I tiptoe onto the old woman’s lawn, just like every other morning, and switch the two newspapers: her copy of the Washington Post for mine. We have a routine down by now, me and her, and I know within a few seconds there’ll be a signal (or not) telling me whether the mission was a success.
Some agents go for an upside-down flag in a window, others for a chalk mark on a bench—tradecraft, we call it—but I’m dealing with a particularly old-school spook. For a few seconds, nothing. Then in a flash, almost imperceptible to someone not in our line of work, it appears. The curtains sway ever so slightly. She has seen.
Failure. Every day a failure! Let me tell you something—when your six-month-old puppy rips up the newspaper of your elderly neighbor, and I mean rips it to smithereens, and you’re trying to do the right thing by replacing that shredded copy with an intact one of your own, take it from me: Make sure the house isn’t owned by retired spies.
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