Teds Shorts - A Series of Short Stories

The Trainee Spies 

Mike 

They say the first rule of espionage is blend in. Which, as I stand under the giant clock at Waterloo Station dressed in a charcoal suit at least two sizes too tight and holding a briefcase that still smells faintly of Curry, feels like a personal attack. 

It’s 08:58. The briefing said precisely nine 0900. “Meet your contact under the clock,” they told me, like it’s 1947 and we’re swapping microfilm about submarine bases. I’m sweating through my Marks & Spencer shirt while a busker who nobody is listening to, plays an uncomfortably slow version of Sweet Caroline on a violin. 

People say the clock at Waterloo is romantic. Couples meet here, fall in love, post about it on Instagram. For me, it’s a ticking reminder that I’ve got two minutes to prove I’m not a total disappointment to MI6’s Training and Assessment Division at Vauxhall Cross. 

I adjust my tie, which Tracy said in last week’s debrief “looked like a semaphore signal for confusion.” She’ll be watching, somewhere. Hidden camera, probably. Maybe one of the pigeons. 

My contact, codename Falcon, is supposed to exchange a manila envelope containing “sensitive documents.” 

I’m to respond with the countersign, “The tulips are late this year.” He’ll then hand me the envelope, and I’ll deliver it to the Benugo café on the upper concourse, where I’ll order an espresso and leave it under the saucer. 

Simple. Except this is training, so nothing is ever simple. 

I spot a man in a navy raincoat standing suspiciously still by the WHSmith. Too still. Eye contact, once, twice. He adjusts his ear, signal? Or an itch? I walk closer. 

Bob 

Rule One: Always know your surroundings. Rule Two: Never assume your contact is as smart as you are. 

It’s 08:59, and I’m standing by WHSmith trying to look like the sort of man who belongs in a train station. Casual. Focused. The kind of man who knows exactly which platform he’s not supposed to be on. 

Mike, my opposite number in this little charade, is already loitering under the clock like an over zealous  guilty meerkat. I see him scanning the crowd with that over-trained “spy squint” we practiced in week three. He looks like he’s trying to spot submarines in the fog. 

He’s supposed to say the countersign: The tulips are late this year. I’ll reply, But the daffodils are early in Kent. Then we swap documents and part ways. 

I can do this. Easy. 

Except my envelope; cleverly code-named The Package, currently contains the menu from Pret a Manger, three receipts, and a copy of The Big Issue. The real envelope, Tracy said, would be placed “by your handler at 08:50 near a point of interest.” Which, in spy training language, apparently means behind the bin near platform 7. 

Unfortunately, when I arrived, the bin was surrounded by pigeons the size of Labradors, and a man with a mop told me, “You can’t go digging in there, mate.” So, I panicked, left the dummy envelope in my briefcase, and bought a cinnamon swirl to look inconspicuous. 

Now Mike’s heading towards me with a face that says he’s about to attempt espionage. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 1) 

08:58 – Both trainees in position. Mike perspiring excessively. Suspect poor choice of shirt material. 

08:59 – Bob eating pastry. Not standard operating behaviour. Possibly “cover” as commuter. Possibly just hungry? 

09:00 – The Clock does not chime. But if it did: cue- Romantic music for ordinary citizens; existential dread for spies. 

Mike 

He’s there. Falcon. Tall, brown hair, sharp eyes, holding a cinnamon swirl like it’s a live grenade. 

I approach. “Lovely morning,” I say, as casually as I can manage, which is not at all. 

He nods, half a mouthful of pastry still visible. 

“The tulips,” I begin, lowering my voice dramatically, “are late this year.” 

He blinks. Crumbs fall. 

“Oh,” he says finally. “But the daffodils are early in Kent.” 

Success! The relief is electric. This must be what Bond feels like before the explosions start. 

He hands me an envelope; cream, folded, slightly buttery. I take it, tuck it into my jacket, and walk away at what I hope is a spy-like pace: brisk but unhurried. 

Tracy will be impressed. She said last time I “moved like a man looking for the toilets.” Not today. Today I’m a professional. 

Bob 

I can’t believe that worked. 

He bought the line, even though I said “Kent” like a man reading a weather forecast for the first time. The envelope transfer was smooth. A bit of butter smudge on the corner, but otherwise flawless. 

Now all I have to do is… what was it? Oh, yes. Follow him discreetly. Assess tailing awareness. 

I give him a thirty-second lead, then slip into the crowd. Mike heads towards the platforms. I follow, keeping to the shadows like a man in a badly written thriller. 

He stops near Platform 6, glances around, then ducks into the Pret. That’s the drop point. 

I order a black coffee and a croissant, another pastry, for cover. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 2) 

09:05 – Both trainees on the move. Mike walking “briskly but unhurriedly.” Acceptable. Bob following. 

09:06 – Bob’s disguise as commuter undermined by second pastry purchase within ten minutes. Note: excessive carbohydrate intake may compromise stealth performance. 

09:08 – Mike enters Pret on concourse. Orders espresso. Places envelope under saucer. Textbook drop. 

09:09 – Bob seated opposite, unaware that Mike has already completed transfer. Currently buttering croissant. 

This is going alarmingly well. Which, in training terms, means disaster is imminent. 

Mike 

I take a sip of espresso. Bitter. Perfect. I leave the envelope under the saucer, pay in cash (authentic touch), and head for the exit. 

Halfway through the door, I glance back—habit, training, paranoia. 

Bob’s there. At a table opposite mine. Eating again. 

I freeze. 

Wait. Is he following me? No, impossible. Unless… he’s part of the secondary assessment. Tracy mentioned “unexpected variables.” 

I decide to test him. I head towards the escalators to the upper concourse and go up, turn left, walk along and back down to the platform level on a second set of escalators. He follows. Subtle, but not subtle enough. 

Bob 

He’s onto me. 

He’s doing the old “pretend to check the departure board” trick. Am I supposed to let him spot me? No, Tracy said maintain cover. 

I hide behind a pillar. Unfortunately, the pillar is glass. 

He stares directly at me through it. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 3) 

09:13 – Mike and Bob now engaged in mutual tailing, both under impression the other is hostile. 

09:14 – Bob hiding behind transparent pillar. Mike pretending to tie shoe but maintaining eye contact. 

09:15 – General public beginning to notice. One Japanese tourist taking photos. 

Mission spiralling toward inevitable farce. 

Mike 

The thing about surveillance is: subtlety is key. Which is why, when you suspect someone is following you, you don’t stop in the middle of Waterloo Station and stare at them through glass. 

Unless, of course, you’re me. 

Bob freezes, mid-step, his reflection distorted in the pillar like a spy-themed funfair mirror. He panics and starts pretending to read a train timetable printed on the pillar. Except there isn’t one. 

I take a slow, deliberate breath. Think, Mike. Maybe he’s a decoy. Maybe Tracy planted him as part of an additional assessment, a distraction to see how I cope under pressure. That’s it. She did say “expect unexpected interference.” 

I’ll lose him. Blend in. 

A group of tourists surges past, snapping selfies. I dive into the flow like a salmon in a trench coat. I can feel adrenaline singing in my veins. This is my moment. 

Bob 

He’s running. He’s definitely running. 

Not sprinting, exactly, but that odd shuffle jog people do when they’ve misread the departure board. I abandon the pillar and pursue. 

He’s weaving through the crowd, cutting left by  Foyles, then, hang on, he’s heading back toward the clock. 

Textbook circular route. Classic counter-surveillance manoeuvre. He’s testing me. 

I speed up. 

Unfortunately, in my haste, I collide with a man carrying a hot latte. He reacts by decorating my jacket with most of it. 

“Cheers,” I mutter, trying to shake it off while keeping eyes on target. The man calls me something unrepeatable in public, but that’s fine. Training situation. Adapt and overcome. 

I spot Mike under the clock again, looking determinedly shifty. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 4) 

09:17 – Mike attempting evasive manoeuvres. Surprisingly fluid. 

09:18 – Bob in pursuit. Spilled coffee incident. Note: possible mild burn. Suggest issuing heatproof outerwear next intake. 

09:19 – Both returning to clock. Location becoming high-traffic zone; potential for public disturbance. 

Security on CCTV may already be alert. 

Mike 

The clock looms above me, all grandeur and brass and bad timing. It’s ironic, really. My whole life feels like one long wait under this clock, except now I’m not waiting for romance, I’m waiting for a man with a briefcase full of trouble. 

I check my watch. 09:20. The assignment said to hold position if compromised. Fine. I’ll wait. 

Except, wait. There’s another man standing a few feet away. Grey coat. Sunglasses indoors. Earbud. Definitely not a commuter. 

Could he be the real contact? Maybe the exchange was just the first phase. Maybe Bob’s presence was part of the test all along, and this new man is my true target. 

I swallow hard. 

Time to improvise. 

Bob 

He’s talking to someone. 

A man in a grey coat, proper spy-looking type, like he shops exclusively at “Men in Black”. 

This must be the handler. Maybe I’ve misunderstood the assignment. Maybe I’m supposed to intercept this meeting. 

Decision made, I approach, casually but with purpose, like a man buying a sandwich but secretly saving the nation. 

“Morning,” I say, stepping up beside them. “Lovely day for tulips.” 

The man in the grey coat stares at me as though I’ve suggested performing a rectal examination in public. 

Mike’s expression is pure panic. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 5) 

09:22 – Unauthorised civilian (male, approx. 40s, grey coat) now engaged in conversation with both trainees. 

09:23 – Bob initiates dialogue using countersign from previous task. Civilian visibly confused. 

09:24 – Mike’s body language: panic mixed with misguided confidence. Predict catastrophic improvisation. 

Mike 

He’s ruined it. Absolutely ruined it. 

Bob’s just said the line. The line. To a random stranger. 

Grey Coat looks like he’s about to call the police, or MI6, which would be worse. I need to defuse this. 

I laugh, Loudly. Too loudly. “Oh, Bob! Always with the tulips, eh?” I nudge him conspiratorially. “We’re just rehearsing, mate,” I say to Grey Coat. “For a play. Under the Clock. Fringe festival thing.” 

Grey Coat narrows his eyes. “You’re actors?” 

“Method actors,” I reply instantly. 

Bob nods far too eagerly. “Very method.” 

Grey Coat pauses, then says, “Right. Well. Good luck with… that.”  

He walks off briskly. 

Crisis averted. 

Bob 

That was close. But honestly, I think we handled it well. Improvised under pressure, maintained plausible cover. Textbook teamwork. 

Mike, however, is glaring at me like I’ve personally sunk HMS Victory. 

“You blew the mission,” he hisses. 

“What mission? We’re training!” 

“Exactly!” he snaps. “And you just compromised it!” 

We’re starting to draw attention now. Two men in suits arguing under Waterloo’s most famous clock, it’s like The Apprentice: Paranoia Edition. 

I take a deep breath. “Let’s just find Tracy and debrief.” 

“She said we’d be contacted after the drop,” Mike says. “We stay on task.” 

“Mike,” I say, slowly, “we don’t have the envelope anymore.” 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Remember? You left it under the saucer?” 

We both freeze. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 6) 

09:26 – Both trainees now realising envelope location. Excellent. 

09:27 – Envelope last seen under saucer at café, table. 

09:28 – Café now cleared by cleaning staff. Saucer and contents removed. 

09:29 – Envelope currently being transported toward station waste disposal area. 

Mike 

We sprint. Two trainee spies, sorry I mean Agents, one mission: rescue an envelope that probably contains nothing more secret than a printed crossword, but means everything to our careers. 

The café staff look up as we burst in. 

“Excuse me!” I pant. “Did you, er, happen to clear a table about fifteen minutes ago? Small saucer, espresso cup, maybe a—” 

“Envelope?” says the cleaner, bored. “Yeah, bin round the back.” 

Bob and I exchange a look of pure dread. 

We race behind the counter, ignoring the shouts of protest, and push through a service door into a narrow corridor that smells faintly of bleach and despair. 

Bob 

There it is. The bin. Industrial size. Ominously full. 

I take a breath. “Rock-paper-scissors?” 

Mike just dives in headfirst. 

A moment later, he emerges, hair disheveled, holding… an envelope. 

“Got it!” he gasps triumphantly. 

“Brilliant!” I say, just as two station security officers appear at the doorway. 

Tracy (assessment notes – observation feed 7) 

09:33 – Security alerted to “two men in suits rummaging through waste bins.” 

09:34 – Both trainees being escorted toward concourse. 

09:35 – Envelope recovered. Contents: blank paper. 

Assessment conclusion: satisfactory chaos achieved. 

Mike 

We’re marched back under the clock like naughty schoolboys, each holding one side of the now-crumpled envelope. 

Tracy appears from the crowd, tablet in hand, immaculate as always. “Well,” she says. “That was… interesting.” 

Bob and I stand to attention, dripping bin juice. 

“I’d like to note,” Bob says quickly, “that the envelope was successfully retrieved.” 

“Indeed,” Tracy replies. “And in the process, you managed to violate three public safety regulations, trigger a security response, and make The Daily Express’s commuter Twitter feed. Efficiency through infamy.” 

Mike groans. “So we failed.” 

Tracy considers. “Not exactly. You succeeded, in demonstrating every possible thing not to do.” 

She taps her tablet. “Congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve both passed Stage One: Controlled Catastrophe. Report back to Vauxhall Cross, 1400 for Stage Two: Urban Stealth.” 

Bob brightens. “So we’re still in?” 

“For now,” she says. 

Bob 

As Tracy walks away, I turn to Mike. 

“Well,” I say, “I think that went rather well.” 

He stares at me. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“Thank you.” 

The pigeons scatter and somewhere above the station, Tracy is probably filing a report titled Idiots Under the Clock. 

Mission complete. Sort of.