Can You Find The Mole In This Spy Organization?

Are you even one of the good guys anymore? It’s tough to say. You love your country of England, but maybe she has done little to earn that love recently.

William Kingsley, the department director, steps out from his office and looks tersely around the small office. You know something is up. But what?

“You,” Kingsley says, pointing right at you. “I’d like a word in the Spy Lounge.”

You notice that the other spies at their desks bristle ever so slightly. It is rare to be called into the Spy Lounge.

“Take a seat,” Kingsley says as he locks the door behind you and pulls down the little shade on the window in the door. He then draws a curtain over the door and puts up a piece of plywood that he nails over the curtain.

You know this must be serious.

You hear the faint voices of the other spies out in the office grumbling about how you got asked into the Spy Lounge, and you nod to yourself.

“You won’t be nodding after you hear what I have to tell you,” says Kingsley.

“There is a mole here at L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E.,” Kingsley says while pouring an extra-malted, extra-old scotch into his gross throat.

“I’m too old to sniff out the mole,” he continues. “But I want you, my most trusted spy, to head up the secret investigation.”

“It’s not L.O.N.D.O.N.S.P.Y.B.A.S.E., it’s L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E.,” corrects Kingsley. “We couldn’t think of an acronym for ‘Spy,’ so that part is just ‘Spy.’”

You nod imperceptibly.

“It stands for Lateral Operations Non-aligned Deep-cover Official Network, that’s the ‘L.O.N.D.O.N.’ part,” Kingsley explains. “Then just ‘Spy’ as I already explained, and then But Always Secretive Endeavors is the ‘B.A.S.E.’ part.”

You nod imperceptibly.

“And now, on to who the mole might be.”

He freshens his glass of prehistoric scotch.

“Because I once gave you my newborn son to raise, and you didn’t get weirded out by that and just did what was asked of you. Now: Are you ready to hear the names of who the mole could be?”

“Here are the three agents the mole could be. Steel yourself, because this may be shocking.”

“Terrence Wellers, code name ‘Smoky Barrister.’”

“Veronica Linfield, code name ‘Ace’s Medium.’”

“And David Brewster, code name ‘Chair.’”

“And that’s it. Certainly don’t investigate me, as that would be a waste of your time. After all, I’m the one who found out we have a leak, so it would be insane to think that I could be behind all of this.”

“Again, this is top secret. Your discretion is key. I’ve prepared dossiers on all three agents. If you need further dossiers, let me know. We have plenty of dossiers. Most things in this office are also dossiers.”

“That is all,” Kingsley continues. “You have 27 hours, 11 minutes to fix the leak. You are dismissed from the Spy Lounge.”

You leave the office, your head spinning like a top. Which agent do you wish to investigate?


Terrence Wellers. You fought with him during the Second War of Significant Consequence. He was a decorated soldier and fought bravely. He’s worked at L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. with you for 20 years. He took a bullet for you in Prague and another 16 bullets for you in Paris. That isn’t even to mention the 39 bullets he took for you in Turin or the 18 he took for you in Copenhagen.

But Terrence, a double agent? If you could have emotions, you would feel some right now.

How do you wish to investigate Terrence?

Your footsteps echo in the foggy London streets, your jacket bulging with your massive typewriter that you take home with you every night. “Terrence, don’t let it be true,” you think to yourself.

Suddenly, a car screeches to a halt right in front of you, and the passenger door flings open. A man you don’t recognize speaks in slightly accented English.

“I have important information on big boy. Get in. Now.”

You get in the car and it peels off, heading due south toward London’s famed Queen’s Lap district.

“If you knew what I know, you’d not be able to contain yourself,” the driver says to you, barely looking at the road.

“There is no time to explain now,” the driver says. “Get in this car.”

“My car, my driving, my rules. Capiche?”

The driver makes a point of not looking at the road to say this to you—to further piss you off, you surmise.

“Look, I’m a high-level informant, not some limp-dicked teen learning how to drive, so drop it.”

Genteel Londoners are genteely throwing themselves out of the way of the speeding car, which is now firmly on the sidewalk in downtown Queen’s Lap, right by Queen’s Microwave Pier.

“People you know and trust are involved. I should not even be telling you this,” the driver says.

You notice that he’s sweating.

“This is so big, I can’t even let you see where we are going,” says the driver, sweating profusely. “Put on this blindfold.”

You put on the blindfold, noting that the smell of the Queen’s Lap district’s boar-smelting plant puts you about three clicks west of Queen’s Prescription Pills Bridge.

“If I tell any more, I will be in trouble. Deep trouble,” the driver continues. You can hear the stress in his tone.

You hear the car turn off and the driver exit. Moments later, the driver is guiding you from the car into a building.

Your senses tell you that you must be halfway to Rotterdam by now.

“Okay, I’ll take the blindfold off,” he says.

With the blindfold off, you see all of your friends and family assembled wearing party hats and holding presents.

“My God, you’re all the mole? How did I miss this?” you say.

“Happy birthday!” they say in unison.

You turn to the driver and realize he’s your Russian landlord, Ivan. How did you not recognize him? He wasn’t even wearing a disguise. He gives you a big thumbs-up and says, “Happy birthday.”

All the important people in your life are here, including Kingsley, Terrence Wellers, Veronica Linfield, and David Brewster, plus several lesser spies.

In spite of your cold spy instincts, you are imperceptibly touched.

“For fuck’s sake!” the driver roars at you. “It’s like you’ve never been in a car before.”

He stops the car and kicks you out.

“I was trying to do a cool thing where I drive you while cryptically giving you hints, but you are a shit. The double agent is Kingsley.”

And with that, he speeds off. You notice a piece of paper floating around in the air.

“No mole at all! It was all a ruse to get you to this surprise birthday party!” Kingsley exclaims. “The Russians have been killing our informants all over Europe, but that’s probably just a coincidence.”

“Hot dog!” you say.

“Did someone say hot dogs?” Terrence asks as he brings out a bag from Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent. Everyone claps, and you think to yourself that it’s just like everyone says: Spies really do have all the fun.

You bend down to pick up the paper. It’s a receipt for £10,000, made out to “FOREIGN DRIVER” for the reason of “TELLING MY IDIOT COWORKER THAT KINGSLEY IS THE MOLE SO THAT I REMAIN ABOVE SUSPICION, FOR I, ME, AM THE TRUE MOLE.” You also notice that the charge originated in East Berlin.

Your head is spinning like a top that is spinning on top of another also-spinning top.

You shake your head sadly. If David Brewster is the mole, you will truly be a sad individual. You and David both fought in the Second World War. Not only that, you even fought on the same side.

But you promised Kingsley that you’d find the mole, so you will investigate Chair for queen and country.

You shout that everyone in the room but you is a traitor and that traitors deserve a traitorous dog’s death as you wave your handgun around. As you’re screaming, the room scatters, and soon you are alone.

You notice that there is a piece of paper on the table.

The slip of paper is a receipt for a party platter of chicken nuggets from Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent. You notice with some dismay that the platter appears picked over. But it’s who the platter was charged to that really catches your interest:

“L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. Mole.” You also notice that the charge originated in East Berlin.

David leaves the office at 18:54 QLT (Quaint London Time) and you follow discreetly behind him, keeping your vintage Rolls Royce at a safe distance to avoid detection.

“David Brewster, my own biological, not-metaphoric brother,” you think to yourself.

David arrives at his flat, takes a package out from the backseat of his car, and goes inside. You park across the street and wait.

You light a cigarette and settle in for a night of snoopery.

A light turns on upstairs, and you see David walk into his bedroom. He places the package on the nightstand and sits on the bed. He checks his watch several times, as if he is waiting for someone.

You light another cigarette.

A men enters the bedroom, obscured in shadow. As he steps closer to the light, you realize that it‘s not a man at all.

It’s a woman.

You light cigarettes three through seven and begin smoking them.

David takes off his jacket and then removes the fur coat of the woman, who you now realize is his wife, Jacqueline.

David and Jacqueline enter the throes of lovemaking. Passionate, sweaty lovemaking that tests the manners of your British decency.

The two bodies rhythmically slide upon one another in all sorts of positions. A real tasting menu of sexual congress.

You can barely bring yourself to spy on your coworker as he makes love to his wife of nine years, but you promised Kingsley that you’d find the mole, so you continue to watch.

Jacqueline mounts her husband, dripping torrents of sweat. Several hours pass of nonstop lovemaking.

At 2:02 QST, David rips open the package, and several graphic sexual toys spill out onto the bed.

They spend the next five hours exploring each other’s bodies with these plastic contrivances.

Finally, at the wee hour of 4:09 QLT, the two lovers mercifully go to bed, and the bedroom light is switched off.

A professional spy, you keep yourself awake by recounting all of the war crimes you’ve committed. If David is the mole, you will not be asleep when he reveals himself as a traitor.

Your stomach rumbles, and you fight the urge to go to Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent.

At 6:45 QST, the light turns on in the bedroom window, and you see David get up and tiptoe to the phone. Jacqueline remains asleep.

David speaks in a low voice, so as not to wake his wife. Who is he talking to?

A phone on Jacqueline’s side of the bed starts ringing. She picks it up, smiles, and the two begin making love.

At 10:55 QST, David and Jacqueline are still making love.

But then, a car pulls up outside David’s flat, and two men in trench coats emerge, looking suspiciously to either side before entering the building.

Russians? you think to yourself. You write “Russians?” down in a notebook.

You see the two men enter the bedroom, causing David and Jacqueline to stop their lovemaking. The naked couple stand up and walk over to the two men and take off their jackets and begin kissing them. Before long, all four people are having risky sex.

At 14:02 QST, the two men put their clothes back on and leave.

At 14:43 QST, David puts his clothes on and leaves. He gets in his car and drives away.

You follow in pursuit.

You follow David through the winding streets of London’s Queen’s Lap district. Where could he be going?

He pulls up to Queen’s Prescription Pills Bridge and gets out of his car. You park in an inconspicuous alley. With a glance over his shoulder, David steps onto a small boat moored next to the bridge.

The boat is not flying the Union Jack.

David stands on the bow of the boat, and then a figure emerges from the hold of the ship.

The figure comes up from behind David and begins kissing the nape of his neck. You immediately recognize this figure as Jacqueline, because after surveilling nine hours of lovemaking, you know her go-to moves.

The two begin making love on the boat.

“Okay, fine,” the driver says. “But pay me for the blindfold at least.”

You fish out your wallet and hand it over to the driver. You have no need for money or identification anymore, now that you are enveloped in darkness. You hear his footsteps recede into the inky beyond.

For so long, your thoughts have been racked by darkness, by the unspeakable war crimes you committed. You may not know who the mole is, but you’re content remaining on this cool street, blind as a newborn, finally at peace.

Veronica Linfield. Ace’s Medium. It can’t be. In the Second World War, she was a fighter pilot who firebombed cities she wasn’t even asked to. Such was her dedication to England.

There is scarcely a town on these shores that does not have a statue of Veronica standing proudly on top of a pile of smoldering corpses.

But maybe in these past 20 years she’s been turned by the Russians. And now it’s your job to figure out if that previous sentence is true.

How do you wish to investigate Veronica?

You pull your vintage Rolls Royce up to a charming flat in the heart of London’s Queen’s Lap district. Thousands of people walk by here every day, never guessing that this is a safe house for Veronica Linfield’s top-secret informants.

But you are a spy, so you know everything.

You discreetly knock the secret pattern on the door, and seconds later, it opens.

“God, that took forever,” you think to yourself.

“You are not Veronica,” the nervous-eyed Russian man says in heavily accented English.

He is about to let you in, but then the Russian pauses and narrows his eyes.

“The bird washes eggs, but it does not blink in sunlight,” he says.

“Ah, spy poems! I love this stuff!” you exclaim.

What spy poem do you want to say back?

The Russian cocks his head slightly.

“The death of cousin perfect time to open supermarket?” he asks.

The Russian touches his right ear, then raises two fingers on his left hand, then turns to the side and puts his arms straight out.

The Russian rolls up his sleeve and shows you his tattoo of a phoenix on his forearm. He stares at you.

“Okay,” the Russian says. “So you belong here.”

He welcomes you into the parlor.

“Nice shag carpeting,” you say. “Very era-appropriate.”

“Thank you. Now, what is it you wanted?” the Russian asks nervously.

“She’s in Bucharest, pictured above, on a mission,” the Russian responds.

“Are you sure you don’t mean Budapest?” you inquire. “They sound similar, and I often mix them up myself.”

“No,” the Russian says. “I am certain it is Bucharest.”

The Russian dials your coworker Veronica and hands you the phone.

“Hello, This is Veronica Linfield speaking,” she says. “I’m the staff spy for a certain high-level British intelligence agency. To whom am I speaking?”

She pausesto add a spy-esque air of intrigue, you surmise.

“Hello. Always good to hear from you.”

“It’s funny you should ask that. I was sent here to Romania to look for a mole.”

“Looks like someone wanted to get us both out of the office,” Veronica says. “But who? I was sent here by David Brewster. Who sent you?”

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry,” says the Russian.

“Well, isn’t it obvious? It’s—” Veronica says, but suddenly the line goes dead.

“Veronica?” you say into the phone, but it’s no use.

“Are you in the mood for Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent?” asks the Russian. “They have good hot dogs.”

London, 1971. You sit at your typewriter, typing up a report while reflecting on your mysterious and troubling past. Your hands glide over the keys, but they are no normal hands and no normal keys. They are spy hands and spy keys.

You are a spy.

You glance at a calendar. The Second World War is already 25 years in the past. It was easy to know who the enemy was then. Ever since, the Cold War has raged, not on the battlefield but in smoky back rooms and on chilly October nights in Berlin. Not a war that breeds heroes, that’s for sure.

You don’t know who you can trust anymore: close friends, family, coworkers, Ivan Peytrov your Russian landlord and an aspiring music producer who you often vent to while he practices using his sound recording equipment. Ivan is such a good listener, and you’re lucky to have him.

But still, it is a lonesome life. You are a lonely spy.

The door quickly opens. A large Russian man looks around, blinking in the harsh sun.

“Thank you for using the safe house code phrase. It is hard to know who you can trust these days, in this War of Cold.”

You and the Russian head to the counter at Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent.

What would you like to order?

You glance down at your desk. All of the three pictures are of your beloved trench coats, as you have no family or friends to speak of. Thus is the solitary life of a spy.

Elsewhere on your desk, an errant wrapper from Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, sits idly, still caked in the medicinal-tasting relish from your Giant Hot Dog Combo meal you had for lunch.

Suddenly, William Kingsley, the spy director, noisily bursts from his office and points at you.

“You,” he says. “Meet me in the Spy Lounge. Now.”

William Kingsley, code name “David Brewster.” The most powerful man in all of L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. Incredibly old. Gross saggy skin. The record holder for longest time holding one’s breath during a time of war.

If this leak goes all the way to the top, your dear, sexy England is truly in dire canals.

“William Kingsley, a mole?” you mutter to yourself.

“What was that?” asks Kingsley, who you forgot was right there next to you.

As a spy, you are an expert at reading facial expressions, and you can tell that William totally bought that. You slink away cooly and head back to your desk to regroup.

How do you wish to investigate William Kingsley?

Travis Plerpt, code name “Incredible Fuckup,” is the worst spy at L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. by far. The only reason he hasn’t been fired is because he’s seen all the other spies naked and is pretty good at drawing, and everyone is concerned he’d draw their genitals and then hand them out on the street if he got fired.

“Travis, get over here,” you say. “I need you for something.”

“Me? Travis Plerpt?” he says. “I’m ready to help, boss! I promise this won’t be like Oslo! I promise!”

As he lumbers over to you, he errantly knocks a cup of coffee off his desk, spilling it on a pile of incredibly confidential files.

Exactly 15 minutes later, you sit down at Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, and immediately notice Travis, wearing green pants, a green shirt, and green face paint, pretending to be a plant in the corner.

You pretend not to notice Travis, and concurrently wonder why you enlisted his help for something as serious as finding a mole. People’s lives are at stake, and you threw your lot in with Travis. Maybe you aren’t the hottest spy yourself.

“Pssst!” you hear from the direction of Travis/the plant. “Pssst!”

“Pssst!” Travis/plant continues even louder. “Hey! It’s me! Travis Plerpt, code name ‘Massive Fuckup.’ From the spy thing!”

Travis is now shouting your name, and still you refuse to acknowledge him. After a few seconds, he just sits down at your table, still in his plant costume. You can tell he is very proud of himself.

“I’ve been here the whole time. As a plant! And you didn’t even see me,” Travis says, beaming.

“Travis, you idiot. This is important,” you shout at him. “There is a mole at L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E., and I need your help spying on Kingsley.”

Travis’ eyes widen, which causes a clump of hastily applied green face paint just above his eyebrow to fall off.

“I can’t see a downside, career-wise, to investigating the highest-ranking official at the spy organization I work at,” Travis says. “What’s the plan, friend?”

“Okay! I will!” says Travis very loudly.

You leave Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, quickly to avoid being associated with Travis.

You get in your Rolls Royce car and prepare to take a nap until nighttime, which every spy worth their spy salt knows are prime snooping hours.

Being a spy, you don’t sleep a wink. What if someone had tried to kill you while you had been asleep? It wouldn’t be very spy-like to be killed.

You get out of your vintage Rolls Royce and sneak into the L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. headquarters past the security guard to ensure that there is no record of you returning to work. You creep up the stairs and slip into the spy office.

In the middle of the office, you see Travis smacking rolls of tape with a hockey stick while he imitates hockey announcing legend Jim Robson.

“Sorry,” Travis says meekly. “I got here 30 seconds before you and got bored.”

“Shut up, Travis,” you say. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to sneak into the Spy Lounge to see what I can dig up. You stand watch on the stairs. If Kingsley comes, knock on the Spy Lounge door three times. If anyone else comes, knock twice. And for the love of God, be quiet. We are spies.”

“Got it!” Travis says, putting his finger on his lips. “Shhhhh!”

He trundles over to the stairs.

You push the unlocked door to the Spy Lounge open, and even you, a hardened spy, have to admit that it’s a little scary at night.

You see a filing cabinet labeled “WILLIAM KINGSLEY’S TOP-SECRET FILES. KEEP OUT.”

Using your spy hands, you leaf through various confidential paperwork.

“God, paperwork is so boring,” you think to yourself.

But then you see a file with William’s signature on it. It’s about the sale of the L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. building to a Dutch company. The other signatory is the president of FoodYah, Amsterdam’s McDonald’s holding company equivalent.

“Amsterdam!” you exclaim to yourself, hoping that causes you to make some important mental connection between events and confidential files that you’ve witnessed/seen.

Suddenly, you hear about eight knocks.

The knocks only intensify, but you figure it’s just Travis being a doofus.

As you’re about to open another file drawer, the door swings open, and Travis staggers in and falls onto the carpet, dead from multiple knife wounds to the chest.

You hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.

Stepping over Travis’ blood-soggy corpse, you sprint down the stairs.

“Stop, mole!” you shout, hoping that might work, but it does not.

You get down to the street level, and a car is peeling away into the genteel London night.

The commotion is starting to draw a crowd, and you recede into the shadows. Time to snoop on some other spies, or solve the case.

Travis may be an incompetent moron, but he’s still a person, after all. You kneel down, close his lifeless eyes, and mutter a few words.

You exit the Spy Lounge and see five bloody knives on the floor next to a copy of How To Knife Juggle, also blood-soaked.

“Travis, you dead idiot,” you think to yourself.

You don’t want to be anywhere near here when his body is discovered. So, you slink into the shadows. Time to investigate more spies, or solve the case.

Man, you still haven’t figured this out? Guess you better snoop on some more spies.

Who do you want to investigate?

Or, if you have figured it out, you can choose to identify the mole and win glory for England and your personal career.

Like always, it takes forever to get on Kingsley’s calendar. But finally he sees you, and you step into the Spy Lounge.

“What is this about?” Kingsley asks while drinking a scotch that predates the creation of the universe.

“The mole? Remember?” you say.

“Oh, right, of course. Who is it?” he asks.

“Terrence, eh? I hired him when he was a baby. After surveying every English newborn in 1913, I decided he was the most loyal baby, so you’ll forgive my skepticism. What is your proof?”

“It’s obvious,” you say. Then you say:

“Veronica? Are you sure? She lets me borrow her car on weekends sometimes. Can’t imagine someone that considerate could also be a mole. What’s your proof?”

“It’s obvious,” you say. Then you say:

“David, eh?” Kingsley says. “David designed the British flag. Seems unlikely the guy who designed the British flag would be a mole. What’s your proof?”

“It’s obvious,” you say. Then you say:

Kingsley calls David Brewster into the Spy Lounge, and you present the evidence.

David swallows hard. “Okay, you caught me. The mole. Happy now?”

David sighs deeply. “I really enjoy making love to my wife. It’s probably my favorite thing to do,” he says. “Being a spy and going on missions and stuff was prohibiting me from making deep love to my wife. So, I decided the easiest thing to do was to start killing informants and field agents in the hopes that it would cause the agency to dissolve. Then Jackie and I could sweatily intertwine our organry at our convenience.”

You and Kinglsey look at each other, disgusted.

Kingsley tells David to leave and never come back. Then he turns to you and shakes your hand.

“You’ve saved L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. Thank you for doing that. Now, how about milkshakes at Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, on me?”

“Race ya!” you say as you run out of the Spy Lounge, happy for the first time in your life.

Overwhelmed by how familiar you are with both David and Jacqueline Brewster’s genitals, you back your vintage Rolls Royce up and almost bump into a blue car. There is a woman with binoculars in the driver’s seat, and she throws them down hastily and peels away when she sees you.

“Even the watchers are watched,” you chuckle to yourself.

You notice that the car has Swedish plates, because, as a spy, that shit is important to you.

Time to investigate more, or name the mole if you’ve solved the case.

“Me?” Kingsley says with as much shock as a boss of spies can muster. “What proof do you have? This ought to be good...”

Kingsley laughs. “That’s because I’m trying to turn this place into a Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent. Do you know how much a franchisee can pull down in one year?”

“Over £50,000. And that’s in 1971 money,” Kingsley says. “Hell of a lot more than I make here, and I don’t have to worry about being killed or called a spy when I’m running a delicious fast food restaurant.”

You glumly look at your shoes, disgraced. Outside, in the main office, you can hear the mole killing another spy.

“See?” William says, pouring another scotch. “You got it wrong. And I was considering making you manager at this Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, location. Forget about that.”

You hang your head.

“You, eh?” Kingsley says. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“But see, you’ve put me in somewhat of a quandary,” he continues. “I have to punish you for being the mole who has murdered 13 of our agents, but I also have to reward you for finding the mole. So, let’s just call it even.”

You nod and leave the Spy Lounge. In the following week, three more agents are killed. Weird; it must not have been you after all. It’s weird that you said it was.

Travis immediately starts crying. Right in the middle of Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent.

He eventually runs off in tears, leaving you alone. Just because you’re a spy doesn’t give you the right to be a double agent for basic human dignity.

You quit the agency, never finding the mole. You have to work on yourself before going back to your spying.

You leave the Spy Lounge to make sure Travis is still standing watch. You aren’t very surprised when of course he isn’t there. In his place, he’s left a broom with a pillow he’s drawn a face on taped to it, as a child might.

“Jesus H. Christ,” you think to yourself, and you don’t feel bad about taking the Lord’s name in vain because you are a godless spy.

Standing there is William Kingsley himself. In his hand is a bloody knife. You can see Travis’ dead body behind him.

“Thank God I found you alive,” Kingsley says. “I just killed the mole, Travis Plerpt. This nightmare is over. And thank God you found refuge in the Spy Lounge, where I keep all the most sensitive information.”

Kingsley shakes your hand.

“Thank you for acting as bait so I could nab the mole,” Kingsley says. “Now, why don’t you take the next couple days off as a reward?”

You leave the office, hoping that this will all blow over. Maybe Travis was the mole anyway? That’s probably a long shot.

A few days later, another L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. agent is killed. The mole is still out there. Somewhere.

You forget to attend Travis’ funeral, but totally meant to.

“You asked Travis for help?” Kingsley asks, shocked. “You know he’s an idiot, right? The only reason I don’t fire him is because I’m pretty sure he can draw my penis and testicles from memory.”

You look at your spy shoes.

“Get the hell out of the Spy Lounge,” Kingsley says. “Find me the mole. And throw Travis’ body in the garbage on your way out.”

You and the Russian both settle on the Giant Hot Dog Combo, but you don’t feel weird about ordering the same thing because it’s the best thing on the menu by far.

A soda. Nice choice.

Want anything else?

Before you can order, the manager of Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, approaches you.

“You seem to have quite a familiarity with our menu,” he says. “Have you considered a career at Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent?”

“We offer a competitive base salary and generous time off, and all of our employees are required to take electrician night classes because we want people to still chase their dream of being an electrician,” the manager says. “Would you like an application? I think you’d really like it here.”

The manager hands you the application with a smile. You can’t remember the last time someone smiled at you.

You begin to fill out the application when the manager takes it from you.

“I can already tell you’re going to be a great addition to our Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, team. No need to fill out the rest,” he says. “Want to start right now? Look, this beautiful woman who works here is also excited for you to start.”

The manager tosses you an apron, and you hop over the counter and immediately start taking orders. Your coworkers seem really cool, and you love interacting with real people instead of enemy spies who are constantly trying to kill you.

In a few years, you work your way up to assistant manager, and you also do some freelance electrician work on the weekends. Life is good!

The mole is never caught, but you’re finally in a place where you don’t feel the need to chase glory to substitute for the family you spurned and the love life you neglected. You have your Chummer’s, England’s McDonald’s equivalent, family to love now.

Coleslaw. Nice.

Want anything else?

“Okay,” the manager says. “I can tell that’s really important to you, and I want you to be happy.”

You fight a tear as you walk away. You have no idea where the Russian went, although there is a ton of blood and his furry hat is on the restaurant floor. You probably should have kept an eye on him.

Surprised, the driver lets you off next to the cat-smelting plant in the historic Queen’s Lap district of London and peels away.

Well, you blew that. Time to investigate someone else.

“Oh, thank God that you are back, Veronica!” the Russian squeals with delight. “I’ve wanted to tell you that in these past several months we’ve spent together as spy/informant, I’ve really fallen for you. Veronica Linfield, I love you.”

You are taken aback. As a spy, you can’t remember the last time someone told you that they loved you.

“You make me happiest Russian on planet!” the Russian says. “Not that that’s competitive these days,” he adds.

You both laugh. It feels good to laugh.

Arm in arm, you and the Russian walk into the London night, and you feel safe and loved for the first time since your father gave you a gun when you were 15.

You live out the rest of your days with the Russian, deeply in love. The mole is never caught, but you are happy, so who cares?

“I know, right?” the Russian says.

“Veronica is in Bucharest, pictured above, on a mission,” the Russian continues.

“Are you sure you don’t mean Budapest?” you inquire. “They sound similar, and I often mix them up myself.”

“No,” the Russian says. “I am certain it is Bucharest.”

The frustrated and massive Russian punches you in the face for your annoying line of inquiry regarding Bucharest/Budapest, and you are knocked out cold.

You awake on a cold London street, somehow with five times as much money, IDs, and credit cards in your pocket as before.

Kingsley brings Veronica into the Spy Lounge and presents the evidence to her.

“Ha! I’m not the mole. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done because I love England. I didn’t firebomb half of Europe during the war for no reason. It was all for England.”

Guess you have either the wrong person or the wrong proof. Whoops! Even Travis Plerpt’s widow laughs at you when you leave the Spy Lounge. You are a disgrace.

You take a walk on the cold London streets to clear your head, and also cry a little because it sucks to get laughed at.

Kingsley invites Terrence into the Spy Lounge and presents him with the evidence.

“I find this whole situation quite laughable,” Terrence says. “I am the most loyal spy on staff. It says so right on my business card. Kingsley, you should have had me head up the mole hunt instead of this doofus.”

Guess you have either the wrong person or the wrong proof. Whoops! Even Travis Plerpt’s widow laughs at you when you leave the Spy Lounge. You are a disgrace.

You take a walk on the cold London streets to clear your head, and also cry a little because it sucks to get laughed at.

Kingsley brings David into the Spy Lounge and presents the evidence.

David laughs at you. “I got a tattoo of L.O.N.D.O.N. Spy B.A.S.E. directly on my penis. I’m the most loyal of anyone.”

When Kingsley asks you for some hard evidence, you have none. Guess you have either the wrong person or the wrong proof. Whoops! Even Travis Plerpt’s widow laughs at you when you leave the Spy Lounge. You are a disgrace.

You take a walk on the cold London streets to clear your head, and also cry a little because it sucks to get laughed at.

You leave your car and approach the small boat. David and Jacqueline don’t even say a word to you, sensing your intention completely wordlessly. David cuts the mooring on the boat, and the three of you begin plunging into the depths of each other’s anatomies as the gentle Thames cradles your aroused, fluid-filled bodies. What’s next for you three? Unabashed sexual exploration in wherever the boat turns up next, no doubt.

You never found the mole, and you turned your back on your country when it needed you most, but those are the furthest things from your mind as you sweatily intertwine yourself with your coworker and his wife. The rest of your life will be dedicated to ravishing these two human beings.

Travis immediately starts crying. Right in the middle of a big spy agency office.

He eventually runs off in tears, leaving you alone. Just because you’re a spy doesn’t give you the right to be a double agent for basic human dignity.

You quit the agency, never finding the mole. You have to work on yourself before going back to your spying.

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