Spy on the Run (365 Ways With Words)

Beep-beep-beep! It was a message from control.

Just checking ur ok. Where r u?

He acknowledged with a cursory response, "Will have info soon. Scramble all comm in future. Code Red."

How long would he have to put up with the petty, small-minded approach to spying. Didn't they know that field operatives like him had to make snap life-and-death decisions and take matters into hand as things arose?

Peered over the bridge onto the tracks he took a quick photo with his communicator and replaced it in his pocket. Too busy to notice him, and dressed as railway line contractors, the enemy appeared to be replacing old drainage and conducting excavations beside the wood. But something was not right. He had to get closer.

Retreating back down the snowy road he reckoned he would enter the forest edge by scaling the electronic perimiter fence. He didn't have his usual equipment with him, so he squatted and pulled out his notebook, looking up E for electricity. He found a secret equation he'd uncovered on Operation Library:

Yes! Yes, this would do it. Using it he scaled the fence, taking care not to catch his scarf on the rusty and spindly wire end where it sagged.

One hurdle done, he scanned the screening wood – no guards, no dogs, nothing. Perhaps it was mined. He looked around but found nothing to indicate mine-laying. But maybe this was also part of their ruse – that for 100 yards it would be clear and then ka-boom! It was better to take things nice and slow. This was the best approach with mines he'd encountered in the past. He'd had some lucky escapes in his time using sticks.

Running bent over between the trees, he covered his approach, but just to be safe he grabbed a handful of cold mud and smeared it over his face: that way he could get even closer to make his observations. He was close enough now to hear the construction work being carried out – beeping trucks and the excited revving engine of the digger. The last hundred yards he managed on hands and knees until he was right up to the edge of the embankment. He checked right and left: no one looked his way. In three strides he was down the scree bank and hid crouched behind a stack of large drainage pipes.

Nearby two workers stood and talked whilst the digger moved away.

"So, what d'you reckon – Arsenal or Chelsea?"

"Give me a break. If Čech doesn't do something stupid, or get an injury, then it's a walkover."

It was sorse than he thought. He had to get it down, but their code was too quick for him. He daren't risk being seen with his communicator in hand, so he picked his notebook from his pocket, flipped to the back and scribbled, Arsenal of weapons. Czech. Operation 'Walkover'. He had to get this information back as soon as possible. But he needed a date for their attack: he'd have to keep waiting until one of them spilled the beans. Each second in enemy territory was dangerous, but he couldn't deny being so close to discovery gave him a perverse thrill.

The digger came back. The driver opened the cab and spoke to one of the two workers. He saw one of them look at his watch: "1:15 Lunch mate." At that the operator switched off the engine.

Now he had the date and time. He scribbled, January 15th lunchtime – God have mercy!

He'd uncovered so many fiendish plots in the past, but this one was bigger than anything he'd previously encountered. He knew what he had to do – get word back to base, even if it meant his life. But now he was exposed. Could he make it back up the bank without attracting their machine guns? He checked his gun – he'd had it since Christmas and it jammed a lot. Only one bullet left: enough for one. After that he'd have to hope for the best and trust his instincts.

He needed a diversion – some sabotage to keep them occupied whilst he got back. Then it occurred to him that he was in exactly the right place to...

A train rumbled slowly past, vibrating the stack of piping he hid behind. If he could loosen the ties the whole thing would come crashing down on the tracks and keep them busy for hours. He checked his pocket – he was in luck! He had remembered his Swiss Army knife – handy for just such occasions, or to fight it out if the worst came to the worst. With deft fingertips he prized open the long blade and admired its shiny glean in the early afternoon light.

"Ah, my trusty friend. Together we've kept them at bay these long years. Once more I call on you. To work!"

He began with a quick sawing motion on the cables that tied the pipes together. One down, two more to go. He moved along as stealthily as he could, every now and again popping his muddy face above the bright yellow pipes. The second and third ties snapped quickly, but they didn't budge. Not one inch, even with a push. There was nothing for it – he'd have to go around and pull them down. Taking one last look he ran out and was pleased to see two upright safety stakes holding back the pipes from their cascade. With his wellington boot gave three good kicks to the first one. It moved – good. But as he ran to the other side he was spotted. One of the agents challenged with an "Oi! What you doing?"

He kicked with all his might. It must surely be only a matter of seconds before they turned their guns on him. With a final kick the stake gave way and the pipes began their relentless journey to the tracks. He had to lie on the ground and allow the pipes to run over him. They bounced over each other down to the line, making loud pipey boings as they reverberated.

He had to return to base pronto. Standing up he was aware of their approaching menacing cries and knew he had to run up the embankment as fast as he could – back towards the relative safety of the mine-infested wood and the electric fence. At the top he couldn't resist giving one last glimpse back of the glorious view of his devastation – a moment of utter triumph, a feat of unsurpassed daring and spymanship.

It was the only description they gave the transport police attending the scene at the centre of the three hour delay to rail traffic along the entire west coast line – muddy face, blue duffle coat and black wellies. A child of about 9.