with promises to protect their children. In his mind anyway. The closest he had got to covert information in the 34 years he spent at MI6  were press releases kept on hold until after a royal anniversary. He knew it was bubbling under the surface all around him, people were doing terrible things, one of these communications had to explain that surely? He networked, and he dug away at the piles of telephone exchanges that towered his desk, but nothing. On the day of his retirement he raised his glass of port and toasted a comfortable life after  a good run. Three days later the Berlin Wall came down.

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