Two men met at a café off tourist paths. One wore Brooks Brothers, the other, Armani. Both had silvery grey hair, Armani’s sparser. Both wore fashionably-negligible glasses.
They sat at a round table in a corner, each with a back against a wall.
Armani cleared his throat. “Le Carré has died.”
“Heard.” Brooks sipped, winced. “Hot. We’ll need to find someone.”
“There’s time.”
“You sure?”
Armani shrugged. “Nothing’s sure but death, but you Yanks do like your rush and hurry.”
“Yeah, taxes are optional now, if you’re rich enough. Still, we’d feel better replacing him sooner rather than later.”
“Understood. Catapult the propaganda.”
Both chuckled. “If only W wrote instead of … painting.”
“Show me a literate politician and I’ll show you Benjamin Disraeli.”
Brooks smiled, nodding. “I hear you. Our useful idiots can’t be everything we need, can they?”
Armani slurped, then used a paper napkin, which he pocketed. “You know’ll never replace him.”
“We said the same of Fleming, my grandfather says. We need to find a new voice, take a new tack. Keep it going.”
“A successor for Ian Fleming and David Cornwell.” Armani sighed. “They had good runs, both of them.”
“Maybe one of us this time. An American.”
Armani gave his colleague a level gaze, needing to say nothing.
Brooks relented with a smile. “Yeah, I know. Worth a mention.” He finished his coffee and stood, taking the cup with him. “Leave no trace.” He paused. “I used to like Ludlum.’
Armani, too, stood, taking his cup.
“A good number from both sides of the pond might once have served, but I suspect it’ll be someone we’ve not yet heard from who steps up, given how things keep changing with every blink. It’s best to let these things grow organically.”
“Wouldn’t dream of meddling.”
They stood for a few more seconds, surveying the other customers, the barista and staff, then left, going in opposite directions once outside.
///. ///. ///
