A gentleman never lies. Unless his appearance in the guise of gentleman is itself a lie.
After all, a con man always tells the truth. Or a carefully structured truth, that when seen in a certain light might be interpreted as a lie without actually being exactly untrue.
And a spy is just a con man with a government license. Lying is expected of a spy, which makes telling the truth carefully and as often as possible one of the most insidious things a spy can do. The other, is of course, spying.
I am a gentleman because I say so. Tonight at least. Tomorrow may bring a different role to the fore. I’m ok with that even as I acknowledge that might not be a popular position.
Dressed to the nines, I move freely among high society at tonight’s gathering at the embassy. Which embassy? I can’t say, not all of the bodies are cold yet. There’s even a chance they don’t know I was there, which it would be a shame to spoil.
While the obligatory self-congratulatory speeches were well underway, I made my way inconspicuously out of the ballroom. I provided any observers with a natural excuse by heading straight for the men’s room. A stall provided cover for a swift change of costume. The stall at the far end also held a maintenance panel that led into a narrow access space, probably provided in the plans to facilitate spying on visitors. It felt neatly ironic to use a spy access for its intended purpose, but against its builders.
A slender pouch of burglar tools let me into the access, where I merely needed to scurry the widths of several rooms then climb a ladder up two stories to find myself behind a panelled wall in the ambassador’s office. It only took a moment to verify his absence continued before I slipped out the well-hidden door and applied myself to tonight’s actual mission. Bugging his phone and office.
Afterwards, it was simple enough to pack my tools and retrace my steps, then after a quick change of garb, emerge from my stall refreshed from my little stroll, my scarf once more wrapped precisely around my throat.